“You were there for me before, and you stood up for me. Thank you.”
“You’re my son.”
“But I know there’s only so much even you can do,” I say, trying to reassure her. “I know if you could help me more, you would. It’s just that Mrs. Edmonds has—”
“It’s okay, Bret, really,” she says, the steam rising from the sink as her jealousy subsides.
“Thanks, Mom.” I give her a big and long-overdue hug.
The next morning, Mrs. Edmonds and the ACLU lawyer, Mr. Cunningham, meet me at school. On the phone the night before, we’d gone over my campaign creed and the stuff that had happened at school that led up to the speech. Mr. Cunningham was cool, but he said that the ACLU would only do the free-speech stuff gratis; I would have to call his office if I wanted to pursue any sort of legal action. I told him no, and not just because of the cost, but because court wasn’t the place to settle the issues between Hitchings and me. That day’s coming soon, especially after my speech, which I sense has moved up our destiny date. This was a battle I would have to fight alone, with support but no backup.
“You ready, son?” Mom asks. She also came with me this morning to meet with the lawyer. While I talk with him, she and Mrs. Edmonds go into the other room for coffee. They have nothing in common, except for being mothers and caring about me. Two hard cases.
“Don’t worry, Bret,” Mrs. Edmonds tells me. “We’re behind you one hundred percent.”
I nod. Just because her daughter hurt me doesn’t mean she won’t help me. Mr. Edmonds quoted Tom Joad’s speech from The Grapes of Wrath (“Whenever a guy is kicking another guy, I’m there”) to explain why they felt so strongly about issues involving underdogs, like me.
“And who’s this?” Principal Morgan inquires as we enter the conference room. Mr. Douglas is there, and so is Mrs. Pfeil. There’s also a guy in a suit I don’t know.
“Mike Cunningham, Michigan Civil Liberties Union,” my lawyer says, handing Mr. Morgan his card and shaking the hand of the mystery man standing next to Morgan.
“Curtis Walker. I’m the school board lawyer,” he says, returning the handshake. We all sit down at the table. “We’re here to talk about Bret’s suspension and—”
“About our pending suit regarding Bret’s free-speech rights,” Mr. Cunningham interjects.
“What?” Morgan says, apoplectic. It’s the last thing he says, as the lawyers go at it for almost an hour. My head gets dizzy listening to it all. Dad’s wrong: lawyers aren’t bloodsuckers; they don’t stop talking long enough to suck anyone’s blood. Mr. Cunningham talks about something called Tinker versus Des Moines, which sounds like a wrestling match, while Walker counters with Island Trees and verbal-assault statutes.
All the while, Morgan sits there getting madder, while my never-to-be-mother-in-law Mrs. Edmonds looks calm and collected. Mrs. Pfeil and Mr. Douglas just sit on the school’s side of the table, even though I know they’re really on mine.
Finally, Mr. Walker and Mr. Morgan start whispering to each other. Mr. Cunningham doesn’t say anything; he gives a big thumbs-up. I keep my hands in my pockets for safety’s sake.
“Mrs. Hendricks, here is what we propose,” Walker finally says. “As the speech took place on school grounds, Bret is subject to the rules of this school, contrary to what Mr. Cunningham might have you believe. With apologies to Justice Fortas and the Tinker decision, the Constitution sometimes does stop at the schoolroom door.”
I wait for Cunningham to reply, but he’s silent and smiling like a friendly shark.
“However, while your son’s speech was certainly offensive to many at the school, it did not constitute a verbal threat, urge others toward violence, endanger other students, or—”
Cunningham interrupts: “You had a right to say what you did,” he says, looking at me.
“If that’s the case, then I’m not suspended, right?” I ask, this time not sure of the answer.
“Not so fast, smart guy!” Morgan says, glaring at me. “You forgot your message to me.”
“What’s he talking about?” Mr. Cunningham asks. I’d not mentioned my exit gesture.
“I flipped Mr. Morgan off when—”
“That changes everything.” Walker says imperiously. “That’s conduct, Bret, not speech. You don’t have the right to show that type of disrespect to teachers or staff.” Walker is now riding high in the driver’s seat.
