Riot (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage)

by Mary Casanova

“Bryan Grant,” Mr. Ottenstad ordered. “Look at me, please.”

  Bryan made himself look up. Imagining music for this scene, he tapped his right toe in staccato. He’d call it “The Executioner’s Song.”

  “First day of school, Bryan,” said the principal.

  The air was warm and heavy, probably stale from windows being closed all summer.

  “I know,” Bryan said, matter of factly. What was he suppose to say?

  “First day of school,” Mr. Ottenstad repeated, “and you start it with a fight. That’s not what I’ve come to expect from you, Bryan. Did something change over the summer?”

  Yeah, this whole town has changed, Bryan almost blurted, but he didn’t.

  “Well?” Mr. Ottenstad said, probing. He stopped pacing and tapped his red pen against the edge of his desk. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Bryan’s mind whirred. He knew he’d gotten angry because of what Anders had said to Chelsie, ridiculing her bunt kick just because her family worked for Badgett. But why did he have to flatten Anders? He didn’t have a good answer. One moment, he was siding with his father, the next he was on the other side, defending Chelsie. He didn’t know if he’d done the right thing or not.

  Maybe he’d inherited his father’s hot hockey temper. Maybe it was as simple as that.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The rest of the afternoon, nobody called Bryan a hero. Kids murmured as he walked by.

  On his way to the restroom, Bryan overheard one teacher scolding a fourth grader. “Her name is Isabelle, not ‘rat.’ Is that clear?”

  “But everyone calls …”

  “I don’t care. In my classroom you will not call anyone names.”

  On his way back to his homeroom, Bryan saw Emily Carter, a fifth grader, get escorted to the office by a teacher’s aide.

  “But I didn’t try to trip him,” she pleaded, tears streaming. “I was just stretching my leg out when he passed.”

  “That’s what you said, but Gimmel’s ankle is sprained. That’s serious, Emily.”

  Five minutes before the bell rang, Mr. Ottenstad’s voice came over the intercom.

  “Our town,” he began, “is experiencing a great deal of tension due to labor disputes. In the midst of this tension, Blue Ash Elementary will be a place of peace and cooperation. All students, whether they are new to our community or not, are part of our school. Any name-calling or fighting will lead to strict disciplinary measures. We must all work together to make our school a safe and positive place.”

  When the bell rang, Bryan bolted from his desk. He was lucky to have escaped Ottenstad with only a warning. If anything ever happened again, Ottenstad had warned, then Bryan’s parents would be called in. That would make an interesting meeting, Bryan thought. Dad would raise his eyebrows, then scowl, wondering if Bryan had gone soft for a Badgett girl. Mom would be glad he’d stood up against name-calling, until she found out he’d leveled someone.

  Buses lined the school sidewalk, ready to transport kids like sardines in bright orange cans. Bryan kept his eyes down as he passed the lines of students. The principal’s office. What a way to start the first day of school!

  Someone lightly tapped his shoulder. He turned. Chelsie, her face pink, pressed a white note, folded to a one-inch square, quickly into his hand. “Here.”

  Bryan shoved it in his pocket. “Uh, thanks. I gotta go.” He raced away, like a marathon walker, keenly aware of the note in his right jeans pocket. When he turned the corner to his neighborhood, he yanked the paper out, unfolded it, and read:

  Dear Bryan,

  Thanks for standing up for me today. I’m sorry Anders got hurt, and I’m sorry that you got in trouble. You’re really sweet.

  Chelsie

  Grasshoppers were clacking and buzzing everywhere as Bryan walked the five blocks to his house. A two-inch green one landed on his jeans leg. He waited to see if it would drop off on its own, but it didn’t. Sweet? Chelsie thought he was sweet? When he got home, he gently picked the grasshopper off his leg and set it on a tall red zinnia.

  A school bus pulled up to his house. Josh and Elissa hopped down its steps, racing up the driveway to meet Bryan. Life for seven-year-olds sure seemed easy. Bryan took the key from beneath the flowerpot, opened the door, and stepped inside.

  The house was quiet. Too quiet. He didn’t mind that Mom worked, but he still preferred her home when he got there. Anyway, in an hour she would be finished with her work at school. “Okay, you guys,” he said. “What do you want for a snack?”

