“I think that would be best,” Karl says.
Calliope shakes her head. “But those guys will get away.”
“Ma’am,” Karl says, “let us do our jobs. This is for your own safety.”
“Don’t ma’am me,” Calliope snaps. She’s looking straight at Karl.
I bite down a smile.
“I may be just a kid, but I’m not so naive as to believe if they aren’t arrested, they’ll pack their guns and go home.”
“She’s right,” I say, facing her. “They’re planning to attack Washington next.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Karl’s hand twist the cushion like he’s imagining it’s me. “Rebel, that’s supposed to be classified.”
“They’re planning to attack our nation’s capital?” Josiah asks, concern lining his voice.
“No,” Karl says at the same time I say, “Yes.” Karl shakes his head.
“Well, which is it?” Josiah asks.
Karl leans against the cushion and sighs. “The plan is, after they hit your church, they will be joining a larger militia in order to attack Washington, D.C.” He locks his fingers together. “I’m sorry, but that’s all I can tell you; you’ve already heard too much.” He glares at me.
“If we cancel the service,” Josiah says, “do you think they will still try to damage the building?”
“I think once they see the church is empty, they’ll move on. This is probably more of a—” Karl clears his throat “—more of a personal matter.”
“Because of me, right?” I say. “Because they’re my friends.”
“It’s true your dad wasn’t happy with your choice of friends.” Karl glances at Calliope.
Her jaw tightens.
“But the real reason here is racism. It’s hate—plain and simple.” He purses his lips and then turns to Josiah. “Why don’t we take you into town so you can call your members? I need to meet up with some of my folks once we get there. But you can start making calls on my phone on the drive over.”
Josiah nods and reaches for the wheels of his chair.
Calliope places a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. “But what’s to guarantee they won’t come another time? Who’s to say tomorrow will be the end of it?”
“They won’t come back,” Karl says, confident. “We’ll catch them in Washington and—”
“But what if you don’t?” I press. “I’m sorry, but I’ve found out in a few weeks what you couldn’t find out in nine months.”
His face flushes red.
“What if we still have tomorrow’s service?” Calliope asks.
“Forget it,” Karl says. “That’s a no go.”
“But why?” she asks. “We can lure them in—stop them now—before they leave town.”
Karl stands. “I don’t think you two understand: This isn’t some game. We’re talking about real guns here and men who know how to use them.”
“I’m not willing to put my congregation in danger,” Josiah adds, shaking his head. “But, God knows, I would like to keep these men from hurting anyone.”
“I can’t guarantee your safety.” Karl’s hand slices the air. “I’m not going to endanger civilians for the chance we might catch them.”
I step toward him. “But what if you catch them here and they can tell you the plan for Washington? It might give you a few extra days to get your people together and stop them there.”
Karl dismisses my words with his hand. “You don’t know if these guys have information about the planned attack.”
“And you don’t know that they don’t,” I reason.
“Would anybody care to ask what we want to do?” Calliope says.
She’s right: Nobody’s asked. “What do you want?” I say.
She lifts her chin. “I want us to stand our ground.”
Karl scoffs. “Have you seen what a gun can do?”
“Yes,” I say, willing my voice to remain strong. “And I think she’s right. This is your best chance of stopping the attacks, and you know it.”
Karl turns to Josiah. “Will you please talk some sense into them? These kids think they can take on one of the best-armed militias in the country.” He points his finger at me. “This isn’t a game, Rebel. You’ve seen these men. If you interfere, your dad won’t care that you’re his son.”
“But I can still care that he’s my dad,” I say. “And I don’t want him to hurt anyone else.”
Josiah melds his hands together like he’s praying. “‘To ignore evil is to become an accomplice to it.’”
Calliope smiles. “Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. said that.”
Josiah nods; I nod.
Karl looks between us. “Alright, then. What do you suggest?”
TWENTY-FOUR
I shift my weight on the folding chair at the back of the room, this time moving from hunched over to sitting up. My knee bobs up and down with nerves as Josiah preaches.
He holds a Bible and sits front and center, speaking into a microphone: “If we are to loosen the bonds of hate, we must come together. We must go beyond simply calling ourselves neighbors. We must act like neighbors. Break bread together. Visit one another’s homes. Truly get to know one another. Only then can we see our shared humanity.”
At this moment over in Mercy, undercover agents are pretending to be the congregation of the AME Zion Church, trying to lure and trap the Flag Bearers.
But we are the real congregation. We sit together in a makeshift church one county away. Black people. Brown people. White people.
Heads nod as Josiah preaches. A few people shout, “Amen!”
This is how Josiah stands his ground. Not by directly facing the Flag Bearers’ attack—he insisted that’s the job of the FBI now—but by bringing people together.
While Karl scrambled to gather a team of federal and local law enforcement, Josiah and Calliope called church members, instructing them not to come to the usual building today. They also called pastors and friends from other area churches, from schools, and from soccer teams. Less than twenty-four hours later, this community center was the place to gather instead.
