George bristled, but he didn't say anything else. He pointed toward Building 1, the only building there was, and I walked the twenty yards to the outside elevator. I rode up to the thirdfloor landing. The elevator opened onto an outdoor walkway with a red railing. From this height, I could see the land that had been cleared for Buildings 2 and 3 ten years ago. It had long since been overrun by weeds and palmetto grass.
Mrs. Weiss opened her door right before I got there. "Roberta, dear, are you all right?"
"Yes, Mrs. Weiss."
"I shouldn't have let you walk here."
"I didn't have any trouble."
"Only with that Nazi downstairs."
"Right."
"Come on, get in here. You're letting the air-conditioning out." She stood back to let me enter.
All Century Towers condos are set up the same way: You enter through the kitchen. Beyond the kitchen is the living room, and beyond that, the balcony. The bedrooms and bathroom are off to the right.
Mrs. Roman was in the living room, watching TV. I said, "Hi, Mrs. Roman."
"Roberta, darling. You're sick? You don't eat right."
"I'm feeling better. What are you watching?"
"Me? Nothing." She pointed over my shoulder at Mrs. Weiss. "She watches these nature shows. She watches to learn about fish. When I watch a show about fish, it's a cooking show."
Mrs. Weiss guided me to the couch. She sat next to me and took hold of my hand. "I watch to learn about life. What else is there that's worth learning about?"
Mrs. Roman winked at me. "Fine. But fish? Salmon?"
The fish show ended, and a show called The World at War came on. I concentrated on it, trying to block out the images from the video vault. The screen showed a man in a hall, making a speech. It sounded like German.
Mrs. Weiss perked up. "Look, Roberta. It's Hitler! This is why I watch the nature shows ... Watch this now. This is man's way, right here. These Nazis passed laws making it a crime to be a Jew. Not to kill a Jew, mind you, but to be a Jew. So much for man's laws. Nature's laws alone are real."
Mrs. Roman commented, "Isabel loves to watch these war movies, too."
Mrs. Weiss corrected her, as if she'd had to before, "These aren't movies. This is real."
A few minutes later some grainy black-and-white footage came on, and Mrs. Weiss's comforting grip suddenly turned into a tight fist. She whispered, "Maybe you shouldn't look at this part," almost as if she were talking to herself. Anyway, I looked at it. About twenty naked men came running out of a wooden shack. They lined themselves up along the side of a ditch. Then a line of machine-gunners opened fire and killed them all. The men fell into the open ditch. Then another line of naked men came running out, and the same thing happened. My mouth must have dropped open. I had come here to get away from a horrible video, and I had found another one.
Mrs. Roman must have seen my expression. She yelled to Mrs. Weiss, "Look now. You're upsetting the girl. She shouldn't be watching this!"
I said, "Who are those men?"
"They're Jews. From a Nazi concentration camp. The Nazis made them dig their own grave and line up beside it, then they shot them. The camp commander made home movies of it. Nice, huh?"
Mrs. Roman protested, "Nobody should be watching this, Isabel. It's too horrible."
But Mrs. Weiss disagreed. "No, I think she should see this." She looked at me intently. "This is not ancient history, Roberta. This happened just a few years ago. Just a moment ago in time. This happened to my family."
Mrs. Roman left when the show ended. Mrs. Weiss and I got glasses of iced tea and moved out to the balcony. I stood next to her and looked out over the darkness. After a few minutes I asked, "How can people possibly do that? How can they kill someone and go on living themselves?"
"Are you talking about the Nazis?"
I wasn't, but I answered, "Yes."
"People have been killing each other for thousands of years. There are people, lots of them, who feel nothing about taking another life. When I was your age, Roberta, the entire world was at war. Everybody was trying to kill everybody else."
We each sat in a folding chair and looked out over the sawgrass.
I said, "That was World War Two?"
"That was World War Two."
"I asked Archie if we were going to cover World War Two in history. We're not."
"Archie? Is that a teacher?"
"He's my history teacher. And he's a football coach."
