Parts & Labor (19 page)

"Father,
Max is my friend. We should not take his planet."

"Norbert,"
his father said, "I cannot allow your friendship with Max to affect my
judgment. I must do the right thing."

"Right
for whom, Father?"

"For
us."

"What
about humans? What about their planet? Why do we have the right to destroy
their planet and their existence for our benefit?"

"Norbert,
humans do not deserve Earth."

Norbert
stared at his father in his catalog attire.

"No
human dresses like that."

 

 

The
article about our boycott ran in the Sunday newspaper. When I got to school Monday
morning, a TV van with a satellite dish sticking high into the sky was parked on
the street in front of the elementary school. And Vic and his gang were parked
on the sidewalk with their fists on their hips. I had to brave their
gauntlet. Again.

"We
was waiting for you, Dugan," Vic said.

"You
should be waiting for English class," I said.

He
didn't appreciate that remark. He stepped in front of me and reached out to
grab my shirt—

"Max
Dugan!"

Saved
by the principal. Mrs. Stewart stood at the entrance and waved at me like it
was an emergency. I grinned at Vic.

"Another
time, Vic."

"There'll
be another time, Max. Count on it."

We
were celebrities.

The
whole school buzzed with excitement. TV cameras were at our school! The
reporter wanted to interview us live at 8:30 for the Austin morning news show.
So Mrs. Stewart called for a school assembly in the cafeteria. Kids now crowded
around our
No Sneakers from Sweatshops
table and dumped their Legend
Jones sneakers into the big barrel for the camera. The reporter was named Ms.
Riggs. I had seen her before on TV. She smelled good and had dark hair and
painted lips. Her tight dress clung to her body, which didn't have any lumps.
Coach Slimes stood at the door staring at her like she was a cold root beer on
a hot summer day.

"Natalie
Riggs reporting live from the Austin Elementary School in SoCo. I'm here with
some fourth-graders who are trying to make a difference. They're boycotting
the Legend Jones sneakers that kids love to wear. Max Dugan, tell us why you
started this boycott."

She
stuck the microphone in front of my face.

"Because
it's wrong to pay people pennies to make our sneakers."

"But
Legend Jones gives a lot of money to local charities."

"Legend's
a good guy, but he's still doing something wrong, endorsing sneakers made in
sweatshops." I pointed at Sunny's laptop. "Look, that's a video of
the actual Vietnamese factory where the Legend Jones sneakers are made by kids
no older than us."

The camera swung over and focused on Sunny's laptop.

"And
that's Kim-Ly."

I
explained who Kim-Ly was and that her dream was to be a teacher, but she would
always make sneakers. The camera swung back to me and Ms. Riggs.

"So
you want Legend Jones to stop endorsing those sneakers?"

"Yes, ma'am. And we want all kids in America to boycott the Legend Jones sneakers and all sneakers made in sweatshops."

The
reporter turned to the camera and said, "Yes, America, there are kids who
care. If Max Dugan and these kids are the future of America, the future is
bright indeed."

The
story ran on the early and late evening news. Our phone didn't stop ringing.

Two
days later, the doorbell rang, and the postman delivered a certified letter
addressed to "Max Dugan." Mom signed for it and gave it to me. I
opened the letter. It was from "Dewey Cheatham & Howe,
Attorneys-at-Law." It started off "To Whom It May Concern."

I
gave it to Mom.

"You'd
better read it."

She
did. Her face turned into a frown.

"Legend's
lawyers," she said. "They're threatening to sue you for conducting
an illegal boycott under federal antitrust law."

"I'm
a kid!"

The
phone rang. Mom answered.

"Yes,
this is Kate Dugan … Yes, I'm Max's mother … Are you a lawyer? …
Oh, Legend's lawyer is threatening to sue him … Yes, he is just a kid …
A. Hollister Howe, that's his lawyer's name … in L.A.… Okay, what time
tomorrow … Good."

She
hung up and looked down at me.

"You're
going to be on national television tomorrow."

