Riot (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage)

by Mary Casanova

  “Uh, fine,” Bryan said. He leaned back, but decided that that looked too relaxed, like he had an attitude problem.

  He leaned forward. He sat up straight and tried to keep from fidgeting.

  The sheriff spun his chair around and reached on top of the gray file cabinet for the black video camera. With both hands, he picked it up, spun back toward Bryan and set the camera in the center of his desk, keeping his hands on it. “Is this yours?”

  “Yeah,” Bryan said. Was there something wrong with the video camera? Did he think Bryan stole it or something? “I forgot it, I guess, at the beach yesterday.”

  “I hear you made yourself into a hero, too,” Sheriff Hunter said, his big hands still glued to the camera. “Saved a kid from drowning, isn’t that so?”

  Bryan shifted in his chair. “It was no big deal. He went under and … the lifeguard wasn’t coming fast enough. Somebody had to help him.”

  “I’m proud of you, Bryan,” the sheriff said. “Our community could use more young people like you.” He paused.

  The sheriff was drawing out the conversation longer than necessary, searching for something more.

  Bryan glanced down. He was tugging at the seam on the sides of his jeans. He pushed his hands under his thighs and sat on them.

  Sheriff Hunter let go of the video camera. He grabbed a pencil from a cup that said IT’S THE LAW and turned it slowly between his fingers. The large gold ring on the sheriff’s left hand caught the light from the window and pierced Bryan’s eyes.

  Bryan flinched and looked away.

  “There’s a lot of trouble brewing around town, Bryan.…” He waited. “I’m sure you’re aware of some of it.…”

  Bryan curled his toes inside his sneakers. What was the sheriff searching for? He might as well put him under bright investigation lights! Did he know about last night? If so, why not just say it?

  “I went to high school with your dad.” He paused. “How’s he doing these days … with the strike and all?” The sheriff leaned forward onto his elbows.

  “Well …” Bryan looked at the duck print behind the desk. He rubbed his wet palms together and took a deep breath. “He’s not too happy with what’s going on with the rats—I mean, with Badgett. He doesn’t want to have to move out of the area to find work, so he doesn’t think it’s very fair … that’s all.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Things could be better, I guess.”

  Sheriff Hunter looked hard at Bryan, blue eyes probing. “Are you a hockey player, too, like your dad?”

  Bryan nodded. He didn’t want to come right out and say that he always played first string.

  The sheriff continued. “He was good—one of the best. What do you play?”

  “Center, usually. Sometimes right wing, sometimes left wing.” He couldn’t take this anymore. He jumped up. “Can I take my video camera now?”

  “Sure,” said the sheriff. He stood, too, and handed the camera across the desk to Bryan.

  Bryan was surprised to see that the sheriff wasn’t much taller than he was—maybe five feet seven inches at most. Somehow, Bryan had expected the sheriff to tower over him. He took the camera and tried to sound cheery. “Thanks.”

  The sheriff walked around the desk and put his hand on Bryan’s shoulder. “Just one more thing,” he said.

  Bryan waited, chewing on his inner lip. Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Maybe an officer was bringing someone to the second floor to lock them behind the second-story bars Bryan had seen from outside.

  “If you hear about anyone damaging other people’s property,” said the sheriff, his eyes fixed on Bryan’s, “if you catch wind of anyone breaking the law over this labor dispute—do me a favor. Come by and see me, okay?”

  Bryan adjusted the strap of his camera over his shoulder and forced a smile. “Sure.”

  He turned and walked casually down the linoleum hallway past the officers’ break room, where two police officers sat with coffee cups. He continued past the service desk at the entrance and walked out the door.

  Calmly, he rolled his bike away from the red stone building, lowered the kickstand, and hopped on. The air was heavy with the smell of rain.

  One block from the jail, Bryan pushed down hard on the pedals and flew home. The road glistened wet. He welcomed the first drops of water against his face.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Bryan looked through the new shirts, jeans, and sweatshirts in his closet, deciding what to wear for the first day of school tomorrow. Usually, it mattered. But his conversation with the sheriff still chilled him.

