“The US casualties were pretty bad. Almost 4,000 dead or wounded. 1,200 of those casualties were cold-weather injuries. They had trouble getting supplies to the soldiers with the terrible Alaskan weather. He said that the Japanese eventually came out of their positions on a banzai charge. It was actually one of the biggest banzai charges in the Pacific theater. He was a supply clerk in the rear, but he saw close-up fighting, because some of the charge got past the front lines. He was wounded and got sent home. He said it was a ‘million-dollar wound.’ He also said that, to this day, he hates the cold because of the brutal conditions in Alaska during World War II.”
“That was excellent,” Mrs. Campbell says. “Class we should all take a moment to think about what these men sacrificed for us. They were freezing, hungry, injured, and dying at the hands of a determined enemy, one who would not surrender. I hope this winter, when you’re sitting safe and sound in your warm home, you think about Corporal Nance. Thank you, Madison. Who would like to go next?” Nobody raises their hand. “Matt, you’re next. Come on up.”
Matt slides from his seat and slogs to the podium, holding a single handwritten page.
“I interviewed Herb Dickey, our head custodian,” Matt says.
Mrs. Campbell glares at Matt. “Mr. Dickey is a fine man, but the assignment was to find someone who has or is serving our country and protecting our freedoms. Is Mr. Dickey a veteran?”
“No, but he did work in a Schuylkill County coal mine for twenty years.”
“You’ll have to find someone else to interview. This is clearly outside of the instructions for this project.”
“Please explain your criteria for what we should consider serving our country or protecting our freedom?”
“Somebody who risks their life for our safety, like a soldier, a police officer, or even a firefighter. Now sit down.”
“Being a coal miner is far more dangerous than being a cop or a soldier. In fact soldiers and police officers don’t even crack the top ten for the most dangerous jobs in America.”
Mrs. Campbell shakes her head; her eyes narrow. “I don’t know where you’re getting that information, but it’s incorrect. Now sit down!”
Matt stands still.
“I said sit down, or I’ll call the SRO.”
“Stop,” Madison says to Matt.
“Sit down,” Tariq says.
Matt doesn’t move from the podium. Mrs. Campbell stalks to the phone on the wall. She takes the phone off the hook and looks at Matt, as if to say, “Last chance.” He stares back, blank-faced.
“This is Mrs. Campbell. I have a belligerent student. Can you please send an SRO?” she says into the phone.
“What about teachers? You allow teachers, and they certainly don’t risk their lives.” Matt’s tone is manic.
“Teaching is a calling. We suffer low wages to teach children like you. Educating kids is certainly a sacrifice for this country.”
Matt’s classmates are a mixture of wide-eyed shock, suppressed grins, and glaring anger.
He pounds on the podium with both fists. “Teachers make twice the median income around here. You leave at three, have summers off, can never be fired, and you get a gold-plated pension with health benefits. I don’t see a lot of sacrifice. Mr. Dickey risked his life to bring us something we need. Most of the people in this room would die without electricity. And for the rest of us, life would be pretty harsh.”
“Are you finished?” Mrs. Campbell says with her arms crossed, the tip of her heel tapping the linoleum floor.
Officers Mullen and Blackman appear at the door. Mrs. Campbell turns to meet them. She points to Matt.
“Journalism without truth is propaganda!” Matt says and pushes over the podium, causing a loud crash.
Matt puts up his hands, facing the incoming officers. Officer Blackman turns him around and pushes him against the white board. Matt braces himself against the board, creating handprints in a sea of black marker.
“Put your hands behind your back,” Blackman says.
Matt puts his hands behind his back. Blackman slaps on handcuffs. Officers Mullen and Blackman escort Matt, his hands secure. They take him to the main office. Blackman pushes him into the waiting room.
“Sit,” Blackman says, forcing him into a chair.
Officer Mullen disappears into the corner office. After a moment she returns.
