by Ken Brosky
But Joey. Joey was not so easily beaten. And while he had learned his lesson about going after me, no one else in the school was safe. Not even some of his friends were safe, as they quickly learned in the halls and cafeteria. He was out of control. Absolutely out of control. And through it all, I kept hearing Chase’s voice in my head:
“You’re the hero.”
It happened that Friday, in Geometry class. Joey sat in the far back. We had a substitute teacher named Mr. Ahmed who gave us the last fifteen minutes to ourselves after drilling us with some grueling squares and triangles. I huddled close with Rachel and a couple art students who had a binder full of photography that they were entering in a competition.
The photos were good. Like, really good. And we’re not talking about stuff you put together using Photoshop or any of that twenty-first century crud. These three girls were entering photos they’d developed in a darkroom. Photos that took hours and hours to perfect inside a cramped place that was stinking with fumes that burned their nostrils. Oh, and we’re not talking about photos of puddles or sad playground equipment, either. These girls were finding all sorts of weird cracks and corners of Milwaukee and making it all beautiful. There was one of a man reaching into a garbage can in a cramped alley. Another was of a broken window, and sitting on the ledge on the other side of the window was a single rose, three of its petals wilted. Another was a top-down shot of a crabapple tree, the sidewalk underneath it littered with splattered crabapples.
That last one … well, that one Joey didn’t like it too much.
I heard him coming but I kept mum, hoping he might just be wandering around to stretch his legs. He liked sitting still about as much as he liked learning. But our luck wasn’t with us. He stopped beside Rachel, pointed to the picture of the crabapple tree with one grubby finger, startling Rachel and one of the photographer girls named Kayla.
“Is that crap?” he asked. “All over the sidewalk? Why are you taking pictures of crap?”
Kayla looked up at him, terrified.
“Get away from us,” I warned, shifting in my chair. My terrible wizard-inflicted bruise on my left leg screamed for me to sit still and stay out of this.
Joey looked at me, no doubt sizing up my wounds. He was sucking on a sucker, and the white stem poked out between his lips. “I’m just asking a question. That OK? Can I speak freely?”
“You think you’re really smart, don’t you?” I asked. I knew what he was doing. He was playing out the bad guy fantasy from every movie ever made: pretending to be following the law, antagonizing the hero.
He was in for a big surprise if he expected me to go along with that tired old script.
Joey turned back to Kayla, sucking loudly on his sucker. “It’s a pretty ugly photo.”
Kayla curled up in her chair. She was already a petite one, her loose red t-shirt and baggy jeans giving making her look more like a freshman than a senior. Now she looked even smaller, as if Joey’s shadow was causing her some sort of bodily harm.
“You’re a bully,” Rachel whispered.
We all looked at her in surprise. Joey’s ears reddened. I looked around—everyone in the class was watching now, even our substitute teacher, who stood behind the teacher’s desk in the front of the room, debating whether to get involved.
“You’re a bully,” Rachel said again, more forceful this time.
Joey pulled the red sucker from his mouth and pointed it at her. “You know what you are?”
Full stop. I’m not going to repeat what Joey said next. Let’s just say it was something you say to a homosexual solely to hurt her feelings. It doesn’t matter what name he called her. What matters is he didn’t even know Rachel. All he did was reduce her to an object of ridicule, and he went out of his way to be as hateful and hurtful as possible.
And all of it was too much.
“That’s it!” I said, pounding the table.
Joey flinched, stepping back. He must have immediately realized what just transpired because he put the sucker back in his mouth and stood straight, doing his best to recover.
But the damage was done. I could see in my classmates’ eyes a look of complete surprise. Joey Harrington had just flinched. The stone façade had cracked.
“I’m going outside,” I told the class. “And I’m not coming back inside until Joey Harrington is suspended.”
A few of the students gasped.
