DEDICATION
For those who have something to say.
EPIGRAPH
Half the world is composed of people who have something to say and can’t, and the other half who have nothing to say and keep on saying it.
—Robert Frost
CONTENTS
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
The Catalyst
The Crackdown
The Variable
The Promise
The Nudge
The Fish
The Gauntlet
The Revolution
The Bomb
The Sword
The Catch
The Rules
The Quiet
The Offer
The Bet
The Run
The Message
The Confession
The Response
The Invitation
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by John David Anderson
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
I PUSH MY WAY THROUGH THE BUZZING MOB AND FREEZE, HEART-struck, dizzy. It takes me a minute to really get what I’m looking at.
Notes. At least a hundred of them. Pressed all over the freshly painted locker.
Some clump together, overlapping like roof shingles. Others orbit like satellites, reaching up toward the wall. They vary in color—pale blue, fluorescent pink, lime green—but most of them are yellow, like dandelions before they fluff white and wither away.
I stand motionless and read a few of them, softly enough so only I can hear. They are just words and they are not just words. I think about everything that’s happened. About Bench and Deedee and Rose. And Wolf. About all the terrible things that were said. About the things that should have been said and weren’t.
There was a war. This was where it ended.
I can’t tell you exactly when it changed, when it spiraled out of control like a kite twisting in the wind. When it stopped being something funny and clever and became something else. Maybe there was no single moment. Maybe underneath all the squares plastered on the walls and the notebooks and the windows there was the same message over and over—we just ignored it because it was easier to stomach. And now I’m standing here, dumbstruck, wondering if this changes everything.
I know what you are going to say: sticks, stones, and broken bones, but words can kick you in the gut. They wriggle underneath your skin and start to itch. They set their hooks into you and pull. Words accumulate like a cancer, and then they eat away at you until there is nothing left. And once they are let loose there really is no taking them back.
Truth is, I can’t tell you exactly when it changed. I can tell you how it started, though. And I can tell you how it ended. I will do my best to line up the dots in between.
I’ll leave it to you to draw the line.
THE CATALYST
IT STARTED WITH RUBY SANDELS.
That’s her name, swear to God. Ruby freaking Sandels. Yes, sandals aren’t slippers, which would have been worse, and it’s not even spelled the same, but it still counts as a form of child abuse, IMO. Might as well just fix her black hair into a permanent ponytail, buy her a shaggy terrier to stuff in a wicker basket, and teach her to sing about rainbows. I’m sure her parents thought they were being cute with that name, but a thing like that could mess a kid up for life.
It didn’t, though. Mess her up for life, that is. But only because Ruby looked nothing like a lost farm girl from Kansas. With her dark brown skin and tight jeans, Ruby was no Dorothy, and she was hard-nosed enough to stare down anyone who even thought about teasing her, which was always somebody. This was middle school. Everyone got teased by somebody sometime about something. At the very least Ruby would give back double what she got. You had to admire that.
Don’t get the wrong idea. Ruby and I weren’t friends. I will just say that up front. In fact, you can just assume that anyone I talk about isn’t a friend of mine unless explicitly stated otherwise. Ruby was just a girl who sat in front of me in math class and ignored me out of habit. She had a backpack covered in faux sapphires. You didn’t have to look close to tell the dark blue stones weren’t real. This is Branton, not Beverly Hills. Anything flashy around here is fake.
That’s Branton, Michigan, by the way. Don’t try to find it on a map—you’d need a microscope. It’s one of a dozen dinky towns north of Lansing, one of the few that doesn’t sound like it was named by a French explorer. Branton, Michigan. Population: Not a Lot and Yet Still Too Many I Don’t Particularly Care For. We have a shopping mall with a JCPenney and an Asian fusion place that everyone says they are dying to try even though it’s been there for three years now. Most of our other restaurants are attached to gas stations, the kind that serve rubbery purple hot dogs and sodas in buckets. There’s a statue of Francis B. Stockbridge in the center of town. He’s a Michigan state senator from prehistoric times with a beard that belongs on Rapunzel’s twin brother. He wasn’t born in Branton, of course—nobody important was ever born in Branton—but we needed a statue for the front of the courthouse and the name Stockbridge looks good on a copper plate.
