by Mark Gimenez
"What?"
Norbert gestured at the screen. "That."
"What's it mean?" I said.
Norbert hit a button and the gibberish instantly became English. It was his father's report on the possible takeover of Earth. One word in bold print caught my eye: FAVORABLE.
"He's recommending the takeover?"
Norbert nodded. "I am sorry."
"Dang. There's nothing we can do?"
"No. He will file his report by the end of the month."
Norbert spoke to his computer, and the screen went black.
"Our world is lost," Dee said. "Did you get those Twinkies?"
"I am sorry," Norbert said.
"About Twinkies?"
"About Earth."
"Look, Norbert," I said, "even though your government is going to conquer Earth, steal all our natural resources, and make us your slaves, I know it's not your fault. You're like part of our family now. You're like a brother to me."
"May I still eat dinner with you?"
"Oh, yeah, sure."
Norbert seemed sad that night at dinner. Mom asked if he was okay; he said he was, but I knew he wasn't. He said he liked us. Humans.
In his native tongue, Norbert Nordstrom discussed the fate of planet Earth with his father.
"Father, Max is my friend. We should not take his planet."
"Norbert," his father said, "I cannot allow your friendship with Max to affect my judgment. I must do the right thing."
"Right for whom, Father?"
"For us."
"What about humans? What about their planet? Why do we have the right to destroy their planet and their existence for our benefit?"
"Norbert, humans do not deserve Earth."
Norbert stared at his father in his catalog attire.
"No human dresses like that."
nineteen
The article about our boycott ran in the Sunday newspaper. When I got to school Monday morning, a TV van with a satellite dish sticking high into the sky was parked on the street in front of the elementary school. And Vic and his gang were parked on the sidewalk with their fists on their hips. I had to brave their gauntlet. Again.
"We was waiting for you, Dugan," Vic said.
"You should be waiting for English class," I said.
He didn't appreciate that remark. He stepped in front of me and reached out to grab my shirt—
"Max Dugan!"
Saved by the principal. Mrs. Stewart stood at the entrance and waved at me like it was an emergency. I grinned at Vic.
"Another time, Vic."
"There'll be another time, Max. Count on it."
We were celebrities.
The whole school buzzed with excitement. TV cameras were at our school! The reporter wanted to interview us live at 8:30 for the Austin morning news show. So Mrs. Stewart called for a school assembly in the cafeteria. Kids now crowded around our No Sneakers from Sweatshops table and dumped their Legend Jones sneakers into the big barrel for the camera. The reporter was named Ms. Riggs. I had seen her before on TV. She smelled good and had dark hair and painted lips. Her tight dress clung to her body, which didn't have any lumps. Coach Slimes stood at the door staring at her like she was a cold root beer on a hot summer day.
"Natalie Riggs reporting live from the Austin Elementary School in SoCo. I'm here with some fourth-graders who are trying to make a difference. They're boycotting the Legend Jones sneakers that kids love to wear. Max Dugan, tell us why you started this boycott."
She stuck the microphone in front of my face.
"Because it's wrong to pay people pennies to make our sneakers."
"But Legend Jones gives a lot of money to local charities."
"Legend's a good guy, but he's still doing something wrong, endorsing sneakers made in sweatshops." I pointed at Sunny's laptop. "Look, that's a video of the actual Vietnamese factory where the Legend Jones sneakers are made by kids no older than us."
The camera swung over and focused on Sunny's laptop.
"And that's Kim-Ly."
I explained who Kim-Ly was and that her dream was to be a teacher, but she would always make sneakers. The camera swung back to me and Ms. Riggs.
"So you want Legend Jones to stop endorsing those sneakers?"
"Yes, ma'am. And we want all kids in America to boycott the Legend Jones sneakers and all sneakers made in sweatshops."
The reporter turned to the camera and said, "Yes, America, there are kids who care. If Max Dugan and these kids are the future of America, the future is bright indeed."
The story ran on the early and late evening news. Our phone didn't stop ringing.
