by Ann Braden
I glance back at Kyla, and she’s taking notes on everything Ms. Rochambeau is saying, maybe word for word. She means business.
“Second,” Ms. Rochambeau continues, “you can prove your opponent’s point isn’t relevant, or third, you can turn their point around and show how it actually proves your side instead.” Ms. Rochambeau picks up a stack of papers and starts passing them out to each table. “In your table groups, you’re going to be picking out examples from a debate that’s transcribed here. Identify instances where one of the participants attempted to discredit the other, and then look for any missed opportunities.”
I glance at Matt and Lydia and pick up the paper just like they do. I start reading it, but keep sneaking peeks at them to make sure I’m still on track. When they start shifting around like they’re done reading, I still have one more paragraph to go—probably because of all that peeking—so I skip it and pretend I’m done too even though I actually really want to finish. The “resolution” for the sample debate was that “Fair governments should require employers to pay a living wage,” and I kind of have an opinion on that. Like I keep waiting for the paper to talk about how amazing it’d feel if your family didn’t need to fill out that government form for an EBT card. And if you had enough money to buy new underwear as soon as you need it.
Lydia is the first one to talk. “So, what if we highlight all the examples?”
“Sure,” Matt says, “that sounds good.”
“Do either of you guys need a highlighter?” Lydia asks, digging into her bag. “I’ve got a ton of them.” She fishes out a handful and deposits them in the middle of the table.
“Thanks.” Matt takes a blue one.
She really meant me, right? I glance up. She’s looking at me like she did. This whole blending in like an eager beaver is working better than I thought. “Thanks,” I murmur. I reach out and slide the closest highlighter toward me.
“Okay, so that first line in the second paragraph is definitely one,” Matt says. “Where Debater #1 says it doesn’t matter if someone’s wage goes up if they get fired, and they’ll get fired because the company can’t afford to pay them more. That’s showing their point is more important than the other person’s point. And probably the next couple of lines in that paragraph, too.” The top section of his paper is turning light blue.
“There’s another example farther down the page from Debater #2,” Lydia says. “Do you see where they take Debater #1’s point and twist it around to show companies wouldn’t have to fire people if more people in our country have money to spend because that would help businesses? We should highlight that.”
Matt nods. He highlights it.
I nod. I highlight it.
Matt points at another paragraph. “This part, where Debater #1 says Debater #2 is too soft and overdramatic and not paying attention to the numbers. That’s one of those personal attacks Ms. Rochambeau doesn’t want us to use, but they do seem to work. I don’t know if we should highlight it.”
“I bet Debater #2 is a girl and Debater #1 is a boy,” Lydia says, rolling her eyes. “Girls are always being told they’re too dramatic.”
Matt laughs. “Whatever.”
Lydia points her highlighter at him. “There’s an example right there. Trying to dismiss what I say as not important.”
“Aw, I was just kidding,” Matt says. He glances at me like he’s looking for support.
“That’s another example,” Lydia snaps. “Pretending not to be serious when you’re called to account for your flaws, thereby trying to leave your opponent with only imaginary ground to stand on.”
Matt looks over at me again.
Part of me wants to smile at him and send the message that I’m on his side, but the other part of me thinks that would be “another example” and Lydia would be snapping at me next.
And as much as I wanted to find out what it’s like to be Matt, now I want to know what it’s like to be Lydia even more.
“How’s it going over here?” Ms. Rochambeau says, coming over to our table.
“It’s good!” Matt says. He seems completely unfazed by the wagging highlighter of Lydia.
Ms. Rochambeau glances down at the highlighting on Matt’s sheet. “It looks like you’re off to a fine start. Have you discussed the missed opportunities yet?”
Matt grins up at her. “We’re just about to start.”
Ms. Rochambeau nods and moves on to the table of eighth grade boys who are all standing up and yelling at each other.
