Against the Grain

by Phil M. Williams

  “Thanks, Maddy,” Ryan says, before entering his classroom and finding his seat toward the back.

  The card-trading boys head for the classroom. A spiky-haired boy, with an Eagles number five jersey, only a few inches shorter than Matt but head to head with Madison, saunters behind the other card-traders. Madison steps in front of the boy, just before he enters. The bell rings. Madison grabs his upper arms, her nails digging in. She leans forward and whispers in his ear. She pulls back and smiles wide, showing her white teeth.

  The boy shrinks and sidesteps her into class. He turns back to look at the doorway.

  Madison’s still smiling, with black lips and powdery white cheeks. She puts her hand up and slowly bends her fingers up and down, giving the kid a case of coulrophobia.

  Matt and Madison trudge down the concrete sidewalk. Students pass them on the grassy median strip, frantic, carrying mountains of books on their back. Just beyond their development, they see the sprawling two-story campus, with a rotunda and a football stadium.

  “What did you say to that kid?” Matt asks.

  “I told him how easy it is to poison a black lab, how stupid they are, how they’ll eat anything.”

  “I’m assuming that kid is the reason Ryan didn’t wanna go to school?”

  Madison frowns. “You’re quite the detective. Did you also notice that I like to wear black?”

  Matt looks down.

  “Don’t be a baby. I’m just messing with you. That little fucker was making Ryan do the Truffle Shuffle at recess.”

  Matt stares at Madison, blank-faced.

  “You know, like in The Goonies?”

  “What’s a goonie?”

  “Are you serious? You never saw The Goonies?”

  “No TV.”

  “Even my fucked-up mom had a VHS and a television. I stole that movie from Erol’s. I wore that tape out. The Truffle Shuffle is from the movie, where this little fat kid, Chunk, lifts up his shirt and jiggles his fat.”

  Matt winces.

  “Yeah, I know. Fucked up, huh?”

  “What happened to his parents?”

  “Ryan’s a lifer, probably the only white lifer in America. I overheard Grace one time say his mom was a junkie, gave him up for adoption when he was born. As a baby, he looked like he had Down’s or some shit, so nobody wanted him. He was always behind. You know, shitting his pants until he was five. People want that perfect child. They don’t want the fat kid who looks retarded and shits his pants. Now he’s just too old, like the rest of us.”

  Matt and Madison cross the street and step onto the campus of Jefferson High School. Muscle cars and pickup trucks spit head-crunching bass from their subwoofers. He recognizes Tyler and Colton in the lifted Jeep, heads bobbing to gangster rap. Girls in tight short skirts with chunky heels and dyed hair travel in packs. Athletic white boys with baggy jeans, white baseball caps pulled down low, flannel shirts, and worn construction boots dominate the male, socially enforced dress code.

  Madison stops at the main entrance.

  “Welcome to the jungle. This is where we part ways.” Madison smiles and motions to the main entrance. “The main office is just inside.”

  +++

  Matt walks from the main office into the cavernous linoleum-floored hallway. It’s quiet, only a few kids scurrying to class. He looks down at his schedule. “First Period, Journalism, Mrs. Campbell, A132.”

  He strolls down the corridor glancing at the room numbers. He stops when he reaches the door labeled A132. He twists the handle, but it’s locked. A woman lectures inside. He knocks on the door. He waits for a moment, then knocks harder. The door jerks open. A curvaceous dark-haired woman with creamy white skin, round blue eyes, and a scowl stands on the threshold. He recognizes her from church. Chief Campbell’s wife.

  “What do you think you’re doing, young man?” Mrs. Campbell asks.

  Matt hands her his schedule.

  She waves it off, as if it were an unpleasant odor. “This isn’t middle school. That’s your responsibility, and it’s your responsibility to be on time. You can stand here, until I’m done.” She slams the door.

  Matt rubs his temples. He leans against a nearby locker, listening through the door.