Two days later, the doorbell rang, and the postman delivered a certified letter addressed to "Max Dugan." Mom signed for it and gave it to me. I opened the letter. It was from "Dewey Cheatham & Howe, Attorneys-at-Law." It started off "To Whom It May Concern."
I gave it to Mom.
"You'd better read it."
She did. Her face turned into a frown.
"Legend's lawyers," she said. "They're threatening to sue you for conducting an illegal boycott under federal antitrust law."
"I'm a kid!"
The phone rang. Mom answered.
"Yes, this is Kate Dugan … Yes, I'm Max's mother … Are you a lawyer? … Oh, Legend's lawyer is threatening to sue him … Yes, he is just a kid … A. Hollister Howe, that's his lawyer's name … in L.A.… Okay, what time tomorrow … Good."
She hung up and looked down at me.
"You're going to be on national television tomorrow."
twenty
The network TV crew came to our house at seven on the first day of October. We would be on the show from Austin, the host, Judy, from New York City, and A. Hollister Howe, the lawyer for Legend Jones sneakers, from Los Angeles. Mom and I sat at the kitchen table with Scarlett and Maddy. Two little monitors sat to the side where we could see the others. Norbert stood over in the corner. The local producer spoke into his headset.
"What? You're catching the kid in the corner?" He pointed at Norbert. "Hey, you—Boo Radley. Move out of camera range."
Norbert stepped farther away. The producer again spoke into his headset.
"Yes, I know the walls are yellow! The whole house is hideous!"
That seemed a little strong. Sure, the house needed some work, but—
"Quiet!"
The producer gave us a countdown with his fingers—
"Five … four … three … two … one."
—and the show went live to Judy in New York.
"Good morning, USA. Are you worried about kids today? Do they seem self-centered and focused only on their electronic gadgets? Do they seem unengaged in the world around them? Well, many kids are. But not Max Dugan in Austin, Texas. Good morning, Max."
I looked at the monitor and saw myself.
"Good morning, ma'am."
Judy smiled. "Ma'am. I love that. And good morning to you, Mrs. Dugan."
"Good morning."
"Max, tell us about your 'no sneakers from sweatshops' boycott."
The monitor showed a clip from our table in the school cafeteria.
"Well, like most kids, I love Legend Jones and his sneakers. I got a new pair for every birthday. I mean, he's the best basketball player in the world and he grew up right here in Austin. So I've always worn them. But then I learned that they're made by kids in Vietnam getting paid pennies, like Kim-Ly. She wants to be a teacher, but she's poor so she's got to make sneakers to help support her family. We want to help her and kids like her."
Maddy put her red cereal bowl on her head.
Judy: "So you organized a boycott at your school."
"Yes, ma'am. We set up a table in the cafeteria and we show a video of the sweatshop where the Legend Jones sneakers are made and we hand out articles about the American companies that make their stuff in Asian sweatshops. We have a barrel for kids to dump their Legend Jones sneakers. We're wearing made-in-America flip-flops and clogs now. And we have
a yellow pair of clogs for Legend, size nineteen, we bought for him, for when he's ready to be a good guy and not endorse sneakers made by poor kids."
Judy: "We also have with us this morning from Los Angeles, A. Hollister Howe, the lawyer representing the company that manufactures and distributes the Legend Jones sneakers. Mr. Howe, are the sneakers made with child labor in sweatshops?"
A. Hollister wore a suit and looked like a snot.
"We have no actual, current, independently verifiable knowledge of that. We comply with all local labor laws. We send our reps into those factories to make sure children are not making our products. Max has no proof that our products are made in sweatshops or by children."
"He has a video from inside the factory," Judy said. Our video played on the screen. "No one has ever been able to get inside these Asian factories due to the security surrounding them, but these workers are clearly sewing the Legend Jones sneaker, and we can see that many of these workers are quite young."
"How'd you get that tape?" A. Hollister almost shouted.
"From Max."
"How'd he get that tape? You can't show that on TV."
"We just did. We can see how your client's company makes the Legend Jones sneakers—"
"My client knows nothing of this. We contract with Vietnamese companies to manufacture our products. If they are violating the law, we are not responsible."