“So what Debater #2 should have said after being called overdramatic,” Lydia says, “is that the only person being overdramatic is the person who thinks all businesses are going to collapse if workers get paid enough. And that if he thinks it’s overdramatic to actually face the realities of what workers are—”
Matt cuts her off. “But if she says it like that, it’ll just prove his point that she’s overdramatic. She needs to … ”
As Matt and Lydia go back and forth about what imaginary things these imaginary people could have said to each other, I sneak looks at both of them. Could I really be like them? I mean, an octopus can change colors ten times in a matter of seconds, so all sorts of ridiculous things are possible.
As I lean back, I overhear Kyla at the other table saying that if people always made a living wage, they’d be able to buy things like books for their kids to read, and how that’d be a good thing for the country.
I love my octopus book. Imagine if I had two.
I go to debate club on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, and nothing explodes. I don’t ever actually say anything, but I pay attention and do the written parts. Ms. Rochambeau drives me home every day (her car smells like coffee), and I’m on time to pick up Bryce and Aurora. Plus, Ms. Rochambeau doesn’t complain about it, and she doesn’t push me about how quiet I am at debate club (and everywhere else) either. Maybe she feels bad about the “Suck it up” comment. I mean, she should. Instead, she talks about things she heard on the radio or saw on TV. Like stories about Peru where Connor had been, and documentaries about this kind of jellyfish that recycles its body as it ages, so unless it gets eaten by something else or smooshed or dries up, it never really dies.
I’m not about to get Frank to change the channel on his TV, but I kind of want to see for myself all the interesting bits she tells me about. Of course, I’m not about to tell Ms. Rochambeau that.
At debate club the following Monday when we’re going to be brainstorming ideas that could be our “prepared topic” for the tournament, I take my seat and get out my notebook like I always do. I’ve started doing what Kyla does—writing lots of stuff down—and it seems like people do take you more seriously when you do that. And they don’t ever ask to know what it says, so they can’t tell you it’s stupid.
“Remember,” Ms. Rochambeau is saying, as she paces in front of the whiteboard with a marker in hand, “the topic has to be something where you can understand both sides of it because you don’t know what position you’re going to be assigned.”
People start calling out possible topics to Ms. Rochambeau, and she writes each of them on the whiteboard almost as fast as they come. Mandatory recycling. Lowering the voting age to ten. Making voting required. Getting rid of speed limits. Drone strikes. Animal rights.
I’m writing them all down in my notebook, too, because why not?
Kyla raises her hand and adds, “Requiring the police to use body cameras,” and “The effects of the private prison industry.”
I don’t know what the private prison industry is, but I write it down.
“Every school day includes a pie-eating contest!” calls out one of the eighth grade boys.
Ms. Rochambeau puts her hand on her hip and stops writing. “And what,” she says, “do you propose would be the main arguments in favor?”
“Better attendance, of course,” the boy says laughing. “And pie! Lots of pie!”
“And the argument against?”
“Umm … stomachac
hes?”
Ms. Rochambeau laughs. “We’ll put it on the list. There’s no wrong answer when you’re brainstorming.”
No wrong answer. Is that really true? Because part of me wants to raise my hand and get the topic about having enough money for new underwear and books added to the list. What was it called again? “Wage” something … I look back through my notebook to see if I can find it, but that was before I started writing things down.
I’m missing all of the new topics that are being added, but I can’t raise my hand if I don’t know what it’s called … wage something. Something wage. Wait—it was living wage, wasn’t it? I think it was.
I take a deep breath, and I raise my hand.
But before Ms. Rochambeau turns around to see it, something else happens.
“Attention! Attention!” an automated voice comes over the loudspeaker. “This is a lockdown. This is a lockdown. Follow lockdown protocols immediately. This is a lockdown. Follow lockdown protocols immediately.”
I pull my hand back down to my side.
Ms. Rochambeau turns to us, her face pale, directs us to head to the far corner of the library near the biographies. Mr. Herd is up and moving, pulling down the shades for the windows that line the wall between the library and the main hallway. Is this a regular thing to do lockdown drills after school?