It’s all for show. Branton’s the kind of place that tries to pretend it’s better than it really is. It’s really the kind of place with more bars than bookstores and more churches than either, not that that’s necessarily a bad thing. It’s a place where teenagers still sometimes take baseball bats to mailboxes and wearing the wrong brand of shoes gets you at least a dirty look.
It snows a lot in Branton. Like avalanches dumped from the sky. Like heaps to hills to mountains, the plows carving their paths through our neighborhood, creating alpine ranges nearly tall enough to ski down. Some of the snow mounds are so big you can build houses inside them, complete with entryways and coat closets. Restrooms are down the hall on your right. Just look for the steaming yellow hole. There’s nothing like that first Branton snow, though. Soft as cat scruff and bleach white, so bright you can almost see your reflection in it. Then the plows come and churn up the earth underneath. The dirt and the boot tracks and the car exhaust mix together to make it all ash gray, almost black, and it sickens your stomach just to look at it. It happens everywhere, not just Branton, but here it’s something you can count on.
But I was telling you about how it started. The ban and the notes and then the war that followed. I was telling you about Ruby Sandels getting into trouble, getting us all into trouble.
Also, just so you know, this isn’t Ruby’s story. She’s what my chemistry teacher calls a catalyst. Something that jump-starts a reaction. The thing about Ruby, like pretty much every other kid in Branton Middle School (me being one exception), is that she was never without her phone, despite the rule against having them out in class. Nobody followed that rule. If the teacher’s back was turned, texts, tweets, and ticked-off birds were flying, videos were being downloaded, villages were being raided, and walls were being posted on. Everyone did it. And if I was lucky enough to have a phone (if it ever fit into “the budget”), I would have done it too.
Which is why it wasn’t unusual to see Ruby taking furtive glances at her lap during class. The problem was, on this day, she decided to do it in math. With Ms. Sheers.
Unlike Ruby “Don’t Ever Call Me Dorothy” Sandels, Ms. Sheers lived up to her name. Sharp as a scalpel, with thin lips and dagger eyes—nothing escaped her. She wasn’t like Mr. Hostler—near-sighted and three years from retirement, only really concerned with getting home and finding out who won Dancing with the Stars. You could come to class newborn naked and Mr. Hostler would probably just sigh and check you off the attendance sheet. Ms. Sheers, on the other hand, was a
bloodhound. That didn’t make her a bad teacher, necessarily. But she wasn’t the sort to look the other way when she saw the flash of light glinting off Ruby’s phone, or heard the nearly imperceptible click of Ruby’s painted nails on the screen. She zeroed in on the desk like a sniper, then snapped her fingers and opened her hand. “Let’s have it.”
“Have what?”
“The phone, Ruby.”
“I don’t have a phone,” Ruby said, sounding suddenly Dorothy-like, all innocent as she attempted to slide the phone she didn’t have into her glitzy bag. It caught the edge of the pocket and clattered, much too loudly, to the ground.
Naturally, this was hilarious. At least to everyone but Ms. Sheers, who shot down the aisle and reached for it, hawklike, snatching it out from underneath Ruby’s fingertips.
“Give me my phone back,” Ruby said, her face suddenly flushed, lunging upward as Ms. Sheers held it out of her reach.
“You don’t have a phone,” Ms. Sheers reminded her. She looked at Ruby’s screen and her expression changed, Jekyll to Hyde. If it was possible for a teacher to be pretty, Ms. Sheers might qualify, but when she looked at that screen her face transformed into something pinched and contorted, like she had just taken a swallow of rancid milk. She looked from the phone to Ruby, then back to the phone. Ruby’s eyes fell to her desk, head dropping so fast you would have thought someone had tied an anchor to her chin.
