Attack of the black rect.., p.10
Attack of the Black Rectangles, page 10
“They sure make it seem common,” Denis says.
“Our main focus is trying to get a policy in place,” Marci says. “The one thing we’ve read everywhere is that when books are banned by one or two decision-makers, the goal is to set policy in place so it can’t happen again without a larger group of people making the decision.”
“Hold on,” Denis says. “I thought we were trying to get new books.”
“Look,” Marci says. “People won’t take us seriously if we just ask for what we want. The whole reason we’re protesting is for us, yes, and getting new books, yes, but it’s really so the kids who come after us don’t have this happen to them, too.”
“I’m sure if our copies are censored, other books in her classroom are, too,” I say. “So policy would be great.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Plus, my parents are all about policy. They say they could write it in their sleep. So for Tuesday’s meeting, I’ll have a sample of the policy we want them to use.”
“My dad works for the phone company and my mom programs computers. I don’t think they know anything about this kind of stuff,” Denis says.
They look at me. I nearly tell them that my dad thinks he’s an anthropologist from another galaxy … until I remember that he doesn’t really think that. Until I remember that I haven’t told them anything about my dad and how I can’t seem to find the right time or the right words.
“Are you coming to protest with us tomorrow?” I ask Denis.
“Yep. I even have a sign.”
“Excellent,” Marci says. “I was thinking of handing out flyers about what’s going on, but my dad told me to wait until after the meeting. We can hit them hard with the facts then, and spread the word after. He says that’s fair.”
“Seems fair,” I say.
We start walking toward the street and Denis peels off to go to his house. When it’s just me and Marci, I almost ask her to go to homecoming with me, but I don’t.
There are way too many files on this office guy’s desk for today.
The three hours on Main Street on Saturday morning are not fun. Grandad can see it. He keeps saying stuff like “You have really great friends!” and “Boy, I wish I had a crew like this when I was your age.”
Denis brought a sign that says CENSORSHIP IS WRONG.
Marci has her signs from last week and I prop the extra one up against the back of my chair, but don’t hold any. I’m used to holding wrenches and car parts on Saturdays, not signs. It’s not like I loved that stuff, either, and it’s not like I want to see the guy, but he’s my dad and I guess I’m getting used to it.
By noon, when Grandad goes to the food truck to buy us all hot dogs, Marci and Denis have noticed I am in a mood and are no longer trying to get me to smile or be part of the conversation. It feels like the wrong time to tell them the truth about what’s going on.
By the time we pack up our chairs and leave, Marci and Denis are playing BOT DUCK MAN and it makes me furious. I don’t say anything, but I can feel myself frowning. And I can see them seeing me frowning, but they don’t stop playing. It feels like they don’t want me as a friend anymore.
Once it’s just me and Grandad walking back to our house, he says, “What’s going on, Mac? You don’t seem like yourself.”
“I’m myself.”
“Okay,” he says.
We keep walking.
He says, “Denis told me that there’s a dance coming and you want to go with Marci but haven’t asked her yet.”
I think really hard on this before I say anything. Fact: I’m not even sure I want to go to the dance with Marci.
“Mac?”
“I don’t know,” I say. Maybe I just need to live in a cave by myself for the rest of my life or something.
“I think you’re having a hard day,” Grandad says. “We should probably take it easy and play games or something.”
“I’d play catch but my glove is gone,” I say.
“Ah,” he says—in that way like this sentence solves bigger mysteries.
“What?”
“Let’s go get you a new glove and bat and everything. Your mom said that was on her list for this week, so I’m sure she’d be thrilled if we did it for her.”
“But what if Dad comes back and brings my old ones with him?” I ask.
He nods and says, “Well, if that happens, we can always donate the new stuff to someone who needs it, right?”
An hour later, I’m trying on baseball gloves and they smell like new leather and it makes me miss my old glove. But I’m happy when we walk out of the store with a new bag, bat, and glove, with a batting glove and a big bag of Swedish Fish thrown in for fun.
As we drive home, Grandad says, “So are you scared to ask her out? I mean, at your age, I couldn’t do that stuff, either. So maybe you could write her a letter. You’re good with words, you know.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not scared. I can’t figure it out. I think I don’t trust her or something. I don’t trust anyone.”
“Oh. That’s not a good place to be,” he says. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course,” I answer.
“Why do you think you don’t trust anyone? You were always the kind of kid who gave people a chance.”
I know the answer to the question. I’m not a psychologist, but I totally know this has something to do with why there’s a new baseball glove on my lap and my mood all day. Dad. Dad leaving. Dad being so impossible to understand.
“You’re right,” I say. “I always give people a chance. I’m probably just having a bad day.”
“Dinner will help,” he says.
He turns up a song on the radio for the last five minutes of the drive home. I think about how the last week has been foggy—I’m here but I’m not. I feel like I have a secret because I kinda do have a secret. Not being able to be my true and honest self around Marci and Denis has been painful, even though it’s kinda always been that way thanks to my dad being, well, who he is. Being fake is like lying and I hate lying.
