“It would be different,” Mandy Hinkle adds, “if the book was about a survivor’s experience. But this is not that, at all.”
The room gets very quiet. I wait. You can never tell how some teachers are going to react to pushback. The old “my way or the highway” thing. We have a bunch of yellers at Heywood, but I haven’t had a class with Watson yet, so I don’t know what he’ll do. I would rather not have any yelling, but I also don’t want to read this book, either, and I’m glad Liza said something.
Mr. Watson lays down his Magic Marker. He taps his desktop once, twice, three times, before speaking.
“Firstly,” he says. “Let me commend those of you who have read the book already—”
“I watched the movie,” Max deVos says. “There was a sexy chick. Does watching the movie count?”
Mandy Hinkle says, “There were two movies and no.”
“Secondly,” Mr. Watson says, louder.
I wince. This might be the start of the yelling.
“The book is an important introduction to literary technique, structure, allusion, the unreliable narrator. There are many ways to discuss this book and perhaps your ideas are ones we can explore.”
A girl in the seat next to me raises her hand. “If I get a note from my mom, can I read something else? This makes me really uncomfortable.”
“Well, we don’t always look for comfort when we read. Sometimes we have to read uncomfortable, difficult books. Sometimes those books are the very ones that inform our intellectual and emotional growth.” Mr. Watson’s eyes scan the room.
He stops. “Yes. You have a question.”
Tasha puts her hand down. “There are two Black kids in this room, including me, one Mexican American, and one Asian American. But there are no books on this list telling Black stories. Or Asian American stories. Or any stories that feature people of color as the main characters. If we are there, we’re side pieces. Slaves. Serving food. Stuff like that.”
“Jesus, you guys, what do you want? You wanna read Charlotte’s Web for the rest of your life?”
Everyone turns to see who spoke. The kid in the back row, opposite corner from me. He’s chewing on a pencil, his jaw working hard. Tom Kidder. He never talks much.
Max deVos slides down in his seat.
Tasha turns toward Tom. “Actually, that’s a great book about empathy, friendship, and sacrifice. Although, again, no people of color that I can recall, but I can get behind a pig and a spider, for sure.”
Everyone starts talking at once.
“Did you ever notice that Wilbur got all the credit for the writing in the spiderwebs? Some pig! Terrific! And, like, Charlotte did all the work! Guys are always taking credit for women’s work.”
“Her name is in the title. That’s the credit. It’s not called Wilbur’s Web.”
“Did you ever notice how supportive Fern’s dad was? Like, he even kind of believed her when she said the animals were talking. Her mom thought she was crazy and called the doctor!”
“And then the doctor was all, ‘Well, she’ll start thinking about boys soon and that will take care of it.’？”
Next to me, Daniel Wankel says, “Actually, I think Fern did ditch Wilbur for Henry Fussy.”
I can’t help it. I giggle. She totally did.
Mandy Hinkle ignores Daniel. “I don’t think I should have to read a book that makes me feel sick in order to further my intellectual growth. What kind of nonsense is that? And also, The Scarlet Letter is on here and that book has been assigned every single year since eighth grade and I simply cannot with Hester Prynne anymore, thank you very much.”
A couple of people clap. But a lot of kids, like me, stay quiet, too. I’m not really one for outspoken rebellion. The outspoken part, not the rebellion part.
Janey Foster says, “Can we just redo this list? And why can’t we ever read books that actually have teenagers as the characters? Why are we always reading about adults? I’m so sick of adults.”
“Why are all these authors men? I’m just noticing this.”
“Do you not read women authors, Mr. Watson?”
“Please don’t make me read The Great Gatsby again. I had that last year and it is insufferable.”
“West Egg, East Egg. Why so many Eggs? Really putting all your eggs into one basket, Fitzgerald,” Daniel murmurs.
I giggle again. This might be the first time all day I’ve felt okay.
Daniel smiles at me.
Mr. Watson sits down at his desk. “Well, we have reached an interesting place. I’m going to have to take some time with this.”
I can tell by the way Liza leans back in her chair that she’s pleased.
“Take all the time you need,” she tells Mr. Watson. “We’re here for you.”
* * *
—
I text Joey after last period.
Have to take Drama Club now instead of dance. What about your outpatient meeting today? Isn’t it at 4? I won’t be done until 5.
There’s a meeting at 4 and one at 6. We can
do the one at 6. Just have to text Mom.
I don’t really want to go alone, okay?
Okay
I’ll meet you in the auditorium when you’re done Okay. Looked for you in the hallways but didn’t see you I’m FINE
* * *
—
The auditorium is dark, except for the stage, where kids are sitting cross-legged or with legs stretched out. Liza is here. And Lucy Kerr, which makes my heart drop. I’ll have to stay out of her way.
Jeremy Leonard is here, too. He seems like a safe bet, so I slide next to him on the stage and dangle my legs over the side. I don’t think I can do cross-legged yet, and my knee hurts after walking and sitting all day, and I definitely don’t want to be anywhere near Lucy Kerr.
“You again,” Jeremy murmurs.
“It was involuntary, to say the least. I don’t really want to get up in front of people and emote,” I say.
“It gets easier. Simon’s pretty cool.” He pulls at a fingernail. “That was pretty bad in the cafeteria. But I get it. You know?”
I nod.
“Your leg okay?” he asks.
“It hurts a little.”
He looks at me carefully, as though he’s debating whether or not to say something.
“What?” I ask, prodding him. “Just say it.”
“Luther lost an eye.”
“What?” I blurt, flustered, then lower my voice. “I’m sorry…I didn’t know that.”
I think of Luther’s legs hanging over the steering wheel, the dirty bottoms of his sneakers. I don’t remember much between when the police and ambulance showed up and when I woke up in the hospital, so I wasn’t really sure what happened to him at the time.
“Yeah,” he says. “Messed up his face and neck, too. The glass from the windshield. He’s in juvie. Because of the other stuff.”
That’s right. Long after I’d gone home from the hospital, I overheard my mother and father talking about Luther. That he’d been carrying a lot of drugs in his backpack. Too much for one person, which meant he was going to sell them. That’s why he wanted to turn instead of driving Candy home, to go to the shoe-in-the-tree house, I think. To drop off the drugs.