Against the Grain

by Phil M. Williams

  “That motherfucker,” Tony says, still reading. “I’m gonna kick his fuckin’ ass.” Tony gapes at Matt and George with a frown. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”

  “What do you wanna do with it?” George asks.

  “A whole bunch a shit that’d get me arrested. I’d lose my ride.”

  “What if I said you could get that piece of shit fired, and you wouldn’t have to do anything illegal.”

  “I’m listenin’.”

  “You know most of the football players, right?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I don’t hang out with all of ’em.”

  “But they all wanna hang out with you,” Matt says.

  Tony grins. “What can I say? I got a dynamic personality.”

  “Can you give out these letters tonight?” Matt hands Tony the stack of bound envelopes. “Their names and addresses are on the front.”

  Tony flips through the letters. “These guys got e-mails like mine?”

  Matt nods.

  “I just give ’em these letters, and that’s it?”

  “With a message,” Matt says. “Tell everyone that we’re gonna make this right and that we’re meeting in the middle of the school parking lot at 7:50 tomorrow morning. Oh, and make sure Tyler Hansen doesn’t find out about this. I know he’s your friend and all, but we can’t trust him, because of his mother.”

  Tony nods, with a chuckle. “I like y’all crazy-ass white boys.”

  The shocks groan as he hops into his pickup truck with the grace of a ballerina. Matt waves as he drives away; Tony returns a crisp military salute and a broad grin.

  “One down, eight more to go,” George says.

  “You think they’ll all show?” Matt says.

  “They’ll show. The real question is, will they follow?”

  A vomit-green and wood-paneled station wagon putters down the gravel road, parking behind the Mustang.

  “Now that’s a family truckster,” George says with a grin.

  A lanky teen boy with glasses and tight jeans steps from the car.

  “It’s Wyatt, king of the dipshits,” George says to Matt.

  “He has a lot of friends,” Matt says, pulling the stack of envelopes from his duffel bag.

  +++

  Matt sits in the backseat of George’s Mustang. His eyes are closed, his stomach rumbles, and his heart pounds. He breathes in and out, in and out, in and out, but his heart still races.

  “I bet you feel like you’re about to shit a brick,” George says.

  “Shut up,” Madison says.

  “Relax, I’m just tryin’ to lighten the mood. Whatever happens, this is gonna be huge.”

  “What’s happening?” Ryan leans forward, sticking his head between the front seats.

  “It’s nothing,” Madison says.

  “Matt looks sick. We should take him back home,” Ryan says.

  Matt opens his eyes. He pats Ryan on the leg. “I can’t, buddy. I have a big test today.”

  George turns into Jefferson Elementary, and they let out Ryan. A couple of Ryan’s classmates accost him.

  “Cool car. Who’s that?” a classmate says.

  Ryan puffs out his chest. “That’s my brother.”

  Jefferson High School appears on the left, sprawling as if the designers wanted to double park the structure.

  “Can you pull over?” Matt asks.

  George pulls over to the sidewalk. Madison hops out and pulls the seat forward. Matt staggers out, past the sidewalk to a chain link fence at the edge of the grass. He leans over and retches. Nothing comes out. He retches again, and warm yellow liquid spills onto the ground. He heaves again and again and again, until nothing’s left. He spits and stands up. Madison hands him a bottle of water. He takes a swig and swishes it around in his mouth, spitting as if he were at the dentist. Madison pats him on the shoulder, her mouth turned down. She hands him a plastic container of white Tic Tacs.

  “You all right?” she asks.

  “I think so,” Matt says.

  “You should eat these.”

  Matt pops a handful of Tic Tacs in his mouth. “Thanks.”

  George leans over the passenger seat. “Come on, Matt. Don’t be such a fag.”

  Madison glares at George.