They probably didn’t mean to hurt my feelings with BOT DUCK MAN, but it’s not like they know what’s going on because I haven’t told them yet. Everything is moving so fast. Plus, if I really want Marci to come to the dance with me, I have to ask her. But every time I think of it, I feel like I’m lying if I don’t tell her about my dad. And I don’t feel like talking about my dad. Because I don’t know what to say about my dad.
I go to bed early after oiling my new baseball glove and wrapping it up in a rubber band, the way Grandad taught me to when I got my old glove. The whole time, I still feel like an office guy in my office, sorting through filing cabinets, looking for an answer.
I don’t even know what the question is.
White (House Paint) Only
When did the rule about house paint come into effect? I went to the paint store yesterday and talked to them about what colors I’d like to paint my house and they told me I can only paint it white due to my address and a recent ordinance. Who thought this was a good idea? And how can we change it?
—John Zimmerman, Main Street
Re: White (House Paint) Only
Everyone knows that white is the best color for a house. Especially in a town with so much history. Back when the founders came here, the only way to paint a house was with lime whitewash and all homes were white. To maintain the look of history, going back to all white is a great idea. I applaud all who have followed the rules!
—Laura Samuel Sett
On Monday and Tuesday at school, Denis and Marci treat me like they always did—like I’m their best friend. It makes me feel guilty because I feel like I’m lying to them. I almost told Denis about my new glove, but then I didn’t because he’d ask me what happened to my old one.
I keep trying to find a good time to tell them about what happened, but it never appears. Plus, Marci is so stressed out about the board meeting, I don’t want her to think about anything else. She’s our spokesperson and she needs to be sharp, as Grandad would say.
So I play the part of an enthusiastic team player, and Denis and I help Marci go through her main points over and over again, until finally, the Tuesday-night meeting arrives.
We have to wait almost until the end of the board meeting to speak. By this time, Denis has a nervous-leg-bouncing reaction and is vibrating the whole room. There’s a lady in the row in front of us who keeps asking him to stop with her eyes like she’s our mom or something.
I’m glad he’s jiggling his leg so much because it’s keeping my mind off how much my hands are sweating.
“We’re ready to hear from you,” a woman in a pink shirt finally says.
Marci walks a censored copy of the book to the place where the board president can take it from her. She then does the presentation she practiced on me and Denis perfectly. Denis and I stand behind her and nod and I am not prepared when a man on the school board says, “Mac, how do you feel about it?”
The man is a guy Grandad talks to on Main Street when we eat candy.
“I think it’s wrong in a few ways,” I say.
He motions like he wants me to continue.
“First, censoring anything is wrong. Second, censoring this particular material, in a book about the Holocaust, is wrong, and last, the reasoning behind it—at least what we were told—suggests that boys and men are in need of sheltering and if not sheltered, might be uncontrollably inappropriate. Which is sexist and wrong.”
The room is suddenly quiet and all I can hear is the blood rushing through my ears.
“Where are you reading this book?” another board member asks. I see Marci’s mouth move. I know she is answering. Still can’t hear anything except for my blood.
I have this entire imaginary scene play out in my head where all the men in the room lecture me about how I shouldn’t have any interest in sexism and how I will have a miserable life if I listen to what women have to say and one guy says, “You need a father around your house to show you the way,” and then I think of Dad and how he showed me the way, all right, and I look back at Marci and she’s looking right at me and I’m still thinking about—
“What?” I ask.
“What do you think a good solution would be, Mac?” Marci says.
“Oh. Easy. Tad’s books can replace all the ruined books with new copies.”
Denis adds, “We need a policy for the district so this doesn’t happen again when just one person thinks something is right for everyone.”
The crowd grumbles. I can’t tell if they agree or not.
Marci says, “Here’s a sample of policy for challenged books for you to consider when drawing up your own.” She hands out eleven copies of her proposed policy. It’s a lot of big language but basically it says that if anyone in the school district wants to censor or remove a book from anywhere, they must bring that book or content to the school board, who will decide the matter with the superintendent and a panel of teachers and community members.
“You know, I think this word might make girls uncomfortable, too,” the board member holding the censored copy of the book says.
“Breasts?” Marci says. “But girls and women have actual breasts.”
The room goes quiet for what feels like an unreasonable amount of time. As if Marci has just cursed. I feel a rising need to speak up.
“There isn’t a person in this room who wouldn’t cover their breasts or other private parts if they were twelve and naked with Nazi concentration camp guards yelling at them,” I say. “You should read the book.” I want to add more. My throat closes.
More silence. The board looks over the policy sample Marci handed them.
“Is there anything else we can tell you?” Marci asks. “Before you make your decision?”
“I think this is enough,” says the man sitting next to the woman in the pink shirt.
“It’s time for old business … starting with the bleacher situation,” another guy says.
Marci half raises her hand. The three of us are still standing here like we’re at a piano recital or something. “Um, so that’s it?” she says.
“You can sit down. Come to the next meeting.”
