The Revealers

by Doug Wilhelm

  “Out of the three hundred forty-three surveys we received back,” says Allison, “two hundred thirty students—sixty-seven percent—said they had been involved in a bullying or harassment incident at our school. Seventy-four percent of those students said they had been on the victim side. Twenty percent had been on the bullying side. Six percent did not answer this question.”

  “Forty-eight percent of the students said they had been involved in more than five incidents,” says Catalina’s voice. “Twenty-three percent said they had been involved in more than ten.”

  I looked back. Mrs. Capelli’s face was stiff. Her eyes flicked from the school board chairman to the screen.

  “Our final results were these,” Allison says. “Ninety-two percent of the students who responded said they had read The Revealer on the SchoolStream network. The Revealer was an electronic publication that gave kids a chance to tell their own stories of bullying.

  “Eighty-two percent of the students who responded to our survey,” says Catalina, “felt bullying had decreased in our school since The Revealer was first published.”

  Dr. Bennett broke into a wide smile. “Eighty-two percent,” he said, turning back to the other grownups. “And you have this Revealer on the school system?”

  “We had it,” Catalina said.

  His forehead crinkled for just a second. Then he said, “So … what was in it?”

  “Click on The Stories,” Elliot said.

  He did. For a good five or ten quiet minutes, the judges read story after story.

  “And these are all true?” said the mountain man, in a quiet voice.

  “Kids sent them in,” I said. “We got everyone’s permission to include their stories.”

  “Not at first,” Mrs. Capelli said.

  “But we learned,” said Elliot.

  “These three students conceived, directed, and coordinated the project,” Ms. Hogeboom piped up. “But they were helped by literally dozens of others. Not only the additional students who are credited on the menu, but also, what was it—forty—six?”

  “Forty-two,” I said.

  “Forty-two students contributed their own stories,” she said.

  “Forty-two out of more than four hundred,” Mrs. Capelli pointed out.

  “That’s very impressive,” Dr. Bennett said.

  The principal made a sound like a strangled duck.

  “We didn’t do this to make the school look bad,” Elliot said. “We did it because this stuff happens.”

  “Well, of course—you’re social scientists,” Dr. Bennett said. “I want to see more. What else is good?”

  “Try the interviews,” I said, and he clicked up this one:

  “Hey, Elliot, it was all just for fun. You know that,” says Jon Blanchette. He, Elliot, and Burke sit on three plastic chairs.

  “Yeah—until you dumped your lunch on me in the cafeteria,” Burke says. “That wasn’t fun. I got you back, though, didn’t I?”

  “Did you?” Elliot says.

  Burke smiles. “Maybe I did.”

  Elliot shakes his head. “You’re the weird one, Burke. You know that? You guys thought it was so much fun to wait for me before school, after school, on the playground, in the halls, just so you could do something nasty. I mean, you hung my backpack in a tree, you played soccer with my lunch. You even dropped me off a bridge.”

  “You did that,” Burke says. “We were only teaching you a lesson. The guys never would have dropped you if you’d just held still.”

  “But what was all that about?” says my voice, off camera. “Why do all that stuff to one particular kid?”

  “Hey, we were just having fun,” says Blanchette. “You liked it,” he adds, grinning at Elliot.

  “You think I liked it?”

  “You definitely liked it. You could have avoided us. You never did. Right? It was part of your day, too. We were the guys who paid attention to you, Elliot. Weren’t we?”

  Elliot is shaking his head, but he’s smiling, too.

  “Calling me Geekowitz.”

  “At least we called you something,” Jon says. “I mean, weren’t we the only ones?”

  “Nah, there were lots. You were just the nastiest.”

  “Now you’re talkin’,” Blanchette says, leaning back and giving the camera his big natural smile.

  Next, Dr. Bennett clicked up Richie—and suddenly he was in your face, filling the camera.

  “What are YOU looking at?”

  Dr. Bennett’s head jerked back. I glanced around. Mrs. Capelli looked paralyzed, and everyone was staring at the screen.

  Richie’s face was darkly angry. That was our idea, his and mine: to show you what it’s like.

  “Hey. You.” He points with his chin. “Why are you looking at me?”

  “I wasn’t,” my voice says.

  His eyebrows clench and his head tilts. He speaks softly, as if he’s puzzled: “Are you calling me”—the eyebrows lift—“a liar?”

  “No! I didn’t mean to.”

  “Oh, please,” he simpers in his baby voice. “I didn’t mean to.” He looks you up and down. He smirks, and doesn’t say anything. Finally he leans even closer, and whispers, “You know what I’m going to do to you?”

  He nods, with the slightest smile.

  “You don’t know, do you? And you don’t know when … do you? Might be in the bathroom. Might be after school. Might be almost anyplace where no one’s watching.”

  He raises those eyebrows again, like now you and he have a secret. “I might be … anywhere.”

  He slowly smiles. But his eyes stay hard.

  “See ya,” he says, and the screen goes blank.

