“What happened at the mall?” she asks before even saying hi.
I glance around to see if anyone is looking. Strangely, it seems like everyone is purposely not looking, which gives me the feeling of being shunned.
“Why would Rob break Wade’s nose?” Haley continues. “I mean, I know he’s been acting kind of weird, but that’s super messed up.”
“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” I say. “But Rob didn’t start it. Wade did.”
“But Mayor Abbott said—”
“Mayor Abbott wasn’t at the mall,” I tell Haley. “I was.”
“I know but—”
I glare at her. “Haley, are you my friend or aren’t you?” I ask her. “I’m telling you, Rob didn’t start it.”
“I am your friend, Stella. I’m just saying, I was there that time at the convenience store. So was Jed.”
Oh crap. Would Jed have told the police about that? Could that influence the case against my brother?
“That’s got nothing to do with what happened yesterday,” I insist.
“All I’m saying is that your brother was acting pretty strange that day. Maybe he’s messed up from being in the marines or something.”
Some way to thank my brother for his service.
“Are you trying to be a friend and make me feel better about how awful the last twenty-four hours have been?” I ask her. “Because if you are, I hope there’s a plan B.”
Haley pushes her straight black hair back from her face. “Fine. Sorry I said anything. See you later.” She turns and walks away.
I look at Farida, who stood stone-faced throughout the conversation. “You still think I should stay in the race? Haley’s my friend and she doesn’t believe me.”
“Maybe she wasn’t really your friend,” Farida says, giving me a pointed look. “Maybe you should trust the people who are your friends.”
Even though her words hurt, I nod slowly, hating that we’re at odds, and knowing that I’m going to have to find the courage to fix it.
Ken catches us in the hallway on the way to AP Gov, and he wants all the details, so I have to explain everything that went down yesterday again.
“I mean, I get it. Obviously, Rob shouldn’t have broken Wade’s nose. But to make out like Wade was just hanging out doing nothing?” I shake my head in frustration.
Farida touches my shoulder and I notice that she’s staring at the wall where Chris’s and Amy’s campaign posters hang. There’s an empty space where my campaign poster used to be. It’s been ripped into little pieces, just like the truth of what happened at the mall, and tossed onto the floor like garbage.
“That didn’t take long,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I knew this was going to be a disaster.”
“It’s not a disaster,” Farida says. “We can make new posters. Right, Ken?”
“Riiiiiight,” Ken says.
I think he shares my agreement that it’s a disaster more than Farida’s optimism.
“I should quit,” I say quietly.
“No!” Farida says with such ferocity that Ken and I both stare at her.
She’s grasping her books tightly to her chest like a shield. “How many times do I have to say it? You can’t give up now, Stella,” she says. “You can’t let them beat you.”
“Even if there’s no chance that I’ll win?”
“Even then,” she says.
“But what’s the point?” I ask. “Can you imagine how humiliating it’s going to be when I come in third after Amy Sarducci and the soft toilet paper ticket?”
“You won’t,” Farida says.
I look at the shredded remains of my campaign poster on the floor and give a bitter chuckle. “Right. And you’re basing this on what, exactly?”
“Because we’re going to show them how wrong this is,” Farida says.
“How?” Ken asks. “How are we going to do that?”
“Et tu, Kenny?” Farida says. “You promised last night you’d be positive.”
“Oops. My bad,” Ken says, flushing under Farida’s glare. “I forgot.”
“You’ve got the memory of a goldfish—unless it’s for something you want to remember,” Farida says, her frustration with Ken more than evident. She turns back to me. “Don’t quit, Stella. We’ve got the truth on our side.”
“But is that enough?” I ask. “Is the truth enough? I mean, look at how Mayor Abbott just twisted the truth on the radio.”
“My point exactly,” Ken says.
“Honestly, how do you two survive in this life when you give up on everything so easily?” Farida says. “I can’t deal with you right now.”
She marches ahead of us into class, while I try to ignore the smirk on Chris’s face as I pass his desk, the one that makes me decide that maybe Farida is right. I am giving up too easily. I shouldn’t back down—because if I do, then I’ll have let the liars win.
Adam catches my eye, too, as I sit down, and he gives me a half grin that makes my stomach flip. I give him a quick, secret smile, then turn around before my transparent face starts giving me away.
He catches up to me at the end of class.
“How are you doing?” he asks. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Not a lot,” I confess. “Nightmares.”
“Yeah, I can imagine.”
“Did you hear what Mayor Abbott said this morning?”
“Yeah,” Adam says. “He’s bad news.”
“So you don’t believe my brother is some psycho terrorist lover?”
“Like I’d believe anything that Chris’s dad says? Besides, I know Wade and Jed,” he says.
“That’s a relief,” I tell him.
“I mean, even if your brother is a little weird, we’re all entitled to a strange relative. I know all about that. Most people at this school think my dad’s a tin foil hatter.”
“Is he?”
“Nah. He’d never waste good tin foil on a hat when it could be used to make a solar oven in the event of the zombie apocalypse.”
Adam makes me laugh out loud, something I didn’t expect to do today.