“She said we can take him back,” Mullen says.
Matt trudges to the corner office, his hands bound behind his back, with Blackman poking him along, like he’s walking the plank.
“Undo the cuffs, and leave us,” Dr. Hansen says.
Officer Blackman removes the cuffs and shuts the door. Matt stands rubbing his wrists.
“Sit down.”
Matt sits in front of Dr. Hansen, her white blouse cut low, a bit of lace showing. His mind drifts to her videotaped debauchery. Her blond bangs dangle over her wrinkled forehead, concealing the passage of time.
“You’ve been here five weeks, and, in that time, you’ve been in my office three times. You’re already a Saturday-detention veteran, and you have three Fs. I know you’re a troubled boy, but that doesn’t mean you get to break the rules with impunity. I just got off the phone with Mrs. Campbell. She said you pushed over her podium and were insubordinate. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Matt shrugs.
She narrows her eyes. “I have the power to expel you.”
“I don’t care what you do.”
She cackles. “Really? You don’t care about being a high school dropout with no chance of a good job or a good career. I can ruin your future just like that.” She snaps her fingers.
“That doesn’t scare me.”
She raises her eyebrows, her forehead erupting in wrinkles. “Excuse me?”
“Everything that I was afraid of already happened. That’s the thing about fear. You get used to it. Don’t bother trying to intimidate me, because I have nothing left to lose.”
She marches around her desk and stands over Matt. She bends down, her face inches away from his. Her breath smells like coffee. She presses her index finger into his sternum. “You don’t know a fucking thing about fear, little boy. Maybe we find some drugs in your locker. Maybe you get two years in juvie. You’ll be eighteen in a year, so you’ll do part of that sentence upstate. What do you think happens to pretty little white boys in prison?” She pokes his chest again with her bony finger. He sits still, his face blank. “You still have plenty to lose. Do you know what it’s like to have your rectum stitched up after you’ve been gang raped by a dozen niggers?”
Matt sits, blank-faced.
“If I so much as even hear a rumor about you causing trouble, I will ruin you. Do you understand?”
He nods.
She stands up straight, mercifully blowing her coffee breath elsewhere. “I’m suspending you for the rest of the week. I still expect you to attend your Saturday detention. I suggest you use your time to study, because if you do poorly on next week’s finals, you will repeat the eleventh grade.” She saunters back behind her desk. “The office has already called your foster mother. Officer Blackman will take you to your locker to collect your things. I hope when you come back next week, you’ll come with an attitude adjustment. Do you understand me?”
Matt nods again.
+++
Matt focuses on the folds of Grace’s pasty neck fat, as she marches in front of him, with Officers Mullen and Blackman still flanking him. Grace’s white minivan is parked in the handicapped spot; a temporary placard hangs from her mirror. Officer Mullen glances at the placard, then back to Grace.
“It’s my back,” Grace says, touching her lower back and grimacing. “Hurts like the dickens. Thank you so much, officers. I really do appreciate what you do.”
The officers nod. “You’re welcome, ma’am,” Blackman says.
Grace glowers at Matt. “Now get your little patootie into this car. Right now, mister.”
Matt ho
ps into the front seat of the Dodge Caravan. Grace groans as she hauls her girth into the driver’s seat. She slams the door and drives out of the parking lot.
“I can’t believe your behavior, young man.” Grace looks over at Matt. “I’ve never been so embarrassed by one of my kids.”
“I’m not your child. I think you know that.” Matt stares at the road.
“I’m a good mother to all my kids, even pain-in-the-patootie ones like you. This suspension is not gonna be a vacation, no siree. You’re gonna have chores in addition to your schoolwork, and you are not to leave the house under any circumstances.”
Matt scowls at Grace. “What if the house accidentally caught on fire? Could I leave then, or would I have to stay in the house?”
