Please Don't, page 19
The teacher lady has some support behind her, a few whistles and cheers when she cites the numbers. She’s making less than she was in 2013, she says, which according to her was a piss poor wage to start. The board chairman, Dr. Krise according to his nameplate, takes offense at her “vulgarities” as he calls them. It doesn’t look like the teacher really cares, though.
The board members have taken notice of us in the back, probably because nine lanky basketball players are hard to miss. There are some creaks and shuffling as those in attendance swivel around, and by the time the teacher finishes ripping the board and shuffles her papers, my heart is banging away. A quick glance around. I don’t see Mr. Meyers but I spot Virgil squeezed into a seat near the wall. He’s even taken off his hat. His hair is combed over and he’s trimmed his beard. He gives me a sheepish wave. I smile and nod my thanks.
“Next speaker, please.”
It’s six twenty-six when a tiny girl tucks her hair behind her ears and tips to the podium. She walks head down, timid, her nervousness almost palpable as she cranes her head to speak into the microphone.
“I’m Wendi Chalmers,” she stammers, hardly able to get her name out. “I’m a sophomore at Garner High.”
Immediately I feel both sorry for and proud of her. She’s obviously terrified, but whatever she’s up here to discuss means enough to her to face it. She straightens some papers out in front of her and clears her throat.
“I’d like to address the safety procedures at our school. In light of the recent shootings in Texas, I think it is time to put some procedures in place.” She stops, stutters, wipes her hair back and breathes. I’m cheering her on from inside my head. Do it, Wendi, you can do it.
With a shaky voice, she describes a lockdown last year. I remember it, too. There had been some online threats and everyone was sort of sketched out, but the police wouldn’t share anything with the students. All we knew were the rumors, as Wendi discusses now. I remember thinking, wondering what it would look like, who it would be to storm up the stairs into the lobby and pull out a gun and start blasting away. The news trucks rushing in, the helicopters flying overhead, all of us in the parking lot, hugging and guessing.
We shouldn’t have to worry about that, Wendi tells the board, her voice catching steam. “You didn’t have to worry about this. You have no idea what it’s like to sit in a class, the door open and vulnerable, wondering when you’re going to hear the crack of gunfire. We do. We worry about it every time we see it in the news. That is why we…” she stops here, just as she’s finding her groove.
“Tell ‘em, Wendi.” DeShaun urges. Coach glares at him. Wendi halfway turns her head, nods her thanks. It seems to give her the strength she needs to finish. She looks up from her notes.
“It’s why I’m here, in hopes that you will see. So that you will take action before it’s too late.”
“Thank you, Miss Chalmers.”
We burst into applause. The whole place does. I’m clapping so hard my hands hurt. Wendi glances at us and sort of bows her head, then she hurries back to her seat, her face bright red and looking hot enough to burn.
It’s time. And I’m nearly shaking, nervous, even though this is nothing more than procedure. Meyers is nowhere to be found, neither is Molly.
“Next on the agenda,” an obviously unmoved Dr. Krise begins. I work my breathing, taking in slow, deep breaths to lower my pulse. “Nathanial Reams.”
He looks up. “Is Mr. Reams present?”
Mom squeezes my hand. I suck a breath and walk to the podium, forcing myself to greet them head on. DeShaun slaps my back again. Here we go.
“Mr. Reams,” Dr. Krise begins.
At the podium, I have to lean down to speak into the microphone. “Yes, sir,” I say, finding my voice and a newfound respect for what Wendi just did. All those eyes on me, boring into my back, the sides of my face.
Dr. Krise shuffles some papers. His white hair and black glasses are something from a history book. I wonder if he thinks the bow tie makes him look dignified. It doesn’t. It makes him look like Colonel Sanders. But he’s about to announce my fate, so I hold my eyes to his and ready myself for whatever they’ve decided.
Dr. Krise clears his throat, looks at his colleagues, then back to the room. “So, this is a rather, uh, unusual case,” he says, jowls swinging. “But from what we have here, what we’ve learned today, it appears some new evidence has come to light. This evidence—once verified let me add—uh, may change things quite a bit, here.”
My insides erupt. I keep my face still. Dr. Krise clasps his hands, gearing up for a sermon. “Mr. Reams. I’ll be clear. Nothing discovered today changes the fact that you assaulted a faculty member, on school grounds, no less.”