Mr. Ahmed held up his hands. “Um, I don’t think you can do that …”
“I’m not coming back in until this school starts dealing with bullies,” I added. “All of them, including the Mean Girls. And anyone who’s sick of the bullying in this school can join me.”
Rachel stood up. Then Anton and Jared from the basketball team. Then Kayla and her photographer friends.
Then everyone else in the class except Joey and his little table of football friends that included Mean Girl Cynthia Blake, who was glaring at me with a sour face. Mr. Ahmed watched in stunned silence. So did Joey.
We marched to Mr. Feinman’s classroom. I opened the door, knowing full well the students would be in groups doing some wild activity related to history.
I wasn’t disappointed.
Chase was there, sitting with Clyde and a couple others, working on a big colorful poster that I think was supposed to represent Napolean’s battle at Waterloo.
“Alice?” Mr. Feinman said, weaving his way around the tables. The rest of the class stopped what they were doing to stare, peering over my shoulder to see how many students were with me.
“We’re going on strike,” I announced. “And we’re not coming back inside until Joey Harrington is suspended. I don’t know what else because I’m too angry to think!”
Mr. Feinman stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Huh.” He looked at the other students. “Is that what you all want?”
“Man!” Clyde exclaimed, shaking his head. “I’ve got some demands, all right.”
“Are we going to get in trouble for missing class?” asked Samantha Klinger, one of the gamers who kept pink streaks in her hair.
Mr. Feinman shrugged. “I’d say yes. The real question is what if you win?”
“We need an anti-bully committee,” said Bryce Smith, a theater kid with thick glasses. “Made up of students and teachers so bullies have to answer to someone other than the principal. So there’s no favorites.”
The class murmured an agreement. The students behind me seconded the motion.
“So go,” Mr. Feinman said. “Go and fight for your education, then.”
I felt a heavy hand squeeze my shoulder. I spun around, nearly karate-chopping Mr. Ahmed right in the ear. The tall man pushed past me.
“Mr. Feinman,” he said, “Mr. Feinman, I’m so sorry. There was an altercation with another student. He said something he shouldn’t have.”
“What did he say?” Chase asked.
When Mr. Ahmed didn’t answer, Mr. Feinman urged him, “Go on, it’s OK.”
Mr. Ahmed’s brown skin turned a crimson red. Bless his heart, he repeated Joey’s verbal assault verbatim. The class nearly gasped in unison. “But it’s OK,” Mr. Ahmed said. “I’ll send him down to the principal’s office and everything will be right as rain.”
“Oh maaaaaan,” Clyde said, slumping in his chair. “This guy’s totally out of the loop.”
“Joey won’t get punished at all!” Samantha Klinger yelled. She stood up, knocking over her chair. “There’s a football game next weekend!”
The class shouted an angry agreement. Mr. Ahmed looked totally confused. He looked to Mr. Feinman for help.
Mr. Feinman turned to his class. “I’d recommend making signs.”
And then, just like that, we doubled our strength. We took markers and poster board outside, not bothering with jackets or backpacks.
By the time the principal got wind, three more classes had evacuated the building. He stepped outside, standing on concrete staircase and glaring at us. We held up our signs so he could read the
m. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and went back inside.
I ran across the parking lot to Seth’s car to get extra markers and extra poster board, which I’d just so happened to have stored safely inside his trunk.
“You know,” Briar said, lounging on the top of Seth’s car, “I could very well help you. If I wasn’t mortally wounded.” He held up his bandaged paws.
“You’re being a baby,” I murmured, glancing around to make sure we were alone. “And it was your own fault for grabbing my saber.”
He sat up. “Do you have any idea how much it burns to touch a weapon crafted by the hero?”
I held up my finger that had been burned by Agnim’s fireball of death. There were still a few blisters. The burning sensation hadn’t left for days. “I think I have an idea.” I chuckled. “You know, this probably would have healed already, except Clyde has this weird fascination with poking the skin bubbles while we’re at lunch.”
