Rumble (2 page)

“So formal? I thought we were on

a first-name basis.” I pretend hurt,

and he pretends to be hard of hearing.

Please go on back to class, Miss Clarke.

Alexa and I do a mutual eye roll

thing and as she leaves I call, “Always

important to understand motives.

Thanks for letting me know he cares.”

Without turning around, she flips a hand

up over her shoulder. To slaughter I will go.

Hi-Ho-the-Merry-O

That’s what I’m humming as I take

the seat on the far side of Carpenter’s

desk. He looks at me like I’ve lost

my mind, or lost it even worse than

he figured I’d lost it, or whatever.

I could ask what’s up, I guess. But this

is his party. It’s up to him to kick it off.

I suppose you’re wondering why

you’re here.
He looks at me like

I really should know. But I seriously

don’t. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I hear I have

a twin, and people see him smoking

sometimes. Personally, cancer scares

the crap out of me, and—”

His head rocks side to side.
Don’t mess

with me, Mr. Turner. This isn’t funny.

Damn. He really looks concerned.

“Mr. Carpenter, my grades are jake,

I’m not abusing drugs, I don’t beat

my girlfriend. I have absolutely no

idea why I’m here. Please enlighten me.”

The Weight of His Sigh

Could crush an elephant.

I mean, really, what could

I have done to rate that?

He moves a folder from atop

a stack of papers, pushes a thin

sheaf across his desk. Oh. Duh.

Ms. Hannity thought maybe this

was worthy of some discussion.

It’s my senior essay:
Take

Your God and Shove It.

I thought the title was a nice

play on words. “I’m sorry, but

what, exactly, is the problem?

Looks like she gave me an A.”

It’s not the grade, obviously. But

the content raises a red flag or two.

My first reaction is a wholly

inappropriate snort, courtesy

of the picture that popped up

in my head—paragraph two,

page four, hit the last word and

“Taps” plays as a scarlet banner

lifts off the page. But as that vision

fades, and I consider why I wrote

what I did, every crumb of humor

disappears, smashed into powder

by a huge fist of anger. Adrenaline

thumps in the veins at my temples.

I summon every ounce of will.

Detonating will accomplish

exactly nothing. “I’m afraid

you’ll have to be a little more

specific, Mr. [
Carpentah
] uh,

Carpenter. What worries you?”

He clears his throat.
Let’s start

with your thesis statement. . . .

Which Would Be

There is no God, no benevolent ruler of the earth, no omnipotent Grand Poobah of countless universes. Because if there was, there would be no warring or genocide in his name; those created “in his image” would be born enlightened, no genuflecting or tithing required; and my little brother would still be fishing or playing basketball instead of fertilizing cemetery vegetation. And since there is no God, this nonentity has no place in government or education and certainly not in constitutional law. The separation of church and state must remain sacrosanct.

No bonus points for using the word

sacrosanct? “I’m sorry, but was I not

clear enough? Or was it the ‘Grand Poobah’

thing? Because if that’s offensive,

I don’t mind changing it. Although—”

That’s enough. You know, Matthew,

some people might find your biting

sarcasm humorous. But I have to

wonder what lies beneath it. Tell me.

Just what are you trying to hide?

Fucking Great

The last thing I need is more therapy

courtesy of some armchair shrink.

“Surely the school district isn’t paying

you to attempt psychoanalysis?”

I summon my best pretend smile.

His shoulders stiffen like drying

concrete.
Ahem. See . . . uh . . .

Ms. Hannity thinks I should

mention our concerns to your par—

“You mean Mizzzzz Hannity, right?”

I interrupt. A change of subject

matter is probably wise. “You know,

if you’ve got nothing more important

to worry about than my essay,

maybe you don’t have enough to do.

So, here’s what I think. You should

petition the Lane County School

District to verify the authenticity

of Ms. Hannity’s birth certificate.”

Consternated. That’s the only way

to describe the look on his face.

Wha—wha—what do you mean?

“Well, it’s obviously fictitious,

don’t you think? Jeez, man, my brother

talked me into watching
Gone

with the Wind
once and Mizz Hannity

is sooooo not Scarlett O’Hara.”

His jaw literally drops, exposing

a mouth full of fillings. Old silver

mercury-laden ones. When I stare,

he snaps his mouth closed.
Shut up.

I mean it. This is really not funny.

“Okay. Look, I’m sorry. Didn’t

mean to offend you, let alone

question the veracity of Ms. Hannity’s

Southernness. I just think this is all

much ado about nothing, to quote

the Bard. An essay should express

an opinion, correct? My opinion is that

it’s inappropriate to allow religion—any

religion—to influence the laws that

govern this country. That’s a valid

viewpoint, right? And even if it’s not

somehow, it’s mine, and I’m allowed

to hold it, not to mention argue it.”

He Tries Another Tack

I watch as his whole demeanor softens,

like gelatin on a hot plate.
Matthew,

the truth is, I’m worried about you.

