“But will it be enough?” I ask. “Do you think the prosecutor is still going to press for prison?”
“Who knows if what we do is ever enough?” Mom says. “We have to stay true to ourselves and do the best we can. Sometimes the most we can do is make people think.”
The next day it seems like at least some kids saw the piece, whether on TV or online.
Haley and I haven’t spoken since the day after the mall incident when she took Wade’s word over mine. But she comes up to me at my locker first thing in the morning.
“Hey, Stella,” she says.
“Hey.”
“I … well, I saw your brother on the news in the piece about veterans last night,” she says.
I don’t say anything. I’m waiting to hear where she’s going with this.
“I just want to say … I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just assumed Wade and Jed were telling the truth. I guess I … well, I’m sorry.”
“It was easier to go along with the crowd and believe them than to believe me, who you’ve known since kindergarten?”
“I wouldn’t have done that if Rob hadn’t acted so weird at the convenience store,” Haley protests. “I didn’t realize it might be PTSD or whatever. It just seemed so out there.”
I guess I can see where she’s coming from. But it still hurts.
“Anyway, I’m sorry,” she says. “I feel bad. I hope he feels better soon.”
“You and me both,” I say. “But thanks.”
I don’t know where this leaves our friendship. But her saying sorry is a step in the right direction. After all, Farida has forgiven me for making mistakes more times than I can count.
Tom Zweibel, who made the stupid crack about Rob when I was interviewing him for the election video, stops me in the hall.
“Hey, Stella. I saw that thing about your brother and, um … I just want to say he’s all right,” he says.
Am I supposed to thank him for that?
“I knew he was all right all along,” I tell Tom. “I’m glad you finally realized it.”
Tom flushes. “Yeah, well … That’s all I wanted to say.”
“Okay. Noted.”
As I walk to class, I wonder if it would have killed him to say “I’m sorry.” Two little words, which when said with sincerity, go a long way. If he’d said “I’m sorry,” maybe I’d have been less snarky in return.
I see Charity Hernandez and Sierra Foster outside the door to my class.
“Hey! When’s the first basketball game of the season?” I ask before I go in. “I want to make sure I come.”
“The Monday after Thanksgiving,” Sierra says. “Awesome that you remembered.”
“Yeah. Oh, hey, I saw that thing about your brother,” Charity adds. “He’s good people.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I like him.”
“What Mayor Abbott is saying about him is just wrong,” Sierra says.
“Ugh. I know,” I say. “It wasn’t anything like Mayor Abbott tells it.”
“How can he get away with saying all that fake stuff on the news?” Charity asks. “There should be a law or something.”
“There is a law,” I say. “It’s called the First Amendment. It means he gets to say whatever he wants, even if it’s not true.”
“Yeah, but on the news?” Charity says. “Aren’t they supposed to say if it’s true or not?”
“Exactly,” Sierra chimes in. “You know, isn’t that their job? To fact-check or whatever?”
“Right?” I say.
“And it was so unreal that Farida got dragged into it,” Sierra says.
“I know—have you posted a good review on the Tigris Facebook and Yelp pages yet?” I ask. “I’m trying to get people to do that to drown out all the awful stuff.”
“I saw that,” Charity says. “My mom ordered takeout from there for dinner yesterday.”
“I wrote a good review on Facebook and Yelp, and I sent the link to all my friends,” Sierra says.
“Great, thanks.”
But as I walk away, I feel kind of hypocritical because I still haven’t decided what I’m going to do about the video for my election speech. It’s not that I’m planning to totally lie about things, but like the America News Channel, I’ve been playing around with selective editing.
“You wouldn’t know anything about some secret Facebook group that’s encouraging people to eat at Tigris and leave positive reviews, would you?” Farida asks me at lunch.
“Facebook group? What? Me?” I say, attempting to deny all knowledge.
“Don’t ever try out for drama,” Ken says. “You’re a terrible actress.”
I make an exaggerated pouty face.
“I’m actually going to agree with Kenny on this,” Farida says. “Stop the press!” She hugs me. “But thanks. It’s still pretty stressful at home, but Dad says there’s already been a pickup in takeout orders. And the Yelp reviews are more positive than negative again.”
“I told you I’d try harder,” I say.
“When the phone started ringing so much more all of a sudden, we couldn’t figure out if it was a sudden rush because people saw Mom and Dad interviewed on Stephanie Nagy’s special report. Business had been slow since the thing on the America News Channel,” Farida says. “My parents have been pretty worried. Then Jenny Moss’s family came in for dinner and she told me about the secret group.”
“Which is apparently no longer a secret,” Adam says. “By the way, how’s the video coming along?”
I hesitate, because even though my gut’s been telling me one thing, I still don’t know if I should do the opposite to give me a better chance of winning.
“Okay,” I say. “It’s a ton of work to edit. Thankfully, I have the amazing and talented Ken to help.”
“It’ll be worth it when you win,” Farida says.
“Well, actually … I want to ask your opinion about something.”
Ken flashes me a warning look. I know he doesn’t want to share the rough version of the Win at All Costs video we’ve created with Farida or anyone else just yet, but I’m done with keeping stuff from my best friend.