  “Sugar Pops!” Josh answered.

  Bryan shook his head. “We’re supposed to save that for breakfast.”

  “Popsicles!” Elissa shouted, dropping her pink and green backpack in the middle of the kitchen floor.

  “Elissa, you know what Mom would say,” Bryan said. He put his hands on his hips, just like Mom would do. “Put that away.”

  Elissa, her hair in two tight braids with purple bows, gave him a pouty smile.

  “That smile doesn’t work on me,” Bryan told her.

  Elissa half closed her eyes and glared at Bryan. She picked up her backpack and danced it down the hallway.

  Josh followed with his pack. When they returned they sat on the counter stools, waiting.

  Bryan didn’t feel like baby-sitting, even if it was only for an hour. He’d rather go biking with Kyle and maybe see Chelsie somehow. “Hey,” he said. “I know what we should do.…”

  He went to his room, climbed up to his top bunk, and removed four dollars from the blue mason jar on his shelf. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out Chelsie’s note and read it once more. Then he carefully refolded it, dropped it into the jar, and screwed the lid on tight.

  He returned and laid the bills on the kitchen counter in front of the twins.

  Josh nearly touched his nose to the money. “Where’d you get so much money?”

  “Here’s the deal,” Bryan said. “Since I have to babysit, bike with me wherever I want to go, and I’ll treat you each to a cone at Dairy Queen.”

  “Are we biking to that girl’s house?” Elissa asked. Her expression was sly.

  “What girl?” Bryan asked, playing dumb.

  “That girl that came by the other day. The one I saw diving on the video.”

  The video. He’d forgotten all about it. He’d have to watch it later.

  “Do you like her, Bry?” Elissa continued.

  “No way,” he said, lying.

  They biked to Kyle’s house, then all four rode to Dairy Queen, where Bryan plunked down his money and bought cones. When they were finished, Bryan swung his leg over his bike seat. “Let’s just bike down that way,” he said, pointing to the southeast end of town.

  “Why?” Kyle asked. “Does Anders live that way?”

  “No.” Bryan tapped his fingers on his handlebars. “Just follow.”

  Kyle raised his eyebrows. “Now I know.…”

  “Ooooh,” Elissa teased. “I bet she lives that way.”

  They rode single file along Highway 53, turned left, and wove through the neighborhood, Bryan leading.

  A block away from the address Chelsie had given him, Bryan spotted two parked police cars. The street looked entirely different during the day.

  “Hey!” Josh said, biking up next to Bryan. “Neat! Let’s go find out what happened!”

  “Think somebody died?” Elissa asked worriedly. Since last fall, when one of her classmates was killed in a car accident, Elissa always jumped to the worst conclusion.

  “Course not,” Bryan answered, but he suddenly felt sick. Why were police cars there?

  Slowly, he followed behind Kyle, Elissa, and Josh toward the police cars. Outside the small cream-colored house, three policemen stood talking. One held a clipboard. A woman walked alongside the house with a notepad—it was Nancy Benton from the newspaper.

  What had happened? Something bad, that was certain. Where was Chelsie?

  Another police car pulled up next to the
house and parked.

  Bryan stopped pedaling. He glided slowly past, stopped, and looked over his shoulder. The inside of the house windows were painted with strange letters. The words were backwards. He deciphered the lettering in two windows: GO HOME! and NO MORE RATS!

  He clamped his hands on the handlebars and spun the bike back toward the house.

  “Hey,” he called to the group of men. “Where’s Chelsie Retting? What happened?”

  “Are you a friend?” the police officer with a clipboard asked, his bald head reflecting the late afternoon sun.

  Bryan nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “She’s all right. I can tell you that much,” he said, his face somber.

  “Where is she?”

  The man turned away, then back again. Quietly, he answered, “Holiday Inn. Better run along.”

  Bryan pointed his front tire back toward Kyle and the twins, who waited at the corner. Just then, Sheriff Hunter stepped out of the house. Bryan pushed down hard on his pedal. He didn’t want to talk to the sheriff.