  What was Sheriff Hunter getting at? How much did he know? Maybe when the police car had passed through the intersection, the officers had seen Dad’s truck and followed them. Maybe they got the license number down. Was the sheriff trying to make him confess?

  Bryan heard the truck engine turn off in the garage. The door opened into the kitchen. He heard the murmur of his parents’ voices.

  “Bry?” Dad called.

  Bryan stepped over a pile of Josh’s new Lego blocks and walked down the hallway to the kitchen. “Yeah?”

  Dad held up the newspaper. “Front page?” he said.

  “Isn’t that something?” Mom said, pushing her short hair behind her ears. “I’m really proud of him.”

  Dad needed a shave. He was wet, probably from standing out in the rain on the picket line. He tapped at the black-and-white picture filling up the top quarter of the paper and read the headline HEROIC RESCUE AT CITY BEACH.

  Mom smiled. Josh and Elissa raced up the stairs from the basement.

  “Dad!” Josh called. “You’re home!”

  “Dad!” Elissa echoed. “You’re home!”

  They wrapped their arms around Dad’s waist. He set down the paper and squeezed them both around their shoulders.

  “Your brother’s a hero,” Mom said, smiling. She held up the paper.

  “Wow!” exclaimed Elissa, shaking her fine blond hair back and forth. She tugged at Bryan’s jeans and looked up at him. “I didn’t know you were so famous,” she added seriously.

  “Wait till I tell Alex,” Josh said. “He won’t believe it.”

  “It would have to be a rat,” Dad said icily.

  Bryan winced. “I didn’t know him, Dad.” He shrugged. “He was just a kid.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake!” Mom snapped, her eyes fiery. “Josh and Elissa—you two run back downstairs and watch TV. Supper will be ready in a few minutes.”

  Elissa put out her lip. “But I don’t…”

  “Right now,” Mom ordered, placing her hands on the twins’ heads. She turned them in the direction of the basement and they trotted down the carpeted stairs.

  Mom put her hands on her hips. “Are you serious? A boy was drowning and … what do you mean? You think Bryan should have let him drown?” She glared.

  “No … but he can’t be crossing lines!” Dad insisted, his voice sharp.

  Bryan cringed. If pulling Cam from the water meant crossing lines, then he was really confused.

  With his forefinger, Dad tapped the newspaper lying on the counter. Thump. Thump. Thump. “Stay away from them, Bry. There’s trouble brewing—and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Mom’s face contorted. Tears filled her eyes. “Stan,” she said. “Why don’t you give me a hand in the kitchen. You and I can talk. It might help to get your mind off the strike for a while.”

  Dad looked in Mom’s direction, but he seemed to be looking right past her. He shook his head.

  “Sorry, I can’t,” he said. “I have to get back.”

  “But you just got home,” she pleaded. “School starts tomorrow. I have a lot to do to get everyone ready.”

  “Like I said, I better get back.” His jaw muscles tightened. He stepped out to the garage and was gone.

  Bryan picked up the newspaper lying on the counter and settled onto a stool. In the picture, he was standing by while the lifeguard gave mouth-to-mouth to Cam. The caption read: Blue Ash youth, Bryan Gra
nt, 12, stands aside after rescuing Cameron Retting, 14, from Rainy Lake Sunday afternoon. Lifeguard Leah Cole revived Retting through mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Bryan wondered what Cam thought about the picture—at least the lifeguard was cute. In the background, Chelsie stood with her arms crossed, skin wet, looking on intently. Bryan couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  After a few minutes, Mom put her hand on Bryan’s shoulder. “I don’t know your father right now,” she said, her voice soft, controlled. Even when she was angry, she had a way of reining in her feelings. “This labor dispute—it’s dividing more than union against nonunion.” She gripped his shoulder. “It’s splitting families like ours right down the middle. I hate it. I absolutely hate it.”

  She rose, poured two blue glasses full of orange juice, then sat back down. “Here,” she said, lifting her glass and passing the other to Bryan. “Bottoms up!”