“It’s just … well, the whole situation with Rob made me think about how the way things are presented can change what we think about them. So Ken and I started experimenting with different ways of editing the interviews we did, and … okay, let me just show you.”
I’ve copied the two draft versions onto my phone—the WaAC (Win at All Costs) version and the TILII (Tell It Like It Is) version.
I don’t give any explanation. I just play them both.
“See how number one is much more positive?” Ken says.
“No way,” Farida says. “It’s totally manipulative. I mean, you cut out all the things we agreed should be included. I thought the whole point was that you understood people want to be heard. It’s denying our voice. We’re supposed to be representing all students, not just pretending everything is perfect.”
This is exactly what I was afraid of.
“Number one is more upbeat and persuasive,” Ken argues. “It’ll appeal to more people. We want to win, don’t we?”
“It’ll appeal to more of the same people who would vote for Chris is what you’re saying without actually using the words,” Farida says, her words clipped with anger.
Ken stills, looking stunned. “Wait. What are you saying? You’re not calling me a racist, are you?”
Farida is quiet for just one second too long for him before she says, “No, I’m—”
“Seriously, Farida?” Ken explodes. “We’re friends. How can you think that?”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” she says. “It’s just that—”
But he doesn’t let her finish.
“Forget it. You can be campaign manager on your own. I’m outta here,” he says, getting up and storming out of the cafeteria.
Farida turns to Adam and me, with wide, stricken eyes.
“I was just trying to think of the best wo
rds to tell him how I felt,” she said. “It’s always hard to have these conversations.”
“I totally get that,” I say. And it sucks that Farida is always put in the position of having to explain it. “Can you tell me? I honestly want to know.”
“Are you sure?” Farida asks. “One-hundred-percent sure?”
“Yes. That’s why I asked.”
She glances over at Adam, who nods, as if confirming that he’s witness to my answer before she speaks.
“Stella, obviously I want you to win. I was the one who encouraged you to run in the first place.”
“I know,” I say.
“But that first video is dishonest,” she says. “And that hurts. Especially after everything that’s happened in the last few weeks. It’s portraying things to make it seem like we all think everything’s great here. You cut out all the parts where we talked about the real problems we experience every day at Argleton High.”
I nod. “But that’s the way it works in the real world. I mean, look at Rob. Even at school, people just believed Jed’s story. So I thought—isn’t it better to play the game the way it’s done and win, so we can actually get things accomplished?”
“But don’t you see,” she says. “You’ve just bought into the same system that’s excluded and ignored our voices in the first place.”
“I know, but once I’m elected, I’ll—”
“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” Farida says. “Do you even hear yourself? Did you even listen the other day when I tried to explain about all the everyday crap I put up with that you don’t even notice? That you’ve been able to ignore for all the years we’ve been friends? Didn’t you hear what Ashar said on TV?”
She picks up her tray with the remains of her lunch and gets up.
“Wait, Farida, don’t go, I—”
“I thought you were finally starting to get it, like actually get it. But maybe you just won’t. Ever.” She grips the edges of her tray and a look of defeat crosses her face. “I’ve lost my appetite,” she says, and walks away.
I’ve lost mine, too, knowing that my best friend thinks I’m part of the problem, and realizing that no matter how good my intentions are, it looks like she’s right.
“Great,” I say to Adam. “I’ve gone from two campaign managers to zero in one lunch period.”
He doesn’t say anything but just looks at me, and I don’t feel good about what I see in his eyes.
“You’re mad at me, too.”
“Not mad, exactly,” he says quietly. “More … disappointed.”
“I’m disappointing everyone right now,” I say with a sigh. “And the election hasn’t even happened yet.”
“Let me ask you a question,” Adam says. “Why do you think I like you? I mean, like like you.”
Talk about an awkward question. I’m not sure how to answer, so I fall back on humor. “My good looks and sharp wit?”
“There is that,” he allows, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But dig a little deeper.”
“I can’t read your mind. And clearly I’m not even that good at hearing when people tell me things,” I say. “But maybe you can try?”
He takes my hand under the table, and despite being miserable in the crowded cafeteria, it reminds me of being on the cliff with the valley below, when everything still seemed possible.
“Most people look at me and see a freak,” he says. “I’m the kid of the weird survivalist guy who lives in the woods and believes in every conspiracy theory out there.”
I look down at our clasped hands, feeling guilty. I don’t know if I would have gone so far as freak, but it’s fair to say that I always assumed Adam was a little weird, like his dad. It didn’t help that he was so quiet. It’s only been this year that I’ve gotten to know him better and realized he’s so much more than that.
“It’s okay,” he says, squeezing my hand. “I know you probably thought that, too. But you looked beyond it to the real me, something most people don’t bother to do.”
“So I’m not a total disappointment to you?” I ask.
“The reason why I like you is because you want to change things. And because you’re smart and funny, and you’re not afraid to say what you think,” Adam says. “One of my favorite things in the world is watching you put Chris in his place.”
