“I know that! But you’re acting like facts still matter!”
I’ve been guilty of the same cynicism, at least when it comes to our school elections. But that’s high school. I guess deep down, I still want to believe that when we leave this place, things will be different; that adults will do things better and behave more logically than we do.
Not that I’ve been getting a whole lot of evidence of that recently. And suddenly, the weight of this realization feels crushing, because if the people we’re supposed to look up to don’t have the answers, then who does?
“But … if facts don’t still matter, then what’s the point? Why did we waste all that time getting people involved and doing all those interviews? Why am I even running for class president?”
Farida lets out a bitter chuckle. “Stella, you’ve said a lot of stupid things to me in the time we’ve been best friends, but hands-down that’s the dumbest one of all. This is why I didn’t return your texts. Because I had to deal with everything that was going on at home because of the situation.” She takes a deep breath and looks me straight in the eye. “Besides, I needed time to deal with my own feelings before having to listen to your cluelessness.”
It’s a slap in the face, and my first instinct is to want to slap back, but as I open my mouth to speak, I suddenly think back to when we were kids watching Aladdin, and everything Mrs. El-Rahim explained to me then. So instead of fighting back, I take a deep breath and zip my mouth shut. The best thing I can do right now is to listen. Like, actually listen this time.
“I don’t have the luxury of whining, ‘What’s the point?’ when things get hard because things are always hard. Sometimes they’re less hard than others, but it’s not like I can ever relax and say, ‘Life is good, everything’s cool, we’re safe here, and liberty and justice for all.’ Because it’s not like that for us.”
“I know it’s hard—”
“You say that, but you don’t really know. You don’t know what it’s like to have to always be on, to always be the best version of yourself because the world is always waiting for you to screw up so they can say, ‘See? Muslims are bad.’ To not be able to take a break from the scrutiny because today you don’t feel like being a model minority—you just want to be you, flaws and all. No one expects you to speak for all white girls, Stella, but they sure expect me to speak for all Muslims. So no, you don’t know. Otherwise you’d understand that the point is that you keep on fighting because you have no other choice. You have to resist the injustice or else you die inside a little bit more every single day.”
We’re almost at the door to Mr. Walsh’s classroom.
“At least one good thing that’s come out of this mess is that my parents realized that they should have just let me run in the first place. Everything that they were trying to prevent by telling me to keep my head down ended up happening anyway. I might as well have taken the chance and used my own voice instead of playing it safe.”
Farida should have been running for class president, not me. She would have totally rocked it. She’s got more courage in her little finger than I have in my entire body. If it hadn’t been for Mayor Abbott running for governor, she would have been the one doing it. No wonder she’s angry.
She looks me in the eye. “So are you quitting the race?” she asks.
“No. I’m going to be part of the fight. But, for the record, you’re right—it should have been you running.”
“Well, buckle up. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”
“Will you still ride shotgun?” I ask. “Look, I know I can be totally clueless, and I keep making stupid mistakes and getting things wrong, and I’m sorry, but you’re my best friend and I wouldn’t even be doing this without your encouragement. I want us to be in this together.”
It seems like forever before Farida shrugs and half smiles. “Yeah, I guess. Who else is going to tell you when you need to check your privilege?”
Exhaling a sigh of relief, I link my arm through hers.
“Hopefully, you won’t need to do it as often,” I say. “And now to face Chris. This should be a blast.”
“Chin up, and don’t let him see you’re afraid,” Farida says.
We still have a lot of stuff to work through, but we walk into the classroom together. And all through class, I think about what I can do to try to make it right.
After dinner that night, I’m in my room, reporting more horrible comments on the Tigris Facebook page, when Mom comes in.
“I’m sorry about this morning, Stella,” she says. “It’s true that your dad and I have been very focused on Rob and … well, it’s like they say about the squeaky wheel. You always seem to be doing so well that I guess it’s easy for us to forget that you need attention, too.”
Wait, what?
“So … are you saying that I need to mess up more to get you to notice me?”
“No!” Mom says, throwing her hands up in mock despair. “That isn’t at all what I’m saying!”
“What are you saying, exactly?”
“I’m saying I’m sorry. And I’m going to make more of an effort—that Dad and I both are going to make more of an effort—to give you the attention you need and deserve.”
“And can you tell me when things are happening instead of pretending that everything’s fine when it’s totally obvious that it isn’t?” I ask. “Because that just makes it worse.”
Mom sighs. “We thought we were protecting you. We didn’t want you to be stressed out, especially when we didn’t have a diagnosis yet.”
“But you ended up making me more stressed out,” I say. “I have eyes and ears and a brain. I see what’s going on. I’m trying to figure it all out, and knowing that my parents are hiding stuff from me just makes it all scarier.”
“I’m sorry, Stella. All I can say is that Dad and I are human. We do the best we can to get it right, but we make mistakes.” She reaches over and hugs me. “Hopefully, we’ll learn from them.”