I follow Lydia and Matt and squeeze into a spot next to the S section of biographies. Lydia had the sense to bring her notebook with her, but she isn’t drawing any cats. She’s got her eyes closed tight. I’d be willing to guess after-school lockdown drills are not a thing.
Soon Mr. Herd joins us in the corner and crouches down, too. As he does, though, I see him and Ms. Rochambeau exchange a look. Definitely not a drill.
I try to focus on the row of books next to me. Shakespeare. Socrates. Sacagawea. Joseph Stalin. Elizabeth Cady Stanton. Henry Sampson. Molly Stark. William Tecumseh Sherman. Captain John Smith. Harriet Beecher Stowe.
All those people. All dead.
I glance over at Lydia’s notebook. She’s started drawing the cats again, but kind of in a frantic way. There are so many cats. Cats with stripes, cats with three eyes, a cat wearing a top hat.
Kyla is sitting one aisle over, but there are too many biographies in the way to tell if she’s freaking out, too.
Even if everything is fine, what if we have to sit here so long that Ms. Rochambeau can’t get me to the bus stop before Bryce and Aurora get off the bus? I close my eyes to try to block out the image of Aurora in the street with that car coming toward her and Bryce screaming from the side of the road, but it’s no use.
And if everything isn’t fine … I take a deep breath and try to keep my leg from going all jittery. I’m too close to everyone else to hide it if it does. If I’m going to die, I don’t want to spend the last few minutes being embarrassed in the biography aisle.
I mean, we’re probably not going to die, right? But still, sometimes all it takes is being in the wrong place and you get way too close for comfort.
Suddenly, the night when I was four years old comes flooding back to me. My mom and I had been sleeping in our car for weeks, and I woke up to see a man’s face at the window, trying to break in to steal all our stuff and maybe more. You might think that would mean lockdowns don’t scare me as much. But they only scare me more.
Because I know how easy it can be for everything to suddenly become a nightmare.
I take a deep breath. But everything is going to be okay. I just have to get to Bryce and Aurora on time. I look around until I find the clock on the wall. 3:20. The seconds are ticking away far faster than they’re supposed to.
In front of me, Matt is writing notes back and forth with Calvin Umbatoor on a single sheet of paper that’s sitting on the floor between them.
This is super unfair.
I know. I have so many more good ideas for topics that I haven’t gotten to say yet.
Like what?
Whether we should colonize Mars.
Because sulfur smells so great, right?
It would take lifetimes to get to a better planet.
Not if we work on building a better rocket engine.
The writing keeps going, but I can’t keep reading because my hand has started to shake and I have to bury it in my opposite elbow. So “super unfair” means not having time to discuss your Mars colonization ideas? Or maybe it’s that the cherry on top of your ice cream sundae has dyed the whipped cream pink and you wanted it perfectly white?
I look back at the clock. 3:24.
I screamed when I saw that man’s face at the window, and my mom woke up when I did. I never saw her move so fast. He shattered the window with his crowbar, but she beat him off with her keys until she could drive away. That little key chain against that big crowbar. But she was more motivated than he was. And she kept all sorts of sharp metal things on that keychain. I never wondered why again.
I can only see the back of Ms. Rochambeau’s head. Can she see the clock from where she’s sitting? Even if the voice over the intercom releases us like nothing happened, is she going to dawdle back over to the whiteboard and continue adding to the topic list?
I hear the pounding of someone sprinting down the hallway. Closer, closer, and then right past us on the way toward the office.
I catch Mr. Herd exchanging another glance with Ms. Rochambeau.
“May I have your attention please,” Principal Fitzgerald’s voice comes over the intercom. “There is no longer a threat to safety. I repeat: There is no longer a threat to safety. You may resume your earlier activities. Thank you for your patience.”
As soon as the intercom clicks off, people are up and talking.
