“Doesn’t that make you angry?” I ask her. “It seems so unfair.”
She fiddles with the end of her backpack strap. “Angry? Yeah. They said I can run next year for senior class president ‘if Mayor Abbott loses, because hopefully the atmosphere will be less fraught.’”
Farida looks at Haley and then at me.
“Can’t one of you run?”
Haley laughs. “I’d love to help, but running for class president isn’t my thing. Not at all.” She and Farida both look at me, then Haley says, “Now, Stella—it’s got her name written all over it.”
I’m reading the poster for the Future Business Leaders of America Club even though I have no intention of joining. Anything to avoid eye contact with Farida, because while I want to be a good friend, I don’t think I want to run for class president.
“Stella, you know how to debate Chris and win,” Farida says, and I’m forced to stop pretending and meet her gaze. “You could beat him.”
“If people voted because of logic and persuasive arguments, maybe,” I admit. “I beat him about sixty-five percent of the time in debates. But this is a class election. I’m not going to beat him because I’ve backed up my arguments with facts.”
“No one is going to beat him unless someone runs,” Farida points out.
She’s right. I don’t want Chris to be president, and someone should definitely run. I just don’t know if that someone has to be me. But I don’t have the courage to look her in the eye and say no right at this very minute.
“I’ll think about it” is what I say instead.
Luckily for me, that seems to make Farida happy for now, and I ask her about Lucy and the Legends, this new band she’s really into. Hopefully, someone else will step up before I have to tell her that there’s enough going on at home right now without running for office, too.
I’d planned to talk to my parents about whether I should run for class president tonight, but as usual, whenever I need to talk to them they’re too busy dealing with the latest drama involving Rob. He’s started taking a few classes at the local community college. The idea is that he’ll start there and then transfer to a state university after his sophomore year, once he’s back in the school routine. It’s also cheaper that way.
I didn’t realize that it’s also because my parents are worried about him living on his own until I overhear them talking when I come downstairs to ask their advice. I sit on the bottom step outside the door, eavesdropping as Mom tells Dad that she thought she’d be able to stop worrying about him getting hurt once he got back, but now she’s just exchanged it for a different kind of worry.
I rest my chin on my knees and study the chipping lavender nail polish on my toes. Dad tells her that everything will turn out okay in the end. After all, it did for him, and pretty much all the guys down at the American Legion, which is where a lot of the local veterans hang out.
“In the end,” Mom says. “But what about Frank? He put Angelica and the kids through some rough years after Vietnam before it turned out okay. And … what about your father?”
Frank Meyers is a friend of Dad’s from the Argleton Legion post. My paternal grandfather, who also fought in Vietnam, died of non-Hodgkin lymphoma when I was little. I don’t remember that much about him other than him being really sick, so I’m not sure what Mom means.
“Vietnam was different,” Dad says. “Those vets had a hard time when they got back. They didn’t get much of a welcome. In fact, a lot of people were downright hostile.”
“I know but—”
“Besides, Frank told me he’d grown to question the war himself. He got tired of watching so many good men die when there didn’t seem be any overall strategy. It messed him up.”
“Bill, kids are coming back from this war devastated, too. Haven’t you been paying attention?”
“Of course I have, Val. I had to fight Rob to confiscate his sidearm the other day,” Dad said. “I’m glad it’s in the gun safe, and I changed the combination. But we still don’t know exactly what’s going on with Rob.”
I guess that explains Dad icing his hand on Saturday when I came home from Farida’s house. I’d never know anything about what’s going on in this family if I didn’t sleuth it out myself.
“Perhaps you forgot that I’m a doctor, dear?” Mom says. Usually, when she says dear it’s a term of affection, but it doesn’t sound much like one right now.
“No, darlin’,” Dad says in a soothing voice, clearly getting the message. “But you’re not a psychiatrist. And besides that, he’s your son.”
Or maybe my dad’s not getting the message. Oh, Dad … I cringe from my listening post beyond the doorway.
“I’m aware of that, Bill. I was there when he was born.”
I stand up, thinking maybe it’s time to head upstairs, because it sounds like my parents, who rarely fight, are about to have a doozy.
But Dad’s back to smoothing things over. “What I mean is, it’s hard for a doctor to treat their own child.”
“Bill, if anyone knows a child, it’s his mother. And I’m telling you, our son needs help, and he needs it soon. He’s too proud to ask for it, because he’s afraid you’ll think he’s weak. That he can’t hack it the way you did.”
“I would never think that. I’m so proud of that boy and it’s breaking my heart to see him suffer this way,” Dad says. “But can’t you understand why he wouldn’t want that on his record? Like it or not, there’s still a stigma about going to see a shrink. It could come back to bite him later in life.”
“So it’s more important to keep mental health treatment off his record than to go get treatment so he doesn’t kill himself?” Mom’s voice is rising and the anxiety that this conversation causes has made me not want to talk to my parents anyway, and I tiptoe back upstairs. Luckily, I hear music coming out of Rob’s room, so I don’t have to worry about him overhearing the discussion downstairs. I won’t bother telling him to turn it down so I can get to sleep, because I know sleep won’t be coming easy for me tonight.
