Quaking

by Kathryn Erskine

  I sit down next to him and stare at him. “Okay, this is what I do not understand. Why does God, in his infinite wisdom, let stuff like this happen?”

  He exhales slowly.“I don’t know. But I believe a way will open.”

  “What? Is that another Quaker thing?”

  He nods. “You’ll get an idea and you’ll know immediately, at a gut level, that it’s the right thing. Sort of like a door opening and you realize, that’s it.”

  “As in, I have seen the Light!”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, that must be very nice and comforting for those of you who see some Light, but it makes no sense to the rest of us.” Just because I told Mr. Warhead I was a Quaker does not mean I am for real. God!

  Sam smirks, flicks his thumb against his clenched fingers, and holds them up to his other fist, then makes a whoosh sound.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t you know a blowtorch when you see one?”

  I roll my eyes but I wonder if a way will open if you are not Quaker. Or if I would even recognize a way if one opened in front of me.

  I decide to share my plan with Sam. “How about moving to Canada?”

  He gives me a quizzical look, like perhaps I am being sarcastic.

  “I am serious.”

  “But . . . this is my home, Matt. And I can’t run away.”

  “Why not?” It is not a flippant remark. It is a genuine question. I want to know.

  “Because everyone I know and love is right here. I’m privileged to be an American. I’m privileged to live right here.”

  “You are not looking so privileged at the moment, Sam.”

  “But I have the right and the power to make a difference.”

  “I believe that exists in Canada, also. And it may be an easier battle.”

  He takes a deep breath, looks at the floor, then looks at me. “I ran away to Canada before. I’m not doing it again.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “When I didn’t want to sign up for Selective Service. I ran away. I hid.”

  Sam? Sam ran away? The websites—all those bookmarked sites—flash through my head. His blog. For kids who did not sign up for Selective Service. Of course he could help them. He was an expert.

  I look at him and he wipes his hand over his mouth. “It just didn’t make any sense to me. Went against everything I believed. Our whole reason for being there was wrong. Peacekeeping is one thing, but . . . So, one morning I decided to hitchhike as far away as I could get.” He stares off into the distance. “Up through New York, into Ontario and along the TCH—the Trans-Canada Highway—into Quebec, through New Brunswick, and all the way into Nova Scotia. I worked at a sawmill and on a commercial fishing boat. It’s beautiful up there. Beautiful people, too. But I learned something.” He looks down at his hands and rubs his MIA bracelet. “About myself. About who I am and where I belong. Canada’s great. But I’m not Canadian. I’m American, and this is where I belong. I decided to never run away again.” He looks up at me. “I’m going to stay right here. And work on making things better.”

  As the shock of this news wears off, I feel a tingling, like after my fingers are numb from being out in the cold for a long, long time, and they start to burn when they finally thaw. My head feels prickly, almost painful, as if it, too, is thawing.And I wonder, is it possible to run away from things but then turn around and face them again? Sam ran away. But then he came back. And he has been back ever since. Could it work for me? To not run? Not hide? Face everything?

  Sam grabs my hand and squeezes it. For some reason, I do not throw him off.“I think that’s what we should do,” he says softly, staring into space. “Work on making things better.”

  I let him sit there, holding my hand. For a long time. In silence. Just being.

  When he finally lets go, my hand is cold and exposed, and its bareness makes my whole body shudder.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  From my bed, I hear the muffled voices of Sam and Jessica downstairs. I can hear Jessica crying. I wonder what they are saying. I am hoping they are coming up with a plan to reinstate Sam as bus driver. But it is unlikely.

  The kid hears them, too. He keeps calling, “Maaa!”

  Finally, I get up and go to his doorway. Jessica has enough to worry about right now.

  He is standing in his crib and holding on to the bars. He can barely see over the top. “Maaa!” He sounds even louder now.

  I remember not to say, “Shut up, dork,” because it is not good training for him. Except when speaking to the Rat. So I say, “Shhh.” It sounds stupid and noisy. I do not know why this is used as a sound to quiet people down. It is irritating and grating. And loud.

