Eddie's Choice

by Marilyn Reynolds

  Mr. Taggerty motioned choir members to the front, asked us to stand, and started the band, choir, and audience on “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

  With “Gave proof to the night,” the screen came down from the top of the stage and a huge world map labeled WHERE CHOIR MEMBERS CAME FROM was projected onto it. A bunch of black dots were scattered across Eastern and Western Europe, and a bunch more across the Middle East, Mexico, Central America, Southeast Asia, Africa, China, and Australia. The words to another song came on the screen, in red, over the map. “Please join us,” Taggerty said. Sofia played a chord on the piano and the choir started, “This land is your land, this land is my land.”

  By the end of the first line, everyone was singing along about how the redwoods and rivers, desert and mountains, oceans and wheat fields, all belong to all of us. Pictures of people from all over the world and in all possible colors flashed in front of us, then the dotted map came up again with the last verse of “This land was made for you and me!”

  As the choir came back to their seats, the crowd stood clapping and stomping. Hockney smiled, waiting for people to calm down, then introduced Anh Tranh, the Valedictorian.

  I don’t remember much about what Anh said because during her talk I sat looking at the dots on the map behind her, thinking about my dot in Mexico, and Anh and Phong’s dots in Vietnam, Imani’s in Africa and Olivia’s in Mexico, Rosie’s double dots in Mexico and Western Europe, Sofia’s in Iran. I’m pretty sure Brent and Cameron’s dots would be somewhere in Western Europe.

  I like the idea that this land was made for everyone. But if I’ve learned anything during my senior year, it’s that some people really don’t like the idea of this land being made for all of us. If they had their way, the only dots on the map would be in the Western Europe section. Sofia’s learned that this year, too, though maybe she already knew it. Olivia knows it now. What about the Joad family in “The Grapes of Wrath”? Their dot would have probably been in Western Europe, but they were a different kind of immigrant. Outsiders, even after generations in this country. And that poor trans kid Mario told me about? It didn’t matter where that dot would have been. Same with the gay guy the Patriots beat up last year. Still, like Max and I talk about whenever we have one of our sweetness-of-life ice cream times, the world is full of good people. And judging by the crowd’s reaction to the song, there are a lot more of us who want this land for all of us than there are who want it only for people like themselves.

  I rubbed my thumb over my WWCCD bracelet. One of Cesar Chavez’s famous sayings is “Together, all things are possible.” Maybe that’s what people were clapping and shouting for. Not that this country is for all of us, but that it could be.

  The applause for Anh and whatever she’d said brought me back to the now of graduation. Then, after too many pictures and lots of hugs with relatives and friends, and after we’d turned in our hot rented caps and sweaty gowns, we made our way to the parking lot where a caravan of buses waited to drive us to Universal Studios. It took a long time to load the buses because everyone had to be searched before they got in. I bet the security guys ended up with plenty of beer and booze in case they wanted to have their own party.

  Universal Studios was fun. I liked seeing the tricks they use for special effects, and the Wizarding World of Harry Potter made Space Mountain at Disneyland look like a kiddie ride. Phong was obsessed with “The Walking Dead” place because he’s experimenting with putting zombies into his “Vernon the Cowardly Vampire” stories.

  Rosie and I saw everything we could and ate everything we could and walked all over the place. I think the only people who were awake on the way back to Hamilton Heights were the bus drivers. At least, I think they must have been awake because we got back to campus safe. At three in the morning. The best part of grad night, though, was going back to Tilly with Rosie, and sleeping wrapped up with her, and waking up with her when the sun shone through the tiny window. It was the first time we’d ever spent the whole night together, and I’m happy to say, it wasn’t the last.

