Saving June (12 page)

He stares right at me. It’s intense, being under the weight of his full attention. “Dreams have to be practical?” he says.

I turn the camera over in my hands, then pick it up and impulsively snap a picture of Jake. The flash makes him blink, and he swerves a little on the road. Someone in a red BMW leans on their horn as they pass.

He scowls. “Trying to drive here.”

“Then keep your eyes on the road.”

The picture ejects from the base of the camera. I slide it out, turn it around to look as the photo develops. The cloudy spots dissipate to reveal Jake’s face—passive, inquiring. I set it on top of the dashboard.

“Is that what you guys are going to wear?” Seth asks.

I glance down at my outfit: an old green T-shirt and dark jeans. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“Most of us are going to be wearing black. It’s called a black bloc—it helps you blend in so the cops don’t identify individuals.”

Seth is wearing a plain black wife beater and matching baggy pants. Jake has on a black T-shirt that says Rain Dogs across the front in green, and, as usual, his black jeans. No one notified me of the implied dress code.

“I’ll just change, then,” Laney says, and immediately strips off her yellow top. She sits there for a moment in nothing but her red bra, then tosses the shirt aside and reaches to grab one of her suitcases. Her tan, impossibly smooth legs, exposed underneath her denim shorts, bend as she leans over the seat. She comes back with a black skinny-strapped tank top in her hands, shimmies it over her head.

“I’m not changing.” I blush at the idea of sitting here topless as cars all around us pass by. Laney can be so shameless sometimes.

“Don’t be a prude,” she teases. “Hey, should I be wearing black underwear, too? Because I have—”

“No,” Jake and I cut in hastily at the same time.

“I’ve got some extra bandannas,” Seth offers. “You’ll want those. Oh, and you’ll want to write this number on your arm, too.” He digs into his backpack and hands me a crumpled piece of paper.

“The National Lawyers Guild?” I frown. “Uh, should I plan on getting arrested?”

“Precautionary measure,” he says. “Just in case.”

Just in case. That’s real comforting. Still, I figure it’s better to heed the advice of someone who has actually seen the inside of a jail cell, so I etch the numbers on the inside of my right wrist in black marker. Hopefully I won’t need to use it.

“You’re left-handed,” Jake notes, surprised.

I cap the marker and blow on the ink so it’ll dry faster. “Yeah, so?”

“So was June.” He freezes, glancing at me sideways, then back at the road. “Right?”

My heart hammers against my ribs at the mere mention of her name. How does he remember that detail about my sister? I want to ask, the questions press against my throat, but I swallow them down. I’m not sure whether or not I’m ready for whatever answers he’ll give me, even if I can pry them from him.

I ignore him, pop out the Bob Dylan CD he’d put in
and shove Anna’s disc back in, thumbing up the volume on the stereo and focusing instead on Ani and her righteous anger. Now
there
is music I can relate to.

I’ve never been really…political. I mean, I have my opinions, and I know enough to laugh at most of the jokes on
The Daily Show,
and I do generally stay up-to-date with current events. I can point to China on a map. I can give you a very broad idea of what is going on in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, though I can’t go too much into detail, because it’s all really confusing when you get to the Six-Day War and the intifadas. I’ve even been known to eschew
People
magazine in favor of
Newsweek
from time to time. I’m not, like, willfully ignorant, the way a lot of the kids I go to school with are.

But Jake’s friends are different. They talk about every topic under the sun, and they have opinions on everything. And I do mean everything. Racism, sexism, classism, disestablishmentarianism and a whole bunch of other
isms
I don’t recognize. It’s hard to keep up—with the conversation and with how fast they’re walking. Plus, I keep getting distracted by my surroundings.

Even though it’s relatively close to Grand Lake, I’ve never been to Chicago. This area of Wicker Park is full of old brownstones and corner cafés. We parked the van near one of the apartment buildings where Seth’s friend and fellow activist Devon lives, and are now trekking the few
blocks to the train so we can all ride over to the march site. I know we must look bizarre, parading down the sidewalk carrying plastic buckets and a rolled-up cloth banner. But the hipsters and Puerto Ricans we pass don’t give us a second look.