  “Maaa!”

  And it does not work.

  I whisper, “Quiet, okay?”

  He seems to understand. “Maaa,” he whispers back.

  Now what? “Uh . . . you really should go to sleep.”

  He starts saying, “Maa, maa, maa,” rapidly now, though still quietly.There is another sound in his mantra that I cannot quite make out, at the end of one “maaa” before he goes on to the next, as if he is marking the ending.

  I walk into his room, lit by the blue glow from his star lamp. I look around, realizing that I have never actually stepped inside his room before. There is a white chest of drawers with a blue towel on top where they change his Pull-Ups, a rocking chair, a huge stuffed bear in the corner, and the crib. That is all because there is no room for anything else.

  The kid is still saying his “maa, maa, maa” mantra and I remember that I have walked inside to figure out his new sound. It is something that would make Sam and Jessica happy. Maybe he is trying to say “Maam.” Maybe it will eventually turn into “Mom.”

  It does not sound like “Mom” yet. He is not making an M sound at the end. It is a sound from inside his mouth, more like a D. Mad? He would not say “mad.” No, it is almost as if the sound is catching in his throat, cutting the “Maa” short.

  “Ma—Ma—”

  But he is clearly doing it on purpose. In fact, he is staring at me, his big eyes earnest and his little forehead all wrinkled. “Ma—” He puts one arm over the bars of the crib, pushing his hand toward my chest.

  I am not sure what he wants.

  He takes a deep breath, stares into my eyes, and points his finger straight at me. “Ma—!” he shouts, and points at me again. “Ma—!”

  Oh, my God.

  It is me.

  He is saying Matt.

  My mouth is hanging open and I am staring at him now, into his eyes. But I cannot move.

  He blinks his eyes and lifts up his arms toward me. “Maa—, Maa—, Maa—”

  My eyes are stinging and my throat is burning. Still, I cannot move.

  “Maa—, Maa—” His little hands are opening and closing as if trying to grab on to something. They are almost touching me.

  I snap out of my frozen state, lurch forward, and shake the crib side. I push on levers and shake and yank. Nothing moves. “I do not know how this stupid thing works!”

  “Maaa—” His arms are reaching up and his hands are touching my shoulders.

  I reach into the crib, put a hand under each of his arms, and lift him out.

  He is heavier than my backpack.And softer.And I do not know how to make him stick to me the way he sticks to Jessica and Sam.

  But he knows because he immediately wraps his short arms and legs around me and I am sure he would not fall off even if I let go. Which I will not.

  I am feeling suddenly tired, so I sit down in the rocking chair. It starts moving front and back, like we do.

  His little body is warm and heavy and soft, all at the same time. He is even better than Maggie Mahone’s shawl. He is comfort.

  He smells like raspberries. Jessica’s hand lotion. Jessica’s tea. And he has his own smell, too, a good smell, of clean pj’s and orange books and blue pots and I breathe it in deeply.

  He touche
s my hand, stroking it and making gurgling sounds that turn into a gentle “Maa—” He looks up at me and smiles and I feel trust. He wraps his hand around my forefinger and squeezes it and bends his head down and I hear his kiss.

  We rock back and forth, his head resting on my heaving chest and my head resting on his and we make gurgling and heavy breathing noises together.

  “Maa—tayyy?”

  I lift my head from his and stroke his warm soft hair. I sigh. It is not okay. Not at all. But I decide not to say that. “Yes, it is okay. Rory.”

  He lifts his head up from my chest and stares at me. I stare back. It is the first time I have said his name. His smile is so big he looks like Sam.

  My eyes are burning. My face is wet. It makes my skin prickly and itchy. I do not know why I am acting this way.

  Except that Sam has lost his job. And Jessica is still crying. And I think it is all my fault. And I am failing Mr. Warhead’s class. And the Rat is making my life miserable. And life is so unfair. And I cannot see the way.