  Bryan persuaded Kyle and the twins to follow him to the hotel. The quickest route led Bryan past the housing camp. He biked ahead, fast, tires humming over pavement. He didn’t look at the guardhouse, though he was positive that someone was watching him. He stopped at the corner and waited for the twins to catch up.

  “Don’t go so fast!” Josh whined.

  At the Holiday Inn, where green neon lights trimmed the top of the two-story brick hotel, Bryan set his bike against the wall under the canopy roof. He pulled open the double doors to the lobby.

  Kyle, Elissa, and Josh followed.

  “Can we go swimming?” asked Josh. “Mom said this year we can have our birthday party here, and we can invite ten kids. I get to pick five friends. I’m going to pick Eric, Carsten, Daniel …”

  “Josh and Elissa,” Bryan said. “Just be quiet and sit down, okay?” He pointed to the black floral loveseats. Josh dove for the glass dish filled with white cellophane-wrapped mints.

  “Just one,” Bryan said. “Kyle, can you watch them, just for a minute?”

  Kyle cocked his head at Bryan. “For two minutes. Bry, this feels really weird. What if we get kicked out?”

  “Just say you’re waiting for someone.” Why did this have to be so difficult?

  Bryan walked over to the front desk.

  “Yes?” The woman wore a brass name tag engraved, Bitsy.

  “I’m looking for Chelsie Retting. What room is she in?”

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said, pushing back the cuticles on her perfectly oval red fingernails. “I can’t give you her room number, but I can call her.”

  Bryan nodded. This would be a good time to bolt out the door. He pushed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, then wet his dry lips.

  “Your name?”

  “Bryan Grant,” he said.

  The woman adjusted her glasses and lifted a phone to her ear. “There’s a Bryan Grant in the lobby to see Chelsie. No,” the woman said, eyeing Bryan. “He’s just a boy.”

  The counter suddenly seemed to tower in front of Bryan. He felt small. All the courage he’d had suddenly dribbled away, just as if he were back in first grade. His cheeks burned and his vision blurred. He turned away from the desk and walked toward the lobby entrance doors.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Bryan?”

  Bryan heard Chelsie’s voice, warmly familiar, but he didn’t turn around. He could sense her moving toward him, coming from the hallway beyond the end of the counter. Her room must have been the first one down the hall.

  Bryan stopped. He couldn’t face her yet—he could barely think. Then he turned around.

  Chelsie’s face made him think of a bowl of perfectly ripe peaches. “So why are y’all here?” she asked, glancing toward Kyle and the twins on the couches. She stepped a few inches closer and whispered, “Did you hear what happened?”

  Bryan nodded. But why had he come? Why, exactly? To see if she was okay? She was. To hear what happened? Maybe. To make himself feel less guilty? He didn’t know.

  “I was out biking and I saw police cars by your house.…”

  She folded her arms over her chest and clasped her elbows.

  “It looked like there was trouble,” Bryan said.

  She nodded, then spoke in a whisper. “Someone broke into our house while we were at school. Mom came home from her shift and found the beds ripped to shreds and furniture smashed. They even cut up family pictures!” She glanced toward the ceiling. “They wrote swear words all over our walls. She picked me up from school so I wouldn’t see it.” She looked back at Bryan, with eyes that were completely trusting. “I’m so scared. Dad says it’s enough that we have to put up with high rent … a thousand dollars a month … just to stay there.…”

  A thousand dollars? Were locals charging that much to live in those tiny houses?

  Chelsie continued, “… and then to have it destroyed.”

  Bryan wanted to reach over and touch her shoulder, the same as he would if one of the twins got hurt. But he didn’t.

  Her chin twitched. “Cam was doing so well,” she continued, “and now he isn’t talkin’ again.”

  “What do you mean, isn’t talking?”

  “He’s different,” she explained. “Learning anything has always been hard for him. He didn’t learn to tie his own shoes until he was eight. He makes progress; it’s just a lot slower than normal—whatever that is. Anyway, movin’ around every year hasn’t helped. He makes a little progress, then slips again.” She crossed her arms tighter. “This attack is really hard on him.”

  Tears shaped at the edges of her gold-flecked eyes, then her face crumpled. She pressed her hand to her mouth, turned quickly away, and ran toward the hall.

