Ask the Passengers

My God. Are people really that dumb? Why not Astrid and Kristina? Why not Dyke or Fag or some other acceptable U. Valley slur? But Astrid and her own sister?

Seriously. The realm of belief around here is breeding morons.

In humanities class, people are starting to freak out and second-guess their paradoxes. No one shares because we all think we have the most original idea, but usually there are no original ideas. Ms. Steck told us that weeks ago.

I stare at the blinking cursor on the computer screen, and I type in my paradox and hit Send. Equality is obvious. I wonder what Frank Socrates would say about that.

In study hall, I overhear people talking about Aimee Hall’s mom. Apparently she came in yesterday and freaked out because she heard that her daughter has to sit in classes with known homosexuals. I try not to break out into a sweat when I hear this. I look around and realize that everyone in this room is, right now, being forced to sit in a class with a known homosexual.

Then the story gets worse.

Last night, Mrs. Hall and one other parent showed up at the school board meeting and complained that the Unity Valley School District has a “homosexual agenda” and made calls for three teachers to resign.

One of the teachers is Ms. Steck.

They say: She’s not married. You know what that means.

Another is Mr. Williams because he kicked some kid out of class for denying the Holocaust. How this fits into the “homosexual agenda” is beyond me.

“That makes no sense,” Clay from humanities says.

“Whatever,” the blond who’s telling the story says. “It’s about our freedom. To be who we are, whether we recognize g*ys or not.”

Clay just looks at her. Then he scratches his head. Then he goes back to the novel he’s reading. I sit there and play a word game in my head. I replace the word g*ys from her sentence with these other words: blacks, Hispanics, immigrants, women, people of mixed race, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Gypsies, Russians, Poles, Yugoslavians, Ukrainians, mentally and physically disabled.

Frank says, “Bingo, Astrid Jones.”

“Bingo? You say bingo?”

“Isn’t it great what they teach you in school these days?” He pats my knee and adjusts his toga so it doesn’t reveal too much while he sits in the low auditorium seat.

I’m so glad I have Frank. I kinda miss Kristina this week, but I also kinda don’t. Either way, Frank is filling the void. I mean, as much as he can, considering he’s dead and in my head.

Ellis is waiting for me outside of my lit class. She’s sobbing.

“Couldn’t you cover it up with something?” she screams. “Couldn’t you deny it or report it or do something normal?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“That SHIT above your locker!” Next to her is Jessie, her running and hockey friend. Dee’s camp friend. I give her a weak wave.

I realize I have no idea why I didn’t do anything about it. I guess I figured no one would care. “I’m really sorry, El.”

“It’s not just your name up there, you know!” she says. This is like one million on the flying-monkey scale for her.

“Yeah, totally. I know,” I say. “Look, I’ll go report it now. I figured it would be gone first thing, like any other graffiti, I guess. I really am sorry.”

She just walks off with Jessie, who gives me an empathetic look.

When I see Ellis at lunch, she’s sitting up near the salad bar with Aimee Hall and her band of merry rumor-makers. I’d be lying if I said the mere thought of what could be said at that table right now doesn’t make me feel sick.

I sit by myself.

I hear things.

They say: Astrid Jones was the one who took them out to that place, you know. Must be those city roots.

They say: If I was the Houcks, I’d rip her a new one.

It really is amazing what some people will say. I can’t wait to tell Kristina this one when she gets back. We’ll laugh until we pee, I bet.

Before seventh period, I drop in and tell Ms. Steck I’m skipping lit mag this week. She nods as if she already knew this.

“Did you see those?” she asks, and points to the blackboard. There are two more signs like the one I pulled off the wall yesterday. One says DYKES NEED DICK! Same lettering as the sign in my backpack. “I’m starting a collection,” she says. “Kids can be so clever.”

The other sign reads ADAM AND EVE, NOT ADAM AND STEVE, which is wholly unoriginal.

“Yeah,” I say. “People here are really bright.”

Ms. Steck says, “Just remember it’s a small minority.”

I reach into my backpack and find the MS. STECK ’S PUSSY sign from yesterday, and I take it to the board and straighten it out. We tape it there together, and I draw an arrow in chalk to the apostrophe and write UNNECESSARY APOSTROPHE. FAIL.

There are three afternoon announcements after the usual list of kids who need to report to the vice principal for disciplining. The first one is about a change in tomorrow’s lunch menu—not chicken patties but turkey cheesesteaks. The second one is about how Monday’s schedule will change because for third and fourth periods, the entire school will recognize a Day of Tolerance with an assembly and a “No Hate” pep rally. I don’t hear the third announcement because I’m too busy hearing the blood pulse through my ears and feeling like there is a hot direct spotlight on me.

34

IRON THIS.

WHEN I GET HOME, Mom is sitting at the kitchen table waiting for me. With Dad. Ellis is upstairs playing her music too loudly. Something is really different, but I can’t figure out what it is.

The letter from the district magistrate’s office is at my place setting, opened.

“Hi, Mom,” I say. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

I look past her into the living room. I make out three distinct shapes. The ironing board. The iron, on, with its little red light glowing. A pile of—what is that?

“Ellis tells me that you’re having a hard time this week at school,” she says.

“Actually, it’s not that bad.”

“Hmm. Well, she’s having a bad time this week at school,” she says.

Dad says, “And this Tolerance Day next week is something she can’t do. It’s too difficult for her after… this.”

I shrug.

She adds, “You know people are saying it about her now, too, right?”

