Tonight We Rule the World Read online

  “Great. Oh, and …” She reached into her backpack, brandishing a red marker. “I love signing stuff. Hold up your arm.”

  When I raised it above my head, she giggled and said, “No—down here, smarty.”

  She took hold of my cast, leaned against me, and signed it:

  Feel better soon and I’m sorry for directing you into traffic ☹

  -Lily.

  It’s midnight now, and I’m still looking at it. She put it right along the side, so it’s always in view.

  Sincerely,

  Owen

  September 21st—Freshman Year

  Dear Diary,

  I’ve seen Lily Caldwell every day of high school so far. That’s two whole weeks!

  I told her early on that I live and die by routines (not literally), so we developed one of our own: Every day after school, we walk from the bus stop to the playground and do my homework together at the picnic tables under the pavilion.

  I don’t tell her this, but our sessions are my favorite part of the day. Never mind the fact that I’m drained from classes, and that I have to talk more than I’d like … I get to spend time with someone besides my parents. I’m always itching to get off the bus so we can exchange heys and complain about our teachers, or cafeteria food, or freshman assemblies.

  There’s no such thing as a bad day with her. Whether she’s doodling on my backpack or playing tic-tac-toe in my notebook … she makes her own fun. I don’t even mind the nauseating smell of her perfume anymore.

  Today, though, was extra special: She introduced me to something called magnet poetry. It’s a game where you take a bunch of random printed words and rearrange them without any intention, usually with humorous results. It got its name because the words were attached to magnets that could be rearranged on a refrigerator, but Lily used an app on her phone.

  She set the phone down between us, generated a list of random words, and scribbled one down on the paper:

  mountains

  Then she told me, “Pick a word from the list.” So I did:

  wander

  We went back and forth until we had a full sentence, which Lily then read aloud for us both:

  Mountains wander among their filthy corduroy pineapples.

  “It’s the ‘filthy’ that really does it,” Lily said, the corners of her mouth dancing. Then, in a crusty voice:

  “FILTHY corduroy pineapples!”

  You should have heard how loudly we were laughing! The three elementary schoolers on the swings gave us weird looks, and that only made it worse. It was a simple moment, but one we got to enjoy together … just the two of us. When she took a picture of the notebook page and said, “This is going on my blog,” I didn’t feel shy about asking her where to find it, and she didn’t hesitate to tell me.

  “Just promise you won’t read my old poetry,” she added. “Or short stories.”

  Short stories? I asked.

  “Oh, yeah.” Lily pursed her lips in an I-guess-I-haven’t-mentioned grimace. “I’m not published or anything. I’m trying to be, though. I wrote this whole book of poems that I worked on since I was … eleven? I think. It started when my mom moved out.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that. But I must’ve looked worried, because she said, “It’s not a big deal anymore. This was like, years ago. And even before then, she was always doing her own thing. She’d wake up one morning and tell us she was taking a trip to Hawaii or trying some new healing retreat in the mountains. And she kept changing jobs. No joke, a few days after my dad asked for a divorce, she just up and moved to a different state.”

  Moved? I murmured, fiddling with my glasses.

  “Like, overnight. So he couldn’t even finalize their divorce for a year. Yeah, it was bad. My dad just kept saying that her head was somewhere else.” Lily made a face, turning red. “I got way off-track; sorry.”

  That’s okay, I assured her. I wanted to encourage her to keep talking, because I loved that she was being so open with me. Things between us thus far had been friendly, but sort of formal, you know? Her phone was always buzzing nonstop with messages … she had a whole other life that didn’t extend here. For all I knew, she tutored dozens of other guys just like me. But I had a feeling that she didn’t tell a lot of people what she was telling me now.

  “My dad has been great about it,” Lily continued. “Last year he helped me email a publisher to ask if I could visit their office for a day; then he drove me to New York when they said yes. Yeah, my dad’s awesome. I think my mom made him all paranoid that I’m going to ditch him too, so he turned into one of those parents that acts like your best friend.”

