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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.
