Hero–Type (19 page)

"But he made it sound like I—"

The bell rings for homeroom. Dr. Goethe sighs and scribbles out a hall pass for me.

"Get to homeroom. If you want to discuss free speech and the flag and the war, that's what social studies classes are for."

I stand there for a second, trying to marshal up some truly awesome, Dad-worthy comment, something that will twist Goethe's brain in his shiny chrome-like head and make him rethink everything.

But all I can think of is "Blind faith in your leaders or in anything will get you killed."

Which doesn't impress him, even though it should.

"Get going, Kevin."

I
SULK THROUGH HOMEROOM
because there's nothing else for me to do, not with everyone glaring at me.

Last night, apparently, Flip Photoshopped up a picture of Officer Sexpot linked arm in arm in a chorus line with the president (from his photo op in an air force uniform) and Hitler and an old picture of Saddam Hussein, with a word balloon coming out of Officer Sexpot's mouth that said, "I just LOVE a man in uniform!" The picture was blasted out to every e-mail address Flip could get his hands on, as well as hacked into the
Lowe County Times
website and the Lowe County Board of Education website. It was scrubbed pretty quickly, but not before everyone saw it. The
Times
described it in the morning edition, but they didn't show it, which is weird because Flip had OSP dressed up in her police uniform, so it's not like she was naked or anything.

I keep my head down in the halls and in classes. It's Wednesday, and I always see Leah on her way to trig. I usually love these glimpses, but now Riordon's ruined them, like a thumb covering part of a photo. He's always with her, making moves on her and she just eats it up. She's all giggly and flirty and batting her eyelashes-y, and tell the truth, there's a moment—just a little moment, a moment
let
, but it's there—when I think to myself that I wish I hadn't done something that day at the library, that I'd looked over and thought to myself,
This is none of my business,
and moved on.

Is that mean? Does that make me unlikable? I don't really care. It's real and it's honest and it's true, and I guess
you've
never had a single cruel or unpleasant thought in your life, huh? Get off my back.

B
ACK UP ON THE CATWALK AGAIN
, but this time I eat my lunch because I figure that I'm pretty much at war at this point and Dad is fond of saying, "An army travels on its stomach." Which, when I was little, I took literally and I imagined a hundred thousand guys crawling along the sand on their bellies.

So I eat my gross lunch, reminding myself that it's just fuel for the mission. I have to think of a way to get my side of the story out. I have to think of a way to counteract what Riordon said. I know Dad thinks that people like to be stupid, but I can't believe that. I have to believe that if you shake people hard enough, they'll eventually wake up.

Yeah, wake up. Wake up to the truth. But the truth's a funny thing. People think they know the truth about me, for example, but they don't. And maybe that's the problem. Maybe I don't deserve to be right. Maybe God is punishing me for my sins. My lies.

The ladder rattles; the catwalk shakes. Fam pops up.

"Hey."

"Hi." Since she hasn't told anyone about my little hiding place, I don't mind so much sharing it with her.

"How'd it go with the Doc?"

I had told Tit I was planning to demand a rebuttal. Word spreads fast in the Council.

"Not so good."

She sits down next to me, dangling her chicken legs over the side. I'm skinny, but Fam is anorexic. If I hadn't personally witnessed her inhaling an order of hot wings at Cincinnati Joe's on more than one occasion, I would think she was
literally
anorexic.

"That sucks," she says. "What are you gonna do now?"

I hadn't really thought much beyond being an army and traveling on my stomach. "I don't know. If the Doc won't let me talk, I don't have many options. I might have to do something big and stupid." I tell her my unformed plan to burn a pseudo–American flag.

"Where would you get one?" she asks.

"Yeah, that's what stopped me, too."

We sit in silence for a little while.

She kicks out her feet like she's on a swing. "Man. I was all excited. I thought he'd let you talk again for sure. I even started some research for you." And then she starts babbling something about Sweden and Norway and other countries and stuff like that, but I'm sort of distracted and I'm only half listening.

"...quotes from
Colin Powell,"
she babbles. "I mean, that's pretty cool, right? And there was this Supreme Court justice who said that—"

"Hey, Fam, can we cool it for, like, five minutes?" I snap it out and I didn't really mean to. I just need to clear my head.

She looks like I smacked her in the face. My inner Catholic starts yelling at me.

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I'm just really stressed, is all."

She shrugs. "I get it. OK. I'm sorry. I was just trying to help."

"No, no, it's cool, and I appreciate it and all. I just needed to open up the safety valve for a couple of minutes. Is that cool?"

Fam nods and I feel this sudden, insane urge to hug her. I turn, and I guess the urge is contagious because she leans toward me. Before I can stop myself, I put my arms around her. It's all weird and awkward because we're sitting with our legs dangling over the catwalk, so we're sort of twisted and it's not comfortable and besides, it's
Fam,
so what the hell am I thinking?

And then—thank God—there's a stabbing pain in my thigh.

"Ow!" I pull away. Fam's confused.

I sat on my keys. I dig into my pocket for them and show them to her. She gets it.

The key to Brookdale dangles there. Reminding me: Hero. Zero. Liar. And worse.

Damn. I'm starting to hate this thing.

After school, the truly bizarre happens: Leah marches up to me in the parking lot. I look around quickly—there aren't many people around, and most of them are seniors, who have better things to do, I guess, than watch me.

"Are you still coming Friday?" she asks, and I can't read what's in her eyes as she asks it. Which is no big surprise. If I was able to read her eyes at all, I would have known enough to ask her out a couple of years ago. Or just plain given up.

