by Dave Connis
I couldn’t stop thinking about Jack, and it kept me distracted from the fact that I still didn’t have a speech for the Founders Scholarship Dinner, and that, really, it didn’t matter if I had one or not.
On Monday, I was as good as expelled.
Surprises Over Magnolias
He called her beautiful, but he’d also called the book in her hands inappropriate. Lila thought the last was a negation of the first. For when one called a book too ugly for the world, one negated all the beauty found within. Books could have ugly parts, but no book was ugly through and through. If he couldn’t see that about her book, then she deduced he’d never be able to see that about her.
—Lukas Gebhardt, A House of Wooden Windows
I wore a knee-length black dress with a V neckline that showed off a pearl necklace I’d borrowed from my mom. I also had matching earrings and a simple pair of black ankle-strap heels. My stomach was roiling, and I felt constantly on the verge of throwing up. My parents and I walked into the Hunter Museum of Art, a building of sculpture made of metal and glass. It stood above the Tennessee River like a watchman. Its walls teased the edge of an eighty-foot bluff that disappeared into the curves of the river.
I was silent as we walked through the entrance, a wall of windows. A long line of black stanchions led us past the exhibition wings and into a grand foyer. It felt super fancy. Flagstone floors. Eight circular tables were covered in spotless black tablecloths with green runners. In their centers stood great glass cylinders wrapped in burlap ribbon bows and filled with magnolia leaves and cotton buds. A sweeping staircase, metal curvature on one side and glass partition on the other, led to a second floor where you could stand above the foyer, watch the people below, or get a better view from the massive walls of windows overlooking the blue trusses and rivets of the Walnut Street Bridge, the North Shore, the river horizon, and a small island bisecting the ancient currents. I saw a patio that extended off the grand foyer, which, I decided, would be a great place to go if I needed to throw up. It was far enough away from the hubbub, unlit, that no one would notice a girl in pearls hurling her fancy dinner into a river.
It was a Goldilocks evening, with a just-right breeze and a just-right chill that felt almost like a fall night instead of the end of summer. Despite the perfection in weather, I knew the night would be far from perfect.
My parents didn’t know anything I was feeling. They were there with a look of pride in their eyes. A look that killed me every time they said a word to me. I remembered our conversation the night I’d gotten the first strike, how adamant my mom had been about not bending the rules. How adamant I’d been about being the one who made the choices, and there I was, at a dinner, with no speech because I’d already lost.
I couldn’t tell them.
I couldn’t tell them any of it. If I wasn’t going to have the night, then I wanted them to. It was the least I could do before they found out their daughter was expelled from school.
“This is incredible,” Dad said, looking around. “It feels like you’re the president already.”
“Whoa,” I said, feigning happy. “I’m not the president. LiQui is.”
“No one said you both couldn’t be the president. You just have to choose who goes first.”
“You two are going to get us kicked out,” Mom said. “Act fancier.”
“This is all I got,” I said, waving a hand down myself.
Dad nodded in agreement and said, “What she said.”
We found an empty table with a small paper card, emblazoned with the number six, sticking out of the magnolia leaves. After confirming it was ours, we sat down, no guest of distinction to be seen. I couldn’t even remember who mine was.
I looked around the room, curious as to who the other Founders Scholarship finalists were. I’d only ever known that Jack was one, but he wasn’t there.
To my surprise, the only other person I recognized was Resi Alistair. She sat at table two with her family. We locked eyes and she waved; then, to my surprise, she stood up and walked toward me. I told my parents I’d be right back.
We stopped in front of each other.
“I didn’t know you were a finalist,” I said.
“Well, I wasn’t. I was a runner-up. They called me after Jack was disqualified.”
“Oh,” I said. “Why was he disqualified?”
“I don’t know specifics. I’m assuming, despite his family’s best attempts at keeping everything quiet, the publicness of his attempt and all the stuff that came before forced the selection committee to take him out? I don’t know. I just know Mrs. Lodenhauer is probably on fire with anger.”