“Is this . . . ?” Ms. Sheers stammered. “Did you . . . ?”
Judging by the lack of response, the rest of us could only assume it was and she did. About a half dozen students, me included, telescoped our necks to get a look at the screen, but Ms. Sheets pressed the phone close to her chest.
We all turned and looked expectantly at Ruby, waiting for her comeback. Sarcastic or apologetic, it could go either way. I’ve found that kids will apologize instantly if they think that it will keep them out of trouble. I know I will. But there are some times you just know an apology—even one you actually mean—won’t be enough. Then it’s best to just keep your mouth shut.
I’m guessing that’s what Ruby Sandels was thinking, because she didn’t say a word at first. Just blushed and refused to look up.
Ms. Sheers took a deep breath. “You understand we need to go see Mr. Wittingham.”
Low murmurs among the class. The Big Ham. Principal Wittingham was even more hard-core than Ms. Sheers. You could sometimes feel the tremors when he shouted at a kid from behind his office door. Ruby’s head snapped up.
“But Ms. Sheers, I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just talk.”
She knew she was in it deep. I suddenly felt bad for her. Ms. Sheers had her gorgon stare on—turn you straight to stone—the phone still pressed to her heart.
“This isn’t a game, Ruby. It’s one thing to violate school policy and use your phone in class, but this . . .” Ms. Sheers looked at the phone again, as if to confirm that what she’d seen the first time wasn’t a trick of her imagination. Her face knotted up again and she shook her head. “This is inexcusable.”
Which meant that whatever it was, it must have been good.
Ruby Sandels groaned and angrily stuffed her notebook into her pack. Then we watched her be escorted to the front door. “I will be back in two minutes,” Ms. Sheers warned. “Take this opportunity to complete the problems on your sheet. Silently.”
We all nodded meekly. Ms. Sheers closed the door and at least twenty other phones flew out of pockets and backpacks as we all tried to figure out just what it was that Ruby had done, the wonderfully terrible things that she’d said.
Behind me Jasmine Jones squealed and clasped her hand over her mouth. She showed her phone to Samantha Bowles. (Not Bowels. I made that mistake once. Only once.) “Oh no she didn’t,” Samantha said, eyes wide.
Apparently, yes, she did.
And we were all about to pay for it.
I said Ruby wasn’t my friend, and she wasn’t. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t have any.
In fact, for a while there, I thought I had just enough.
Nobody is friendless. I honestly believe this. We all have somebody. Even the crazy lady who lives down the block from us has her pet schnauzer, though the thing is uglier than she is, with its snaggletooth and gimp leg. Even my father—an editor for an online magazine who works out of his lonely one-bedroom apartment near the beach and thinks humans generally suck—even he has real-life people who he talks to. My mother’s just not one of them.
Point is, none of us is alone. We might feel alone sometimes, but more often than not we are just lonely. There’s a difference. We aren’t alone because it’s basic human nature to band together. Herd mentality. We are programmed to find our people.
That’s how my mother put it. Right before my first day at Branton Middle School, a little over two years ago.
We were back-to-school shopping—gathering the instruments of torture that my teachers would use to slowly bore me to death over the next nine months. I was nervous and irritable. A better word might be “snappish” (I’m a sucker for a good word). I was headed to a new school. A middle school. It wasn’t that the classes would get harder, or that I would get lost in the labyrinth of halls, or that I might forget my combination and look derpy just standing there, aimlessly spinning the lock, though these thoughts crossed my mind more than twice.
No. What scared me most was lunch.
People talk about nightmares where they are falling or where they are trapped in a burning building or buried alive. But ask any incoming sixth grader with at least two forehead zits and a Great Clips haircut and he will tell you the prevailing image from his nightmares is standing in the middle of a buzzing cafeteria, tray in hand, desperately looking for somewhere to sit. That was what made me sweat through my sheets at night.
