Part 7 (1/2)

”Who was that?”

He shrugs. ”The Was.h.i.+ngton Post.”

”Was.h.i.+ngton Post!” Holy c.r.a.p, this has gone national!

”Or Was.h.i.+ngton Times. one or the other. There are bigger things to worry about than this, Kevin. The war. The economy. The environment. College.”

I get the feeling he could go on all day listing things for me to stress about, but then he actually yawns, as if his son being a.s.saulted by the media happens every single day and he's bored with it all.

”I have to go to bed. Now get rid of those things. I want you to think for yourself, not like the rest of the sheep.”

”You don't want me to support the troops?”

He pauses halfway to the bedroom door. I can almost see the conflict in the set of his shoulders. He turns back to me. ”You think putting a stupid magnet on your car supports the troops? Do you? Because I thought you were smarter than that. Putting a magnet on your car does nothing for the troops. They're still over there, still dying.”

”Well, what am I supposed to do about it?”

Which, hey, shuts him up for a second. Now, if it was anyone else's dad, I would think that maybe I'd scored a point or two, but it's my dad, so he's probably shut up just long enough to actually figure out what I'm supposed to do about it.

He looks like he's going to say something, but then he shakes his head. ”Just ... Just get rid of those magnets, Kevin.”

Which is a total cop-out as far as I'm concerned, but I'm not an adult, so I don't get a vote.

Chapter 14.

Meet the Press

My car sits there in the driveway, covered with those magnets.

So, like, I wonder who gets all the money for those things? And do they do anything good with it, like give it to a veterans' charity, or do they just pocket it? And I never really thought about it before Dad brought it up, but...

How stupid is it to pin all your patriotic fervor on a magnet? On something temporary that can be removed and replaced at will. Even an actual b.u.mper sticker is kinda cheesy, when you think about it. Want to brag about going to a theme park or that your kid's a stud athlete? Sure, a b.u.mper sticker's the way to go. Kind of weak for matters of life and death, though.

It seems like someone got the magnet idea and they just went to town and everyone else followed along like sheep, like sheep following more sheep, everyone putting those things on because everyone else is putting them on and that's supposed to, I don't know, supposed to ease their consciences or something.

Man, I hate it when Dad's right. It messes with my world.

So I start to pull the magnets off. First I look around to make sure there aren't any school reporters lurking in the bushes or ready to pop up from the sewer or anything. Not that it matters anymore. The damage has been done, and it's not like I'm not used to being in the paper at this point. People can't hate me any more than they already do.

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?”

c.r.a.p. He wants to talk about the ribbons. Just like all the idiots on voice mail. h.e.l.l, 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 b.u.t.t 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 b.u.t.ton?”