Hero–Type (12 page)

"Did you know that in some churches, they teach people to add 'born and unborn' to the end of the Pledge? They turn it into like a pro-life protest thing."

John sighs a really loud sigh. "See, Dr. Goethe? It's like he won't shut it off."

"Kevin..."

"What if someone decided to say 'with liberty and justice for all, except for people who don't put ribbons on their cars'? Would that be cool?" I spent a
lot
of time researching this stuff—I'm gonna tell
someone.
"Everyone acts like it's this sacred oath. And no one really thinks about the words when they're saying them, or where they come from. I just want people to think. Because otherwise it's just like slapping a ribbon on your car—it's just empty-headed. It's letting a symbol substitute for thinking." And
wow,
I don't know where
that
came from. I guess some of Dad's rants and raves over the years have sort of sunk in, whether I was listening or not. He'd be proud of me right now, and it's that idea, more than anything else, that stops me in my tracks.

Dr. Goethe, though, doesn't see the tracks and doesn't stop. "I want peace in my school for the next couple of months until summer break, OK, Kevin? Save the politics for your history class, not homeroom. We don't need any more altercations."

"Altercations?"

"Like the one you had this morning in homeroom with John."

I look over at John, but he's ignoring me.

"There was no altercation."

"That's not how Mrs. Sawyer described it. Look. Here's what we're going to do," says Dr. Goethe, leaning back and steepling his fingers. "We're going to turn this into an exercise on free speech and the power of the spoken word. Monday morning, I'm giving you three minutes during the morning announcements to state your case."

I go cold and yet somehow I'm sweating, too. The morning announcements? My face and voice broadcast to the entire school?

"Um, well..." Maybe this free speech stuff isn't all it's cracked up to be.

"Come on, Kevin. You either believe what you're saying or you don't."

And it hits me that he's trying to snow me. Trying to use reverse psychology. Goad me and tempt me, but make it scary enough that I back down.

Screw
that.
Besides, I can't stop thinking of Leah, of the way she leaned in close, whispering just to me, just
for
me...

"I'll do it," I tell him. He just nods, and I can't tell if he's disappointed or amused.

"Fine. Report to the media center first thing Monday morning and Mrs. Grant will set it all up. Then, the next day, John will have his say."

Say what?

John grins.

"Oh, yes," the Doc goes on, as if he's enjoying my look of shock ... and I think he is. "I said this was going to be an exercise, didn't I? Free speech cuts both ways, Kevin. You get to tell the school what you think, and then John will offer his side of the issue."

It's a long, dangerous moment. The thought of being broadcast to the student body is one thing, but then to have John come at me with the verbal equivalent of a baseball bat ... The idea goes in like an injection of ice water and settles right in my balls. No way. Forget it.

But I can't back out in front of John. I'd be the world's biggest coward.

"I'm not sure about this, Dr. Goethe."

"John?"

Riordon shrugs. His shoulders are massive. "I'm prepared to debate my side any time, any place."

"Ball's in your court, Kevin." The Doc glances at his watch. "Let me know by the end of the day. You're both late for third period, so move it."

J
OHN
R
IORDON
. M
AN
. O
F ALL PEOPLE
! The only kid to get on the varsity football team as a freshman. As tall and broad as God, and twice as good-looking. Smart and well spoken. He's like living proof that God has a sense of humor—he makes a guy like Riordon and he makes a guy like me and then he figures we'll both survive.

So Day One would be Kross the Acned, followed on Day Two by ... by...

"By the Apollonian Ideal," Flip says helpfully, like I know what he's talking about.

We're all in the janitors' office, munching on some Mickey D's that Flip scored. We're not supposed to leave the school for lunch runs, but Flip doesn't really worry about such things, as you might have guessed.

"He's really
smart,
" Fam says. She offers me some of her fries and I stuff them in my face like it's my last meal. "And everyone likes him. Well," she considers, "all the popular people like him."

"You can wipe up the floor with him," Flip goes on, like Fam never interrupted.

"He's
smart,"
Fam insists.

"Yeah, I, uh, I had social studies with him last year," says Tit. "He's no dummy."

Flip waves them off like they're bad smells. "I don't care how smart and popular he is. John Riordon never had an original thought in his life. You'll be erudite and inflammatory, while he'll be as predictable as ... as..."

"Morning wood," Speedo chimes in.

"Good one!
Vvvvvvvhhhnn."

"I don't think anyone cares who has the most interesting comments. They just want another excuse to hate me."

"This is true," Flip agrees.

Of course, I can't tell them what's
really
bothering me about Riordon, which is that he's always nosing around Leah and her friends and they're always letting him nose around them and giggling and everything, even Leah, which, yeah, is the part that really bugs me, OK?

But Tit probably gets it. He raises his eyebrows at me. God, why did I tell him? Why couldn't I just keep it a secret tucked away with all of my other secrets?

"The difference between the two of you," Flip says, "is that John Riordon only has room for football and his own repressed homosexuality in his head. You have room for big thoughts. You can't wuss out."

"Yeah, man, don't wuss out," Jedi says, and then
vvvvvvvh-hhnn
s a little bit.

"Yeah, well, I don't like being ambushed."

Flip laughs and slaps my back. "Way of the world, Fool Kross. Get used to it."

"You guys all think I should do it?"

Enthusiastic nods from everyone except Fam. It's not that she's
not
nodding. It's just that she's not doing it enthusiastically.

OK, this is marginally cooler than I'd thought before. I've got my friends convinced, at least.

"That means a lot to me, guys. That you believe in me. That you understand what I'm trying to say."

