Quaking

by Kathryn Erskine

  “And?”

  “It was somewhat critical of the United States.”

  He takes his hands out of his pockets and pushes his hair back. “We’re allowed to be critical. It’s in the Constitution.”

  “Be careful, Sam, or Mr. Warhead will have you arrested for being a subversive.”

  “Mr. Warhead?”

  “Actually, it is Mr. Morehead. I just call him that because it captures his personality.”

  Sam’s lips twitch and he does a half smile. Then a whole one. “Okay, but let me understand this. He doesn’t like the political views you expressed in your term paper, so he’s failing you?”

  I pick at my bedspread. “Well, it is not the only thing I have written that he does not like.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The man is a warmonger, Sam. He thinks I am not a patriot because I do not wish to invade other countries and create mayhem and murder. I tend to point out that perhaps we should leave other people alone. They might prefer peace.” I shrug. “And somehow I drew a peace symbol on my desk.”

  “Beautiful.” He says it quietly, but I hear him.

  I look up.

  His voice is still quiet. “I’m going to go see him.”

  “No! Sam, he is an idiot. He cannot be reasoned with.”

  He looks at me, his eyes piercing. “I will be fair. I will be reasonable. But I need to make my point.”

  “Are you insane? What makes you think he will even listen to you, much less change his mind? What do you think he is going to say?” I imitate Mr.Warhead’s nasal voice.“Oh, you are right, Mr. Fox. I have been such an idiot.Thank you so much for showing me the Light.” I give Sam my “you moron” look. “Do not even think of going to see him.”

  “Weren’t you the one asking if I’d come to your school and talk about the peace testimony?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “When I was talking to that man in front of the Meeting House, you asked me why I couldn’t—”

  “Act like a normal person and go talk about peace at schools? Yes, but not my school, for God’s sake.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because someone other than you would be preferable.”

  “No, I would have to do it because—”

  “You do not have to!”

  “But this guy can’t be allowed to persecute students for expressing their political beliefs. It’s just wrong.”

  “So, it is wrong. Life is not fair, Sam. Get over it.”

  He is still shaking his head.

  “Let it go, Sam.”

  He stares at me. “I can’t let go. Not to things—and people—that matter this much to me.”

  I look away because his eyes are so piercing they hurt.

  The next morning, Jessica is all teary. “I’m sorry about what you’re going through with that . . . teacher.” She is gritting her teeth, and I am sure she was thinking some un-Friendly curse word in between that and teacher.

  “I wish Sam would just forget about it, for God’s sake.”

  She nods. “I know. I’m afraid he can’t.” She is staring at the table, her lips quivering, like she is going to start crying over the fact that the blue napkins do not match the mustard and mold kitchen.

  “What?” I say.

  She just shakes her head, blinks, and tries to make her quaking lips smile.“Toast?” she whispers, her eyes brimming. “Sorry, it’s pretty burnt.”

  Why is she acting like this? She always burns the toast. It is not worth getting that upset about.

  When I get on the bus, Sam says, all in one quiet breath, “Good morning, Matt. I’m seeing him after second period today.”

  I storm down the aisle and throw my backpack on a seat, then throw myself beside it. Great. Sam knows I cannot argue with him right here on the bus. I wish I had told him last night that, if he must see Mr. Warhead, to at least shut up about the Quaker connection.That will just put a big target on my head. I am not sure that detentions and extra-credit projects will be able to overcome the Quaker taint. Oh, Sam, why can’t you just leave well enough alone?

  I cannot help walking to Mr. Warhead’s classroom after second period. Even though I have already had his class first period. The door is closed. I peek through the window.

  I see Jessica, her face pinched, her eyes red. What is she doing here? Sam is leaning over with his elbows on his knees, but his head is held high and he is staring directly at Mr. Warhead, whose Hitler mustache is barely hiding his sneer. He looks like he can hardly wait to get rid of these Quaker pests. He gazes out the window, then to the whiteboard, then at the door. And he sees me. Why do I not run away? Oh, God, he is standing up and walking to the door. Sam and Jessica turn their heads to follow him and the door is open.

