Anger Is a Gift Sneak Peek

by Mark Oshiro

  “I’m sure it’s retaliation, too,” said Njemile. “Since she made it difficult for the school, with her name change and all that. I remember how hard Mr. Elliot fought against letting me use the girls’ lockers.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Bits. “Props to you, though, for actually making the school do something about it. I can’t imagine talking to Mr. Elliot or anyone about being nonbinary.”

  Njemile shrugged. “I try not to think about that man. He means nothing to me.”

  “That doesn’t help Shawna, though,” Bits said quietly.

  “Well, of course not,” Moss said. “But we’re powerless in this situation, aren’t we? Maybe Shawna’s parents will sue the district or something.”

  “I’m sure it won’t hurt if we at least talk about it to other people,” Njemile suggested. “Get a conversation started. They’d listen to you, Moss.”

  He frowned at her.

  “Just talking,” she’d said. “I mean, there are some kids who respect you, you know. Because—”

  “Because my father died?” he said, cutting her off.

  She grimaced, and he heard Bits gasp. “No, Moss. I wasn’t going to say that,” she said.

  “It’s true, though. Everyone thinks it. And people still tell me, ‘Your father died for the cause.’” He shook his head. “Man, I’d rather have my father back than further some damn cause.”

  Njemile and Bits kept their eyes downward when Moss looked at them. They were quiet for a full block before Njemile cleared her throat. “Because you’re a good friend,” she said.

  “What?”

  “That’s why kids respect you,” she said. “You’re a nice person, Moss.”

  “She’s not wrong,” said Bits, flashing Moss with a rare smile.

  “Shit,” he said. “I’m sorry for that, then.”

  “No big deal,” said Njemile. “I can see why you thought I was gonna say that.”

  “But how is that supposed to help Shawna?” Moss asked. He turned off the sidewalk to take a shortcut over the front lawn to the steps into the school. No one said anything, so he spun around to walk backward and talk with his friends. “It’s out of our hands.”

  They weren’t paying attention to him. They were all motionless, staring behind Moss.

  When he turned back around, he saw the cops at the top of the steps. None of them were Hull. All new faces, all set like stone, all surveying the students as they entered. They said nothing. Did nothing. They just stood there.

  “Y’all,” said Njemile. “What is that?”

  “Maybe just to intimidate us,” said Bits.

  “Where’s Hull?” Moss said. “You think he’s gone?”

  “I hope so,” said Njemile. “Though I feel like having one cop permanently on campus is a lot better than … well, that.”

  “Let’s just get to class before the bell rings,” said Moss. Without another word, the three of them made their way up the steps. They passed single file between the cops—six in number, Moss counted. Their eyes washed over their bodies, inspecting them, but they didn’t otherwise budge.

  “Can we retire this whole week?” Njemile said once they got indoors.

  Before any of them could answer, they heard the unfortunate ring of the bell that signaled that they were indeed going to be late. As they rushed off to their homerooms, Njemile grabbed Moss’s arm. “Talk to someone,” she reminded him. “Anyone. You should.”

  Seconds later, they both entered Mrs. Torrance’s classroom. She scowled at him briefly, but otherwise said nothing. He scrambled to his normal seat next to Njemile and sat, pulling out his tattered copy of Things Fall Apart. He hoped that if he seemed busy, Mrs. Torrance wouldn’t say anything to him.

  “Didn’t do last night’s reading, Mr. Jeffries?”

  He sighed, lowering the book. “Long night,” he said. “I’ll get it done, I promise.”

  At that, a few other students rustled in their bags and took out their books or reading devices, too, and a roll of laughter rumbled through the room.

  “As long as y’all are reading, I’m happy,” Mrs. Torrance said, and she began to take attendance. Moss watched her look over the classroom and settle on the lone empty seat in the back. His heart sank; it was where Shawna usually sat, both in homeroom and in AP English. Mrs. Torrance grimaced. “What a shame,” she said under her breath.

  “What’s gonna happen to her?” Njemile asked.

