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12.01
It Rhymes with Witch
On Monday morning, Link and I drove down Route 9, stopping at the fork in the road to pick up Lena. Link liked Lena, but there was no way he
was driving up to Ravenwood Manor. It was still the Haunted Mansion to him.
If he only knew. Thanksgiving break had only been a long weekend, but it felt a lot longer, considering that Twilight Zone of a Thanksgiving
dinner, the vases flying between Macon and Lena, and our journey to the center of the earth, all without leaving the Gatlin city limits. Unlike Link, who
had spent the weekend watching football, beating up his cousins, and trying to determine whether or not the cheese ball had onions in it this year.
But according to Link, there was trouble of another kind brewing, and this morning it sounded equally dangerous. Link’s mom had been burning
up the lines for the last twenty-four hours, whispering on the phone with the long cord and the kitchen door closed. Mrs. Snow and Mrs. Asher had
shown up after dinner, and the three of them had disappeared into the kitchen—the War Room. When Link went in, pretending to grab a Mountain
Dew, he didn’t catch much. But it was enough to figure out his mom’s end game. “We’ll get her outta our school, one way or another.” And her little
dog, too.
It wasn’t much, but if I knew Mrs. Lincoln, I knew enough to be worried. You could never underestimate the lengths women like Mrs. Lincoln would
go to protect their children and their town from the one thing they hated most—anyone different from them. I should know. My mom had told me the
stories about the first few years she’d lived here. The way she told it, she was such a criminal even the most God-fearing church ladies got bored of
reporting on her; she did the marketing on Sunday, dropped by any church she liked or none at all, was a feminist (which Mrs. Asher sometimes
confused with communist), a Democrat (which Mrs. Lincoln pointed out practically had “demon” in the word itself), and worst of all, a vegetarian
(which ruled out any dinner invitations from Mrs. Snow). Beyond that, beyond not being a member of the right church or the DAR or the National
Rifle Association, was the fact that my mom was an outsider.
But my dad had grown up here and was considered one of Gatlin’s sons. So when my mom died, all the same women who had been so
judgmental of her when she was alive dropped off cream-of-something casseroles and crock pot roasts and chili-ghetti with a vengeance. Like they
were finally getting the last word. My mom would have hated it, and they knew it. That was the first time my dad went into his study and locked the
door for days. Amma and I had let the casseroles pile up on the porch until they took them away and went back to judging us, like they always had.
They always got the last word. Link and I both knew it, even if Lena didn’t.
Lena was sandwiched between Link and me in the front seat of the Beater, writing on her hand. I could just make out the words shattered like
everything else. She wrote all the time, the way some people chewed gum or twirled their hair; I don’t even think she realized it. I wondered if she
would ever let me read one of her poems, if any of them were about me.
Link glanced down. “When are you gonna write me a song?”
“Right after I finish the one I’m writing for Bob Dylan.”
“Holy crap.” Link slammed on the brakes at the front entrance of the parking lot. I couldn’t blame him. The sight of his mother in the parking lot
before eight in the morning was terrifying. And there she was.
The parking lot was crowded with people, way more than usual. And parents; other than after the window incident, there hadn’t been a parent in
the parking lot since Jocelyn Walker’s mom came to yank her out of school during the film about the reproductive cycle in Human Development.
Something was definitely going on.
Link’s mom handed a box to Emily, who had the whole cheerleading squad—Varsity and JV—papering every car in the parking lot with some
kind of neon flyer. Some were flapping in the wind, but I could make out a few from the relative safety of the Beater. It was like they were running
some kind of campaign, only without a candidate.
SAY NO TO VIOLENCE AT JACKSON!
ZERO TOLERANCE!
Link turned bright red. “Sorry. You guys gotta get out.” He crouched down in the driver’s seat, so low it looked like nobody was driving the car. “I
don’t want my mom to beat the crap outta me in front a the whole cheerleadin’ squad.”
I slunk down, reaching across the seat to open the door for Lena. “We’ll see you inside, man.”
I grabbed Lena’s hand and squeezed it.
Ready?
As ready as I’m going to be.
We ducked down between the cars around the side of the lot. We couldn’t see Emily, but we could hear her voice from behind Emory’s pickup.
“Know the signs!” Emily was approaching Carrie Jensen’s window. “We’re formin’ a new club at school, the Jackson High Guardian Angels.
We’re goin’ to help keep our school safe by reportin’ acts a violence or any unusual behavior we see around school. Personally, I think it’s the
responsibility a every student at Jackson to keep our school safe. If you want to join, we’re havin’ a meetin’ in the cafeteria after eighth period.” As
Emily’s voice faded in the distance, Lena’s hand tightened around mine.
What does that even mean?
I have no idea. But they’ve totally lost it. Come on.
I tried to pull her up, but she pulled me back down. She shrunk back next to the tire. “I just need a minute.”
“Are you okay?”
“Look at them. They think I’m a monster. They formed a club.”