  “You’re part of this,” Mr.Warhead says.“Have a seat!” He makes an exaggerated wave of his arm toward Sam and Jessica.

  Sam gets up and lets me sit in his chair. He reaches for another one and his MIA bracelet jangles as he pulls the wobbly chair over.

  “I have nothing against Quakers,” Mr. Warhead says to Sam.

  I glare at Sam. Why did he feel the need to share that with Mr. Warhead, for God’s sake?

  “But,” Mr. Warhead continues, “I’m not sure it’s appropriate for you to be proselytizing your religion to an impressionable young girl.”

  I switch my glare to Mr. Warhead. Who is he calling an impressionable young girl? The ass.

  I see Sam clench his teeth but still smile.“We don’t proselytize.”

  Mr. Warhead laughs his snorty nasal laugh. “Aren’t you the ones who started the antiwar demonstrations? Not exactly supporting our troops, are you?”

  “They’re peace vigils,” Jessica says.

  Mr. Warhead’s smile is so obviously fake. “Semantics.”

  “Semantics are everything,” Jessica says, with no smile.

  “Words can be very persuasive,” Sam adds.“For example, ‘You’re either with us or with them’ implies that you can’t support peace and support our soldiers at the same time. But we do. We just want to stop the killing.”

  “Of our soldiers?”

  “Of everyone.”

  Mr. Warhead leans forward in his chair. “So you want to save the enemy.”

  “I want to save human life. Why is that un-American?”

  Mr. Warhead stares at Sam with his lips pressed together tightly. His eyes are burning into Sam.

  Or, at least, they are trying to. Sam appears unaffected as he continues talking. “I’m very sorry about your son, Mr. Morehead. I—I can’t even imagine what that must be like.”

  I steal a look at Mr. Warhead. He is blinking. His lips are smashed together. And his face is on its way to purple.

  “I really admire and respect our troops,” Sam says softly. “I just want them to come home.”

  “And I,” Mr.Warhead replies through gritted teeth,“can’t help but admire and respect the young people in my class who show concern for our troops and our country.”

  Oh, like the Rat? I want to say, “You are just being used! You are one of his victims!” but Mr. Warhead will refuse to see it, so why bother?

  Sam is talking. Now Jessica. Defending me. And my views.

  Jessica leans so far forward, she practically pounces on Mr. Warhead. “How dare you imply that she doesn’t care? How dare you?” Sam reaches over and puts his hand on hers but she flashes him a glance almost as smoldering as the look she is giving Mr. Warhead. Sam slowly sinks back in his chair.

  Jessica turns to Mr. Warhead again. “And even if she didn’t—which I can tell you she most certainly does—how dare you let your emotions affect a child’s grade? A child’s future? That is an ugly abuse of power.” She pauses. “Does your principal know about your biased attitude, I wonder?”

  Mr. Warhead folds his arms and smiles a self-satisfied smile. “Jeff Patterson and I are old friends.”

  Jessica’s eyes narrow. “Then perhaps we need to involve the school board.” She i
s quite a force, this skinny little Quaker woman.

  Mr. Warhead’s smile turns into his usual tight-lipped grimace. He exhales loudly. “Well, thank you for your views. Now I understand why she’s expressing them. Children often parrot what their parents say—or in this case, guardians.”

  “We’re her parents,” Jessica says, sitting forward in her chair again, at the same time Sam is saying “parents!” a little louder than is necessary. They both reach out for me and their warm hands are on mine.

  Mr. Warhead gives them a condescending smile and looks at me. “I’m not going to hold your sarcastic remarks against you. I know you’re only fourteen and haven’t really developed a sense of who you are yet—”

  “You don’t know her very well, do you?” Sam breaks in.

  Mr.Warhead shoots him a “shut up” look, as if Sam is one of his students.

  “So I’ll give you another chance, but you need to try to see both sides of the issue, not just keep parroting their views.” He looks over at Sam and Jessica, wrinkling his nose like they are dog poop.