Morgan’s all smiles. “So for that reason, you’ll be suspended, which means—”
“Why and when did you do this?” Mom asks, her voice shaking along with her hands.
“After he told me …” I started, then just slumped, defeated, in my chair.
“After I told him he was expelled,” Morgan answers for me.
“Wait just a second,” Mr. Douglas says, finally entering the fray.
“What is it?” Morgan snarls, shooting him a look that doesn’t encourage free speech.
“Well, if he thought he was expelled—” Mr. Douglas says, looking at Mom.
“Then he didn’t think he was in school,” Mom says. “I don’t see how you can punish him for something he did once you told him he was expelled.” I don’t know if that’s true, but Morgan’s frowning, which is a very good sign.
“That’s a minor point, a technicality,” Morgan says while Walker sighs.
“The law is about minor points and technicalities,” Mr.Cunningham says, weighing in. “If you proceed with his suspension, the ACLU will get involved in a major way.”
Mrs. Edmonds, who has been sitting back away from the table, finally speaks. “And I’ll see to it that the voters of Flint get involved. You have a school-bond referendum next year, I believe.”
“Who are you again?” Morgan asks, unaccustomed to being on the other end of a threat.
“My name is Margaret Edmonds. I’m on the board of the North End Food Bank, and I also serve on the board of several Flint organizations,” Mrs. Edmonds says softly, but strongly. Clearly, she is now in charge. “I’m here to support my good friend Bret Hendricks.”
“Mrs. Edmonds, this is very complicated and your involvement—” Morgan starts to say.
Mrs. Edmonds walks up to the table and puts one hand on my shoulder while the other clutches her cell phone. “Mr. Morgan, don’t try to patronize me. Nor will you try to silence me from speaking as you did Mr. Hendricks. I know everyone in this town, including the mayor and your friend Hank, whom I know very well from my work in the community.”
As Mrs. Edmonds tears Morgan a new one, I ask Mr. Cunningham, “Who’s Hank?”
“Henry T. Collins, the school superintendent. Morgan’s boss,” he replies calmly.
“If you want your bond passed, then think very seriously about how you handle this situation,” Mrs. Edmonds says in an icy tone. “You don’t want to get on my bad side.”
“Now, let’s not get too excited about this. We can work something out.” Morgan is backpedaling so fast I’m surprised he doesn’t fall ass-backward.
“We can work it out here and now or on the Flint Journal’s front page and on the six o’clock news. I will tell them to cover me, my allies, and the ACLU practicing our right to free speech and assembly at every school board meeting and every public event.”
With those words, Mrs. Edmonds has turned the conference room into her kitchen, and the heat is more than Morgan can stand. Walker taps Morgan on the shoulder, and they have a tenminute-long whispering conference on their side of the table. Our side is perfectly still.
“Mr. Morgan believes strongly …” Mr. Walker finally says but is distracted when Mrs. Edmonds starts dialing. “Mrs. Edmonds, let me finish! He believes strongly that Mr. Hendricks should be expelled. However, I have persuaded him that it’s in no one’s best interest to argue the fine points of this case in private or in public. Also, as it’s the end of the school year, Mr. Morgan is willing to let this episode pass without further incident or argument, on one condition.”
“
What’s that?” I ask, reminding everyone, since it’s my life they’re discussing, that I’m still alive.
Morgan won’t look at me. “We counted the votes after school and you won. You got more votes than Becca Levy. I’ll let this go, if you resign.”
“The school district can’t have a principal and a Student Council President with such personal animosity, and I’m sure you’ll agree with me Mrs. Edmonds,” Walker says.
“Regardless, the point—” Mrs. Edmonds responds.
“I’ll take it,” I say, bluffing with a poker face that would make Dad proud.
“Are you sure?” my mom asks, but I’m very firm. Like everyone else in the room, she’s unaware that my original intention was to resign if I’d won.
“Positive,” I say, holding back the Stone Cold catchphrase. The bottom line is that I’m not Austin, and post-Kylee, I’m not the same Bret Hendricks anymore.
