Quaking

by Kathryn Erskine

  Jessica walks in, holding the kid, rubbing her head. It is another migraine day for her. I grab the huge aspirin bottle from the cupboard and slam it down on the counter, harder than I mean to. Jessica jumps. To make up for it, I pour her a glass of water and rest it gently on the counter, spilling only a little. I wrestle with the cap of the bottle and get two aspirins out and hand them to her.

  She smiles. “How did you know?”

  “Your eyes.”

  I grab Green Eggs and Ham from the counter and start to read. It does not stop the kid from moaning. I am not Sam. He sits on the floor, his head hanging down, not even touching the blue pot that lies next to him. I read loud and fast, sounding like one of those drug commercials that has to squeeze in the twenty-nine horrible side effects you may suffer just to keep your nose from running.

  I am done with the book and the kid is still moaning. Jessica picks him up and kisses the top of his head. She walks over to the computer keyboard and presses a key.The CNN homepage appears. I hear her moan and click the mouse. A video begins about more horrors in the Middle East.

  I remember watching CNN from my childhood. I have always had this fantasy that I am Christiane Amanpour, the reporter who is in the middle of every horrible event. It is a fantasy because I do not ever want to be where she is, either in a war zone or in front of the camera. I just want the whole world to know the stories. Even if the stories are painful. Otherwise, those people, important people, will be forgotten.You will not even be able to conjure up an image of her face, no matter how hard you try.All you will remember are the ambulances and police cars. And the sirens. Always the sirens. Screaming. Wailing. And, finally, dying.

  I realize that I am reading the BREAKING NEWS at the top of the screen, looking to see if a Quaker Meeting House has just been bombed. I look away and see Jessica staring hard at the monitor, her face taut and pinched, eyes squeezed, like she is examining every pixel, waiting for them to explode.

  She reminds me of my mother, who always watched CNN. She wanted to know what was going on, but she called it “nasty news.” I remember that. It was always “nasty news.” That is why, for the longest time, I thought CNN meant “See Nasty News.”

  She stood when the news was on. Like Jessica is now. I do not know if it was because the TV was in the kitchen and she was always cooking or if she could not take the news sitting down. I do remember that she watched every day and talked back to the TV. Sometimes she would try to reason with the reporter, in that motherly voice. Other times, she would actually yell at the TV person, one hand on her hip and the other shaking a finger at him. That scared me a little. Or she would stand there and cry, grabbing a napkin from the counter to wipe her eyes. Like Jessica is doing now. That was the worst. That was when I wanted to kick that smug newscaster, in his suit and tie, and say, “Shut up, dork!”

  I look back at the monitor. The newscaster says that eleven more soldiers have been captured and tortured, their bodies dragged through the streets, before they were even dead. Jessica closes her eyes and moans. Like my mother. Like I did, too, at first just imitating her; then, because I felt her anguish; afterward, because I felt my own. Some news drives a knife into that feeling part of your brain that is directly connected to your stomach, causing nausea, and sending it into spasms that reverberate all the way back up to your brain and make you dizzy. I am shaking.

  “Retaliation will be swift and severe,” the newscaster promises. “U.S. troop strength will be increased to—”

  “Shut up, dork!” I am standing, shouting at the monitor. “Shut up, dork!”

  Jessica holds the kid close to her.They are both staring at me. Jessica grabs the mouse and clicks on the window, closing it down. “It’s okay,” she says softly.

  “No, it is not okay!” I shout, and I yell some other things to the monitor, even though the newscaster is gone now. They are worse than “Shut up, dork,” and Jessica asks me to please stop, that I need to watch my language so that the kid does not pick it up.

  I take a deep breath and stop the shouting but the quaking continues. Jessica is still wiping her eyes with a napkin. I grab one, too. And start shredding.

  Jessica’s eyes dart toward the window and she gasps. I look outside and see it, too. A police car. I think we all stop breathing, even the kid. Jessica and I run to the door at the same time. We step out into the frigid air. Sam pulls up behind the police car. At first, I think the Subaru has been rammed. Then I remember it always looks like that. We run to the street.