  The grownups were totally silent. For a long time, no one said anything. Finally, Dr. Bennett almost whispered, “That was powerful.”

  “A remarkable actor,” said the lady judge.

  “I don’t think he was acting,” said the mountain man.

  “Perhaps not,” Dr. Bennett murmured.

  Another pause.

  “Tell me,” the school board chairman finally said, turning to us. “How did this project get started?”

  We three looked at each other.

  “We were each getting picked on—for different reasons,” Elliot said. “So we got together.”

  “We wanted to figure out why stuff like that happened,” I said.

  “No,” Elliot said. “We wanted it to stop.”

  “Well, yeah. To figure out how we could stop it. But the things we tried at first didn’t work.”

  “To say the least,” Elliot said. “But then Catalina wrote something.”

  Everyone looked at her. She blushed.

  “I just wrote about who I am and where I came from,” she said. “Some people were saying things that weren’t true. And then Mr. Dallas showed us how we could send what I’d written to everyone in school. On the network.”

  “On the network?” the mountain man said.

  Dr. Bennett nodded. “The school has a LAN,” he said. “Go on.”

  Catalina shrugged. She looked at Elliot.

  “Then I wrote something,” Elliot said. “Then other kids started writing stuff—things that happened to them. They were sending them to us, on the network. So we started The Revealer.”

  “That’s what we called it,” I said. “Every time we received a few stories, we would publish them for everyone—all the kids—on the network.”

  “Amazing,” Dr. Bennett said. “Don’t you think?” he said, turning around.

  The mountain man and the lab lady nodded. Mrs. Capelli looked like if she moved she might crack.

  “And clearly, what you did made a difference,” Dr. Bennett said. “Your survey demonstrates that. Do you think it was just because you made these things public?”

  We looked at each other. Nobody said anything at first.

  “We’re … pretty sure the school atmosphere was affected,” I said. “I mean, not only did the research say so, but it seemed that way. It
just didn’t seem like it was okay to do the things that were okay before. Not as okay, anyway.”

  I knew that was a feeble explanation. But Dr. Bennett said, “Absolutely. Because you showed people how it really is.”

  “We just let people tell their stories,” Catalina said. “As soon as they could, they seemed to want to.”

  “It just happened,” Elliot said. “Then when we weren’t allowed to use the network anymore …”

  “You weren’t what?”

  Elliot stopped. Dr. Bennett looked at each of us.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” Elliot said. “Ah …”

  “Student access to the network was restricted,” I said. “We’re not allowed to use it to communicate anymore. None of the kids are.”

  Dr. Bennett turned around. “Why not?” he said to the principal.

  “A … disciplinary measure,” she said.

  Dr. Bennett’s bright eyes flicked at us, then he turned back to her. “No doubt you had to do it,” he said in an understanding voice.

  “Why, yes,” Mrs. Capelli said. “There was some very irresponsible use of the network. There’s no need to name names.” She glanced at us, and smiled strangely.

  “You’ve got a tough job to do,” Dr. Bennett said to the principal in a reassuring way. “And it’s not surprising that there were some problems—I mean, considering how new the network was. Still, I think you and your staff just deserve tremendous credit for opening the network to young people, and for cultivating this kind of creativity on it.”

  Mrs. Capelli swallowed.

  “I really mean that,” he said.

  “Why … thank you.”

  “And I’m sure you’re also teaching a valuable lesson with this suspension of privileges.”

  “I believe so. Yes.”

  “I assume it’s only a suspension, of course.”

  “Why … yes. Of course.”

  He nodded, thoughtfully. “Did you say how long that’s for?”

  Mrs. Capelli paused.

  “For two weeks,” she said.

  Dr. Bennett nodded again, his chin in his hand. He glanced back at the screen. “Two weeks of silence, to appreciate … communication. Why, Mrs. Capelli. How very appropriate.”

  The principal actually blushed.

  Dr. Bennett turned back to us. “So those stories you got,” he said. “They grew into this?”

  “Yeah!” I said. “I mean, yes. With a lot of help.”

  “I see that,” Dr. Bennett said. “Absolutely a remarkable piece of work. Well,” he said, pushing his chair back and standing up. “I suppose we’d better pay some attention to the other exhibits, eh, fellow judges?”

  But before he left, he shook each of our hands again. And I swear—Elliot and Catalina say they never saw this—but I swear he winked.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Thank you.”

  When the judges left, Mrs. Capelli stayed. She looked at each of us. Then she sighed.

  “I admit, I had my trepidations about this project,” she said. “But the judges are very impressed—and … well, I have to say, I can see why.”

  “Did you mean it about the network?” Elliot said.

  “Of course I meant it. You’re the ones who lost the students’ access. I suppose it’s only fitting that you should be the ones to win it back.”

  She started to go after the judges. Ms. Hogeboom and Mr. Dallas were standing there. Mrs. Capelli stopped.

  “Claire, Jerry,” she said, “I might thank you for bathing me in your reflected glory.”

  “Not us,” Ms. Hogeboom insisted. “Thank them.”

