Attack of the Black Rectangles, page 7
I find three punk rock albums. He buys them for me and throws in a love song compilation from the 1970s even though I tell him not to.
“You gotta learn about love somehow, kid,” he says.
By the time Grandad and I leave the record store, it’s nearly four o’clock. Grandad has to go to a weekly meeting at his veterans’ club until five and Mom doesn’t get home from work until 5:30. So when I get home, I go to the kitchen for a snack and sit down on the couch with my school computer.
I check my email. No reply from Jane Yolen yet.
I check my grades. All good.
I check the school calendar and see that the homecoming dance is three weeks away.
I’m about to search for how to ask a girl to the homecoming dance, but then Dad walks in the front door and it’s Thursday, so it feels like an emergency.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Uhh—aren’t you happy to see me?” he asks back.
“Sure,” I say, “but it’s Thursday and—does Mom know you’re coming over tonight?”
“Yeah. I’m staying for dinner.” He sits down on the other couch and puts his feet on the coffee table.
“Oh. Okay. I have some stuff I have to do upstairs,” I say. “I’ll be down in a little bit.” I pick up my computer and take it to my room. I don’t know why. I just don’t feel right being alone with Dad in Mom’s house. Plus, Mom would have told me if he was coming today. She always reminds me.
I sit on my bed and open my laptop and barely have time to type in How to ask a girl to a dance when I hear Dad walking around outside my room. I hear him open the linen closet door and close it again. I hear him move toward Mom’s room. Something about it makes me get up and go to the hallway.
“Oh! Hey there!” he says. His hand is still on the doorknob to Mom’s bedroom.
“Why aren’t you in the garage?” I ask.
“Do I always have to be in the garage?”
“Well,” I say, “yeah. Kinda. I don’t think Mom wants you up here. Not in her room, anyway.”
“I was just checking things out. Bus dropped me early.”
I know and he knows that the bus didn’t drop him off early—he just caught an early bus. He lies with the same ease as Denis gets freaked out by snakes.
I know the only way out of this is a diversion, so I say, “Let’s go play catch.”
He turns around and starts back downstairs, which I take for a yes. But then, on our way down the steps, he says, “I can’t really play catch, though. My arm is hurting today.” His arm seems fine to me. But I don’t tell him that. Instead I say, “Okay. Let’s just sit outside or something. Mom should be home soon.”
We go out to the porch and sit on the patio furniture. He looks around and doesn’t say anything. Finally, Grandad comes home and saves me. If Grandad is surprised to see Dad, he doesn’t show it. I need to work on that.
“Mac,” Grandad says, “you need to empty the dishwasher. I’ll keep Mike company.”
I say, “Okay,” and go inside and find the dishwasher already emptied. When I look back out to the porch, I can see Grandad leaning forward and talking to Dad with a serious look on his face.
I don’t think Mom knew he was coming.
I don’t think Mom wants him here on a Thursday.
I don’t think he was invited to dinner.
I don’t know what to do with my own dad. He thinks he’s not from this galaxy. And he’s acting more and more like that every day.
This has been the longest day of my life. It’s like I lived a week from the eight a.m. meeting with Dr. McKenny until recess detention. And another week between then and now.
Mom finally comes home close to six and is balancing two pizzas from our local pizza shop. (She’d have gotten it delivered, but they passed an ordinance last year banning pizza delivery in the town borough.) I take them from her and put them on the table and get busy finding paper plates and getting glasses out for drinks. The fact that there are two pizzas makes me understand Grandad already texted her to let her know Dad is here.
“You’re such a good kid,” Mom says. She smiles at me, then walks over and kisses me on my head. She takes a deep breath of my hair and I don’t get why she does that, but when I asked last time, she said it’s because I still smell like I did when I was a baby. Weird.
At dinner I tell Mom, Dad, and Grandad about our second meeting with Dr. McKenny, how we know it’s Ms. Sett, and how she said that kids had complained. I explain what Marci said about how this is all about the patriarchy and how we need feminism because it’s good for everyone.
“Oh wow!” Grandad says. “She’s a firecracker!”
I smile. “Yeah,” I answer. “And at the end of the day, we talked to Ms. Sett, just to make sure she knew we aren’t trying to be mean or anything. We just want to not have censored books.”
“What’d she say?” Mom asks.
“She acted like crossing out words in books is a totally normal thing to do. Just like the principal did.”
Dad says, “What did they censor?”
“The word breasts and another vague mention of a girl’s chest,” I say.
Grandad asks, “So your next stop?”
“Superintendent. And a school board meeting, probably,” I say.
“I still think you should write a letter to the author,” Mom says.
I don’t tell her I already did. It’s as if the reality of Dad smashing Mom’s blue mug is in that letter because when I think of the letter, I think of the mug. So I haven’t told anyone I wrote it because just like my dad smashing things, it’s now a secret I want to keep.
She adds, “And don’t forget I’m coming to talk to Dr. McKenny tomorrow. Maybe I can get this moving faster.”
Grandad nods.
Dad doesn’t say anything. He just eats pizza.
“Let’s roll!” Dad whispers. I heard him come in, but I thought I was dreaming.