“They just can’t stand outsiders, and you’re the new girl. A window broke. They need someone to blame. This is just a—”
“Witch hunt.”
I wasn’t going to say that.
But you were thinking it.
I squeezed her hand and my hair stood on end.
You don’t have to do this.
Yes I do. I let people like them run me out of my last school. I’m not going to let it happen again.
As we stepped out from the last row of cars, there they were. Mrs. Asher and Emily were packing the extra boxes of flyers into the back of their
minivan. Eden and Savannah were handing out flyers to the cheerleaders and any guy who wanted to see a little of Savannah’s legs or her
cleavage. Mrs. Lincoln was a few feet away talking to the other mothers, most likely promising to add their houses to the Southern Heritage Tour if
they made a couple of phone calls to Principal Harper. She handed Earl Petty’s mom a clipboard with a pen attached to it. It took me a minute to
realize what it was—there was no way.
It looked like a petition.
Mrs. Lincoln noticed us standing there and zeroed in on us. The other mothers followed her gaze. For a second, they didn’t say anything. I
thought maybe they felt bad for me and they were going to put down their flyers, pack up their minivans and station wagons, and go home. Mrs.
Lincoln, whose house I’d slept at almost as many times as my own. Mrs. Snow, who was technically my third cousin to some degree removed. Mrs.
Asher, who bandaged my hand after I sliced it open on a fishing hook when I was ten. Miss Ellery, who gave me my first real haircut. These women
knew me. They’d known me since I was a kid. There was no way they were going to do this, not to me. They were going to back down.
If I said it enough times maybe it would be true.
It’s going to be okay.
By the time I realized I was wrong, it was too late. They recovered from the momentary shock of seeing Lena and me.
When Mrs. Lincoln saw us, her eyes narrowed. “Principal Harper—” She looked from Lena to me, and shook her head. Let’s just say I wouldn’t
be invited to Link’s for dinner again anytime soon. She raised her voice. “Principal Harper has promised his full support. We won’t tolerate the
violence at Jackson that has plagued the city schools in this country. You young people are doin’ the right thing, pro-tectin’ your school, and as
concerned parents”—she looked at us—“we’ll do anything we can to support you.”
Still holding hands, Lena and I walked past them. Emily stepped in front of us, shoving a flyer at me and ignoring Lena. “Ethan, come to the
meetin’ today. The Guardian Angels could really use you.”
It was the first time she had spoken to me in weeks. I got the message. You’re one of us, last chance.
I pushed her hand away. “That’s just what Jackson needs, a little more of your angelic behavior. Why don’t you go torture some children. Rip the
wings off a butterfly. Knock a baby bird out of its nest.” I pulled Lena past her.
“What would your poor mamma say, Ethan Wate? What would she think about the company you’re keepin’?” I turned around. Mrs. Lincoln was
standing right behind me. She was dressed the way she always was, like some kind of punishing librarian out of a movie, with cheap drugstore
glasses and angry-looking hair that couldn’t decide if it was brown or gray. You had to wonder, where did Link come from? “I’ll tell you what your
mamma would say. She would cry. She would be turnin’ over in her grave.”
She had crossed the line.
Mrs. Lincoln didn’t know anything about my mother. She didn’t know my mom was the one who had sent the School Superintendent a copy of
every ruling against book banning in the U.S. She didn’t know my mom cringed every time Mrs. Lincoln invited her to a Women’s Auxiliary or DAR
meeting. Not because my mom hated the Women’s Auxiliary or the DAR, but because she hated what Mrs. Lincoln stood for. That small-minded
brand of superiority women in Gatlin, like Mrs. Lincoln and Mrs. Asher, were so famous for.
My mom had always said, “The right thing and the easy thing are never the same.” And now, at this very second, I knew the right thing to do,
even if it wasn’t going to be easy. Or at least, the fallout wasn’t going to be.
I turned to Mrs. Lincoln and looked her in the eye. “‘Good for you, Ethan.’ That’s what my poor mamma would’ve said. Ma’am.”
I turned back toward the door of the administration building and kept walking, pulling Lena along beside me. We were only a few feet away.
Lena was shaking, even though she didn’t look scared. I kept squeezing her hand, trying to reassure her. Her long black hair was curling and
uncurling, as if she was about to explode, or maybe I was. I never thought I’d be so happy to set foot in the halls of Jackson, until I saw Principal
Harper standing in the doorway. He was glaring at us like he wished he wasn’t the principal so he could pass out a flyer of his own.
Lena’s hair blew around her shoulders as we walked past him. Only he didn’t even look at us. He was too busy looking past us. “What the—”
I turned and looked over my shoulder just in time to see hundreds of neon green flyers, curling away from windshields and out of stacks and
boxes and vans and hands. Flying away in a sudden gust of wind, as if they were a flock of birds soaring into the clouds. Escaping and beautiful
and free. Kind of like that Hitchcock movie The Birds, only in reverse.
We could hear the shrieking until the heavy metal doors closed behind us.
Lena smoothed her hair. “Crazy weather you have down here.”
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