“Saying what?” I ask, even though I know exactly what she’s talking about. But if we’re all so New York City open-minded, then why are we making such a big effing deal out of this?

d. Are people really that dumb? Why not Astrid and Kristina? Why not Dyke or Fag or some other acceptable U. Valley slur? But Astrid and her own sister?

Seriously. The realm of belief around here is breeding morons.

In humanities class, people are starting to freak out and second-guess their paradoxes. No one shares because we all think we have the most original idea, but usually there are no original ideas. Ms. Steck told us that weeks ago.

I stare at the blinking cursor on the computer screen, and I type in my paradox and hit Send. Equality is obvious. I wonder what Frank Socrates would say about that.

In study hall, I overhear people talking about Aimee Hall’s mom. Apparently she came in yesterday and freaked out because she heard that her daughter has to sit in classes with known homosexuals. I try not to break out into a sweat when I hear this. I look around and realize that everyone in this room is, right now, being forced to sit in a class with a known homosexual.

Then the story gets worse.

Last night, Mrs. Hall and one other parent showed up at the school board meeting and complained that the Unity Valley School District has a “homosexual agenda” and made calls for three teachers to resign.

One of the teachers is Ms. Steck.

They say: She’s not married. You know what that means.

Another is Mr. Williams because he kicked some kid out of class for denying the Holocaust. How this fits into the “homosexual agenda” is beyond me.

“That makes no sense,” Clay from humanities says.

“Whatever,” the blond who’s telling the story says. “It’s about our freedom. To be who we are, whether we recognize g*ys or not.”

Clay just looks at her. Then he scratches his head. Then he goes back to the novel he’s reading. I sit there and play a word game in my head. I replace the word g*ys from her sentence with these other words: blacks, Hispanics, immigrants, women, people of mixed race, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Gypsies, Russians, Poles, Yugoslavians, Ukrainians, mentally and physically disabled.

Frank says, “Bingo, Astrid Jones.”

“Bingo? You say bingo?”

“Isn’t it great what they teach you in school these days?” He pats my knee and adjusts his toga so it doesn’t reveal too much while he sits in the low auditorium seat.

I’m so glad I have Frank. I kinda miss Kristina this week, but I also kinda don’t. Either way, Frank is filling the void. I mean, as much as he can, considering he’s dead and in my head.

Ellis is waiting for me outside of my lit class. She’s sobbing.

“Couldn’t you cover it up with something?” she screams. “Couldn’t you deny it or report it or do something normal?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“That SHIT above your locker!” Next to her is Jessie, her running and hockey friend. Dee’s camp friend. I give her a weak wave.

I realize I have no idea why I didn’t do anything about it. I guess I figured no one would care. “I’m really sorry, El.”

“It’s not just your name up there, you know!” she says. This is like one million on the flying-monkey scale for her.

“Yeah, totally. I know,” I say. “Look, I’ll go report it now. I figured it would be gone first thing, like any other graffiti, I guess. I really am sorry.”

She just walks off with Jessie, who gives me an empathetic look.

When I see Ellis at lunch, she’s sitting up near the salad bar with Aimee Hall and her band of merry rumor-makers. I’d be lying if I said the mere thought of what could be said at that table right now doesn’t make me feel sick.

I sit by myself.

I hear things.

They say: Astrid Jones was the one who took them out to that place, you know. Must be those city roots.

They say: If I was the Houcks, I’d rip her a new one.

It really is amazing what some people will say. I can’t wait to tell Kristina this one when she gets back. We’ll laugh until we pee, I bet.

Before seventh period, I drop in and tell Ms. Steck I’m skipping lit mag this week. She nods as if she already knew this.

“Did you see those?” she asks, and points to the blackboard. There are two more signs like the one I pulled off the wall yesterday. One says DYKES NEED DICK! Same lettering as the sign in my backpack. “I’m starting a collection,” she says. “Kids can be so clever.”

The other sign reads ADAM AND EVE, NOT ADAM AND STEVE, which is wholly unoriginal.

“Yeah,” I say. “People here are really bright.”

Ms. Steck says, “Just remember it’s a small minority.”

I reach into my backpack and find the MS. STECK ’S PUSSY sign from yesterday, and I take it to the board and straighten it out. We tape it there together, and I draw an arrow in chalk to the apostrophe and write UNNECESSARY APOSTROPHE. FAIL.

There are three afternoon announcements after the usual list of kids who need to report to the vice principal for disciplining. The first one is about a change in tomorrow’s lunch menu—not chicken patties but turkey cheesesteaks. The second one is about how Monday’s schedule will change because for third and fourth periods, the entire school will recognize a Day of Tolerance with an assembly and a “No Hate” pep rally. I don’t hear the third announcement because I’m too busy hearing the blood pulse through my ears and feeling like there is a hot direct spotlight on me.

34

IRON THIS.

WHEN I GET HOME, Mom is sitting at the kitchen table waiting for me. With Dad. Ellis is upstairs playing her music too loudly. Something is really different, but I can’t figure out what it is.

The letter from the district magistrate’s office is at my place setting, opened.

“Hi, Mom,” I say. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

I look past her into the living room. I make out three distinct shapes. The ironing board. The iron, on, with its little red light glowing. A pile of—what is that?

“Ellis tells me that you’re having a hard time this week at school,” she says.

“Actually, it’s not that bad.”

“Hmm. Well, she’s having a bad time this week at school,” she says.

Dad says, “And this Tolerance Day next week is something she can’t do. It’s too difficult for her after… this.”

I shrug.

She adds, “You know people are saying it about her now, too, right?”

“Saying what?” I ask, even though I know exactly what she’s talking about. But if we’re all so New York City open-minded, then why are we making such a big effing deal out of this?