"So you're hiding behind local contractors."
"No. We're hiding behind the law."
"But your sneakers are made by children in sweatshops."
A. Hollister the lawyer looked like he was about to blow a gasket.
"Look, Judy, bottom line, Americans don't care who makes their sneakers or where they're made or how much the workers are paid. They just want to wear the same sneakers Legend wears."
"So you're saying we're all stupid," I said.
Judy: "Sounded that way to me, too, Max."
Now A. Hollister's face turned bright red.
"Max is breaking the law. Now, I'm sure he is well-intentioned, but he is engaging in an illegal boycott. We have sent him a cease-and-desist letter—"
Mom interrupted: "You threatened to sue a ten year old."
"Yes, we did."
Now I jumped in. "You can't sue us. We're just kids. And I don't have any assets except my Ripstik."
"That's right, Max. Children are not legally responsible for their actions. But their parents are. Which means I can sue your parents. You want that? You want me to sue your parents?"
"My mom?"
"And your dad."
Now I blew a gasket. I stood. "My dad? The Army sent my dad to Afghanistan and he didn't come back! He fought for your freedom, so you can sue kids, you big fat jerk! My dad's a hero!"
I was crying now. A. Hollister didn't say anything. But Mom did.
"You want to sue me, buster, bring it on! But I don't think Legend Jones wants to sue the same kids who wear his sneakers! I don't think he wants to explain to all the kids of America why his sneakers are made by Vietnamese kids in sweatshops! I don't think he wants that kind of publicity! Do you?"
I love my mom.
When we went off the air, Norbert held up his finger and whispered in my ear, "I could terminate that lawyer's existence."
When I walked into my class at school that morning, Mrs. Broadus and the other kids gave me a standing ovation. Except Vic and his posse. They just shook their heads and glared at me. Boy, he needs to get a life.
twenty-one
The boycott snowballed after that. Everyone wanted in on it now. We had to get a second barrel for all the Legend sneakers. All the kids at school dumped their sneakers and started wearing colorful flip-flops and clogs. So did the teachers and the principal. Then other schools in Austin joined in. And the school board prohibited the athletic departments from buying any shoes made in foreign sweatshops, even though the coaches complained that the players would have to go barefooted because all athletic shoes were made in foreign sweatshops. Other school districts around the country joined in, then a bunch of universities. Sales of Legend Jones sneakers dropped by seventy-five percent the next week.
We never heard from A. Hollister the lawyer again.
But we did hear from his client.
It was the next Monday, and we were sitting at our boycott table in the cafeteria eating lunch when a camera crew barged in with their bright lights on.
"Do we have an interview scheduled today?" I asked.
Sunny consulted her calendar. "We have Katie Couric tomorrow afternoon, but no one today."
The news people gathered around our table, but they didn't point their cameras at us. They pointed them at the door. And now we saw why.
Legend Jones walked into our cafeteria.
Every kid stopped eating, and the cafeteria fell deathly silent, like one of those western movies when the hero and the bad guy face off in the street for their final gunfight. But that was understandable: you don't get a lot of celebrities at an elementary school.
Legend Jones stood six feet ten inches tall. His head was shaved bald, and he wore mirrored sunglasses and a white shirt, a white tie, and a white suit that glowed under the fluorescent lights and contrasted sharply against his black skin. He was handsome with wide shoulders and a diamond stud earring in each ear. He was wearing his signature black Legend Jones All-Pro No. 1 sneakers. He wasn't smiling.
"Oh, dang," Dee whispered. "He's mad."
Legend removed his sunglasses and glanced around the cafeteria. He spotted our table then walked directly over. He put his hands on his hips and stared down at me.
"You Max?"
His voice sounded mean.
"Uh, yes, sir."
My voice sounded like Maddy's.
"You started this boycott of my sneakers?"
"Yes, sir."
He reached down and picked up the size nineteen yellow clogs.
"You really expect me to join in with you, to boycott my own sneakers and to start wearing these yellow clogs?"
