Today it would just be Lilly leaving, though. I had to stay and work. The produce truck had arrived late, due to a flat tire. Reg was gone for the day, and Dad couldn’t reach him, so I had to stay and unload it.
They didn’t call him “the Veg” for nothing.
I stacked produce crates until closing time, which is 9:00 p.m. Dad took two bakery rolls and filled them with lunch meat for our dinner. We ate them as we worked for another half hour, cleaning up, straightening up, locking up.
It was nearly ten when we finally got home. Fortunately, there was a big open space on Sunbury Street not far from our door. Dad parallel-parked the van into it.
The front doors on our street sit almost on the sidewalk, and the houses extend almost to the alleyway behind. This leaves very little room for backyards. Ours is taken up by a carport, a metal shed, and a cement slab that holds a gas grill (a Coleman, like us).
Since the houses are so close to the sidewalk, lots of people have turned their ground floors into some kind of business. On our block alone, we have a beauty parlor, a pet groomer, and a travel agency.
So far, our house is still just a house.
Dad opened the front door, and I followed him into the parlor. It’s basically a living room, with a couch, a TV (which always has my Nintendo 64 plugged into it), and our computer. Mom insists on calling it “the parlor,” though.
After the parlor comes the dining room, dominated by a large wooden table and four chairs. That’s where I have sat and done my homework since kindergarten (and Lilly has sat and avoided doing her homework since kindergarten). Beyond that are a big kitchen, the back stairs, and the back door.
Dad and I trudged directly up the front stairs. At the top, he veered off into his room with a low “Good night, Tom.”
My parents’ bedroom sits directly over the parlor, just feet away from the traffic on the street. After that comes our one, much-fought-over bathroom, and then two more bedrooms—my small one and Lilly’s large one.
And that is it. Well, we have an unfinished basement with a washer and dryer, and an unfinished attic with boxes of Christmas stuff. But that is it.
I entered my bedroom wearily, not even bothering to turn on the light. With the skill of a blind man, I pulled off most of my clothes in the dark and dropped them in a hamper inside my closet.
I crawled into the same bed that I have been crawling into since I was five. My feet now extend several inches beyond the end, uprooting the covers every night.
If I had turned on the light, I would have seen my Florida college collage on the back wall. It’s a collection I have put together myself: pictures of beautiful green campuses, pictures of smiling young people at FSU, UF, UCF. Beautiful warm places that I would like to live in someday.
Places that are far from here.
Today was a full plan B day, with Mom dropping us off in a crowd of kids at 8:10. Lilly and I exited the car quickly, with our heads down, like guilty criminals dodging the media.
I hurried inside, turned left down the junior high corridor, and went straight to homeroom. I flopped into a seat near the front and stared at the TV set mounted in the corner. Its screen displayed a test pattern of colors in vertical lines—ROY G BIV. Its speakers gave out a low hissing sound.
The desks around me soon filled up with bleary-eyed ninth graders. Haven Junior/Senior High is filled with working-class white kids. We only have a few Puerto Ricans, and no blacks. Most of us live in Haven County because someone, somewhere on the family tree, was a coal miner. Most of those miners were white Europeans, so most of us are, too.
At 8:25, the test pattern disappeared and was replaced by the unsmiling face of Mrs. Cantwell, the principal of the junior high side of the campus. Mrs. Cantwell was all business. “Good morning. Let us rise and recite the Pledge of Allegiance and remain standing for the playing of our national anthem.”
We straggled to our feet, covered our hearts, and recited the pledge. Some kids kept their hands on their hearts for the national anthem, but most let them drop and started to fidget, stretch, and yawn.
Then, when the music stopped and we all sat back down, something wonderful occurred. Wonderful for me, at least.
Mrs. Cantwell’s glowering face disappeared and was, after a moment of darkness, replaced by the face of a smiling, beautiful girl.
My heart nearly stopped beating.
It was her. It was she. Whatever. It was Wendy.
What was she doing on the TV, smiling that white, white smile? She said something about the upcoming school elections, and about this week’s football game against Mahanoy, and about a fund-raiser. But I couldn’t really take it in. I was too shocked. Too excited.
I thought about what I could say to her in second period. I even jotted some things down, like
Then the TV blinked off, bells rang, and Coach Malloy’s social studies class began. I pulled out the homework sheet that I had finished over breakfast. He went over it slowly, methodically, death-inducingly. He covered the topic “The Three Branches of Government” exactly the same way Mrs. Kerpinski had in fourth grade. The kid behind me, Mikeszabo, had not finished his, so I let him copy mine. Coach didn’t notice.
Mikeszabo and I go way back. He had been in Mrs. Kerpinski’s class, too. He was one of two Mikes in that class—Miklos Szabo and Michael Murphy. She always called them by their full names—Mikeszabo (the
Mikemurphy is a problem kid now. He gets suspended a lot. He gets caught with stuff on campus— cigarettes, a hunting knife, a can of beer. From stray comments I’ve heard from Mom and Dad, I get the idea that Mikemurphy’s parents are heavy drinkers.
Coach finally finished his lecture. He looked at the wall clock. “Tell you what—you can have free time to work on other assignments from now until the bell rings. Then don’t forget to pick up your worksheets on the way out.”
A few kids took out pens and loose-leaf binders (I was one of them). But the majority, including Mikeszabo, did what Haven Junior High kids had done in Coach Malloy’s class for a generation. They put their heads down and went to sleep.
After class, I managed to pick up my worksheet without getting into any confrontations with angry football players. I turned left in the hallway and spotted Arthur’s shaved head in the crowd. Apparently, he was waiting for me, letting the river of freshmen eddy around him on either side.
When I got right next to him, he leaned forward and whispered in a no-nonsense voice, “Something’s going down, cuz.”
“What?”
“We’re under attack.”
“Who is? Am I? Is it Dorfman?”
“No. Shut up and listen. The United States of America is under attack. We just heard about it in first period. You didn’t hear?”
“No.”
“Two jet planes, big ones, full of fuel, hit the World Trade Center in New York City. One plane hit tower one. Then, fifteen minutes later, another hit tower two. Hijacked planes, man, exploding like bombs. Death and destruction everywhere.”
“My God!”
“It could be happening in every city in America. Right now. It could be happening here.”
I thought about that for a second. “No. Not here.”
He agreed. “No, probably not. But every major city, every important target. The United States is under