  Mrs. Torrance shook her head. “I don’t know, Njemile,” she said. “It’s hard to say. Miss Stephanie in the front office stopped me this morning to tell me to pay attention to the morning announcements. Apparently, Mr. Elliot is going to address it.”

  Someone groaned loudly behind Moss. He looked back and saw that Carmela had her hand up. Mrs. Torrance called on her.

  “Like, why do we even have to deal with this kinda stuff?” she asked. “My cousin goes to North. She don’t got cops choking students. And Mr. Barre handed us all copies of textbooks.” She reached into her bag, yanked out a stack of paper, and plopped it down on her desk. “This is what I gotta study from.” It looked a lot like the one Moss had been given by his biology teacher.

  Maybe this is my chance to talk about this, Moss thought. He raised his hand, and Mrs. Torrance pointed at him. “Yeah, and someone broke into the lab over the summer,” he added, sitting up straight, speaking with confidence, “so we gotta share equipment. Like ten students to one set.”

  He saw a grim face settle on Mrs. Torrance, and he was certain she was irritated with him. But she looked about the class again. “Okay, let’s talk about this,” she said. “At least before Mr. Elliot comes on. Who else?”

  “There are the stains everywhere,” said Larry. “What is that stuff? It’s all over the ceiling.”

  “Our school is old,” said Mrs. Torrance.

  “So is Piedmont High,” said Moss, an electricity leaping through him. “So is Berkeley High. Aren’t they both older than us?”

  His teacher nodded. “Indeed. So why is our campus the way it is? Anyone know?”

  “Money?” said Njemile, more a question than a certainty. “We just don’t have any money.”

  “Because of those test things,” Larry added. “We didn’t do good, so they took money from us.”

  “It doesn’t quite work that way,” said Mrs. Torrance. “It’s not that they took it away from us. We just got less of it for anything that isn’t test preparation.”

  “But why?” said Moss, his energy turning to frustration. “That doesn’t make any sense. Shouldn’t they want to give us a better chance to improve test scores?”

  “You would think so,” said Mrs. Torrance. “But the system isn’t set up that way.”

  It always began in his chest, a swelling anxiety that blossomed through his veins, gripped his heart, spread up his spine, pressed against his eyes, the pressure often morphing into a migraine. Anger. It was that same unwanted tourist most days, not because Moss saw no need for it, but because he was tired of it consuming him so often. The conversation turned to other topics: Team cancellations. Broken doors and windows. The way the water in the girls’ locker room never came out clear. He listened as best as he could, trying to even out his breathing, but each new detail pushed him further into himself, more convinced than ever before that all of his self-doubt and hatred was the only world he would ever know. They couldn’t change any of this.

  Mr. Elliot’s voice on the loudspeaker yanked him back, though. He knew he could get lost within his thoughts too easily, and he wondered if he should talk to his therapist about it next month.

  He focused on the words coming out of the gray box up above the peeling whiteboard.

  “Good morning, students,” the principal said. His voice was cheerful, too cheerful, really. “Welcome to our first Friday of the school year, and the Associated Student Body would like to remind each of you that elections will be in three weeks. In the meantime, nominations conclude next Wednesday, so if you would l
ike to represent your class in any of the positions available, please declare your intent in the front office by then.”

  The voice paused, and Moss heard papers rustling in the background. No one in his homeroom said a word, and he glanced over at Njemile, who was chewing on one of her nails. He looked at Mrs. Torrance, who stood next to her desk, her right hand gripping it so tight that he could see the muscles flexing in her arm.

  “Now,” said Mr. Elliot, his voice far away at first, then closer. “I am proud of the quick response of some of our faculty members yesterday during the unfortunate altercation on campus.”

  This time, it was Mrs. Torrance who groaned. The class bristled in response. “‘Altercation’?” she said, her words laced with acid. “That’s what you’re calling it?”

  “We believe the safety of students at West Oakland High is of the utmost importance. Therefore, we wanted to let all of our students know that Officer Hull has been let go.”

