Hero–Type (11 page)

Today one of the supports is
covered
with magnetic ribbons.

I can see it from Route 54 on the way to school, and I actually have to pull over for a second. I'm not the only one—five or six other cars have pulled over, too.

The support is almost completely obscured by the ribbons. There must be hundreds of them, thousands maybe. It's become a patchwork thing of red, white, blue, and yellow.

All I can think is,
Where did Flip get all those ribbons?
He didn't have time to order them from somewhere, and that would be one hell of an expensive prank anyway...

And then I see a car stopped ahead of me. The bumper is dusty and dirty ... except for a clean ribbon-shaped space.

Oh, man!

I hustle into my car before people realize a) who I am, and b) that their ribbons are missing, leading to c) the lynching of Kevin Ross.

The prank was too late in the night for it to make the morning newspaper, but apparently it's on TV and radio and all over the Web. Flip should be giddy when I see him at school, but he's depressed. Fam holds his hand and pets it like that'll soothe him.

"No one gets it," he complains. "They're talking about vandalism and theft, but no one gets it."

"Sorry. But you know what I noticed?"

He goes on, ignoring me. "I mean, there's no bridge! Right? A support with nothing on it. Empty, pointless support."

"No one even noticed that their ribbons were missing until they saw the bridge or heard about it," I tell him. "They don't even
see
the damn things anymore."

He's totally
oblivious
to me. "No one gets it. Not a one! It's a brilliant commentary on—"

I give up trying to get through to him. "Flip, if you have to explain a joke, it's not funny."

"No, the audience is just too stupid. Cut it out." He jerks his hand away from Fam. "Subtlety is lost on these morons."

I get away from him as quickly as I can. I need to be in homeroom.

In homeroom, I bide my time, waiting until everyone is in the room and just getting settled. I still have a minute or two before the bell and then a minute or two after that before the TV comes on and the announcer of the day leads us in the Pledge.

I get up and walk to the front of the class and say, "Excuse me! Could I have everyone's attention?"

Mrs. Sawyer looks like I just kicked her in the gut. Everyone stops what they're doing and gives me the same look you'd give a guy who not only just farted in church but also stood up to announce it loud and clear.

God, I hope I can pull this off.

"Before the announcements come on and the Pledge, I wanted to say something." I'm expecting a chorus of boos (or at least for Mrs. Sawyer to tell me to shut up), but I guess I've shocked everyone into paralysis.

I clear my throat and start to talk and I'm halfway through my speech before I realize I don't even need to look at my notes—I just
know
this stuff.

"I know this all started with some ribbons on my car... or, hell, off my car. But yesterday I realized that there's something that came before the ribbons, for all of us. And we don't even think about it. Just like the ribbons.

"You know, every morning in school, ever since we were all little kids in kindergarten, we come in and we say the Pledge. And I guess that's fine, but you know, I got to thinking: What
is
the Pledge? What does it mean? Why do we say it? No one has ever told us that. They just tell us to say it and we do. And
if
we're supposed to be pledging allegiance, shouldn't we think about what that means? For most of us, the Pledge has always just been there. But do we ever really—"

"We're supposed to say it," John Riordon calls out from his seat in back. "You don't just sit there and do nothing. You say the Pledge." There's an agreeable undercurrent.

"OK, that's fine. But why?"

"Because you do," John says, again to murmured agreement. He's not just a football stud. He's also in a bunch of the college prep classes. So people are taking him seriously. More seriously than the guy who takes the easy classes and pulls straight Cs. (That would be me.)

"It's how you show you love your country," he goes on.
"If you
do." He looks like he's about to get out of his chair and rearrange my face, but I keep going.

"So George Washington and Abe Lincoln didn't love this country?"

I get the moment of surprised silence I was hoping for. John grits his teeth and gets up.

"Sit down, John!" Mrs. Sawyer says. "You, too, Kevin."

"The Pledge didn't even exist until 1892," I go on. "The guy who wrote it was a
socialist."

Some blank stares. Riordon starts walking down the aisle to me.

"Socialists are supposed to be, like, the bad guys," I say, speeding up. "He only wrote the thing because there was this big world's fair in Chicago and he thought it would be cool to have kids all across the country say something nice. I mean, that's it. Really. That's the only reason it exists.

"Anyway, it wasn't the same Pledge as the one we say now. So how did anyone before 1892 prove they loved their country if they didn't have a Pledge? Or, y'know, magnets to put on their, well, their horse and buggies, I guess."

My smart-assery is unappreciated, but I can tell that I've caused at least a bit of confusion in some skulls out there.

"Sit down
now,"
says Mrs. Sawyer, and her voice has this note of panic in it, like she's about to pull a gun. John pauses, trying to figure out how serious she is.

"I'm not going to listen to this crap," he says.

"You both have five seconds and then I'm writing hall passes to the principal's office."

John goes back to his seat.

"You should know what you're saying and what you're doing and why," I say. I'm on a roll. I'm not stopping now. "Like, the word
equality
was originally going to be in the Pledge, but do you know why it isn't? Because the guy who wrote it knew that the people in charge of the schools back then didn't like women and African Americans. So he didn't put it in there."

Not much of a reaction there, but then again, there are only like ten black kids at South Brook, so I don't really know what I expected.

"And it originally said 'my flag,' not 'the flag of the United States of America.' A bunch of people changed that like twenty years later even though the guy who wrote it didn't want them to. And then in the 1950s, they added 'under God.'"

