Quaking Page 7

  “Yes, well, Rory hears you, Matt, and he moans.”

  “He moans all the time, Jessica.”

  “No, I mean he stops what he’s doing, looks up at the ceiling where your room is, and moans.”

  Okay, that is a little freaky. I look at the Blob and the way his dark hair swirls in the back like the coasters I used to make by coiling yarn. Jessica gives him a kiss and pulls him off her and starts handing him to me. His big blue watery eyes blink at me, and I notice how long and curled his lashes are.

  I push my chair away and fold my arms. I am not ready for that. Please!

  “Come, here, Rory,” says Sam. “Everything’s okay.”

  The Blob’s tear-streaked face gazes at Sam’s grinning one. He breaks into a smile when Sam takes him.

  Jessica smiles, too. “And he’s always happy around Sam.”

  The Blob makes his gurgling laugh sound.

  I know Jessica is looking at me with “I told you so” eyes and I refuse to look in her direction.

  After I go to bed, I hear the phone ring. Sam’s voice, then Jessica’s shrill reply. I run to the top of the stairs.

  “Rabbi Sterns?” Jessica’s voice is strung thin. “Is he all right?”

  “He was knocked unconscious.” Sam’s voice is soft. “They were going after the synagogue and he happened to be inside. One of the bricks hit him in the back of the head.”

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  “They think so.” A pause. “Aw, honey, they weren’t targeting him. They were just going for another house of worship.”

  “Oh?” Jessica’s voice is shaky.“How can you be sure? You know how much he speaks out against the violence in the Middle East. He even worked on that white paper—” Her voice breaks off. A sob, muffled, I imagine, by Sam’s chest. “When will it stop?” she wails.

  I cannot make out Sam’s reply.

  “Oh, Sam! Who’s next?”

  The Blob is moaning now.

  I hear the front door open, flapping fabric, and Sam’s voice. “Honey . . . Jessica . . . what are you doing with the flag?”

  “I—I need to sew it up. It’s ripped and it keeps”—flap— “catching”—flap—“on the door.” Rip.

  It is silent for a moment.

  The door closes.

  “I’m sorry, Sam.” Jessica’s voice squeaks, as there is more fabric shaking and flapping and then a soft thud and quiet. “But we have children now. We can’t endanger them.”

  The Blob is moaning again, softly.

  He is drowned out by Sam’s loud sigh. “I don’t like giving in.”

  “Neither do I!” She lowers her voice but I can still hear her. “Matt would say it sucks.”

  “Well, she’s right.”

  “Yes, she is.” Jessica’s voice is more forceful now, but they are moving back to their bedroom and all I can hear is muffled voices.

  I am grateful to Jessica. And relieved that the flag is gone. Mostly.A small part of me thinks we are victims, losers. I will ignore that part of me.

  I open my trinket box.The LifeSaver is still there. I close it again, spinning the lid more than I need to so the swoosh-crunch will drown out the moans from the Blob.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mr. Warhead hands back our quizzes on which countries are helping This Great Nation of Ours bring Freedom and Democracy to the rest of the world. My answers are correct but he gives me a B again and has a fat red circle around my United Nations question. He does not answer it but adds a question of his own: “Do you understand Patriotism?”

  Patriotism? Yes, I understand patriotism, Mr.Warhead. Do you? Here is my definition: Patriotism is being true to your country and what it stands for. That would mean not being a warmonger without first asking the tough questions, like, What are we doing, anyway? Are we really stopping terrorism? Are we really helping anyone? Or are we making things worse? Oh, and are people allowed to say what they think anymore or do we all just have to Shut Up?

  But Mr. Warhead is standing right next to my desk breathing hard and I remember the first rule of survival, the raison d’être, and I bow my head, stare at the gouge on my desk, and Shut Up.

  “Some of you,” he says in his nasal voice—and I can feel his hot breath blasting down on me—“don’t seem to understand our duty to the rest of the world.” He stops speaking but continues to hover over me.

  Why will he not move on, for God’s sake? I can still feel his breath.

