Rumble, Page 2

  “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<
br />
  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

  of that in my life. So if

  she wants to believe

  the source of our love

  (and, indeed, all love)

  is some all-powerful

  wizard with wings or

  whatever, hey, what’s

  the point of arguing?

  As long as she lets me

  sleep in late on Sundays

  while she wastes time

  in church. As long as

  she lets me kiss her how

  I like, warm and steaming

  and barely breathing and . . .

  A Sudden Uncomfortable Tug

  Just south of my belt buckle reminds

  me that a locker-heavy hallway is so not

  the place to think about such things.

  Glad I wore Jockeys today. Still, I feel

  like everyone is staring at my groinage.

  I glance up at the clock on the wall. Damn

  it. Lunch is half over. If I leave now, I’ll be

  late to American Culture, a class I actually like.

  Skip lunch? My gut growls in answer.

  The deli cart beckons, and I’m halfway

  there when someone taps my shoulder.

  Okay, more like semi-punches it. I spin,

  ready to defend myself if I must. But it’s

  just Marshall. “What the fuck, dude?”

  His goofy smile reveals way too many

  teeth in need of straightening. Hey, man.

  Don’t get all defensive. Just wondered

  if you’re going to Freak’s party. My car died.

  “Again? Jesus, why don’t you bury

  the goddamn thing already?” He winces

  slightly. “What? Did I offend you

  somehow? You don’t think that car

  should be junked?” He just shrugs and

  now the clock says I’ve got less than ten

  minutes until the bell. They’re probably

  packing up the cart, but I start walking

  that way. Maybe I’ll get lucky. “Come

  on. I need food. Anyway, let me talk

  to Hayden about the party. I planned on

  going, but I should probably check in

  with her before I agree to play chauffeur.

  I’ll text you.” He makes a one-eighty,

  heads the other way, and I’m pretty

  sure I hear him mutter, Pussywhipped.

  A soft haze of anger lifts, mushrooms

  when I reach the empty deli cart. Shit!

  Great

  All I can think about now is how hollow

  my belly feels. In Culture, Mr. Wells

  gives a great lecture about how modern

  American eras can be defined by their music.

  Normally, I’d be totally engaged. Instead

  I keep thinking about foods that start with

  p. Why p? I seriously have no idea.

  Pastrami.

  Pancakes.

  Plums.

  Pinto beans.

  Pretzels

  Provolone.

  Prosciutto.

  And a slight variation—Pesto on sPaghetti.

  Great. Now I’ve got that going on.

  sPinach.

  sPam.

  sPaetzle.

  sPring rolls.

  sProuts.

  sPumoni.

  sPumante.

  Yeah, I realize spumante isn’t a food,

  but it seemed like a reasonable segue.

  It’s how my brain works when I go obsessive

  and, yes, I understand that’s exactly what it is.

  If I let myself wander into compulsiveness,

  too, I’ll have to go back and alphabetize.

  Hmmm. No, better not. Mr. Wells

  is already giving me a quizzical look.

  Quizzical. Cool word. I like q words.

  Quiche.

  Quinoa.

  Quince.

  eQuus.

  Okay, I wouldn’t actually eat horse,

  but a giant cheeseburger would sure

  go down well right now. . . .

  Matt? Am I boring you or what?

  I spent a lot of time preparing this talk,

  and I thought it was pretty good.

  The Tips of My Ears

  Feel like someone just blowtorched

  them. “Sorry, Mr. Wells. My mind

  must be somewhere else right now.”

  Obviously. Do you think you can return

  it to this location, at least until the bell

  rings? He’s smiling, anyway. Good thing

  he and I have a decent teacher-student

  relationship. “I’ll do my best.” I do, and

  actually get caught up in the whole

  Vietnam/Bob Dylan/Buffalo Springfield

  thing. Not to mention Richard Nixon

  and J. Edgar Hoover vs. John Lennon.

  Damn. If I had any ambition, I think

  I’d try to be a cult hero. Are there college

  courses for that? Can you get a degree

  in cult heroship? Never mind. Pretty

  sure that wouldn’t satisfy my parents.

  Not that what I’m planning to do after

  graduation will. Oh my God. There goes

  my brain again, wandering elsewhere.

  I think I’ve got a serious case of ADHD.

  Toward the End

  Of class we have (by design, I’m sure)

  circled back to the late 1960s and MLK

  Jr. Beyond Vietnam protests, the civil

  rights movement was also making

  headlines. Snickers in the back of the room

  underline the fact that not everyone here

  is what you might call enlightened.

  So what kind of music defines that?

  sneers ever-the-dick Doug Wendt.

  Hip-hop? Rap? Gospel? Or maybe

  back then it was spirituals?

  Mr. Wells quiets the ludicrous back-row

  giggling with a single look. In a way, yes.

  Spirituals informed the music that would

  come to be called “the blues.” Sort of like

  how Moses’s exodus story informed MLK’s

  “Promised Land” speech. He’d figuratively

  climbed to the mountaintop, viewed the place

  where his people belonged, and believed

  God wanted them to get there. . . .

  “Yeah. And how did that work out

  for him?” The question slips past my lips

  without my even thinking about it.

  And So Does

  Mr. Wells’s answer. He knew he wouldn’t

  reach it, Matt. He knew with absolute certainty

  that his death was more than possible. It was

  probable. But he didn’t back down, didn’t

  back away from his plea for nonviolent

  protest. Without his unshakable faith in God,

  and the creator’s determination that all men

  truly are created equal, Dr. King migh
t very

  well have retreated to the safety of his pulpit.

  “And he’d probably be alive today,

  sitting in a rocking chair somewhere,

  enjoying his grandchildren. If there really

  was a God, one who wanted Martin Luther

  King Jr. to lead his people toward equal

  rights, why would that God allow him to die

  before the task was accomplished? It makes

  no sense. His people continued to suffer,

  and he was just dead. Martyrdom is stupid.”

  That came out stronger than I meant

  it to, but I’m not going to take it back.

  Wells frowns. I’m sorry you feel that

  way, and I’m pretty sure most of Dr. King’s

  followers would disagree with you. His voice

  gave them strength and shone a spotlight

  on their cause, one the world couldn’t ignore.

  Sheep

  I make the mistake

  of saying it out loud.

  “Sheep.” And, of course,

  that jerkwad Wendt has

  to expound, Yeah. Black

  sheep. And the room erupts.

  Idiot.

  Right on.

  Dick.

  Shut up.

  Word.

  Oh my God.

  Until, finally, Mr. Wells

  yells, Enough! Settle down.

  Look, we’re about finished

  here. Enjoy your weekend.

  As everyone gathers their

  stuff, he adds, Hey, Matt.

  Can I see you for a minute?

  Shit. Shit. Shit. What now?

  I’d Try the Ol’

  “I’ll be late to my next class” excuse,

  except for a couple of things. One,

  the bell didn’t even ring yet, and two,

  I’ve got a study hall prior to Wood Shop.

  In a way, I’m surprised they let me

  around saws. “What is it, Mr. Wells?”

  I saw your God essay. . . .

  Jesus. Teachers actually share these

  things? “My English essay? Really?”

  Come on, Matt. We both know there

  were some, uh, concerns. But I wanted

  you to know that while I don’t agree

  with everything you wrote, your thoughts

  on religion are remarkable. I’m impressed.

  I have to smile. “Glad someone’s

  impressed. Thanks, Mr. Wells.”

  You might consider taking comparative

  religion in college. I think you’d find