Unfavorables

by JM Butcher

“He has to be to put up with you,” I say, trying to make her laugh. She smiles to appease me. Really, I’m trying to make myself laugh. It doesn’t work.

  “Seriously, though, don’t worry about it, Maggie. I don’t think he’s mad at you. I think he’s scared of them.” She leans her head in the direction of Principal Dunbar’s office.

  Dunbar typically closes his blinds. Today, they are halfway open as if he wants everyone to observe the gathering in his office. Two Gray Coats stand in front of the seated Dunbar. They appear to be calm and partaking in normal conversation. Every couple of seconds, Dunbar peeks out of his window to catch the curious onlookers. Ms. Tatum is in there too. It makes me uneasy that she’s also talking to the Coats, especially after yesterday’s class.

  “Why is Ms. Tatum in there?” I ask Lexa.

  She shrugs and says, “Dude, who knows? They’re all probably talking about Billy, and Tatum would die if she missed any school gossip. Or she’s suggesting that a few of us retake the Exam.” She smiles before I have the chance to scold her for her unfunny joke.

  “Has anyone heard anything about Billy? Like on the news, or something?”

  “No clue,” Lexa says. “Go ask Hulk over there.” She gestures in Mr. Morrison’s direction with her eyes. He always has to be in on the gossip too. Standing in front of his door, Mr. Morrison is doing his Hulk-thing.

  Forcing an awkward laugh, I say, “Well, at least it’s not weird here today.”

  The bell rings and Ms. Tatum exits Dunbar’s office. She walks with her shoulders high, letting everyone know that she’s in-the-know.

  “Tatum’s coming,” I say. “Let’s go.” I don’t want to have a run-in with Ms. Tatum before class. She’ll probably warn me not to take anything that Olivia and Lexa say seriously. I’m sure she’s still livid; she definitely knows how to hold a grudge.

  Lexa and I walk side by side to History class. When we enter the room, we part ways—she walks to the front and I take my usual seat in the back. Olivia eyes me while I make my way to my seat. I acknowledge her out of courtesy and give her a semi-wave. She quickly turns, like making eye contact with each other is a crime.

  Ms. Tatum slips through the door and slowly walks to the front of the room. She’s wearing muddy green today. Instead of going straight for the chalk, Ms. Tatum pauses and looks around the room. I sense she’s ready to lecture the class for the way some of the students “disrespected” the URA yesterday.

  “I am sure you all have seen that we have some very special guests today,” Ms. Tatum addresses the class. “I also am sure that you are all aware of the situation concerning your fellow student, Mr. Conroy.”

  “Who the hell is that?” Lance calls out with a perplexed look on his face.

  Olivia peers over her shoulder and gives Lance a look of disgust. “Billy, ya freakin’ yahoo.” She shakes her head. “You know, the one who stole your groupies every morning.”

  Lance laughs it off and says, “I bet that freshman chump is at home looking to see if his first chest hair has popped out of his puny, weak sauce chest. Am I right?” He raises his hand, inviting Grant to give him a high five.

  “Chill, man,” Grant says. He appeases Lance with a soft high five.

  “Well, Mr. Farmer,” Ms. Tatum says, “that is not why he is absent.” Lance seriously has no clue. “Mr. Conroy was detained from his home two nights ago. He is suspected to be involved in a plot to commit an act of transgression in our great Union.”

  Lance peers at his classmates. “Ha…chump change? Are we talking about the same frosh chump?”

  Ms. Tatum is not amused. She crosses her arms. “Correct, Mr. Farmer, we are referring to the same Mr. Conroy.”

  Lance nearly falls out of his chair. “Ha…no flippin’ way! That chump’s dog is embarrassed to talk to him. How the hell could he be plotting anything?”

  Someone says, “Those are the ones we should be afraid of.” I can’t tell who said it. I think it’s Sydney. I wonder how she’s responding to her on-and-off boyfriend’s disappearance.

  “No flippin’ way!” Lance won’t give up. “Ha! Atta flippin’ boy!” Ms. Tatum rarely shows Lance any sign of disapproval, but she glares at our star quarterback this time. The kind of glare she gives to Lexa or Olivia after one of their progressive comments.

  Under my breath, I mutter Olivia’s catch-phrase: “Lance is a freakin’ yahoo.”

