KABOOM

by Brian Adams

  Kevin came scooting up the stairs and helped Marc squeeze into a tight T-shirt.

  Kevin was in on it! This was well rehearsed!

  “KABOOM!” the shirt read, with a picture drawn of Mount Tom. Underneath was written “SAVE THE MOUNTAIN!” It had the look of Kevin’s art, infantile and pretty pathetic, definitely not one of Ashley’s masterpieces. But boy, did it work.

  Marc continued, his voice growing even stronger.

  “From this day forward!” he yelled. “I am the Greenfield High School Mountain!”

  Ashley’s face was ready to split in two from the size of her smile.

  Marc went into body-building pose, sucking in his stomach, puffing out his chest, raising his arms and flexing his biceps to make them look like mountain peaks. He roared at the crowd and, once again, they roared right back at him!

  “Mountain! Mountain! Mountain!” they chanted. The girls who had yelled for him to take it all off were jumping up and down and screaming.

  “Wow!” I said to Ashley, who had joined me at the top of the steps. “I did not see that one coming! Double, no, triple wow!”

  Ashley was speechless.

  “Let’s march!” Marc ordered, turning to Ashley and leaping into her arms.

  KABOOM! Off we went!

  •

  As promised, the circus led the charge. Marc, betrayer turned hero, was right: none of this was a laughing matter, but there was certainly nothing wrong with adding a little joy to the struggle.

  Britt and her fellow tween twirlers were whirling and twirling away, all in sync until one of them would drop her baton and they’d all giggle like crazy. It was hard not to notice Britt giggling even louder whenever the stilt-walker, a boy in her grade, was anywhere within earshot.

  “Looks like Britt has gotten over Taylor,” Kevin said.

  “Looks like Marc never got over Ashley,” I said, putting my arm around him.

  One of the circus girls was doing backward somersaults. One boy was walking on his hands. The stilt-walker was tottering on his stilts, precariously leaning this way and that, one pothole away from catastrophe. Two goofball clowns (fortunately not nearly as frightening as I had feared) were hamming it up and, courtesy of Auntie Sadie, handing out fistfuls of Cheetos. There was even a kid on a tiny, souped-up bike doing wheelies and jumps and ringing his three little bicycle bells like a car alarm on crystal meth.

  Behind them came a mini–marching band with four kids from the high school playing the tuba, trombone, banjo, and ukulele. They were wildly out of tune and it was unclear whether the sound was actual songs or just plain noise. But what they lacked in musical ability they certainly made up for in exuberant enthusiasm, so it was all good.

  They were followed by the polar bear contingent. The little ones had their puppets on their arms and they were waving them around and doing a little Texas two-step and it was the cutest thing you’d ever seen.

  “Watch and learn,” Kevin said to me. “That’ll be us at the cotillion next weekend!”

  One of the kids had a hand-drawn sign with two polar bears sitting on a mountaintop hugging each other. The caption, in little-kid scrawl, read “Blow Kisses Not Mountains.” It made me want to cry.

  Then came the God Squad.

  Piggy had suggested that Frank dress in a loincloth, put a crown of thorns on his head, drag a wooden cross behind him, and have a sign draped across his chest reading Mount Tom. Piggy had volunteered to dress like a Roman gladiator with a sign that said American Coal Company, and he would whip Frank with his chains as they walked.

  Frank was aghast.

  “That,” he had told Piggy, “is the most sacrilegious, offensive, stupid idea I’ve ever heard of.”

  Piggy mumbled something about “sticking it to the man,” but he hadn’t brought it up again.

  So instead, the church kids had made a banner that read Souls’ Haven Evangelical Youth Group Says No to Mountaintop Removal and they all marched under that. Not quite as theatrical, but overall probably a much better idea.

  The rest of us followed behind, holding our signs and chanting our slogans, with the high school hungovers sluggishly dragging their sorry asses in the rear. And the way they were all over each other, it was hard to tell where Ashley ended and Marc began.

  Between the circus freaks, the cutesy polar bears, the marching band, and the colorful signs and banners, the TV camera crew was in seventh heaven, frantically eating it all up.