I want proof that things are going to be different, that she’s not just saying this, but I still hug her back. And as I do, I realize that this is how Farida must feel over and over about me. I have to do something. I have to act.
“I’ve been reporting as many of these hateful comments on Facebook as I can. Mom, I’m really worried about what’s going to happen to Tigris because of us. Some of these comments are calling for a boycott.” I gesture to my laptop. “What can we do? The El-Rahims didn’t do anything wrong and this could ruin them.”
“I know. It makes me furious.” She shakes her head. “I spoke with Layla this morning to see how they were holding up. She’s worried that things could escalate from online unpleasantness into real-life violence.”
Then, seeing the look of panic on my face, she adds, “They’ve talked to the police, and a squad car is going to make more frequent patrols by the restaurant.”
“But is that enough?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I invited them to stay here for a few days, but Layla said that would probably just fan the conspiracy theorists.” Mom sighs. “We live in a crazy world.”
“But what can we do?” I say, the urgency making my chest feel tight. “There has to be something.”
Mom stares at the posts on my computer screen. “What if we countered these hateful posts with good reviews?”
“Yes …” I say. Then I get another idea. “And what if we encourage everyone in Argleton to either go to dinner or order out from Tigris to show our support?”
“Good thinking,” Mom says.
“I’ll start a secret group and invite you, and then you can share the link.”
“It’s a start!” Mom says, getting up. She ruffles my hair and kisses me. “I’m proud of you, Stella.”
I smile up at her and the vise that’s been constricting my chest loosens a little, because now there’s something practical I can do instead of just feeling angry and helpless.
It goes without saying that a politician who’s running for gov
ernor is well-connected. You don’t scale the political heights without knowing people who know people who know people who know people.
But the thing I’ve learned in the last week is that even though my family isn’t famous, or the mayor, or in positions that other people might consider “important,” we know people, too. It turns out the people we know also know people, and those people know people. Like Mr. McNeill, one of the veterans at the American Legion post, also belongs to the Rotary Club and knows Ms. Stephanie Nagy, the anchor for one of our local news stations.
After Mr. McNeill called Ms. Nagy and explained the situation, and she and her team did some further research, she agreed to do a special-interest piece about Rob and the problems vets have when they transition home from active duty. An in-depth investigation showing that Rob is more than an angry veteran who broke a teenager’s nose at the mall for no apparent reason. A piece that will provide context about what happened and hopefully deal with the half-truths being spread by Mayor Abbott’s campaign.
“Now, as for any dealings with journalists, you never know exactly how it’s going to come out till it airs,” Mr. McNeill tells Rob while we’re waiting for the TV crew to arrive at the house. “It’s up to them how they frame and edit the story. But from my dealings with Stephanie Nagy in the past, I’m confident that she’ll treat you fairly.”
Rob shrugs. “It’s not like she can make me look much worse, right?”
After making the mistake of reading some of the online comments on the America News Channel story, I’m not so sure. I’m beginning to think that things can always get worse, depending on what part of the story is presented and what people are willing to believe.
But I know to keep that thought to myself. It’s hard enough for my brother right now. At least he’s had a haircut and is freshly shaved, dressed in nice jeans and a button-down shirt. He looks clean-cut and normal. When I told Rob that, he said, “So did Ted Bundy, and he was a serial killer.” I guess he has a point.
“We really appreciate you setting this up, Joe,” Mom tells Mr. McNeill, giving Rob a mind your manners look.
“Yeah, thank you,” Rob says. “I’m really grateful to you for doing this.”
“Don’t you even think about it,” Mr. McNeill says. “I’m happy to help.”
He takes a sip of coffee and then sighs. “What I still don’t understand is why we don’t learn. We’re one of the greatest countries in the world, and we keep sending young folks off to war, but we don’t remember the lessons about the problems they face when they come home, from one war to the next.”
“Institutional amnesia,” Mom says with a sigh.
“That’s right,” Mr. McNeill says. “So we waste a lot of time reinventing the wheel, and meanwhile our soldiers and their families suffer.”
“Why do we spend so much money to go to war and then cheap out on looking after the people who fight it?” I ask. “Aren’t the people more important?”
“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” my dad says. “But we’re just the grunts, Stella. We go where we’re told and do what our country asks. We don’t have any more say in the matter than you do.”
“But pretty much every politician says they support the troops,” I say. “The troops are people. So why don’t they actually fund the support?”
Dad says, “Sometimes you find that they have different priorities.”
“So … weapons and war matter more than people?” I ask, feeling myself getting angrier by the minute.
“I wouldn’t put it like that, exactly,” Mom says.
“More like some people matter more than others to the folks who make decisions,” Dad says.
“And us grunts aren’t the ones that matter,” Rob says. “Especially not once we’re broken. It’s like Spock said: ‘This troubled planet is a place of the most violent contrasts. Those who receive the rewards are totally separated from those who shoulder the burdens.’”
“You’re not broken, Rob,” Mr. McNeill says. “I know you’re hurting, but don’t you ever think you’re broken.”