I smile. “True confession: I kind of enjoy doing that.”
“So why are you trying to play it safe all of a sudden with that video? I don’t get it.”
Sometimes you don’t need to be told the answer. You just need someone to ask you the right question.
What has trying to play it safe done for me? It’s upset my best friend, making her feel like I haven’t been listening, and made me feel bad about myself because I wasn’t listening to what I knew was right.
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “But I definitely know what I’ve got to do now. It’s going to be a long night.”
Hey, Roadrunner—
So it looks like Operation Make Rob Look More Respectable has been a moderate success. When I went to campus for class the next day a few people said they’d seen the thing. Two younger guys, Cody and Kyle, hadn’t realized I’d served and they wanted to know combat details. The stuff that I don’t want to talk about because that’s what we glorify without talking about the rest of it. They’ve watched the hero movies, played Halo, Gears of War, or Call of Duty, but that never tells you what it’s really like.
They don’t know the guilt. The randomness. The what-ifs? The death and destruction.
And there’s so much more.
I said I had a class to get to and walked away. Went and sat in the john, just so I didn’t have to talk to anyone. Portrait of courage, right?
But after my next class, I had a break and I was hungry, so I went to the cafeteria for a snack and some coffee, found a table in the corner, and got out a textbook, hoping that no one else would talk to me.
Head down, trying to focus on my work, minding my own business.
“Mind if sit here?”
I looked up ready to say yes, ready to say I’m studying and I need to be alone. But then I saw her smile and the words stuck in my throat. I know, I sound like a lovesick moron, right? I can hear you and the rest of the guys ragging on me.
But I played it a little cool at least. Said, “Sure, suit yourself,” and then pretended I was reading my textbook, but my palms were sweating and I was aware of every move she made as she sat down with her Diet Coke and package of mini Oreos.
“I’m Caitlin Stuart,” she said. “And aren’t you Rob Walker?”
My heart sank. If she knew who I was, then there was no way I had a chance. So I just laid it out there straight on the table.
“Yeah, the violent veteran. As seen on TV.”
She shook her head no, and I got this waft of shampoo smell from her hair. Something flowery and clean.
“No, that’s not what I meant. I mean, I knew who you are from seeing you around campus, and then I saw you on TV but …” She reached out and touched my hand. “I don’t think you’re violent or disturbed or whatever.”
I’d forgotten what it felt like to feel hopeful about anything until that moment.
We ended up talking all the way through my next class. Both her sister and her cousin served in Iraq. She’s studying to be a social worker. I asked her, “Doesn’t that get depressing?”
“Doesn’t war get depressing?” she asked with a smile.
“Touché,” I admitted.
“But there are still things about it that my sister and cousin miss,” she continued. “I try hard to understand, but I can’t, because the thought of being in a war zone and seeing all that freaks me out.”
I wanted to tell her it freaked us out, too. That I’m still working on trying to get over how much it freaked me out, and I wonder if I ever will. That you decided you couldn’t get over it.
But I didn’t want to scare her off with too much honesty. Because I like this girl
Caitlin. Yes, you heard it here first. I haven’t told anyone else, not my parents or Stella. Only Peggy, because she’s real good at keeping my secrets.
Caitlin told me which days she has classes. And then she gave me her phone number. Should I text her?
Or maybe I should just forget I ever met her, because I need to get my head straight before risking getting involved with anyone. Especially someone as cool as she is.
The last thing she needs is to be involved with someone like me.
What would you do, Jason?
No. I’m not going to do that, now that I have this phone number. Even if I never text her, just having it, just the thought that someday I might call, is enough.
I think I’ve rediscovered something.
That thing called possibility.
ThunderGeek out.
Late that night, I’m still editing the video, based on what Farida, Rob, and Adam said. At midnight, Mom and Dad come into my room.
“Bedtime,” Dad says. “We know this is important, but so is getting enough sleep.”
“But the class election speeches are tomorrow! I have to finish!”
“Stella, you’ve been working on this for weeks,” Mom says. “I know you. You’re a perfectionist. It can be ninety-nine-point seven percent perfect instead of one hundred, and that is still okay.”
“Would you say that about a surgery?” I ask, rubbing my eyes, which are strained from being glued to the screen for so long. “Would you sew up a patient without doing one hundred percent of the job just because you were tired?”
Dad tries to cover up a snort but fails, as Mom looks at him helplessly.
“She’s definitely my daughter, isn’t she?” Mom sighs.
“Was that ever in doubt?” I ask.
“Okay, enough snarking at your mother,” Dad says. “Go to bed now and get some sleep. I’ll wake you up at zero dark thirty, and you can finish in the morning.”
Reluctantly, I close my laptop, tell my parents good night, and turn off the light. But as soon as I hear them go into their room and close the door, I get out of bed, snag my laptop from the desk, and burrow under the covers with it. Because everything that’s happened has convinced me I should listen to my heart and my gut, not to mention my best friend, who has told me why I need to have courage instead of being a coward—even if it means I don’t win. I want to be class president, but I also have to be true to who I am.
Anything But Okay Page 17