  Sam is getting out of the car and waving to the police car, which keeps on going.

  “What was that all about?” Jessica asks, her voice breathy.

  Sam shuts the car door and smiles. “Just giving me a police escort home.”

  “Why?” I ask, also breathy.

  “To make me feel safe, I think. Isn’t that nice? Going above and beyond the call of duty.” He gives Jessica a kiss and takes the kid from her.

  Jessica and I look at each other. We know that a police escort is not normal. It is not something the police do just to be nice. I look back at Sam. He is so naïve. Or he is hiding something.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The next day, I step onto the bus and see Sam smiling widely at me.

  Oh, God. He has found his dork cap.

  “Good morning, Matt!”

  I stare at him.

  He extends his right hand, for what, I do not know. “How’s my—”

  I hear the Rat guffawing from somewhere near the third row and rush past Sam, down the aisle, bury my head, throw myself into a seat, and cower.

  I am dead. Dead, Sam!

  I am still cringing when the door opens again at the next stop and I hear Sam’s voice.

  “Good morning, Susan! Good morning,Will! My name’s Sam.”

  There is more laughter. The Rat guffaws again. And, slowly, I realize that Sam is not singling me out. Again, at the next stop, Sam greets people by name. How does he know everyone’s name?

  “Hi, I’m Sam. Which one of you is Zach and which is Peter?”

  I hear some mumbled responses.

  “Great, well, good morning, Pete! And good morning, Zach!”

  I peep over the seat back in front of me. Pete and Zach, whichever is which, are looking stunned. The Rat is still laughing.

  I watch as we slow down for the next stop. Sam runs his finger along a list on a clipboard hanging from a knob on the dash. It must be a list of who gets on at what stop. He opens the door.

  “Good morning, Robert! Do you prefer Robert or Bob?”

  Robert or Bob is standing stiffly on the top step. “Uh, it’s Rob.”

  Peace Club Rob?

  “Good morning, Rob!” Sam sticks his hand out and Rob shakes hands with him.

  And I see it is Peace Club Rob. He sits down on the seat directly behind Sam. Why have I never noticed him on the bus before? Oh, probably because I never look at anyone on the Bus from Hell.

  The Rat hoots. “Jeez, this guy must be on drugs. He thinks he’s driving the Sesame Street bus!” The Rat starts singing, “Can you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street?”

  All of the Vermin laugh. And some nonvermin, too.

  And I hope against hope that Sam will not start singing the George Fox song. Please, Sam, do not sing!

  As if he is reading my mind, Sam looks in the rearview mirror and gives a grin.

  But he does not start singing. Maybe there is a God, after all.

  The Rat calls out, “I need to get me some of whatever this dude’s taking! Someone get me drugs like his!”

  Sam must hear, but he ignores it.

  I am relieved when we pull into the school parking lot. Until Sam says “have a great day!” and “see you this afternoon!” and even—my stomach lurches—“learn lots!” as people leave the bus. Is he trying to make himself look like a fool, for God’s sake? Some of the students laugh at him. Surprisingly, some actually say “bye” or “see ya.” I am not one of them, in cas
e the Rat sees. I do not even look at Sam. I am not proud of that but it is necessary. I hold my breath until I am off the bus and I can breathe again.

  Until second period when Mr. Warhead asks me to stay after World Civ and shuts the classroom door. He walks back to the front of the classroom and I shrink down in my desk, block his view with my textbook, and start scribbling. I know I should not write on my desk in front of him, but I am so nervous I cannot stop myself.

  “Your term paper.” He presses his lips together hard.

  Fatima?

  “I am offended by it,” he says.

  I want to say, “I am offended by your hirsute nostrils, so we are even,” but I do not.

  “You are receiving an F.” His voice is quiet and cool. He knows he is victorious.

  I swallow and scribble harder.

  “May I remind you, the term paper is worth sixty percent of your grade.”

  I am nauseous.

  Mr. Warhead babbles on about extra-credit projects that may enable me to pass.