  “So, I’m forced to assign you a term paper on how and why Our Nation has responsibilities to the rest of the world.”

  The class erupts in protests.

  “Hey”—his hot breath blows out directly on my head—“don’t blame me.”

  Everyone turns to me and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  “Thanks a lot!” a girl hisses. It is not Susan.

  “Jeez, moron!” a boy’s voice adds.

  “You’ll pay for this.” And I freeze. It is the Rat.

  I shiver. God, why am I so scared of him? What can he do to me, really? Other than beat me senseless? Why do I feel that he would? Because he reminds me of every bully I have ever known? Senselessly violent.

  Mr.Warhead gives a little snort and I shudder as he walks away from my desk. Everyone else still stares at me, and the Rat’s eyes impale me.

  Out in the hall, I see the Rat with the Wall and I walk in the opposite direction until I hear Mr.Warhead call, “Come here!”

  I freeze and wonder if I can get away with saying I did not hear. But I know he will only get redder and the war will escalate so I slowly turn around. He is leaning against his doorway and the Rat and some older boys are walking over to him. He says something to them. The Rat nods at Mr.Warhead and leers at the other boys.They are guffawing and punching each other. Just as I am realizing that Mr. Warhead does not want to see me, he does. And he stands up straight and drills his steely eyes into me and I walk backward into someone before turning and dashing away.

  In the library, I sit down at a computer and try to work on my English paper but I cannot get interested in it. I cannot even get interested in eating the cheese in my lunch bag. All I can think of is Mr. Warhead. And the Rat.

  I hear talking coming from the conference room.

  “Yeah,” a boy says, “Rabbi Sterns. My dad knows him. I can’t believe it.”

  “I know, isn’t it awful?” It sounds like Susan’s voice.

  I lean closer to the conference room door.

  “Scottie Merrick better watch out, I guess.”

  “No kidding.”

  “That’s Catholics, Baptists, and Jews, so far.”

  “That’s what you get for being pro-peace these days.”

  “I think,” says Mrs. Jimenez, “I’d like to start attending those peace vigils downtown.”

  So she did decide to be their sponsor! She has more guts than I thought.

  “Can anyone give me more info about them?”

  “Yeah, Mrs. J, I can,” a boy answers. “It was started by some Quaker guy.”

  “Quaker?” I say it at the same time as Mrs. Jimenez.

  “George Fox, maybe,” he says.

  “George Fox!” Another boy laughs. “Dude, that’s the guy who started the Quaker religion, like, three hundred years ago!”

  Laughter.

  George Fox? The original Quaker? George Fox? I am intrigued. I decide to look up George Fox for myself. I am sitting at the computer, anyway. It is not much effort.

  And I am shocked. Even though he was born in England way back in 1624 in a town called Drayton-on-Clay—can you imagine?—I actually like this guy. For one thing, according to all the drawings I find of him, his nose is easily as large as mine. And he was absolutely, brutally honest—which is apparently a Major Quaker Thing, according to this website—even when people were offended by his honesty or it was not socially acceptable. Ha! He saw through people and felt like a mature adult even when he was a kid. Ditto. He could not believe how hypocritical people we
re, especially so-called religious people. Bingo. And he was totally against organized religion. I hear you, George. He thought no one should tell him when or where to pray or bow to authority. Score more points for the Quaker boy! Also, from what I can tell, George never really had a “Home.” The story of his life goes something like this: run out of town, beaten, run out of town, terrorized by countless Rats, run out of town.

  I think George and I would have had a lot to talk about.

  I am almost late to French because of Googling George. Madame returns my existentialism paper with an A, but her flowery words on the last page say, “Mon dieu! J’espére que nous n’avons pas quelqu’un comme ‘le Rat’ à notre école!” Well, you can hope, Madame, but unfortunately, we do have a Rat at our school. Watch yourself when you go out in the hall.