  I nodded. Not like there was much I could tell her to relate to that.

  “But some of the kids in middle school made fun of me for the writing because—I don’t know why. There was an article with a few of my poems in the school paper. Yeah, that didn’t help.” She played with a blond strand of hair, shrugging.

  I got made fun of in middle school too, I told her.

  “Aw, why?” Then she flashed a smile that made me feel ten feet tall and said, “What’s there to make fun of?”

  My appearance, usually, I said. (I inherited some of my dad’s height, but none of his broad muscle. Couple my twig-like stature with my matted mess of hair, and you get a walking mop. The thick wire glasses don’t help either.)

  “Wait, like, your face?” Lily asked. “That’s so mean!”

  And my clothes, I clarified. My default wardrobe is sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt, so the sleeves don’t bother me. My feet are size nines, but my shoes are twelves because it’s less constricting.

  “You’d look cute in jeans. Dark ones,” Lily said. My face got so hot that I had to turn away, but she said it casually. Like it was no big deal. Then she added, with a little more hesitation, “Is that why you don’t talk a lot? Or is there some other reason?”

  The question itself didn’t throw me (a lot of people ask); I was just surprised it took her this long. As soon as she said it, she started tracing a “U” on the picnic table with her pen.

  And I wasn’t sure how to answer, to be honest. Back in sixth grade, I talked nonstop—always butting into people’s conversations, going on and on when no one was really listening. Even the teachers stopped calling on me, because they seemed to know it would trigger a five-minute exchange about trivial stuff.

  So I took the hint: talk less, and maybe people would like me more. As the months went by, no one treated me any differently, so I kept leaning into it harder. The worst part was when the nice kids tried to help me out, and I botched it even further. Like when one boy passed me in the hall, gave me a smile, and said, “What’s up, dude?”

  All I could do was respond with an uncomfortable laugh. You know what it sounds like.

  By eighth grade, I was talking so little that it started to scare my parents and teachers—all of my answers were barely more than a sentence, and always in a whisper. It’s how I’ve handled myself ever since.

  I don’t remember how I answered Lily’s question, and I don’t remember how she replied. But as soon as I got home, I went to her blog and started scrolling through it. It looked like a professional website: simple, red and white, with a picture of her signature in the footer. A filtered photo of our magnet poetry was up top, but I kept scrolling to try to find her writings. Unfortunately, most of her posts were just re-shared quotes uploaded by other users. One from yesterday read:

  People come and go in life. But the right ones will always stay.

  And before that:

  Be your own upgrade.

  Lots of stuff about self-care and being kind to others. But then I found one original poem called “My Town with Two of Nothing.” I won’t copy it here, but it was basically a lament about how our town is so small that we only have one Starbucks, one library, one movie theater, etc. It was strange to read, because I always loved our town for its quietness. Lily and I were polar opposites: She wanted to tear through life headfi
rst. I wanted to move as little as possible.

  Her blog had a quote pinned to the top of her page, credited to French writer Victor Hugo:

  A writer is a world trapped in a person.

  She added a caption to this one:

  What does it mean to be remembered? My goal is that regardless of where I go, what I do, or who I meet, people remember me. I want to change lives. I’m not just going to be a small author who sells a hundred copies … one day I’m going to write a bestseller. Everyone will see my name, and everyone will know it.

  Hello, Readers: My name is Lily Caldwell. I’m a world trapped in a person, and one day, I’m going to matter for real!

  I’m still thinking about those words. And it makes me wish I wasn’t so spineless, because if I wasn’t, I’d tell her that she does matter for real, to me. This may have been easy to guess based on my entries so far, but I’ve never had a friend before.

  Sincerely,

  Owen

  THREE

  EVERY ROOM MY FATHER ENTERS WAS BUILT TOO small for him. At six foot five, he’s already tall physically, but his sheer presence adds another two, maybe three feet. His head always seems like it’s in danger of ramming right through the ceiling—silver military buzz cut and all. A mountain of a man. He walks with a limp from the arthritis in his knees, but he never slouches.

