Hero-Type Part 17

Chapter 24.

Very Action-Movie-Hero-Ish

Now, my dad has told me in the past that the army gives out medals at the drop of a hat. They have medals just for being in the army during a time of war, for example, whether you fought in that war or not. (Dad calls that one the "CNN Medal" because you get it for watching the war on TV.) They give you medals when you pa.s.s certain tests. So just having medals doesn't necessarily mean anything.

But I recognize one of them-a Purple Heart.

The other one is shaped like a stop sign. It has an eagle on one side and says, Soldier's Medal for Valor on the other.

Valor. That doesn't sound like something they give to guys who betray their country.

I sit there on the floor for a long time, staring at those medals. I have a lot of trouble imagining my dad as a guy who would do something that would be medal-worthy. He's just, you know, my dad. Everyone has a dad. Most of them are nothing special. Mine hauls garbage and is surly a lot and can never finish a thought when it's a really important one and can barely cook enough food to keep himself alive. What could he have done that's so great that the army would give him two medals?

And what did he do that was so bad that they kicked him out?

I put everything back where I found it and go back to bed, but now any chance of sleeping is totally shot.

I have to know.

It's three in the morning, so in California it's only midnight. Mom and Rita are probably already asleep, but I can't help it-I watch my hand pick up the phone, watch my fingers punch the number in.

Mom picks it up on the third ring. Her voice is clotted with sleep. "John?" she says. "Did something happen to Kevin?"

"It's me, Mom."

"What are ... Do you know what time it is?"

"Yeah."

"Is something wrong, honey? Is your dad OK?"

"Yeah, Mom. Look, I'm sorry I woke you up, but I have to ask you something."

"Wait. Hold on. Can't this wait until morning?"

"It is morning."

"I know. I just meant..."

"Please, Mom."

A long sigh. And then I hear her say something that's not meant for me. Talking to Rita, I guess. And then: "Hold on. I'm switching phones."

And then she's on a different line and Rita hangs up the bedroom phone. "What is it? What do you need to know? Is this about coming out here?"

"No. Mom, why was Dad kicked out of the army?"

She doesn't say anything for a little while. I sort of expect her to explode at me, to be all like: "You woke me up for this?"

Instead, she says, "Honey, I don't think we should talk about that."

"Come on, Mom. Don't I deserve to know?"

"You don't need to know about this. Really. Maybe when you're out here we can sit down and talk about it. You know, face to face. But I just..."

"Come on, Mom. Please."

It takes some time, but she's tired and I'm persistent and I wear her down and she tells me.

She tells me everything.

I hang up and I manage to get a little bit of sleep before I have to leave for school. When I grab my keys in the morning, though, I can't help looking at the key to Brookdale hanging there. It's like my own personal medal, I realize.

They build you up and then they tear you down, Dad said.

And he would know. He would know.

I head to school with a sort of righteous fire burning in my belly and run off to the office before the bell can ring for homeroom.

"I want another chance," I tell Dr. Goethe.

He looks at me from behind his desk, his eyes weary and his face a little flushed. I think of all the trouble he went through last year when Flip hacked the lacrosse team's grades and I feel a little bit sorry for him, but no one's keying his new car and following him home from school and cornering him in the locker room, so the sympathy doesn't last very long, tell the truth.

"Kevin, this is over."

"The debate on free speech is never over." It just kind of spills out of me, but I like the way it sounds. Very action-movie-hero-ish. There should be music playing in the background.

"You had your say. John had his say. Let's put an end to this, OK?"

"But, Dr. Goethe-"

"But nothing. You're here to learn, Kevin. Not to take potshots at each other on the morning announcements. I let you and John have some time and some fun because I felt it was an important lesson for your cla.s.smates. But it's time to get back to the business of learning."

Fun? He thinks this is fun? I want to know what he's smoking and if I can have some of it, because I could use a good dose of fun right about now!

"But he made it sound like I-"

The bell rings for homeroom. Dr. Goethe sighs and scribbles out a hall pa.s.s for me.

"Get to homeroom. If you want to discuss free speech and the flag and the war, that's what social studies cla.s.ses are for."

I stand there for a second, trying to marshal up some truly awesome, Dad-worthy comment, something that will twist Goethe's brain in his s.h.i.+ny chrome-like head and make him rethink everything.

But all I can think of is "Blind faith in your leaders or in anything will get you killed."

Which doesn't impress him, even though it should.

"Get going, Kevin."

SELF-LOATHING #4.

I sulk through homeroom because there's nothing else for me to do, not with everyone glaring at me.

