Straight Punch (12 page)

Chapter Nineteen

“Why me?” I asked Mr. Turner when he said he needed me to represent New Directions at the town hall meeting that night.

“Because Miss Lebrun tells me you're a good speaker—”

“I am?” I didn't think I was. How can someone who's naturally quiet be a good speaker? Maybe Miss Lebrun had said I'd done all right on my class presentation. Of course, the competition wasn't tough. Di had skipped school the day of her presentation, Randy had stopped so many times that his was fifteen minutes over the maximum, and Pretty Boy had dozed off—twice—during his.

“And because you're presentable,” Mr. Turner added.

That explained it. “You mean you want me because I'm not pregnant and I don't wear a feather boa?”

Mr. Turner looked down at the floor. At least he didn't try to deny it. That made me want to help him out.

“I'm sorry I haven't given you more notice, Tessa. I got tied up, first with the open house, then with the police.”

“Okay, fine. I'll do it. Do I have to prepare a talk?” I asked him.

“A prepared talk is a good idea. You could write something up on cue cards. Miss Lebrun told me she'd let you work on it during English class. I could look over your notes if you'd find that helpful,” he said.

“I don't think so. But hey, thanks for the offer.”

They should have called it a community center meeting since it took place at the community center, not the town hall. I didn't know if Montreal North even had a town hall.

The community center smelled of mothballs and boxed cookies. There were a couple of Ping-Pong tables and three old ladies knitting in rocking chairs. “Nice to see a member of the younger generation taking advantage of the facilities,” one of them said when I passed her.

The meeting was held in a small auditorium. I sat between Mr. Turner and Miss Lebrun. Big Ron was on Miss Lebrun's other side. We all sat in metal folding chairs. Big Ron's chair was making distressed sounds. I hoped it would hold up for the meeting.

Florence was there too, sitting across the aisle with a few other neighbors. She was wearing a dress with yellow sunflowers on it. Had she worn it on purpose—to remind us of the flowers that were destroyed—or did she just have a thing for sunflowers?

Mr. Turner lifted his hand to greet her, but she didn't wave back.

Florence stood up and went to the front of the room to speak first. Not surprisingly, she got pretty emotional. “I organized this meeting tonight because I'm worried,” she said. “Not only for myself, but for my son. And for all the other innocent children who live in this neighborhood.”

I could see her pause to let that remark sink in.

“By now, you've probably all heard that my house was robbed two nights ago.”

There was a worried murmur from the rest of the audience.

Mr. Turner raised his hand. It felt strange to see a principal do that. “I just want to say,” he called out, “that the robbery is currently under investigation. There's no reason to point fingers at my students.”

Florence had a sandpapery laugh. “No reason? I think there's plenty of reason. I suppose you think it's pure coincidence that the house that got robbed happens to be right next door to New Directions?”

Mr. Turner was more of a fighter than I expected. He looked Florence straight in the eye and said, “That's exactly what it is, madam. Pure coincidence.”

Mr. Turner spoke next. His face was shiny with sweat. “The kids who come to New Directions need a chance. I'm not
saying they're angels. They aren't. But they've already faced a lot of judgment from people around them”—he didn't look at Florence, but I knew he meant her and people like her—“and what they need is for people to have faith in them. To believe they are capable of change. Your support of a school like New Directions is a sign of your faith in the future—not just my students' futures, but all of our futures.”

Miss Lebrun clapped. I thought other people might start clapping too, but they didn't.

A man in the audience—I hadn't seen him at the open house—raised his hand. “Faith in the future is one thing,” he said. “But why the boxing?”

Big Ron heaved himself up from his chair. “If you don't mind,” he said, looking over at Mr. Turner, “I'd like to answer that question.”

Mr. Turner nodded. “Go ahead,” he said. Then he explained to the audience that Big Ron was our boxing coach.

I didn't expect someone who liked talking as much as Big Ron did to be nervous, but the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other made me think it was maybe easier for him to talk to teenagers than a room full of angry adults.

“Boxing is a way to channel aggression. It doesn't make people more aggressive—it calms them down.”

Someone in the audience laughed. Someone else called out, “But you're teaching them how to fight! Don't tell me you're going to try to deny that!”

“You're right. I'm teaching these kids how to fight. But I'm teaching them something way more important—how to survive when they got nothing left. When they're huffing and puffing and they wanna give up. That's when it really counts in boxing, ladies and gents. And you know what else?” He looked at the audience as if he expected them to know what he was going to say, and I realized he'd stopped being nervous. “Life is one big boxing ring.”

“That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!” Florence shouted.

Someone else got up and stomped out of the room.

But a man sitting in the front row nodded his head.

Florence was standing up in front of her chair. “The kids”—and I was surprised she used the words
kids
and not
delinquents
—“who go to New Directions are dangerous, and you know what you're doing, Big Ron? You're training them to be even more dangerous!”

There was a flutter in the audience, but I couldn't tell whether people were agreeing or disagreeing with Florence.

Mr. Turner stepped closer to the microphone. “Let's all just settle down,” he said, his voice reaching every corner of the room. “I want you to meet one of the students who attends New Directions. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Tessa McPhail.”

“What color would you say her hair is?” I heard someone at the back of the room ask.

“Burgundy,” I said into the microphone.

I'd meant to review my cue cards, but I'd been so caught up in the squabbling that I hadn't had time.

I had planned to start by telling them about the things I was learning at New Directions, beginning with Miss Lebrun's writing exercises and how they helped me clear my head first thing every morning. How it didn't feel right
not
to start my day with an entry in my journal. Then I was going to talk about the training I'd been doing with Big Ron. How I'd built up my endurance, and how seeing a fight didn't rattle me the way it used to.