  What do we want?

  To Save Mount Tom!

  When will we do it?

  Now!

  “This is classic!” Kevin said, his arm around me, his hand straying down to caress my butt. I had finally stopped hyperventilating from my speech and the Marc shocker, and I was actually becoming calm enough to enjoy myself.

  “You were awesome!” he said. “Just like I knew you’d be! I am so proud of you!”

  “I am so proud of us!” I said, snuggling closer. “And can you believe what Marc just did? You were holding back on me! You knew!”

  “I told you he’d come around,” Kevin said, smiling. “There was only so long he could stay away from Ashley.”

  I sighed. All was right in the universe.

  Whose Mountain?

  Our Mountain!

  Whose Mountain?

  Our Mountain!

  The chanting continued. Townsfolk were lining the street watching the crusade go by. Some clapped and cheered, others frowned and jeered. There were a few shouts of “Go back to your mamas!” or “Environmentalists suck!” but the overwhelming response was as good as you could expect. Way more fist pumps than middle fingers.

  It was revealing to see which side people came down on. It was like a window into their politics. Some of the townsfolk I thought would be hostile and pissed were welcoming us with open arms. Others I had assumed sympathetic had their backs turned. A town divided.

  We were almost to the coal company headquarters when we stopped and, on cue, stood in silence with our hands in the air and our faces looking down for two whole minutes.

  During my speech I had prepared the marchers for this moment.

  I had told kids to think about why we were here.

  To think about the 500 mountains that had already had their tops blown off.

  To think about the thousands of people whose lives were devastated by cancer and birth defects and sickness.

  To think about the trees and the plants and the wildlife whose homes were no longer and whose wildness was disappearing.

  To think about the planet that was warming and the climate that was changing and the need for all of us to take action now.

  Kevin is the one who had come up with the idea for the two minutes of silence. I had thought that it sounded a little hokey and lame. I had thought that kids, particularly the littler ones, would wiggle and giggle their way through it.

  But it worked. It really worked.

  For two solid minutes you could have heard a mosquito fart. Total and complete silence. Some of the hungovers had made it to the front and were holding the puppeteers, who nestled, silent, in their arms. I got goose bumps.

  And then, at exactly the end of two minutes, Kevin let out his rebel yell, the air horn answered, the marching band kicked it up, the polar bears roared, everyone hooted and hollered, and on we marched.

  It was absolutely unreal!

  I loved it. I loved everything about it!

  I loved being surrounded by my people who felt the same way that I did.

  I loved being in a crowd of kids who really and truly cared.

  I loved being part of something way, way bigger than myself.

  I loved walking with Kevin. I loved showing the world that I had a hottie boyfriend with his hands all over me. I loved that Marc and Ashley were back together and that other girls and guys were checking us out. I loved that little kids were looking up to us.

  I loved being young and strong and pretty and smart and doing the right thing in the right place at th
e right time.

  I loved it all. I pinched myself yet again to make sure this wasn’t some fantastical-orgasmic-thinkabout-walking-daydream thingy and that it was really and truly happening.

  Who would have thought life could be so good?

  And then, wouldn’t you know it, life’s Ferris wheel took a downward turn and the shit-show started.

  We were almost to the center of town, walking under an overpass, when we were ambushed. Flat out, middle of the day, totally out-of-nowhere ambushed.

  Okay. It wasn’t Syria in 2015 or Iraq in 2005. It wasn’t Birmingham, Alabama, in 1963. There were no suicide bombers or drone strikes or AK47s or tanks or attack dogs or rabid police.

  But there were water balloons. Big ones. From the top of the overpass we were being bombarded by effin water bombs! Not just a few. Hundreds!

  “Shit!” Ashley yelled. “It’s those bastards! Bert and Michael and their dickhead posse. Look, I can see them!”

  Sure enough, there on top of the bridge were the terrible twosome and their gang wreaking havoc on our heads. Balloon after balloon came splattering down.

  The Children’s Crusade stopped dead in its tracks. Everyone turned to look to me and Ashley for direction. Jon Buntington was twitching by my side like a pit bull on fire. Piggy, with his chains around his neck, was, as always, itching for a fight. One nod of my head would turn them loose and the dickhead posse would feel their wrath.

