He strides to the front of the vehicle. He takes a few swings at the headlights, plastic cracking and lightbulbs smashing. Plastic and glass litter the driveway. He overhead chops the hood, creating several large dents. He climbs up on the hood, the alarm still screaming. He winds up and swings at the windshield. Some glass shatters, and a divot of broken glass appears, but the windshield is still intact. He takes another swing, again resulting in another hole, but the windshield still stands. He swings faster now, over and over and over again. Finally the holes coalesce into a gaping hole. Shards of glass litter the black leather interior.
“Stop it!”
Matt jolts from his trance, the car alarm finally piercing his eardrums. He turns upward toward the voice, toward the bedroom window over the garage. Emily stands in her plaid pajama top, her arms crossed, her blond hair disheveled, and a frown on her face. He throws the bat in the front seat of the Benz. He runs and jumps off the side of the hood into the grass. He lands next to the plastic trash bag and the camera case. He picks them up and hustles to the woods, his adrenaline surging and his heart beating a mile a minute.
He jumps over the brambles, some scratching his jeans. Everything’s a blur. He sprints through the woods, deftly avoiding low branches, tree roots, rocks, and stumps. The car alarm shrieks in the background. Sirens compete with the alarm. When he reaches Grace’s backyard, he doubles over; his breathing’s heavy. He no longer hears the alarm or the police sirens. At the front stoop, he unlaces his boots and slides them off his feet, carrying them inside. He slips back into his room, hiding the trash bag under his bed. He removes his sweatshirt and jeans, and creeps under his comforter. Ryan still snores. Matt lays awake, his adrenaline still pumping.
[ 11 ]
The Hunt
Matt leans forward in his seat, his elbow on his desk, and his head propped up against his palm. Mr. Dalton drones on about the Allies and the Axis, the good and the bad, how “we” saved the world, how “we” would be speaking German right now if not for the brave men who fought in World War II. Matt blinks. He blinks again, this time holding his eyes shut for just a second. He opens to Mr. Dalton waving and flexing to make a point. The girls in the front row are impressed. Matt blinks, holding his eyes shut for ten seconds. He opens to more of Mr. Dalton’s theatrics. He closes his eyes again. Everything melts away.
“Bam!” Matt’s textbook is dropped on his desk.
Matt pops up from his slumber, his eyes blurry. He looks up to see the bearded warrior, Mr. Dalton, standing in front of him. His face is visibly red through his facial hair. His eyes are narrowed, and his arms are crossed, further accentuating his ripped biceps.
“Is my class boring you?” Mr. Dalton says.
Matt rubs his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just that …”
“It’s just what?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry.”
“Spit it out, Mr. Moyer.”
“It’s really not you. I just don’t find state-sanctioned propaganda very interesting, apart from why everybody actually believes it.”
The teacher’s face reddens further. He shakes his head with a smirk on his face. “I’m talking about the single most important war in history, where we saved the world from disaster. That’s propaganda? You wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for our brave military who fought and died, so little punks like you can sit here and spout off about things you know nothing about.”
“Yes, that’s propaganda,” Matt says. “The winners get to write the history books and force their citizens to learn this crap.”
“Are you some kinda Nazi-sympathizer?” Mr. Dalton chuckles and walks back to the front of the class. “We did have Americans who left the United States to fight for Germany. Can you imagine that, class? Someone leaving the land of the free and the home of the brave to fight for the Nazis? The same Nazis who killed millions of Jews.”
“I do sympathize with the German people of that time,” Matt says. “They were propagandized and brainwashed, like we are. If we suffered through the same reparations they did, and then had a charismatic leader like Hitler rise to power, we’d probably commit similar atrocities.”
Mr. Dalton stares at Matt, then smiles at the class, stroking his beard. “So whaddaya think, class? Do you think, under the right circumstances, we could kill millions in concentration camps?”