We sit shoulder to shoulder now, the massive room full. The smell of home-cooked food surrounds us, literally crammed on tables around the room, for the potluck lunch planned following the service.
I glance sideways at the clock above the metal double doors. It’s almost noon. My neck tightens. We should’ve heard something by now.
What if the Flag Bearers don’t surrender? What if Dad doesn’t?
“You alright?” Calliope asks under her breath. She sits to my right, wearing a pretty yellow dress.
I wipe my hands on my jeans and nod.
“Liar,” she whispers with a coy smile.
My cheeks heat.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” she says and then takes my hand. Calliope’s warm fingers wrap around mine, sending a thousand jolts of electricity throughout my body.
For a split second, I wonder if she’ll remember how I almost didn’t speak up. How I failed to speak up so many times before. What if she reconsiders? I hold my breath, waiting. My heart beats with worry. With hope.
Josiah closes his Bible and points to the projection screen on the wall behind him. A slide pops up with what looks like song lyrics. “Now, if you will rise in body or in spirit and join me in singing our closing hymn: ‘This Little Light of Mine.’”
The chairs creak as almost everyone stands. From the front of the room, a woman pounds out notes on an upright piano that sits beneath the screen. A man joins Josiah and lifts the microphone from the stand. He starts to sing with a deep, full voice:
“This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine.”
The congregation repeats the verse. Old voices join young ones. Chills race along my arms. The man sings it again and so does the congregation. It’s so beautiful. People start clapping to the beat and, by the end of the first verse, the whole congregation sways side to side as they sing. Everyone, including me, is
smiling. Singing loudly. Even the people who can’t sing do at the top of their lungs. It doesn’t matter.
For a split second, I’m only thinking about the music and these people who look nothing alike—the tune moving through all of us like a single instrument.
Calliope suddenly nudges me with her elbow and then points toward the double doors. I freeze in place. Karl is there, holding one of the doors open. His eyes search the congregation until they finally land on me.
“Go,” Calliope says with a reassuring nod.
As everyone starts the third verse, I rush behind our row of chairs and around the side of the room, careful not to bump into the food tables.
“Let’s talk out here,” Karl says when I reach him. And by the way he says it—stiff and flat—I know something’s wrong.
I swallow hard and follow him into the quiet, empty hallway. Too quiet. The fluorescents buzz overhead and flicker at random as Karl carefully closes the door, shutting out the beautiful music with a click.
“It’s done,” Karl says.
I give a swift nod, wanting him to hurry up and tell me what is done. My dad? Josiah’s church?
Karl runs a hand across the side of his head. He won’t look at me.
This is bad. My fingernails dig into the meat of my hand.
“We got them,” Karl says. He glances at his watch. He’s still not looking at me.
Got them. What does that mean?
He glances over my shoulder. “Wade, Dwight, and Justin approached from the rear of the church, but we surrounded them pretty quickly. They surrendered without incident.” Karl clears his throat.
My heart thrums loudly.
“Your dad tried to enter through the front of the church.”
“He tried?” I take in a sharp breath, bracing for the worst.
Karl places a steadying hand on my shoulder and looks me straight in the eye. “He’s alive, Rebel.”
Air escapes my chest. “He is?”
Karl nods. “Nathan didn’t want to surrender. It wasn’t easy.” His hand falls from my shoulder. “It took four agents to subdue him.”
Subdue him?
“But we finally got him safely into custody.”
“Thank you,” I say, a mix of feelings swirling inside.
“This is a good thing,” Karl says before dryly laughing to himself. “We think Dwight and Justin will probably talk to save their skins.”
“And my dad?” I ask, daring to hope. “Do you think he’ll help, too?”
Karl’s expression tightens. “Honestly, no.”
My shoulders sink with disappointment, even though I know he’s probably right.
“But hey, if you hadn’t told us about their plans, there could’ve been a lot of innocent people hurt today, or worse.” He points toward the closed doors. “You saved them.”
I shake my head, thinking of Josiah’s wisdom. Calliope’s courage. And how all these people came together to take a stand against hate. “I think they saved me.”
“Or you saved yourself,” Karl says with a wink.
My face flushes hot. “Maybe a little of both.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Karl says and then glances at his watch with a sigh. “I still need to fill out a ton of paperwork, but I wanted you to hear it from me: Your father may finally get the help he needs.”
“That would be good,” I note, trying to sound more confident than I feel. I’ve heard that before.
He thumbs toward the other room. “Sounds like they’re wrapping up in there.”
I can hear Josiah over the speakers, talking about “next time.”
“Enjoy lunch, and I’ll be back in a few hours to take you home.”
“You?” I ask.
“Don’t act so surprised.” Karl grins smugly. “I actually requested the assignment.”
“You’re serious?”
“You did good, kid,” he says, clicking his heels to attention. To my surprise, he salutes me.
I don’t know how to respond; I awkwardly salute him back.
With a confident nod, Karl turns to walk away, calling over his shoulder, “Don’t forget to save me some pie.”
When he’s gone, a strange combination of relief and sadness tumbles my insides. No one was hurt. Josiah’s church is safe. My dad is in jail.