But once I looked at the strained faces in front of me, a different beginning came to me.

“I think I know how you feel,” I said. “You're anxious. You're afraid.” My mouth felt dry, but I knew I had to go on—Mr. Turner and the others were counting on me. “I know because that's exactly how I felt when I got sent to New Directions. I was afraid of the kind of kids I'd meet. I knew they were kids who hadn't made it in the regular system”—I was careful not to use the word
expelled—
“and I was really afraid when I heard the school had a boxing program. I was afraid I'd get the”—I had to catch myself so I wouldn't swear—“afraid I'd get beaten up.

“But you know what? I had nowhere else to go. Things
didn't…well…they didn't work out for me at my old high school. I'd done some tagging, and that didn't sit too well with my last principal. Or my mom.”

Someone in the middle of the crowd squirmed. “Are you saying you defaced public property, young lady?”

I looked over at Mr. Turner. He hadn't warned me that people might call out during my speech. Mr. Turner blinked once—quickly. I hoped he was trying to tell me I was doing okay. That I should keep talking.

“Yes,” I said in the direction of the person who had called out, “I defaced public property.” I nearly added that I didn't do that anymore, but it wouldn't have been true, and I knew that if I was going to be a convincing speaker, I couldn't lie.

“When I first met the other students…Look, I'll be honest. I thought I was better than them. But I was wrong. Every single student who goes to New Directions has a story, and some of the stories…well…they'd break your heart. I'm not trying to make you feel sorry for any of us, I'm just trying to make you understand that we're good kids. Real kids. Kids who deserve your”—I knew it was important to find the right words—“your support. And your respect.”

The room had grown quiet. “I have to talk to you about the boxing too. It isn't what you think. Boxing isn't about beating someone up—or getting beaten up. It's about knowing you don't have to be afraid to stand up when you see something wrong. And that's why I said yes when Mr. Turner asked me to talk to you tonight.”

There was a smattering of applause, then some more. When I took my seat, my legs were shaking.

Florence returned to the microphone without looking over at me. “We got a little more information tonight. Thank you for that.”

That couldn't have been easy for Florence to say. Still, why did she feel she could speak for the whole crowd? And why did the others let her?

She straightened the bottom of her sunflower dress. “I just want to remind you we've got nearly a hundred signatures on our petition asking that the school be moved to another location. That's a lot of signatures.”

One man stood up. He was small, and his head was as bald as a golf ball. “About that petition,” he said, his voice rising as he spoke. “I've decided to withdraw my name. I'm thinking maybe there might be some other folks here tonight who share my sentiment.”

“I do,” said a woman sitting at the back.

Florence's hands were back on her hips. “I don't think anyone should do anything rash. I think we all need to reflect on what's best for our community. On what we can do to make this a safe place for our kids. We don't want to just react to events.”

I stood up again. This time, my legs didn't tremble. “Isn't that exactly what you've been doing, Florence? Reacting to events? Maybe even overreacting?”

“Tessa makes a valid point,” the bald man said.

Which is when I had two thoughts. Maybe I wasn't such a terrible public speaker. And maybe there was hope for New Directions.

When I unlocked our front door later that evening, I heard Mom talking to someone in the kitchen. She must have just gotten home. I'd phoned to explain I'd been asked to speak at the town hall meeting. She said she would have liked to come to hear me, but the regional director of the bank was in Montreal and there was an important meeting she couldn't get out of. I'd told her not to worry. “If you were there, I might get even more nervous,” I'd said.

Cyrus was sitting at my usual spot at the kitchen table. Of course, he had his camera and tripod with him. “What are you doing here?” I said. It wasn't the friendliest greeting, but I hadn't expected him to be there—and I didn't like someone sitting in my chair.

Mom answered for him. “He just dropped by to see you and we got to chatting.” If that was true, why was Mom giving me the impression I'd caught her doing something wrong—like smoking or kissing someone else's husband? “How did your talk at the town hall go?” she added quickly. Too quickly.

I sat down in the chair next to her. “It went okay. So”—I tried to keep my voice casual—“what were you two chatting about?”

“You,” Cyrus answered. “We were chatting about you.”

He should've known that would tick me off.

“I was telling Cyrus I'm more than a little concerned about what's been going on at New Directions,” Mom said. At least she didn't call it
that school
.

“Yeah,” Cyrus added. “She told me about the robbery next door, and about how one of the students is pregnant.”

“Did she tell you about the guy who was in juvie?”

Cyrus didn't even realize I was being sarcastic. “No,” he said, shaking his head, “she didn't mention that.” He cleared his throat and looked right at me. “You might not want my opinion, but I'm giving it to you because I love you and I think you need to hear it.” I softened for a second when he used the word
love
. I knew it couldn't have been easy for Cyrus to say that in front of my mom. “I think your mom's right to be concerned. New Directions isn't the right place for you. You're changing—”

I could feel myself getting pumped up the way I did when I was about to hit the punching bag. Cyrus could have announced he loved me in front of the whole city and it wouldn't have calmed me down. “That's one thing you're right about, Cyrus. I am changing. I'm changing more than you know. And you know what else? Don't go talking to me like you're my father.
New Directions isn't the right place for you
.” My imitation came out sounding meaner than I meant it to, but I didn't care.

Mom tensed up when I said the word
father
. Maybe she felt bad because I'd never really had one. But hey, it wasn't her fault he'd had an aneurysm. She tried patting my hand. Only this time, it didn't help. “Cyrus means well, honey. I'm concerned about some of the other students at New Directions. Maybe they're not the best influence. And Cyrus told me there's at least one boy who's been behaving inappropriately around you. Cyrus thinks—”