She trails off, clearly trying to think of a bad enough punishment for the windbag, who I can only imagine is Mayor Abbott.
“What now?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want to know.
She shoves the newspaper across the table so fiercely it almost knocks over the milk.
The headline reads: “Governor Candidate Wants Prison Term for Violent Vet.”
I feel breakfast coming up the back of my throat.
“Prison term? But …”
“Now we have to hope that the prosecutor isn’t going to be influenced by politics,” Mom says.
“That’s all we can do? Hope?” I ask, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.
Mom comes over and hugs me.
“Ms. Tilley is an excellent lawyer. She came highly recommended.”
The ugly headline shouts out at me from the table, but then I remember Mr. Neustadt telling me, “A patriot isn’t someone who has to blather on the TV about how patriotic they are. They show you, by the way they live. By being willing to put themselves at risk to confront what’s wrong instead of walking past and pretending they don’t see it.”
That’s when I get an idea for the campaign and how to fight. Mayor Abbott is never seen without an American flag pin on his lapel, but all of his campaigning seems to imply that if anyone doesn’t look or act or think the same as he does, then they aren’t “real” Americans.
But we are. All of us, even if we look different or speak differently or worship at a different place. What he doesn’t understand is that’s what really makes our country strong and successful, not everyone being all the same.
And isn’t high school just a microcosm of life? If everyone at Argleton High had been born and raised in this town, I wouldn’t have learned nearly as much about the world as I have because I know kids like Farida and Dev, whose families came here from somewhere else. Our town doesn’t exist alone. Neither does our state or our country. We’re all part of a bigger whole. What do we gain by pretending otherwise?
Luckily, when I talk the idea over with my campaign managers, they like it.
“So if we do all these interviews asking what makes you a good member of the Argleton High community, then I can make a campaign video using them and incorporate the themes into my speech. We can make it into Stella’s Ten Point Plan for Unity, or something like that.”
“I like it,” Adam says. “Especially if we can get other groups involved in the project, because then hopefully they’ll be more likely to vote for you in the election. Maybe it’ll help negate Chris’s and Amy’s edge in popularity.”
He looks at me, a horrified expression spreading across his face.
“Wait … I’m not saying it’s like you’re unpopular or anything—”
Ken laughs. “Awk-ward.”
“I am such an idiot,” Adam groans. “Open mouth, insert foot.”
“It’s fine,” I assure him. “I know what you mean. It’s hard to compete with ice cream and soft toilet paper.”
“Do you think maybe you’re underestimating people?” Adam says. “Like maybe they do vote on the issues and facts instead of believing in things they know can never realistically happen?”
“Nope,” Ken says. “Not at all. People have the attention spans of squirrels and are too easily distracted by shiny things.”
“I don’t know. I think Adam’s right. People want to feel like they’re seen and heard,” Farida says. “That has to count more than a promise of ice cream, which will never be kept.”
I want to believe Farida and Adam are right. I want to believe the best about everyone. But then I see how easily some people believe whatever Mayor Abbott says about my brother, even if it isn’t the truth.
“I’m going to ask the International Club if they’ll help,” Farida says. I smile gratefully. Things are still weird between us, but it seems she hasn’t totally given up on me. It gives me hope that maybe we can fix things.
“I can ask the Amnesty International Club, too,” Ken says, “since I’m involved with that.”
“I’ll ask the Community Service Club,” Adam suggests. “And I’ve got some friends in the Environmental Club who might be willing to lend a hand.”
“Good thinking,” Farida says. “The more people we can get involved the better.”
“Do you seriously think they’ll want to do it?” I ask. What seemed like a good idea this morning at breakfast suddenly has me filled with paralyzing doubt.
“We’ll never know if we don’t ask,” Farida points out matter-of-factly.
True. I hear Mr. Walsh asking, How can you know if you’ll be any good if you don’t even try running? when I doubted if I’d be any good at running for class president.
One thing I am indisputably good at is second-guessing myself.
We manage to get ten volunteers for the project from the clubs we asked, which is ten more than I thought we’d get.
Adam, who is a whiz with a spreadsheet, it turns out, divides the school into different areas and time periods, depending on everyone’s schedules, and then—armed with nothing but our smartphones and the question “What makes you a good member of Argleton High?”—we set off to create a vision of our school in the words of its students.
“Don’t just interview your friends,” I warn everyone at our project kickoff. “Stop people randomly in the area where you’ve been assigned.”
“Yeah, we want to make sure we get as many different viewpoints as possible,” Adam says.
“What if we ask someone to answer the question and they won’t answer?” asks Dante Maragos from the International Club.
“It’s a free country,” Adam says.
“Well, at least it’s supposed to be,” Farida mutters.
“People don’t have to give you their opinion,” Ken says. “It’s optional.”
“Some people don’t like being on camera,” I point out. Like me, for instance. Remind me again why I’m running for class president?
My first shift of interviews is after school in the hallway leading to the athletics wing.
