The Inside Battle

by Melanie Sumrow

  My gut twists as Aunt Birdie pulls a crumpled envelope from the pocket of her sweater. She removes the trifold pages from the envelope, marked with Dad’s chicken-scratch handwriting. “The judge has ordered him to undergo therapy for PTSD.”

  I don’t look at her, afraid of what my eyes might reveal: doubt. “What did he think?” I stare straight at the globs of purple jelly stuck inside the glass jar.

  She sighs. “He doesn’t want to go to therapy, but he does want you to visit.”

  Heat surges through my fingers. The biscuit crumbles between them. I immediately brush the crumbs into my cupped hand. “Sorry,” I say before dropping them onto my plate.

  “No worries.” Within seconds, Aunt Birdie places a new biscuit on my plate. “There’s something else.”

  “What?” I ask, taking the warm bread.

  She glances at the biscuit in my hand.

  I set it on the plate and take a breath. “What did he say?”

  Aunt Birdie draws a smaller, sealed envelope from inside the folds of the letter. “He wrote to you, too.” She offers it to me, and when I don’t take it, she places it next to my plate on top of a few stray crumbs.

  I press my lips together. I don’t want to read it, but I do. It’s all I can do to keep my hands from shaking.

  Slowly, I rip the flap from the envelope and remove the paper inside. One sheet. Two sentences:

  I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?

  That’s it? It’s a little too complicated for “I’m sorry” now. Anger flashes through me. Forgive you for what exactly? There’s so much to forgive. Followed by cold fear. What if he never changes? What if the only way I can see him again is behind bars? And finally, the numb of sadness. Why did he do this to us?

  Aunt Birdie’s hand covers mine. “Are you okay?” Her eyes probe gently. “Are you ready to visit him?”

  I know she wants me to tell her I’d love to see my dad. That I’m ready to take the next step. But the truth is, I don’t know right now. My feelings are all jumbled inside. I don’t want to see him in that place. I love him, but I don’t really like him. And I’m not sure if I can ever forgive him.

  So I open my mouth, and that’s exactly what I say.

  ***

  Calliope and I walk behind Josiah’s wheelchair, with Aunt Birdie beside him. I was a little nervous about Josiah and Aunt Birdie not having anything in common. Apparently, I was worried about nothing.

  Both of them have the gift—or curse, depending on how you look at it—of being able to talk to anybody, anytime, for as long as they like. They’ve spanned topics ranging from car repair to Crock-Pot recipes, from politics (thankfully, they agree) to the difficulty of raising teens. Calliope and I roll our eyes on the last one.

  My muscles tighten as we approach the gym of my old school. Since Ajeet is last year’s Regionals champion, the showcase is held here to start the season. I had to get special permission to even be here.

  We cross into the gym. “So, this is the Nerd Den,” Calliope jokes.

  “Hey,” I say carefully nudging her with my elbow. I don’t want to drop N8TE or my spare-parts crate. “I’d like to remind you that you’re the one who drove several hundred miles to visit this nerd.” I nod at the She-Hulk T-shirt she’s wearing. It was in the last package I sent to her. “Obviously, you knew what you were getting into when you met me.”

  She smiles a little. “True.”

  I find an empty table along the side of the gym—under the basketball goal—and set down my stuff.

  “We’ll be right there if you need us,” Aunt Birdie says, pointing to the stands and then, out of nowhere, she hugs me.

  I stiffen, feeling my face turn a dozen shades of red. “Not in front of everyone,” I say under my breath.

  “Sorry.” Immediately, she releases me with a smile, which means she really isn’t sorry.

  Josiah gives me a thumbs-up. “Go get ’em,” he says before they move toward the stands, continuing their conversation about how we’re standing on an old prairie dog graveyard.

  Calliope sneers. “Well, that was basically awful.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say, watching them get situated on the front row, right in front of the competition table. Great.

