Quaking (21 page)

Or, at least, they are trying to. Sam appears unaffected as he continues talking. “I’m very sorry about your son, Mr. Morehead. I—I can’t even imagine what that must be like.”

I steal a look at Mr. Warhead. He is blinking. His lips are smashed together. And his face is on its way to purple.

“I really admire and respect our troops,” Sam says softly. “I just want them to come home.”

“And I,” Mr.Warhead replies through gritted teeth,“can’t help but admire and respect the young people in my class who show concern for our troops and our country.”

Oh, like the Rat? I want to say, “You are just being used! You are one of his victims!” but Mr. Warhead will refuse to see it, so why bother?

Sam is talking. Now Jessica. Defending me. And my views.

Jessica leans so far forward, she practically pounces on Mr. Warhead. “How dare you imply that she doesn’t care? How
dare
you?” Sam reaches over and puts his hand on hers but she flashes him a glance almost as smoldering as the look she is giving Mr. Warhead. Sam slowly sinks back in his chair.

Jessica turns to Mr. Warhead again. “And even if she didn’t—which I can tell you she most certainly does—how dare you let your emotions affect a child’s grade? A child’s future? That is an ugly abuse of power.” She pauses. “Does your principal know about your biased attitude, I wonder?”

Mr. Warhead folds his arms and smiles a self-satisfied smile. “Jeff Patterson and I are old friends.”

Jessica’s eyes narrow. “Then perhaps we need to involve the school board.” She is quite a force, this skinny little Quaker woman.

Mr. Warhead’s smile turns into his usual tight-lipped grimace. He exhales loudly. “Well, thank you for your views. Now I understand why she’s expressing them. Children often parrot what their parents say—or in this case, guardians.”

“We’re her parents,” Jessica says, sitting forward in her chair again, at the same time Sam is saying “parents!” a little louder than is necessary. They both reach out for me and their warm hands are on mine.

Mr. Warhead gives them a condescending smile and looks at me. “I’m not going to hold your sarcastic remarks against you. I know you’re only fourteen and haven’t really developed a sense of who you are yet—”

“You don’t know her very well, do you?” Sam breaks in.

Mr.Warhead shoots him a “shut up” look, as if Sam is one of his students.

“So I’ll give you another chance, but you need to try to see both sides of the issue, not just keep parroting their views.” He looks over at Sam and Jessica, wrinkling his nose like they are dog poop.

Me? Parroting their views? Ha! Where does he get off treating me like I am five? And have no brain? And what gives him the right to insult Sam and Jessica like they are ignorant five-year-olds, too? I feel my face turning toward him. I swallow. “Excuse me?” I say slowly.

“Well, I mean, you’re not even a Quaker, right?”

I know the right answer. I know the answer that will let me pass this class. I know the answer that will let me graduate. And get to Canada. I hear myself saying, “A Quaker?” as if it is the oddest thing anyone has ever asked me.

Mr. Warhead smirks and nods, knowing that I am going to deny association with this cult.

But somewhere from deep within me, a rumbling comes to the surface and erupts out of my mouth with a “Hell, yes!”

Jessica closes her eyes. Her mouth is a straight, severe line.

Sam’s is not. It is twitching. Back and forth. And up. Into a smile. Until he covers it with his hand.

Jessica stands up. “Well, we appreciate your doing the right thing, Mr. Morehead.”

We walk out into the crowded hall. Jessica is tight-lipped and strained. Sam puts his hand out to shake Mr. Warhead’s. Mr. Warhead is slow to respond and quick to stop shaking.

Several passing students call out, “Hi, Sam!”

Sam answers, calling each one of them by name. Mr. Warhead looks like he has eaten a lemon. No one says hi to Mr. Warhead.

“Hey! Sam!” a familiar voice calls.

“Rob, buddy! How are you?”

“Great!” Rob pushes through the crowd to shake Sam’s hand.

“Rob, let me introduce you to my wife, Jessica.”

Jessica smiles. “Hello, Rob. I’ve heard all kinds of nice things about you.”

“Yeah?”

Mr. Warhead stares at all three of them. He looks like he has eaten three lemons.

I walk arm in arm with Sam and Jessica, one on either side of me. We form kind of a chain as we weave through the school connected like this. It is even stranger to walk through these halls without being frightened, without having to look for the Rat. In fact, I would almost enjoy meeting him right now.