My brother is shutting everyone out, my dad was worried enough to take away his gun, and my mom knows that isn’t the only answer to keeping Rob safe.
But nobody in my family has bothered to actually talk to me about any of this. I just have to live with the symptoms and piece it together by luck or accident, with whatever information I can get.
I lie in bed, staring into the darkness that’s broken only by the glow of my devices. As I turn toward the wall, trying to find a magical sleep-inducing position, I can’t help thinking Mom’s right about one thing—what’s the point of having a clean medical record if you’re dead?
Hey, ThunderGeek—
You heard me all right, Rob. Thanks for the laugh. I needed it.
Not exactly smooth sailing here, either.
Speaking of seeing ex-girlfriends, I saw mine. You know, Kayla, who sent me my Dear John letter while we were over there?
She just got married.
Didn’t waste any time moving on, huh?
Me, I’m stuck. Can’t sleep. Afraid to close my eyes because I keep dreaming about what happened with Reyes. Sometimes I see it happening again in slow motion, and I’m trying to stop it, and I wake myself up because I’m shouting.
Other times, I see him as he was after it happened, but he talks to me and asks me why I didn’t stop it.
“If you weren’t so busy whining about that stupid letter from your stupid girlfriend who dumped your stupid butt,” he tells me, “maybe I’d still be alive instead of being a stupid ghost in your stupid dreams.”
If it were me, I’d be swearing, but Reyes was a good church-going boy. He never did like how much we all cursed, did he? Was in the wrong squad if he wanted clean talking. Poor guy was in the wrong war.
I hope all that praying and church going means he’s somewhere better now, ’cause it sure didn’t stop him from getting killed.
Stupid guy. Wish he’d stop haunting this messed-up marine.
“Are you okay, Jason?”
“Eating enough, Jason?”
“Drinking too much, Jason?”
Nag, nag, nag, all the freaking time.
Tried ignoring their calls and texts.
Yeah, good luck with that.
My sister showed up pounding on my door at six in the morning because Mom was convinced I’d died. She said the next time Mom’s going to call the police. I said if she calls the police, I’m never going to talk to either of them again.
She called me something that would have made Reyes blush and told me I was going to give Mom a heart attack from worry.
It’s like she could handle the idea of me in Afghanistan better than she can handle the real me being home.
Not that I blame her.
Hey, Blackhawk Down is on—gonna go watch it.
Keep dodging them bullets, bro.
Roadrunner out.
Since my parents are too busy dealing with my brother and whatever he brought back with him, I decide to ask Mr. Walsh his advice about the class president thing. Pros: He’s not just my AP Gov teacher, he’s also my debate coach. Cons: He’s Chris’s teacher and coach, too. But despite that, I feel like I can trust him to give me an honest opinion, and right now that’s what I need.
As soon as I get to school, I go to his classroom, even though I know he’s usually tied up doing prep work for the day. But Farida’s going to ask me for a decision when I see her, and I need to talk it through with someone who knows a thing or two before I make it.
Mr. Walsh is at his desk with a big travel mug of coffee, getting ready for class.
“Morning, Stella,” he says, looking up from his work. “What can I do for you?”
“Hi. Um … I know you’re busy and this probably isn’t a good time, but can I run something by you?”
“Shoot,” he says, and then takes a sip of coffee.
“Farida thinks I should run for class president,” I tell him. “And … I’m not sure if I should do it.”
“Okay,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “So … what are some of the factors in your thinking either for or against?”
“Well, mostly I’ve thought of the reasons against,” I admit. “And those are things like that I’m probably going to lose because I’m not nearly as popular as Chris or Amy. Class elections aren’t about the best candidate, really, are they?”
“I’m not going to lie and say popularity has nothing to do with it,” Mr. Walsh says, rubbing his chin. “But it’s not everything. Running a good campaign could potentially overcome any perceived popularity deficit.”
“Except I don’t know the first thing about running a campaign, so I’m not going to be any good at it,” I say.
“How can you know if you’ll be any good if you don’t even try running?” Mr. Walsh asks.
I don’t really have a good answer for that, so I move on to the other major reason not to run.
“To be honest, Mr. Walsh, there’s something else. Something I haven’t even told my best friends. It’s … about my brother, Rob.”
“Oh? How is Rob? He went into the marines, yes? Was in Afghanistan?”
I nod. “Two tours. It wasn’t so bad after the first one, but since he’s come back this time … well … things can get … stressful at home.”
“When you say stressful, do you ever feel like you’re in danger?” he asks.
The question takes me by surprise.
“Danger? Why would I be …” Then I realize he’s worried my brother might go all crazy on us and remember that teachers have a responsibility to report a student at risk of being hurt at home to child protection agencies. “Oh, no, nothing like that!” I assure him. “It’s more … he’s just not himself. He used to be funny. Totally geeky, but he was hilarious. He was in your class, do you remember?”
“Oh, I remember,” Mr. Walsh says. “Quite the wit, your brother.”
