Part 22 (1/2)
”I'm telling you-I was at the party all night.” Not a lie.
He picks up his phone. ”Miss Channing? I want John Riordon. Now.”
Oh, boy.
”I've been leaving messages for your father to call me and talk about all of this,” the Doc says, gesturing as if ”all of this” is some kind of gas in the air. ”He hasn't gotten back to me.”
”He's a busy guy.” That's not really a lie either, is it?
”Tell him he needs to call me. Got it?”
”Sure.” I'll have to make sure I forget that at some point.
John comes in a minute later with a look on his face like he's disappointed there was no trumpet fanfare for him.
”Sit down, John. Look, you two, this has gotten completely out of hand.”
”I'm not the one who set fire to a bunch of flags,” John says.
”Neither did I!”
The Doc holds up a hand. ”I'm not blaming either of you. But clearly you guys have managed to kick up a ruckus, so I'm looking to the two of you to help put an end to it.”
”I didn't start this, Dr. Goethe,” John says, ”but I'll be happy to help end it.”
Brownnoser.
”What's wrong with talking about free speech?” I ask. ”Why does it have to end? Don't we have the freedom to discuss these issues?”
Dr. Goethe gives me a stern look. ”People are setting fire to things on school property, Kevin. That's not free speech. That's arson.”
”That wasn't anyone from my side,” John says like the sissy-boy he is.
I shrug. Because it's not like I can say the same thing.
”We need a safety valve,” I say.
”What was that, Kevin?” The Doc's eyebrows shoot up on his smooth forehead like big furry caterpillars on speed.
”A safety valve. Like in history cla.s.s. When things got rough, people would migrate west. We need something like that. Something to let the steam out.”
John laughs. ”That's the stupidest-”
”Hold on, John.” He holds up a hand to silence John, who was about to whine and pout and cry. (No, not really, but it makes me feel better to think it.) ”I let you guys on the announcements and you both whipped people up into a frenzy. So now I'm going to let you guys settle them down.”
For the first time ever John Riordon and I look at each other in agreement. Because we're both thinking, What the h.e.l.l is he talking about?
”We're going to do another debate,” the Doc says. ”This time it'll be in the auditorium. With the entire school there. On ... uh...” He looks at a calendar. ”On Wednesday. You'll both have your say and you'll both tell your groupies to cut out the shenanigans.”
Another debate! A reb.u.t.tal. That's all I've ever wanted.
”I'm in!” I say. ”But I get to go last this time.”
The Doc looks a question at John, who shrugs. ”I don't care. I'll debate him any time, any place.”
”Then it's settled.” The Doc pauses for a second and gives both of us a significant look. ”It had better be settled, boys.”
I've missed first period, so I head to my locker to reload my backpack and hey, great, someone has written ”I H8 TROOPS” on my locker in marker. Very original and crafty.
But as stupid and as juvenile as it is, it bothers me and here's why: because it's just bull. I mean, I think of my dad out there in the hot desert, not much older than I am now, with a gun and orders and not much else. How do ribbons contribute to that? They aren't magical. They don't accomplish anything. You know what I think? I think they're not for the troops; I think they're for us. Those of us at home. The ones who feel guilty for sending troops out there in the first place.
Because it seems to me that the best way to support the troops is to not send them off to die in the first place. And the second best way to support them is only to send them off to die when you absolutely have to. And the only way to know that you've done that is to talk about it, debate it, examine it, and make d.a.m.n sure.
Because the world changes every day and maybe the circ.u.mstances change, so you keep talking about it so that you don't make a mistake and send someone off to die for the wrong reason or for no reason.
So I tell Fam all of these deep thoughts when she comes over to my house at night. We sit out on the porch and go through ten billion Web pages she printed out for me. It's like a free speech gold mine.
”Why didn't you just say stuff like that before?” she demands. ”It sounds a lot better than what you did say.”
Ouch. ”I don't know. I guess I didn't think of it. I didn't really put it all together until after I did all this stuff. I feel like I'm always playing catch-up. It's like, I do something and then I figure out why.”
”Poor widdle Kwoss.” She pats my hand and I get that whole uncomfortable feeling again, thinking of our hug on the catwalk. ”Don't worry-we'll have you ready for the debate. Look at this stuff.” She leaves her hand on mine as she hands over some more papers.
And all of a sudden, I'm thinking of King Arthur. No, really. Follow me here. We read about him last year in English cla.s.s. Like, Arthur was married to Guinevere, see? They were hot and heavy. And then Arthur's top dog, Lancelot, showed up. And the next thing you know, he's getting busy with the queen!
I'm no genius, but is it possible that Flip=Arthur, Fam= Guinevere, and Kross=Lancelot? Is that what's going on here?
Oh, man. I don't want to be Lancelot! But let's face it-Fam might be the only girl I ever get to kiss, if my luck keeps running the way it's always run.
I wait for a break in the conversation and then I say, ”Am I supposed to kiss you now?”
She freezes. Almost as an afterthought, she takes her hand off mine and puts it in her lap. ”What?”
”Uh, never mind.”
”No, I think we'll go right on minding, Kross. Did you say you wanted to kiss me?”
”That's ... that's not what I said. I was ... Jeez, Fam. I don't know. Am I supposed to kiss you?”
She stares at me. It's like being called on in cla.s.s when you don't know the answer.
”You were just ... Fam, you were being nice to me, and I thought you wanted me to-”