Bystander (9 page)

A boy called out, “They were punked!”

Mr. Scofield nodded. “Yes, you could say that.”

Each volunteer was assured that this was important research. They had critical jobs to perform. The accountant/actor was taken to an adjacent room, where he was hooked up with wires to a large electrical generator. The scientist in the lab coat then asked the man
a series of questions. If he replied incorrectly, the volunteer was instructed to flip a switch, delivering an electric shock to the accountant.

“Here's where it gets interesting,” Mr. Scofield said.

“Finally,” Mary joked. The class laughed, but quickly grew quiet. They were already curious.

“The machine had thirty switches, all carefully labeled, ranging from fifteen volts all the way up to four hundred and fifty volts of electricity. With each shock,” Mr. Scofield said, “the volunteer was told to increase the voltage. The switches were not actually connected to the electrical generator, but the volunteers did not realize that.

“As the experiment progressed, the accountant began to moan in pain, then scream, then frantically pound the walls. He begged and pleaded for them to stop the experiment. Hearing this, fourteen out of forty volunteers refused to continue. But twenty-six others ignored the cries and completed the experiment. They delivered all thirty shocks, all the way to the maximum level.”

Mr. Scofield looked around the room. “I'm sure that some of those twenty-six people—like you and me—began to have doubts. They sensed it was wrong. They wanted to stop. But each time, the scientist told them in a firm voice that it was essential to continue the experiment. So they followed orders.”

He pointed at the chalkboard: WE DO WHAT WE'RE TOLD.

“Do you understand?”

The class remained silent, thinking it through, not really getting it. Some watched the clock, began to gather books; the bell was about to sound.

“Think for yourself!” Mr. Scofield urged his students. His eyes seemed to linger on Mary. “It doesn't matter what other people do. You have to look into your own heart.”

“What's this got to do with us?” a boy asked.

“Everything,” the teacher answered. “It's about having the courage to do the right thing.”

The bell rang. Eric grabbed his books and headed for the door. Mr. Scofield pointed to a photograph of Martin Luther King Jr. that had been tacked to the
bulletin board. “King called it ‘
the appalling silence
.' ”

Scofield was on his feet now, still teaching even after the bell, still declaiming quotes. “In the end we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”

Strange guy, that Scofield. A little hyper sometimes.

But the image stuck in Eric's head like a dart to a wall: a man attached to wires, pounding on walls, pleading, “Stop, somebody please, make them stop.” It was hard to pretend that the wires were not, in some strange inexplicable way, connected to him.

RUDY WAS PLAYING NERF BASKETBALL WHEN ERIC
strolled into his bedroom. Rudy looked hopefully at his big brother. Nerf was way more fun with two people.

Eric went to the small bookshelf against the wall. He counted out twenty-seven dollars—a twenty, five, and two ones—and smoothed them on the shelf.

Rudy watched with astonishment.

“You took it?”

Eric didn't bother to deny it. “Just tell Mom you found it.”

“But—”

“You got your money back, okay, it doesn't matter who took it,” Eric snapped. “Tell Mom it was under your bed or something, I don't care, just don't say I paid you.”

Rudy clawed at the back of his knee. He didn't say yes and he didn't say no. Then he offered up the ball. “Do you wanna—?”

“I don't,” Eric said.

Eric closed the door, returned to his room, sprawled on the bed, his mood sour. After three minutes of staring at the ceiling, he came back to Rudy's door, apologized, said of course he'd love to play. “But,” he promised, wagging a finger, “I will destroy you.”

“Oh yeah!” Rudy exclaimed, rising to the challenge. He loved trash talk. Rudy fired a long shot from across the room—which Eric swatted away—and the game was on.

Eric had been undecided over how to handle Griffin Connelly. Should he risk confronting Griffin about the stolen money and the CD? Or should he just let it go? Eric didn't know how he'd react until the moment when he passed Griffin in the hall, coming from opposite
directions. They saw each other and locked eyes, not speaking, not slowing. Then Eric felt his head tip; he gave Griffin a nod of recognition. Griffin nodded back. And it was over.