As we walk, Seth and Jake and Danny and Anna all talk over each other, but when Devon speaks, everyone listens. He’s just that kind of person. Magnetic. He’s tall with nicely built shoulders, and he holds himself and speaks in a way that is so full of confidence and poise that you can’t help but stare. And when he’s listening to someone, he looks them straight in the eye, reacts constantly through his expressions, a frown, a small smile, a nod. You get the feeling he’s really absorbing what you’re saying, weighing it, taking it seriously. If listening is an art form then Devon is like Matisse or something.

“So this is your first protest?” he asks me as I slide my train ticket through the reader and push past the hip bars to the station platform.

I nod and shift my backpack over my shoulders. I’m sort of embarrassed about the fact, because I’m surrounded by people who know what they’re talking about, who have done this before. Well, Laney hasn’t, but Laney’s not like me. She could fit in anywhere. Except maybe a convent.

At least Devon doesn’t sound belittling. Just curious.

“My town is sort of—in a bubble,” I explain. It’s true. None of this, the politics, the issues, ever seems to reach
Grand Lake. People there don’t think about these things, or if they do, no one really talks about it. It’s like the town is stuck in the fifties’ golden era you see in the movies.

Which is totally fucked up, when you think about it.

Devon grins. “It happens. A lot of activists I know didn’t get involved until they hit college.”

College. I’m going to be a senior next year, and I still haven’t decided what I want to do once high school ends. This time last year, June had every school she was applying to lined up, had already toured campuses within driving distance. Laney’s GPA puts mine to shame. No way will I be admitted to any of her top choices, even if I bother to apply. It’s weird to think about what’ll happen—chances are she’ll spend four years on the East Coast, while I’m stranded at some state school, if I’m lucky. That means four years apart from my best friend. My only
real
friend these days.

I’m still thinking about this as we board the train. The car sways a little as it kicks into gear, the motion causing me to lean into Jake’s side and Devon into mine. Somehow I don’t think Laney worries much about the future. Maybe it’ll be sad for her not to have me around, but she doesn’t need me like I need her. And then she’ll have college, and new friends, new boyfriends, new classes, people and things that’ll consume her time. I can see it already. I’ll end up a footnote in the life she left behind.

I notice the stack of flyers in Devon’s lap. They’re for
the local chapter of Students for Direct Action Now. I take one and read it. It says Drop Knowledge, Not Bombs across the top.

“Clever,” I say to Devon.

He looks from the flyer to me. “You are antiwar, right?”

“Well, I’m against people dying in general, so, yes.”

“Good answer,” Jake says from my other side. I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not.

“Do you really think, though, that this helps? Running around in the streets waving banners?” I ask. “No offense, I’m just trying to see the point of all this. Does it really change anything?”

Devon frowns. “They have to listen to us. If there are enough people standing up, we can’t be ignored. They—”

“No one’s going to listen to us,” Jake interrupts. “What we do isn’t going to stop anything.”

I turn to him. His expression is just like his voice: steady, calm. Devon, though, looks thrown.

“Are you saying it doesn’t matter?” he says, the question clipped with anger.

“I’m saying this isn’t the sixties. The government’s not going to see us and be like, ‘Oh, oops, our bad.’”

“But what’s the alternative? Silence?”

Jake doesn’t have an answer for that. Devon smiles
smugly, and I’m struck with the urge to smack that smirk off his face.

“You’re playing into the government’s hand, man,” he continues. “They count on people not caring. They brainwash us with the media…” He yammers on, but I tune him out, because I’m now bored with this conversation. It’s not that I don’t understand being angry, wanting to rail against something bigger than yourself. That part I get, probably too well. I’m just not convinced it isn’t a waste of time.

Eventually we emerge from the station to the streets again and walk the distance to the park. I hear the protestors before I see them, a chorus of drums and chants and sirens. When we reach the park entrance, it’s easy to spot who is here for the rally—there are about a hundred protestors, gathered on the sidewalk of the cordoned-off street, most of them holding up big signs with slogans like No Blood for Oil and Bring the Troops Home.

“Low turnout,” Devon grumbles when he sees the thinned-out crowd.

“Fucking apathy, man,” Seth agrees sadly. “It’s like a disease.”