I sighed. It wasn’t fair. He should’ve been there. “Have you seen him yet?”
“I haven’t yet, no. I’m going to go tomorrow.”
I nodded. “Oh, well why don’t you come with us? We’re going tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Ashton mentioned that. That sounds good.”
We were silent for a second; then she put a hand on my shoulder. “Thank you.”
“Thank you?” I asked.
“For everything.”
I tried not to look too dumbstruck, but I literally couldn’t think of a single thing I’d done that Resi should/would be thanking me for.
“You’ve been . . . a miracle this year. I mean, not even that—even before with what you did with your Tiny Little Libraries.”
Because I was raised in a barn, my eyebrows shot up in disbelief and I didn’t say thank you.
She laughed. “When you launched LitHouse, you were the talk of my community-leadership group. You inspired me to do the project that got me here.”
My jaw dropped. I had no idea what to say.
“But what I really want to say thank you for is the friend you’ve been to Ashton and Jack. I—I haven’t been able to be there for either of them in a lot of what’s happened, and it’s been so nice to know that you have.”
“Resi,” I laughed, “I wasn’t there for them—Jack just came to me. I mean, thank you, but I’m not as awesome as you think I am. LitHouse is just LitHouse. I’m like wondering if I’ve been doing the wrong thing. I don’t know.”
It was her turn to be dumbstruck. “Why would you think LitHouse is a wrong thing?”
“Because I don’t trust books anymore. They obviously hurt people.”
She frowned. “Is this because of the Unlib? Are you letting the stuff at Lupton affect you that much?”
“It’s not just Lupton, Resi—it’s my life. All I’ve ever done is books, and with Jack . . . I don’t know anymore.”
“Clara, you have nothing to do with Jack. I mean, maybe a little bit, but he can take anything and make it negative. It’s where he’s been at for a while. Not that he doesn’t have his reasons. Anyway, the night after the first football game of the year, when Jack got that DUI? It splintered our friend group.” She paused. Took a breath. “Ashton and I almost gave up on him with the rest of the group, but we didn’t. Do you want to know why? Speak. I know Speak was about a different topic, but it was also about someone who hurt so bad it shaded every second of their life. It was the exact story we needed to keep going. What if your library hadn’t been there? What if we hadn’t had that book right then, right when we needed it? We would’ve given up. Maybe Jack wouldn’t have had anyone to text Thursday night. Principal Walsh can ban books as much as he wants, with whatever justification he wants, but the books in your library altered space and time. There’s undeniable proof the books you handed out impacted the world around you.”
She looked at me, her eyes pleading with mine to hear her.
“But I started the Unlib all wrong, too,” I added. “It wasn’t because I was, like, this book warrior who wanted peers to have access to books—like I was when I started LitHouse. I started the Unlib because I was mad. I wanted to be right. I wanted to win. Books were my weapons.”
“I mean, yeah, that’s not great, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t mean this the way it sounds, but you’
re not that important. You weren’t the one responsible for the change. The books were. They didn’t need you to be angelic and perfect. They needed you to be willing to pass them along. You’ve been helping this happen for years, not just with your Unlib. Think about your Tiny Little Libraries. If this small library in your locker has done so much in such a short amount of time, think about what those have done. Books are wild things. You can’t tame them. People are wild things. You can’t tame them, either. Put those two together and you can’t know what’s going to happen, but that’s not on you. And if you’re going to get into the ‘if it’s appropriate for students’ debate, leave it up to the parents. That’s why they exist. There. Done. Move on. Wipe your hands of it.”
I stared at her. Not sure what to say. I could probably have said thank you, but it wasn’t anywhere near my tongue and I didn’t know where to find it.
“Sorry,” she said. “I just . . . I don’t want you to give up. I want you to know you’ve done a lot. Even if you don’t think you have. Thank you.”
I stared at my feet. I didn’t feel like that person.
“Who’s the guest at your table tonight?” she asked.