Forget the boogeyman; the lunch lady haunted my dreams.
Standing in the back-to-school section with a half dozen other kids and their parents, trying to decide between college-and wide-ruled, Mom could tell there was something bothering me. Mother’s intuition. Some people might call that a good thing. I’m not one of them. It was spooky how she could read my mind.
“Don’t be nervous,” she said, the corners of her mouth drawn, somehow outfrowning me.
“Easy for you to say,” I muttered. “You’re not the one going to a new school where you know almost nobody.”
It wasn’t an exaggeration. I literally knew about four people who attended Branton Middle School, and I wasn’t friends with any of them. My mom and I had recently moved to a new house, a smaller one, a grand total of twenty-three miles from the older, larger, more comfortable house I grew up in. It was all part of the separation, one of a thousand aftershocks that came with my parents’ divorce. The old blue house with the white shutters was too much for either my mom or dad to handle financially, so she found a three-bedroom in Branton and he found that apartment in Sarasota.
That’s Sarasota, Florida. You should be able to find Florida on the map all right. It’s the turd-shaped one falling into the ocean.
“No. I get it,” Mom said, dropping school supplies into our cart as I checked items off on the printout. She bought store-brand everything: pencils, pens, markers. Even my backpack was the cheapest we could find, generic black with a little pocket for the phone I didn’t own. Mom’s salary as an administrative assistant at a dental office didn’t cover name brands. Not that I needed Crayolas for middle school. What I needed was someone to trade sandwiches with.
Mom put a hand on my shoulder and leaned close so that nobody around us could hear. “It’s hard starting over. Trust me. I know. But it will be all right. You will find your people.”
That’s exactly how she said it. Your people. Like I was a prophet preparing to gather my flock. At least she didn’t say “peeps.” My mother never tried to be cool. It’s one of the things that made her cool sometimes.
I grunted at her anyways.
“Give me that look all you want, Eric, but it will
happen. It’s instinctual. Inherited from our prehistoric days. We are wired to form groups. Otherwise we would have gone extinct eons ago. It will be hard, but you’ll make it.”
That’s another thing about Mom. She doesn’t sugarcoat it for you. She tells everything straight up. And her hugs are fierce and quick, like the one she gave me just then. “It will be awkward at first, but it gets better. You find your people and you make your tribe and you protect each other. From the wolves.”
“That’s middle school?” I asked her.
She gave me a sad kind of smile. “That’s just life,” she said. Then she threw three packs of off-brand sticky notes in the cart and pushed on to the next aisle.
I stood there by the Elmer’s glue display, imagining my body being ripped apart by ravenous beasts. In the middle of the school cafeteria, no less, with everyone around me pointing and laughing. Mom was smart and I loved her. But she didn’t always know the best thing to say to a guy.
You find your people. Sure. But it was those wolves I worried about.
Ruby Sandels wasn’t one of the people I’d eventually found, but I still felt bad for her as Mrs. Sheers escorted her out of the room. The Big Ham was surely going to eat her alive.
I knew what she said. By the end of fourth period we all did. It’s not difficult. I’m pretty sure that’s the whole reason the internet was invented: to make it easier to spread gossip. I know what Stephen Curry eats for breakfast. I know what the president thought about the new Marvel movie. I know how many Ping-Pong balls a man can fit inside his mouth at one time. You don’t even have to know where to look. Just be patient enough and eventually somebody will tell you whether you care or not.
Ruby’s message was passed around, jumping from phone to phone like a skipping stone, each of us gawking at it in turn.
The kids all knew before the parents. We probably even knew before Ruby’s mom did. There was no way to take it back. You can’t erase what everyone else has seen, and you certainly can’t stop the gossip train once it has gathered steam and rocketed out of Branton Middle School Station. The whispering was like static in the halls.
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