Devon checks his phone and motions for us to follow him. We wind our way to a group of similarly dressed protestors, decked out in black clothes and bandannas. These must be Devon’s friends from Students for Direct Action Now. He fist-bumps a few, taking a megaphone from one of the guys.

“We’re going to start walking now,” he says. The megaphone seems unnecessary, but it makes him look important, which is probably what he’s aiming for.

Laney grabs Seth’s arm. “What about us? The scarves?”

“Oh, right!” Seth delves into his backpack and withdraws a black bandanna for each of us. Laney ties hers over her mouth. I start to do the same when I notice the fabric is damp and smells weird.

“It’s wet,” Laney tells Seth, eyes crinkling.

“It’s soaked in vinegar,” he explains. “It’ll help protect you from the pepper spray.”

“Pepper spray?”
Laney and I cry out in alarm at the same time, but our identical high-pitched shrieks are drowned out by Devon rousing up the crowd with a chant.

“Whose streets?”

“Our streets!”

“Whose streets?”

“Our streets!”

For the first few blocks, things seem to be going okay. At least, I think so. It’s not like I have a political activism track record to compare it to. People chant and bang sticks on plastic buckets and wave their signs around indignantly as we march. I work up a sweat keeping pace with Devon and Seth and the rest of the anarchist group, hoping I don’t stick out too much in my decidedly nonblack attire. We push forward until we’re at the very front of the march, Devon circling around, talking animatedly with different
people and waving his hands like he’s giving directives, strategizing. What the strategy is, I have no idea.

The first sign of trouble comes when we pass a cluster of people outside the barriers on the sidewalk. At first I think they’re part of the march, but then I see the signs they’re holding—Leviticus 20:13 and God Hates Fags.

What I really want to know is how being against the war translates into gayness. But when I look into the frenzied eyes of this one man waving around a Bible and shouting incoherently, I realize it’s futile to expect rationality from crazy hate mongers.

“Ignore them,” Jake tells Devon and Seth when they move toward the Bible-thumpers.

“Look, man, I know you haven’t done this in a while, so maybe you’ve forgotten. This is what we do,” Devon says. He shoots a look at Seth. “You coming?”

Seth’s eyes linger hesitantly on Jake for a moment before he nods. “Right behind you, Dev.”

As they start to walk away, Jake snatches Seth’s shirt collar and drags him to a stop. “Come on, man,” he appeals. “Leave it alone. Don’t be stupid.” There’s a frustrated desperation in his voice I haven’t heard before. It’s the same kind of tone I take when I’m trying to convince Laney not to do something monumentally stupid like sling back four shots in a row of ninety-proof vodka, but knowing all the while she’s going to do it regardless.

“Really? You’re defending bigots now?” Seth scoffs. “I
don’t know why you feel sorry for them. They’re asking for it.”

“Exactly. You’re just giving them the attention they want.”

“If you didn’t want to be part of this, you shouldn’t have come.”

Seth shrugs him off and follows after Devon, disappearing among the other black-clad protestors.

“What’re they going to do?” Laney asks Jake.

His mouth is set in a grim line. “Nothing good.”

The demonstration comes to a standstill as more and more marchers, led by Devon, turn to heckle the counter-protestors. Jake, Laney and I weave through the thirty or so people until we’re close enough to see the action firsthand. I’m pretty sure Danny and Anna are standing next to us, but it’s hard to be sure when they have their faces masked. Everyone is lobbing insults and slurs at the Bible-thumpers. Of course, they hurl them right back.

The man clutching the Bible snarls. It has the effect of making him look like a rabid pit bull. “Take your communist propaganda and go home, you filthy faggots.”

“Faggots, huh?” Anna’s face is covered in black except for her eyes, but I recognize her voice, shrill and furious. “I’ll show you a
faggot.”

She yanks the scarf off her chin and grabs Laney, one arm wound around her neck, and the next thing I know they’re kissing. To Laney’s credit, she doesn’t miss a beat—she
enthusiastically opens her mouth to Anna’s, mashing their faces together. Everyone goes wild. Everyone except the Bible-thumpers, of course. The snarling man’s face turns this scary shade of beet red. For a second I almost think he’ll have an aneurysm and his head will explode.