  Or the parking lot. When I go out to the bus I see the Rat and the boys who were talking to Mr. Warhead earlier. Except for the Rat, they all look like seniors. Boy-men. Misfits. All part of the Rat’s Wall. I do not look directly at them. But I can see them out of the self-preservation corner of my eye as I walk to the bus.

  They are smoking and I hear one of them say, “Dude, don’t look now but isn’t that your old man?”

  The Rat ducks, turns, and steps back in one swift motion, his arm in front of his face, cowering. His panicked eyes flit around the parking lot. He is desperate, frightened, shaking.

  And instantly I know why the Rat is the way he is.

  And where he heard the word chicken-shit.

  And why he uses it on others.

  But it is still no excuse.

  The rest of the Wall guffaws.

  Without warning, the Rat punches one of the Wall in the stomach, hard, and the guy staggers backward, his hair in his eyes, trying to laugh but obviously struggling for breath. “Joke . . . man . . . jeez!”

  I do not find any of it funny. However, I cannot help but peek at them through the window when I am on the bus. Why I feel the need to look is beyond me because I am nauseous enough as it is. The Wall is crumbling into the large, dirty sedan. I see the back of the Rat’s head before he disappears. Staring at the filthy car, I cannot help but read the bumper stickers.

  Peace Is for Sissies.

  Pave the Middle East.

  Remember: Pillage Then Burn.

  When I want your opinion I’ll beat it out of you.

  Never settle with words what you can settle with a flame thrower.

  The car peels loudly out of the parking lot, leaving puffs of black smoke behind.

  Back at Casa Quaker, Jessica is on the computer. She says she is “working.” I cannot remember what her job is, although I think she told me. Obviously, she works from home. Sam says he needs to look something up as soon as she is done.Why? He seems to have no job. Except Thursday nights.

  I ask if I can use the computer after him so I can start on my term paper for World Civ. It is a mistake.

  Sam is all excited about Mr. Warhead’s term paper, “The Role of Our Great Nation in the Middle Eastern Theater.” He shows me many websites. No one has ever tried to help me with my homework like this before. No one has even showed an interest.

  I find it annoying.

  I stare at him, hovering over me, racing the mouse around the globe on his “We Are One” mouse pad. I sigh loudly. “It does not need to be detailed. This teacher is not very bright.”

  Sam smirks. “Well, even if your teacher isn’t, that doesn’t need to stop you, does it?”

  I roll my eyes.

  He opens several windows and selects some more bookmarked sites. “Look, here’s a site on Muslim women today. And this one’s got stories of American soldiers who’ve been involved in the war and the effect it has had on them and their families. This is one on Islamic beliefs.”

  I stare at him. Why has he bookmarked all these sites, anyway?

  “Well, doesn’t it make sense to understand their point of view first?”

  I speak slowly, as if I am talking to a very large version of the Blob. “Sam. Listen to me. We are being taught the American point of view only. I do not believe the teacher thinks these people are allowed to have a point of view. I am not even sure he thinks they are people.”

  Sam chuckles. “Maybe you’ll be surprised.”

  I shake my head. No, Sam.You are the one who will be surprised.

  “Aw, come on, give it a try.”

  I give a large sigh. “Fine, Sam, fine.” If I play along, perhaps he will leave me alone.

  I spend a long time doing research. Not because I need to. I could write the paper in an hour. But the websites are, well, interesting. Some of Sam’s bookmarked sites are actually quite helpful.

  He even has a blog! I am not lurking. It happens to be open and—surprise!—there is his picture. Why he posts his photo and real name, especially considering the sensitivity of being a “peace-monger” these days, is beyond me. Obviously, he never took “Internet safety” in school.

  He seems to know a lot about the Selective Service system and conscientious objectors and where are good places to stay in Canada. I look because it could be useful for my future. But it is mostly about peace contacts and how to help the peace movement and how you will miss out on a student loan and a government job if you neglect to sign up for Selective Service—which I did not know—and does not specifically address how I can live in Canada with no actual family or money.

  Still, it is interesting enough that I am surprised when Jessica says it is dinnertime already.When we sit down to eat, I realize I am starving.And that dinner is spinach balls. I cannot believe it. Up until now I have avoided them, but apart from applesauce, that is all there is on the menu.

