The Latte Rebellion (24 page)

I certainly looked like a schoolteacher, but that was a good thing. I took the glasses off and put my contacts in—I’d put the glasses back on right when we were dismissed from fourth period, at 11:50. People could think whatever they wanted to about my outfit.

And I did get a few stares as we walked down the hall to our lockers. David Castro whistled and said “Hey, baby, are you one of those naughty secretaries?”

I swatted him on the arm with my notebook. “You wish.”

“Yeah,” Carey said, “get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Aw, but I
like
it there,” he said, grinning impishly. I swatted him again, but he dodged and headed off down the hall, laughing. He was an ass, but I hoped he and Matt would be at the rally. After all, they were regulars at the Rebellion meetings. Maybe if I got too nervous I could just imagine him in his tighty-whities. I leaned over and whispered that to Carey, and she snickered. Then she put one arm around my shoulders.

“Asha, you can so do this. You’re funny, and your speech is really going to kill.”

I swallowed, still nervous despite the distracting and not altogether pleasant mental image of a skinny, half-naked David Castro. “Let’s hope the crowd at lunch is as forgiving as you are. Or else I might get cafeteria food thrown at me.”

When the bell rang at 11:50, I just about jumped out of my skin. Sweat seemed to spring from every pore, and to cover my sudden nervousness, I fumbled with my books and papers, sliding them into my backpack. I could hear whispers about the sit-in, and a few people looked at me sideways before resuming their whispering. I tried not to look at anyone, tried not to attract extra attention, but I could tell by the prickling at the back of my neck that people were staring at me.

I’d arranged to meet Carey and Miranda out on the quad after I took my contacts out. The girls’ bathroom was an ordeal at the best of times; you always had to fight crowds putting on makeup at the mirror, and usually you had to endure the stench of various kinds of smoke. This time, I was unlucky enough to run into, of all people, Kaelyn.

“Oh, Asha. I can see why you usually wear contacts,” she said in a syrupy voice when she saw the glasses in my hand. I could see her reflection in the mirror, smirking at me as she ran a brush through her already-glossy light-brown hair. “Those glasses are hideous.”

I wasn’t sure whether that was a compliment, a sympathetic observation, or a burn, but based on her tone, I was betting on the latter. I figured my best strategy was to be noncommittal. “Uh-huh,” I said, trying to concentrate on not dropping my contact lens in the sink.

“But I guess it makes a good disguise, huh?”

Okay, that was weird. I tried to ignore her, and grimaced into the mirror as I took my other contact out.

“I mean, if you don’t want people to recognize you. Like if you were afraid of getting into trouble.”

I stopped, turned around, and stared at her.

“Is that a
threat
?” I paused. “Is this about the sit-in?”

She looked at me innocently, hair spray clutched in one perfectly manicured hand. “Why should I care what you do with your time? I’m just saying.”

“If it’s a threat, I’m not threatened. Anyway, you’re one to talk, since you’re not even going to show up. Talk about scared of getting in trouble.” I smiled sweetly.

“Hey, I have a cheerleading meeting. Some people have
real
things to do with their time.” She turned back toward the mirror and started spraying her bangs.

“Yeah, okay.” I rolled my eyes.

I almost felt let down. Kaelyn’s problem wasn’t that she was scared of trouble. It wasn’t that she was evil, or racist, or even that she was a mega-bitch (although she kind of was). It was just that she was completely and utterly self-centered. I was willing to bet it had been a long time since she’d done anything for another person, something purely out of the kindness of her heart, something that gave her that special feeling you get when you know you’re doing the right thing. And I kind of felt bad for her.

She didn’t know what she was missing.

The following April:
Ashmont Unified School District Board Room

“We’ve come to our final scheduled speaker,” the hearing officer said, not bothering to hide his relief. There was some shuffling of paperwork from the hearing panel, and I caught the eye of Vice Principal Malone. He was the only one who didn’t look relieved at all. In fact, he looked pained, and when the final official witness sauntered up to stand in front of the room, her perfect hair bouncing and her short skirt swishing, I found out why.