A brown-haired girl in braces raises her hand from the front row. “That’s why we learn history, so we don’t repeat the mistakes of the past,” she says.
“That’s a great point, Ashley,” Mr. Dalton says. “Anyone else?”
A ruddy-complexioned blonde raises her hand. Mr. Dalton points at her.
“This country was founded on freedom,” the blonde says. “People came here to get away from the bad places, because we have so much freedom. I don’t think we could ever be like that.”
“Stanley Milgram would disagree with you,” Matt says. “He proved that most Americans will kill someone, simply because someone in authority tells them to do so.”
“You need to raise your hand, Mr. Moyer,” Dalton says. “My grandfather was an engineer in World War II. He repaired bridges so our infantry could free Europe. He was there. He saw the concentration camps. He saw the malnourished children. He lived the real history. Matt doesn’t know the intimate details of the war that my grandfather told me, when I was just a kid.” A thin boy appears at the classroom door’s window. Mr. Dalton makes eye contact and waves him in. “There’s a real human side to the story. It’s not simply facts and figures from a book. I’m not saying our government’s perfect, but we have done some spectacular things throughout history.” The boy hands Mr. Dalton a note. “It must be my lucky day. Mr. Moyer, you’re being called to the main office. Take your stuff with you.”
Matt’s stomach churns. His eyes open wide; his mouth turns down. He thought he was in the clear after his first few classes came and went without incident.
Mr. Dalton grins. “Don’t worry. We don’t have gas chambers here.”
Matt walks slowly with his frail escort, like a dead man walking. He glances at the exits next to the office, then through the office windows. The waiting area is clustered with the school’s malcontents. His stomach settles, and his face brightens.
The office waiting area looks like a who’s who of disaffected youths. The gothic kids are represented, with Madison at the center; the stoners; the dirt balls; the only male Latino; and the heavy metal kids. Most adults can’t tell the difference between the gothic kids and the heavy metal kids. To adults, they are simply the devil worshippers. Matt finds an empty space in the corner. Madison paces over.
“What the fuck?” she whispers.
“What do you mean?” he replies.
“What do you mean, what do I mean? Someone destroyed Principal Hansen’s car. Please tell me it’s just a coincidence that this happened on the same night you agreed to help.”
“You shouldn’t be concerned. You didn’t do anything.”
Madison crosses her arms and glares at Matt. “Do you think it’s gonna be easier to do what we planned or harder now?”
“Relax. If she knew anything, she wouldn’t have all these people here.”
“Madison Elliot,” Officer Mullen says.
Madison’s eyes widen. She frowns at Matt and stomps toward the officer, her lace-up Doc Martens reverberating through the floor. Matt surveys the room, deciding how and why each person might be a suspect.
“Matt Moyer,” Officer Mullen says. Her voice is husky and authoritative, the perfect contrast to her middle-aged, little orphan Annie appearance.
Matt passes Madison in the hallway. Her eyes are red. She looks away. Officer Mullen opens the door and follows Matt inside. Dr. Hansen sits behind her expansive cherry desk. Officer Blackman stands to the side, his hands behind his back, like a bouncer at a strip club ready to pounce on a patron who gets handsy with a dancer.
“Stop right there,” Officer Mullen says to Matt. “Show me your palms. Hold
your arms out.” Matt shows his palms and holds his arms out. She frisks him and reaches in the front pocket of his black hooded sweatshirt. “Take off your shoes.” Matt unlaces his boots and steps out of them. “Hand me the right shoe.” The officer looks it over. Dr. Hansen cranes her neck to catch a glimpse. “Now the left.” The officer grabs the boot from Matt. “I think we got somethin’ shiny.” She holds the boot over the desk for Dr. Hansen to see.
Dr. Hansen frowns. “It’s a rock,” she says.
Officer Mullen hands Matt his boots. He steps into them, leaving the laces undone. The redheaded officer takes her place alongside Dr. Hansen’s desk, opposite Blackman. They stand like toy soldiers.