As I look around the room, I’m grateful others have stood up for me. I realize that now I need to stand up for myself. In the past month, Sean has taken away the only girl I’ve ever loved, but every day for the past three years, Hitchings has taken away something even more important: my dignity. I can’t get Kylee back; I’ll get myself back instead.
Like I’d once prophesized in this very conference room, a day of reckoning is coming. But the revelation stuns me: it’s not Hitchings’s reckoning I’ve been dreaming about all of these years, but my own. My own.
“Let’s go home,” Mom says, words that hold a huge appeal for me. Leaving the conference room, I vow never to set foot in there again. I’m as tired of my own petty acts of rebellion as I am of Morgan’s military rule. If I could survive Kylee, I can survive anything.
After some small talk, we start to leave. Before we do, I give Mrs. Edmonds a big hug. “Wow, that was something!” I almost shout. “But how did you know Morgan would give in?”
“He’s just a bully in a bad blue suit,” Mrs. Edmonds says as we share in the satisfaction that barking underdogs can still sometimes come out on top.
Twenty-nine
June 6, Junior Year
“Great show!”
“Really?” I ask. Like Kylee, I need reinforcement of facts I already know.
“Really!” Becca says, then gives me a hug, even if my sweaty T-shirt will ruin her beautiful ivory prom dress, which looks great with her curled dark-black hair. She’s not wearing ruby red slippers to stand out, but she looks outstanding. She was going to wear a violet dress, but I talked her out of it.
“Thank God that’s over,” Alex says of our gig, then waves at Elizabeth. She’s far too funky in her red spiky hair, red tank top, and black leather pants for this room full of uptight tuxes and too tight little blue dresses. Our new full-time drummer, Will, who took my side at school in the post-debate lunchroom discussions, heads back to his date, some cheerleader type that Alex can’t abide. The DJ wastes no time in killing our buzz by booming out bad R & B.
“You want to dance?” Becca asks as the slow song slithers from the DJ’s speakers.
“Love to, but first Alex and I are gonna have a smoke. Come with?” I respond.
“No thank you!” she says, her disapproval unbending and ongoing.
“I’ve got to wind down after the show,” I say in my defense. I’ve stopped smoking, for the most part, because of Becca. I’m trying to do a better job of listening than I did with Kylee.
“Okay, but hurry back,” she says, squeezing my hand. Becca turns to talk to Elizabeth, and its like summer theater all over viewing this odd couple.
I give Becca a quick kiss on the cheek, while Alex just winks Elizabeth’s way, then we make our exit. Despite the sweat running down my face, I put my tux jacket back on. I feel nothing but the cool of the evening running through my hair as Alex and I step out the back door of the Flint Country Club.
“Freak faggots.” The welcoming comment comes from Hitchings.
“Let’s go,” Alex says, and turns around to leave like so many times before.
“No, I’m done with this bullshit,” I say firmly to Alex, even if I want to shout it out to the smokers, tokers, and drinkers gathered on the dimly lit loading dock. When I don’t say anything to Hitchings, he turns his attention back to his buddies and the bottle they’re sharing.
“Are you sure?” Alex asks. I nod, and we light up our Camels.
“I’m not worried about him,” I say, feeling strangely calm. “Besides, he’s all punched out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Will asked me to come watch him play baseball last week,” I tell Alex, earning a smoke-filled sigh. He’s warming up to Will’s drumming skills, but not his normal-guy persona.
“So?”
“Will was pitching and Hitchings was catching,” I say, indifferent to Alex’s total disinterest in anything sports related. “In the fifth inning, there was a close play at home plate. The runner from Flint Central tried to score by running through Hitchings, but Hitchings demolished the guy. He didn’t just block the plate and knock the runner on his ass. He tagged him so hard he broke the guy’s nose, but he also dropped the ball, allowing the run to score.”
“He’s an asshole all the time, isn’t he?” Alex asks.
I laugh loudly, gathering a few stares. “Anyway, in the next inning, Hitchings is batting, and the pitcher from Central throws the ball at him. Hitchings rushed the mound and threw this savage body block, knocking the guy down, and then he started punching out his lights.”