I’m not sure you’ve really processed

Luke’s death. It’s been almost six months.

Don’t you think it’s time to move on?

That fist of pissed again, only this time

it smashes me square in the face.

“Dude, I
have
fucking moved on.

I don’t call him to dinner anymore.

I don’t think I hear him coming in

the back door. I hardly ever dream

about how he looked when . . .

when I found him. But if you mean

I should accept what happened,

you’re out of your mind!” Winded,

I catch a breath, realize I’ve been

yelling, lower my voice. “I never will.”

Mr. Carpenter studies my face, and

what he finds there—truth, that’s all

he can possibly see—seems to make

him sad.
I’m sorry you feel that way,

Matthew. But what happened to Luke

wasn’t God’s fault. Why blame him?

For a Counselor

This guy is awfully dense. “I’m not sure

how you draw the conclusion that I blame

God when I clearly state I’m one hundred

percent certain no such creature exists.”

I don’t understand.
His eyes hold

genuine confusion. Maybe even shock.

“I’m an atheist. You know, a nonbeliever.

Considering Lane County demographics,

you must have run into another one before.

I can’t be the only sane person in this school.”

He yanks himself together.
That may

be. But the others don’t brag about it.

Blah, blah, blah. The game grows old.

“All I did was state my opinion. Do you

actually see that as bragging? Because

seriously, Mr. Carpenter, I don’t.”

But there’s more.
He loses steam.

It’s . . . it’s the tone of your writing.

The tone? Angry? Yeah, but more.

Bitter? Closer, but not quite. Acerbic?

Almost. Caustic. That’s it. Still.

“Everything’s fine. Totally fine.”

It’s a Total Lie

Not sure there’s been a single day of my life

when everything was totally fine. And now?

The best I can say is once in a while I’m not

somersaulting in chaos. I sink into my well-

practiced bullshit-the-shrink tone of voice.

“Look, Mr. Carpenter. It
has
been a rough

few months. Losing Luke
did
throw me

off balance for a while, but day by day

it gets a little better. I appreciate your concern.

Ms. Hannity’s, too, and I understand where

it comes from. The truth is, you’re right.

I will never forgive the people who are

ultimately responsible for Luke’s demise.

But I don’t really see why I have to.”

Maintaining your sanity?
He gives a tiny

smile.
Anyway, be very careful of the blame

game. It can get you into all kinds of trouble.

And it’s always possible that you’re wrong.

Doesn’t Matter

If I’m wrong or right (not that I’m wrong).

All I want is out of here, so I agree, keeping

a perfectly straight face. “I know. And thanks.”

Unbelievably, he lets me leave without another

comment, not even another warning to play a less

provocative game. He’s not stupid, and neither

am I. We both understand what’s at stake,

and it’s more than my sanity. It’s my freedom.

Lockup’s the only thing that frightens me.

The one insistent whisper of fear has kept

my temper mostly in check these past few months.

More than once, I thought about taking a dead-

of-night slow cruise through certain neighborhoods,

drawing a long bead on designated silhouettes

shadowing their bedroom windows. One squeeze

of my Glock’s trigger, and
BLAM!
Eye-for-an-eye justice,

just like their Good Book calls for. But then that

niggling little voice would ask me to consider life

walled in by concrete and metal bars. That would

do me in, and I’m not quite ready to check on out

of here yet. I’ve got some living to do. Hard living.

First Things First

And right now, top of the list is simply to make

it through this day, which bumps right up against

a nice extended weekend. Time off the rat race

to celebrate the life—and death, I suppose—

of a charismatic black leader. Carpenter gives

me a pass back to class, but I’m not in a huge

hurry to use it. I only took physics for Dad.

I suppose some of it is fascinating enough,

but what would I ever use string theory for?

I time it so I’m mostly in my chair when

the lunch bell rings. Perfect. It’s a dreary,

soggy day, de rigueur for the Willamette

Valley in January. Sometimes I bring lunch

and eat outside. But not in winter. Juniors

and seniors are allowed to leave at lunch,

and I usually jet as soon as I can round up

Hayden. But today I can’t seem to locate her.

She’s not at her locker. Not exiting the gym,

hair wet from a post-PE shower. I try attendance

office, just in case. She’s not here, but a flyer

in the window reminds me where she must be

right now.
YOUTH MINISTRY MEETING,

11:55 A.M. FRIDAY IN THE LIBRARY
.

Guess I’m Eating Solo

Angers shimmers

red hot

white hot

silvery hot.

Not because

I can’t stand

eating alone

thinking alone

immersing myself in alone.

But because

she knows I hate

her church

her youth group

her condescension

when she goes

all fucking missionary

on me. Not talking nouns,

talking adjectives

moralistic

preachy-whiny

holier-than-thou.

Okay, I Know

That’s not exactly fair.

That she’s truly worried

for my immortal soul.

That, in itself, is rather

endearing. And so is

the fact that she loves

me at all. Little enough