 

 

The
network TV crew came to our house at seven on the first day of October. We
would be on the show from Austin, the host, Judy, from New York City, and A.
Hollister Howe, the lawyer for Legend Jones sneakers, from Los Angeles. Mom and I sat at the kitchen table with Scarlett and Maddy. Two little monitors sat to the side
where we could see the others. Norbert stood over in the corner. The local producer
spoke into his headset.

"What?
You're catching the kid in the corner?" He pointed at Norbert.
"Hey, you—Boo Radley. Move out of camera range."

Norbert
stepped farther away. The producer again spoke into his headset.

"Yes,
I know the walls are yellow! The whole house is hideous!"

That
seemed a little strong. Sure, the house needed some work, but—

"Quiet!"

The
producer gave us a countdown with his fingers—

"Five
… four … three … two … one."

—and
the show went live to Judy in New York.

"Good
morning, USA. Are you worried about kids today? Do they seem self-centered
and focused only on their electronic gadgets? Do they seem unengaged in the
world around them? Well, many kids are. But not Max Dugan in Austin, Texas. Good morning, Max."

I
looked at the monitor and saw myself.

"Good
morning, ma'am."

Judy
smiled. "Ma'am. I love that. And good morning to you, Mrs. Dugan."

"Good
morning."

"Max,
tell us about your 'no sneakers from sweatshops' boycott."

The
monitor showed a clip from our table in the school cafeteria.

"Well,
like most kids, I love Legend Jones and his sneakers. I got a new pair for
every birthday. I mean, he's the best basketball player in the world and he
grew up right here in Austin. So I've always worn them. But then I learned
that they're made by kids in Vietnam getting paid pennies, like Kim-Ly. She wants
to be a teacher, but she's poor so she's got to make sneakers to help support
her family. We want to help her and kids like her."

Maddy
put her red cereal bowl on her head.

Judy:
"So you organized a boycott at your school."

"Yes,
ma'am. We set up a table in the cafeteria and we show a video of the sweatshop
where the Legend Jones sneakers are made and we hand out articles about the
American companies that make their stuff in Asian sweatshops. We have a barrel
for kids to dump their Legend Jones sneakers. We're wearing made-in-America flip-flops
and clogs now. And we have a yellow pair of clogs for Legend, size nineteen,
we bought for him, for when he's ready to be a good guy and not endorse sneakers
made by poor kids."

Judy:
"We also have with us this morning from Los Angeles, A. Hollister Howe,
the lawyer representing the company that manufactures and distributes the
Legend Jones sneakers. Mr. Howe, are the sneakers made with child labor in
sweatshops?"

A.
Hollister wore a suit and looked like a snot.

"We
have no actual, current, independently verifiable knowledge of that. We comply
with all local labor laws. We send our reps into those factories to make sure
children are not making our products. Max has no proof that our products are
made in sweatshops or by children."

"He
has a video from inside the factory," Judy said. Our video played on the
screen. "No one has ever been able to get inside these Asian factories
due to the security surrounding them, but these workers are clearly sewing the
Legend Jones sneaker, and we can see that many of these workers are quite
young."

"How'd
you get that tape?" A. Hollister almost shouted.

"From
Max."

"How'd
he get that tape? You can't show that on TV."

"We
just did. We can see how your client's company makes the Legend Jones
sneakers—"

"My
client knows nothing of this. We contract with Vietnamese companies to
manufacture our products. If they are violating the law, we are not
responsible."

"So
you're hiding behind local contractors."

"No.
We're hiding behind the law."

"But
your sneakers are made by children in sweatshops."

A.
Hollister the lawyer looked like he was about to blow a gasket.

"Look,
Judy, bottom line, Americans don't care who makes their sneakers or where
they're made or how much the workers are paid. They just want to wear the same
sneakers Legend wears."

"So
you're saying we're all stupid," I said.

Judy:
"Sounded that way to me, too, Max."

Now
A. Hollister's face turned bright red.

"Max
is breaking the law. Now, I'm sure he is well-intentioned, but he is engaging
in an illegal boycott. We have sent him a cease-and-desist letter—"

Mom interrupted: "You threatened to sue a ten year old."