“I don’t like that tone, mister. Pastor Roberts said you were in crisis. I’m not sure it’s safe to have you in my home anymore. I could make one phone call to Regina, and you’d be gone.” Grace parks the minivan in the driveway. She turns to Matt glaring. “Is that what you wanna make me do? Send you to one of those state facilities with all those nasty kids? Maybe that’s where you belong.”
“Let’s stop this charade, Grace.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How much money have you given me over the past six weeks?”
Grace crosses her meaty arms.
“We both know that answer,” Matt says. “You haven’t bought anything for me, except food, and I bet the food bill hasn’t changed, because I eat all the stuff no one else will. Come summer, I have a job lined up, so you can be more neglectful if you want.”
Grace shakes her head. “Oh, no, you don’t. You will not tell me that I do this for the money, because it is certainly not worth what I get.”
“It’s $671 per month—or $8,052 per year, if you prefer. What do you spend on me? A hundred bucks a month maybe? Seven grand net. That’s not too bad. If you multiply that by five kids, $35,000 tax-free.”
Grace’s mouth and eyes are wide open. “This nice house, your room, it’s expensive.”
“I agree with you. I don’t think you do it solely for the money. I think you get off on everyone thinking you’re some kinda saint. All your self-esteem comes from this image, but, deep down, you’re selfish. That’s why you keep the money. It’s your payment for your hardship, because it’s all about you. Look, I get it. Don’t worry. I’m not gonna say anything to DHS. But I can’t have you caging me up, like I’m some kind of animal. That can’t stand. I suggest you continue being neglectful, and I’ll continue to pretend you’re not.”
Grace’s eyes are wet. “I’m not gonna sit here and listen to this malarkey.”
Grace gets out of the van and slams the door. Matt exits the vehicle. She points at Matt, her face a congealed mass of red splotches. “You are an evil, evil, evil boy! Pastor Roberts was right about you. Some people can’t be helped.”
+++
Matt lays on his bed, reading a tattered orange text, with a bespectacled Emma Goldman on the cover. He turns his head toward a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he says.
Madison treads inside. She shuts the door behind her. Her mouth is turned down, her eyes bloodshot, and her face haggard.
“Can we talk?” she says.
“Of course.” Matt sits up and pulls his legs in, cross-legged. Madison sits on the edge of the bed.
“I really wish you didn’t make such a scene in Campbell’s class today. It just makes you more of a target.”
“That’s the point, right? To make me the target.”
“You did that on purpose?”
“No, but I’m glad I did. Hansen threatened me with planted drugs in my locker. It makes me feel a lot less guilty about the tape. Who’s gonna drop it off?”
“Tariq’s gonna do it at 3:00 a.m.”
“Tell him no fingerprints on anything. And he should park down the block and sneak through the woods.”
She smirks. “He knows.”
“What else?”
She purses her black lips. “I’m thinking we should just let this go. It’s not too late.”
Matt raises his eyebrows. “Why?”
“I’m worried you’re gonna go to jail, like real jail.”
Matt shrugs. “Maybe.”
“How can you be so nonchalant? I’m freaking out. Aren’t you scared?”
He takes a deep breath. “Of course I am. Before I came here, I did what they wanted, because I was scared, and I still lost everything, including my self-respect. I didn’t have the power to stop what happened. Most people go through life oblivious. They’re brainwashed by their school, the media, their friends, their families. If they ever do wake up to the truth, they’re alone and too powerless to do anything about it. This is our chance for just one small moment to wake people up and to give some power to the powerless. We can take something from those who’ve been taking for far too long. We can put an end to the high-school-to-juvie pipeline. We just have to cut off the heads.”
“But you’re on the hook.”
Matt nods. “I know, but I’m one person. If we can take out a dozen or so corrupt school employees, the police chief, and Dr. Hansen, that’s a pretty good trade, don’t you think?”
She looks down. “It’s a terrible trade. You’re worth more than all of them.” She looks up, her eyes wet.