  “This is journalism, people. You need facts and sources, not opinions. I don’t care what you think. I want the news. That is your job. Remember, your freedom project oral reports are due four weeks from today, the day after Memorial Day. I know that sounds like a lot of time, but every year someone fails this class, because they wait too long to find an interviewee. This project is about freedom. You need to find someone who serves and protects our freedom and our way of life. Most students find a soldier or a police officer to interview about their job, their life, and why we should be grateful for their service. I’ve had quite a few students interview an influential teacher as well. If you have trouble finding someone to interview, let me know, and I can put you in touch with a police officer.”

  The door opens, and Mrs. Campbell motions for Matt to enter. The classroom is drab, with only newspaper clippings on the walls. The desks are arranged in neat angular rows, facing the front, where a podium stands for Mrs. Campbell to pontificate. Matt follows her to the front. His face brightens when he sees Madison seated in the back, giving him a middle finger and a smile.

  Mrs. Campbell looks at Matt’s schedule, then hands it back to him. “Class, this is Matt Moyer. He’ll be with us for the rest of the year.” She turns to Matt, handing him a sheet of paper. “You’ll be responsible for the final project. Just follow the instructions on the sheet. You’re not going to come in here and mess around, just because the year’s almost over. Now find a seat.”

  They spend the rest of class dissecting interview techniques from old 60 Minutes clips.

  The bell rings; the kids file out. Madison waits at the door, next to a squat guy with black hair, brown skin, and a goatee, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans.

  “Hey,” Madison says. She motions toward the guy. “I want you to meet my friend Tariq. Tariq, this is my new foster brother, Matt.”

  “Nice to meet you, Matt,” Tariq says, as he extends his hand.

  “Likewise,” Matt says.

  “We have the school paper at three. You should join us,” Madison says. “I’m sure we could get you working on a story, if you want one.”

  “I’m supposed to get a job today … Hardee’s.”

  “Fuck that. What are they gonna do if you just don’t show up?” Madison says.

  “Fast food’s the worst,” Tariq says. “I used to work at Wendy’s, and cleaning the grill smelled like puke. It was nasty. Never again.”

  “Thanks, guys. I’ll think about it,” Matt says. “I should get going. I have American History with Mr. Dalton in C building.”

  “Better hurry up, mind that bell, be a good little rule follower,” Madison says with a smirk.

  Matt enters C224, as soon as the bell rings. Pictures of heads of old men form a ring around the room like decorative wallpaper. A young athletically built man, with a short-trimmed beard, stands at the podium in front. He wears black pants with a red shirt and a black tie, not unlike what you might picture the devil wearing if he were a teacher. The front row is filled with teenage girls, sitting, enchanted with the beast. Matt walks up to the man and hands him his schedule.

  “Ah, fresh meat,” Mr. Dalton says. The front row giggles in approval. “Think fast.” The teacher tosses Matt a five-pound textbook, which he drops.

  Matt bends over and picks up the book.

  “Oh, come on, butterfingers Moyer. Ya gotta catch that.” The front row continues to giggle.

  Matt takes his seat.

  “Yins knew it was coming, so here it is—the pretest for your final,” Mr. Dalton says. “This won’t count toward your grade, but do your best, because it’ll help you prepare for the final. Put away your books, and only have out your writing utensil. The questions are open-ended.”

  The class groans.


  “But do not write me a book. You won’t get more points just because you write more.” Mr. Dalton passes out the test papers. He turns to Matt. “You should’ve been studying this at your old school, so I want you to take this awhile. I know you just got here, but you’re gonna have to pass the final to pass my class, so this is good practice.”

  Matt opens the test booklet.

  1. Why did the United States enter World War I? The House of Morgan, acting as partners to the Rothschilds, made a fortune selling war bonds for England and France, as well as dealing in munitions, submarines, blankets, shoes, and thousands of other items needed for war. Unfortunately investors and the House of Morgan and the Rothschilds stood to lose a fortune if England and France lost the war. And they would have lost if the United States had stayed neutral. The bonds they had purchased would default, and the gravy train of business would halt.