I couldn’t remember, so I shrugged. “I can’t remember. It’s been a crazy few wee—”
“I am,” someone said. An older woman, walking up to me from the side.
She stared at Resi with coldness even I could feel.
Resi faked a smile. “Mrs. Lodenhauer, nice to see you.”
Right.
Mrs. Lodenhauer.
Mrs. Janet Lodenhauer.
My mind flashed back to the email I’d gotten last week. I hadn’t even noticed.
Jack’s mom was my guest of distinction, and simply by how she stood, by the way she looked at me, I knew she wasn’t happy about it. And there was only one reason for her not to be happy with me. She knew that I was the dealer of Catcher in the Rye.
She blamed me for Jack.
My stomach sank for the millionth time.
Mrs. Lodenhauer didn’t respond to Resi. Everything she did emanated cold disdain for her, as if she blamed Resi as well.
Mrs. Lodenhauer looked at me. “I’d like to speak with you.”
Resi reached for my arm. Placing her hand on my wrist in a gesture that I could only understand as I’m sorry. She smiled. “Come find me after.” She gave a curt wave to Mrs. Lodenhauer. “Nice seeing you, Mrs. Lodenhauer.”
Then she walked away, leaving me with the coldest potion of anger, bitterness, and dissatisfaction I’d ever met.
Torn to Threads
When people don’t express themselves, they die one piece at a time. You’d be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside—walking through their days with no idea who they are, just waiting for a heart attack or cancer or a Mack truck to come along and finish the job. It’s the saddest thing I know.
—Laurie Halse Anderson, Speak
Mrs. Lodenhauer walked away from me without saying a word, but she did so with the expectation that I’d follow, which made me not want to follow. In fact, everything about her made me not want to follow and also made me feel even worse for Jack. Knowing how rotten she was. You didn’t even need to talk to her to figure that out. And, yeah, her son had just tried to take his life, that wasn’t a thing to be happy about, but there was so much of her anger that was timeless, a foul smell of a long rottenness in the snap of her step as she walked up the stairs to the top floor.
On my way, my parents waved to me as if I was winning the lottery. I waved back, but I can’t remember what my face looked like. Was it happy? Probably not. I don’t think I even tried to smile.
Upstairs. She led me to the point farthest away from everyone, then spun around and glowered at me for a few seconds. “Who do you think you are?”
The snap was so surprising that the only thing that came out was, “Who do you think I am?”
Her lip curled. “You don’t think I know about your book? That garbage I found in his room wrapped in white paper?”
I said nothing.
“Jack told me you gave it to him. You can’t play dumb with me, Clara. I know about everything, and anything I know, Principal Walsh knows. So it’s time for you to be honest. The library. You dealing books out of your locker. Let me ask you again. Who do you think you are?”
I shrugged, hearing my fate on Monday lock into place. “I honestly don’t know, ma’am.”
“You’re a rule breaker,” she said. “Someone who thinks it’s okay and even worth fighting for the right to shove trash into other kids’ hands. My husband’s grandfather would’ve died of a heart attack if he knew what you’ve done. The Lodenhauer legacy is Lupton Academy. I went there. My husband went there. We’ve given millions of dollars. We’ve built Lupton Academy with our money. It would be nothing without us.” She paused, her nostrils flaring. “You know how long I fought with Principal Walsh to expand the banned-book list?”
She took a step closer to me. “He didn’t want to deal with the politics, but everyone has a price, and his was SPA. So we made a deal. We gave Lupton money to buy SPA. I bought that banned list. Because of what books do to children. And here you come, thinking you have something to say about how my family has run the school since its inception. And look what you did. Your imprudence, your lack of respect for authority, your lack of sight when it comes to what books are appropriate, has put my son in a mental institution. I should make you pay for the SPA deal. I should make you pay for his college. Because you cost him his shot at the Founders Scholarship. He’d be here if it weren’t for you. You are the very reason the banned-book list was put into place. You’ve lived your life for books, and look at you. You shove your ideas on everyone else. You’re a moral disaster. You may have tricked the panel into believing that you deserve this award, but you aren’t important. You have nothing to say. Your books have done nothing but hurt people. All your knowledge will be useful when you can only get a job as a fry cook at McDonald’s.”