"Bah. They don't teach you history. Believe me, I know. They teach you social studies. I taught it myself."
I didn't know that. I said, "Really?"
"Yes. I taught for twenty years, up in Nassau County, New York." Mrs. Weiss thought for a moment. Then she asked me, "So tell me, what have you learned from all your years of public school social studies? Never mind, let me guess: that Indian Squanto helped the Pilgrims to plant corn. Am I right?"
"Yeah. He told them to plant a little dead fish with each kernel."
"I knew it. You'll never learn any history in that place. What did you learn about World War Two? Let me guess: that Hitler and the Nazis were bad, and that the Americans were good?"
"Yes."
In the near-darkness, Mrs. Weiss became very animated. "Hitler the Boogie Man?" She began thrusting her arm straight out and retracting it, over and over, like the pinheads' Nazi salute: "Bad Hitler! Bad Hitler!"
I had to laugh. But I was puzzled. I asked her, "He was bad, wasn't he?"
"Of course. He was evil. So what? Lots of people are."
"So how did he get all those people to follow him?"
"Because he had a vision. He had a dark vision of who he could be. And he pursued that vision with all his might. He pursued it until he made it come true."
Mrs. Weiss got up with her empty glass. She took my glass, too, and went inside. She returned with a tube of Ritz crackers. She set down two saucers and laid some crackers out for us to share. Then she said, "So what else did you learn about the war in your history class?"
"That we won?"
"Okay. That's true enough. Who was our leader?"
"Roosevelt?"
"Which one?"
"Franklin?"
"Good guess. Did you know that he pretended, until his dying day, that he could walk? Whereas in fact he couldn't, because he had polio."
"Come on. Nobody knew he couldn't walk?"
"Nope. His sons were always standing next to him, propping him up."
"That's pretty weird, Mrs. Weiss."
"Sure it is. History is weird when you get past that Indian Squanto stuff they feed you. History doesn't smell very good, Roberta. History stinks. And United States history stinks right along with it. You know what they ought to put in that textbook of yours? You know those perfume strips that they put in the magazines, where you tear it off and smell it? They ought to put a strip in that book, so you could tear it off and smell all the rotting corpses. Then maybe you'd remember some history."
Mrs. Weiss gathered up the crackers. "That's enough for tonight. It's late, and you have school. You have to go learn lots of new history tomorrow. Anyway, the Nazi Holocaust is old news now. There have been so many holocausts since then. They don't even make the front page anymore. They're on page six."
We walked into the kitchen and put our saucers in the sink. Mrs. Weiss opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope. She handed it to me. "Listen, Century Towers has very strict rules about children. If you're going to stay over here regularly, you have to get your father's permission. It's a liability waiver. Have him sign it."
I slid the paper into my backpack. "Okay, I will."
TUESDAY, THE 19TH
This afternoon, at the beginning of Mr. Herman's lecture, a boy walked into class holding a green guidance department form. I knew what that meant right away. Someone was being called down to Mrs. Biddulph's office for RDT.
Mr. Herman gets very angry at interruptions. He stopped speaking to stare coldly at the kid, then he demande
d, "What do you want?"
The kid held out the form, and Mr. Herman snatched it. He read it and said, "Roberta Ritter. You're wanted in guidance. There's an ironically named place." He handed the form back to the kid as I stood up.
Mr. Herman was about to resume speaking when the kid said, "What about the other one?"
Mr. Herman arched one eyebrow and snapped. "What other one?"
The kid pointed at the form. "The other name on here."
"I don't know who that is." Mr. Herman directed his eyebrows into the distance, like he was exercising them. "It could be one of them in the back, I suppose. Why don't you go ask them?"
I followed the kid back to the group of football players. He said, "Any of you named Hugh Mason?"
Hawg looked up and said, "Yeah. Who wants to know?"
I was surprised. I was surprised to hear that Hawg had a real name, and that Hugh Mason was it.
"The two of you have to go to guidance."
"What for?"
"I don't know."
Hawg shrugged and got up. On the way out, he said to me, "I guess anything's better than listening to Mr. Homo."