  Colonel Edward House was the top advisor to Woodrow Wilson. Colonel House was linked to the House of Morgan and the Rothschilds. Ten months after Wilson was elected, because he kept the United States out of WWI, Colonel House negotiated a backdoor agreement with England and France to intervene in the war.

  The only problem was they had to sell the American people on the idea. They started with the top newspapers, making sure they were prowar. This was easy because the House of Morgan already controlled the top newspapers.

  Then they loaded the Lusitania with munitions. The German Embassy made a formal complaint with the US government, because it was a violation of neutrality agreements. The Germans tried to take out ads in newspapers to warn Americans not to get on the boat, but all but one of the ads were stopped. Winston Churchill set the stage where the Lusitania was supposed to meet a British destroyer off the coast of Ireland where U-boats had been sinking vessels. The boat was ordered to cut back on coal use, thereby slowing down the craft. The destroyer was also called away, so the Lusitania was a slow-moving, unprotected sitting duck in U-boat waters. The Germans sunk the boat, as they said they would. This angered enough Americans, fanned by propaganda, to accept and embrace the entry of the United States into WWI.

  I’m sorry for the long-winded answer. It’s a complicated question.

  2. What was the nature of the warfare in World War I? I can only imagine the hell that was trench warfare. I couldn’t know the true nature, because I wasn’t there. I can say that, like all government wars, it was deadly. There were seven million civilian deaths and ten million military deaths. Civilian deaths are typically underreported, so I don’t trust that figure, and it doesn’t include the deaths of civilians who lost their homes and subsequently froze or starved or died from disease.

  3. What did Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal accomplish? It prolonged the Great Depression and increased state-sanctioned theft through taxation and government programs.

  4. What was Social Security designed to accomplish? It was and is a pyramid scheme designed to take far more in contributions than would ever be paid out in benefits, thus allowing the US government to steal more from their citizens, yet call it a benefit.

  5. What event or events brought the United States into World War II? The seeds of WWII were sowed with the crippling economic sanctions against Germany at the end of WWI. Again the United States was neutral to its citizens but clearly not neutral to other nations. Refusing to send oil to Japan, while at the same time sending oil to Britain, was a clear message. This poking of Japan and the withheld intelligence about the incoming attack on Pearl Harbor ended in disaster, but that was exactly what the US government wanted. They now had the public support they needed to enter the war. Without the power to tax by governments worldwide—and the power to hide the true cost of war by creating money through central banks, thereby obscuring the cost through inflation—none of the major wars throughout history would have ever been fought.

  6. What was the duty of the Navajo Code Talkers? They transmitted encrypted messages to the US military.

  7. During WWII, Japanese Americans on the West Coast were considered security risks. What happened to them? They were illegally placed in internment camps without due process.

  8. What was the purpose of the Manhattan Project? To develop and build nuclear weapons to further the power and control of the state.

  The bell rings; the students exit. Matt scribbles in his test booklet.

  “All right, that’s enough,” Mr. Dalton says to Matt.

  Matt closes his booklet. “Sorry, I was enjoying the questions, very thought provoking. I would’ve liked more time to write.”

  Mr. Dalton’s face reddens. “Do you think that’s funny?”

  “The questions made me think, but I didn’t find them comical.” Matt stares, blank-faced.

  “That’s how it’s gonna be, huh? Your first day and you gotta be a smart-ass. There’s no point, you know. None of your classmates are here to see how cool you are.”

  “Okay?”

  Mr. Dalton erupts like a volcano. “Get out of my face! Go on. Get out of my classroom, before I write you up for insubordination.”

  Matt heads to the lunchroom for his designated lunch period. Kids are fast-walking around him like soccer moms exercising away their baby fat. The hall is empty by the time he strolls to the lunchroom. He enters the propped-open double doors, and his eardrums are inundated with a cacophony of voices: quiet and loud, deep and high, and soft and shrill. Students bustle about holding trays, standing in line, sitting and milling around in groups of like appearance. Long rectangular steel-and-plastic-laminate tables are arranged like burial plots at a cemetery.