They had silently agreed to pretend nothing ever happened, or at least not to talk about it. The damage had already been done.

It wasn't about the money. It was about knowledge. Now Eric knew what Griffin was all about. Twenty-seven bucks and a CD was the price he had to pay. But now he
knew
. It was like a switch flipping on, a darkened room suddenly filling with light.

The truly puzzling thing was, it was as if Griffin
wanted
Eric to know. It was almost why he came over in the first place. Griffin had removed the mask; the wolf stepped out from beneath sheep's clothing and revealed himself, gnashing his teeth, showing his claws. There could be no more doubt. But at the same time, he made a point of telling Eric that story about how his father knocked out Griffin's tooth. “We're the same,” he'd told Eric.

Could that be true?

Eric spotted David Hallenback walking ahead of him. Then in darted Cody, slapping David on the back, saying, “Hey, Hallen
back
!”

Very clever, that Cody.

Weasel.

Eric fell in step with Hallenback. “Don't let him get to you,” he advised.

Hallenback shot Eric a look of amazement. He sped up, as if to shake Eric, but Eric kept pace. They were both headed to music class, on the far side of the building, so there was a long way to go. “I know how it feels,” Eric confided. “You don't have to take it from those guys.”

“Yeah, right,” Hallenback mocked. “You know how it feels.”

Eric looked at Hallenback out of the corner of his eye. He had a nervous, twitchy manner, always blinking, as if an anvil were about to drop out of the sky.

“You could talk to somebody,” Eric said.

“Like that's going to help,” Hallenback answered scornfully. “Listen,
friend
”—his voice was filled with sarcasm—“I'm no rat. I'm not crying to any teachers—and you're not, either.”

“Hey, don't get so mad,” Eric said. “I'm just trying to help.”

Hallenback held up a fist in front of his chest, showing it to Eric. He extended his index finger, then his thumb. The sign was unmistakable. It was a gun. Hallenback pointed his finger at Eric, then lifted it to the ceiling, then twice pressed down his thumb.
Bang-bang.
“I know how to defend myself,” Hallenback said. “Don't worry about me,
friend
.”

Eric tried (and failed) to concentrate on his homework during home base. For starters, there was a commotion in the back of the room, between Mary and some of the girls. It was some kind of disagreement. Mary stormed to Mr. Scofield's desk and demanded a pass to the library. Mr. Scofield refused. Mary protested, insisted it was important. Mr. Scofield held firm. Finally, after some hushed debate, he reluctantly made out a pass. “Thanks,” Mary said, plucking the pass from his fingers.

“You're welcome, Mary. Good luck.”

Something was definitely up.

Meanwhile, Eric had David Hallenback to worry about. The kid was starting to scare him. The whole
“bang-bang” thing was just too weird. But what did it mean, really? David didn't make a threat. He didn't have a real weapon. It was just words, bluster from a boy who couldn't hurt a fly. Right? It's not like he threatened to hurt anybody.

The worst part of it, the guilty part, was Eric could totally see why some kids picked on Hallenback. The honest truth? There was something unlikable about that kid. Even though Eric tried to be decent to Hallenback, he kept pushing Eric away. Maybe that was for the best.

After stewing on this for a long while, Eric reached a decision. He pulled up a chair next to Hallenback. “Tell me one thing,” Eric demanded, “and I won't bother you again. Why do you even
want
to be friends with Griffin and those guys?”

David stared levelly at Eric. “I
am
friends with them.”

Eric was dismayed. “David, all they do is pick on you.”

“Not always,” he replied. “Griffin likes me.”

Eric paused a beat, disbelieving his ears. “Griffin,” Eric finally exclaimed in frustration, “is a bad guy!”

It startled Eric to hear himself say it out loud. Eric wasn't even sure he had thought it until the words sprang from his mouth. It was a gut feeling, rising up from deep down.

Griffin is a bad guy.

David Hallenback didn't answer. He went fish-eyed, shut his mouth, and nodded slightly—but not in agreement. The nod suggested something else, like David was making an internal decision, looking at Eric as if for the first time, and now thinking things through.

Eric had no idea what any of it meant.