That gets a couple of people stirring—no one realized that God wasn't an original part of the Pledge.

"The guy who wrote it was a minister, but he never put God into it. It was a bunch of people sixty years later who did that. Your great-grandparents grew up reciting a Pledge that didn't mention God." I look pointedly at John Riordon. "They weren't saying the real Pledge, I guess. So, like, I guess they never loved their country, huh?"

Mrs. Sawyer says, "OK, Kevin, you've made your point. Thank you for the history lesson." She's a history teacher, but I guess she doesn't appreciate the irony.

"I have more to say."

"No, you don't." She's got her pad of passes in her hand already.

"Yes, I do."

She sighs as the announcements start. Everybody jumps up and puts their hands over their heart and recites the Pledge, just like we have a million times before. I stand there at the front of the class, doing nothing,
not
saying the Pledge even though every tissue and fiber in my body wants to do it. Because that's what I've been trained to do ever since I started school, and not doing it is killing me, especially with everyone watching.

But I resist. I don't say it.

As soon as the Pledge is over, I get right back into it: "Did you know people used to salute the flag while saying the Pledge? Like this." I demonstrate. "But during World War II, people realized it looked just like a Nazi salute, so they stopped—"

"Kevin!" It's Mrs. Sawyer. "No one can hear the announcements."

"But, Mrs. Sawyer, this is important."

"So are the announcements. You're done."

"But—"

She rips a hall pass off her pad and hands it to me. "Principal's office."

"Why?"

"You know why."

John Riordon starts clapping as I walk out the door, and a few other people join in. Mrs. Sawyer tells them to stop, but they don't, at least not right away.

And so I get to visit the Doc, not to be confused with the Surgeon. Dr. Goethe is actually a fairly cool guy. Unlike the assistant principal, the Spermling, he's pretty calm and collected most of the time.

"Why are you doing this to me, Kevin?" he asks. He's pretty straightforward, too.

"I haven't done anything."

"For a few shining, perfect moments the whole country was looking at you with pride. Now I'm hearing that the wire services might pick up the paper's cover story from yesterday. Then your stunt last night with the bridge. And now this. What have I ever done to you to deserve this?"

"I didn't have anything to do with the bridge, Dr. Goethe. I swear."

He groans and leans back in his chair. "Are you going to sue over the Pledge? Is that it? A church and state thing because of 'under God'?"

"No. I just don't understand why we
have
to say it."

"Kevin, let's cut to the chase—why don't you want to say the Pledge?"

I want to scream! Why won't anyone actually listen to the words I'm saying instead of hearing what they want to hear? "I never said I didn't
want
to say it. I just want to know why we
have
to say it. They're two different things. Can you tell me why we have to say it?"

"Well, you don't
have
to say it..." The Doc fidgets.

"But everyone does. Ever since we were kids. And no one questions it. No one asks why. We just keep doing it, and if we don't, we get crucified. Like not putting ribbons on our cars."

"Is that what this is about? Trying to stir up more trouble?"

"No. I'm not trying to stir up trouble. I just..." And I run out of steam because I'm still trying to get it all straight in my own head, and I really wish people would get off my freakin' back while I'm doing it.

He gives me a hall pass. "I have a conference call in a few minutes. Go to class—we'll talk more about this later."

I get to go to my first two classes, which—let me tell you—are just
loads
of fun. The story of my history lesson has already spread, and if I thought it was tough being the Kid Who Throws Away Ribbons, it's even tougher being the Kid Who Hates the Pledge.

There are a few Jehovah's Witnesses at South Brook, so you'd think they'd be on my side. But I'm starting to figure out that this argument has more than two sides. Jehovah's Witnesses don't say the Pledge because of something about not worshiping false idols.

Me? I'm just trying to make a point.

Well, OK—make a point and maybe try to impress a certain someone.

"I'm not saying you shouldn't say the Pledge." It's between second and third periods, and a group of kids has cornered me near my locker and asked me why I hate America. They didn't exactly put it that way. They actually said, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"You can say it all you want. I just think you should know
why
you're saying it."

"I think you're a piece of shit," one of the guys says. "Who do you think you are? You think you're some kind of hero. You think you're better than everyone else."

Oh, if only he knew. If only he knew the truth, he would see that I couldn't possibly think I'm better than anyone else.

Just then, the PA blares out: "Kevin Ross, please report to the principal's office. Kevin Ross to the principal's office."

A guy ten times bigger than me and a million times meaner grabs my shoulder and shoves me from the lockers into the hallway. I stumble and trip over my own feet and go down on the floor.

"Yeah, get going to the principal's office, you faggot."

It takes me three attempts to get up. That's not because I'm clumsy—it's just because people keep knocking me down.

When I get to the principal's office, I get a nasty shock—John Riordon is there, too. He smirks at me when I come in.

"Have a seat, Kevin," says the Doc, gesturing to a chair next to John's. "Let's finish our conversation from this morning."

I take the chair as far away from John as possible.

"I'm just trying to get people to think," I tell Dr. Goethe.

"You're doing it in a way that gives me a headache," he says. "You know, a few days ago, I looked at you and thought, 'Here's a new role model for our school.' What happened, Kevin?"

He's trying to guilt me. It won't work.

"Did you know there are no other developed countries in the world that make their citizens pledge allegiance to a flag?"

"Kevin, please. This is all very interesting, but—"