I want to ask more questions, but just then the doorbell rings. The truck from the TV station is here, and so is Stephanie Nagy. It’s just a sign of how weird our lives have become lately that we have a celebrity in our living room. Us, the extremely ordinary Walker family.
Who am I kidding? Nothing’s been ordinary since Rob came home. And that’s what this is all about.
Ms. Nagy sits with us for a few minutes, asking questions as the video crew sets up lighting and figures out the best seating and camera positions. One of the crew puts mics on Rob and my parents.
I’m not going to be part of the news story, even though I was there when it happened, and the ripples from it affect my life every day. The producers are trying to keep the segment focused on Iraq and Afghanistan veterans and their difficulty getting treatment for PTSD as much as possible. But since Mayor Abbott dragged the El-Rahims into Rob’s situation for no good reason, Ms. Nagy is also going to Tigris to interview them about how their lives have been affected by everything.
I spend the time trying to learn by observing. Watching how the news stories we see are put together, because I’m in the middle of creating a story of my own for Argleton High, and I have decisions to make, choices about what I include and what I don’t.
What I’ve learned is that the decisions I make might affect what people will think is the truth—or even whose stories get told in the first place. That seems like it should be a big responsibility, one that should be taken with a lot of care and thought. Did Mayor Abbott and the network that showed the clip of Rob hitting Wade without any context of what came before think about that when they started dragging my brother’s name through the mud because it helped Mayor Abbott score a political point? Did they think about the effect it would have on Farida and her family when they pulled her into the story, just because she happened to be both my friend and Muslim? Did they have any twinge of conscience about grabbing at those tenuous straws and twisting them so they’d fit with what Mayor Abbott had been saying?
I want to win the election. It’s important to win. We’re told that constantly. But is how you go about winning important, too? No one ever seems to talk to us about that.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever find the answers. Or even if there are any. But I can’t stop asking the questions. If I’ve learned anything from all this, it’s that’s who I am.
Hey, Roadrunner—
Who would’ve thought this guy would be the star of local news? Specialist ThunderGeek, TV celebrity. Of all the people in our squad, I’d be the last one anyone would suspect, right? It should have been Reyes. Or you, before Reyes died and you started blaming yourself for it.
Out of all of us, I was the quiet one. Mr. One-Liner, you called me once. “You sit there all stealth-like, and then you lob a one-liner that kills, like a grenade.”
I thought that was the funniest thing, until I actually killed someone.
It’s what I was supposed to do, right?
I’m a marine, that’s what I signed up for.
But death isn’t like it is in the movies or in video games.
I don’t regret for a second that it was him and not me. But I still see his face. He looked confused as it happened.
Confused, like it wasn’t supposed to end this way.
None of it was supposed to end this way.
Huh, so that was interesting. Stella just came into my room and asked me for advice. Me, the one who has managed to mess up my own life and done a pretty good job of screwing things up for my entire family, too. And let’s not forget Stella’s friend. Why would she want MY advice? Me, of all people?
This is what she asked me: Is it more important to do the right thing or is it more important to win?
When did the cute little kid who followed me around like a puppy get so deep?
And more to the point—how was I supposed to answer that?
Should I have told her the answer I l
earned at church? The one I think Mom and Dad would tell her? That would be “do the right thing.”
But she didn’t ask Mom and Dad. She asked me.
Why?
Maybe she knows what Mom and Dad would tell her.
Maybe she trusts me to tell her the truth about the world. What happens in the REAL WORLD, not in fantasy land.
Is combat the real world? In some ways it felt like the most real of worlds. When the adrenaline was pumping and time slowed down and every decision and movement could make the difference between life or death.
Do I tell her what war taught me? Win at all costs. Because otherwise you come home in a flag-draped casket.
But war isn’t the world I want to be real for Stella. We fight different battles now that we’re back home.
What would you have said?
I don’t know if I did the right thing. I’m not a parent or even a guy who has his head on straight, but I told her that there are going to be people who do both, and only she can decide which one of them she wants to be. She just has to remember that no matter what she chooses, she’ll have to live with the consequences. Maybe she’ll win, maybe she’ll lose.
As long as she can live with who she sees when she looks in the mirror.
Because that’s the problem with winning at all costs.
Somehow, you have to figure out how to live with yourself afterward.
You didn’t.
Me? I’m still trying.
ThunderGeek out.
My lungs feel like they are about to explode, my breathing sounds like I’m an antique steam locomotive, and I’m regretting the day I thought Adam Swann was cute.
“Are … you … trying … to … give … me … a … heart … attack?” I say, wheezing, to his flannel-covered back.
He stops and turns, smiling at me, but I’m too out of breath to even enjoy the sight of his single dimple. “We’re almost there. I promise. Just a little bit longer.”
“You … said … that … before, you … liar.”
Adam laughs. “But this time I really mean it.” He reaches out his hand and takes mine. “You can do it, Stella. How about you take the lead?” He grins and winks at me. “Then I can push you if you need it.”
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