ERIC SAT AT THE FAR END OF THE TABLE DURING LUNCH.
He had moved his seat away from Griffin after that business with Hallenback in the playground. Eric sensed that something was up. Not by how people looked at him—no, that wasn't it—but by how they
didn't
look at him. Griffin, Cody, all those guys. It was as if Eric no longer existed. He was relieved when the students were allowed to head outside for recess.

He felt worked up and edgy, his head a jangle of different thoughts, all of them focused on Griffin
Connelly. So Eric drifted around the school yard, half looking for Mary.

She was alone, like him. “What's going on?” he asked.

Mary turned her head and stared. Eric followed her eyes and saw Chantel Williams standing with a couple of other girls. Chantel was crying, her body heaving, while the girls tried to console her.

“They got her, huh?”

“Didn't you see it?” Mary asked.

Eric had not.

“Alexis and the others posted a page on the Web. They sent e-mails out to a ton of people, linking to the page. It had all these horrible pictures of Chantel and it read, ‘Ten reasons why Chantel Williams is a fat . . .' ”

Mary didn't finish the sentence. She just swallowed in bewilderment, glancing around like someone who had lost her way.

“Does she know who did it?”

There was no reaction on Mary's face, just a flicker in her eyes. “The school knows. The resource officer, Mr. Goldsworthy, he knows.”

Eric watched her closely. “You told?”

“I'm standing here alone, aren't I?” Mary said. There was a catch in her voice.

“You're not alone,” Eric corrected her.

“Sorry, you know what I mean.”

But Eric could see that Mary was right. Even though he stood beside her, inches away, she was isolated and alone. Mary wasn't “in” anymore. She had been pushed out.

Eric glanced across the school yard and saw a curious partnership. There was Griffin Connelly, walking along in close conversation with David Hallenback. They were set apart from everyone else, just two boys walking, hanging out. Griffin was nodding, listening. David seemed to be doing all the talking.

Strange.

Mary took a deep breath. “I'm going to talk to her.”

“Chantel?”

Mary nodded. “I have to.”

So once again Eric found himself at loose ends. More out of habit than anything else, he joined a loose cluster of the usual suspects: Drew P., Sinjay, Will, Hakeem, a few others. Inspired by Mary's stand
against her friends, Eric abruptly asked, “Why do we let them get away with it?”

“What?”

“Bullies,” Eric said. He was thinking about the presentation Mr. Floyd gave to the science class, of Chantel Williams and David Hallenback. “Why do we stand around and let it happen?”

They looked at Eric as if a yellow daffodil had sprouted from the top of his head.

“Dude, we're talking about the NFL,” Drew P. said. “Hakeem says this is going to be the Jets' year.”

Pat Daly laughed. “Hakeem
always
thinks it's going to be the Jets' year!”

“And this year I'm finally going to be right!” Hakeem bellowed, wagging a finger, flashing a toothy smile.

“I mean it,” Eric persisted, refusing to be dragged off topic. “Like the other day with Griffin and David. Why didn't we do anything to stop it?”

The mood of the group changed, grew quiet and uncomfortable. A few sets of eyes looked away, perhaps searching for Cody and Griffin.

“What about it, Hakeem?”

The thick-bodied, dark-skinned boy stared at Eric. He smiled, lifted up his hands. “My parents tell me to stay out of it,” he admitted. “I don't want any trouble.”

“Hallenback is a loser,” Drew P. interjected. “You know how annoying he is, Eric. That kid deserves a little roughing up now and then. It's like he asks for it.”

“Please, sir, may I have another?” Marshall Jenkins joked in a whiny voice.

Most of the boys laughed, nodding in agreement.

Eric noticed that Pat Daly wasn't laughing.

“What about you, Pat?” Eric asked.

Pat swallowed, looked at the ground. “Even if, let's say, maybe you saw something that seemed a little harsh,” he tentatively began. “What if you did say something? You'd get your butt kicked the next day.”

“It's not worth it,” another commented.

“Besides, who are you going to tell?” Marshall asked. “The principal? Mrs. Morris can't do anything.”