At the front door, Sam and Jessica both give me a hug. I am not expecting that, so my attempts at return hugs are somewhat lame but they still smile at me. I stare after them as they walk down the front steps. I am not even embarrassed that they are holding hands.

Late that night, I hear Sam and Jessica talking quietly downstairs about the meeting with Mr. Warhead. I only catch a word or two here and there but when Sam says “that Matt!” I am desperate to hear more. I cannot resist putting my ear against the heat vent on my bedroom floor—the other side of which is conveniently located in the ceiling of their room. Why did I never think of this before?

Sam says I am “one smart, tough young lady.”And he also says, “I love her spirit, don’t you? She has such a strong spirit.”

I sit up, lean against the bed, fold my arms, and smile. So. There you have it. Straight from the honest Alpha Quaker himself. I do not have a “smart mouth.” Nor am I a “smart ass.” Instead, I am simply “smart.” And “tough.” And I have a “strong spirit.” A strong spirit. Who knew? It is a fresh persona for me. I am trying it on for size. I believe it fits. And I like it so much, I plan on keeping it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

 

T
he next morning, I get on the bus and say, “Good morning, Sam,” before he can even say, “Good morning, Matt.”

He grins big time.

I even shake his hand, feeling the jangle of the MIA bracelet that is a part of him.

I do not care if the Rat sees. He will not do anything to me on this bus. And this is the one day of the week I do not have World Civ. Today, right now, I feel safe.

In English, we get our papers back. Mrs. Jimenez has written all kinds of glowing things on my
Little House on the Prairie
paper. Her comments are about the feelings and the humor and the pain. They are real.

At the end of English, Mrs. Jimenez asks me to stay for a minute. I wonder if I am getting in trouble for my
Little House on the Prairie
paper, too, although I cannot imagine why.

“Matt, you’re a wonderful writer. Very persuasive, too.” She looks at me intently. I am waiting for the “but.” “I’ve missed seeing you at the peace club meetings.”

“Oh. That is because I am not actually a member. I just happened to be in the library that one day.”

“Oh? Well, I was wondering if you’d be interested in working on our newsletter.”

“Uh . . . why?”

She smiles.“We need to bring some different opinions into this school so we can have some debates, don’t you think?”

I nod again. I am stunned that we think the same way.

“We’re starting to distribute our newsletter around town—to the library, city hall, and various churches.You’re a very persuasive writer and, I think, a very determined young woman. I’d love for you to be on our team.”

Perhaps she is catching me in a rare upbeat moment, but I feel a thrill that I rarely remember feeling.

“Would you be interested?”

“I think so. Okay.Yes.”

She is beaming so much I am almost blinded by her glow. I think she is about to hug me. “Could you stay after school next week? Monday? We’re having a special meeting just of the web designers and newsletter editors.”

Her happiness is so contagious, I cannot help but smile. And nod.

I am floating through the day on a cloud, as if Maggie Mahone’s shawl is the Quaker Cloak and nothing can go wrong.

Until I get on the bus in the afternoon and there is no Sam.

Where is Sam? I am not feeling invincible anymore.

Other people are asking the bus driver where Sam is.The man does not know. Or is not telling. By the time Rob gets on the bus and asks the driver, for maybe the tenth time, the guy yells, “I’m just a sub, all right? What do I know?”

I cannot wait until I get to my stop. The Rat is way too happy. He is tripping and punching people. The bus driver does nothing.

Finally, I get off. And run all the way to the house, bursting in, out of breath. “What happened to—”

Sam is standing there. Leaning against the kitchen counter. Holding Jessica. Who is crying.

“Hi, Matt,” Sam says with a soft smile.

Jessica straightens up and wipes her eyes, giving me a wobbly smile. “Hi, honey.”

The kid is hugging both of them around the ankles. “Maaa.”

“I lost my job,” Sam tells me.

“What! Why?”

Sam takes a deep breath. “I never registered for the Selective Service.”

I am about to demand more of an answer when I start to figure it out for myself. I remember reading about this on Sam’s blog.

I look at Jessica. She knew he would lose his job. That is why she was so upset yesterday morning. It was not the burnt toast.

She smiles weakly and bends down to pick up the kid.