“It’s good to hear you laugh,” he says. “Listen, I saw that some idiots have been ripping up your campaign posters. If you want help making new ones, count me in.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll definitely take you up on that. I’m going to need all the help I can get.”
“Well, I’m here,” he says.
I don’t know if it’s because of the way his eyes lock with mine or the warmth of his fingers on my arm, but I want to believe him.
I also want to kiss him again.
While I was at school, my parents and Rob met a lawyer, Ms. Tilley, who says given that Rob was acting in defense of another and considering his otherwise exemplary record, the case probably won’t even go to trial—most likely they will plea bargain and he’ll have to do community service and pay for Wade’s medical bills.
“Unless the prosecutor decides to play hardball because he’s listening to the mayor’s campaign speeches,” Ms. Tilley warned.
Mom was shocked. She asked if that could really happen.
Ms. Tilley reminded her that in our state, not only are prosecutors elected, but if the mayor wins election as governor, he could influence legislators in the General Assembly who elect judges. He’d remember a prosecutor he viewed as acting favorably to his interests.
“That doesn’t seem right,” I say when they tell me about it at dinner. “Isn’t justice supposed to be blind?”
“Supposed to be is the key phrase there,” Dad says. “Doesn’t mean it is in practice, necessarily.”
“Which basically means I’m screwed,” Rob mutters.
“No, you aren’t,” Mom declares. “Because we’re right here beside you.”
I’m not saying that Mom’s wrong or anything. But a fat lot of good that did for Rob and his problems before this happened. What makes her think it will be enough now?
Roadrunner, buddy—
> You could have told me.
I had no business going out of the house. I should have stayed home.
I just wanted to believe I could hold it together for a few hours to hang with Stella like we used to.
Drive On. Charlie Mike. Continue Mission.
Fat chance.
Mission Failure.
Fun trip to the movies?
End up in handcuffs with a felony assault charge.
Conduct unbecoming.
Oh wait, I’m not an officer.
I’m just a messed-up grunt trying to make sense of the fight so I can function now that I’m home.
And not scare the crap out of my family.
Not be a burden to my family.
Not have to see that look in their eyes, wondering what happened to the son, the brother, they knew before.
I remember when I saw pride.
I want to see that again.
I need to feel that for myself.
Instead, I keep seeing the kid smiling as he came toward me, and then … and then the whimpering of that poor dog that I had to put out of its suffering.
Instead, I keep seeing Reyes before and after the IED.
Instead, I think about why we did what we did and if it really made a difference. I want to believe it did. I don’t want to think that we fought for nothing. That we killed for nothing. That we watched our friends die for nothing.
Instead, I watch the news and think: Was there ever a real plan?
Instead, I wonder: Are we really any safer? Or did we solve one set of problems only to create new, even bigger ones?
Now the mayor of my town has decided to make the “incident” part of his campaign for governor. He’s making me out to be this unhinged guy who can’t hack it like a real American should and, get this, a “supporter of radical Islam.”
Pretty ironic given that I spent two years risking my life to “fight them over there so we didn’t have to fight them over here.”
Why does the fact that I punched a white kid in the defense of a brown kid wearing a patka automatically make me a “terrorist lover”?
It doesn’t make sense to anyone except the guy who wants to be our next governor—and the people who support him.
Dude who has never served in the military struts around wearing a flag pin and gives every speech surrounded by American flags like he’s the World’s Biggest Patriot.
What I don’t get is how people believe this stuff.
I guess if you spout a big lie convincingly on TV enough times, people start believing it’s true, even if there’s plenty of evidence that it’s crap.
How do you fight back against that, if people aren’t willing to use their brains?
It’s been hard enough fighting myself since I got back. Fighting things I don’t want to think about but that keep pushing their way back into my head. You know how that goes.
Now I’ve got to fight against people in the country that sent me over there and put those images in my head, too?
Something’s wrong with this picture.
But you know that. Maybe that’s why you stopped fighting. I’m still furious at you for doing it, but now I’m starting to understand.
ThunderGeek out.
Mom is fierce. She served in Desert Storm. She isn’t fazed by blood or broken bones. She’s a good shot. She’s not scared of mice or snakes or spiders. I don’t think she’s scared of anything, except for something bad happening to one of us.
That’s why the sound of her screaming for Dad on Sunday morning wakes me from sleep instantly. I leap out of bed, my heart pounding in my chest. I can’t help but assume the worst, running toward Rob’s room, whispering, “No, no, no …” but before I get across the hall, his door opens and my brother emerges in pajama bottoms and an olive-drab T-shirt.
He’s alive.
I’m so happy about that I launch myself at him and throw my arms around his neck.
He shoves me away. “What’s the matter with you, Stella? Don’t you hear Mom?”
He pushes past me, heading down the stairs. I can’t tell him I’m relieved it wasn’t about him, so I follow him instead.
Mom and Dad are on the lawn, staring at the front of our house.
Ugly words in black spray paint.
TRAITOR
TERRORIST LOVER
DIE SCUM
UN-AMERICAN
Our American flag is missing from the pole by the front door.