  And Rory said my name.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  There is a different sub driving the bus the next morning. I sit right behind the driver because the Rat is only a few seats back and his feet are blocking the way across the aisle. I shake the rain off of me but I keep my shawl over my head to block out the Rat.

  When Susan gets on the bus, she stops after a few steps.

  I pick up my backpack, put it on my lap, and slide over to the window.

  She rushes to my seat. “Thanks, Matt,” she whispers.

  I am so shocked at the sound of my name that I turn to look at her. She has a tiny face with hair that hides most of it. And a small nose with freckles. And a sweet smile.

  “I didn’t want to have to walk past . . . ,” she mumbles, jerking her head toward the Rat.

  “I understand. Susan.” I make myself say her name since she said mine.

  Her smile grows. “Thanks.”

  Later, Rob stops me in the hall.“Hey, Matt. Did you hear about Sam? The bus driver?”

  “Um . . . why . . . what did you hear?”

  “My uncle’s a bus driver. He said Sam broke some law or something, but I can’t believe it. He was a good guy—”

  “He is a conscientious objector, for God’s sake! He did not register for the Selective Service. That is all!”

  Rob steps back and puts his arms up. “Whoa! I’m on his side, okay? I didn’t know that was it.That’s so bogus. How—how do you know about this?”

  “He is a . . .” I do not know what to call Sam.“A friend.” I say it with a lowercase f because that is what I mean.

  “Friend?”

  “And sort of like a . . . parent, I guess.”

  His eyes get big. “Whoa. That explains it.”

  Excuse me? “Explains what?”

  “That’s how he knows so much about you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugs. “Just stuff.”

  Stuff? Like what stuff? And why is Rob looking at me like that? Disapprovingly.

  “You never even talk to him on the bus.”

  I think about how much Rob talks to Sam, and I look at the floor.

  “He’s a good dude. You know, some bus drivers—some adults—don’t want to deal with you at all if you’re in high school. Sam actually talks and listens and treats us like we’re equals.”

  He is right. I know. I am still staring at the floor.

  “But I guess it’s hard having your dad be the bus driver, huh?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “Actually, it is not hard at all.” And I think how easy it really is, compared to what your dad could be.

  “Wait a minute. Is he a Quaker? Because that would make sense. Their religion won’t let them fight.”

  I squirm. “That is not exactly true. Their religion does not dictate anything. It is their choice what they do. But they believe in peace, which tends to make it difficult to go to war.”

  He turns his head slightly as his brown eyes look at me, as if he does not know what to expect next. “Okay,” he says, unzipping his backpack and pulling out a notebook, “I’m starting a petition to reinstate him as our bus driver.”

  “It will not work.”

  Rob stops, glaring at me. “What, don’t you think he has a right to be a conscientious objector?”

  “It does not matter what I think. It is simply the law.”

  “Well”—he exhales, looking at me like I am a moron—“then you change it.”

  “It is not that easy.”

  “Yeah? Well, nobody said life is easy. Are you just going to lie down and let people walk over you?”

  I watch him as he gets out a pen and writes across the top of a page in his notebook. He draws determined lines down the page, dividing it into columns. He looks up at me as I watch him. His jaw is set. His mouth is resolute. And his eyes are staring at me.“What?”There is an edge to his voice.

  “I am waiting . . . to sign the petition.”

  “Oh. Okay.” The hard edge is gone. He hands me the notebook and pen. “Do you want to be first?”

  Number one? At the top of the list? Where there is no hiding? From the Rat? Or Mr.Warhead? Or anyone else? Is he crazy?

  “Yes,” I hear myself say. And I print my name large. And my address. Which happens to be the same as Sam’s.

  As I head up the stairs to English, I see the Rat and the Wall. They are talking with Mr. Warhead, who is red-faced. The Rat is obviously arguing with him, like he really cares about something or really cares about what Mr. Warhead thinks or both. The Wall looks bored or disgusted, depending upon where you look. Mr. Warhead shakes his head no and folds his arms. He stares at the Rat for a moment before walking into his classroom.