I followed Hawg and the boy into the corridor. I found myself walking next to Hawg, so I took the opportunity to say, "Can I ask you something?"
"Will I know the answer?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Then shoot."
"Why do you football guys take journalism?"
"That's an easy one. The guys on the team, the ones that took it last year, recommended it highly. They said you don't even put out a damn newspaper."
"That's true. But things are different this year. Mr. Herman is a much tougher teacher."
"Yeah, well, that's just my luck."
"What'd he put on your progress report?"
"My what?"
"Your progress report. It comes out halfway through the term? It tells you what grade you have?"
"Is that what that paper was? Hell, I threw it away."
When we got to the guidance office, Mrs. Biddulph handed me a clear plastic cup with a label on the side and a lid on the top. She said, "Take this black pen and write your full name on the label. Take the cup into the bathroom, fill it to the label with urine, secure the lid tightly, and leave it on the tray in there. Then wash your hands and go back to class."
Hawg added, "I hope you drank your orange juice this mornin'."
I started toward the bathroom and heard Mrs. Biddulph say to him, "All right, Hugh. You are here as a callback. Do you know what that means?"
I locked the bathroom door and carefully followed all the instructions. By the time I had washed and dried my hands and opened the door, Hawg's mood had turned angry. He was practically yelling at Mrs. Biddulph. "What? It took you two damn weeks to find one micromilligram?"
"Young man, watch your language, please."
Hawg struggled to control his temper. "Listen, ma'am. I don't smoke no damn reefer. I hate that stuff. That stuff ruined my mama's life."
Mrs. Biddulph said, "I am only telling you the result of the test. The rest is up to Mr. Archer. You can explain the situation to him."
"No, I'm gonna explain it to you right now, 'cause now I got her all figured out. Here's what happened. I rode home from practice with a buncha Florida boys, and one of them lit up a damn marijuana cigarette in the car. I didn't have nothin' to do with it. I was just sitting there breathing the damn air, and that's the god's honest truth."
Mrs. Biddulph said, "You'll have your chance to speak to Mr. Archer."
"You talkin' about the principal? Or Archie?"
"The principal."
"Damn."
"And please watch your language in here."
Mrs. Biddulph handed us each a guidance pass. Hawg and I walked back to class together, but he didn't say a word. I risked a quick sideways glance on the stairs. 1 couldn't tell for sure, but he appeared to have tears in his eyes.
I was hurrying through the rotunda at four o'clock when I spotted Uncle Frank. I couldn't believe my eyes. He was standing there talking to Devin. They looked like one of Suzie's Before and After poses.
When I got into Arcane, Dad was alone behind the register. I asked him, "Where's Kristin?"
He said, "I don't know, honey. I think they're doing something mysterious in the back."
"Who?"
"The two girls."
I walked back through the empty aisles and opened the office door. Kristin's voice yelled, "Who's that?"
I said, "It's me."
Nina answered, "Oh, good, Roberta, get in here."
I peered into the bathroom at the two of them. Kristin had her blouse unbuttoned. She was twisted around, trying to see her own back in the mirror.
Nina ordered, "Come in here and lock the door, Roberta. Now, tell me, what's that look like to you?"
I stared at Kristin's back and saw two circular red splotches behind her bra strap, like a pair of quarters. I said, "A rash?"
Nina agreed. "Yeah, that's it. You got some kinda rash goin' here."
Kristin was upset. "What are you talking about? A rash? What does that mean?"
I added, "Like a poison-ivy rash."
Nina smiled evilly. "Yeah, that's it. Looks like you've been rolling around outside with your blouse off, in some poison ivy."
Kristin snapped at her, "Shut up, Nina. What is it really?"
Nina said, "I'm not the doctor. We could ask my father, but he's at the Sunrise office today."
Kristin rebuttoned her blouse. Then we all piled out of the bathroom and went out front. Kristin told me, "I need to find my dad. Right away."
