Becoming Who We Are Ch. 03

Luke wandered in a couple of minutes later, his thoughts still on his story. He meandered to his locker, oblivious to the two boys who walked up behind him.

One casually slammed the locker door. The other flicked Luke's books to the floor. Shocked, Luke jerked his head up to identify these new tormentors. He recognized both from his math class.

"What'd you do that for?" he asked, bewildered.

"Why not?" the taller boy said. The other boy grinned. It was not a nice smile.

Luke said nothing, pondering this new development. After a few seconds, the boys sauntered away. Luke stared at their backs. He didn't understand. His heart pounding, he picked up his books, reopened his locker and found the textbooks he would need for his first two classes. Still troubled, he trudged to homeroom.

The incident preyed on his mind through German and chemistry, where he made a vital mistake during an experiment.

"What do you mean, you forgot to add the reactant?" Darcy said, exasperated. "How were we supposed to create oxygen if you didn't add the reactant?"

"Um, I don't know," he said weakly. "I mean, the stuff was fizzing after you added the catalyst, so I guess I just forgot."

"Now we're going to have to do the experiment all over again," she said.

"What's going on over here?" asked Mr. Porter, hearing their argument and strolling over. "You know I don't allow fighting in the classroom unless you wear protective gear."

Luke smiled, but Darcy was too upset to notice the joke.

"Luke," she said, making the syllable into an insult, "forgot to add the reactant, so we have no oxygen."

"Is that right, Luke?" the teacher asked, his voice kind. He had a feeling this kid came in for more than his share of abuse.

"Yes, sir," Luke said, dropping his eyes from Mr. Porter's face.

The teacher considered the girl's annoyed face and the boy's dejected one. He hated moments like this.

"Well," he said, "You don't have enough time left to redo the experiment. So I want you both to write up your results, with an exact accounting of what you did and what you observed. In your conclusions section, write an explanation of what you believed should have happened, based on my demonstration and what you know from the textbook. This once, I will accept that instead of a complete lab report. And next time, Luke, keep your mind on what you're doing."

Luke stared at the floor. Mr. Porter patted his shoulder.

"Everybody makes mistakes, Luke. At least you didn't set yourself on fire like another student I had a couple of years ago."

"Someone actually set himself on fire?" Darcy asked, diverted from her anger.

"We were doing an experiment which calls for the students to fill a test tube with gas and set the gas on fire. Although I told the class it would take only a few seconds for the text tube to fill, this kid waited about a minute before he used his flint striker to make a spark. The resulting fireball caught his shirt on fire."

Darcy's eyes widened.

"Was he burned?"

"No. His lab partner grabbed him and got his arm in the sink and under water before the flames could reach his skin. I was really proud of her. Part of being a lab partner is watching out for your partner. She did exactly the right thing."

Darcy blushed, hearing Mr. Porter's unspoken message.

"Go ahead and clean up," Mr. Porter told the two teens. "Everybody else is finishing up anyway."

He crossed the room to survey the other students. Luke and Darcy cleaned their equipment and tidied the lab station in silence.

"Sorry," she said as they returned to their desks.

"That's all right," he said, surprised at her apology. "I messed up."

"Yeah," she said, not looking at him. "But I get too caught up in my grades sometimes. I shouldn't have gotten so mad."

"It's okay."

Mr. Porter watched this exchange with satisfaction. Darcy struck him as a decent kid, but the boy didn't seem like the sort to stick up for himself. Even the nicest kid would take advantage of a person like that. Ted Porter had endured his share of taunts in high schools and he wasn't about to let that happen in his classroom. With any luck, his little talk about the lab partners had made an impression.

English passed uneventfully, but as it ended, Luke's sense of unease returned. He had math next, and after what the two kids had done to him at his locker, he didn't know what to expect.