  The Rat’s shoulders fall. He shakes his head, too, but it is the fed-up kind of head shaking, and he hits the door frame with his fist. Then he turns away.

  I do not take evasive action in time and the Rat’s eyes trap mine. I am only a few steps away from him now and I try to turn around, but I am on the wrong side of the hallway for that. So many people are pushing me forward that I cannot even slow down.

  In seconds his camouflage jacket blocks my way and the Wall surrounds me. I smell his smoke. His sneer and hiss are quiet but still forceful. “You’re dead . . . Quaker!”

  I am cold all over. He knows. I am dead. It really is over.

  The tornado rises inside me and my entire body is a quivering mass. I almost choke from cigarette smell and his camouflage jacket fills my view. Daggerlike strands of greasy hair slice the air in front of my face. His crooked nose twitches. His black eyes skewer me as I stand there, fresh, raw meat, and I want to look away but I am hopelessly impaled. His huge face is in front of me and I try to breathe but he has all the air and there is none left for me and I am dizzy.

  “Chicken-shit!” the Rat yells in my face, and I clutch my chest but I leave a chink exposed and his elbow catches my rib. He shoves me and I fall to the floor.

  I huddle on the floor with my backpack. His boot steps on my skirt, squashing it slowly like he is wiping his foot on a mat. And then the smoke smell dissipates and a trail of boots and laughter follow and when I am sure they are gone, I get up slowly, stiffly, and stagger in the other direction.

  I sit numbly through Biology. As sixth period draws near, I feel sick all over. I know why. It is time for World Civ. I cannot stand the idea of facing Mr. Warhead. Or the Rat.

  So I go to the nurse’s office. “I cannot handle this awful period,” I tell her, doubled over. I mean sixth period, but she assumes it is the other kind and lets me lie down.

  A few minutes before the final bell is due to ring, the nurse tells me to go to my locker so I will not have to push through the crowds. She is very considerate, this nurse. She reminds me of Jessica.

  At my locker, I am shaking. I am thinking I have made myself sick by feigning illness. Perhaps it serves me right. Or perhaps I have picked up some fast-acting germs from t
he nurse’s office. Perhaps, I shudder, feeling a darkness moving toward me, it is the Rat.

  As soon as I see him at his locker, I know he is not getting on the bus. I am sure of it. But how? An Immaculate Perception?

  I am shaking. If he is not getting on the bus, I should be happy. I am safe. Everything is good.

  But it is not, and I know it.

  I walk slowly out to the bus, looking back constantly to see the Rat, as if I cannot quite leave him behind.

  Something is wrong. He is outside in the parking lot now, standing with the Wall, the older guys who have the beat-up car.They are whispering and guffawing and punching each other’s arms.

  The Rat is smoking a cigarette and the quaking begins. I shake my head to try to drive out the growing fear. It does not work. Why do I think something is wrong, anyway? They are only exhibiting their usual moronic behavior.

  All I want to do is get on the bus and hide. Shut my eyes. Shut myself off.

  So I do.

  “Hi, Matt.”

  I jump. It is Susan, smiling, sitting down next to me.

  “Oh.” I swallow. “Hi.”

  She starts to say something, but Rob plunks himself down on the seat in front of us, sideways, so he is looking over the seat back. He hands Susan the petition.

  As the bus drives off, I see the Rat get into the car. I hold my breath.

  “Wow, you were the first to sign it.” It is Susan again, holding the petition.

  “Yes.” My eyes are following the car. It starts. I turn around in my seat to see where it goes.

  “What is it?” Rob asks.

  I try to look at him, instead of the car, which is turning the opposite way out of the parking lot.“Nothing. I am sure it is nothing.”

  His intense eyes are looking at me. They are the kind of eyes that can see into you if you give them a chance. I look away.

  Someone calls to him and he goes into his petition speech, dragging Susan into the conversation, too. I crane my neck behind me to see if I can find the Rat’s car. Nothing.

  I try to focus on what is going on in the bus. It is the first time Susan speaks at great length. With Rob. With anyone.