Crusader (7 page)

Ever since that first horrible dream, I have lived in fear of having another one. I actually hate to go to sleep. Whenever I have a dream now and the first hint of my mother shows up in it, I snap awake. So I only have fragments of dreams. Here's the fragment that I had last night:

My mother appeared in a totally unfrightening way, wearing the blue smock, looking exactly as she does in our arcade
photo. She smiled and said, calmly and caringly, "Do you need to talk to me?"

This time, when I sat up in bed, I knew it had only been a dream. The room was already lightening; it was nearly time to get up. So that question my mom asked me stayed inside my head all day—as Mrs. Weiss would say, "like a nourishing breakfast." I repeated Mom's words over and over on the bus ride up Route 27, past the Atlantic County Landfill, to Memorial High. Once I got into school, though, I had to concentrate on school things.

My day at Memorial basically revolves around two subjects—broadcasting and journalism. Last year I picked Journalism I as an elective, and it was great. My teacher was Mrs. Knight. We mostly studied the newspaper, which was delivered every day. But we also managed to put out an issue of our own school newspaper,
The Spartan,
in November. We had an April issue all ready to go, too. But the principal, Mr. Archer, told Mrs. Knight that there was no more money available for paper or printing. She got so mad at him that she quit. She got a job writing news in the news department at Channel 57.

But before she left, she brought in her own replacement. He was a thin little man whom she introduced to us this way: "This is Mr. Peter Herman, an old colleague of mine from the newspaper trade."

He really isn't that old, although he is bald and he is slightly stooped over when he stands. Mr. Herman took over Journalism I and II this year.

Mr. Herman is my favorite teacher now. I get to see him before the morning announcements, during fifth period for journalism, and during seventh period for study hall. Most teachers can only talk about the questions that we'll be asked on standardized tests. Mr. Herman isn't like that. He talks about the
importance of journalism in a society. He talks about high standards and ideals.

My day begins in the guidance office, which is actually the main office of the school. I run the televised announcements, the Pledge of Allegiance, and "The Star-Spangled Banner." Last year Mrs. Knight's students did that job and got credit for TV production. I volunteered to do it this year, hoping to learn some camera work, copy writing, and tape editing. Unfortunately, it didn't turn out that way. Mrs. Knight, as I said, left, and Mr. Herman isn't at all interested in TV. So now I go in every morning, pop a video of the Pledge and "The Star-Spangled Banner" into the VCR, and rewind it when it's done playing.

Mr. Herman, however, is still technically in charge of the TV stuff, so he and I must meet in the office each morning. We check with Mr. Archer to see if he has any special announcements for us. If he does, we videotape him saying them. Then we run the Pledge and the "Banner."

Mr. Archer is very nice. He has been the principal of Memorial High School for about twenty years. He has a big red face, and he drives a big red Cadillac. I know, from my mornings in his office, that he takes medicine to keep his blood pressure down. Mr. Archer has his official office; he also has a "time-out office" next door, where he keeps the kids who are waiting to be punished. He has a sign on that wall that reads,
If you're so smart, what are you doing here?

Occasionally a teacher makes a videotape at home and wants us to play it on the morning announcements. When that happens I put the tape in for Mr. Archer to inspect and approve. Mr. Herman has to stand there with me while this goes on, which I don't think he likes very much.

Mr. Archer tends to tell the same stories over and over. This morning, after he approved a videotape for the cheerleaders'
fund-raiser, he retold one. He said, "Just let that tape play for a few more seconds. Once a teacher brought in a tape from home, and he had taped over some video from the Playboy Channel. Soon as his announcement ended, the kids were staring at a naked lady on a motorcycle."

He told the same story last week. But then he looked at Mr. Herman and added, "Buck naked on a Harley." This week he didn't.

When morning announcements were finished, I wheeled the TV and VCR back into the time-out office. Mr. Herman pointed at the sign on the wall and muttered, "That should be the motto of this school."

We walked out of the office together. Mr. Herman said to me, "Here's a tidbit I picked up in the teachers' lounge. Did you know that this high school, in its thirty-year history, has never had a National Merit Scholarship finalist?"