Tit's the first one to look away. Speedo raises an eyebrow like he's confused, and Jedi just hums away under his breath.

The whole room's gone completely silent. Except for Jedi, of course.

"Um, Kross..." Tit says.

"Oh, come on! Not you guys, too!"

"Hey, look, I'm not gonna speak for anyone else," Flip says, "but I don't really care what your point is. I'm not interested in the cause, man. I'm just here for the fight."

Tit shrugs. "Yeah. Me, too."

No way. "Speedo? Jedi? What about you guys?"

"We're buds, Kross," says Speedo. "If you want to do this, that's cool. I'll stand by you because you've always stood by me. But yeah—I don't get it. Not really."

"Who cares about ribbons and pledges and all that crap anyway?
Vvvvvvvvhhhnn.
It's like the news and stuff. Boring." His eyes light up. "But messing with people over it? Yeah, that's cool."

Fam looks like she wants to say something, but Flip jumps up from the desk and slaps his hands together. "The Council has spoken! We support Fool Kross on his quest. You make up your mind, Kross. We'll be there for you."

Which is great, I guess. But, tell the truth, I'd rather have people supporting me who believe in what I'm doing.

For the rest of the day, though, I can't help thinking about it. I think of the look on Leah's face when she told me she admired me. It makes me dizzy. I think of Dr. Goethe calling me a "role model."

Is that what I am? What I was? What I could be?

Is it possible that I
could
be a role model, just a different kind than Dr. Goethe thought? A role model for
my
way of thinking?

Or maybe just get a chance to rub John Riordon's face in the dirt while Leah watches.

On my way to the parking lot at the end of the day, I reach into my pocket for my car keys. Much to my surprise, I find the key to Brookdale there, too. I forgot—I attached it to my key chain.

I stop dead, looking at it.

And then I go straight to the principal's office.

"OK," I tell the Doc. "I'll do it."

That afternoon, the cops come to the apartment. They're wondering about the Ribboning of the Bridge and they read the paper, too, so they figure I'm the obvious suspect.

Dad doesn't like having cops on his turf. He's tough with them. He also tells them that I was asleep in bed when he left for work at, like, two in the morning. Which would have made it impossible for me to vandalize the bridge. Which isn't a bridge anyway—it's just a bridge
support.
For a nonexistent bridge. And is putting
magnets
on something really vandalizing it? I mean, they come off.

The cops probably wouldn't be inclined to believe Dad, but when I mention that Reporter Guy was skulking around (probably hoping to get a picture of me peeing on something red, white, and blue, or molesting a bald eagle), they sort of give up.

Score one for the good guys and Flip's "cloak of plausible deniability."

For now, at least.

"So. How was school?" Dad asks once we're alone.

"You know." Don't really want to tell him about all that nonsense. Especially since he got me into it. And if I tell him about the speech I have to give, he might—ugh!—want to help me write it, which will make everything worse. I trip enough over my own words; I can't imagine what sort of verbal land mines there would be in Dad's.

He fiddles with the VCR, trying to get it to cough up the game he taped yesterday. It just makes that scary thunking sound that always convinces me it's eaten the tape.

"Might have to replace this one," Dad mumbles, glancing around at the stacks of broken VCRs in our own little consumer electronics graveyard.

"Dad, look, I was thinking ... I was thinking that I could use the money and maybe buy us—"

He punches the wall.

No, really. He
punches the wall.
My whole body tenses up in shock, so sudden and so massive that I think a zit just popped all on its own.

"No!" He's cradling his hand a little bit and his face has gone all red and sweaty. "No, no, no!"

"Dad, let me finish. I just want to use a little bit of the reward money to buy a couple of—"

He kicks the door frame. No lie. He's really beating the hell out of the apartment.

"Stop it, Kevin! Just stop it, OK? I don't want you spending that money on things for me or the apartment. I feel very strongly about that."

Yeah, no kidding. Tell that to Mr. Wallboard, who's smarting something fierce.

"Dad, it's like thirty thousand dollars. That's a lot of money, even after I take out the price of my car."

"Look," Dad says, "I want you to enjoy that money. I want you to use it to make your life better. Go to college, maybe. I know I've messed up my own life, and I'm really trying my best not to mess up yours, too. I want that money to buy you some happiness or some peace of mind or something."

It comes out in a rush and the look on his face the whole time he's saying it isn't really what you'd expect. He looks pained, uncomfortable.

"So. Don't," he says, then retreats to his bedroom and shuts the door.

What the hell was
that
all about?

I almost go to knock on the door, just to make sure he's OK, when I spot today's
Loco
sitting on the rocking chair. I pick it up. Dad's already read it, and he's got it folded to a story on page 3.

L
OCAL
"H
ERO'S
" T
RAITOR
D
AD
! screams the headline.

Ah, crap.

Sure enough, there's Reporter Guy's byline. And there's that same picture of me throwing away the ribbons, but this time there's an old picture of Dad right next to it. He's wearing his army uniform and he's holding up one hand, trying to shield himself from flashbulbs. He looks bewildered. He also looks
young.
He looks like I imagine I'll look in three or four years.

"Sergeant Jonathan Jackson Ross tries to avoid reporters in Qasr, Kuwait," reads the photo caption.

I scan the article. It doesn't have a lot of facts. It recaps my rise and then fall from grace, then adds on, "That young Ross would espouse unpatriotic sentiments may come as a surprise, but surely fits once one factors in his home environment. Ross's father, who served as an army sergeant, was dishonorably discharged from the military almost twenty years ago for revealing classified military secrets."