by Barry Lyga
I feel terrible about it all. I can't help it—being Catholic means you feel bad about pretty much everything all the time.
Here's how we deal with guilt in my family: We pretend the thing we feel guilty about doesn't exist anymore. So Dad has no pictures of Mom anywhere in the house. I have one in my wallet, but that's it. And there's one picture of Jesse on the coffee table, but Dad never looks at it.
I try not to look at it either. I don't call Jesse a lot. We email or IM sometimes when I'm at school or the library, but that's it.
It's just that ... I mean, I was his hero. I was his big brother, his defender. I took care of him when Mom and Dad were too busy fighting to do it.
And then I let him down.
I messed everything up. That's my life, really—one long string of messing things up. Even saving Leah. Even that was messed up. I didn't even do that right.
These days, I have to struggle to figure out exactly how bad a person I am. Because there's the secret I keep, the secret about that day with Leah and the Surgeon. And that's pretty bad. I mean, that one alone is sending me to hell.
But then there's what I did to Jesse.
Poor kid. He was only seven. He worshiped me. I was his hero.
I don't think he really got it. He knew that he'd packed up all of his stuff and that big burly guys had come and put it on a truck. Mom had showed him the map on the computer and how they were moving all the way to California. But I don't think it really clicked with him that I wasn't going. That Dad wasn't going.
And it didn't help that my parents were so damn clueless. They just made it worse. They weren't real smart about it. I guess they weren't thinking...
See, they had all of us go to the airport together. The moving truck had left a couple of days ago and now Mom and Jesse were flying together out to California. Dad and I drove them and walked them to the security gate and Dad gave Jesse this big hug and said, "Be good for your mother." And I wouldn't hug Mom—even though she held out her arms and waited patiently, I wouldn't do it, and I didn't want to hug Jesse either because then it was real, but he was my little brother. I had to do it.
So I hugged him and I said, "Bye, Jesse. I love you."
And that's what did it.
As I pulled away from him, I could see it in his eyes. He suddenly got it. He was going away. Three thousand miles away. And Dad and me weren't going with him. He might never see us again, for all he knew.
He started screaming. I mean, he was wailing and bawling like you wouldn't believe. It was mortifying. He wasn't a little kid, you know? He was seven, almost eight, but he didn't care. He screamed and cried at the top of his lungs. For me. For Dad. Even for Mom, which was weird because he was going with Mom.
Mom and Dad jumped into action. It was the first time I'd seen them do something together in a long time. They were trying to calm him down, trying to distract him or at least get him to quiet down a little bit. But nothing was working. He was just out of control, a little scream machine with the volume cranked all the way up.
There had been some kind of terrorist threat recently, so there was all kinds of extra security there. They were watching us. And people were slowing down to look. And the people in the security line had nothing better to do than stare, and my little brother was just determined to give them all a hell of a show. Nothing my parents did could stop him. I tried to get in there to help, thinking that maybe that dumb-ass story about Pandazilla and Aquahorse would work one more time, but Mom just pushed me back and Jesse kept putting out the decibels.
Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I don't know where it came from, but I just screamed at him: "Jesse! Just shut the hell up and get on the plane!"
They were the magic words. They didn't just shut up Jesse—they shut up the whole world. Everyone just stopped talking and looked at me. Mom and Dad stared. Security guys, random people—they all watched.
And my little brother hitched all his sobs back into his chest. He had snot running out of his nose and tears streaming down his face and he was now suddenly completely silent as he looked at me like I'd kicked him in the head.
I felt like the lowest form of life on the planet.
Mom wiped up his face. She took his hand and led him to the security line. He didn't fight it.
He kept his head turned the whole time, though, watching me. Watching me until I finally turned away and made Dad take me home.
Chapter 23
They Build you up
AT THE END OF THE DAY, BEFORE I ESCAPE TO MY CAR and to the relative safety of home, I go to the media center. Mrs. Grant is cleaning up some books and papers at the circulation desk. All the lights are off. She gives me a look that's a modification of Fam's dog-to-the-vet look. It's worse because it's an adult doing it. When adults pity you, you know you're screwed.
"Can I help you, Kevin?"
Yeah, can you cut my head off and file it somewhere where future generations of idiots can learn from my example?
I don't say it, of course. Duh.
"No, I just..." I stop because I don't want to finish what I was going to say. It's so pathetic. I came here to ask her how she thought I did compared to Riordon. When I decided to do it, it seemed OK—she was impartial and nice and maybe I did better than I thought.
But now, standing here, with her giving me that dog-to-the-vet look ... I'm doing what Mom calls "fishing for compliments."
"Never mind," I tell her, and I turn to go.
"Wait." She comes around the desk. "Stay for a minute."
"I don't want to keep you."
"I'm not rushing off anywhere. What's on your mind?"
I can't ask her how I did in the debate. That's just sad. But I can ask her what she thinks about the issue itself, right? That's not pathetic. That's just getting information.
So I ask her. Who did she agree with—me or John?
She gives me this nervous little laugh. "It doesn't matter what I think."
"Come on. Please?"