  Matt staggers back to the car, a bit steadier after releasing the sick. The trio pulls into the bustling school parking lot. They drive to the middle of the lot, where a three-hundred-pound black man guards a large cluster of empty spots, like an oasis in the desert. Tony steps aside, waving them in, his truck parked adjacent. The student lot is filled a bit earlier than usual. Students mill around the lot, many still sitting in their cars. Buses line the front entrance. Pizza delivery cars and trucks, with magnetic door signs, and roof-mounted signs displaying their pizzeria, queue up behind the buses. Interspersed are vans and trucks, with vinyl pictures of bouquets of flowers, dominated by the prototypical long-stemmed rose. Delivery men and women hustle along the sidewalk, carrying stacks of pizza boxes, and pushing carts of flower bouquets and large-leaved green houseplants. One delivery man pushes a cart with helium balloons tied to the handles that read Happy Retirement. Two dozen limousines line up on the curb just off-campus.

  Madison and George step out of the Mustang. Students congregate around them, many holding printed e-mails. Voices are boisterous, some jovial, but many angry. A wave of students, like concert-goers at a mosh pit, push from the outside in. The crowd is turning into a mob. Madison and George hook up Grace’s karaoke machine to George’s car speakers, with power coming from an adapter hooked to his cigarette lighter.

  Matt exits the car; the crowd cheers. Matt’s heart pounds; his stomach churns. He takes a deep breath and hops onto the back tire of Tony’s pickup. He steps over the side into the bed. George nods and hands Matt the wireless mic. From his new vantage point, he searches the endless sea of faces for Emily. The mob roars in approval. He starts as soon as they quiet.

  “The hypocrisy in this place runs deep. It’s systemic, endemic, and rotten to the fucking core.” The crowd cheers. “We don’t go to school to learn. We go to school to learn how to follow directions, to obey orders, to be cogs in the machine, to respond to a bell, a whistle, or any order without thought.” Matt looks around; the crowd is silent, ears hanging on every word. “Many of you now have very personal evidence of the corruption and the immorality of this place. You have every reason to feel anger, to desire revenge. Some of you, and even some of your parents, have been called terrible things. Retarded, worthless, dumbass, white trash, hillbilly, and low class.” Matt shakes his head. “Not my words … theirs. They chide us. They lecture us. They hold us to standards they themselves fall short of. We have teachers like Mrs. Campbell, who flunks anyone with a dissenting opinion. We have Mr. Dalton and Mr. Richardson who sexually harass students and fellow teachers. Those two clowns watch porn on their school computers. They dehumanize the black athletes they coach by calling them ‘gorillas’ and making crude references to ‘slave strength.’ Of course this behavior—the general view that we are to be treated as cattle to herd and cage and poke with cattle prods—is at its most dangerous at the top. Dr. Hansen is the head of this beast. She is the one sending kids to juvenile detention on bullshit charges. She’s the one profiting from your pain. She’s the first one that must go.” The crowd cheers.

  Matt feels a tug on his pant leg. He looks down and sees George standing on the truck tire, reaching in to get his attention. “They’re comin’,” he says.

  Matt nods and continues, his words spilling out faster.

  “From the age of five, we’re bullied, shamed, propagandized, and, most important, taught not to question. That curiosity that we’re all born with is slowly degraded, until we simply accept whatever adults tell us. You have to ask yourself, why? Why are we force-fed biased and racist accounts of history? Why do teachers and administrators get so angry when you question them? Why are we treated like animals in a prison, with rules heaped on top of mo
re rules?”

  Matt sees Officers Blackman and Mullen pushing through the crowd. “They never take rules away. Why? Without the rules, without the mind control, we’d know how full of shit they really are. Divided and alone, we have no power, but together we can move mountains. We’re not gonna take it anymore. At ten after eight, we’re walking out of here together, and we’re not coming back until our demands are met. For those of you who don’t have transportation, the limousines”—Matt points to the queue of black cars—“are parked just off-campus and are paid up for the entire day. They’ll take you anywhere you wanna go.”

  Officer Mullen heads for the speaker hooked up to the Mustang.

  “Remember, they need us more than—” The sound is cut. The crowd boos. Matt drops the mic.

  Officer Blackman lifts a thick leg and heaves himself onto the bumper of the pickup.

  The crowd chants, “Fuck this school, fuck this school, fuck this school!”

