by Rob Thomas
“Yell loud at the game tomorrow night anyway,” she says cheerfully. “The boys are going to need all your help with those niggers quitting.”
Nice.
I turn away and watch the fire. After the Speller performs, these things go downhill fast. It’s the only part of the entire spirit fest that isn’t staged and artificial. Why do I feel like I have to make some kind of appearance? It reminds me of seventh grade when I tried out for cheerleader. I spent the week before the election trying to be perky and involved. Somehow getting picked seemed important at the time, but when you’re young, every little bullshit thing somehow does.
On the way back out to our cars, I invite Suzi over to lounge around in the hot tub.
“Rainy, you’re welcome too,” I say. “Just stay out of the water.”
As expected, they decline, claiming social obligations. I suspect, however, curfews and homework are the true cause. A van that’s been blocking my view of the Probe backs out, revealing my erstwhile slave lounging across my hood. Doesn’t that boy know that when the bonfire starts, our time together is through?
Seeing him there reminds me—I’ve got to remember to take down that picture of me and Pap from my locker.
MR. TWILLEY
9:45 P.M. Bonfire
I suppose I had hoped for Tommy to be more excited about the phone number I gave him, but maybe forcing that number on him was silly of me—expecting him to be thrilled by my notion of success. It’s possible, maybe probable, that Tommy doesn’t need a degree. Maybe he should join a comedy troupe, audition for equity productions, hone a stand-up comedy routine. Do anything to get out of Deerfield.
Perhaps I should as well.
As I walk toward my car, I spy Tamika Jackson and one of my better former students, Keene Davenport. As I walk toward her, their conversation dies.
“Tamika, may I have a word with you?” I ask.
She appears nervous. She fidgets and pulls on a strand of hair. “Umm, yeah,” she says. From Tamika, this almost seems like defiance. She’s always been a “yes, sir/no, sir” girl.
“I wanted to let you know that I graded your test and Trevor’s, and I found no evidence of collusion.”
“So what does that mean?” Tamika says, softening a bit.
“It means that I won’t turn in a report, so you’ll be able to stay in the National Honor Society. It also means that you can keep your grade on the quiz.”
“I told you I didn’t cheat.”
“Well, the proof’s in the … You know what? I should’ve listened. Just remember to keep your paper covered from now on.”
“I will,” she says. I detect a small smile forming.
“Drive safely,” I say as I resume the trip out to my car.
As I’m walking, Esther enters my mind. I wonder what she would say about my day. Something about faith in mankind. Something about giving of yourself. And yet, it would still be over between us. Too many things said. Too many things never said. No, I don’t think I did this for Esther.
I think I did it to remind me.
I notice that there’s still a light on in the theater. I head toward it. I’m in the mood for coffee. Maybe Linda Amenny wouldn’t mind joining me.
BRENDAN
9:50 P.M. Parking lot
As I’m waiting for Tiffany, I’m thinking about the outlines of the bodies we saw painted on the sidewalks in Austin. Tiffany just stood right on them. Didn’t even notice them or care why they were there. I guess that’s just her, never paying attention to who she’s stepping on and over.
I was retarded this morning to think those girls were willing to say all that stuff in front of me because they thought I was semicool; the only reason they say anything in front of me is because my existence simply doesn’t matter to them.
So now I know what I’ve got to do.
My days of letting Blimp Stimmons copy my homework are over. The next time someone in a pep squad uniform asks me to format her disk, I’ll just act like she’s speaking Zulu. And while I’m at it, I think I’ll tell Mr. Zarsky he can find someone else to take up space at the student council meetings. I don’t want a nod in the hall from Tiffany Delvoe if all that’s going through her mind is, “There’s the dope I played like a puppet.”
Because, you know what? Existing—just being—it isn’t enough.
The van that’s been parked next to me backs out, and I see Tiffany walking that stupid prostitute walk up to the car. I reach into the pocket of my backpack and find what I’m looking for.
“Watch the paint, dude, I just had that thing washed,” Tiffany says. The ways she says it is charming, and I can’t help noticing, again, how beautiful she is. Come on, Brendan. Go through with this …
“I need a ride home,” I say.
I make sure there’s no question mark at the end of that. I’m not asking. Tiffany notices.
“I’m sorry. Is there a sign on my car there that says ‘Delvoe Taxi’?” She wanders around the car, pretending to look for one. “Nope. I don’t see anything here that says ‘Free Rides for Sophomores.’”
I pull my hand out of my backpack and fan out the three floppy disks in front of Tiffany. She looks at me, and I look right back at her.
“Let’s see, here,” I say. “The complete financial records of Delvoe Ford. Three copies: one for Mr. Milligan, one for the Deerfield Herald, and one that I may just upload onto the Net for anyone else who’s interested.”
She stares at the disks. This is my big play. If she immediately says, “Do what you want with them, our family is in the clear,” I don’t know what I’ll do. But she doesn’t. Instead she’s in shockdom, and I know my hunch was right. At first I don’t think she’s going to speak at all, but then she says the strangest thing. “Brendan,” she says. “You’ve got really beautiful hands.”
I don’t even try to understand the strategy behind that. I slide down off the hood and move toward her.
“Throw me the keys, Tammy,” I say. “I’m driving.”
“Tiffany,” she says.
“Whatever.”
KEENE
9:54 P.M. Parking lot
I was nervous, at first, that Tamika wasn’t going to show up at the bonfire. I had to look all over before I found her, but she broke away from a couple of her friends and walked right over here when she noticed me. It was too loud, really, to try to say anything to her there. But when it was over, I asked her if she wouldn’t mind giving me a ride home. She said no problem. As we walked out to the parking lot, Tamika told me about all the people who had come up to her during the day and told her they were on her side. She thanked me again, and I could swear she was glowing. The same girl I saw crying this morning was practically dancing out to her car.
That’s when Mr. Twilley called to her.
I didn’t want to be there when the two of them spoke, but the way things worked out, I was. And Mr. Twilley was nice. He said he’d made a mistake, and he told Tamika that he wouldn’t turn in a discipline report.
I watch him as he walks away, and there are a million things going through my head that I know I’m going to have to sort through later. I can’t dwell on it now. Like I said, there’s one thing left to do.
Tamika gets in her VW bug and unlocks my door. I climb inside. I’ve been rehearsing this moment, so before she turns on the ignition, I speak up.
“Uh, Tamika, uh, I’m sure you’ve probably heard about the party tomorrow night.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard about it,” she says, smiling so nice.
“Well, uh, I was, uh, you know, wondering if you would go with me?”
She reaches over and pats my hand, which seems friendly enough, but then she says, “I’m sorry, Keene, but after school today, Shawn Greeley asked me if I wanted to go with him.”
When she says that name, it’s like my brain has been a spinning TV picture and someone’s instantly fixed the vertical hold. Everything locks in place, and I remember who I am. And that someone is a very different person
from the one I’ve tried so hard to be today.
By any means necessary.
I wasn’t the only one living by that motto today. Shawn Greeley sure was. So were Sleepy and Melvin and Rashard. In our own ways, each one of us got exactly what he wanted.
As I hear the car’s engine turn over, I take comfort in the one thing I am sure of: At Robert E. Lee High School, home of the Rebels, there will never be another Slave Day.