  Ms. Tatum marches down the aisle between desks, until she hovers over Lance. “Mr. Farmer, this is not a laughing matter. Mr. Conroy is in serious trouble. It would behoove you not to condone the actions of a suspected Transgressor, Mr. Farmer.” Lance fiddles with a stylus and doesn’t say a word.

  “So why are the Gray Coats here now?” Olivia asks what everyone else wanted to.

  Walking back to the front of the classroom, Ms. Tatum announces, “Our courageous Gray Coats will be questioning students today. I have been instructed to encourage all of you to cooperate with them. If there is any information you can provide regarding Billy’s history and recent behaviors, everyone will appreciate it.”

  Olivia squirms in her chair. She shoots me a glance and quickly looks down at her desk. My face starts to perspire. My heart feels like it’s pounding out of my chest. I close my eyes and breathe like I always do when I start to panic. Neither of them keeps the sweat from accumulating under my arms and behind my knees.

  “It’s nothing to worry about,” Ms. Tatum continues. “It is all precautionary. Principal Dunbar assured me that the questioning will be light and quick. Now, let us return to our lesson on Jacksonian Democracy.”

  As Ms. Tatum reaches for the chalk, a voice comes from the loudspeaker. It’s Dunbar. “Miss Ashford. Miss Alexa Ashford. Would you please report to the principal’s office? Again, Miss Alexa Ashford, please report to the principal’s office.”

  Alphabetical order means Lexa is first. She arranges her materials in her backpack and quietly stands up. My eyes are glued to her as she leaves the room. How can she look so calm in a moment like this? My eyes aren’t the only ones. Olivia stares Lexa down too, then looks at me again. I shrug and pray that I didn’t put Lexa in danger.

  Before she is out of the room, Lexa turns her head and winks at me.

  ***

  I make it to Mr. Morrison’s fourth-period geometry class without hearing my name called. History is the only class I have with Lexa, and she didn’t return before the end of class. I looked for her in the hallway after second period and again after third period. No luck. I rarely see her between those classes, so I shouldn’t worry. But I do.

  I typically sit in the middle during Mr. Morrison’s class. But since he doesn’t assign seating, I decide that the back corner is more suitable. The kid who always wears a neon green beanie hat is irritated that I’m in his seat. I pretend not to notice his middle finger.

  I’d be fine sitting in the middle, but I’m not okay with everyone spotting the armpit sweat seeping through my shirt. Holding my arms up and leaning over the bathroom’s hand dryer didn’t work. Not after first period. Not after second period. Not after third period.

  Since there are no windows in the classroom, I’m forced to pay attention to Mr. Morrison’s lesson on graphing direct and indirect relationships. It serves as an adequate distraction from the ongoing interrogations. I, however, can’t follow the whole x-axis, y-axis stuff. I make A’s in History and Digital Writing. Math, I struggle with. I guess it’s hard to develop logical thinking skills when I interrupt my thoughts so much by closing my eyes.

  After what seems like two hours of spinning graphs and Mr. Morrison’s monotonous voice, another name comes from the loud speaker: “Mr. Frank. Mr. Arnold Frank. Please report to the principal’s office.”

  Neon beanie kid stands up and lifts his bag to his shoulder. He goes out of his way to pass me so that he can say, “Didn’t need my seat anyway, Gord-o. Don’t let it happen again.” He flips his middle finger up again. “Arnie, out!”

  Looking puzzled, Mr. M
orrison freezes in the front of the classroom. I shrug my shoulders and smile at Mr. Morrison.

  Mr. Morrison’s confusion doesn’t entertain me for long. Frank. Ugh. That means we’re almost to the “G” names. It also means Grant has already been called, even though I don’t remember hearing Mr. Grant Field’s name.

  When the bell finally rings, my panic grows stronger.

  In the hallway, Ronnie is at his locker. I hide behind a pack of seniors so that I don’t scare him off again. I sneak up on him and ask, “Have you seen Lexa?”

  Refusing to face me, Ronnie shuffles through his locker and says, “Nope. She’s probably tied up in a Gray Coat’s basement right now. Melli’s probably there too, shooting drugs into Lex while she’s tied up.”