  The woman with the wire glasses watched her, then glared at Bryan.

  “Young man,” she said, scowling, “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  • • •

  Bryan chomped into a cob of yellow corn at the dinner table.

  “Hey, Bry,” Dad said, his deep voice filled with raw energy.

  Bryan glanced at Dad and found he couldn’t look him squarely in the eyes.

  “I read your letter to the editor in tonight’s paper. Nice job.” He pushed his fist into the air and saluted Bryan with a thumbs-up. But the way he gave him the thumbs-up, without smiling, with such force, made Bryan want to shrink away. Sometimes Dad pushed too hard. Bryan was glad that corn kernels were wedged in his teeth so he didn’t have to answer.

  Bryan remembered the Hawks game when Dad, red-faced, had shouted into Bryan’s helmet, “Get out there, Bry! Dominate the game!” Bryan had gone for the puck and forced his way into the middle of three Hawks—then had suddenly felt the slam of a hockey stick into his knee, felt himself going down under a dozen slashing blades. He’d ended up on the ice in the fetal position, crying, until Dad helped him off the ice. Bryan had hardly dominated the game that time.

  Maybe writing the letter to the paper hadn’t been such a good idea. Was Chelsie reading it right now? What would she think? He had thought he understood everything so clearly then, before he met her and Cam, before he understood that rats were just people, like him.

  Mom passed the plate of ham steaks to Bryan.

  “I love corn on the cob!” Elissa said. “Could we save a few kernels and plant them in the garden? Then we could grow our own corn next summer.”

  “Sure, Elissa,” Mom replied. “We’ll have to get some dry seeds, but that’s a terrific idea, honey.”

  “Dad,” asked Josh, “are we really going to have our party at the Holiday Inn?”

  Bryan kicked Josh under the table. If he mentioned anything about Chelsie, he’d be dead.

  “Well,” Mom answered for him, “it just depends. Maybe we should think about a party at home this year. You know, wait and see.”

  She looked at Dad.

  “Stan,” she said, “I heard at school today that Marsha Finney’s husb
and got a new job. You know how long he’s been looking?”

  “No,” Dad replied.

  “Most of the year. He couldn’t find anything. Going on Marsha’s paychecks alone, and you know those teacheraides don’t earn enough to support a family.” Mom looked at her plate. She paused.

  “Stan, he got a job with Badgett.” She spoke firmly.

  Dad didn’t look up.

  Mom inhaled deeply and continued. “Seems there are quite a few people from town who are getting hired by them. The pay’s not as good as with the union, of course, but it’s not so bad.”

  Bryan looked at Mom, then Dad, to see if World War Three was about to start. He didn’t say a word.

  Dad’s mouth was full. He chewed and chewed and chewed.

  “Well, my point is,” Mom said, setting her fork carefully on her plate, as if it might break. “It’s not just out-of-town people now who are working for them. Things aren’t quite so black and white anymore, you know what I mean?”

  Dad finished his ham. He ate his corn. Through the rest of dinner, he just stared at his plate. The silence was like steel, cold and impenetrable. When Dad’s plate was empty, he pushed his chair back from the table, walked out the kitchen door to the garage, and started his truck. The engine’s rumble filtered into the dining room.

  Mom pressed her fingers to her temples. Her diamond ring caught light from the overhead brass chandelier. “I didn’t want to make him upset,” she said, looking at Bryan, “but he needs to see both sides.”

  Both sides. Bryan understood exactly what she meant. He knew what his dad felt. He knew what Chelsie felt. He just didn’t know how he felt.

  Numb. Maybe that was the word.

  Suddenly, the door from the garage flew open. Dad stood there, wild-eyed. The truck grumbled behind him.

  “I almost forgot. Tomorrow,” he warned. “Don’t go anywhere. Stay home.”

  Mom looked up. “Stan?” she said, rising from her chair. But he was already gone, the door slamming after him. Truck exhaust wafted into the dining room.

  Mom grabbed the door handle. “Stan! You can’t just tell us to stay home without any explanation. Stan—wait!”

  Bryan looked through the white living-room sheers to the street. Dad’s truck backed up onto the road, then raced toward town.