He had just enough time to get to his locker and exchange his English book for his math text, then hurry to the classroom and sit down. Luke spotted the two boys from that morning sitting at the rear of the room. He composed his face into his best inscrutable expression. If they wanted him to look afraid, he wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

Mr. Spencer collected their homework and strode to the blackboard to teach the day's lesson. He wore his usual scarlet and white baseball cap with a small patch of a warrior, the school's mascot. Even teaching math, he looked like a coach.

A few minutes into his lecture, the band drifted onto the field to practice the half-time routine. Coach Spencer manfully ignored the music for a time before he could stand it no longer. He stomped to the room's only window and peered outside. The musicians played lustily as they stamped down the field. The sight of sixty-eight feet hitting the yardlines proved too much for the coach.

"Why in the world can't they step over the lines?" he demanded of nobody in particular. "We spent hours lining that field, and then they go out and mess it up. Is it so much to ask that they step over the lines?"

From his vantage point near the window, Luke could see the band execute a turn, which put many of the kids directly on the yardlines, marching toward the stands.

"Now look at them!" Coach Spencer cried. "Now they're right on the lines! This is too much. I'm going to have put my foot down. Someone needs to teach that band director who's really in charge around here."

Several students snickered, but Luke did not join them. From what Mark told him, half the band could barely march at all. Without the yardlines to guide them, they'd never stay in sync with one another. Luke shifted his feet. He didn't know the band director, but he felt sorry for her.

Still fuming, the coach returned to the board to resume teaching. Ten minutes later, the bell rang for second lunch. The students slammed their books shut and headed out the door. Luke took his time, waiting for Jeff and his cronies to leave.

"I'll talk to her right now," the coach said, adjusting his cap. "Tang!" he barked, mispronouncing it as usual. "It's time for lunch. Move!"

Luke obeyed, and the coach locked the classroom behind him. As the boy walked toward the lunchroom, he could hear the man muttering to himself. He shivered. No, he didn't envy the band director one bit.

On the field, Ms. Shaffer watched and listened to her students with a mixture of resignation and pride. Most had memorized the routine and marched quite well, considering how green they had been just two weeks ago. Some, and she sighed as she thought about this group, seemed completely devoid of any marching talent at all. Oh, well. She could only hope that constant drilling would help. Kathy had developed beautifully as a drum major, with excellent presence and natural authority. From the corner of her eye, she saw a figure in a red cap approach. Whoever it was certainly had a determined gait, but was out of sync with The Washington Post March, she thought. She squinted to see better. Oh, dear. Coach Spencer, no doubt to complain about something. As long as he didn't take long to speak his mind, she'd let him yap. Kathy could handle the practice without her.

"Ms. Shaffer, I'd like a word with you," he said sternly. "It's about your band."

Ms. Shaffer nodded to Kathy, gesturing for her to continue, and led the coach to the track.

"Coach Spencer, I wouldn't dream of interrupting you during a football practice, as I consider such behavior unprofessional. However, if you can keep it short, I'll hear you out now."

The coach flushed. Ms. Shaffer kept her expression bland, at least at first.

During the next several minutes, several band members wished they could read lips. They saw the coach say something, and Ms. Shaffer level a nasty glare at him. She snapped back, and he looked as though he had swallowed something extremely unpleasant. Then she waved a hand at the band and said something, and he waved both hands at her and yelled back. She put both hands on her hips and appeared almost to spit at him. He shook an index finger at her. She batted it down. She pointed at the school building. He spun abruptly and stormed away. She turned to the band, her face bleak.

In the lunchroom, Luke paid for his pizza and milk and stepped out of the kitchen. He scanned the room, spotting for Jeff and his friends eating and laughing at a table near the salad bar. Luke carried his tray to a table as far from them as possible, sat down at an empty section. He wolfed down his food, hoping to make a speedy escape from the cafeteria, but his keen eye scanned the cafeteria, assessing the sea of kids around him.