My mother nudged me. “That very pretty girl—she looks familiar. Is she your friend?”

I shook my head, mutely.

Of all the people in the whole damn school, why did it have to be Kaelyn?

Nobody warned me I’d have to deal with any hostile witnesses. But at least I had one final ace up my sleeve. All I had to do was get through the next few minutes.

12

When I finally stepped out of the bathroom and left the building, I felt like I was in one of those ridiculous high school TV dramas, and this was the slow-motion moment of truth when the main character walks down the hall, her heart beating (or some crappy song playing) in her ears. If this were television, pretty soon I’d get shocked back into reality with some kind of contrived good news, somebody running up to me yelling “Asha, Asha, all the teachers in the entire school came to the sit-in! We’re not going to get in trouble! There are news crews waiting in the quad to cover us on local TV! Anderson Cooper is on the phone! You have to come quick!”

And then I’d rush out and see all the teachers, including Principal Philips, linked arm-in-arm, beaming and wearing Latte Rebellion T-shirts. All the kids who’d ever made fun of us or not taken our cause seriously would be on the sidelines, grimacing and grumbling because they didn’t get to be on TV. Kaelyn would have fallen on her butt in the mud, just because. It would end with Miranda, Carey, and me riding around on everybody’s shoulders and “Don’t You Forget About Me” playing in the background.

Then I snapped back to reality as if a rubber band had been shot at my head. This was University Park High School, not
The Breakfast Club
. I was no popular prom-queen Molly Ringwald. This was for real, and I was scared. I’d sweated through the armpits of my T-shirt, and as I stepped out of the building into the bright, breezy sunlight, I hoped nobody could tell I was shaking.

It was 11:56 now, according to the clock on my phone. As I made my way across campus to the quad, I watched people crowd into the food lines, yelling and joking and shoving, waiting for their helpings of soggy fries or Highlander-burgers or pizza. A few people were already eating their lunches at the rows of picnic tables under the awning next to the cafeteria and lunch carts. Was it my imagination, or did the tables look a little emptier than usual? It seemed like there were spaces here and there where the chipping blue paint of the benches showed through, places where normally people would have staked out a spot at the very beginning of lunch.

I continued my slow-motion walk down the side of the lunch area, heading for the other side of the social science building. Again, I wondered if I was imagining it, but it seemed like people were drifting in from one side or another to join me as I walked toward the quad—a little band of marchers, of Latte Rebels. I didn’t know if they were coming to join the sit-in, just to watch events unfold, or if it was complete chance that they were walking this way and they were really headed for the parking lot or something; but it felt momentous. I swallowed hard.

When I turned the corner, I could see people sitting on the grass, standing under the scattered trees, eating lunch at the two or three lone picnic tables. I couldn’t quite take everything in all at once.

My gaze found Miranda, with Maria and a couple of other people from our school Rebellion meetings, standing by the big oak tree in the middle of the quad, which seemed to be the staging area. I was a little surprised to see Carey there, too, right out in the open as opposed to hiding behind a bush or something. I also couldn’t help noticing that there were campus guards and teachers all over the place: the peach fuzz who patrolled the parking lot was at one end of the science building, talking into a walkie-talkie and leaning stiffly against the wall. Ms. Allison was innocently eating a wrap under a tree with Mr. Rosenquist. Vice Principal Malone, a.k.a. Herr Gestapo, was lurking in the doorway of one of the classrooms trying (and failing) to look inconspicuous. And one of the janitors was picking up trash very, very slowly, his beady eyes darting from one person to another as if he’d been told to keep an eye out for trouble.

And there were a lot of people to keep an eye on. I scanned the area. There had to be at least fifty here already, counting teachers and staff. To my eternal shock, I even saw Lou Pratt with a couple of his beefy football teammates. Who would have known? My stomach lurched, only partially from excitement.

I walked, now at normal speed, over to Carey and Miranda, trying to fixate on their faces. If I thought too hard about this, there was a chance I’d run screaming, which would ruin the atmosphere.