It’s past midnight and I’m exhausted but I say yes because, well, I’m not sure why. I can’t sleep. I have too much on my mind. Deep down I think he might be able to help me with Marci. He’s my dad, right? He might have something more helpful than records full of love songs.
I put on a fall coat over my sweatshirt and we roll the craft out of the garage as usual. He gets the engine going so we can fly. Right now, we look a lot like two guys in a vintage car. Gravity is still in play.
“I think I might finally have this thing fixed,” he says once we’re on Main Street.
“Cool,” I say.
“You’re twelve, so that means it took me thirteen years.”
“Yeah.”
“So how do you think it would be if we took this baby for a real ride?” he asks. “All the way out?”
“I need to go to school tomorrow.”
“Of course,” he says, but without really agreeing. He sounds like he’s never been my father, or anyone’s father for that matter.
I try to find the courage to ask him about what it feels like to have a crush or to ask him how to have a girlfriend. If anyone would know how weird this feels, it would be someone who thinks he’s an alien.
“We don’t have to go back right away,” I say. “But soon.”
“Good,” he answers. “Because we have to talk.”
“Oh.”
He sighs. “This whole thing you were talking about over dinner—this feminism thing. It’s a way to bring us down as men.”
“Whoa. Wait,” I say. “Anyone who thinks censoring a book because boys need to be sheltered is dumb.”
He hits the gas suddenly and I’m frightened. At first, we pass a few cars on the wrong side of the road.
“I don’t like being called dumb,” Dad says.
“Then you should be with me on this censorship thing. The whole reason it happened was the teacher underestimates boys and sees us as dumb.”
“I see it as her protecting you,” Dad says. “And protecting girls. I’d be embarrassed to be a girl with boys reading that word in the same room as me.”
“Why?”
He says, “Think about it. Imagine if a boy-parts word was there instead.”
I just heard my father say boy-parts word instead of using an actual word. For parts we both have. I don’t know what to do with this.
“Let’s try testicles,” I say.
“Hey!”
“So if the word testicles was in the book, in a scene where Nazis are surrounding young boys naked in the shower and yelling things at them, would we cross it out so girls wouldn’t giggle?” I ask.
“We would cross it out because that’s harmful to boys!”
“Using the word for their own body parts?”
“Why is it even in a book for kids anyway?”
“Because kids have body parts and words for those parts are normal?” I answer. “And in this case, to show a very realistic scene in a concentration camp.”
“I can’t talk about this anymore,” he says. “We’re going to have to agree to disagree.”
That’s what Mom always says to him. I’m not really sure if she means it, either. It’s her way of kicking him into the long grass, I think.
“Deal?” he asks.
“Whatever,” I say. “I’m cold. Can we go home?”
I feel him look at me and I keep looking forward.
“I didn’t mean to make you mad,” he says.
“Not mad,” I tell him.
“What are you, then?”
“Figure it out, alien anthropologist.”
“That sounds mad,” he says.
I sit for a moment and try to figure out what I’m feeling. Not like it’s a huge surprise to find out that my dad thinks feminism is dumb and that we can’t talk about body parts like normal people. But it’s … something.
“Disappointed,” I say. “That’s what I feel.”
“Oh.”
I keep looking forward.
By the time we get home, Dad has tried four space jokes and a funny jingle. I keep looking out the windshield and don’t laugh once.
LGBTQ+ Kids Need Our Help
I watched a girl get bullied on her walk home from school yesterday. Kids walked behind her yelling gay slurs. I told them to stop it as they walked by my porch, but they laughed at me. It’s time this town woke up in the twenty-first century. These kids need our help, not to be bullied, hidden, or canceled. Show your support by flying a Pride (rainbow) flag if your family is LGBTQ+ friendly! —Jane Jones, Front Street
Re: LGBTQ+ Kids Need Our Help
I’m sure I’m not the only one in this beautiful town who wants to keep the bedroom out of our schools. Please, try the Bible club in the high school—see what they have to say about your rainbow ideas.
—Laura Samuel Sett
I am the president of the Bible Studies club at the high school and I just want to say that God loves everybody—no exceptions. Also, we fully support the school’s Gender and Sexuality Alliance and some of us belong to it. —Brittany Hummel, Walnut Street
It’s recess, it’s still too hot, Marci and Denis are in the shade of the doorway, and I take a walk on the macadam loop around the playground because I’m so tired I will fall asleep if I sit down.
“Heads up!” someone yells, and I look up and duck just in time to miss a football that seems like it was purposely thrown at my head. It lands a few feet away and bounces oblong until it stops on the grass.
Aaron comes to get it. “Sorry, dude,” he says.
“No problem. Thanks for the warning.”
“You were daydreaming. Probably thinking about animal rights or something, eh?” he says.
I don’t tell him that my dad kept me up way too late last night and also can’t say words for his own body parts.
“Your boyfriend is looking for you,” he says, and points to Denis, who is walking toward me past the playground equipment that feels too small for most of us now.
“Grow up for once,” I say.
“Sure, sure. Gay rights or whatever,” Aaron says, then runs off with his football.
It almost makes me feel good—to know that I will never be like Aaron James.