  I watch as he shuts the door behind him, then holds up his hand for complete silence.

  Once he gets it, he says, “Anyone here familiar with the term ‘BOHICA’?”

  Dad and his goddamn speeches. Anytime he’s pissed, it’s the same routine: His eyes narrow, his jaw unhinges, and he spends the next ten minutes sucking up the spotlight. No salve can soothe Steve Turner’s temper like the sound of his own mouth in fourth gear.

  “It’s a phrase that was cooked up by U.S. Military guys during the Vietnam War, okay. In 1981, it becomes the code word for Operation Grand Eagle—an ISA paramilitary mission where a group of Green Berets get sent to Laos to collect intel about POWs. Six years later, it becomes the title of a book claiming the mission’s findings were falsified. The Senate Committee on Veterans’ Affairs holds hearings, and the whole thing becomes a headache for everyone involved. Red tape out the wazoo. The phrase stuck around ever since, and it’s one of the first ones I learned early on in the Marines—my buddies and I used it all the time. I’ve been out for the better part of a decade now, but the thing about BOHICA, see, is that I find it still applies to a lot of everyday life. I say it every time I get stuck in traffic; I say it before going to the DMV; and …” He sniffs. “Looking around here, I’m thinking it applies. See, BOHICA is an acronym. Know what it stands for?”

  “Steve—” Principal Graham starts.

  “‘Bend Over … Here It Comes Again.’”

  Dad claps his hands together once, looking around the office. Nobody smiles.

  My head is in my hands. Officer Hewitt is leaned forward, jaw slightly agape. Mr. Yacenda sits frozen, midway through a sip of his coffee, while Principal Graham is still half-extending a gesture for my father to take a seat. Caravaggio couldn’t have created a Renaissance painting this chaotic.

  “Steve,” Principal Graham repeats.

  “You know something, Principal Graham,” Dad says. He has this way of talking where everything he asks is part of some statement he’s making, so his questions never really sound like questions. “Most of the people who call me ‘Steve’ are friends, family, or coworkers. You, however, are the person who’s trying to arrest my son for some trumped-up BS he had nothing to do with. So how about we stick with ‘Mr. Turner,’ yeah?”

  Principal Graham neither responds to that nor looks like she knows how to.

  “Sir, we’re not arresting your son,” Officer Hewitt interjects. “Who’re you?” Dad sizes him up.

  “Officer Matthew Hewitt. Or, just Mat,” he says.

  “With one T,” Dad notes, sticking a meaty finger at the officer’s name plate. “You old enough to drive at night, Mat With One T?”

  Mat With One T does not respond.

  “Alright,” Dad says, then does what he always does: He seizes command of the room. “Folks, let’s reel this in. We’re going to go back to the beginning and break this down Barney-style: What, exactly, is this about?”

  Principal Graham opens her mouth, but he isn’t done.

  “Start with the BLUF—give me the big picture,” he continues. That’s another thing about him—since he’s former Military, half his vocabulary is acronyms. BLUF is short for “bottom-line up front.”

  Principal Graham kicks into gear, telling my father everything she’s told me. He sinks into a chair, scribbling at the speed of light in his notebook. I keep waiting for him to interrupt her—to scoff and say things like, What? No way, you’ve got the wrong kid—but instead he just lets her explain everything.

  Once she’s finished, all he says after a long pause is, “Who reported this?”

  “I can’t say; I’m sorry,” Principal Graham tells him.

  “Was it Luke?” I blurt out. As all eyes turn to me, I kick myself for not even knowing his last name—then again, I only met him once. “Luke someone. He might go by Lucas. Was it him?”

  “Guys, even if I were allowed to say, we have no way of knowing,” she explains. “The ERAT system was designed to help students feel more comfortable coming forward, so it’s completely anonymous.”

  Dad draws several forceful lines on his paper.