When I got to the tree, I could see a sleek laptop computer sitting on a table. A handful of people had gathered around it, jostling to try to get a better look at the screen.

“Wow, what
is
this?” I peered at the laptop apprehensively. I could see the unofficial Latte Rebellion site on one window, and another, smaller window showing grainy, fuzzy people moving about.

“Hey, Asha!” Maria was practically squealing with excitement. She grabbed me and pulled me into a prime spot in front of the screen. “Check this out! Leonard said a bunch of the Latte Rebellion chapters are going to film the sit-ins as they happen, using a webcam or digital cameras, and post the footage to one of the Rebellion sites. Isn’t that
cool
?”

I gulped. It
was
cool, but it didn’t help the acid roiling in my stomach.

“Yeah,” Miranda said. “The goal is to make at least one of those dumb five-minute human-interest stories on a cable news channel.”

My sense of amazement—and even pride—that we were doing this at all warred with my acid reflux at the thought of being on television, which (oh God, oh God)my parents might see. Momentarily, the reflux won.

“Nobody said I’d have to be on TV,” I muttered.

“Asha, you’re not going to be on TV, don’t worry. Just the webcam,” Miranda reassured me, as if appearing before the entire Internet public was any better. She put her arm around my shoulders and steered me away from the group a little. “I’m sorry, I know this is unexpected.”

“I’m not a big fan of it either,” Carey said, surprising nobody. “If that webcam even turns in my direction, I’m out of here.” She gave me a pat on the shoulder and then made her way to an inconspicuous spot behind a tree.

“Lucky her,” I said a little testily. “I wish you’d told me.”

“It’ll be
fine
,” Miranda said, sounding a little aggravated at having to reassure me several thousand times. “I promise. You won’t even have to look at the webcam. You’re supposed to address the students
here
. Plus, the sound on Maria’s laptop is awful anyway.”

I let out my breath. At least the Internet public wouldn’t hear much. They wouldn’t even really get a good look at me, since I’d be facing the crowd. I wasn’t quite ready to be world-famous even if we only ended up as a novelty video clip.

I turned slightly, to gauge what I was up against in terms of listeners. Again, my stomach flipped. At least ten additional people had shown up, and more were still trickling in with cafeteria lunches.

What had we done?

I turned away from the crowd as the first wave of total panic hit me. “Oh my God! Miranda, I have no idea what they want me to do! I—” I flapped my hands anxiously. According to my watch, it was 11:59.

“Chill, girl!” Miranda laughed sympathetically. “Think of it as a dry run for that salutatorian speech. You may yet be addressing our fellow lemmings at graduation.”

“So you keep saying, but it’s not helpful,” I said plaintively.

“Listen—after we make the introductory remarks, just sit over here with me, and when Maria tells you to go up there, you go up there and say your thing, the shirts are unveiled, and then you come back. That’s it. Easy.” Miranda tucked a stray lock of hair back into my bun. “The speakers are hardly going to mention the Latte Rebellion, anyway; not at first. They don’t want to get shut down before they have a chance to make their point.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. I wasn’t so sure about anything at the moment. I could feel parts of my body that had never sweated before break out in nervous droplets.

In total contrast to my waffling, Maria marched briskly up in front of the oak tree, her chestnut-colored ponytail bobbing. She looked like a demented Brady Bunch sister in her plaid skirt and button-down shirt. Miranda followed, calm as usual, with a small, enigmatic smile.

I swallowed bile, remembering the group of jerkwads—whoever they were—who’d tossed the smoke bomb into the classroom a few weeks ago. What if it hadn’t been just an empty threat? But the quad was swarming with teachers. Teachers who suddenly snapped to attention as I took my spot at the tree with Maria and Miranda.

This was it. And now I had to face whatever was coming next.

“Welcome, and thank you for joining our event today,” I said, a little shakily.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Maria said, her loud, irritating voice perfectly suited to this type of thing. “Some of you know exactly why we’re here. Many of you don’t, but we’re glad you joined us. Nice to see you, Ms. Allison, Mr. Rosenquist, Mr. Malone.”