  ONCE SCHOOL WAS OUT, I started working full time with William. Rosie volunteered at a day camp for kids with “special needs.” I was happy painting houses and offices, something new every day. Rosie loved what she was doing with the kids. We both had money in our pockets. We went to a couple of concerts, and to the beach almost every Saturday. A few times we took Zoe and Imani to a movie, or Rosie brought Zoe over to play “Frozen” with Imani, which was good, because Imani for sure missed Olivia. The worry of getting deported and being separated from their kids was too much for Carla and Arsenio, so they all went back to Mexico. William keeps complaining that he can’t find a good mechanic like Arsenio to do all of the needed repairs on the old pick-up we use for work.

  Anyways, Rosie and I had a great summer together. We didn’t exactly say this, but I think we made it count because we knew we’d soon be separated by hundreds of miles. But at least until September, when college started, we were together and free and happy. I think most of us after graduation from Hamilton High felt a new sense of freedom. Not Brent, though. Mr. Bruno kept pushing him to try harder for engineering. Because of his position in the engineering company, he could give Brent the step up he never had when he was getting started. “Give Britney my step up,” Brent told his dad.

  Something happened when Brent won the cornhole tournament and got a taste of life without math pressure, and he was never going back to the old way. The pressure from his dad, though, was so extreme that Brent was miserable. His mom was miserable, too, seeing the misery of her husband and son. So Brent decided everyone would be better off if he made his Into the Wild fantasy a reality. He was going to pack up and live in the wilderness, away from everything—not Alaska, but some “River of No Return” place in Idaho.

  Cameron and I both tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t budge. He’d take a Greyhound to somewhere in Idaho, then hitchhike into the interior, Christopher McCandless style. It was all mapped out. But the evening before his early morning departure plan, his mom came to his room to see if he wanted to add anything to a laundry load. She looked in right as he was zipping up his duffel bag. When she realized what he was doing, she totally freaked.

  Mrs. B. called a family meeting. Told the dad she loved him, was so grateful that he loved his work, and that his brains and talent enabled him to make such a good living for all of them, but he had to stop trying to turn Brent into an image of himself. She said everyone had a right to find their own path and if he didn’t let up on Brent, she wasn’t going to stay around to watch him make a mess of things. The three sisters who were home for the weekend cheered and clapped. The dad walked out. Brent unpacked his duffel bag.

  Mr. B. stayed away for three days—stayed quiet for another three days after he came back home, then he lightened up. Everybody lightened up. So now, Brent’s a happy liberal arts guy on his way to some small college up in Oregon. He’ll decide on a major later.

  As for Cameron, he left town the day after graduation. He’s taking a gap year with another guy from the band. They’re backpacking, staying in youth hostels. I got a postcard from him yesterday. They were in Barcelona. Next stop—Portugal.

  ON SUNDAY OF LABOR Day weekend, Rosie and I went up to Lake Gregory. She was leaving for college on Wednesday, and we wanted to make the most of the time we had left. It’d been exactly a year since we started to get acquainted at this lake, a year since we first knew we were interested. So that’s the time we count anniversaries from. For a while, Rosie had this thing about what was our real anniversary date? Maybe it wasn’t the lake day. Maybe we should be counting from our first kiss. Or from when we first said “I love you” to each other? Or, you know, from our first Tilly? But we decided to stay with the lake date because that’s when it all started.

  Just like a year ago, it was dry and hot, and the lake was a cool relief. We swam straight to our buoy. Rosie reached for it and let it hold her afloat while she scissor-kicked. I treaded
water.

  “Tell me a joke,” she said. “Like, do you remember that corny elephant joke from last year?”

  “Why did the elephant take a roll of toilet paper to the party?”

  “Because he was a party pooper.” She could hardly get the answer out before laughter got the best of her. She was laughing her free laugh, the one that came back to her after she got the acceptance letter from UOF. She was laughing her full out loud musical laugh. I was just laughing and snorting. It wasn’t that funny but the laughter stayed for a while. This time, though, there was no Brent to swim out and interrupt us. It was just me and Rosie and a bunch of people we didn’t know.

  I moved in closer to Rosie, sharing the buoy with her. Then she got all serious.

  “It seems like such a long time ago, doesn’t it? Sort of like we were still little kids back then, and we’re not anymore.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Maybe because we’ve been through a lot this year.”