At the end of a nearby table, a group of girls, including Darcy, chatted and giggled their way through their salads and cookies. Looking up, Darcy gave Luke a little wave. After a few seconds of sheer shock, he managed a hesitant smile. Luke recognized one of her friends from homeroom: a nice enough girl, pleasant to everyone, always said hello to him. At the middle of the same long table, a much more popular group sat, loudly laughing in their expensive clothes, drawing attention to themselves, assuming acceptability as their birthright.

His eye lit on another group, some boys from chemistry. Studious, smart, but relaxed and easy with one another, clearly old friends. A couple of tables over sat a group of smokers, also laughing with one another.

Everyone seemed to belong to a group, to be someone or something: the brains, the musicians, the athletes, the nice kids, the gossips, the stoners. Everyone, in fact, but Luke. He didn't feel like much of anything.

As he finished his milk, he saw Jeff's group rise and saunter toward him. Luke stood and bolted for the trash can, but not quickly enough to evade the four boys.

"Where do you think you're going?" one asked, his arms folded across his broad chest. The other three -- Jeff and the two who had come to Luke's locker that morning -- moved in to form a tight circle around him.

"To throw away my trash," Luke said, his voice soft.

"We want to talk to you first," said the tall, brown-haired boy who had flipped Luke's books to the floor at the locker.

"What about?" Luke stared at the floor, praying the lunchroom monitor would notice the group and help him.

Jeff grinned. He reached out and spun Luke around.

"You," he said, sneering down at the skinny boy. "We've decided you owe us."

Luke looked up into the icy blue eyes. "Owe you?"

"That's right," Jeff said. "You owe us. You people come over here and take our jobs, so you owe us."

Luke had no idea what Jeff was talking about.

"We take your jobs?"

A scowl replaced Jeff's sneer.

"Yeah. Because of you people, my dad lost his job. So you owe us."

Luke thought of several replies, but remained silent. If he didn't say anything, Jeff couldn't use it against him. The seconds ticked by. One of the other boys stepped closer to Luke.

"Don't you want to know what you owe us?" he asked.

Luke stared at him. The boy looked at Jeff.

"Jesus, Jeff, doesn't this chink know how to talk?" He turned back to Luke. "For now, you owe us your lunch money."

"But I don't have any more money. I just finished lunch."

"That's your problem," the boy said. "Tomorrow, we expect to be paid."

"If I don't?"

The boy sneered.

"You don't want to know. Just pay us."

The four left as the monitor headed their way. She approached Luke.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Luke said faintly.

She looked at him quizzically.

"You sure?"

"Uh huh," he said, a little more firmly.

"All right," she said, turning away and putting the pale boy out of her thoughts. Across the cafeteria, someone launched a milk carton into the air, and she hurried to identify the culprit.

Luke fled to the library, his heart racing. Oh God, what could he do? Why were they doing this to him? What had he ever done to deserve this? How could he face them in math? He swallowed anxiously. Oh God, math class! In fifteen minutes, he was going to have to go back downstairs and sit in the same room with them. He opened the library door and staggered in, almost running past the desk to find an empty carrel. Spotting one, he jogged to it and sank into the chair, burying his face in his hands. Dear God, when would it stop? He had paid and paid and paid for John's death, but still it wouldn't end. He exhaled gustily. No, he never stopped paying for living when John had died, and he doubted he ever would.

A couple of students looked at him curiously as he sat staring into space, but he saw nothing. When the other kids left to return to class, he rose from the chair, his face composed, but his mind chaotic with dread.

In the classroom, the boys shuffled in their seats and laughed quietly when Luke walked in, but he pretended not to notice. The coach ignored all of them, his mind still on his talk with the band director. How dared she talk to him like that? He was the football coach! His team brought in more money, and got more money, than any of the other school teams or groups combined. Nobody told him where to go. His face creased into a scowl as he replayed the conversation again. No, nobody talked to him like that, especially not a snippy little band director half his age, and a woman at that! He stared out the window at the marching band and quietly boiled.