  Bryan lifted the glass to his lips and drained it.

  “Mom, when your teacher’s union went on strike last year,” he said, “it was a lot different, wasn’t it?”

  Mom sat down beside him on a stool and combed her hair with her fingers. “We didn’t have other teachers coming in and taking our positions—that would have made teachers angry. As it was, it just meant closing the classrooms for a few weeks. By striking together, we had more power to get the pay we deserved as professionals.”

  Bryan understood. He knew his mom worked hard at her job.

  Gretsky appeared, sat down next to Bryan’s stool, and looked up with his black button nose. Bryan scratched the top of his head.

  “Dad’s strike is different,” she continued. “It’s complicated. Rather than walking off a job, they didn’t get the job. They’re protesting that Gold Portage chose a nonunion contractor to build the new project. It’s an unofficial strike, not sanctioned by the union, that’s why it’s called a wildcat strike.”

  “Mom,” Bryan said, trying to keep his voice casual. “Have you heard about car windows getting bashed in around town, things like that?” He needed to talk about what he knew without coming right out and telling.

  She nodded. “Yes, and I hate it. It’s one thing to go on strike and wave picket signs. It’s another thing entirely to take the law into your own hands and start destroying property, to threaten people.” She rested her elbows on the counter. “Just take a look in the paper. There are long columns of vandalism reports every night.” She paused.

  He remembered the sheriff’s stare, the way he seemed to know more than he said. He couldn’t meet his mom’s eyes.

  “Your father doesn’t hear a word I say lately. The only people he listens to these days are his buddies at the strike site. I’m afraid he’s going to completely stop thinking for himself. He did that once when he was in hockey … and it cost him.”

  Bryan ran his finger around the rim of his empty glass. “What do you mean?”

  “His senior year—the year his team went to state—he got so into the competition of it all that he got carried away on the ice. Has he ever mentioned it?”

  Bryan shook his head.

  “He got into a bad fight in the first period with a player from the other team and had to sit out the rest of the game. His team really needed him. By getting in a fight, he actually hurt his team. He was their best scorer.”

  “You were a cheerleader at the game?” Bryan asked. He’d seen plenty of Mom’s old cheerleading photos; she was always on top of the pyramid.

  Mom nodded. “And they lost, six to four,” she said. “If your father hadn’t been so hotheaded and landed himself in the penalty box, they might have won.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “Sometimes he doesn’t use any common sense.”

  What would she say if she knew about the stones Bryan had tossed at the guardhouse or the tacks he’d dropped, even if accidentally? He’d always trusted his parents to know right from wrong, but what happened when they had completely opposite ideas? Right wasn’t as clear as he’d once thought.

  The air was suddenly filled with a putrid smell.

  “Mom!” Bryan said.

  Her eyes flashed wide. She jumped up to lift the smoking pot from the stove burner. “Not again,” she moaned.

  Bryan knew the smell all too well. It was the smell of burnt peas permanently bonded to the bottom of a pan.

  CHAPTER TEN

  By lunch break of the first day of school, Bryan had heard the word “hero” twenty-three times. He swore to himself that the next person who mentioned it, he’d grab by the collar and …

  “How about a game of kickball?” Kyle said, tossing the black-and-white soccer ball into the air and catching it in both hands. The sky was clear sapphire and breezy. “You and I’ll pick teams.”

  “Sounds good.” Bryan looked past the swarm of kids jumping rope, chasing each other, and practicing dance moves next to their tape players. Chelsie stood on the fringe of a cluster of girls near the school doors, the breeze playing with her high ponytail. “Just a second,” he said.

  He walked over to her.

  “Want to play kickball?” he asked. The other three girls stopped talking and huddled closer.

  Chelsie looked up at Bryan. If she said no, he’d feel really stupid. She didn’t answer right away.

  “This isn’t a joke, is it?” she asked, sounding angry.

  “What? No, I was just wondering if you wanted to play kickball.”