  “Shut up, Ronnie.” It’s Lexa. I breathe a sigh of relief. “Don’t listen to him.” She squeezes his cheeks together and says, “Mr. Pouty Face over here needs to relax.” They kiss.

  “Hi!” I blurt out and wrap my arms around Lexa, swinging her around into the lockers.

  “Whoa,” Ronnie says, finally looking at me. “Play nice with my girlfriend, please. We don’t need another Gordon trying to steal her away.” I smile at him and release Lexa.

  “How did it go?” I anxiously ask.

  “It was fine. They just asked how long I’ve known Billy and if there’s anything I could say that might be of interest to their investigation. I told them, ‘No,’ and was out in five minutes.”

  “Seriously!?” I’m relieved she didn’t face an intense interrogation. I can’t imagine I’ll be let off the hook so easily. “You didn’t come back to class. I figured they had you in there for at least an hour. Or maybe even arrested you.”

  Lexa grins and flips her blonde hair back. “Nope, all five feet and two inches of Miss Alexa Ashford rebelled against the system and said, ‘To hell with you all! This girl is fighting with the Youth League.’” She laughs and puts her fist in the air.

  I don’t find it funny. I frantically search the halls to make sure nobody heard her.

  “Dude, Maggie, relax,” Lexa says. She puts her hands on my shoulders and leans toward my face. “They’re asking basic questions. It’s protocol.” She moves back to give me some space. “I didn’t come back because if I was excused from Tatum’s class, I sure as hell wasn’t going to go back to hear her praise Jacksonian genocide.”

  “That’s my girl.” Ronnie kisses her cheek. It’s nice to see him in a playful mood. “Although, don’t hate on my late-great-great-great-uncle’s mom’s father’s aunt.” That’s right. His full name is Ronnie Jackson. He hasn’t been called yet. If he’s nervous, he’s not showing it.

  “Aunt?” Lexa asks, laughing hysterically. “Yes, ha, Aunt President Andrea Jackson.”

  “You know it, Lex.” He does a little foot shuffle. His moves actually aren’t that bad. Ronnie would never agree to be the first male to join the school dance team, though.

  The loudspeaker takes me by surprise: “Miss Gordon. Miss Margaret Gordon. Please report to the principal’s office.”

  Lexa stands up straight in a soldier’s position and salutes me. “You’ll be fine, Miss Margaret Gordon. But you may want to put on another shirt. Or find some deodorant.” Apparently, the sweat hasn’t stopped.

  “Shut it, Miss Alexa Ashford.” I playfully shove her shoulder. “See ya later, Lonnie…or is it Roxa? I can’t remember.”

  Ronnie tries to make a joke, but all I hear is “…brother…Miss Margaret…” He needs to take humor lessons from Lexa.

  I force myself to keep my shoulders squared and head high, ready to face the Gray Coats. Fake it ‘til you make it, I guess. I make a pit stop at my locker to grab a light pink jacket. The air conditioning isn’t as chilly as usual, but I think my nasty shirt justifies my wearing the “just in case” jacket.

  As I approach Dunbar’s office, I take a couple of deep breaths. I stand in front of his door for a few seconds before knocking. When I do knock, a Gray Coat, not Dunbar himself, opens the door. I thank him and walk into the room. Dunbar remains behind his desk, and a second Gray Coat sits in an office chair next to the desk.

  These two Gray Coats don’t look like the ones I’m used to. Neither of them wears an eye patch.

  “Miss Gordon,” Dunbar stands up to greet me and shake my hand. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to us.”

  “It’s getting me out of Simmons’ psychology class.” I try to make a joke, but my voice is shaky.

  The seated Gray Coat stands and says, “Hi, Miss Gordon, I am Soldier Wilson, and that is Soldier Stanton.”

  Stanton? Is he related to President Stanton? There’s no way. Washburn wouldn’t enlist a relative of a political rival.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, miss,” Soldier Wilson says. He sits back down.

  “Sorry to break up the introductions,” Dunbar interrupts, “but we are on a tight schedule, so let’s get right to it. Soldiers, I leave her to you.”

  Soldier Stanton explains, “Miss Gordon, I am going to ask you a series of questions regarding your relationship with William Conroy. Soldier Wilson, there, will be recording your answers. Please do not be nervous if you see him writing. He has been ordered to record everything said.”