"Well, uh …" I thought of my dad and manned up. "Yes, sir, I guess I do."
Legend stared at me for a long painful moment. I thought he might reach down, grab me by the shirt, and fling me across the cafeteria. I caught Vic and his crew standing off to the side; they were obviously hoping Legend would do exactly that.
But Legend didn't fling me across the cafeteria.
Instead, he smiled. A real big smile for the cameras. He had the biggest, whitest teeth I'd ever seen. It was like staring into the sun.
"Well, Max, that's exactly what I'm gonna do."
"You are?"
"Yes, I am. I didn't know my sneakers were made by poor kids in sweatshops. That's wrong, just like you said. So I want to thank you for bringing it to my attention. From now on, I won't wear my own sneakers."
"You won't?"
"Nope."
Legend leaned over and yanked his sneakers off his feet and dropped them into the barrel. Then he took the clogs, put them on, and stood straight.
"Say, these are sweet."
He now addressed the cameras.
"But I play pro basketball, so I've got to wear sneakers. No other sneakers are made in America, and I can't travel to every factory in Asia and see for myself how they're being made and whether they're being made by kids. I grew up poor here in East Austin, so I know what being poor is like.
"Therefore, I am announcing today that I'm starting my own sneaker company right here in Austin. From now on, Legend Jones sneakers will be made in America by Americans being paid a good wage. The plant will be located in East Austin and will employ two hundred people. I'm going to recruit other NBA players to join with me and invest in this company and manufacture their sneakers here, too. I'm going to give back to the community and the country that gave so much to me.
"Max Dugan made a difference. Now I'm going to make a difference. And I'm asking other athletes to join with me. Imagine what we could do if the biggest stars in sports join wi
th me in manufacturing everything they endorse and wear right here in America, where people need good jobs. We can change the world. And thanks to Max Dugan, I'm gonna try.
"I'm not a real hero like Max's dad. I'm just a basketball player. But I can still do good with my life."
All the students applauded. After a moment, Legend held up his hand.
"Oh—one more thing."
Legend turned to the doors. One of his people gestured at someone outside, and into the cafeteria stepped a small young woman … a girl … who looked like Sunny … and then I recognized her.
"Kim-Ly!"
She ran to me and hugged me. She was crying.
"Max Dugan!"
She started talking in a foreign language—well, for me—and pointed at two older Vietnamese people by the doors. I knew they were her parents.
"Kim-Ly will go to college," Legend said. "Here, at the University of Texas. Then she wants to return to Vietnam and teach children. She wants to make a difference, too. Thanks to Max Dugan."
He stuck his big hand out to me, so I shook hands with Legend Jones for the cameras. It was neat. And it ran on the evening news. I think that would have made Dad prouder than my walk-off grand slam.
twenty-two
Things were better after that.
Except for Vic and his posse. They were getting bolder … and madder. They didn't like the attention we were getting—we were in the newspaper, on local and national TV, and then with Legend Jones. They picked that Friday—the day I brought Norbert to school—to exact their revenge.
In English class.
"Class," Mrs. Broadus said, "Max has brought a guest to school today. His name is Norbert Nordstrom, and he's from out of town."
Way out of town.
Mrs. Broadus began reading Holes to the class again. Norbert was sitting to my left, his attention fully focused on Mrs. Broadus. He was fascinated by the story, or he had another crush on an older female. But I was keeping an eye on Vic, who was sitting several rows left of us. I knew he would try something. He did. I made the mistake of turning to Mrs. Broadus and listening for a few minutes, and when I remembered to check on Vic, it was too late: Vic, Bud, Biff, and Rod were all aiming big plastic straws at Norbert. They inhaled, clamped their lips down on one end of their straws in unison, and blew hard. Out of the other ends of the straws four wet spitballs exploded and hurtled through the air like rockets, sailing past the faces of several other kids and heading directly for Norbert's pale face—and I sat helpless, unable to save my friend from the humiliation of being pounded simultaneously by four spitballs. My alien friend's day at a human school would be ruined.