  “So who’s your fiercest competitor? Maybe I can ‘accidentally’ knock their robot onto the gym floor.” She puts accidentally in air quotes.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  She shrugs and then breaks into a laugh. “Of course not. Do you really think I’d do something like that?” I open my mouth to answer, but she raises a hand. “Never mind. Don’t answer.”

  Sudden laughter draws my attention across the gym. A bunch of kids huddle around a guy who seems to be their ringleader. My mouth forms an O. It’s Ajeet.

  He’s taller than the last time I saw him, with the slightest hint of a mustache. The group fawns over him and his robot. They’re all joking and laughing. And I should be right there, laughing with them.

  “Who’s that?” Calliope asks.

  I swallow hard. “Ajeet.”

  Her eyes widen with recognition. “You should go talk to him.”

  “What?” I ask, turning to her. “Are you crazy?”

  “First off, that’s not nice,” she says, counting off on her fingers. “And second, you’ll probably feel better if you get it over with.”

  “I’m not so sure.” I wipe my hands on my jeans. “I mean, what if he won’t let me?”

  “At least you know you tried.” She takes my hand, and I hope it’s not too gross and sweaty. “Besides, I thought you were a lot more confident about speaking up now.”

  “Yeah, but this is different.” It was one thing to talk to the FBI. To the police. To Aunt Birdie. Ajeet is a whole other story.

  “Ajeet!” Calliope shouts.

  My head whips around. “What are you doing?”

  “Helping you.”

  All of a sudden, I can feel him looking.

  Calliope lets go and nudges me forward. “I’ll be right here when you’re done.”

  I knead my clammy hands and, for a split second, debate running away and never coming back. But I’ve already run away once, and that didn’t turn out so well. I force myself to meet his eyes and move. Each inch feels like a thousand miles in slow motion. It seems like everyone’s watching.

  The crowd parts around him as I near. “Can I talk to you?” I ask, my voice weaker than I’d like.

  From out of nowhere, Mrs. Fuentes slips in front of Ajeet. “Mr. Mercer, I think you need to return to your table.”

  I nod and turn to walk away.

  “No, wait,” Ajeet says, or at least I think it’s him. His voice is deeper now.

  “Are you sure?” Mrs. Fuentes asks.

  He nods.

  A guy I don’t know points at the competition table. “We’ll be over here if you need us.”

  It stings a little to know this guy is probably his best friend now, but I also know it’s nobody’s fault but mine.

  “Thanks,” Ajeet says.

  When we’re alone, I shove my hands inside my jeans pockets, picking at the lint. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he says, looking everywhere but at me.

  “Ajeet,” I say and then make myself speak louder. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

  Suddenly, he looks at me, but he doesn’t seem too happy. “Is that right?”

  I nod. “What I did to you was awful. It was wrong, and I wanted to let you know how sorry I am.”

  He folds his arms over his chest.

  This sucks, but I keep going anyway. “I’d like to be friends again, I mean if you want to.” I rock between my feet. “Do you think you could forgive me?”

  “You were my friend,” he whispers, his lip quivering a little. “But then I saw how much you hated me.”

  I shake my head. “I never hated you. I was angry. I took it out on you, but I never hated you.”

  Ajeet examines me for a second, like an adult does when he’s trying to
decide whether to punish me or forgive me.

  I hold my breath, waiting.

  Finally, he shakes his head. “I’m not really sure I can.”

  I exhale. The old me would have bitten back. Jumped down his throat. But like me, Ajeet has every right not to forgive. “I understand,” I say, even though it hurts.

  “So what’s with the girl?” he asks with a sudden mischievous grin.

  “Calliope?” I ask, turning to look. As promised, she’s standing in the same spot. She waves.

  He nods like he’s impressed. “Maybe you could introduce me to her after I win today.”

  I laugh a little. “Good luck with your run.”

  “You too.”

  I turn to walk toward Calliope.

  “Hey, Rebel,” Ajeet calls, stopping me. I glance over my shoulder. “You better bring it today,” he says, sounding more like his old self. “You have no idea what you’re up against.”