  Me? Parroting their views? Ha! Where does he get off treating me like I am five? And have no brain? And what gives him the right to insult Sam and Jessica like they are ignorant five-year-olds, too? I feel my face turning toward him. I swallow. “Excuse me?” I say slowly.

  “Well, I mean, you’re not even a Quaker, right?”

  I know the right answer. I know the answer that will let me pass this class. I know the answer that will let me graduate. And get to Canada. I hear myself saying, “A Quaker?” as if it is the oddest thing anyone has ever asked me.

  Mr. Warhead smirks and nods, knowing that I am going to deny association with this cult.

  But somewhere from deep within me, a rumbling comes to the surface and erupts out of my mouth with a “Hell, yes!”

  Jessica closes her eyes. Her mouth is a straight, severe line.

  Sam’s is not. It is twitching. Back and forth. And up. Into a smile. Until he covers it with his hand.

  Jessica stands up. “Well, we appreciate your doing the right thing, Mr. Morehead.”

  We walk out into the crowded hall. Jessica is tight-lipped and strained. Sam puts his hand out to shake Mr. Warhead’s. Mr. Warhead is slow to respond and quick to stop shaking.

  Several passing students call out, “Hi, Sam!”

  Sam answers, calling each one of them by name. Mr. Warhead looks like he has eaten a lemon. No one says hi to Mr. Warhead.

  “Hey! Sam!” a familiar voice calls.

  “Rob, buddy! How are you?”

  “Great!” Rob pushes through the crowd to shake Sam’s hand.

  “Rob, let me introduce you to my wife, Jessica.”

  Jessica smiles. “Hello, Rob. I’ve heard all kinds of nice things about you.”

  “Yeah?”

  Mr. Warhead stares at all three of them. He looks like he has eaten three lemons.

  I walk arm in arm with Sam and Jessica, one on either side of me. We form kind of a chain as we weave through the school connected like this. It is even stranger to walk through these halls without being frightened, without having to look for the Rat. In fact, I would almost enjoy meeting him right now.

  At the front door, Sam and Jessica both give me a hug. I am not expecting that, so my attempts at return hugs are somewhat lame but they still smile at me. I stare after them as they walk down the front steps. I am not even embarrassed that they are holding hands.

  Late that night, I hear Sam and Jessica talking quietly downstairs about the meeting with Mr. Warhead. I only catch a word or two here and there but when Sam says “that Matt!” I am desperate to hear more. I cannot resist putting my ear against the heat vent on my bedroom floor—the other side of which is conveniently located in the ceiling of their room. Why did I never think of this before?

  Sam says I am “one smart, tough young lady.”And he also says, “I love her spirit, don’t you? She has such a strong spirit.”

  I sit up, lean against the bed, fold my arms, and smile. So. There you have it. Straight from the honest Alpha Quaker himself. I do not have a “smart mouth.” Nor am I a “smart ass.” Instead, I am simply “smart.” And “tough.” And I have a “strong spirit.” A strong spirit. Who knew? It is a fresh persona for me. I am trying it on for size. I believe it fits. And I like it so much, I plan on keeping it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The next morning, I get on the bus and say, “Good morning, Sam,” before he can even say, “Good morning, Matt.”

  He grins big time.

  I even shake his hand, feeling the jangle of the MIA bracelet that is a part of him.

  I do not care if the Rat sees. He will not do anything to me on this bus. And this is the one day of the week I do not have World Civ. Today, right now, I feel safe.

  In English, we get our papers back. Mrs. Jimenez has written all kinds of glowing things on my Little House on the Prairie paper. Her comments are about the feelings and the humor and the pain. They are real.

  At the end of English, Mrs. Jimenez asks me to stay for a minute. I wonder if I am getting in trouble for my Little House on the Prairie paper, too, although I cannot imagine why.

  “Matt, you’re a wonderful writer. Very persuasive, too.” She looks at me intently. I am waiting for the “but.” “I’ve missed seeing you at the peace club meetings.”

  “Oh. That is because I am not actually a member. I just happened to be in the library that one day.”

  “Oh? Well, I was wondering if you’d be interested in working on our newsletter.”