  Rosie looked away, wiping at her eyes, trying to hide that she was crying but not doing a very good job of it.

  “Rosie...Hey...Rosie?”

  “It’s...I’m scared. I’m scared to go away. I’m scared you’ll stop loving me. I’m scared of college. What if I’m not smart enough?”

  I wiped her tears away with my hand, which left her cheeks even wetter. “You don’t have to go away if you don’t want to,” I said, getting my hopes up.

  She shook her head. We got out and sat side by side on our towels, not talking for a while.

  “I won’t stop loving you,” I tell her. “That’ll never happen.”

  She nodded her head. “I don’t know why I’m so scared,” she said. “It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

  “Don’t go,” I told her.

  She shook her head again. “I have to,” she said.

  “I know,” I said, putting my arm around her and pulling her close. And I did know it was right for her to go to UOF, and I also knew I was going to miss her like crazy.

  SHE’S BEEN AT UOF FOR three weeks now. We text back and forth a lot. Love texts, and heart texts, and miss you texts. Rosie’s probably sent at least a hundred pictures since she’s been gone—the creek that runs past their dorms, the room she’s sharing with Brianna, the picture of me tacked to the wall over her dresser, the music room, the giant oak tree in the middle of campus, a skinny stray kitten they’ve taken in and are fattening up. They’ve named the kitten Simba. I like that. Most days we Facetime, but...not the same.

  Hamilton Heights is like a different place with so many of the people I’ve been around all through high school gone. I know things feel different for Imani, too. Max keeps saying how wrong it was that Carla and Arsenio were forced out of the only home their kids have ever known. They’re having a hard time finding a replacement for Carla at Dr. White’s office, too. Max says no one can replace Carla. So, I guess we’re all missing people right now, but I’m pretty sure nobody’s missing anyone as much as I miss Rosie.

  Jason’s not anyone I miss, but I do sometimes wonder what happened to him. Mario says the FBI gave him a whole new identity—birth certificate, Social Security number, school records, the works. He had surgery on his throat so his voice won’t be so squeaky. One of the FBI guys told Mario Jason’s voice was like that because back when he was seven or eight, one of his mom’s boyfriends got irritated with him and gave him a quick karate chop to the throat. No wonder he rolled up in a ball that day I chopped his throat.

  Mario doesn’t know where, but Jason’s living somewhere in the Midwest with a foster family who doesn’t know anything about his Patriot past. Besides the FBI, there’s only one other person who knows Jason’s past—some social worker or something. How weird would that be?

  Not being in school anymore is strange. Like, almost all of my life, the parts that I can remember, I’ve been in school. And now I’m not. I like working, accomplishing something real, not sitting in bullshit classes pretending to listen to boring stuff. I like putting money in savings and still having plenty left over to spend, but I miss friends.

  These days, if there’s a patio where we’re working, William and I eat our lunch there. If not, we take it to whatever park is closest. We never eat inside on the job because, you know, paint fumes. Usually we talk about the job, or the next job coming up, or maybe some family stuff. Sometimes, though, we just read. I’ve passed Thunderstruck on to William, which was fine with Rosie’s mom. It’s about Guglielmo Marconi and the invention of the telegraph, and it’s also got the story of a murder in it. Honestly, I never thought much about the importance of the telegraph, but it was a really big deal at the time and, really, except for some of the details that I skimmed about conduction and induction and short waves and long waves, it was a real page turner. William probably won’t skim.

  I’m reading Just Mercy, which Vincent passed on to William, and after he read it, William gave to me. It’s by this guy, Bryan Stevenson, a lawyer, who works to help death row inmates—almost all are poor, black men. From growing up around Vincent and hearing his stories of trying to help poor people, mostly Mexicans, get fair treatment, I figured out early on that justice isn’t exactly equal. And I know that rich people get away with a lot more than poor people, and that black and brown people get stopped by cops a lot more often than white people do. But the cases Stevenson writes about are way beyond anything I might have imagined. Cops tampering with evidence to convict an innocent black man and let the guilty white man go free. Racist district attorneys bribing witnesses to testify against black suspects, and on and on.