She nodded at each of them in turn, her eyes meeting theirs defiantly. I had to admire her cojones. Somewhere along the way, this had turned into her pet project, and she wasn’t going to let it fade into obscurity.

“All we ask is half an hour of your time, to listen to your fellow students,” I put in. “Then, if you choose to join in our declaration of solidarity, we welcome you.”

Some people just looked confused, but there were some unruly cheers and a few Sympathizers smiled knowingly. David Castro, with a total lack of subtlety, thumped his fist to his chest in a mock salute.

“First, though, I would like to take a moment to explain why we’re here.” I was warming to my topic just a little, buoyed by the fact that when I looked out at my audience, I saw so many faces that were paying rapt attention and grinning encouragingly. “We are here because each of us has an interest in letting the world know that people of mixed race, of mixed ethnicity, are everywhere. That we are part of society, that we contribute to society, and that we’re not willing to be pigeonholed into traditional categories. We’re not going to put up with prejudice, and we’re not going to be pushed aside!”

A handful of people, here and there around the quad, applauded, and there were more cheers. Everyone else just kind of gaped openmouthed at the audience members who were cheering. I even gaped a little myself, because one of the people applauding was Mr. Rosenquist, the psychology teacher and our would-be club advisor. Guess he really had wanted our proposal to succeed.

Then Miranda took over. As usual, she attracted a lot of attention with her cascade of braids and her tall, willowy frame, so all eyes were on her as she began to speak.

“We only have half an hour, but we have an exciting program in store for you,” she began. “We have no fewer than six speakers who will briefly tell you about themselves and their experiences as people of mixed ethnicity. Then there will be a short break for a group photo—the speakers and the audience all together, showing solidarity. As some of you know, this is a nationwide sit-in, so it’s also being held at other schools. Like some of them, we are webcasting online right at this moment.”

There were some “ooohs” and more shouts of support. Mr. Malone made as if to stalk up to the tree, but my tenth grade U.S. History teacher, Mrs. Cho, put a hand on his arm and whispered something. He stopped, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall with a frown. I’d have paid good money to know what she said to him.

“After the group photo, we’ll have a few minutes of open floor for those who want to add their comments. Again, we thank you all for coming.” Miranda stepped backward and sat down on the picnic bench behind the webcam. I followed her, yielding the floor to Maria.

I was to be the last speaker. I was supposed to lead everyone in revealing their Latte Rebellion T-shirts for the webcast. That was really going to make Mr. Malone have a cow, if anything was. If we weren’t all already on his detention list.

“First,” Maria said, going back to her usual bossy, nasal tone, “we have Ayesha Jones, senior class president.” Everybody clapped as Ayesha got up from a nearby bench and walked up to the front. Like Maria and Miranda and myself, she was dressed as respectably as possible, in a suit jacket and pants that she’d probably worn to some leadership conference. The cream-colored fabric set off her brown skin, which could have been deliberate. She took off her sunglasses and beamed presidentially.

“Hello, everyone.” There were loud cheers and more clapping. Class presidents were elected in a popularity contest and we all knew it, but you couldn’t help but like bubbly Ayesha, who was nice to everybody. “Thank you,” she continued. “Now, I only have a few minutes to tell you about my experiences, so I’ll start by playing a little game.”

Miranda and I looked at each other. A few people whooped sarcastically.

“I’d like you to raise your hands if you think you can guess what my ethnicity is. The only hint I’ll give you is this: There are seven. That’s seven chances to get the answer right, people! Each person I call on gets one guess. If you’re correct, I’ll give you a prize. All right?” She grinned.

There was even more unruly noise as people heard the word “prize.” Little did they know they would be getting official Latte Rebellion T-shirts.

“Okay! Who’s first?” A few hands waved in the air. “You.” Ayesha pointed at David Castro.

“Black,” he said.

“Correct. African American is one.” David easily caught the bundled T-shirt thrown his way and looked smugly at his friends sitting on either side of him. Then Carey waved her hand, barely visible from behind her tree. I was shocked.