  The bell rings; the crowd pushes on the truck. Officer Blackman steps onto the rocking truck bed. He reaches for his Taser. Matt pushes off with two short strides and dives off the sidewall of the truck. Officer Blackman shoots; the metal prongs stick to the rubber bed liner. Like Eddie Vedder at a Pearl Jam concert, Matt dives face-first into a sea of his classmates. Dozens of hands hold him up and transport him to the edge. The crowd cheers.

  Two news vans and four township police cars arrive at the scene. They’re blocked by bus and vendor traffic. Matt runs for the school; the crowd follows. Pandemonium ensues with students sprinting toward the school, screaming and yelling, like Scots in a Mel Gibson movie. Matt turns to look for his friends. He looks back at the Mustang. He sees George in handcuffs, and no sign of Madison or Emily. A brown hand grabs him by the arm.

  “That was badass,” Tariq says, beaming. “Let’s finish this.”

  “You see Emily?” Matt asks.

  Tariq shakes his head, his camera strapped to his neck.

  “Madison?”

  “I was with her before the crowd went crazy, but I lost her.”

  Matt and Tariq enter the building, surveying the scene. A few kids run, but most instinctually stop running once inside. A decade of conditioning can’t be overcome with a single speech. Matt and Tariq jog by the main office and laugh. The smell of pizza and roses wafts into the hallway. Flowers and plants are stacked up on pizza boxes inside the office covering the windows. More flowers and pizza boxes sit outside in the hall in front of the office. Kids grab slices along the way to first period.

  Matt and Tariq continue to class. Matt stops.

  “What are you doing?” Tariq asks.

  “You don’t wanna walk in with me. Trust me.”

  “I know you don’t wanna incriminate anyone, but I gotta know one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Where’d you get the money?”

  Matt smirks. “The good doctor had a stash.”

  “Had?”

  Matt waltzes into Mrs. Campbell’s classroom at 8:05 a.m. He sits in his seat, the room still half empty. Mrs. Campbell glares. The tardy bell rings. More raucous students spill in after the bell. Matt sees Madison among the tardy. He breathes a sigh of relief. Mrs. Campbell stalks toward Matt’s desk in front.

  “You’re finished. The SROs will be here any minute,” she says.

  The loudspeaker clicks on. “This is Dr. Hansen, your principal. I have a brief announcement, and I strongly suggest that you heed my advice. Any student who walks out on their final exams today will fail for the year and will repeat for the year. Furthermore they will be arrested by the police for truancy. Jefferson Township Police Officers are waiting outside to secure arrests. If you resist, they will use tools at their disposal to make you comply. Be smart kids. I trust you will do the right thing.”

  The loudspeaker clicks off. Smiles turn down. Like a lit candle doused with a bucket of water, the excitement and fervor extinguishes. Kids stare at the clock, watching the minute hand pull back a half click, before clicking forward a notch and a half. The clock strikes 8:09 a.m. Mrs. Campbell grabs the final exams. She hands a stack to each student in the front row to hand back. She bypasses Matt and hands his stack to the kid behind him. The clock strikes 8:10 a.m. Matt stands up and flips over his desk. Mrs. Campbell whips her head around. Madison and Tariq stand up. The rest of the class remains seated.

  “Come on, guys,” Tariq says, looking around at his classmates.

  “Go on. Get out of my sight!” Mrs. Campbell says.

  Matt walks toward Mrs. Campbell. He stops and looks her in the eyes. She takes a step back, her eyes wide.

  “The best slave is the one who thinks she’s free,” Matt says.

  He marches toward the door; Tariq follows. Madison sits down. Tariq looks at Madison. She mouths I’m sorry. She looks down, her eyes wet.

  Matt and Tariq spill into the hallway. Twelve kids cluster at the front door. The malcontents, the disaffected youth, the colored, the white trash, the mind altered, the suicidal, and one principal’s daughter are all represented. Through the door windows, they see ten police officers with batons and Tasers drawn.

  “I underestimated her,” Matt says, “and I overestimated our classmates. Everybody’s so afraid.”

  “At least Emily’s here,” Tariq says.

  Emily runs over and smacks Matt across the face.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she says, her eyes red.