  Moss heard clapping, a few whoops of celebration, and saw surprise on Mrs. Torrance’s face. She held up a hand. “Quiet down,” she said. “He’s pausing for a reason.”

  As if Mr. Elliot knew there’d be a response to that, he didn’t say anything for a few beats. “Now,” he said. “We will be instituting a new policy for medications, starting today. You must register all medications with the school nurse, who will set up distribution throughout the day. Please stop by the office and speak with Miss Stephanie in order to set up an appointment.”

  Mr. Elliot cleared his throat, and the awkward silence that followed felt wrong. Unnerving. He’s not done, is he? Moss thought. More papers rustling. Silence again. Mr. Elliot coughed. “I want to reiterate that we here at West Oakland High do not tolerate anything that risks the safety of our student body. Many students filmed yesterday’s altercation and posted these videos all over social media. By the end of next week, I will announce our new policy for cell phones on campus.”

  Moss knew that Mr. Elliot was aware that this would not go over well. He paused again, as if he were speaking to everyone in the school’s auditorium and leaving time for the groans and jeers. “And finally,” he said, and he kept clearing his throat, each crackle of static a jolt of terror in Moss’s body, “in order to guarantee a safe environment for all here at West Oakland High, I have signed our school up in a pilot program with the Oakland Police Department to install metal detectors at the main entrance.”

  The din that rose around Moss was overwhelming. Someone must have been in the office where Mr. Elliot made the announcements, because a young voice rang out in shock. “Are you serious?” the kid said.

  It was chaos in Mrs. Torrance’s room. Her face drooped; she looked numb. She must have been, because she wasn’t trying to regain control in the class. Larry was swearing at the top of his lungs, and Njemile grabbed Moss’s arm. “He can’t be serious, can he?” she shouted. “What are we? Prisoners?”

  He couldn’t respond to her. His rage simmered beneath the surface.

  * * *

  He was going through the motions. There wasn’t a class that day that wasn’t sidelined by the morning’s announcement. Mrs. Torrance hosted yet another discussion in her English class, instead of working on an essay she had assigned for the following week. No one seemed able to concentrate. “Metal detectors?” Kaisha had said.

  “Yep,” said Njemile. “That’s our life now.”

  “I still can’t get over it. Is Reg even going to be able to go through them?”

  Moss slapped his forehead. “Damn, I didn’t even think of that. When do you see him next?”

  “We got precalc together,” she said. “I’ll ask him about his knee, but I can’t imagine those pins won’t set it off every day.”

  “And you know they’re gonna hassle him about it every time,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t expect we’ll get reassigned a cop better than Officer Hull.”

  She clicked her tongue against her teeth, but said nothing.

  “Should we do something about this?” Njemile asked. “Maybe meet up with some other people and at least talk about it. Bounce some ideas around and stuff.”

  “I dunno,” said Moss. “Maybe. I don’t know if we should draw attention to ourselves, though. Won’t Mr. Jacobs or Mr. Elliot target us next?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past them,” said Kaisha. “Think about it, though. I’ll reach out to Reg.”

  “I could invite Esperanza, too,” Moss said.

  “Perfect!” Kaisha exclaimed. “Should someone invite Shawna? I feel like she might need a gripe session more than us.”

  “That’s a good idea, but I don’t really know her,” said Moss.

  “I got y’all,” said Njemile. “Girls like us gotta stick together, so I’ll see if she wants to come. Where could we meet?”

  “Yo, let’s go back to Farley’s over on Grand,” said Moss. “You know the spot, right? Next to the Ethiopian place?” They nodded at him. “Twelve on Saturday sound good to you?”

  They agreed and then parted for the next period. Moss still wasn’t sure if it would do anything, but he quietly knew it would be nice to get the whole squad together. Moss made his way to Mr. Riordan’s American history class, while sending texts to both Esperanza and Rawiya. Thankfully, he was able to zone out for nearly a full hour while Riordan droned on about the colonies. Riordan never seemed to be interested in anything happening on campus that took place outside that classroom, and it seemed like he didn’t even notice that not one person was paying attention.