Last night, apparently, Flip Photoshopped up a picture of Officer s.e.xpot linked arm in arm in a chorus line with the president (from his photo op in an air force uniform) and Hitler and an old picture of Saddam Hussein, with a word balloon coming out of Officer s.e.xpot's mouth that said, "I just LOVE a man in uniform!" The picture was blasted out to every e-mail address Flip could get his hands on, as well as hacked into the Lowe County Times website and the Lowe County Board of Education website. It was scrubbed pretty quickly, but not before everyone saw it. The Times described it in the morning edition, but they didn't show it, which is weird because Flip had OSP dressed up in her police uniform, so it's not like she was naked or anything.

I keep my head down in the halls and in cla.s.ses. It's Wednesday, and I always see Leah on her way to trig. I usually love these glimpses, but now Riordon's ruined them, like a thumb covering part of a photo. He's always with her, making moves on her and she just eats it up. She's all giggly and flirty and batting her eyelashes-y, and tell the truth, there's a moment-just a little moment, a momentlet, but it's there-when I think to myself that I wish I hadn't done something that day at the library, that I'd looked over and thought to myself, This is none of my business, and moved on.

Is that mean? Does that make me unlikable? I don't really care. It's real and it's honest and it's true, and I guess you've never had a single cruel or unpleasant thought in your life, huh? Get off my back.

Tell the Truth

Chapter 25.

The Key Opens Something

Back up on the catwalk again, but this time I eat my lunch because I figure that I'm pretty much at war at this point and Dad is fond of saying, "An army travels on its stomach." Which, when I was little, I took literally and I imagined a hundred thousand guys crawling along the sand on their bellies.

So I eat my gross lunch, reminding myself that it's just fuel for the mission. I have to think of a way to get my side of the story out. I have to think of a way to counteract what Riordon said. I know Dad thinks that people like to be stupid, but I can't believe that. I have to believe that if you shake people hard enough, they'll eventually wake up.

Yeah, wake up. Wake up to the truth. But the truth's a funny thing. People think they know the truth about me, for example, but they don't. And maybe that's the problem. Maybe I don't deserve to be right. Maybe G.o.d is punis.h.i.+ng me for my sins. My lies.

The ladder rattles; the catwalk shakes. Fam pops up.

"Hey."

"Hi." Since she hasn't told anyone about my little hiding place, I don't mind so much sharing it with her.

"How'd it go with the Doc?"

I had told t.i.t I was planning to demand a reb.u.t.tal. Word spreads fast in the Council.

"Not so good."

She sits down next to me, dangling her chicken legs over the side. I'm skinny, but Fam is anorexic. If I hadn't personally witnessed her inhaling an order of hot wings at Cincinnati Joe's on more than one occasion, I would think she was literally anorexic.

"That sucks," she says. "What are you gonna do now?"

I hadn't really thought much beyond being an army and traveling on my stomach. "I don't know. If the Doc won't let me talk, I don't have many options. I might have to do something big and stupid." I tell her my unformed plan to burn a pseudo-American flag.

"Where would you get one?" she asks.

"Yeah, that's what stopped me, too."

We sit in silence for a little while.

She kicks out her feet like she's on a swing. "Man. I was all excited. I thought he'd let you talk again for sure. I even started some research for you." And then she starts babbling something about Sweden and Norway and other countries and stuff like that, but I'm sort of distracted and I'm only half listening.

"...quotes from Colin Powell," she babbles. "I mean, that's pretty cool, right? And there was this Supreme Court justice who said that-"

"Hey, Fam, can we cool it for, like, five minutes?" I snap it out and I didn't really mean to. I just need to clear my head.

She looks like I smacked her in the face. My inner Catholic starts yelling at me.

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I'm just really stressed, is all."

She shrugs. "I get it. OK. I'm sorry. I was just trying to help."

"No, no, it's cool, and I appreciate it and all. I just needed to open up the safety valve for a couple of minutes. Is that cool?"

Fam nods and I feel this sudden, insane urge to hug her. I turn, and I guess the urge is contagious because she leans toward me. Before I can stop myself, I put my arms around her. It's all weird and awkward because we're sitting with our legs dangling over the catwalk, so we're sort of twisted and it's not comfortable and besides, it's Fam, so what the h.e.l.l am I thinking?

And then-thank G.o.d-there's a stabbing pain in my thigh.

"Ow!" I pull away. Fam's confused.

I sat on my keys. I dig into my pocket for them and show them to her. She gets it.