Really? All this time I’d thought I would have been better off jacking up Meyers behind a bowling alley. I keep my emotions in check, knowing if I give them anything, from an eye roll to an outburst, they’ll go through with my expulsion. More paper shuffling from Krise. “That said, a student has come forward. It seems the matter is more complicated than first thought.”
His fellow board members shift in their seats, probably secretly bemoaning the fact this guy is the spokesperson. Now it’s a smile I’m holding back. Because Molly has set this day on fire. This morning, when she hit me with the news, how she and two lawyers were coming forward to force a preemptive meeting, she was so excited she could hardly breathe.
Excited for me.
Dr. Krise continues with the formalities, but it’s clear things have changed. The team is moving around behind me, some chatter in the board room. I plant my big toe into the carpet, forging it into the floor to keep myself still. “Well, we had a get-together, and decided this will need further looking into.”
I’m still waiting on the words. The words I need to hear. Molly said it was going to happen but until it does, I can’t quite believe it’s true. Now, in this crowded boardroom, growing restless with anticipation, I’m barely hanging on. Every breath in the room hits my neck. And for some reason, I’m thinking about Mom, and how she’s trying to turn things around. About Molly, and how even this hasn’t destroyed her. And now it’s my turn. It’s my turn to stay on my feet when everything is coming at me head on, trying to knock me down.
Dr. Krise seems to relish the moment, the wait, as he takes the scenic route to get to the point. “With this new information, it is our decision that for now,” he pauses on for now, then waves his hands to the board members. “You be readmitted, pending your—”
The team bursts into cheers. I let my head drop, willing myself not to cry, but it feels like I’ve been released from a hole in the ground. Dr. Krise’s microphone screeches as he takes it in his hand and urges the room to quiet, looking around for a gavel.
The little scoreboard thing has been turned off. I feel the shifting behind me. I take a breath. “Thank you, sir.” No one hears me. And the doctor isn’t finished pointing at me.
“Pending that, you, as I said, there is still the matter of your exams, your grades. All of this is still preliminary,” he says, stressing he can rip the rug from under my feet at any moment.
The benches squeak. DeShaun is laughing. My mom is crying. The board, everyone in the room, rises to their feet, ready to break out into the evening and feel the sunshine while it’s still around. I turn and find Mom, Deshaun, the rest of my teammates. Everyone is grabbing and fussing over me.
And all I want to do is go find Molly.
34
Later
I zip my jacket as fans and parents exit the gym. It’s a week before Christmas and winter is right on schedule. I’ve always loved this time of year. The holidays, winter breaks, tournaments and practice. School is out, and it’s the time of year when the day is better spent inside a gym
Leaning against the cold bricks, I check my phone. Nothing from Mom. She usually sends a text asking me to pick something up at the store or maybe just some cute pic of her and whatever the girls are into. I scroll through a few texts from an assistant coach at Roanoke College. The ones I’ve read hundreds of times. It’s weird being recruited again, after being written off and forgotten for so long.
The moon is out when the door swings open and Molly strolls outside, still in her gym shorts, her long sleeve Garner Basketball shirt swallowing her whole. Her dimples deepen when she sees me waiting, but her shoulders droop with mock disappointment. “I can’t believe I missed those free-throws.”
I pocket my phone and kick off the wall. “Yeah, well, we’re shooting a hundred on Saturday.”
“I know, I know. At least we still won.”
I nod my head. Sherri Andrews and Stacey rush out the doors and hug Molly. “Undefeated baby.”
Molly with friends. She’s always looking up because she’s the shortest player on the team. Her eyes still scan her surroundings—probably what makes her such a good point guard—but Molly knows she’s not suddenly in the clear of her legal hurdles. Still, a smile blooms across her face. A few high fives. I wait for her teammates to pass, and I quietly bring her in for a hug.
“I think you might make all district.”
She shakes her head, shoves away from me playfully. “Right.”
“No, seriously. It’s not about how much you score, you’re a facilitator. A true point guard. Even if you can’t make free throws.”
Molly slaps me in the gut and I fold over.
“Hey, don’t hurt him. We need that guy tomorrow night.” DeShaun saunters over, all smiles and swagger. I straighten up and smile. DeShaun nods at Molly. “Nice game.”
“Thanks,” she says. “Someone thinks I need to work on my free throws.”
“Yeah?” DeShaun says, hooking a thumb at me. “This dude is trying to coach, now?”
“No,” I shake my head, smiling for no other reason but to smile.
DeShaun raises his brow, his gaze lingering on me as he heads into the gym, filing past the people coming out. “See you at practice tomorrow.”