“Hey!” Denis says. “Marci wrote the letter to the school board to request a spot at the meeting and she wants you to read it.”
“Now?”
“It’s just a letter,” Denis says.
“Fine.”
“You okay?” he asks.
“Sure. No. I’m fine. Just daydreaming,” I say. We walk toward Marci, who has a pencil in one hand, a piece of paper in the other, and the look of concentration on her face. Her dimple is out and it’s still cute. Ugh.
“What are you daydreaming about?” Denis asks.
I shrug. “I keep thinking about The Devil’s Arithmetic,” I say. “I read chapter ten last night and the train boxcar scenes are really sad.”
“But—” Denis says, “we’re on chapter six. No reading ahead.”
I hold my hand out. “I don’t follow rules, remember?”
We sit in the shelter of the school door entrance and read Marci’s letter. “I like it,” I say when I’m done. “My mom is coming to talk to Dr. McKenny after school.”
“I was really hoping to do this ourselves,” Marci says. “But I think we’ll need help.”
“I can’t stop her anyway. It’s her tax money and she already made the appointment.”
“I think it’s okay if our parents try,” Denis says. “I mean, if they can get somewhere we can’t, then that’s good, right?”
“Hey, that reminds me—would you guys be interested in protesting on Main Street tomorrow?” I ask. I can’t make eye contact with Marci.
“Protesting what?” Denis asks.
“This whole thing,” I say.
“Wow,” Marci says. “That’s cool.”
I shrug like it’s no big deal. “My grandad and I are going to go up and just sit in front of Tad’s with signs for a few hours and talk to people starting at ten. It can’t hurt.”
“We’re going hiking tomorrow,” Denis says.
“I can go! I’ll make signs!” Marci says. She’s smiling, and that makes me smile.
“Heads up!” someone yells.
This time, Aaron’s football lands inside the small vestibule, bounces off the walls, and hits Marci in the face. She checks her nose for blood and brushes off the spot that was hit the hardest. A redness forms around it.
The recess teacher blows her whistle and kids start lining up to go back to class. I help Marci to her feet and say, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she answers. “Am I bleeding?”
“No. You look great,” I say.
Denis has already walked up to the teacher and we can see him explaining it to her. She looks at Marci and frowns. She finds Aaron and stands next to him as we walk inside.
Aaron isn’t in class for the first ten minutes of lit circle.
He misses a vital change in our group.
Hannah Do says she has something to tell us. She says, “I know you’ve called me Hannah since I got here in first grade, but my real name is Hoa and I want you to call me Hoa from now on.”
We all nod and she adds, “The character in this book—she’s Hannah. I’m not Hannah. And the way she changes names—because she time-traveled to this horrible time in history—made me see that I shouldn’t use that name anymore.”
“Why did you change your name in the first place?” Denis asks.
“To make English-speaking people more comfortable. Hoa Do is considered ‘too Asian,’ so a lot of us just adopt English names to get through easier, you know?”
“That’s not cool,” I say. I sound like Grandad.
“It’s not,” she says. “But even in Asian countries, they tell Asian people to adopt an English name. It can make it a lot easier. Trust me.”
“I love the name Hoa,” Marci says. “I think it’s beautiful.”
“Me too,” Denis says.
“Me too,” I say.
Hoa nods, and we go back to the lit circle question Ms. Sett gave us to do today. Do you like the book? What are your favorite parts?
So far, all of us are liking The Devil’s Arithmetic. We discuss the time-travel element of the book and how it’s a cool way to tell this story. We talk about how the girls in 1941 can’t believe that Hannah has toilets inside her house. It’s hard to pick a “favorite part” of a novel that’s about something so awful. But those comparisons—we agree those are our favorites so far.
Hoa asks, “So are we going to do anything more about the crossed-out parts? We’re getting close to them and I want a new book.”
“We’re working on it,” Marci says.
“If you need any help, tell me,” Hoa says. “My dad is a lawyer, and he would be so mad if he knew about this.”
“You haven’t told him?” I ask.
“He’d probably schedule a meeting with the principal first thing in the morning if I did.”
“My mom is coming in today,” I say. Marci still looks a little pained about it, but I don’t mind. It’s nice to see that an adult around here cares about something as important as this.
At that moment, Aaron walks in, sits down, and says, “What did I miss?”
Not one of us tells him about Hoa. Not even Hoa.
Later on, while I wait for Mom in the school office, I daydream about protesting with Marci and I get kinda nervous about it. I calm myself with the fact that Grandad will be there and he can make small talk with anyone, anytime.
“Mac?” Mom says.
She’s standing there and Dr. McKenny is there and I must have spaced out and daydreamed a bit too much.
“We’re all done,” Mom says.
“Oh,” I say. “I think I fell asleep or something.” Dad really shouldn’t be taking me out on school nights.
Mom turns back to Dr. McKenny and says, “Just remember, Peggy. This is not what schools do.”
“It’s just a few words. They’re still reading, right?” Dr. McKenny replies.
Mom shakes her head with grace and thanks the principal for her time. When we get out of the office and into the parking lot, she curses in a string. “She thinks I’m dense,” she says. “Like this is funny or something.”