“That’s positively disgusting.”
“It really, really is.”
“So what’s all this then? A nefarious goings-on at the learning institution?”
I smiled, shutting the trunk. “Call it a little real-world heroics.”
“Ah, splendid! There is no greater hero than the one who can do good without the magic pen. You’d be amazed how many of your contemporaries forgot that.”
I glanced around again, making sure the parking lot was still empty. “How’s your … um, vacation?”
Briar swooned, nearly falling off the car. “More relaxing than you can possibly imagine. Although I am itching to get back into it. Nothing like the thrill of dragon slaying, I always say. Any dreams yet?”
“No. Thank gawd. The fencing tournament is next week. You’re going to come, right?”
The rabbit nodded. “I shan’t miss it.”
“Good. And your arm?”
He held it out, proudly displaying his glossy brownish fur. “No lasting harm. That isn’t to say being bitten by a dragon was painless, though …”
I smiled. “I’ll leave you a plate of cookies on the kitchen counter tonight.”
His long ears perked up.
Back at the front of the building, more students had joined us, congregating on the sidewalk and grass mall in front of the school. We made more signs. Signs like this:
NO MORE BULLYING.
WE WANT A BULLY-FREE EDUCATION.
NO MORE FEAR.
OUR SCHOOL IS INFESTED (WITH BULLIES)
Cars honked. Other students watched from the windows.
“O. M. G.” Jasmine made her way through the crowd, Margaret in tow. She grabbed Rachel by the shoulders. “Can you believe this? You totally started this, girl!”
“Well …” Rachel shrugged. “Alice was the one who …”
“Oh, whatevs,” Margaret brushed me aside with a wave of the hand. “Alice is, like, Wonder Woman or something. But you? You’re just a normal person. Like the rest of us.”
“Normal,” Rachel said, tasting the word on her tongue. Tears welled up in her eyes. She looked at me.
“Just like us,” Margaret said, putting an arm around our fencing teammate.
Jasmine put her head on Rachel’s shoulder. It was comical, given Jasmine was a good head shorter. She glanced over the crowd at the school and her eyes widened. “Uh oh.”
Principal Sanders was walking down the front steps of the school, carefully unbuttoning his brown suit coat. The crowd of students went silent. Principal Sanders’ brown dress shoes tapped on the concrete. He was looking right at me.
“Goodenough,” he said, stopping just a few inches from where the school property ended.
I walked over to the sidewalk, standing in front of him, my fingers tense as if he might grab me and toss me back in the school. This was it. Our turning point. If we caved … if we showed weakness … the spell would break. Students would disperse, hopeless.
I wasn’t going to let that happen without a fight.
Principal Sanders sighed. “Get everyone inside.”
“No. Not until our demands are met.”
He raised one eyebrow. A breeze tussled his thinning hair. He wasn’t as intimidating out here, I realized. It was as if the strength of his power came from his office, where he was safe and in charge.
Out here? Out here, we were in charge.
“Joey Harrington will receive detention for what he said,” Principal Sanders offered.
The crowd of students booed. He turned to them, surprised, his jaw dropping just a bit.
“We want him suspended,” I said. “And if he bullies any student again, we want him expelled. We want a committee made up of students and teachers tasked with reviewing incidents of bullying and we want them to have the power to decide the punishment, since you are obviously incapable of being fair. And we want this written into the school charter, so that every new class of students is protected from bullies.”
He took a deep breath, turned, and walked back into the school.
Everyone started texting. More students snuck out between fourth and fifth period, and even more simply stormed out of the lunchroom, announcing that Mr. Whitmann—the monitor on duty—had refused to stop them. Seth arrived, bringing with him a handful of younger students who played percussion in the marching band.
“Holy Wonderbread,” Kayla said, staring at her phone. “My parents are totally coming down to join us! Everyone text your parents!” she called out. “And tell them to bring blankets because it’s getting freezing!”