  He sees a line winding out of an open doorway, zigzagging around a few ropes like a popular carnival ride. The line moves slower than molasses in January. After fifteen minutes he crosses the open doorway. The smell of fried chicken, green beans, and BO permeates the air. A neglected cart stands with heaps of iceberg lettuce, cherry tomatoes, shredded carrots, diced bell peppers, and creamy dressings. Styrofoam bowls are stacked on the side. He grabs a bowl and fills it to the brim with everything except the dressing. He grabs a tray and places it on the counter, pushing it as the line trudges along. The wrinkled hair-netted lunch lady slops mashed potatoes, green beans, fried chicken, and a red Jell-O–like substance onto a sectioned Styrofoam tray and hands it to Matt. He’s one customer away from the mythical cash register, when a corn-fed white boy with jeans and cowboy boots steps in front, brandishing a Hostess apple pie.

  “No cutting,” the cashier says.

  “He doesn’t care,” the boy says. He turns to Matt, glaring. “Do you?”

  “I guess not,” Matt says.

  Matt grabs a voucher card from his pocket and hands it to the cashier. She clips the card with a hole puncher and hands it back to him.

  “Honey, you do know that the salad bar isn’t part of the free and reduced lunch?” the cashier says.

  Matt shakes his head.

  “It’s two-fifty.”

  Matt takes it off his tray.

  “I’m sorry, honey. You should hurry up and eat. Lunch is almost over.”

  Matt smiles with his mouth shut. He slogs to the lunchroom. Kids dump Styrofoam trays, soda cans, plastic bottles, and salty snack wrappers into the fifty-gallon rubber trash cans strategically placed around the room. Students line up at the exits, mock shoving each other and jockeying for position, like the start of the Boston Marathon. He finds a lonely seat in the corner, away from the fray. His stomach grumbles. The bell rings, and, within seconds, the cafeteria is empty. Matt sits casually eating his lunch.

  “What do you think you’re doing, young man?”

  Matt looks up from his food to see a stocky middle-aged woman sporting a cane, with salty, short curly hair and thick ankles.

  “Finishing my lunch,” he says.

  “I see that, smart aleck. You need to get to class. You already had your lunchtime,” she says.

  Matt puts down his fried chicken breast, wipes his fingers with his napkin, and glares at the lunchroom mon
itor. “Does it look like I’ve finished my food?”

  “My next step is to call one of the School Resource Officers to deal with you.”

  Matt picks up his chicken and takes a bite.

  “Have it your way.” She grabs the walkie-talkie from her belt. “I have an unruly student who won’t leave the cafeteria. Please send an SRO for assistance.”

  Matt inhales his lunch.

  Two police officers—one female, one male, both serious—march into the lunchroom. The male has Popeye-like forearms, a dark crew cut, a weathered face, a burly build, tight blue pants stretched across his expansive ass and a name tag that reads Blackman. The female has curly red hair, thick pasty arms, and hefty thighs and hips. Her skin is dotted with freckles. She looks like she could be little orphan Annie, grown up and blown up. Her name tag, Mullen, says otherwise.

  “We can do this the hard way or the easy way,” Officer Blackman says. Officer Mullen taps the Taser attached to her belt.

  “I prefer the easy way,” Matt says. He picks up his tray.

  “Leave it,” Officer Blackman says.

  The officers escort Matt to the main office. Blackman guards Matt, while Mullen marches to the corner office. After a moment she returns.

  “I can take him back now,” she says.

  She leads Matt to the corner office. The placard on the door reads Principal, Dr. Jennifer Hansen. Officer Mullen knocks once, opens the door, and escorts Matt inside.

  “Thank you, Sally. I can handle it from here,” Dr. Hansen says.

  The officer nods and shuts the door behind her.

  Dr. Hansen stands behind her desk, motioning to the seats on the other side. Her shoulder-length hair is dirty blond with light highlights, formed into a perfect hair-sprayed helmet. She looks trim in her brown pencil skirt with patterned tights, a white button-down blouse, and a red scarf.