  I recalled the YouTube clips of the 1963 Civil Rights Children’s Crusade. Kids our age getting pummeled by police, ripped apart by dogs, turned end over end by fire hoses. And they didn’t fight back. Not one of them. Unimaginable violence, unthinkable horror, met with nonviolent resistance. With the whole world watching, those kids had shown the whole world who was the most powerful. That might does not make right. That good can triumph over evil.

  I didn’t think for a moment that this was 1963. But I did think that if the kids back then could endure dogs and fire hoses and police batons, then we sure as heck could endure a bunch of stupid, lame water bombs.

  “Sit!” I yelled. “Everybody sit!”

  Kevin and I scooted over to the polar bear brigade, sat down, and folded a couple of the little ones under our arms, doing our best to shield them from further soaking. Other big kids followed suit, with the hungovers forming protective pyramids around the little dweebs. Everyone sat, except for the God Squad, who knelt in prayer.

  We didn’t run. We didn’t cry. We didn’t fight back. We just sat right down where we were, criss-crossing and apple saucing. We sat and started to sing the old civil rights anthem from that other Children’s Crusade so long ago:

  We shall not

  We shall not be moved.

  We shall not

  We shall not be moved.

  Just like a tree that’s standing by the water.

  We shall not be moved.

  “We’re sitting like a mountain!” I yelled.

  “We shall not be moved!” kids sang back.

  We’re sitting like a mountain We shall not be moved.

  Just like a tree that’s standing by the water.

  We shall not be moved.

  And the TV camera kept on rolling.

  One of the hungovers, drenched to the core, reached into her purse and brought out a tube of face wash. She stood up, washed her face, and yelled to the top of the overpass “Hello! How’s about one more, please! I’m waiting for a rinse here!”

  Three of the polar bears stood up and starting roaring like bears. And dancing. Roaring and dancing and giggling like crazy.

  Britt and her buddies went back into circus mode, baton twirling, somersaulting, hand walking, clowning, and stilting away, to much applause and whistling from the amazed onlookers.

  The band started playing again.

  The Great Mount Tom Children’s Crusade, drenched, undaunted, and happy as could be, stood, rose, and marched onward.

  57

  THAT EVENING we were gathered in my living room, glued to the television. Britt, Dad, Kevin, a very happy Ashley, Marc (who couldn’t stop grinning), me, and a boatload of popcorn. I was tucked into Kevin’s arms, Ashley into Marc’s, and Britt into Dad’s. As always, Ashley had her feet in my lap.

  “The middle toe,” Ashley sighed. “Do that one. Do it harder.”

  “Ashley!” I told her, faking a frown. “I thought that’s why you got back together with Marc. So I could retire from chief foot rubber. Marc the Mountain, you’re dropping the ball here. You got to step it up!”

  “No way!” Ashley said. “No one does it better than you! That’s why you’ll always be my best friend. My tootsies would shrivel up and wither away without that magic touch of yours. Anyway, Marc needs to pay attention to more important things.” Ashley snuggled closer to him and kissed his neck.

  “Cover your eyes, Dad,” Britt said, putting her hands over Dad’s face. “These teenagers and their hormones. It’s like a minefield out there. Anything can happen.”

  “How old are you again?” Dad asked Britt.

  “Twelve going on twenty,” Kevin said. “But not a tween much longer—right, Britt? Don’t you turn thirteen the same week Cyndie hits the sweet one-six?”

  Dad let out a long sigh. “Two teens,” he said. “What am I going to do then? How am I going to survive?”

  “No worries!” Kevin said. “I’ll be here to keep Cyndie in line.”

  “Yeah, right!” Ashley said, whacking him with a pillow. “Without us girls to watch over the two of you slackers, the place would go to holy hell!”

  “You mean the three of them,” Britt said. “Don’t leave out poor old Dad. He may be old but he’s still just a clueless guy.”

  “Shhh!” I shushed. “We’re on!”

  It was 6:00. Time for the local news.