  Tariq tiptoes away, joining the group of malcontents near the main entrance.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to get in trouble,” Matt says.

  “Trouble?” She clenches her fists. “I don’t care about getting into trouble. You used me.”

  His eyes widen. “I don’t understand.”

  “The tape, asshole! That disgusting tape your friend put on my mom’s car. You stole it from my house, didn’t you? I know you did. It had to be you. Can you tell me the truth? Or are you really just full of shit like everyone else?”

  Matt shakes his head; his eyes are downcast. “I took the tape.” He blinks away the tears.

  “I knew it!”

  “I didn’t think you’d see it. I’m sorry.”

  “Your friend tripped the motion light at three in the morning. It shines right into my bedroom.”

  “Shit.”

  “I thought you loved me.” Her face is flushed. “Were you just using me for some sick revenge plot?”

  “I wasn’t. The two things weren’t connected, I swear. I stole the tape before we were even together.”

  “You’re a liar. I know you stole something Thursday night. You were gone to the bathroom for a long time, and you took your bag with you.”

  “That wasn’t the tape.”

  “It was something else then.”

  “It was—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Emily whips her blond hair around and storms toward her first period final exam.

  Dr. Hansen exits her office, her mascara running. “Emily. Come here right now!”

  “Fuck you, Mom!”

  Dr. Hansen glares at Matt across the wide hallway.

  Matt wipes his eyes with his shirt sleeve and walks to the group.

  “What’s the plan, hoss?” a long-haired white boy says to Matt.

  Matt takes a deep breath. “You guys have some serious brass balls, as my friend Tariq would say, especially after that announcement. Unfortunately this walkout, what’s left of it, will fail. We don’t have any leverage with a dozen people. Hansen’s gonna fail us for the year. We’ll probably get shocked by the Tasers and arrested. At this point our walking out is purely symbolic. We’re doing what’s right with the expectation that we will all pay dearly for this. I’m gonna make a run regardless, but it’s not too late for all of you. You can walk back to class, and I don’t think anyone will think less of you.”

  Two goth kids, friends of Madison, walk back toward class.

  “Fuck it. I’m failin’ anyway,” the long-haired white
boy says.

  The cluster of misfits nod to each other and smile.

  “I’m in,” Tariq says, “and I have straight As.”

  “Thank you,” Matt says. “It probably doesn’t mean much, but I have a lot of respect for everyone here.”

  “We should probably get moving,” Tariq says. “What’s the plan?”

  “Maybe we should try another exit,” Matt says.

  “They’re locked, dude,” the stoner kid says, “with big-ass chains.”

  “They created a funnel to make it easy to scoop us all up,” Tariq says.

  “We’re looking at the only way out then,” Matt says with a frown. “If we run at the same time, they’ll catch some of us, but they can’t catch us all. If you have a car, get to it. You’ll have to drive over the curb. They’ll have the exits blocked. If you don’t have a car, get to a limo. They’re paid for. They’ll take you anywhere you wanna go. Just be careful that a cop doesn’t see you get in. If they do, you’re done, because the limo driver’s not gonna be a getaway driver. If you pick the farthest limo along the wood line, you might be able to slip inside without anyone seeing you. The key is, we all have to take as long as possible to get caught, to allow as many of us as possible to get away cleanly.”

  Officers Blackman and Mullen exit the main office behind Dr. Hansen. They stalk toward the group of students.

  “Time to go,” Tariq says, tightening his camera strap across his chest.

  The kids grab the handles in unison.

  “On three,” Matt says. “One, two, THREE!”

  The doors jerk open, and a motley crew of high school misfits stream out in a full sprint. The police officers converge, trying to create a bottleneck. Two cameramen and a handful of journalists stand behind, jockeying for good footage. Two police officers order the cameras to be shut off. The long-haired white boy yelps as he’s pulled down by his wavy locks. The stoner kid twitches on the ground with Taser prongs in his chest. A black kid breaks free; three officers give chase. Matt and Tariq see an opening. They run through, past one of the cameramen. Tariq gives the peace sign. Matt sees Chief Campbell pull down a boy by the scruff of his Iron Maiden T-shirt.