  My scribbling finally takes on direction and meaning and my pen is making sweeping arches on the desktop and madly coloring in triangles and I am not even listening.

  And then his fist hits my desk hard and I jump.

  “How dare you?” His voice is ragged. “Now you get a detention, too, for defacing school property! Report to room 2B10 tomorrow afternoon!”

  His angry spit lands on the giant peace symbol I made on my desk and I wonder, Who is doing the defacing now?

  That afternoon, the Rat is not on the bus. I peer out the window as the bus idles in the parking lot.Then I see him.With the Wall. The Wall moves to the large dented sedan and gets inside. I wonder where the Rat and the Wall go and what they do. But I am glad he is not on the bus.

  His Vermin are quiet without their ringleader.The rest of the bus is chatty. Rob is sitting in the front seat behind Sam again, talking to him. Sam is laughing. I am not sure that bus drivers are allowed to laugh. I am sure I have never heard one do that.

  At Casa Quaker, Jessica is laughing. “Matt! Listen to Rory! It’s amazing!” She clears her throat and looks at the kid. “O—kay?” she says slowly.

  He looks up from the floor, grinning.“Tayyyy!” He starts clapping and so does she.

  “See? He’s saying okay!” Jessica looks at me. She is positively giddy.

  I nod. It is not exactly “okay,” but it is a big step for him.

  When Sam arrives, he is just as thrilled as Jessica.

  I decide not to ruin their excitement by telling them about my detention. I remember that the peace club meets on Tuesday afternoons, so I tell Sam I will not be on the bus tomorrow so I can stay for a meeting after school. It is not exactly a lie.

  Sam’s face lights up. “The peace club! Good for you, Matt! I’m so glad—”

  “Wait. I did not say I am joining. I am just staying after school this one time.” I pause, thinking of my stellar relationship with Mr. Warhead. “Although, I suppose it could happen again.”

  The next morning, I remind Sam that I will not be on the bus after school.

  He beams as he gets ready to go.“Right! Peace club! You know, Rob’s in that club. He’s on our bus.”

  “Oh.Yes. Rob, the talker.”

  “Say hi to him for me at the meeting this afternoon, okay?”

  I do not want to lie to Sam so I tell him the truth, as much as I can. “I will say hello to Rob.”

  When I am in the hall that day, I see Rob talking with some boys.

  I stop in front of them. “Hello, Rob.” I move on.

  “Uh . . . good morning—yeah, uh, Matt.” His voice is drowning out behind me but I nod my head in case he can see. I imagine he is still in shock.

  Mr. Warhead assigns me an essay to write in detention: “Why I Am Fortunate to Be an American.” I know he thinks I do not even deserve to be an American, that somehow I say the things I do because I hate my country. He would never believe that I actually care, that I do not want to see our soldiers or anyone else hurt, that I know what it is like to be hurt, that I know what it is like to have someone else invade your space and be all-powerful. Why does he refuse to listen to another opinion? Why does he refuse to see that in America we are allowed to give opinions? In fact, we are supposed to do this, for God’s sake.That is the whole point.

  I write down more than he probably wants to hear. I tell him that I am fortunate because I have freedom of religion, speech, and assembly. But also that I am free not to be religious, not to speak, and not to assemble. I can hate religion and refuse to worship anything and no one can hurt me. I can think that we are causing the world more problems by invading other countries and I will not be punished. And I can say we are invading them just because we want oil or a strategic position or the president is trying to score points, and no one can put me in prison for saying this. And everyone else is equally free to think that I am an idiot. But they cannot kill me or torture me. I can count on my freedoms with my very life because they include the most precious freedom of all: freedom from fear. I know my country will protect me because it cares about my freedoms—cares about me! This country unrelentingly follows fair and just rules. Unlike terrorists. Unlike bullies. Unlike the Rat.

  After I finish, I stare out the windows of the detention hall and think how stupid I am to even try to make Mr. Warhead understand.

  I hear purposeful feet coming down the corridor. Then I see Mrs. Jimenez walk by quickly. On her way to the peace club meeting, where I supposedly am right now.All of a sudden, the fast feet stop and Mrs. Jimenez’s long black hair swings around the open door.