  Chelsie looked down, then pulled her ponytail across her shoulder and began twisting a few strands of hair into a tight rope. “First,” she began, “they said that you said that Cam wasn’t really worth saving, because … because … he was a …”

  Bryan knew exactly what she was going to say. The word suddenly seemed like a four-letter word. Bryan lowered his voice and stepped closer, his back to the other girls. “Because he’s a ‘rat,’ right?” He studied her face. Chelsie glared at him. “You said it then! I thought you were different.”

  “No,” Bryan said. He shook his head. “No, I didn’t say anything like that. It’s not true.”

  Chelsie looked hard at him. “You mean, you didn’t say it?”

  “No.” He drew an imaginary X over his chest, but as he did so, he guiltily saw himself spilling tacks into the street. He tried to ignore the picture. He could never tell Chelsie about any of that.

  Chelsie waited. “So you don’t regret saving Cam?”

  “Course not. Is the interrogation over?” he asked. “Can we play kickball now?”

  Chelsie nodded. “Sure.”

  Bryan picked one team; Kyle picked the other. The teams were divided thirteen to twelve, half boys and half girls. Chelsie was Bryan’s first pick.

  Bryan’s team sat in the grass. He watched Chelsie go up to kick. Green shirt billowing, she stood behind the white plastic plate, her legs bent, her body leaning slightly forward. Her eyes were fixed on the ball in the pitcher’s hands.

  Anders Kent, the school’s best kickball player, rolled the ball toward her. The game was a tie, 8-8, with only seconds left before the bell rang.

  Bryan chewed on the white end of a blade of grass. He wanted to cheer on Chelsie, but he didn’t want to be that conspicuous. Everyone would think he liked her.

  The ball rolled closer and closer to the base. Chelsie swung her leg back, as if to smash it. Then, when the ball was over the white plate, she kicked it gently with the inside of her foot and raced toward first base.

  “A bunt?” Anders yelled, charging at the dead ball. “A stupid bunt! I should have expected that from a rat!”

  Rat. The word dug deep under Bryan’s skin. Anders said the word with disgust, with hate—as though Chelsie were something slimy!

  Anders stooped to pick up the ball.

  Bryan’s eyes burned. He didn’t think. He jumped up, and before Anders could even straighten, Bryan was running full speed toward him. He skidded to a dead stop directly in front of Anders.

  Anders’s face went blank. “What?”

  Bryan clenched his right fist,
slammed it into Anders’s nose, and kept walking.

  “Hey!” Kyle called. “Bry! What’s going on?”

  He walked beyond the playing field, then stopped, head pounding, knuckles sore. His arms dropped limply to his sides. The school bell rang.

  Bryan turned.

  Anders was curled in a ball, moaning and holding his nose. Blood spurted between his fingers and onto his white shirt.

  Bryan was stunned at what he’d done. Was he going crazy? His breathing came in shallow spurts.

  Kids flocked around Anders. They helped him to his feet and walked him toward the school, glancing back over their shoulders.

  A distant plane droned.

  Kyle stood by his side. “What was that all about?”

  Bryan cleared his throat. His mouth was dry as dust. Just outside the school doors, he saw Chelsie, standing alone. “Anders thinks he’s such a hot shot.”

  “What’s new?” Kyle studied him. “But why’d you smack him?”

  “You heard him, didn’t you?” Bryan looked past Kyle. Mr. Ottenstad, the principal, was striding toward them in his striped shirt and red tie. “Whoa …”

  “You really like her, don’t you?” Kyle said, shaking his head, his back to the principal.

  “Turn around,” Bryan said. “I’m dead now.”

  Kyle pivoted. “Oh, hi, Mr. Ottenstad.”

  “The bell rang, boys,” Ottenstad said, planting himself three feet from Bryan. “Inside.”

  Bryan started with Kyle toward the school, a deep breath of relief forming in his lungs.

  “Bryan,” Ottenstad called. “Meet me in my office.”

  Bryan nodded. At the school doors, no one was waiting.

  Inside the principal’s office, Mr. Ottenstad paced, his voice high and wiry. “Bryan, just what happened out there?”

  Bryan sat, looked at his brand-new Nikes, his new jeans. He shrugged.