  “Just so I understand: In order to encourage reporting from students who might otherwise be afraid of tattling on their classmates … you made a system,” he says, “called e-rat?” “Air-at,” Mr. Yacenda tries, already cringing at himself. “I take it quicksnitch.edu was unavailable?” “We didn’t pick the acronym.”

  “Well, there’s a relief,” Dad deadpans. “Here I was worried my tax dollars were getting pissed away.”

  (Steve Turner is the Western world’s Sisyphus. Chained to the eternal hell of rolling a boulder up the hill of everyone’s incompetence.)

  “You know … here’s the thing, okay,” he continues. “About that overnight trip last month: I have a pretty good idea of when that was. Because if memory serves me right—and we can check this—that’s the night my son came out as bisexual on social media.”

  No one speaks. I rub my eyes until stars fill up the room.

  Dad leans forward. “So if you’re telling me he was picked out and attacked on that same evening, we have one of two situations on our hands. Either that is the world’s biggest coincidence—”

  “Dad,” I try to say.

  “—or, we’re dealing with a hate crime.” When no one responds, he continues, “Now, I’m not saying that’s the case. All I’m saying is if it were, it’d potentially expand the scope of this to action on a federal level. We’d be talking about a possible FBI investigation; we’d be talking about prosecution under DOJ authority. To say nothing of the civil suits that could be filed against the school, its leaders, and the county Board of Ed. That’s what we’d be talking about if this were a hate crime, is all I’m saying.”

  Principal Graham is writing very fast.

  Without looking up, she simply says in a small voice, “We will absolutely make note of that.”

  “Great. Let’s talk next steps,” Dad says. “Here’s what I haven’t heard yet: What do you plan on doing about this?”

  Principal Graham’s face loosens in relief—we’re back on book.

  “A few things,” she says. She looks directly at me instead of him. “First we need to fill out a new School Incident Investigation Form, based on the ERAT tip and any new information you’d like to add, Owen. That gets sent to Mrs. Sondergoth, the Title IX coordinator for our school district.”

  “Title IX?” I repeat.

  She nods, lips pursed. “Since the alleged incident is a sexual assault, it’s what we call a Title IX incident. That means we need to take a few extra steps per the Office of Civil Rights. Mrs. Sondergoth is our
contact for that info—her job is to help guide investigations like these.”

  “Investigation?” I squeak, as Dad says, “That’s what I like to hear.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t want an investigation. I don’t want anyone to do anything.”

  Principal Graham gives me a small grimace.

  “I understand,” she says in a wooden voice. “And trust me, no one in this room wants to make things worse for you—”

  “Why would anyone want to make things worse for me?”

  “—but,” she continues, pressing down on an invisible piano, “since your alleged attacker was a classmate, this could all make us partially liable or even extremely liable. And, you know what—heck, put all that aside for a minute.” She leans forward on her elbows like she wants to scoop me up. “We care about every one of you guys. Keeping you safe … that’s the whole gig.”

  “Sometime today, please,” Dad snaps, drawing circles in the air with his pen.

  She dances around it some more, but what it boils down to is that the school—specifically guidance counselors and Mat With One T—is required to talk to everyone who was on the school trip to find out if they saw or heard anything. She notes that the school will be required to send notices home to parents to let them know about the students being questioned.

  “Your name will not be used ever, at all, period,” Principal Graham assures me. “Within thirty days, we’ll put together a report of any findings, which we can use to take appropriate disciplinary action.”

  “Disciplin—” Dad scoffs, cutting himself off as his eyebrows shoot up. “Pfft! ‘Hey Joe Schmo, so we’ve concluded you’re a violent criminal—knock that off right now or you can kiss senior picnic goodbye, buddy boy!’”

  “Mr. Tur—”

  “I mean, sure, my kid may have been violently attacked by one of your students, on your watch, at your school, during your event, but at least we can be comforted in knowing you’re bringing that nice, long hammer down. Can you tack on a few weeks of clapping erasers while you’re at it?”