She sighs. "Look. My generation messed up a lot of things. We did a lot right, but we messed up a lot, too. But here's the thing—we tried. We marched and we protested and we complained until things changed. We didn't always change the right things and we didn't always get our way, but we tried. And I'm glad to see you trying, Kevin. That's what matters."
Um, no—that's the same old adult bull they sling when they're trying to avoid bad news. Hey, Dad, I went 0 for 4 at the plate and dropped an easy fly ball!
Well, you tried, son. That's what matters.
No, what matters is I suck.
"Tell me the truth: Do you think I'm right or do you think John's right? Just tell me. I can take it."
"Well, look. I probably shouldn't say, but ... I think you're right."
I can't help it—a happy little "Yes!" slips out.
"Don't go celebrating," she warns me. "I was predisposed to agree with you in the first place. You didn't convince me of anything. I felt the same way from the start."
"But I'm right, right? I mean, I'm not losing my mind or anything—John's wrong."
"Well, I think so."
"Then why is everyone listening to him instead?"
She leans against the circulation desk. She looks really, really tired. "People—especially young people—can be swayed pretty easily by something attractive. A slick presentation. A sophisticated message. If you make a complicated issue seem simple, you can get a lot of people on your side, even if you're wrong and even if it's not true."
"That sucks."
"That's what I try to teach you in Media. Just because something looks professional or has high production values or is nice and shiny and neat doesn't mean that it's right."
"But the shiny stuff will always have an advantage?" Man, that's depressing.
She echoes my thoughts: "As depressing as it sounds ... yes. Sorry, Kevin."
And on that lovely note, I head home.
I flip around the radio stations, stopping to listen to a story on NPR
. I learn how many soldiers have died or been wounded recently, about the threat level, about the things the president says we need to do to defeat "the evildoers." Which is such a weird and wimpy way of describing them, really. It makes them sound like goofy-ass mad scientists, rubbing their hands together and cackling...
Make a complicated issue seem simple...
Maybe that's the point.
Most of the cars I see on the way home have new ribbons on them, replaced almost immediately after the Council's theft. As if people couldn't bear the thought of not having them for even an instant. As if they feared other people would judge them. I do see one homemade bumper sticker that gives me a chuckle, though: COURAGE IS BEING A LIBERAL IN LOWE COUNTY.
But that's the only thing that makes me feel like maybe the whole universe isn't against me.
Well, what did I expect—the world to change just because I gave a speech on the morning announcements?
My key chain dangles from the ignition. The key to Brook-dale clings and clangs and makes me feel even worse. Why do I keep it? It's like a reminder of all my lies, all my fears. God.
I keep thinking about Riordon's speech. It's better than thinking about Riordon macking on Leah and Leah just lapping it up. There are so many weaknesses in his argument it's ridiculous. But now I think that's my own fault. I went into this with the wrong attitude. I mean, I know that I'm right. Which means that the other side is wrong.
My mistake was thinking that if they're wrong, they must be stupid.
Man, that sends a chill right up and down my spine. I always thought that the wrong side was wrong because they were too dumb to get the truth. But Riordon proved that the wrong side can be smart. And that's worse than them being stupid. Because it means that they can convince the people who are stupid that they're right.
Jeez. What a tool. Burning a flag. Like I would do that.
At home, Dad's not making corn bread today, unfortunately. He's watching a ball game that he taped last night instead. I try not to disturb him. We've never talked about that stuff Reporter Guy published about Dad, and it's like I've been tiptoeing around it ever since.
And I'm sick of it.
I wait for a commercial and then make my move: "Hey, Dad?" Before he can say anything, I plunge on in: "I'm really sorry."
"What? Why? What did you do?"
My throat goes dry, just like when Leah came up to me in the cafeteria.
"About the ... You know, Dad. The paper. The Loco."
He stares at me so hard that I imagine I can feel him pushing me away just by force of eyesight.
"What are you talking about? That wasn't your fault."
"But—but he wouldn't have written that if he wasn't writing about me..."
"No, no, no." Dad gets up, shaking his head. "No. Listen to me: He's writing about you because you got rid of those ribbons, which is what I told you to do. But if it wasn't that it would have been something else because that's what these people do—they build you up and then they tear you down."
"But—"
"No. That's all ancient history anyway." He gets a soda from the fridge and returns to his chair just as the game comes back on. "Don't worry about it. It's done and over with."
OK, that totally isn't what I expected. After a lifetime of being told never to talk about Dad and the army and all that, suddenly it's just, like, "Don't worry about it" and "It's my fault." Which it is, because he did make me get rid of those ribbons.
I flop on the bed and watch the game with him for a little while. Maybe he's not as messed up in the head as I always thought.
Or maybe I'm just getting messed up enough that he's starting to make sense to me.
Either way, though, I have to admit he's got more experience at ... well, just about everything. So I might as well use it.
Another commercial comes up. Dad reaches to fast-forward the tape, but I jump in:
"Hey, Dad. How do you stop people from being stupid?"
He grunts and rolls his eyes. "You don't."
"Really?" You're kidding me. I thought for sure that at some point someone must have figured this out.