I drop my backpack. “I told you not to go see Mr. Warhead! He snitched, right? He figured it out because you are a Quaker or because of everything you said to him about peace. And afterward, in the hall, he found out that you were a bus driver. Bingo. A government job. Which you lose—even now—if you do not register with the Selective Service, right?” I shake my head. Sam. Sam.

Sam shrugs.“It may not have been him. It may have been a routine check.”

“A routine check? Oh, come on, Sam!”

“Well, I didn’t mark the box on the employment application about Selective Service. I just left it blank. Maybe somebody noticed.”

I roll my eyes.

Sam hangs his head. “I know. I—I didn’t feel good about submitting an application that was incomplete. It was deceptive. That’s the same as a lie. I should never have applied. I just . . . well . . . really wanted the job.” He sighs. “I’m not proud of myself.”

I stare at him. “I am not disgusted with you, for God’s sake. I am mad at Mr. Warhead! You did not do anything wrong, Sam!”

“Well, it was deceptive not to mark the box.”

“It was their fault for not reading the stupid form, then!”

He shakes his head.

“Sam, you were the best bus driver! You were a—a role model! Everyone missed you today! Everyone asked about you!”

“And now they’ll know what I did was wrong. What kind of a role model is that?” His shoulders droop.

“Oh, for God’s sake, get over it, Sam! Do you not feel the least bit upset that something was taken away from you that should not have been?”

Sam starts to answer, but Jessica interrupts. “I agree with Matt.”

Sam jerks and stares at her.

She pushes the kid’s hair out of his eyes. “You took a stand, Sam.You don’t need to feel sorry about that.”

“This totally sucks,” I say.

Jessica nods. She does not even tell me to watch my language. “I’m going to take Rory up for a bath.”

Sam gives them a hug before they leave. Then he sighs and sits down at the kitchen table. He fingers a blue napkin and for a moment I think he is going to shred it like I do.

I sit down next to him and stare at him. “Okay, this is what I do not understand. Why does God, in his infinite wisdom, let stuff like this happen?”

He exhales slowly.“I don’t know. But I believe a way will open.”

“What? Is that another Quaker thing?”

He nods. “You’ll get an idea and you’ll know immediately, at a gut level, that it’s the right thing. Sort of like a door opening and you realize, that’s it.”

“As in, I have seen the Light!”

“Something like that.”

“Well, that must be very nice and comforting for those of you who see some Light, but it makes no sense to the rest of us.” Just because I told Mr. Warhead I was a Quaker does not mean I am for real. God!

Sam smirks, flicks his thumb against his clenched fingers, and holds them up to his other fist, then makes a
whoosh
sound.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t you know a blowtorch when you see one?”

I roll my eyes but I wonder if a way will open if you are not Quaker. Or if I would even recognize a way if one opened in front of me.

I decide to share my plan with Sam. “How about moving to Canada?”

He gives me a quizzical look, like perhaps I am being sarcastic.

“I am serious.”

“But . . . this is my home, Matt. And I can’t run away.”

“Why not?” It is not a flippant remark. It is a genuine question. I want to know.

“Because everyone I know and love is right here. I’m privileged to be an American. I’m privileged to live right here.”

“You are not looking so privileged at the moment, Sam.”

“But I have the right and the power to make a difference.”

“I believe that exists in Canada, also. And it may be an easier battle.”

He takes a deep breath, looks at the floor, then looks at me. “I ran away to Canada before. I’m not doing it again.”

“Excuse me?”

“When I didn’t want to sign up for Selective Service. I ran away. I hid.”

Sam?
Sam ran away? The websites—all those bookmarked sites—flash through my head. His blog. For kids who did not sign up for Selective Service. Of course he could help them. He was an expert.

I look at him and he wipes his hand over his mouth. “It just didn’t make any sense to me. Went against everything I believed. Our whole reason for being there was wrong. Peacekeeping is one thing, but . . . So, one morning I decided to hitchhike as far away as I could get.” He stares off into the distance. “Up through New York, into Ontario and along the TCH—the Trans-Canada Highway—into Quebec, through New Brunswick, and all the way into Nova Scotia. I worked at a sawmill and on a commercial fishing boat. It’s beautiful up there. Beautiful people, too. But I learned something.” He looks down at his hands and rubs his MIA bracelet. “About myself. About who I am and where I belong. Canada’s great. But I’m not Canadian. I’m American, and this is where I belong. I decided to never run away again.” He looks up at me. “I’m going to stay right here. And work on making things better.”