  The bell rang for lunch, and the room emptied in what felt like record time. Moss didn’t feel much like socializing, so he pulled an apple out of his bag that he’d grabbed on the way out the door that morning. He wandered past the quad while munching on it and headed for the east wing to see if the college reps had decided to stick around until lunchtime this year. Even though the school’s library was just one story and little more than a single room, Mrs. Hernandez had packed it full. Books balanced precariously on top of shelves, and there was a tall stack with bright, frayed covers next to her desk. She greeted Moss and turned back to helping a student with a large armful that they’d spilled over the counter. He dropped the half-eaten apple in the trash, his stomach rumbling. Moss wasn’t as hungry as he thought.

  The main area wasn’t full of its usual students studying. The collection of tables and chairs had been rearranged into a basic U shape around the room, and multiple colleges had set up their displays on them. Each had two or three people manning a table, many of them lost in conversations with prospective students. While the turnout of West Oakland High attendees was higher than Moss expected, an unease crept through him. He saw the booth for Laney College, the community college that sat south of Lake Merritt. There was one for Merritt College, another for Holy Names, one for Contra Costa College. He made a full pass before he realized that there were some names missing.

  No one from UC Berkeley. No one from Cal State East Bay. No one from SF State or UCSF. There was not one major university or college in the room. He passed by the front desk on his way out, and Mrs. Hernandez flagged him down. She pulled her long black hair back into a ponytail. “Couldn’t find a book, Moss?” she said. “You know I know where everything is.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of doubting you,” he said. “Nah, I was just … I dunno, a little disappointed. That’s all.”

  She lowered her voice. “We got even less than last year,” she said. “None of the academies even showed up this time around.” She sighed. “If you need help with any of the state schools, you could always swing by here later.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Hernandez,” he said. “I’ll keep you in mind.”

  He wandered back out of the library. It wasn’t that he was surprised that things at his school were getting worse. He wasn’t naive. Things just felt so obvious now, as if he couldn’t push it into the background and ignore it.

  He had the same thought as he sat on the front steps of the school that afternoon, waiti
ng for Esperanza to show up. She was late, so he pulled his phone out again. Maybe I shouldn’t wait to hear her advice, he thought, and he sent off a quick reply to Javier.

  See u tonight. Be there around 7.

  He ran his hands over the edge of the concrete steps out of habit, but it immediately felt wrong. He was so used to the specific ridges of Dawit’s shop that this was like wearing someone else’s clothes or putting your shoes on the wrong feet.

  Esperanza walked up to him a few minutes later, a wide smile on her face and a pale folder clutched in her arms. “Sorry, Moss! Turns out I couldn’t read my own schedule, cuz I definitely thought that I didn’t have a sixth period on Fridays.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I haven’t been waiting long.”

  She sat down next to him. “Ugh, what a week,” she said. “Sorry I haven’t texted you much.”

  “I know! I have so much to tell you.”

  “Me too,” she said. “I have too many of these things to fill out, though.”

  He peeked over at the folder. “What are those?”

  “College applications,” she said. “I know, I know, we don’t actually send them out until next year, but my parents want me to practice now.”

  “Y’all had a college fair today, too?”

  “Yeah! I wish they gave us more time, though. I had a billion questions, and I feel like maybe five of them got answered.”

  “At least you got to talk to someone,” he said. “Ours was terrible. Maybe like eight colleges showed up.”

  “That’s not so bad,” she said. “I mean, there aren’t that many major universities here, and the big ones kinda dominate it all.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t be able to tell if you were there today. It was kinda pathetic.”

  She bristled next to him. “That bad, huh?”

  “Tell me,” he said, turning to her. “Who were the top five schools who came to your fair?”

  “Well, the obvious ones, I guess,” she said. “Berkeley, UCSF, San Francisco State, Mills…” She stopped listing them. “Oh. Lemme guess. None of them showed up here, right?”

  “Bingo,” he said. “So it’s not even like we get a chance to learn about them in the first place.”