I go up to three guys on the soccer team who are heading for practice.
“Hey, I know you’re on the way to practice, but can I ask you a quick question for a project?”
“As long as it’s quick,” Rick Sperry says. “Coach makes us run wind sprints if we’re late.”
I turn on the video. “What do you think makes a good member of our school?”
They all look at one another, as if they think between them someone might hold the answer, but they’re not sure which one of them it is.
Finally, Tom Zweibel says, “I’ll tell you what doesn’t—hauling off and breaking someone’s nose for no reason.”
It’s like a punch to the gut. I want to turn off the video, but I don’t, even though keeping my hand steady is a challenge. Especially when Frank Maniaci and Rick start cackling like a bunch of overgrown hyenas.
“Any other thoughts on the subject?” I ask in as calm a voice as I can manage.
Their failure to get a rise out of me apparently makes Rick decide to answer the question.
“Someone who comes out for games,” he says.
“Bonus points for traveling to cheer us on at away games,” Frank adds.
“Yeah, and it’s a person who has good school spirit,” Tom says. “Remember when Kelly Larsen dyed her hair blue and painted her face white for one of our matches?”
“That was sick,” Rick says. “But we better get to practice.”
I switch off the camera. “Thanks for your views.” Even if you don’t know the whole story about my brother and are just willing to believe whatever Wade and Jed say.
As they walk away, I can’t help thinking that their definition is really different than mine. I think that being a good member of the community is respecting and supporting others—and working to make the school as a whole a better place, not just the one thing you care about. But I guess that’s the point of doing this—to le
arn.
I catch Erika Jones and Felicity Rose on their way to swim practice.
“I think it’s someone who gets involved in school, above and beyond just academics. It doesn’t matter how. People find their own thing,” Erika says.
“Yeah, you find your own place but you’re, you know, part of a bigger whole that makes the school what it is,” Felicity adds.
Charity Hernandez, who is on her way to basketball practice with Sierra Foster, looks straight into the camera and says, “What would make someone a good school member is if they stopped always making it about guys’ sports and recognized that the girls’ teams kick butt just as hard.”
“Harder,” Sierra agrees. “When was the last time you came to one of our games?”
“Never,” I admit. “But I haven’t been to that many guys’ basketball games, either.”
“But you’ve been to some, right?” Charity asks.
“Uh … yeah. One or two,” I say.
I’m pretty sure admitting this means I’m not going to get their votes. I wonder if Chris or Amy have been to any girls’ basketball games.
“See what we’re saying?” Sierra says. “And we’ve won State more than the guys’ team.”
“That’s awesome,” I tell them, and I really mean it. “I’ll come to your next home game. And bring some friends with me.”
“You’re not just saying that?” Charity sounds suspicious and I can’t say I blame her. I am running for class president, after all. This could just be a campaign promise, and those end up being broken on a regular basis.
“No, I mean it.”
She holds up her fist and I bump it. “We’re gonna hold you to it, right, Sierra?”
“Too right,” Sierra says over her shoulder as they walk away.
By the time my shift is done, the answers have just given me more questions. Is that what happens when you start looking closely at the way things are—that you end up with more questions than answers?
I wait for Farida at her locker on Friday morning, because I hate that things are still awkward between us.
“Hey,” she says, giving me a brief, wary glance before fiddling with her combination.
“Hi … I just … well, I just wanted to see if we could, you know, talk about the, uh, weirdness between us.”
“Weirdness? You mean like how I’m tired of always having to explain everything to you a million times and you still don’t get how life is different for brown people?” Farida says, rummaging in her locker for books. “Or do mean how you told some random guy everything that’s going on in your life before your best friend?”
“Both,” I say. “All of it. I guess having our house vandalized was a wake-up call on the first part. And as for the second part …”
Farida slams the door shut and finally meets my gaze.
“Well, what about that?” she asks. “Why, Stella? That really hurt.”
“I’d been holding everything in from everybody for so long. Not just you, everyone. Every time I tried to talk to my parents about stuff they’d be too busy talking about Rob, or they just wouldn’t be honest with me about what was happening. And then, that night it was all too much, and the thing is … Adam’s not some random guy. I like him. I mean, like like him.”
“Duh,” Farida says. “I kind of figured that.”
“And when he offered to come over I was feeling so alone and stressed out and confused and overwhelmed and … I don’t know. I just spilled it all to him. Seriously, it was total word vomit.”
“So when did the making out happen, then?”
“After the word vomit,” I say. “He’s a good listener.”
“Is he a good kisser?”
“Farida!”
“Come on, Stella, you have to spill something. You owe me!” she says with a hint of a smile.
“Yes,” I mumble.
“Well, that’s a relief,” she says. “I’d have hated to be this mad at you and then find out he wasn’t even a good kisser. That would have been the worst.”
Even though she’s joking, there’s a slight edge to her tone that tells me she’s still hurt. I know things aren’t going to be smoothed away so easily.