“But we need the new books now,” Marci says. “By next meeting, we’ll be done reading. Can’t you pass this part now and then adopt the policy later?”
“I’m sorry we can’t move any faster,” the guy says.
“But this is a special case, right? It’s happening now! You can stop it!” I say.
“We can’t move any faster,” the guy repeats.
I’ve decided all adults are liars. Except Mom and Grandad.
“We’ll discuss it,” the woman in the pink shirt says.
“It’s not that hard,” Marci says. “I don’t see why you can’t make a decision now.”
She seems so broken by what’s happening. Her feet are glued to the spot on the floor where she’s standing. I put my hand on the top of her shoulder to help her come back to reality and go sit down with us.
She turns and follows, but when Denis and I sit down again, she just keeps walking.
Right out the door. Right down through the parking lot. She doesn’t even wait for her parents to drive her home.
She walks so fast, we can’t catch up until we get to the park.
“Are you crying?” Denis says.
“Of course I’m crying,” Marci tells him.
“Don’t cry,” I say.
She turns to me. “Crying is a natural reaction to disappointment. Would you tell me not to sneeze?”
Funny, but in order to make this logical argument, Marci seems to have stopped crying.
“I should have practiced more. I don’t even know if what I said made sense,” I say.
“Why are you so hard on yourself, dude?” Denis asks.
I shrug.
No one says anything. I hear Denis’s question bouncing around in my head. I don’t know the answer, but I am 100 percent convinced that it’s my fault that the board didn’t give us an immediate answer. They all looked so—judgmental. Like they knew my dad left and they knew he stole my grandfather’s car and my mom’s rug and my baseball stuff.
I guess that answers Denis’s question, then.
“This is how boards work,” Marci says. “They have to take the time to think about what we talked about and they have to gather facts and stuff.”
“Exactly,” Denis says.
“Then they make a decision about what to do,” Marci says. “It’s going to be a month at least, unless they decide it’s a special case.”
“I think it’s a special case,” I say.
“You made that clear,” Marci says. She isn’t making eye contact.
Denis points to the sky. “Look! It’s Jupiter!”
“Are you mad at me?” I ask Marci.
She sighs. My whole body feels like it’s turning inside out.
“No, I just hate waiting,” she says. “And I’m still mad. About the whole thing. They treat us like kids.”
I think all three of us think that’s a funny thing to say because we all smirk a little after a few moments.
“That’s the thing,” Denis says. “I’m tired of being treated like a kid but I also really like not having to make dinner or do laundry.”
Marci smiles. Looks at me. Stops smiling.
“Are you sure you’re not mad at me?” I ask after about half a block because that’s all I could wait. Denis trails behind us because he’s looking up at Jupiter.
“Oh, I’m sure,” she says.
“Why are you so serious when you look at me?”
“Serious?” She smiles.
“Yeah.”
“Mac, if you can’t figure it out, I’m not going to tell you.”
“That hardly feels fair,” I say.
“Nothing today has been fair, I guess,” she says, and then splits off down Cherry Lane, and I keep walking and looking at her walking away until I walk into a tree branch that nearly breaks my head open.
After Marci leaves, Denis and I walk down to Locust Street.
“So you like Marci—so what? Why are you being so weird lately?” he asks.
I shrug and can’t find words. Again. Dad took my words with him, too—while leaving little shards of Mom’s mug all over my life. I feel like I’m living inside a giant black rectangle.
I’m quiet for a bit and then I finally say, “My dad left town two weekends ago. He stole a bunch of stuff from the house, including my grandfather’s car, and just took off. We don’t know where he is.”
Denis stops walking. Looks at me. Sees I’m serious.
“That’s awful. I’m so sorry,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“You must be really mad. Or sad. Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. I think so?”
“Is your mom okay?”
I answer, “Thankfully, we have Grandad. He helps us both.”
“But still, that’s your dad. Like—has he called or anything?”
“No.”
Denis puts his hand on my shoulder—the one nearest to him. We walk for a while like that and I feel better. I think of a bunch of things to say but can’t figure out which one to say, so I don’t say anything.
When we get to where he needs to turn right, Denis squeezes my shoulder and says, “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m good,” I say.
My voice cracks and I hope he doesn’t hear it. I’m doing all I can to keep the cracks on the inside.
“Okay,” he says. “See you tomorrow.” He takes the right and walks down Main Street. I keep going straight down Locust. By the time I pass the intersection where my house is, I’m crying and trying not to cry, which makes me cry worse.
I can’t go home.
So I walk to the park. It’s dark, which is the best time to cry.
There are three teenagers under the pavilion, so I walk across the bridge and then down the bank of the creek and then under the bridge, and I sit there on the big rock, head in my hands, and cry about everything. The board meeting, Marci, Dad, Mom, Grandad, Gram. I cry about all of it. I think about Hannah in the book—The Devil’s Arithmetic—and I cry for her and for all those people who lived through something so impossible to understand. I cry because the world is a cruel place. I cry because sometimes things don’t make sense. I cry because I feel bad for crying. I have a nice house, a nice mom, a warm bed.