“What happened?”
“That wasn’t a drill, was it?”
“Ms. Rochambeau?” an eighth grade girl asks. “Do you know what happened? Did they send you an email or something?”
Mr. Herd is already striding over to his computer. “I’m checking.”
“Can’t you go right down to the office and ask?” one of the eighth grade boys asks Ms. Rochambeau.
Ms. Rochambeau smooths her skirt and takes a deep breath. “The last thing they need right now is every teacher in the school showing up to demand an explanation of what just happened.”
Mr. Herd is hunched over his computer. “There’s no email yet. We’ll just have to be okay with not knowing.”
“Besides,” Ms. Rochambeau says, looking at me, “it’s almost 3:30 anyway. Most of you must have parents arriving to pick you up soon, and we all have places to get to. We’ll meet back here again Wednesday afternoon and—”
No one hears what Ms. Rochambeau says next because Evan Hewitt bursts through the library doors. “Did you guys hear? Someone shot at someone in the parking lot!”
“Who?”
“Like with a gun?”
“Was it a student?”
“Did they miss or is someone like … dead?”
Kids immediately swarm around him, but I sink down into a chair. All I can see is that man’s face pressed up against our car window. That split second it takes to go from safe to a full-on fight for survival.
“I heard that there was a kid involved, but I don’t know who,” Evan says. “I don’t think anyone’s hurt, because we could see some of the parking lot from where we were hiding in the cafeteria and no ambulance ever showed up. But yeah, it was a real gun. We heard the shots!”
Ms. Rochambeau has her hand over her mouth and her eyes on a chair that got knocked over when everyone stampeded over to Evan.
When she sees me looking at her, she quickly stands up straight, lowering her hand. “I’m glad no ambulance was needed,” she says loud enough to quiet everyone else down, “but it will take us all a while to process this. Mr. Herd, will you help make sure that everyone’s able to connect with their ride this afternoon?”
He nods and picks up his winter coat from where it’s slung over his chair. “Of course.”
“Thank you.” M
s. Rochambeau turns to me. “We have to get going.”
Silently, I collect my things and follow Ms. Rochambeau through the halls and out to the parking lot.
Everyone’s okay. We’re going to be on time to pick up Bryce and Aurora. It’s all going to be okay.
Still I can’t get the sound of our car window shattering that night out of my head.
I don’t tell my mom about the lockdown when I bring along Bryce and Aurora to pick up Hector at the Pizza Pit. He’s in the middle of yet another game of peekaboo with Connor and one of the customers. I guess my mom got some automated message on her cell phone later, though, because she calls Frank’s TracFone from the restaurant and asks him to put me on the line.
“Why didn’t you tell me what happened?” she snaps.
Frank is glowering at me like he’s going to grab the phone back any second.
“I didn’t want to bother you.” I turn around so I don’t have to stare at Frank while I talk. Aurora and Bryce are screaming about lightsabers in the bedroom, and Hector is flinging Cheerios out of his tray.
“You could have gotten killed!” my mom yells.
Where could she be standing in the restaurant and be able to yell like that? Is she in the walk-in fridge?
“I wasn’t even in the parking lot,” I say. “I didn’t even see the person who had the gun. What’d they say on the message? Do they know who it was?” I peer around Lenny’s nice curtains to look out the window.
“They didn’t say anything on that stupid message except that there had been shots fired in the parking lot and that no one was hurt and that the police were conducting a full investigation. Because that takes care of everything, doesn’t it?”
The icicles hanging off the neighbor’s roof have gotten even bigger in the last few days. She doesn’t need a motion-sensor light for safety. She’s got daggers ready to cut down anyone who dares to come too close.
My mom is still talking, but I hear a sharp “Time’s up” from behind me. I turn to see Frank, still glowering at me and now tapping his wrist.
“Mom, I gotta go.” I hang up and hand the phone back to him. “Thanks for letting me use it.”