“I’m really sorry I told him before I told you. I’m sorry for all the rest of it, too. I’m going to try harder, I promise.”
“And I’m going to hold you to that promise,” she says.
“Deal,” I tell her. “Want me to come over after school and help you with your audition monologue?”
“Yes! I still can’t decide on one,” she says, and as we head down the hall, she starts listing options, with me giving a thumbs-up or thumbs-down as she goes.
The heaviness that’s been following me around while Farida and I have been at odds lightens a little. It doesn’t go away completely—the air still isn’t fully cleared. But at least it’s a start.
Farida and I are sitting in her kitchen, going over monologues, when Yusef comes home from school.
“Hey, buddy, what’s up?” I ask.
“The sky,” he says with such deadpan casualness that I can’t help laughing.
“Don’t encourage him, he’s already unbearable,” Farida groans.
“What’s that? You say I’m unbeatable?” Yusef says. “Definitely when it comes to winning at Injustice Two.”
“That sounds like a challenge,” I tell him. “One I just might have to take you up on sometime to see if it’s true.”
“Narrator voice: He’s not,” Farida says with a grin.
“I totally am,” Yusef says. “You just don’t want to admit it.”
“Don’t you have some homework to do?” Farida says. “We’re busy here.”
“Ugh, yes,” Yusef says, sighing. “But first I need a snack.”
He heads to the refrigerator and we go back to monologues.
“Hey, what do you think about the opening monologue from Rebecca?” Farida asks. She slips into her best Joan Fontaine imitation: “Last night, I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I could not enter for the way was barred to me. Then, like all dreamers, I was possessed of a sudden with supernatural powers and passed like a spirit through the barrier before me.”
I make ghostly sound effects and Farida falls into a dramatic swoon. I catch her before she hits the floor. We burst out laughing.
“You two are so weird,” Yusef announces from the refrigerator, where he’s still looking for a snack.
“Did you say funny?” Farida says. “I’m sure I heard him say funny.”
“He definitely said funny,” I agree. “And that scene is a great choice. It showcases your dramatic timing.”
“Great! Well, now that that’s taken care of, let’s celebrate by making chocolate chip cookies.”
“Now you’re talking,” Yusef says. “I’ll get the butter and eggs.” He grabs them from the refrigerator and puts them on the counter.
“Are you sure you want to eat our cookies? You might catch weirdness cooties,” Farida says, taking flour and sugar out of the cupboard.
“I didn’t say weird. I said funny, right, Stella?” Yusef says.
“Wait, am I stuck in the middle of a sibling dispute again?”
Yusef raises an eyebrow, looking impressive like Farida usually does. Then I noticed Farida’s eyebrow raised as well, and she’s looking at me like, Let’s see you talk yourself out of this one, Walker.
“I’m pretty sure I heard you say that we’re funny in a weird but good way,” I lie, for diplomacy’s sake.
Yusef and Farida exchange glances and smirks.
“It’s a fair cop-out,” Yusef says.
“I give it a six out of ten,” Farida says.
“Six? Only six?”
“At most six point five,” she says.
“I need some chocolate chips to console me from your tough grading,” I say. “Hand them over.”
Yusef helps himself to a few and then passes me the bag.
We take turns measuring ingredients and mixing the batter. Once the cookies are in the oven, Yusef grabs his backpack and says, “I’m going to make a start on my homework, but call me when they’re ready.”
“If you’re lucky and we don’t eat them all first,” Farida replies.
“Stella will call me,” he says, flashing me a big grin.
I roll my eyes. “Maybe.”
When he’s gone, Farida puts on the latest album from the Summer Transistors, Liberty and All That, and we dance around the kitchen until the cookies are ready. It feels great to let loose and be silly for a while—and we agree that hot-from-the-oven cookies are the best thing ever.
After a week of interviewing students all around school, we have another meeting to look through the footage we’ve got.
“So did you notice any common themes in your interviews?” I ask.
“For a lot of people I interviewed, attendance at school sports events seems to be the main criteria for being part of the school community,” Crystal Clark, from the Environmental Club, observes. “I can play you at least ten, no wait, probably fifteen interviews that say that. It got boring after a while.”
“Funnily enough, I interviewed Dev Iyer and Jenny Moss from the Robotics Club and they were complaining about that, too,” Pete Alacantara says. “Our football team didn’t even place in the top three in States. The robotics team won the state trophy but how many of us knew that?”
Only a few hands go up.
“I interviewed twenty people who were rehearsing for marching band and they said pretty much the same thing,” Charlene Thomas tells us. “They think the arts should get more attention at Argleton High.”
It turns out that even groups that get attention don’t think they get enough, and the ones that don’t get much attention can’t understand why the other groups are complaining. We’re just like one great big unhappy family. But the loudest message I get from this is that everyone wants to feel like they are being seen and heard. How can I work to make that happen and help to bring us all together?
“Do we have others that are more … positive?” I ask, wondering how any of this is going to be able to compete with soft toilet paper.
Anything But Okay Page 12