  “Can’t you just audio record it, or even film it?” I ask. It’s a legitimate question.

  “We will be audio recording, of course. We like to be thorough and have all statements backed up in the rare case that there is a technological blunder. That’s why Soldier Wilson will be transcribing your statements.”

  “Sounds good. May I sit down?” I don’t wait for an answer. I need to sit down as quickly as possible to keep my knees from buckling.

  “First,” Soldier Stanton says, “do I have your permission to use an audio recording device during our session?”

  I want to ask, Do you need permission from an Unfavorable. Instead, I choose to be polite. “Yes, sir.”

  “Miss Gordon, I understand that you are a sophomore here at Crosswoods High School. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If I am correct, William Conroy is a freshman here?”

  “Yes, sir, although I don’t really know him—"

  “We’ll get to that, Miss Gordon. How long have you been acquainted with William Conroy?”

  “Billy was a…” He stops me again.

  “Please refer to him by his full name.”

  “Okay, William Conroy was a grade below me in middle school. So, I technically met him four years ago. I was in sixth grade, and he was in fifth. But I…”

  “Let’s keep it technical, Miss Gordon.”

  What I would give to be a fly on the wall when Olivia is in here. She’ll call him “prick” and “freakin’ yahoo” left and right.

  “I’ve known William Conroy for four years,” I repeat, meeting all technicalities.

  “In those four years, have you ever spoken to William Conroy at length?”

  “I have never spoken to him face to face.”

  “Interesting. Did you get that, Soldier Wilson?”

  What is so interesting about that? I hide my confusion so as not to somehow make myself look suspicious.

  “Miss Gordon, I understand that you have an eye chip. Is that correct?”

  I nod. “Yes, sir.”

  “How old were you when your eye chip was installed?”

  I answer, “I was eleven. I was labeled as disturbed when I was nine, soon after my mom left.” I maintain eye contact.

  “Is your mother alive?” He should know this if the YRL knows.

  “Probably not,” I respond, not necessarily believing it to be a lie. The Gray Coat stays silent for a few seconds, in hope that I will elaborate on my answer. I don’t have anything else to say.

  “Nine years old is a pretty young age to be determined as an Unfavorable?” He raises his eyebrows like this is a question rather than a statement. “Very young, in fact. Maybe the youngest age I am aware of.”

  I look at Soldier W
ilson. “Disturbed, sir. At nine, I was labeled as disturbed. You can’t be an Unfavorable until you’re chipped, right? Please write that down.” I turn back to Soldier Stanton.

  “Technicalities,” Soldier Stanton remarks.

  “Isn’t that what you want?” I raise my voice. “You just said to stick to the technical. Just following your orders.” He looks displeased.

  “Okay, please get back on track,” Dunbar slips in. He knocks on his desk. “We have more to get to.”

  “Yes, let’s move forward.” Soldier Stanton turns back to me. “Miss Gordon, did your father recommend that you see the White Coats?”

  “Yes, sir. He was concerned. The White Coat I spoke with told me I suffered from trauma and diagnosed me with anxious disturbance disorder.”

  “But you were not chipped until you were eleven?”

  “I just said that,” I retort, as I crack my knuckles.

  Ignoring my frustration, he asks, “Why do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know. I was told that there was no immediate threat, that the chip could wait two years. Is this about Billy or is this about me?”

  “We will get to that. Now, you also have been prescribed thought-blocking medications for six years. Have you ever stopped taking it?”

  I pause for a second. How does he know this information? If I lie, my eye might twitch. “My dad sets out a pill for me every night.” I pick at my cuticles.

  “Mr. Dunbar tells me that you were one of William Conroy’s admirers during his night thought recitations. What, pray tell, influenced you to join his crowd?”

  Why does this guy speak like that? “I have never heard anyone talk about night thoughts. I have never had night thoughts, at least none that I remember. I was interested. Is that a crime?” I shove my hands in my pant pockets.

  “Not yet,” warns Soldier Stanton. “Did he ever say anything about using a gun on a fellow human being, more specifically, a Gray Coat?”

  “Yes,” I say, “but it was just talk. He didn’t mean it.”

  “So, yes?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answer, removing my hands from my pockets.

  “Do you believe that William Conroy would ever act on his thoughts?”