  I smile and nod.

  “Well?” Calliope asks expectantly as I reach her. “What did he say?”

  “Maybe,” I say with a slight shrug.

  Her enthusiasm fades a little. “It’s a start.”

  There’s a tap on the microphone. It echoes throughout the gym before a man welcomes everyone to the competition, urging the teams to their tables in order to get the robots ready.

  Since I don’t have teammates, Calliope stands with me, helping me keep my nerves in check by asking questions and commenting with random trivia as the other competitors take their turns.

  After half of the runs are complete, Ajeet holds the lead with a score that will be tough to beat. But not impossible. If N8TE does everything he’s been programmed to do in the given time, I still have a chance to win.

  “Rebel Mercer,” the judge calls over the noise of the crowd. He gestures to the starting point at the far corner of the table.

  Calliope gives my hand a hurried squeeze. “You can do it.”

  I lift my robot and crate. Alone, I travel the length of the floor to the competition table.

  The gym goes silent. The competitors who have already had their turns crowd the table, including Ajeet on the far end.

  My heart beats fast as I set N8TE on the starting point and place my spare-parts crate on the floor.

  “Go, Rebel!” Calliope and Aunt Birdie shout from their separate places in the gym. My name seems to reverberate forever until Josiah tucks his fingers inside his mouth and whistles loudly. There are a few chuckles around the table, and I’m a little embarrassed. But mostly, I’m glad they’re here.

  “Ready?” the judge asks.

  I turn on N8TE. The red light flashes and then goes steady. The battery is full.

  My hands squeeze and relax before I press the arrows, selecting the first program. I nod in response.

  “Three, two, one.”

  With a deep breath, I press the start button and let him go.

  Author’s Note

  Two major issues inspired me to write The Inside Battle: (1) certain groups trying to normalize racism in the United States, and (2) our country’s ongoing disservice to veterans who suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

  Leading up to and following the 2016 presidential election, I noticed a growing trend toward overt racism. I live in a large, multicultural city with friends from different ethnic backgrounds where explicit racism was something that had always seemed to be happening “someplace else.”

  To be clear, I was never naive enough to believe we lived in a society where racism was extinct. Even though we were not wealthy growing up, I was aware of the privileges children like me had, ones that other kids my age could only dream of, simply because of my white skin. Raised in a segregated community largely fueled by educational and economic disparity, I heard the racist comments and saw the effects of discrimination. Like Rebel, even though I knew what some people around me were saying or doing was wrong, I felt torn about speaking out against them. After all, weren’t some of them the very people I’d been taught to respect and love? Even then, would my voice make a difference?

  As I wrestled with these underlying questions from my childhood, I began to research the overarching social issues in this book, starting with the rise of hate groups in our country. Rebel’s story is a work of fiction but was inspired, in part, by the growing anti-government movement in the U.S. This trend experienced a comeback in 2008, when President Barack Obama was elected to office, and has only grown since then. These anti-government groups include militias, and though not all militias are racist, many of them are.

  Militias typically target former members of the military and law enforcement to join their ranks, due largely to their existing leadership skills, discipline, and weapons experience. Those enlisted by militias are often disgruntled with the government and sometimes suffer from PTSD.

  This last fact struck a chord with me since my grandfather suffered from PTSD, though I only realized it later when I grew up and he was no longer with us. We didn’t talk about it, which unfortunately isn’t all that surprising. As a nation, we freely discuss the sacrifices our soldiers make to ensure our country’s freedoms, but we often fail to include the mental health sacrifices they have made alongside the physical ones.

  Despite the large numbers of people who suffer from PTSD, the stigma in seeking mental health services remains, particularly for veterans. Soldiers are trained that fear is not tolerated in combat. So when they return home and experience it like Rebel’s dad, they are often embarrassed and feel defective, or view themselves as a “coward.” Many times, veterans find it challenging to return to their old lives or assimilate into “normal” life.