  “Soul numbing,” William said when he handed Just Mercy to me. That about says it. On the other hand, though, I know our system of justice works sometimes. The guy who molested me is in prison. Thirty-two Patriots are in prison.

  Anyways, lunchtime with William is hella different than lunch on the quad at HH. It’s quiet. And clean. And nobody’s ragging on me about what I’m eating. Sometimes I miss the noise, though, and the crowd of kids, and Cameron and Brent. Especially Cameron and Brent. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to be back in high school. Maybe I’m still just getting used to my changed life.

  As for friends, Phong and I hang out together sometimes. We’re turning “Vernon the Cowardly Vampire meets Simba the Courageous Cat” story into a real comic book. It was a big hit in the WriteLight book, and the pest keeps pushing us for the next installment, so maybe it’s not too bad.

  Phong’s going to HHCC—says his parents can’t afford to pay for a four-year college, and he’s not smart enough for a scholarship. He may transfer after he finishes HHCC. Or maybe two years of college will be enough. He’s taking graphic design and advertising and he’s already doing some web design work for a couple of small businesses. We might get an apartment together if he gets more work. Or if our comic book turns into a best seller.

  As for the White Supremacist shit, hardly anyone showed up for a “White Lives Matter” rally in the park last month, and there hasn’t been much hate sign trash since the Patriots were shut down. But then, over the weekend, a bunch of “Protect White America” flyers bordered with “14 Words” were tacked to trees and pinned on bulletin boards at HHCC. Students rushed to tear the signs down and replace them with “Love Not Hate” fliers, but it sucks that the hate signs went up in the first place.

  According to Mario, things have mellowed some in Redville. He gets a bigger picture, though, because of his work on the hate crime unit—he says, in the whole country, hate crimes have increased by 17% since the election. How sick is that! But, speaking of the election, I turned eighteen on May 22nd and the next day I registered to vote. Until this past year, I didn’t pay much attention to politics. Sure, I liked the previous president, that he talked about hope and everyone working together, but I’d never given much thought to how the person in office has such a great effect on our lives—how they can make things a lot better, or, like now, they can make things a lot worse. It still gets to me that the guy who’s presid
ent now got 2.8 million votes less than the woman who should have been president. That’s just wrong. When I vote, I’ll be sure to vote for candidates who say they’ll fight to change the electoral college system.

  In the meantime, William’s teaching me how to estimate the costs of a job, materials and labor, and how to write a contract for customers. In another year, I’ll have enough experience to apply for a painting contractor’s license. I’ll need to study a lot if I’m going to pass the test, but I don’t mind studying when it has a real-life purpose.

  And, speaking of studying, I’ve signed up for a yoga instructor training class that’ll start next month. Tuesday and Thursday nights for six months. I’ve been leading a class in Joe’s studio on Wednesday evenings, but it’ll be better to have an official certificate. Joe says I’m a natural. I don’t know about that, but I’ve been doing yoga for half my life now, so it feels natural enough.

  What else? Something shifted in me after that attack. I don’t think I was that close to dying, but it felt like I wasn’t that far away, either. Whatever. It’s hard to explain, but it’s like I appreciate life more now. Not just mine, other people’s lives, too. Not just people I care about, either, just ... everybody. Like maybe we are all part of the same big soul, like Tom Joad said. Like we’re all connected. But, then, does that mean I’m connected to the Patriots? Never mind. It’s not just hard to explain. It’s impossible. Maybe it’s just that I’m more grown up? Anyway, it’s a good shift. That much I know.

  Here’s something else that’s good. In three-weeks-feels-like-three-years, I’m driving up to UOF for an overnight with Rosie. Brianna’s coming home that weekend, and we can have their room to ourselves. Yesterday, Rosie texted a picture of eight six-packs of lubricated condoms that her mom stuffed into the narrow drawer of Rosie’s bedside table.