Sadie hands me a bullhorn. “What’s this for?”
“They’re here for you, Sam. You have to lead the march.”
Kid leader. I’m pretty sure that’s an oxymoron.
My stomach flips. In my head, the Guided Meditation Lady reminds me to breathe.
Mr. Kalman reaches up and puts his hand on my arm. “It’s always nice, Sam, to say thank you for coming.”
The bullhorn is heavy in my hand and looks like the bottom half of a trumpet. I wish it were a trumpet. Then I’d know what to do.
“Sometime this century, Sam,” Sadie says.
That’s worse than an elbow. It works, though. It gets me to talk.
“Hello? I’m Sam Warren.”
A wave of sound rises and almost knocks me down.
“Um,” I say, and right away I feel stupid. What kind of leader leads with an um?
So I take a minute and think it through. What do I want to say? Why am I really here?
“I’m just one kid,” I say, “who got fed up with what’s happening to us all. We’re not against school. We learn a lot in school. We’ve learned about people who changed things. But the textbooks don’t say enough about the people who helped them. There is no way I would be here without all of you. So thank you for coming. And now we’ve got to let the Supreme Court know we’re here. So come on, everybody, let’s march!”
An even louder roar flies up from the crowd.
Sean sets me down and we start to walk. The Capitol police were worried about the size of our crowd, so they’ve routed the march along Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Peace Monument, then around the north side of the Capitol to the Supreme Court. Along the way, Catalina calls out names of important historic sites, while Alistair calls out names of restaurants. After a few blocks, I know where the FBI headquarters are, Fogo de Chão Brazilian Steakhouse, Ford’s Theatre where Lincoln was shot, Central Michel Richard, the National Archives (home to the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights), and the Capital Grille, which Alistair heard has the best ribeye in town.
Soon I see four men in dark glasses and suits making their way toward me. My first thought: we just passed FBI headquarters and they’ve sent a few agents to arrest me for inciting a riot. But it turns out they’re Secret Service agents guarding the president’s son, who wanted to come over and say hi.
“I think what you’re doing is awesome,” he says. “But don’t tell my dad.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I never saw you.”
Then Alistair turns to a big, beefy Secret Service agent. He jerks toward the man but stops short. The agent leans back.
“Two for flinching!” Alistair says. And he punches the Secret Service guy twice on his right arm! Not hard, though. Alistair’s crazy, but he doesn’t have a death wish.
Jaesang just rolls his eyes, and we march on.
It’s a little over two miles from the White House to the Supreme Court, but with so many people marching, no one gets tired. Along the route, lining both sides of Pennsylvania Avenue, crowds of people and their signs cheer us on:
MOMS AGAINST HOMEWORK
SOS—SAVE OUR STUDENTS
NO CHILDHOOD LEFT BEHIND
One of the moms offers our mom a sign. She holds it up like she’s the Statue of Liberty.
I’m worried about Mr. Kalman, though. The longest walk he’s taken lately is from his mailbox to his front door. This much exercise might land him in the hospital, and then we’d never get to stand before the Supreme Court. I glance over at him, and to tell you the truth, I don’t much like his color. A little gray. Not from the parka he’s wearing, either. It’s a gray from the inside.
“Mr. Kalman, how about sitting down for a minute?”
“I can make it, Sam. And if I keel over, think of the publicity we’ll get. The justices will have to take our case.”
“Yeah, but who’s going to argue it?”
“Good point. I’d better stay on my feet.”
Sadie and Sean each take one of Mr. Kalman’s arms to steady him, and we march on.
We’re almost at Columbus Circle when I hear a voice call out.
“Mr. Kalman! Mr. Kalman!”
We all turn and see a woman squeezing toward him through a wall of people. At first Mr. Kalman doesn’t recognize her, but when she says her name, he sure does.
“Sul Jung Lee.”
“Oh, my goodness! Sul Jung!”
She tries to get closer to him, but the wall of people is too thick. He calls to her over their heads.
“How are you? What became of you?”
“I’m the assistant band director at Stuyvesant High School in New York. We heard about the march. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
That’s when I realize who she is. The girl whose case he argued before the Supreme Court. He reaches out to her, and their hands touch for just a second before the crowd pulls them apart.
“Hey, Mr. Kalman,” she calls out.
He turns back.
“Second time’s a charm!”
Then she raises a baton to a row of white-feathered hats behind her. She’s brought her school’s marching band to DC, and as the brass starts blowing, I swear Mr. Kalman is walking like he’s twenty years younger.
We pick up Constitution Avenue, which takes us around the Capitol, and with all these historic buildings going by, it occurs to me that Mr. Powell and Miss Lopez should have brought the whole class on the march, because they’d learn a lot more history right here than they ever could from a textbook.
And guess what. The whole class will get to see. We just walked by a CNN news van. They’re broadcasting live.
We come around to the east side of the Capitol, and I recognize this place. It’s where the helicopter takes off from when the old president leaves office after the new one’s been sworn in. I wonder what that feels like, flying away from such a powerful job.
We cross First Street, and step onto the marble