“Sit,” Dr. Hansen says.
Matt sits and crosses his arms over his chest.
“Long night? You look awfully tired.” Her makeup is flawless; her blue pantsuit is pressed, and her blond hair is coiffed, but, under the caked foundation, puffiness resides under her eyes. “I know you have quite a bit to hide. When you cross your arms like that, your subconscious is trying to keep a secret, like you’re trying to keep the secret from literally spilling off your chest.”
Matt keeps his arms crossed.
“Is there something you would like to get off your chest, Matt?” she asks.
“No.”
“Are you sure? I’m going to give you this one chance to help yourself. We already know everything, but a confession dramatically reduces your punishment. Officer Blackman, can you please tell me again what you found at my home.”
“We found fingerprints, ma’am. The lab’s processing them now,” Blackman says.
“We have a source that identified you as the perpetrator,” Dr. Hansen says. “This is your last chance to help yourself. I hate to see you continue to make mistake after mistake. It really is sad. Your uncle would have been disappointed.”
Matt clenches his fists under his biceps. He unclenches, places his hands on the armrests, and leans back, blank-faced.
“So? What’s it going to be?” she says.
“I’d like to make the right decision, but I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Matt says.
Dr. Hansen smiles and shakes her head. “You have no idea? Dents, smashed in windows, headlights, and a side-view mirror?”
Matt shakes his head.
“It really is sad to see you throw your life away. Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance for mercy. You’ll be back where you belong at least until you’re eighteen. Who knows, maybe long enough to do a stint in prison with the sodomites. What do you think, Officer Blackman? You used to work upstate. How do you think he’d do?”
“His smooth white ass would be used up in a week,” Blackman says.
“Do you normally discuss student’s butts with Officer Blackman?” Matt asks.
Dr. Hansen’s face reddens. “You just bought yourself a month of Saturday detentions. Get him out of my face.”
The two officers converge on Matt, pushing and prodding him out of the office.
“I can walk on my own,” Matt says.
Matt spends the next few classes pretending to pay attention. The bell rings for lunch. He strolls against traffic. He appears at Ms. Pierce’s open door. She sits, working on her computer with her lunch in front of her. He stands in the doorway and knocks. Ms. Pierce, still chewing, waves him in. She wears brown corduroys and a maroon sweater. Her shoulder-length blond hair is shiny and straight, except for the wavy ends.
“Take any seat you like,” Ms. Pierce says with her hand covering her mouth.
“Your lunch smells good,” he says, as he walks past.
She swallows. “I try to eat healthy. I go to the Whole Organics Grocery.”
“That’s good.” Matt purses his lips.
She smiles. “You say that like you have something to add.”
“No, I think it’s great that you eat healthy.”
“But?”
“I’m just not a big fan of the organic label.”
“Oh, yeah?” Ms. Pierce raises an eyebrow at Matt.
“I only know because my uncle and I researched it for our farm. The organic farms are still done in a monoculture, and they still spray—”
“Monoculture?”
“Yeah, where they grow the same things in rows, making it like grocery-store aisles for pests.”
“How should they be grown?”
“Like in nature, in plant communities. Certain plants grow better with other plants, than by themselves. For example, carrots, tomatoes, basil, garlic, and onions grow really well together. In gardening, usually the stuff that tastes good together, grows good together.”
“The plants are cooperating instead of competing.”
“Exactly.”
“I wish people could be like that. I’m sorry. I cut you off. You were talking about how they spray.”
“I was just gonna say, they use approved sprays, which are usually botanical pesticides, so they’re better, but not as much as people probably think, especially for how much more money it is.”
“It is expensive. I guess that’s why they call it ‘whole paycheck.’ Plus I have to drive forty-five minutes to get to one.”
“You could grow everything you’re eating. It’s really easy, and the quality of the food would be better than anything you could buy at Whole Organics.”