Matt smiles. “Don’t worry. I have a feeling I won’t get charged. They’ll be too embarrassed, especially once the press gets ahold of this.”
“We met after school without you. Do you wanna hear the latest?”
Matt nods. “We should be about ready, right?”
“The website will go live one hour before school, and a link to the site will be e-mailed to the school board, the students, the parents, and the press, once school starts. The school’s e-mail list that George hacked made this supereasy. Also we scanned the really bad e-mails and organized them on the site. We made a webpage for each offender. Mr. Dalton’s page goes on forever. What a douchebag.”
Matt nods.
“We put the autopsy on the front page, with your eyewitness account of what happened to your uncle. We decided on the domain name JeffersonCountyCorruption.com.”
“What else?”
“When are you gonna get George on board?”
“I’ll talk to him tonight.”
“You think he’ll do it?”
“He will. How many kids do we have specific e-mails for?”
“About eighty, plus whatever you and George can get on Saturday.”
“Did you guys get addresses? We need to send hard copies to their parents too.”
“They’re already stamped and ready to go,” Madison says. “The student directory had most of the addresses. The rest we got from the White Pages. I was gonna dump them in a mailbox on Saturday. They won’t get them until probably Tuesday though.”
“What if we mailed them Friday?”
“I thought about that, but, what if the mail is quick for once, and they get the letters on Saturday? I don’t think we want those letters floating around any longer than they have to be. Parents would be more likely to contact the school and spoil the surprise.”
Matt nods. “You’re right. The kids will have them in hand on the day anyway.”
“And the parents will get a link to the site Monday morning.”
“That’s true,” Matt says.
“We need the money for the vendors on Friday.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get it Thursday. I’m gonna—”
“Stop.” Madison puts up her hand. “I don’t wanna know any specifics, other than you’ll have it.”
“I’ll have it.”
[ 19 ]
Going Down
George turns down the gravel road, passing the sign that reads Luxury Single-Family Homes Starting in the 200s. The late-day sun beats down on the homes in various stages of completion, some built two stories high, but awaiting vinyl siding and brick facing, while others are simply grassy lots marked
with stakes. Yellow construction equipment sits idle. An excavator sits near the edge of a hole the size of a basement. A skid steer with forks is parked at the end of the cul-de-sac in front of pallets of lumber. George parks in the cul-de-sac behind Tony’s pickup truck.
George and Matt step out of the Mustang. Matt carries a duffel bag. Tony steps out of his truck, the driver’s side bouncing slightly as he moves his three hundred pounds off the shocks.
“What up, playas?” Tony says grinning, exposing his white teeth.
“Thanks for comin’ out here on a Sunday,” George says.
“What’s this about? You got me all intrigued and shit.”
“We need you to show up at school an hour early and reserve eight spaces in the middle of the parking lot. Park your truck right in the middle.”
Tony shakes his head. “Shit, you know I don’t even show up until second period. I need my beauty sleep.”
Matt unzips his duffel bag and hands Tony a Ziploc bag filled with an ounce of weed. “For your trouble,” Matt says.
Tony grins and takes the bag with a hand that could double as a catcher’s mitt. “I could make that happen. Ah-ite, playas, I’m outtie.”
“There’s one more thing,” George says.
Matt pulls a stack of envelopes, held together with a rubber band, from his bag. He removes the top one from the stack. It’s addressed to Tony. Matt hands it to him.
Tony looks down at the envelope with a frown.
“Open it,” George says.
Tony tears the envelope and removes a single trifolded piece of paper. He reads.
From: Chris Dalton
To: Ben Richardson
Subject: Scholarship
Can you believe Tony got that scholarship to Rutgers? He’s going to get his ass handed to him. He’s got the size but he’s too much of a pussy to play at that level. The biggest shock is that the gorilla actually got a high enough SAT. Do you remember his sophomore year when he started crying during conditioning? Like I said. Pussy.
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