Hero–Type (9 page)

Man, I'm really riding the fame roller coaster, huh?

I've got a nice little pile of about twenty-five magnets when someone walks up to me. I sorta kinda recognize him; he's the reporter for the
Lowe County Times.
Bill Something-or-Other. He interviewed me after the whole thing with the Surgeon. He was pretty cool, so I kinda give him a little half smile, but his expression is greedy and hungry.

"Here we are again," he says, his voice tight. "Want to talk?"

Crap. He wants to talk about the ribbons. Just like all the idiots on voice mail. Hell, he
was
one of the idiots on voice mail.

"No comment, dude."

"Come on, kid. What are you scared of?" He thrusts a tape recorder into my face.

"Hey, watch it," I tell him, pushing the recorder away.

"What are you afraid of? The truth? Afraid to show the world your true face, Mr. Hero?"

He comes down on the "hero" part really sarcastically. I don't get it. Right after I stopped the Surgeon, this guy was so far up my butt he could have given me a dental exam. And now it's like I'm an enemy of the state or something.

I shrug and keep peeling ribbons off my car.

"Why do you hate this country?" he asks.

"Man, what is
with
you?"

"Come on, Ross. Talk to me. Give me an exclusive."

I stare at him. "You're kidding, right? Have you heard how you're talking to me? Why should I help you?"

He shrugs. "It's win-win. I get the interview. You get a platform for your beliefs."

"Oh, yeah, because the
Loco
is such a great platform." The
Loco
is what we call the
Lowe County Times.

"Are you kidding me? With this story, with an exclusive? I could go to the
Sun.
Maybe higher. Maybe get it put out on the AP or something."

Oh. Now I get it. I'm his ticket to the bigtime. I see.

"So come on, kid." Greedy eyes. "Why did you throw away those ribbons?"

The easy answer would be "My dad made me do it," but I'm not ducking like that. Tell the truth, I don't want to see a new headline that reads: Local "Hero" Actually Big Wuss.

When I don't say anything, he shoves the recorder at me again. "I know how you 'heroes' work. I've been covering people like you for years. I know all about your father's past. You want to see
that
in the paper?"

What? What about my father's past? I want to ask him, but even
I
have the brain power to know that that's a bad idea. So instead I just keep my mouth shut.

"Apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?" he goes on.

"Dude, totally shut up about my father, OK?" I can't help myself.

"Why? Did I push a button?"

"Man, you really think what I do with some cheap magnets is more important than stopping someone from getting raped and killed?"

"See, that's the problem, Ross. You don't get it. You don't get why the rest of us hate people like you. It's because of a little something called patriotism. You don't see it. People like you. People like your dad. People who want to outlaw the Pledge. People who think it's OK to burn the flag. You can say they're just magnets, but you know damn well they're more than that. They symbolize something."

I look down at the stack of symbols in my hands. "I guess I don't get it."

"You need to support the troops."

"How do magnets support the troops? Seriously. Look." I slap one of the ribbons back on the car. "There. Did some kind of magic energy wave just fly off overseas and wrap a soldier in a force field or something?" I slap on another one. "There. Did a bomb just
not
go off somewhere?"

"You're a little smart aleck. Aren't you proud to be an American?"

"Well ... yeah. Sure. I guess I just don't feel the need to tell everybody."

He sniffs and nods at the pile in my hands. "What are you going to do with them?"

"Give them a deserving home." And I hand them right to him, shoving them at his chest. His hands come up by reflex and he takes them from me without even thinking, which is awesome.

"Make sure you read the paper in the morning," he snarls.

Oh, great. But I'm not going to let him know he got to me. I grin, throw him a salute, and head back inside.

U
GH
. W
HEN WILL
I
LEARN TO KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT
?

Next day, I wake up and look at the newspaper and there's Reporter Guy's byline in the
Loco,
right over a story about me and right under a headline that says, Local "Hero" Unmasked. I can't even bring myself to read it.

If I thought that this ribbon thing would just go away, not only am I a moron, but I'm also a moron brought right back down to earth
very
fast. Mrs. Mac is watering the azaleas next to the porch as I head to the car in the morning, and she gives me a brief snort. Great—now even old ladies are pissed at me.

"They said you're a hero on the TV," she says. "Now I'm not so sure."

Lady, I agree with you,
I want to say, but don't.

On the way to school, I try not to think about the
Loco
and the school paper and all of that, but Reporter Guy's words from last night keep echoing in the empty chamber I call my head. He was talking about going national with this, maybe. That's the last thing I need. Could
Justice!
take back my reward? Man, that would suck. I've gotten used to having this car, and I've only had it a couple of days!

But worse than that is what could happen if someone learned the truth about that day at the library. About me catching the Surgeon. I think of my tape of Leah, how I captured her on video at the Burger Joint and she didn't even know. How I watch it over and over, looking for something new every time.

What if someone else has done the same thing to me? What if someone out there taped my appearance on
Justice!
and is watching it over and over and over again, until the truth about that comes out? I don't know
how
that could happen, but that's what I worry about. Someone mean and smart, like Reporter Guy, watching me fidget and
lie
on TV until he figures it all out.

I'm sweating all of a sudden. The air conditioning is blasting cold air all over me, but I'm still sweating.