I said, "What's that?"

Mr. Herman expelled a short laugh. "Perfect. Perfect rejoinder, Roberta. Right on cue. Now tell me you're joking."

"I'm not."

He winced. "National Merit is a test that you take your junior year. I know they give it here. I've seen it advertised."

"Oh. I guess I'll be taking it."

"Of course you will. And you will be the first to be a scholarship finalist."

"Me?"

"Yes."

"I'm not in advanced placement."

"Why on earth not? And if you are not, then who is?"

"The kids who have time to be, Mr. Herman."

Mr. Herman arrived at his classroom. But before he went in, he said, "As God is my witness, Roberta, you will be in AP
classes this year. And you will take that test, and do wonderfully well, and destroy this dubious distinction."

I headed off to my first-period class, PE. I don't like it much. Most kids really, really hate it, but I don't. I just don't like it. Second period I have Mr. Archer, Jr., for history. He's the principal's son. He teaches American history, and he helps coach the football and baseball teams. The football and baseball guys, and anyone else who wants to, call him Archie. I don't, though.

My English class is pretty boring. Junior year is American Lit. So far all we've read is stuff by Indians and Pilgrims. Third and fifth periods are when juniors are called down to guidance for RDT, random drug testing. I haven't been called yet. I think they're doing it in alphabetical order. Betty the Goth is in my English class. She sits in the back and twirls that black hair around her finger. She got called down to RDT last week.

Spanish is the hardest class I have. It's hard for me, anyway, and the three other kids who weren't born speaking Spanish. I like it, though.

Lunch is lunch. It's quick, crowded, and a little dangerous. Lunch is when kids who are going to get beat up get beat up. We had racial incidents last year that have carried over to this year. Some black guys jumped some white guy. Then some Spanish guys jumped a black kid. I think Hawg got into one of those fights. Then we went on alert. Sheriff's deputies were in the cafeteria and in the halls every period, so things calmed down.

Anyway, we only get twenty minutes for lunch. I spend them standing in the lines in front of a long row of vending machines, near the cafeteria entrance. I get in a line for chips, and then eat them while standing in a second line for a soda, which I drink while waiting in a third line for a Snickers, which
I just stand there and eat. By then, our twenty minutes are up, and it's time to go.

Fifth period, Journalism II, is my favorite class. I sit in the first row, right in front of Mr. Herman's desk. He keeps a wooden podium on top of his desk. He always stands behind that podium and delivers a lecture, from notes, for the first twenty minutes of class. Then he gives us an assignment from an old workbook called
Journalism Today.
Sometimes it's a writing assignment, sometimes an editing assignment, sometimes a page-layout assignment.

I should say, he does that for the kids who sit up front, like me and Betty the Goth and a few others. The kids who sit in the back are pretty much on their own. For some reason beyond my comprehension, about ten football guys signed up for Journalism II, Hawg among them. For all the attention Mr. Herman pays to them, that football group may as well be out on the practice field. Mr. Herman addresses his lectures, and gives all his personal attention, to whoever sits in the first two rows.

Today's lecture was about the muckrakers. They were a group of American journalists who worked on different newspapers in the early 1900s. They wrote about poor people getting exploited and killed by greedy rich people. Back then the rich people didn't care about the conditions in the factories and the mines and the slums. They could do whatever they wanted, and no one stood up to them. Except the muckrakers.

Mr. Herman said that the most famous muckrakers were named Upton Sinclair and Lincoln Steffens. He shot a glance at me and added, "But there was a woman muckraker, named Ida Tarbell." I heard some loud sniggering in the back of the room. The rude noises had come, no doubt, from Hawg and some other football guys. But Mr. Herman didn't let on. He never does. He resumed his lecture as if nothing had happened.

On the way out of class, I handed Mr. Herman a copy of the mall newsletter. I said, "There's a feature by me on the front page, Mr. Herman. And a short one on the back."

He took it and smiled at me, weakly. I think teaching takes a lot out of Mr. Herman. By the time my class gets here, he has already taught two Journalism I classes and another Journalism II.