“Sounds like your wrestling show, doesn’t it?” Alex cracks, but I’m not laughing.
“The image I’ll most remember is King wrapping his arms around Hitchings to keep him from throwing more punches. Hitchings’s knuckles were smeared with blood and grass stains, and his face was contorted in a fanatical smile,” I finish the story, noticing that Hitchings is a few feet away. He’s flashing that same smile at Alex and me.
“You surprise me, Hendricks,” Hitchings says, turning his attention away from the bottle and toward us. “I thought you’d be the one wearing a dress tonight and Alexandra the tux.”
“Whatever, Bob. Whatever you want to say,” I reply with my customary shrug. I look around and the dock seems to be filled with mostly unfriendly faces.
Hitchings laughs loudly and gulps his whiskey hard. “No speech, big mouth?”
“We’re leaving,” Alex says, taking a step toward the door, which opens to reveal two more unfriendly faces heading toward us: Sean and Kylee, aglow in love and clove smoke.
“Freak faggot, no wonder Kylee dropped your ass.” Hitchings won’t let it go.
I toss my smoke on the ground, then turn to face him. “That’s an excellent use of alliteration for someone who’s illiterate.” It’s a cheap shot and not true. Hitchings isn’t an idiot; he just acts like one.
“What’re you gonna do about it, faggot?” Hitchings says, raising both his voice and his fists.
Sticks and stones, and pencils, punches, and pushes—I had let it all go, and he had always won, but I realize that doesn’t make me a loser at all. Regardless, I say, “Nothing at all.”
“You two deserve each other,” he says, coming right up against Alex, then poking him in the chest. Alex flinches and takes a step back while my anger builds. Hitchings is slurring his words, drowning in the Jack swimming in his skull. “You two faggots are fucking gutless.”
“Gutless?” I repeat. As if by instinct, I look over at Kylee, and remember her describing me that way in her journal, one of the many paper cuts I suffered from reading it. “A gutless person would have run away, but I came back to school every day. A gutless person would be like all of you, picking on anyone a little bit different. How much guts does that take? You can call me a faggot or a freak, but don’t you dare call me gutless. Just because I don’t want to fight you doesn’t make me gutless,” I shout, feeling like a stone is thrown from around my neck.
“Big talk, no action. Like I said, gutless,” Hitchings says, then laug
hs in Alex’s face.
“You’re just not worth the effort!” Alex yells. “You fugly subhuman—”
Before Alex completes his suicide note, Hitchings pushes him down to the ground and spits right in his face. “Freaks! I hate all you freaks!”
“I’ve had it with you, Hitchings!” I shout back at him as I remove my tux jacket.
“Cool it, Bret, he’s not worth it,” Alex says as he picks himself off the concrete.
“No, he’s not,” I say tossing my jacket at Hitchings. “But I am. And so are you.”
Dad always asks me what I am going to do with myself, and I finally have an answer as I take two steps toward Hitchings, refusing to take one step back. He pushes me hard, but I keep my balance, then take a wild swing at him. But unlike during my scuffle with Sean, luck isn’t smiling as my fist misses. Hitchings throws a body block on me, knocking me on my ass.
“Get up!” Hitchings growls.
“Stay down!” Alex yells, but all of my common sense has gone deaf.
“Fine, let’s do this,” I sing out, and feel as free and unafraid as I do onstage.
“Bret, no!” Kylee shouts, but the sound of her voice only steels my determination.
Hitchings laughs as I put my hands in front of me and shout. “Hitchings, I’m not afraid of you!”
“No!” Kylee screams again at me.
“Watch this,” Hitchings sneers, leering at Kylee and pointing at Alex.
And they do.
He pushes me until I’m up against a wall. I push off and try to tackle him. My lame offensive attempt allows him to wrap his arms around my head, holding it in place near his waist.
“Blow me, faggot!” Hitchings shouts, slamming his right knee into my face. The first impact jolts me backward and twists my head. This isn’t WWE, and Stone Cold isn’t going to do a run-in to save my ass. My fantasy comes knee to face with my reality, as Hitchings slams his knee up again, exploding the blood vessels in my nose and mouth. “This will shut you up!”
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