  “Uh . . . why?”

  She smiles.“We need to bring some different opinions into this school so we can have some debates, don’t you think?”

  I nod again. I am stunned that we think the same way.

  “We’re starting to distribute our newsletter around town—to the library, city hall, and various churches.You’re a very persuasive writer and, I think, a very determined young woman. I’d love for you to be on our team.”

  Perhaps she is catching me in a rare upbeat moment, but I feel a thrill that I rarely remember feeling.

  “Would you be interested?”

  “I think so. Okay.Yes.”

  She is beaming so much I am almost blinded by her glow. I think she is about to hug me. “Could you stay after school next week? Monday? We’re having a special meeting just of the web designers and newsletter editors.”

  Her happiness is so contagious, I cannot help but smile. And nod.

  I am floating through the day on a cloud, as if Maggie Mahone’s shawl is the Quaker Cloak and nothing can go wrong.

  Until I get on the bus in the afternoon and there is no Sam.

  Where is Sam? I am not feeling invincible anymore.

  Other people are asking the bus driver where Sam is.The man does not know. Or is not telling. By the time Rob gets on the bus and asks the driver, for maybe the tenth time, the guy yells, “I’m just a sub, all right? What do I know?”

  I cannot wait until I get to my stop. The Rat is way too happy. He is tripping and punching people. The bus driver does nothing.

  Finally, I get off. And run all the way to the house, bursting in, out of breath. “What happened to—”

  Sam is standing there. Leaning against the kitchen counter. Holding Jessica. Who is crying.

  “Hi, Matt,” Sam says with a soft smile.

  Jessica straightens up and wipes her eyes, giving me a wobbly smile. “Hi, honey.”

  The kid is hugging both of them around the ankles. “Maaa.”

  “I lost my job,” Sam tells me.

  “What! Why?”

  Sam takes a deep breath. “I never registered for the Selective Service.”

  I am about to demand more of an answer when I start to figure it out for myself. I remember reading about this on Sam’s blog.

  I look at Jessica. She knew he would lose his job. That is why she was so upset yesterday morning. It was not the burnt toast.

  She smil
es weakly and bends down to pick up the kid.

  I drop my backpack. “I told you not to go see Mr. Warhead! He snitched, right? He figured it out because you are a Quaker or because of everything you said to him about peace. And afterward, in the hall, he found out that you were a bus driver. Bingo. A government job. Which you lose—even now—if you do not register with the Selective Service, right?” I shake my head. Sam. Sam.

  Sam shrugs.“It may not have been him. It may have been a routine check.”

  “A routine check? Oh, come on, Sam!”

  “Well, I didn’t mark the box on the employment application about Selective Service. I just left it blank. Maybe somebody noticed.”

  I roll my eyes.

  Sam hangs his head. “I know. I—I didn’t feel good about submitting an application that was incomplete. It was deceptive. That’s the same as a lie. I should never have applied. I just . . . well . . . really wanted the job.” He sighs. “I’m not proud of myself.”

  I stare at him. “I am not disgusted with you, for God’s sake. I am mad at Mr. Warhead! You did not do anything wrong, Sam!”

  “Well, it was deceptive not to mark the box.”

  “It was their fault for not reading the stupid form, then!”

  He shakes his head.

  “Sam, you were the best bus driver! You were a—a role model! Everyone missed you today! Everyone asked about you!”

  “And now they’ll know what I did was wrong. What kind of a role model is that?” His shoulders droop.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, get over it, Sam! Do you not feel the least bit upset that something was taken away from you that should not have been?”

  Sam starts to answer, but Jessica interrupts. “I agree with Matt.”

  Sam jerks and stares at her.

  She pushes the kid’s hair out of his eyes. “You took a stand, Sam.You don’t need to feel sorry about that.”

  “This totally sucks,” I say.

  Jessica nods. She does not even tell me to watch my language. “I’m going to take Rory up for a bath.”

  Sam gives them a hug before they leave. Then he sighs and sits down at the kitchen table. He fingers a blue napkin and for a moment I think he is going to shred it like I do.