“But he’s not like that anymore,” I say. “He’s moody. Angry. Unpredictable. Like I never know when I open the door after school what version of my brother I’m going to get.”
“Being in combat can do that to a person,” Mr. Walsh says. “My father fought in Vietnam. It— Well, let’s just say things weren’t always so easy around our house growing up.”
I wonder how bad things were, and there’s so much I want to ask him, but a quick glance at the clock tells me there’s not much time before the bell rings and I still haven’t made a decision.
“So you understand there’s a lot to deal with at home, then. That’s one of the main reasons I’m not sure if I should run.”
Mr. Walsh leans forward and looks at me intently.
“Stella, the decision to run is one only you can make. But I just want to give you two things to consider, okay?”
I nod.
“The first is that one of the main reasons I turned into such a political junkie was because of what happened to my dad. I wanted to understand the decisions that sent him to Vietnam and the climate that led to him facing protests when he got back instead of being thanked for doing his duty. My dad, and so many like him, fought because they were drafted.”
“Okay … I can understand that,” I say, although I’m not entirely sure what it has to do with my dilemma.
“The second thing is a question I’d like you to ask yourself: What’s the point of being the ace debater on our team if you’re not willing to put any of those great skills into practice?” he says.
The pride I feel when he calls me the team’s ace debater is quickly followed by the realization that while he’s not coming out directly and telling me to do it, Mr. Walsh thinks I should run against Chris and Amy for class president.
“I’ll think about that,” I tell him. “Well, I better get to class. Thanks for the advice.”
“Anytime,” he says, going back to his papers.
I wait to tell Farida about my decision as we walk into AP Gov. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down!” she says, putting her arm around me and giving me a quick hug.
“So you really think you can beat me?” says Chris from behind us. I turn and he’s flipping his hair back with his hand in that annoying way he does.
I don’t, but if he thinks I’m going to admit that, he’s dreaming.
“Eavesdrop much?” I say. “But why shouldn’t I be able to beat you?”
He doesn’t bother to answer.
He just laughs.
In my face.
I try to play it nonchalant, but the fact that I feel my cheeks warming as I sit down at my desk means Chris must be able to see that telltale flush of anger.
“Of course she can beat you.”
Adam Swann, who heard this as he’s walking to his desk, sounds way more confident about the probability of my victory than I feel. I flash him a grateful smile.
Chris looks from me to Adam. “Since when have you two been dating?” he asks.
Seriously?
“What makes you think this is about dating?” I say.
“I just happen to think Stella will be a better candidate than you are,” Adam says.
“No doubt about that,” Farida agrees.
“O-kay. Sure.” Chris smirks and then turns his back and sits down at his desk.
As I mouth, “Thanks,” at Adam, I can’t help noticing that his cheeks are starting to flush. Or that when they do, it makes his hazel eyes stand out even more.
But Chris is still so wrong.
Farida noticed our exchange, though, and she calls me on it when I’m talking about the election with my friends at lunch.
“So what’s up with you and Mountain Man?” she asks.
“Mountain Man? What are you talking about?”
“Adam Swann. There was some interesting blushing going on there.”
“What?” I protest. “No!”
If she raises that one perfect eyebrow any more, it’ll disappear into her hairline
.
“Are you quite sure about that?”
Ugh. I can feel myself blushing again, which probably just confirms her suspicions. Why does my face always have to give me away like this?
“Yes … sure I’m sure,” I say. “I mean, I guess he is kind of cute, but that’s it. End of story.”
“Ladies, can we focus?” Ken complains. “We have an election to win.”
“I’m totally focused,” I say, glad to change the subject. “Laser-sharp focus.”
“You’re going to need a campaign manager,” Ken says. “So I’m pleased to offer you my services. I’m can edit a mean video and I’m great at research. Who knows what dirt I’ll be able to dig up on your opponents.”
“Dirt? What?”
Farida stills. “Wait—I thought I was going to be your campaign manager!”
Awesome. I only decided to run this morning and I already have conflict in my campaign.
“Don’t worry,” Haley says, seeing the look on my face. “I don’t want to be campaign manager.”
I burst out laughing at that. “I didn’t even know I needed a campaign manager to run for class president, that’s how clueless about this I am,” I say.
“That’s why you need one,” Ken says.
I look from Farida—without her I wouldn’t be running in the first place—to Ken, who seems to know a little about this election business and does have great research skills, it’s true.
“What would you guys think about being co-campaign managers?” I hold my breath as my friends eye each other’s reaction.
“It could work,” Ken says.
“It could,” Farida agrees.
“So … ?” I ask. “What’s the verdict?”
Farida smiles and sticks out her fist. “Let’s do it!”
Kenny bumps it. “Here’s to co-managing the winning campaign,” he says.
I wish I shared that confidence, but I’m glad to change the subject.
“So I guess it’s time to brainstorm actual campaign ideas.”
“What about a kindness campaign?” Farida says. “Respecting others. We could make that part of your platform and then even do things as part of the campaign.”
Anything But Okay Page 3