Everyone in the crowd got on their phones.
Between fifth and sixth period, more students poured out of the school.
Then the police arrived.
Principal Sanders came out to meet the two officers, pointing directly to me as he hurried down the stairs. “Arrest them all!” he said, one hand clutching his striped red tie to keep it from flapping in the breeze. He was sweating—I imagined him pacing his office, staring out the window every few minutes.
The officers looked at me.
“We’re just peacefully assembling,” I said.
“They are truant,” Principal Sanders snapped. One finger was still pointing right at me. “They must be arrested and sent to jail.”
“Jail?!” I pointed a finger back at him. “All we want is to not be bullied! That’s it!”
“You, young lady, are on the verge of being expelled!”
“Wait, hold on.” One of the police officers—a middle-aged woman with dark black hair—held up both hands. “You want us to arrest more than a hundred students who are out here because they’re sick of being bullied?”
“Yes.”
She looked at her partner, smirking. “You want us to club them too? Maybe pepper spray them? I mean, they’re obviously pretty dangerous.”
Principal Sanders gave her the evil eye. “Are you going to arrest them or not?”
“No, sir. But we’ll stick around and make sure they don’t burn down the school if it makes you feel better.”
Principal Sanders, furious, stomped back into the building.
School got out. More students joined us, but not the bullies. Joey Harrington and his friends got into their cars, peeling out of the parking lot and kicking up smelly tire smoke that wafted into the crowd. In one of the cars, I saw Trish. I wasn’t surprised. Sad, but not surprised.
Parents began arriving. Some brought blankets. A few tried to convince their kids to go home, but just about everyone refused. None of the parents seemed sure of what to do except stand around and either hold a sign or wander into the building to get some answers from Principal Sanders.
Then my parents arrived. Mom looked horrified. Dad had his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, examining the crowd. I didn’t say anything to them. I just held up my sign:
WE DESERVE A BULLY-FREE EDUCATION.
Dad smiled.
Mom looked around at the mass of students camped out, surveying it all. She put her hands on her hips. “We’ll need pizza.�
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Six o’clock came and went. None of the teachers had left the building yet—we knew because all their cars were still parked in the parking lot. Principal Sanders stayed in his office. Sometimes, he came to his window and the students’ chants got louder.
OK. This wasn’t perfect by any means. A few parents went inside the building and came back out, announcing grimly that Principal Sanders’ door was shut and locked, and it sounded like a number of the teachers were in there with him. Some of the students refused to hold signs because their hands would get too cold. Seth spent an entire hour repeatedly touching a 9-volt battery with his tongue. Jasmine passed around a game on her cell phone. A couple students balked at the pizza dinner ordered by the parents and wandered off to find something more appetizing, not quite getting the idea that in order to protest something, you sorta have to stick around and suffer a little bit.
But most of them came back. And we stood together.
7:00 passed.
Then 8:00.
Finally, Principal Sanders walked out of the building. He had his coat on. At first, we thought he was leaving, but then he called some of the parents over. They talked heatedly. Finally, my mom said in a loud voice: “I think you should talk to your students, not us.”
We cheered.
Principal Sanders frowned. Under the light of the streetlights, he looked positively orc-ish, which only steeled my resolve not to give in. I met him on the sidewalk with Rachel. Anton from the basketball team came, too, wheeling Chase in front of him to remind Principal Sanders that we had athletes in our crowd, too.
We had everybody. That was what made us so strong.
“Joey Harrington will be suspended,” Principal Sanders said. “He won’t play Friday’s football game, as per the rules of the school charter. I’ll leave the anti-bullying measures up to the Student Senate. Will you please go home now?”
I turned to Rachel. She nodded. “We agree.”
“Wonderful,” he said in a low voice, stepping around us to get to the parking lot.
We turned back to the massive crowd of students and parents. Rachel smiled.
“We won,” she said.