"Do you still want me to?" I say it
really
mean, with every last ounce of mean in my body. I load it down with mean. She deserves it, Miss Flirty-with-Idiot-Riordon.

The meanness goes right over her head, because she looks at me kinda shocked. "Of course I do! Why wouldn't I?"

And then, before I can point out
exactly
why, she says, "I really admire what you're saying. What you're doing. So please come."

"Leah..."

"Look, I know you don't necessarily get along with all of my friends. I'm not stupid. But I don't let my friends tell me who to hang out with or who to like. Besides, you owe me a favor."

My jaw drops. Oh, crap! What is she talking about? What does she know?

She laughs, and it's this great, innocent, friendly laugh. "I'm joking! I owe
you,
Kevin. I owe you everything. So let me start by making sure you have fun Friday, OK?" She hugs me quickly, so quickly that I don't even have a chance to register fear or excitement over it, and then she traipses off to her car before I can come up with a response.

I'm now officially weirded out. It was unofficial before, but now all of the papers have been stamped.

I don't get it. She hangs on Riordon's every word, worships the ground he walks on, flirts with him ... But she admires what I'm doing? What I'm saying?

What world am I living in, and do the trees grow upside down here?

Gah! I kick my tire just because I can, and it makes me feel better. Then I drive to the Burger Joint. It's one of the restaurants that offered me free meals for life. Tit and Speedo wanted to meet there and chill.

As soon as I walk in, though, I'm nervous. What if Carl has changed his mind after my recent, you know,
apostasy?
Late afternoon, the place is almost empty before the dinner rush. Carl spies me and comes around the counter, wiping his greasy hands on the once-white apron that covers his enormous belly. "Hey, hey, it's Batman!" he says. He snaps his fingers to one of his wage-slaves. "Batman here gets whatever he wants, on the house. These guys, the Robins"—he points over my shoulder at Tit and Speedo, who've just come in—"gotta pay."

We sit down. I feel bad about all the free food I scammed from Carl when I worked here a couple of summers ago. But not
too
bad—I order more food than I can eat and share it with Tit and Speedo.

They both know about being shot down by the Doc already. Speedo hoists his Coke for a toast. "You had a good run, Kross. You tried.
L'chaim."

"
Skol,
" says Tit, and downs his Dr Pepper.

"I don't want this to be the end, though, guys. I want to keep it up."

Speedo laughs. When he laughs, he gets a double chin. We call it his face flab. "Oh, yeah. Good idea. No offense, but you weren't exactly raking in the converts, you know?"

"I had one." I say it under my breath, but they hear me anyway.

"Who?" says Tit.

"Yeah, who?"

"No one. Never mind." I'm not going to tell them about Leah. It's useless.

"Come on. Who?"

"Who?"

I'm resolute. But it's tough to keep things from a Fool, because, basically, we're really damn annoying. Five seconds later, Tit is singing "Who?" at the top of his lungs and Speedo is making like an owl.

"Whooooo? Whooooo? Ah-whooooooo!"

"Who-who-who! Who-who-who!"

We start getting looks from the few people here. "Guys, cut it out."

Tit accompanies himself with a drumbeat on the table. Speedo leans back and owl-calls to the ceiling at the top of his lungs.

"Whooooo?" Bum-bum-bum. "Whooooo?" Bum-bum-bum. "Ah-whooooooo!" Bum-bum-bum
bum!

"Who-who-who! Who-who-WHO!"

"OK, OK! I give! Jeez!"

"Spill." Tit's eyes shine. As soon as I say Leah's name, they widen.

Speedo's shocked, too, but only Tit can truly understand how big a deal this is.

"So is she gonna say something?" Speedo asks.

"I doubt it. She's not getting involved."
Because she's got the hots for Riordon,
I don't add.

Speedo whistles. Tit hasn't said a word. He just looks at me like ... I don't know.

When Speedo goes to the bathroom, Tit leans over the table, leans in close. "Kross. I'm just gonna say this once. All this stuff you're doing and you've been doing: Are you sure you're doing it for the right reasons?"

I almost give him a serious verbal smackdown, but here's what stops me: No. I'm
not
sure.

An hour later, stuffed to the gills with way more food than any three people should be able to eat at one sitting (paid for with way less money than is reasonable), we split up in the parking lot. I pull my keys out of my pocket and stand there for a second, mesmerized by the key to Brookdale.

I remember looking at it before, when I was with Fam.
Listening
to Fam. Listening while she prattled on about...

About...

Sweden...

And then, amazingly, the key opens something. It opens my brain right up and it hits me: The perfect idea. To wake people up, to make a point that they can't ignore. It's scary and it's genius.

So I stand there for a minute, just totally buzzing—
vibrating
—with this great idea and no one to tell it to. I need to tell Flip. And Fam. They're probably together and I would call them on their cells ... if I had a cell.

(Well, actually, I have thirty-seven cell phones back home. But none of them works. Thanks, Dad.)

Terrific. Here I am, busting with a great idea, and there's no one around to tell it to. I clench my keys in my fist until my fingers scream in pain, and then I have no choice but to get into the car and drive away.

S
TILL PSYCHED ABOUT MY IDEA
, I cruise over to the mayor's car dealership because I have to fill out some final paperwork. The mayor isn't happy to see me. I know this because when I get out of the car he shakes his head and says, "I can't say I'm happy to see you."

I get some lecture-y talk about respect and such, about how he bent over backwards to give me such a great deal on the car and would it really hurt me to leave the ribbons there, and you know, Kevin, my name is on that car, too, right here on the little plaque on the bumper, so when you drive it, you speak for me, too, and look at this, it's all scratched up already and I don't know, Kevin, I really thought you were different, I really, really did.