Math class is easy. Algebra, analytic geometry, calculus—it's all easy for me. It always has been. Betty the Goth is in this class; I think it's easy for her, too. She finishes her work in half a period, then spends the rest of the time touching up her black nail polish.

My last period of the day is study hall, which is the wimpiest elective of them all. A lot of the college-prep students take Latin as their third elective. Not me. I get all of my homework done in seventh period, which is important to me timewise. I'm working my shift at Arcane when those other kids are home studying their Latin.

Today I was hoping that by seventh period Mr. Herman would have read my article. He came into study hall, sat down at the desk, and opened his briefcase. He pulled out his copy of the newsletter and looked at me sternly. Then he broke into a big smile. "You little muckraker, you. It's quite a story, Roberta. And I assure you, I shall never set foot in that mall again." He pulled a blue pencil from his briefcase, then asked, "Tell me, how did this go over with that Suzie creature?"

"She didn't like it."

"I didn't imagine she would."

"She told me I have to run everything past her now. I think if my dad wasn't standing there, she'd have fired me."

He grinned devilishly. "Excellent. Excellent." He wagged that blue pencil at me and asked, "Do you want me to be brutally honest?"

I didn't know what to say to that. I answered, "Okay."

"Good. Then here it is: You meander in this feature, my dear, like a lost little turtle on the beach. Then you bury your readers with details, like you're a big bulldozer. Extraneous details." He started to make deep blue marks on the article, swiftly and surely. "We don't need to know the name of every person who ever had a passing thought about this issue, do we?"

"No, sir."

"We just need two people—the David and the Goliath. The good guy and the bad guy. Do you follow me?"

"Yes, sir. I think so."

"So who is David here?"

"Uh, I don't know. The turtles?"

He looked at me unhappily. He thought for a moment, then said, "Perhaps. Perhaps. But you only need one. Two good guys make a crowd. Perhaps this Toby the Turtle fellow could be the good guy, the David here. What do you think?"

"Uh, okay."

"Toby will personify all that is good and noble on the environmental side." Mr. Herman made another series of swift pencil strokes. "Now, who will personify all that is evil and avaricious on the developers' side?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"If Toby is to play David, who will play Goliath? Who will be the bad guy?"

"I guess that would be Mr. Lyons."

"Yes. Excellent. I think Mr. Ray Lyons will do nicely. In fact, it's a masterpiece of casting." Mr. Herman finished editing the article with a flourish of his hand. He turned the newsletter around and held it out to me. It looked like some kindergartner had scribbled on it with a blue crayon. There must have been a hundred separate edits; just about every line had been changed somehow. He said, "Now, that's what a newspaper editor would do to you, my dear."

I must have looked pretty shocked, because he softened his voice. "Please. Please. Don't take this so personally."

I shrugged. "No, I'm not."

"This is what an editor would do to you ten minutes after hearing that you had just won the Pulitzer Prize for journalism."

I shrugged again. "It's okay. Really."

I turned the article facedown. I pointed to the back of the newsletter. "Did you look at my short feature?"

"This 'People Pieces' thing? No, that's trivia. I'm only interested in the journalism."

"Okay. Thank you, Mr. Herman. Now what should I do with this?"

"Type it up, with my changes, and give it back to me. I'll put it in your portfolio."

"Okay."

Mr. Herman looked away, into his briefcase. He pulled out a pile of journalism class papers and started to mark on them. I got out my math and Spanish books and set to work finishing my homework assignments. But my mind drifted—first to my mom, then to Arcane, then back to the mall newsletter. I was still trying not to take Mr. Herman's critique personally.

A strange sight greeted me when I got to the mall entrance. In the mallway, directly opposite Suzie's glass window, was a pile of television sets. The sets were stacked up three high and three wide, forming an almost perfect square. Once inside, I could see that all nine sets were turned on to the same channel, Channel 57. I could see nine separate images of Angela del Fuego, Mr. Herman's least-favorite television journalist. The sound was off, but that didn't matter. Today's topic on
Angela Live
was pretty obvious. She was interviewing a row of men who were dressed like women.