This is our home.
This is our state.
This is our country.
This is America.
But right now it doesn’t feel that way.
How can this be our country if we can wake up and find our house vandalized with hateful words like this?
How can this be the country my parents and my brother served?
Mom comes and puts her hand on my back to comfort me.
“We’ll get through this, Stella. We’ll be okay,” she says, but the tremor in her voice belies her words.
I don’t know how we’ll get through it. It was bad enough having my posters torn down, but this has used up whatever little crumbs of bravery I had left. I just want to get away from here, to someplace where people don’t hate us.
The question is, where? Farida’s family thought they were safe when they came to America, but they still face prejudice. I guess hatred can appear anywhere, even here in the land of the free and the home of the brave.
I think about what Farida said the other day about Ken and me giving up so easily. She has to deal with this constantly, way more than I even know, but somehow, she’s still optimistic about change. I think of all the time she’s spent over the years, trying to get me to understand what it’s like for her, to understand what it’s like for other people. It must be so frustrating, and I feel exhausted just thinking about it. How is it fair that I’m tired already?
I glance over at my brother. His hands are clenched into fists, and he’s got the same look in his eyes that he had at the mall right before he beat up Wade.
Dad walks over to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Rob,” he says. “We’ll get this cleaned up.”
“We shouldn’t have to clean it up,” Rob spits out through clenched teeth. “It shouldn’t be here in the first place. I thought I left the enemy overseas.”
“It’s a blow to the core to realize we’ve met the enemy and it’s us,” Dad says. “People right here in Argleton.”
Rob recoils as if Dad hit him. His face pales and I’m afraid he’s going to keel over. I’m not the only one.
“What is it?” Mom rushes to Rob’s side and puts her arm around him. “Rob, what’s the matter?”
At first Rob says, “Nothing, I’m fine,” and he tries to shake off her arm, like he’s going to escape into the house.
But suddenly he turns back, bends, and lays his head on Mom’s shoulder. His shoulders heave and he emits a strangled sound.
Dad is staring at them, looking stricken and confused. I don’t blame him. I’m as at a loss to understand as he is.
I notice a curtain twitch from across the street—the Kirchmars’ house. Do they think Rob’s a traitor and a terrorist? Their daughter Jana was in the same class as Rob at Argleton High. She knows him. The Kirchmars know us. How could anyone think that?
Mom strokes Rob’s hair as he clings to her like she’s the rock that’s keeping him from being lost at sea.
And then he gasps, “Jason … said … that.”
My parents look at each other over Rob’s head.
“Said what?” Mom asks, pushing his hair back from his forehead.
Rob lifts his head from Mom’s shoulder. His face is pale and his eyes haunted.
“I’d been keeping in touch with him … I knew he was struggling. Like I am,” Rob admits. “The day he … I told him to get help, to go to the ER. And he said …” Rob swallows, like he’s trying to keep himself from losing it again. “He said, ‘I don’t know who the enemy is anymore. Mos
t of the time, I think it’s me.’”
“Oh, honey, it’s not your fault,” Mom says. “You did what you could, but Jason needed professional help. He needed medication, therapy, and a good support group.”
I can’t help thinking maybe Rob needs that, too. I don’t want him to end up like Jason. Or in jail.
Dad glances around. “How about we take this inside?” he says. “I need to make some calls.”
He takes one of Rob’s arms and Mom takes the other, and between them they guide my distraught brother into the house, away from the scrutiny of any watching neighbors who may or may not agree with the ugly sentiments spray-painted on our house.
Once inside, Dad goes to call the police. Meanwhile, Mom and I make breakfast and Rob sits at the table, staring down into a cup of coffee like it holds the answers to the meaning of life.
Mom’s gotten the eggs and bacon ready and I’ve made a stack of toast and am almost finished buttering it when Dad comes back into the kitchen. “Police are on their way to take a statement,” he says. “Frank Meyers is going to be coming by, too, with some of the guys from the Legion. Frank had some choice words to say about what happened.”
“I’ll bet he did,” Mom says. “Come get something in your stomach before the police get here.”
When the food is on my plate, I don’t feel like eating, even though it smells good. I nibble at the crust of my toast and push the eggs around my plate so it looks like I’ve had something.
“You’re not going to let good bacon go to waste, are you, Stella?” Dad asks me as the doorbell rings.
“You can have it,” I tell him. “I’ll get the door.”
A police officer is standing on the porch. He asks to speak to Dad. I invite him into the kitchen, and then I go upstairs to get my phone. I need to tell my friends what’s happening, because inevitably news about this will get out around school and become another subject for flame wars on the Junior Class Facebook page.
When I get outside to take pictures of the graffiti, Dad’s there with the police officer, who is also taking pictures.
“Well, you know tensions are high,” the policeman says. I can’t tell if he’s making excuses or being sympathetic.
“And Mayor Abbott is playing it for all it’s worth. Listening to him, you’d never know my son is a US Marine Corps vet, would you?” Dad says. “Is it any wonder people don’t trust politicians?”
Anything But Okay Page 10