  If the camera crew hadn’t been sympathetic to the Children’s Crusade before the ambush they certainly were after. I got that they were supposed to be unbiased, present the news as it happened, and keep their own feelings in check. But the fact that the newswoman’s enormously high mountain of a hairdo had been drenched flat by a water bomb had most certainly helped our cause.

  “Look!” Britt yelled. “There I am!”

  Sure enough, the segment opened with Britt and the Twirling Tweens leading the Crusade, twirling their batons and grinning away.

  “I’m famous!” Britt screamed. “Do you see me? I’m on TV! I’m famous!”

  “Shhh!” I told her.

  There I was, addressing the crowd, sounding reasonably intelligent. The way the camera framed it, you couldn’t tell whether there were two hundred kids or two thousand. It was awesome.

  There was Marc, flinging down his miner’s helmet, popping his shovel, and strutting his stuff.

  “I still cannot believe you did that!” Ashley sighed, snuggling even closer to him. “And I am so happy you did!”

  There was the march, zooming in on the cutest little ones waving their polar bears. Zooming out on the God Squad with their What Would Jesus Do? signs.

  There was the ambush, with a water bomb exploding in the middle of the camera lens. Boom!

  There was KABOOM duct taping the Save Mount Tom petitions to the door of the American Coal Company office.

  There was a brief clip of a mountaintop removal site in another part of West Virginia, a bombed-out, moonscaped crater of total devastation. Then there was a scene from afar of our mountain: beautiful, green, glowing, sacred Mount Tom.

  “Whether you agree with them or not,” concluded the newscaster with her mountaintop hair flattened, water still dripping down her collar, “these kids have certainly shown they’re out to make a difference.”

  End of story.

  We all applauded. Kevin hugged me and fist-bumped Marc. Britt was bouncing up and down on the couch and couldn’t stop screaming.

  “I’m famous! Did you see me? I was on TV! I’m famous!”

  58

  DANCE TIME! The Civil War Cotillion! After months of
anticipation the big night had finally arrived!

  For all of its total and utter lameness, I was actually pretty psyched.

  Number one: I got to be with Kevin. A date with Kevin, no matter how bizarre the setting, was the absolute best. It seemed like ages ago that he had first asked me out and I had bumbled my way into a yes. It was hard to believe the cotillion was supposed to have been our first date. Our very first! And now, by the time we were finally going, we were inseparable.

  Number two: It was a dance. I loved to dance and, other than spinning around with Ashley in my room, I hardly ever got to. This would be my first dance with Kevin.

  “It’s jigs and reels and quadrilles,” he said. “It’s going to be a blast. Just no grinding! I think that’s the only rule.”

  “If we can’t grind, then why are we going?” I asked.

  “We do get to swing, if that’s any consolation. And promenade.”

  “Jumpin’ gee willikers! And do-si-do? Please tell me we get to do-si-do!”

  “Behave yourself and there might even be a little sashaying,” he said.

  “Ooh-la-la. Be still my heart!”

  Number three: I got to do my hair in the 1860s way: two braided pigtails pinned in the back, and two more braids from the front swooped and tucked into them. Ashley and I watched a YouTube tutorial on hairstyles of the 1860s, and Ash was pumped to experiment on me. Of course, what should have taken a mere fifteen minutes lasted an hour and a half, with numerous near-death experiences. Hair spray in my eyes. Bobby pins twisted deep into my skull. And, horror of horrors, way too many little wispies sticking out of my braids.

  “Twist, pin, and tuck,” I ordered. “Twist, pin, and—ouch! Stop! If you stab me one more time, I’m going to . . .”

  “No pain, no gain,” Ashley said.

  “Said by the one not bleeding profusely from the gushing wounds on her head.”

  “Fashion over comfort, darling. Beauty is pain. And God, you look so cute!”

  “Yeah, right. Do you think he’ll even notice?”

  “He better. You’ve lost way too much blood for this to go unrecognized.”

  The only problem with the braided pigtails was that they were tucked against my ears so tightly that it made it kind of hard to hear. But I figured it was a dance so it wouldn’t matter.