  “Matt?” she mouths. Her eyes are in shock. Apparently, she is not used to her AP students being thrown in After-School Prison.

  She walks into the quiet room, up to my desk.“What are you doing here?” she asks in a low voice.

  I shrug. “Mr. Warhead does not like my political views.”

  She turns her head to one side, wrinkling her forehead.

  “He does not like my peace stance.”

  “Oh, Mr. Morehead.” Her face looks as if she has just popped an entire bag of Sour Skittles in her mouth. “I see.” She stands there for several moments, moving her mouth and swallowing, trying to get rid of the taste.

  Finally, she pats my hand and looks earnestly into my eyes. “We can change things.” I look at her eyes and they are clear and bright like Sam’s. Only they are not blue, like Sam’s, but beautifully brown, to match her skin. I notice for the first time how Mrs. Jimenez glows. Perhaps she has an Inner Light. I am sure she would understand Fatima. Someday I might introduce her to Fatima. The three of us could probably cause quite a stir.

  Mrs. Jimenez calls the prison warden teacher into the hallway.

  I hear urgent whispers—Mrs. Jimenez. And bland mumblings—Warden Teacher. I cannot hear the conversation, even though I lean my whole body closer to the door.

  I almost fall off my chair when Mrs. Jimenez’s voice suddenly explodes. “Oh, that is just ridiculous! For heaven’s—”

  “Listen!” Warden Teacher is insistent and mumbling again.

  Mrs. Jimenez answers and her voice is softer, quieter, but still firm. I miss some of the words. “I know that his son . . . and died in Iraq . . . sorry, of course, but . . . over there in the first place—”

  “Shhh!” And the conversation drops to a rumbling.

  I am stunned. Now I know what happened to Mr. Warhead. He is a Victim, like his son. God. How awful. And I feel bad for him. So I add something at the bottom of my paper. “Sorry. I did not know about your son. I am really, really, really sorry.”

  But my sympathy is short-lived. The next day Mr. Warhead shakes the paper in my face. It has a red circle around my comment at the bottom but the words he hisses himself: “Don’t think you can use cheap tricks to get a better grade out of me!”

  I wonder if he even read my essay.

  I press my fingers into the peace symbol gouged out of my desk. Like Mrs. Jimenez
, I am sorry that his son was killed. I do not want anyone’s son or daughter killed. But that is no excuse to turn abusive yourself. I suppose he is going to fail me. I guess I should be grateful that he is not allowed to hurt me any more than that.

  When I look up, the Rat is staring at me. He clutches his arm with the other hand and does a sharp twist, uttering a sickening crrreak sound out of his leering mouth, and I look away fast.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Good morning, shit-head!” the Rat calls to the girl getting on the bus.

  “Good morning, shit-for-brains!” he yells to the boy behind her, and then he cracks up.The Rat is laughing at his own brilliance, as usual.

  At the next stop, “Good morning, you piece of shit!”

  More laughter from the Rat and his gang, but none from anyone else. The air is positively charged. It is as if an electrical storm could start at any moment.

  Sam pulls the bus over to the side of the road and stops.

  The laughing stops, too. Except for the Rat’s.

  Sam puts on the parking brake and turns off the engine. And waits.

  Outside, traffic is roaring by, rain is falling, and it is dark gray. Inside, it is still, silent, and bright. Even the fluorescent bus lights are shining full force. Sam must have changed the bulbs.

  The Rat is quiet in the motionless bus. For a minute or two. Then he starts laughing again, punches one of his Vermin, and looks like he is about to say something.

  Sam stands up and turns in one movement. The bus lurches.

  That stops the Rat.

  Sam is a very large man.

  Sam starts walking down the aisle. Heavily. It is the only way he can move. It is an accident of girth.

  The Rat sits up straight.

  Sam stands by the Rat’s seat and puts his hand on the Rat’s shoulder.

  The Rat pulls away. “Don’t touch me! What are you, gay or something?”