Through the shouts of nice game and way to go, Molly and I make our way towards the car. I walk fast, in a hurry, still not quite able to go a day without the little lump in my chest. But it’s getting better, each day I worry a little less.
I get the door, gently because the new window in the back keeps slipping off track. Molly flops into her seat. The Honda cranks then catches. “We’ve got to hurry if we’re going to rescue my mom.”
“I think she’ll survive.”
“I don’t know, I could hear the munchkins in the background. It’s a mutiny.” I think how far Mom has come. She’s working part-time and loving it. She’s still drinking but not as much. She’s talking to a therapist. Her days off are spent with Ashley and Ana. Field trips and lesson plans. She’s spoiling them rotten. Best of all, she’s trying.
Molly sets her face to the sky. I fiddle with the radio. It’s a short drive to our little house, the rental sitting a block from the Woodberry campus. The streets are narrow and the yard is smaller, but there is no homeowners’ association, no memories of my dad, and maybe most importantly, no holes in the wall.
I’m through punching things. Walls, trees, teachers.
Technically, my case is pending, but lately there’s been talk of time served. I was able to take my exams, pass them, and move on from the dumpster fire that was my junior year. Coach Taylor is talking to small colleges, like Roanoke, doing what he can, as he says. And I’m content to wait it out and see what happens. But I’m still set on Woodberry.
Meyers is on leave, which helps some. But I’ve found there’s a stigma that comes with punching a teacher, despite the circumstances. To some I’ll always be a raging psycho, a maniac, a delinquent, or just a dumb jock. Although a few people have called me a hero.
Mostly, people just like to talk. They like to talk about Molly and me living together and what we might be doing. I take it all in stride. Because I’m okay. I’m okay with whatever titles come my way. I know the truth. I’m not a psycho and I’m not a hero. Being a hero takes courage. And I’ve had a front row seat to a show of courage for the past year.
The Honda scrapes the street as we pull into the small driveway. I haven’t even stopped the car before Molly leaps out and rushes to the mailbox, just like she does every day. I keep telling her it’s a little early for acceptance letters to go out, but I don’t think she hears me over the scream of opportunity in her head. It’s great to see her this way, her eyes focused, her head up, the dimples deep and her shoulders squared. Molly is ready to face the world.
Molly is still cautious, but now she’s determined to fight. She has the strength, the legal support, the sliver of hope she needed all along. She refuses to be crushed by the system. It’s a sight to see.
It’s weird. Beautifully weird, all of it. Molly, her mom, the two little girls. All of us together. To some it sounds complicated, but it isn’t. It’s easy. There’s hope in this new house. Enough hope to lead us out of the shadows and into the sunlight. For them, for Mom and me. For our demons.
And maybe that’s enough.
Acknowledgments
What a journey for this book. I finished a version, then scrapped it, finished a different one and scrapped that. I sent another draft to #pitmad where I received some invaluable feedback. With each rewrite the book improved, but something was missing.
Then Molly Martinez arrived, quietly at first, but a force all the same. Strong, smart, and capable, once Molly and Nat’s worlds collided I had myself a book. We hear so much about immigration—the politics, the border, the policies—that sometimes it’s hard to think about the individual lives involved.
Thanks and love to my mom, an ER nurse, (And no, Mom, Nat’s mother is not based on you! Well, maybe the good parts). So many times I watched my mom come home exhausted, only to do it all over again. Shift after shift of trauma, then she’d have to deal with my little brother and me on top of all that.
Big thanks to all the early readers, especially Sarah Miller, who read over many drafts and offered so many suggestions. This book would have never made it without you. To a few unnamed agents out there, who considered the early versions of this book, declined, but were nice enough to give me feedback, praise, advice, and most of all, hope.
To the usual suspects. The Immortal Works Team. Thank you always to Staci Olsen, again and again for all that you do. Thanks to Holli Anderson, for all the red ink. For making all of my stories much better stories. You guys are the best.
Thanks to all my hangouts in the writing world. The prompts, the forums, the comradery of such a relentless pursuit. To Dad, Diane, and Nana for all the encouragement.
Lastly, to the fam. To Simon and Bella and my wife Anne. Thanks for coping with my crazy.
About the Author
S. A. (Pete) Fanning is the author of Justice in a Bottle and Runaway Blues. He lives in Virginia with his wife, son, baby girl, and two very spoiled dogs. He can be found at www.petefanning.com, where he's posted over 200 flash fiction stories.
S. A. Fanning, Please Don't