  As I wrestled with these larger issues of our country’s ongoing racism and disservice to veterans with PTSD, the underlying question of whether a child’s opposing voice could make a difference continually resurfaced. Thankfully, from the time I was very young, my mother encouraged me to speak up, even if my opinion wasn’t popular. She taught me that my voice was needed and that I had a right to be heard, though I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t always say something when I know I should have. My mother was also the first person to teach me that our population’s vast differences (racial, religious, cultural, and so on) are what make our country great. She believed, and continues to believe, that we should always listen and learn from one another.

  I have tried to do that. I try to listen, even when it is challenging. I try to understand. I have learned that subtle racism is often more dangerous than overt racism. In listening, I have found that even my multicultural city rests on an undercurrent of racial discrimination. I have discovered that refusing to talk about things, like PTSD, does not mean we are brave. Rather, it takes more courage to say something that makes us vulnerable than it is to remain silent. Finally, I have learned there are opportunities to speak up and call out those who aren’t using their privilege for the betterment of humanity as a whole.

  My voice matters. The voices of people who aren’t like me also matter. Our veterans’ voices matter. Your voice does, too, regardless of your age. As Josiah says, The voices of children matter, especially since they are often the only carriers of truth.

  So, like Rebel, I urge you to find your voice. Use it. Speak up for what is right. Encourage others to do the same. If you don’t, who will?

  Traumatic experiences, such as war, can have a painful and lasting effect on those who experience it. To learn more about how you can help support our veterans, visit

  cnn.com/2013/11/05/us/iyw-simple-ways-to-honor-veterans/index.html

  ptsd.va.gov/family/effect_parent_ptsd.asp

  giveanhour.org

  operationwearehere.com/ChildrenBooksWoundedWarriors.html

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a book is an isolating process, but I’m so lucky to have a team of people who supported me along the way.

  First, I would like to thank my insightful editor, Sonali Fry, for loving Rebel’s story, for her honesty when something didn’
t feel true to the narrative, and for giving me the freedom to find my own solutions. Thank you also to Courtney Fahy for taking the baton with enthusiasm and running alongside me as we brought this book across the finish line.

  Thank you to the entire Yellow Jacket crew and the Simon & Schuster sales team for your unending creativity and support of my books. A special note of thanks to Nadia Almahdi, Paul Crichton, Mike Ploetz, Jordan Mondell, and Matthew Sciarappa for working your magic on a daily basis.

  I have been so blessed with amazing book covers and that wouldn’t have been possible without the talented designer David DeWitt. Thank you, David, for your beautiful work. And thanks to Daniel Zender, who created the powerful artwork that enriches the cover of this book.

  Thank you to my agent, Rick Richter, for your initial excitement when I mentioned I was thinking about writing a story about the militia movement and veterans with PTSD. Your enthusiasm and trust gave me the early push I needed to write this book.

  To my amazing critique group, Hema Penmetsa, Polly Holyoke, Pam McWilliams, Robert Eilers, and Laney Nielson, thank you! Your feedback was essential, and I’m so grateful for your continued encouragement and camaraderie on this writing journey.

  When I started, I knew I had to learn about guns, something that, like Rebel, made me incredibly nervous. Thank you to my friend and Gulf War veteran, Kevin O’Brien, for taking me to the gun range, teaching me how to safely fire different kinds of weapons, and answering all of my questions. I’m thankful for your expertise, patience, and especially your kindness. Any errors in this book regarding weapons are mine and mine alone.

  And thank you to Cynthia O’Brien for your friendship and enthusiastic support of my books. Your presence at the gun range made me far less nervous than I would have otherwise been. A wholehearted thanks for the laughs that kept me from breaking down in tears that day. You’re the best!

  A HUGE thank-you to all the teachers and librarians who have championed my work, to the booksellers (especially the independent ones) who have talked about my books and ensured they are on shelves, and to you, the readers, for spending time with my stories. I couldn’t do this job I love without your support, so thank you!