Happy chatter and the sounds of tables and chairs being dragged across the floor suddenly grow louder. I catch a whiff of lemons and honey. “Calliope,” I say, turning to face her in the open doorway.
“Are you okay?” she asks as soon as she sees my face. A line of concern runs across her forehead; she shuts the metal door behind her, muffling the noise.
“Yes,” I answer because it’s easiest.
She looks like she doesn’t believe me. “Did the FBI catch them?”
“Yes,” I say again and, before I can stop myself, I reach out to her.
Calliope comes closer until our fingertips touch, making my stomach flutter. “You sure you’re okay?”
I nod out of habit and then look into her dark and searching eyes, deciding to finally answer honestly instead. I shake my head. “Yes and no.”
She smiles, her fingers fully lacing through mine. “Did you know Charles Darwin was one of the first scientists to write about emotions in animals?”
I laugh a little. Here we go again.
“And feelings of optimism have been shown in a wide variety of species besides humans.”
A grin tugs at my lips. “I did not know that.”
“It’s true,” she says. “Even honeybees have feelings.” Without warning, she leans in, kissing me softly on the cheek.
My chest fills with warmth, like sunshine on a summer day. “What was that for?”
Calliope’s smile brightens. “You finally found your voice.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Three Months Later
Our kitchen smells like warm bread. Aunt Birdie opens the oven to retrieve the biscuits; I quickly pull N8TE 2.0 to the edge of the table for one more test run. With the gray arrows, I move through the programs and select the one I want before pressing start.
N8TE rolls away from my hands, past the butter and jelly, to the stack of sugar packets. I built this robot off the design I’d first imagined in the cabin, with some improvements. N8TE comes to a stop and sorts the packets, flipping half of them label side up with the other half label side down. At the same time, the arm on the other side of the cage is cranking as if moving the wheel that will be on the actual competition board.
“So you have it doing two things at once now?” Aunt Birdie slides a platter of hot biscuits onto the table.
I nod. “Hopefully, it will save some time and give me more design points.”
“Impressive,” she says with a smile. “Should I tell them to hand you the championship trophy when we get there or make everyone suffer through the competition first?”
I smile a little and then shake my head. “There are a lot of other kids who are just as good. Better even,” I say, thinking of one.
She winks and turns to open the refrigerator.
N8TE completes the tasks and rolls to the starting point in front of me. I shift in my seat. This afternoon is the Fall Robotics Showcase and the first time I’ll see Ajeet since I spray-painted his locker. “Besides, the judges might not take me seriously.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Aunt Birdie asks, pushing the refrigerator door closed with her hip.
“Because my new school doesn’t have a robotics program.”
There are three conditions I had to meet for me to return to school after getting expelled last spring. One, I have to go to a completely different school. Two, I was supposed to write a letter of apology to my old principal, Mrs. Fuentes, which I already did. And three, I have to take anger management classes for a year. I expected the first two, but the third one really annoyed me.
Aunt Birdie said I haven’t had the best role models when it comes to seeking help, and that’s exactly why I need it. And she’s right
.
Therapy was really, really hard at first, but it seems to be getting easier. I don’t feel so knotted-up inside, and I’m starting to learn how to control my anger before it controls me.
She sets a glass of orange juice in front of me. “Once they see your robot in action, they won’t have much of a choice but to take you seriously.” She gestures for me to clear the table. “Time for breakfast.”
I nestle N8TE in my hands, move over to the bench, and lower him into the crate. I can’t help but think how empty the floor looks without Dad’s bug-out bags lined beneath the bench.
“What time are Calliope and Josiah coming again?” Aunt Birdie asks.
I smile to myself. Calliope and I have kept in touch like old-fashioned pen pals. Since she doesn’t have a phone, it’s been the only way to talk to her. It’s a little slow—okay, painfully slow—but it works. “Around noon.”
“It’s nice of them to spend their weekend on the road to come cheer you on today.” She clears her throat. “I get the feeling this Calliope may be more than a friend?”
I shake my head. “I’ve already told you: I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” she says and then taps the newspaper with a finger, her face turning serious. “Did you see this morning’s paper?”
I move to the table and read the headline: SIX MORE ARRESTS IN PLANNED ATTACK ON NATION’S CAPITOL. My neck tightens. After Dad was arrested, the FBI questioned everyone they’d caught. Justin said he didn’t know anything. Wade and Dad refused to answer their questions. Dwight, however, wasn’t so loyal. Faced with prison, Dwight talked in exchange for a lighter sentence and revealed the Flag Bearers’ plans for a full-scale attack with help from other militia groups around the country. I didn’t realize there were so many of them until the newspaper spelled it all out in black and white.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Aunt Birdie asks.
I force myself to take a deep breath and exhale. “Maybe later,” I say before taking a biscuit from the platter.
She cuts a biscuit in half and carves a pat of butter from the stick, plopping it between the two halves. “I got another letter from him,” she says, setting the biscuit on her dish, letting the butter melt.
The Inside Battle Page 19