I was crying. Somewhere between her first word and the end of the first sentence, I started. But I forced myself to cry silently. To not give her the satisfaction of hearing her swings land hard.
“What you are is useless and unformed, and you and I both know that, come Monday, all of this will be gone. So why are you here? You shouldn’t have even come. Save us all the ten minutes of worthless chatter you’re planning to give and go. It should’ve been you in the mental hospital. Not Jack. He was a bystander in your destruction—”
“I’d say that’s quite enough,” my dad said, appearing by my side. “Ma’am, I don’t know who you are, and at this moment I don’t really care. If you say one more word to my daughter, I promise you neither you nor I will like the result.”
Mrs. Lodenhauer scoffed, then tugged on her ear. Speaking to the floor, she said, “I see where she gets her demeanor from.”
Dad smiled. “Yes, and I’m very proud of her for it. Now, I respectfully ask that you never talk to my daughter again.”
“Good luck with what’s left of your school year,” Mrs. Lodenhauer said as my dad pulled me away. He brought me down to Mom, and he kept asking me what Mrs. Lodenhauer had been talking about, but I was too tied up in my thoughts. So tied up that by the time I sat back down at our table, my tears had dried up. I wouldn’t spill tears for that. She was lost. But who wasn’t? She had no right. She wasn’t right.
While she yelled at me, something shifted in my heart. Suddenly, I knew the choice Jack had made was so much more than the message he got from a book. His heart was wrapped with layers and layers of hurt. I saw a part of where that came from firsthand as his mom tore me to shreds. It felt so unjust to give Catcher in the Rye any credit for bringing Jack to the edge when there was someone like Janet Lodenhauer tearing him down daily. To say his suicide attempt was Catcher’s fault—heck, even to say it was my fault—would let Janet off the hook. There was no separating the impact of her life on his, and maybe it’s the same for every decision inspired by a
book.
The problem is, we bring ourselves to the pages. Our whole selves. Every single darkness. Every single light. Every single passion. Every single hurt. We read with all the layers that make us who we are acting as filters. We read with all that our eyes have seen and all our hearts have felt since birth. With that much density making up humanity, it can’t be up to us to make sure people don’t misunderstand a book. And it can’t be up to books to make sure people don’t kill themselves or hate someone, or even love someone. Or even decide to be president. What we do, before and after we read, is our choice. And that choice is freedom.
I wondered if, maybe, Mrs. Lodenhauer would’ve been different if she hadn’t spent all her life putting out the wrong fires. I couldn’t know if there was any correlation between her stance on reading and how rotten and afraid of the world she was. I was sure it wasn’t as simple as reducing her problems to the fact that she hadn’t read Catcher in the Rye, but I did know that it certainly didn’t help.
If she had read it, she could’ve seen that Holden, one of the most loved literary characters of all time, was writing what he’d learned from a mental hospital, and maybe she would’ve been able to get past the shame she felt for her son and see a new beginning instead.
If she’d read Don’t Tread on Me, maybe she would’ve seen Levi and Joss die for something that ultimately united two sides of a war, and maybe she would’ve seen books as a source of freedom instead of poison.
Maybe, if she’d read Speak, she would’ve simply disagreed with me, not torn me to pieces because she wanted me to suffer.
Maybe, if she’d read Perks, she would’ve seen some of the ways that her son was being mistreated because of his sexual orientation, and been able to suspend her hate for a hot minute to be there for him, to love him, to give him an actual home to come back to.
“Who was that, Clara?” Dad asked again, incredulous. “Why was she speaking to you like that?”
I took a deep breath. “Dad, I’ll tell you later. I need to go write my speech.”