“For you maybe, but I’m not much of an outdoor girl. I’d love to have a garden at my little cottage, but I can barely keep the grass cut, much less tend a garden.”
Matt places his duffel bag on the desk near the window a few seats away from Ms. Pierce. He pulls out a few Ziploc bags filled with nuts, cheese, apples, and carrots.
“That’s probably the healthiest student lunch I’ve ever seen,” she says.
“It’s the best I could do. Luckily nobody where I live eats the good stuff.” Matt grabs Limits to Growth from his bag. “Thank you for lending me this. I thought it was fascinating.” Matt places the book in the return bin.
Her eyes widen. “You read it in one day?”
He nods.
Matt sits down at the desk, facing away from Ms. Pierce, who’s immersed in her computer screen. He stares out the window, watching a robin steal straw from a freshly seeded area. The bird takes the building materials piece by piece to a nearby tree.
After lunch Matt fakes his way through the rest of his classes, daydreaming about last summer. I always worried about losing Uncle, losing Emily, losing the farm. I thought things people worry about rarely ever happen. I guess the silver lining is that I have nothing left to worry about.
After school Matt strides down the empty hallway, toward the media room. His duffel bag is slung over his shoulder. He hears the newspaper crew whispering. He shuts the door behind him. Madison, Jared, and Tariq sit at the round table, mouths open, staring at Matt. He opens his duffel bag and tosses the plastic bag filled with office trash onto the center of the table.
“I’m out. Do what you want with this,” Matt says.
“What the hell?” Madison says.
Tariq and Jared pull out pieces of paper from the plastic bag. “Holy shit, this is her mail,” Tariq says.
“Jesus fucking Christ, are you insane?” Madison says. “They searched our lockers today.”
“Relax,” Matt says. “I asked Ms. Pierce to let me keep my duffel bag in her closet this morning.”
“We can’t do this, if you’re gonna be so reckless.”
“That’s why I’m out.”
“Hold on a minute,” Tariq says. “Matt put himself in danger, not us. And he brought us some serious intel. Come on, Matt. You must be dying to see what’s in this. Unless you looked already?”
“I haven’t. I was too tired last night.”
Jared undoes the knot, widening the opening on the bag. “I gotta see this shit,” he says.
“Sit, Matt. You know you want to,” Tariq says. He smiles, exposing straight white teeth under his goatee.
Matt sits opposite Madison.
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She glares. “What did Hansen say to you this morning?”
“She said I should confess, that they had a witness,” Matt says.
“Shit, do they?”
Matt shrugs. “I don’t care if they do.”
Madison shakes her head. “You’re fucking crazy.”
“Chill, Madison. Player knocked out a cop. You think he wasn’t gonna fuck some shit up?” Jared says, with a toothy grin.
“Fine, whatever. All three of you are stupid,” Madison says. “We need to be more careful. She’s gonna be more guarded now.”
“Fine, we’ll be more careful,” Jared says.
“I agree. Matt may have ruined the sneak attack. But, damn, that took some balls,” Tariq says, laughing.
The trio looks at Matt.
“Fine. I’ll be more careful,” Matt says.
The news team sorts the papers, reading and separating the important from the unimportant.
“Damn, this bitch spends some money,” Jared says. “Between Banana Republic, The Limited, and J.Crew, she spent almost two grand last month.”
“All that for nothing,” Madison says, shaking her head. “A bunch of credit card bills and junk mail.”
“Hold on a second,” Tariq says, his dark eyes moving back and forth. “I think I got something. She’s got this place, The Coffee Ground, all over her bills. She must go there almost every day.”
“So what? The bitch drinks coffee,” Madison says.
“Have you ever been there?” Tariq asks.
“No.”
“I have, and it’s pretty far from here, about thirty minutes. My cousin lives near there.”
“Why would she drive thirty minutes for coffee?” Jared asks.
“Exactly,” Madison and Tariq say in unison.
Against the Grain Page 13