  Finally, I take a bite of a lumpy, green spinach ball. They are actually not bad.

  “Have you thought about some activities you’d like for us to do together?” Sam asks me.

  “Uh . . . I am still thinking.” In truth, I had not given it a thought.

  Jessica saves the day by talking about how the Meeting House is going to serve as a homeless shelter during the week and does Sam think people will be safe there? I am thinking it is probably no more dangerous than being on the street, but what do I know? She also says she is getting a ride to and from Meeting tomorrow because she is teaching a special session of First Day School.

  First Day School is Quaker-speak for Sunday School. Imagine how awful that would be—having a First Day of School every Sunday.

  And then it hits me. The Meeting House. Meetings. What a great way to spend time with Sam. Not the First Day School—God! But sitting in Meeting where we are not supposed to talk. I will not have to converse, and who cares if people see me with Sam in his dork hat there? They are all Quakers, after all. Jessica wears a brown corduroy shirt over her limited assortment of drab turtlenecks. I strongly suspect Quakers do not know what fashion is.

  And it will keep Sam from helping me with my homework because I will remind him that we already have an activity that we share.

  It is perfect.

  “Sam.” The conversation stops and I realize I am interrupting. “I was just thinking of an activity we could do together.”

  He puts his fork down. “Yes?”

  “I would like to start going to those . . . you know . . . Meetings.”

  He smiles. “Really? Every First Day?”

  Oh. I was not planning on that. But I suppose a onetime anything would not be enough and he is looking for some regular activity. At least I did not have to go the last several weeks. “All right.”

  “That’s great!”

  He and Jessica stare happy Quaker-speak at each other while I eat spinach balls and savor my victory.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I am regretting my brilliant idea of going to Meeting with Sam. Apparently, he thinks I am having a spiritual awakening. He does not know that attending Meetings is simply the least of various Sam-induced evils.

  As we drive to the Meeting House, Sam says he wants me to feel “comfo
rtable” in Meeting. He is enjoying giving me information about Quakers.

  I am enjoying giving him a hard time.

  “Now, Matt, if you have a concern, you can offer it up in Meeting.”

  “You mean like a sacrifice?”

  He smiles. “No, I mean someone might pick up on your need and stand up and say something helpful.”

  “Like speaking in tongues? Or Quaker? I may not understand them.”

  Sam smirks at me. But it does not stop him. He tells me about the persecution of George Fox. I pretend I have never heard of the guy. “About three hundred and fifty years ago, George Fox started the Religious Society of Friends.”

  “Who are they?” I ask.

  “Friends—that’s another name for Quakers.”

  I suspect they came up with that name as self-defense so that if they were accused of being Quakers, they could say, “Oh, no, we’re just Friends.” No one can hear the capital F.

  We are a few minutes early, and as we enter the Meeting room, Sam gives me a monthly newsletter. I start reading it because it is another excuse not to speak, especially in front of a room full of religious types. And it is much quieter than a newspaper. The newsletter says that next month’s topic is the Testimony of Tolerance, whatever that is, and this month’s topic is the Testimony of Peace.Testimony? How do they come up with this stuff?

  A man wearing a “Teach Peace” T-shirt clears his throat. “Does anyone want to sing a song before Meeting? Since we often don’t get around to it after Meeting?”

  I send him an “of course not” with my eyes.

  “Sure, Chuck!” Sam says. And Sam runs off to a bookcase in the corner and grabs about a dozen hymn books in one arm. “What do you want to sing?”

  Chuck smiles. “I think we need ‘Walk in the Light.’”

  Oh, barf! What a name! This is going to be one of those weepy, old lady hymns where voices will start warbling and tears will flow and I will get depressed from the melody alone.Why are so many of these religious songs like that? If there is a God, I am quite sure He or She does not want to look down on the Maudlin Masses.

  Sam is chuckling and puts all of the books back but one. “I guess we don’t need books for that!”