"I've tried to explain to people when they're being stupid," he says, "but then I realized something: Most people like being stupid."
"I don't get it."
He pauses the game as it comes back from commercial. "Some people just prefer it. It makes their lives easier if they let other people think for them."
"But that doesn't make any sense. That's just stu ... Oh."
He nods in satisfaction and starts the game again.
"Hey, Dad?"
He does one of those hiss-y inhales that makes me think I've bugged him one too many times, but then he pauses the game. "Yeah?"
"What, uh, what do you think about flag burning?" Riordon's jab is still bugging me.
"You planning on burning a flag?" he asks with such stern disapproval that I feel guilty for something I've never even contemplated doing.
"No."
"Well, good. I mean, it would be a stupid thing to do. You'd get people so riled up that they'd miss the point. There are better ways to get your opinions across."
"But what about the people who do?"
He shrugs. "Who cares, really?"
"But the flag's, like, a symbol of our country. People died for it."
"When I was only a little bit older than you ... There was a picture, OK? That picture..."
He shakes his head. Clears it. It's a good talking day for Dad, I guess. "I remember seeing a picture. In the paper. The collapse. You know, the collapse of the Soviet Union. A Russian soldier, burning a Soviet flag. You see? If he can ... I remember thinking to myself, 'If he's free enough to do that over there...' Isn't that what it's all about, Kevin?"
Well, OK. Tell the truth, I'm not 100 percent sure what the Soviet Union is or was. But anyway, I get his point—if people in other countries can burn their flags, then shouldn't we be allowed to, here in this, "the freest country in the world" according to John Riordon?
"Thanks, Dad."
He nods sort of dreamily, like he's glad he doesn't have to talk anymore. Did he always know this kind of stuff, back when I wasn't listening to him? It's tough to know someone's smart when they don't talk. Mom always said he was smart, but Mom also said she loved him.
I stay up late thinking about it all. Dad's right: People will stay stupid if they can. And in being right, he confirmed what I was thinking before, so that's cool.
What people don't get is that symbols may be great, but they're just symbols, right? And the problem with a symbol is that you don't always know what it means, or what it means to someone else. So you think you're on the same page, but you're not. If it took us hours of arguing in English class and we still couldn't agree on what the moors symbolize in Wuthering Heights, how the hell can we assume we all agree on what the flag symbolizes?
I saw a guy on TV once who said that the flag didn't symbolize freedom—it symbolized years of slavery and oppression. I don't really agree with that, but who am I to tell him he's wrong?
So it's like everyone can dump whatever meaning they want on a symbol, which means that you can't really rely on it. You can't be sure it means what you think it means, so it's better to go to the truth of the matter, to the meanings themselves.
Right?
My head hurts. This stuff is complicated. I'm not used to it.
OK, here's the thing—no one died for the flag, for the symbol. That's stupid. They died for what the symbol represents.
I mean, the flag represents freedom. To me, at least. And that's fine and I'd probably be willing to die to protect my freedom.
But would I be willing to die to protect the flag? Duh—no! It's just a flag. It's just a piece of fabric. No one would die for that. Even the people who think flag burning is wrong—if you put them in that position, I bet they'd choose their own lives instead.
In fact, around about midnight, I have something of a revelation, which is very cool. The
right to burn the flag is the greatest possible symbol of our freedoms. That's what I realize.
So, I consider burning a flag at school. Just to make my point. Leah couldn't help but be impressed, right?
Only it wouldn't be a real flag. It would be one with forty nine stars. Or one with a single off-white stripe. Or something like that. Some tiny, minuscule difference, just to show how stupid it is to get upset about it. Because, like, burning that extra star somehow makes it terrorism or what Father McKane used to call "apostasy"? (I love that word. It sounds cool when you say it, but how often do you actually get to use it? Apostasy.)
But two things stop me: One, Dad's right. The act of burning the flag would get everyone so pissed off they would miss my point.
And second of all—I don't know where to get a flag with just forty nine stars or a single off-white stripe.
So, I settle for a rebuttal. It's not fair that Riordon got to critique everything I said but I didn't get the chance to bash him back. I'll take up Fam's offer to help and I'll go to the Doc and demand a rebuttal.
I drift in and out of sleep. I've got Dad and Fam and Leah and Dr. Goethe and Reporter Guy all yelling and screaming and cajoling inside my head, and who can sleep with that kind of racket going on?
Mom joins in the chorus, too. I still haven't told Dad about her offer. I need to, but I can't for some reason. I mean, I'm definitely going. There's no question about it. I'm going. I need to get away from Brookdale, away from the whole hero/villain thing, away from Leah, because ... Because it's not good for me to be around Leah.
I think of what I really wanted to ask Dad: Is it true what they said in the Loco? Did you betray your country? What happened, Dad?
I mean, I need to know. Because I feel like I'm following in his footsteps, in a way. And I need to know if it's the right thing to do, or if I'm gonna end up pissed off and depressed and just plain messed up, emptying garbage cans for a living.
So after Dad leaves for work in the armpit of the morning, I start snooping through his stuff.