  The principal looked back at us. She … nodded. Then she took off. We watched her hurry to catch up with the judges.

  “Congratulations,” Mr. Dallas said over his shoulder, as he went, too. “I think you won.”

  THE WHOLE STORY

  “Sometimes I cut through here,” I told Elliot, pointing up the driveway by the police department.

  “Yeah? Okay,” Elliot said, and we started up it.

  It’s funny how places that were once so deep and awful in your life can seem regular if you go there again. This was just an old driveway, full of bumps and cracks.

  “You’d think the town would fix something like this,” Elliot said.

  “Nobody much uses it,” I said. I looked across the parking lot toward Convenience Farms, where the dark shape was loitering.

  “There he is.”

  “I see him. Is he always here?”

  “Not always. But a lot.”

  I knew Richie would want to know. He would never come to the fair, or be seen showing an interest. But he would want to know.

  “Hey,” I said, when we got there.

  “Hey.” He nodded at Elliot. “What’s goin’ on?”

  “Not enough!”

  “So, Richie,” I said. “We’re pretty sure we won.”

  “Yeah? It went good, huh.”

  “It went really good. The kids pretty much thronged us. Then when the judges came, they were totally impressed.”

  “There’s no way we won’t win,” Elliot said.

  “You should have seen it,” I said.

  He snorted. “Yeah, right.”

  “No, really. With the judges, it was your thing that really did it.”

  “Yeah?” For a half second, the usual set expression on Richie’s face opened up. Then it shut again.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “They were stunned, or something,” Elliot said. “One guy said you were an incredible actor.”

  “He said that?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “This was a judge? What were they, morons?”

  We stood there. “Didn’t seem like it,” Elliot said.

  Richie shrugged.

  “We got KidNet back,” Elliot said.

  Richie nodded, and looked at me. “Well,” he said. “What do you know.”

  I smiled.

  “So now you got something to do,” he said.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “That’s good. Keep you off the streets.”

  Elliot laughed. I grinned. Richie even sort of, almost, smiled. He lit a cigarette. Then he seemed to think of something. He stood up from the wall and handed me the cigarette.

  “Hold this,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Just hold it. Geez.” He opened the door and went into Convenience Farms.

  I just stood there. Elliot waved the smoke away. “Phew,” he said.

  Richie came back out. He had a bottle of root beer.

  I stood there.

  With his other hand he reached out, took back the cigarette. Then he held out the root beer.

  “Here,” he said. “I figure I owe you one.”

  I took it, but I said, “I pretty much thought we were even.

  He shrugged. “Then go away, all right? You want to wreck my reputation?” He shook his head. “Geez. Coupla whiz kids.”

  We had started up Union Street, Elliot and me, heading for my house. He was going to eat dinner with us, then his mom and dad and sisters were going to meet us at the Creative Science Fair. Catalina’s dad was coming, too.

  I took a big swig, and handed the root beer to Elliot. We passed it back and forth. When we were done I put the cap back on tight and tossed the bottle to Elliot.

  He caught it and threw it back fast. Then we were throwing the plastic bottle around, laughing, tipping it up in the air, kicking it like a hackysack, throwing it off the walls of stores and catching it. We were laughing and whooping at good catches, jumping around like a couple of little kids just let out of school.

  Finally we’d laughed so hard we were both bent over, hands on our knees, trying to breathe.

  “What was that about, anyway?” Elliot said, nodding to the bottle in my hand. “I mean with him.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Huh.” He glanced backward, toward Convenience Farms. “Y
ou think he’ll live happily ever after?”

  “Who, Richie?”

  “Yeah.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “No. Probably not.”

  I thought about it. “Maybe some kids are mean by nature—but I don’t think he is,” I said. “It’s more like his life is just like that.” Then I thought I might have said too much.

  But Elliot was thinking. “Maybe he’ll be a movie star someday,” he said. “A tough guy.”

  “Yeah! Or maybe in jail. A tough guy.”

  “Yeah.”

  Suddenly, as we walked along, Elliot laughed.

  “I don’t see him writing down his story any time soon,” he said.

  “Oh, no.”

  “You never wrote yours, either.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Everyone else told theirs,” he said, “but you never did. I mean, what happened with him and everything.”

  “No.”

  “Why not? ’Cause it’s a long story?”

  “No. I kind of made a promise. To him.”

  “Huh,” he said. “Well, why don’t you write it down now? I mean, you could show it to him. It might be okay with him now. After all this.”

  “Hmm. I don’t know.”

  “You could! You could tell the whole story. I’ve still got that first thing you wrote. Remember? That’s what started this whole deal.”

  “I remember.”

  “I’ll send it back to you. Then you could write it all down—everything.” He grinned at me. “It’d keep you off the streets.”

  I laughed. I looked at the root-beer bottle that was still in my hand. It was a little sticky.

  “Maybe I’ll do it,” I said.

  And so I did. Richie said it was okay, too. I was surprised, but he did.

  And that’s the whole story.

  Also by Doug Wilhelm

  Raising the Shades

  Falling