School sucks as much today as it did yesterday. I'm an outcast. I bump into a senior in the hall and mumble, "Excuse me," and he just shoves me against the lockers. Hard.

His friends laugh. Two weeks ago, I might have said something, but now? Now I know that there's absolutely no one in this hallway who would take my side, and way too many people who would be happy to jump in and help pummel me into paste.

In homeroom, I keep my head down. There's a buzz of conversation and I know it's about me.

"My dad's in the Reserve," someone says, just loud enough that I can hear it. I look up—it's John Riordon, the only sophomore on the varsity football team. He's big and tough the way lions are big and tough.

"He better hope I don't catch him dissing the troops," Riordon goes on, talking to Samantha Riggs but watching me the whole time. "Because if I do, there's gonna be hell to pay."

OK, got it. Don't diss troops in front of John Riordon, else hell to pay. That is now filed away in my brain under the category THINGS TO REMEMBER—URGENT!!!!

The morning announcements start and we all rise for the Pledge. My stomach isn't just in knots—it's in one of those special U.S. Navy knots that gets tighter and tighter the more you try to untangle it.

I don't want to open my mouth to say the Pledge because I'm honestly terrified that my breakfast will come out. And that makes me think of Reporter Guy and his whole deal last night about people who want to ban the Pledge, and
that
makes me a syllable behind everyone else as we launch into...

I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

Whew! Got through it. I even managed to catch up so that I finished with everyone else. Score one for me.

But John Riordon gives me a nasty look as we all sit down for the announcements, and I know that my one point means nothing. Because the opposing team has a million of them, and on
that
score, I'll never catch up.

School's a blur for me. I just can't seem to focus. I'm still sweating a little bit, still nauseated enough that I skip lunch. I don't want to be around anyone, not even the Council, so I go to the media center and find a computer tucked away in a corner and just stay there.

The computers in the media center have the school paper's website as the homepage, so the first thing I see is a story about how my ribbon-trashing has now made the
Loco.
A student reporter interviews Reporter Guy and Reporter Guy says that he plans to pursue the story "for a state and national audience. Right now, the American public thinks Kevin Ross is a hero. They deserve to know how their 'hero' thinks."

I wonder: Did he put "hero" in air-quotes or did the kid interviewing him just add that in there?

And by the way: What the hell? What's up with a reporter interviewing a reporter? Is that what you do when there's no
real
news?

I slump down in my seat. Mrs. Grant, the school librarian, comes by and sees what I'm looking at. She pats me on my shoulder.

"Don't let it get to you, Kevin. Something else will get everyone's attention in a few days and then it'll all be over."

"I guess."

"Trust me."

"Thanks, Mrs. Grant."

But I know it's not true. I'll always be the Kid Who Hates the Troops. People might stop talking about it, but they won't forget something like that.

I guess it could be worse. I mean, I guess I
could
be one of those people like Reporter Guy said—the people who want to ban the Pledge and stuff. Why would anyone even want to do that?

My curiosity gets the better of me: I start Googling around.

And I learn some interesting stuff. Stuff about the Pledge. Stuff I'd never even thought of before. Stuff no one ever bothered to teach me. Why did I have to learn this on my own?

It's weird—you do something almost every day of your life, for as long as you can remember. And everyone
else
does it, too, but no one talks about it. No one knows how it started. No one wonders. It's just a minute at the beginning of every school day, when we all get up and do the same thing without even thinking about it.

And then one day ... you think about it. And it's like a whole new world.

As I leave the media center for my next class, Mrs. Grant says, "I hope you found what you were looking for, Kevin."

And here's the weird thing: I did. I didn't even know
what
I was looking for, but I found it anyway.

Someone has clipped today's
Loco
article and taped it to my locker with the words "LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT" scrawled across it. There's also a sticker of an American flag with the legend "These colors don't run."

I sit in algebra and I try to pay attention. I really do. But all I can think of is the look of gratitude on Leah's face when we sat together to tape that episode of
Justice!
God, it wasn't even the gratitude that got to me—it was the recognition. It was that this girl I'd been ... I'd been
worshiping
from afar finally saw me. Knew me. Acknowledged me.

And now that's all gone. Given the news of my unpatriotic heresy, I bet I'm uninvited to her party. Great.

More than two years of yearning for her and I get my chance to be close to her and the next thing you know, I'm a ... I'm a...

What did Father McKane call them in CCD? The people no one wants to—

Pariah! That's it. I'm a pariah.

A pariah and a Fool. Lucky me.

The bell rings and I slink out of algebra on my way to my next class. I brace myself for what's about to happen. I'll see Leah heading in the opposite direction—English for her on Thursday.

Sure enough, right on time, she crosses my path—with some Beautiful People in tow—and ducks her head as I pass by. Starting to regret that "Please come," aren't you? I don't know why I get a perverse tickle at the idea of making her uncomfortable. Maybe it's because if I make her uncomfortable, at least she's acknowledging that I'm alive, you know? Tell the truth, I've always been sort of invisible to her, and I guess being noticed—even by the stink of treason—is better than going totally undercover.

When you, you know, have feelings for someone.

Ugh. "Feelings"? Could I be any more girly if I
tried?

"Hey, Kevin?"

Leah has peeled away from her friends, who have clustered at the end of the hall. Wow—here it comes:
You're uninvited to my party, you terrorist supporter, you.