The bell rang and the coach jumped. He walked to the board to continue his lecture. The class settled down. Jeff knew not to act up when the coach looked so irritated, and the other players took their cue from him. Luke looked only at the teacher and his book; he didn't dare glance around. When the bell ended the class, he waited again, knowing Mrs. Cowden would not mind too much if he arrived a few seconds late. He peered cautiously around the door as he left, but saw none of his tormentors. Relieved, he hurried to get to history on time.

He slid into his seat just before the bell. Mrs. Cowden took roll, and he relaxed as she went through the daily ritual. He breathed deeply and opened his text, disciplining his mind to focus on the lecture rather than his problems. Mostly, he succeeded, even answering a question about indentured servants in the colonies. The teacher smiled at him before moving on to the next point. Luke reveled in the attention. Maybe he would tell her about the story today.

After the bell rang, he approached her desk shyly.

"Yes, Luke?"

"Um, I was wondering something."

"What?"

"Well, I wrote a story this weekend, about a Chinese man who immigrates to the United States in the eighteen hundreds."

She smiled.

"That sounds like a terrific idea."

He smiled back.

"Well, I hope so. Anyway, I was wondering, after I finish revising it, would you read it and tell me what you think of it?" He said the last words in a rush, as if he would not get them out if he didn't hurry.

The teacher's smile deepened.

"I'd love to. Mrs. Garcia tells me you're a fine writer, so reading one of your stories would be a real treat."

Luke blushed.

"You talked to her about me?"

Mrs. Cowden leaned forward.

"Actually, she talked to me about you."

"Um, I thought teachers didn't do that."

She chuckled.

"Of course we do. What else do we have to talk about? Besides, new students always catch our attention, especially when they're bright and inventive."

His blush turned a shade brighter.

"So you'll read it?"

"Absolutely. Bring me a copy when you finish, and I'll read it as soon as I can."

He smiled gratefully.

"Thanks. Uh, I have to go."

"What's your next class?"

He grimaced.

"Gym."

Mrs. Cowden watched the boy's departing back with interest. For a high school senior, Luke seemed awfully hesitant at times. Admittedly, most kids didn't know how to accept a compliment with grace, but he had seemed almost stunned at her praise. She wondered what sort of home life he had, then rejected that train of thought. Mark lived in the same house and he struck her as entirely normal. Perhaps Luke was just naturally shy. But that didn't explain his lack of self-confidence. She tapped one foot rapidly, thinking. Bright, imaginative, shy children never had an easy time, but he seemed different somehow. Maybe she'd talk to Maribel Garcia about him.

**

After school, Luke raced home to work on his story. He combed through its pages, looking for things to add or delete, checking grammar, and then giving it a final read. It looked fine to him, and he checked his watch. Good! His mother had said that morning she wouldn't be home that afternoon. Clutching the pages, he darted into his parents' office to type the story on the computer.

By the time he finished, three hours later, his mother still hadn't returned. He felt relieved. If she didn't see him print the story, she wouldn't ask any awkward questions about it. He smiled at the growing pile of paper. Seeing it typed made him proud, as if it became more real that way. He made an extra copy for Mrs. Cowden. He had just turned off the computer and taken the floppy out of the disc drive when he heard his mother's car drive up. He lifted one fist in triumph. She would never know.

He heard the door slam and then a strange noise coming from the kitchen. Tossing the copies on his bed, he dashed down the stairs.

His mother sat at the kitchen table, her shoulders heaving as she sobbed.

Luke gazed at her in amazement. He hadn't seen her cry since John died. He watched in silence for several minutes, afraid to interrupt her tears.

"What's wrong?" he asked quietly when she appeared to calm down a bit.

She turned to him, her eyes red, her face streaked with mascara.

"Some boys," she said.

Her face crumpled up again, and fresh tears started down her cheeks.

"They hurt Mary."