"Yes,
we did."

Now
I jumped in. "You can't sue us. We're just kids. And I don't have any
assets except my Ripstik."

"That's
right, Max. Children are not legally responsible for their actions. But their
parents are. Which means I can sue your parents. You want that? You want me
to sue your parents?"

"My
mom?"

"And
your dad."

Now
I blew a gasket. I stood. "My
dad?
The Army sent my dad to Afghanistan and he didn't come back! He fought for your freedom, so you can sue kids, you
big fat jerk! My dad's a hero!"

I
was crying now. A. Hollister didn't say anything. But Mom did.

"You
want to sue me, buster, bring it on! But I don't think Legend Jones wants to
sue the same kids who wear his sneakers! I don't think he wants to explain to
all the kids of America why his sneakers are made by Vietnamese kids in
sweatshops! I don't think he wants that kind of publicity! Do you?"

I
love my mom.

When
we went off the air, Norbert held up his finger and whispered in my ear,
"I could terminate that lawyer's existence."

When
I walked into my class at school that morning, Mrs. Broadus and the other kids
gave me a standing ovation. Except Vic and his posse. They just shook their
heads and glared at me. Boy, he needs to get a life.

 

 

The
boycott snowballed after that. Everyone wanted in on it now. We had to get a
second barrel for all the Legend sneakers. All the kids at school dumped their
sneakers and started wearing colorful flip-flops and clogs. So did the
teachers and the principal. Then other schools in Austin joined in. And the
school board prohibited the athletic departments from buying any shoes made in
foreign sweatshops, even though the coaches complained that the players would
have to go barefooted because all athletic shoes were made in foreign
sweatshops. Other school districts around the country joined in, then a bunch
of universities. Sales of Legend Jones sneakers dropped by seventy-five
percent the next week.

We
never heard from A. Hollister the lawyer again.

But
we did hear from his client.

It
was the next Monday, and we were sitting at our boycott table in the cafeteria
eating lunch when a camera crew barged in with their bright lights on.

"Do
we have an interview scheduled today?" I asked.

Sunny
consulted her calendar. "We have Katie Couric tomorrow afternoon, but no
one today."

The
news people gathered around our table, but they didn't point their cameras at
us. They pointed them at the door. And now we saw why.

Legend
Jones walked into our cafeteria.

Every
kid stopped eating, and the cafeteria fell deathly silent, like one of those
western movies when the hero and the bad guy face off in the street for their
final gunfight. But that was understandable: you don't get a lot of
celebrities at an elementary school.

Legend
Jones stood six feet ten inches tall. His head was shaved bald, and he wore mirrored
sunglasses and a white shirt, a white tie, and a white suit that glowed under
the fluorescent lights and contrasted sharply against his black skin. He was
handsome with wide shoulders and a diamond stud earring in each ear. He was
wearing his signature black Legend Jones All-Pro No. 1 sneakers. He wasn't
smiling.

"Oh,
dang," Dee whispered. "He's mad."

Legend
removed his sunglasses and glanced around the cafeteria. He spotted our table then
walked directly over. He put his hands on his hips and stared down at me.

"You
Max?"

His
voice sounded mean.

"Uh,
yes, sir."

My
voice sounded like Maddy's.

"You
started this boycott of my sneakers?"

"Yes,
sir."

He
reached down and picked up the size nineteen yellow clogs.

"You
really expect me to join in with you, to boycott my own sneakers and to start
wearing these yellow clogs?"

"Well,
uh …" I thought of my dad and manned up. "Yes, sir, I guess I
do."

Legend
stared at me for a long painful moment. I thought he might reach down, grab me
by the shirt, and fling me across the cafeteria. I caught Vic and his crew
standing off to the side; they were obviously hoping Legend would do exactly
that.

But Legend didn't fling me across the cafeteria.

Instead,
he smiled. A real big smile for the cameras. He had the biggest, whitest teeth I'd ever seen. It was like staring into the sun.