I heard Hawg and Ironman coming toward me from the SpecialTees side of the store. Hawg was deep into an explanation of his trip to the guidance office. They came to a stop in front of the counter, so he included me in it. "Hey, you know them boys I was riding with after practice? They was already called down for RDT the first week of school. So they knew they wasn't gonna be called again for the rest of the year. Hell, half the football team's already been called down—now they can do whatever the hell they want.
"Then, to top her all off, Mr. Homo gave me an F on that progress-report thing. Damn guidance mailed a copy of it to my house. Archie told me Mr. Homo failed the whole damn offensive line. But I'm the only one who had an F from him and a damn RDT report, so I'm the one they're trying to kick off the team."
Even Ironman looked shocked. He actually said something. "What are you going to do?"
"If they don't keep me on that team, I'll tell you what I'm gonna do, I'm goin' back up to Georgia."
I suggested, "Can't your father—I mean your stepfather—talk to Mr. Archer?"
"Sure he can, but he won't. I went home and told him the truth about them Florida boys and their reefer in the car. And he knows it's the truth. He knows I don't mess with no drugs. But he won't do a damn thing about it. So I told him, 'That's it. I'm goin' back up to Georgia. I'm gonna go play at my old high school up there, where they don't make you piss in no damn cup.'"
I said, "Well, you're only a junior. Can't you just wait and play next year?"
"Next year!" Hawg looked at me in amazement, like I had suggested something truly and impossibly bizarre. "There ain't no next year. I'm in my prime now, girl. I am college draft material right now. I aim to play football now, or die tryin'."
Suddenly Kristin, followed by Uncle Frank, hurried into the arcade. Uncle Frank announced, "I'm taking Kristin to the walk-in clinic." They continued on to the back. We didn't see them again after that.
At seven o'clock I took a break and walked up to the mall office. I opened the door as Suzie was telling Dad, "I've checked and rechecked the fountain. It's ready to go. I have Gene appearing as Toby the Turtle. Kids will like that. I have Channel Fifty-seven and Channel Three coming, and a reporter from the Atlantic News."
Dad threw out his hands. "So now you can relax. You're ready."
Suzie shook her head angrily, flopping her blond bangs. "That Mr. Knowlton
can be very rude. Let me tell you something—I've only known him for a month, and I've already had it up to here with his faxes, and his phone calls, and his FedEx deliveries. I'm doing everything I can for 'the candidate.'"
Dad said, "I know you are."
The door opened behind me, and Suzie's face lit up with a smile. She cried out, "Mr. Knowlton! So good to see you."
Philip Knowlton entered and set a leather briefcase on the floor. He appeared to be about forty, although his bald head made it difficult to tell. He was mostly thin, except for a very unhealthy-looking stomach protruding over his belt. He looked around the office without actually seeming to see us.
Once she realized he wasn't going to say anything, Suzie continued, "We're all ready to go on our end."
Mr. Knowlton finally looked at her. "That's good. We have six days until the candidate appears. How big a crowd are you expecting?"
"Probably about a hundred people."
"Demographics?"
"Pardon me?"
"What kind of people will make up this crowd?"
Suzie seemed confused. "Shoppers, mostly."
Knowlton pursed his lips. He spoke more slowly. "Old shoppers? Young shoppers? Males? Females? Middle class? Upper middle?"
"Oh, I'd say young females and their kids. Mostly middle class. Maybe some retired people."
Knowlton actually smiled at that. "You're kidding? Retired people? In South Florida?"
Dad and Suzie laughed.
"I want to do a man-in-the-street ad for Mr. Lyons. I'll need a young person, an old person, and some sort of minority."
Suzie assured him, "No problem." She looked over at me. "We'll get Roberta here, old Lombardo, and, uh, Sam. Sam's an Arab."
"Fine. And how exactly are you going to attract this crowd?"
Suzie had an idea. "Tell you what—I'll show you how exactly." She picked up the phone, dialed a number, and said, "Gene? It's Suzie. Can you come to the mall office right away? There's somebody here I'd like you to meet."
She hung up and said, "We will actually have two things to attract people—a costumed character for the little kids, and the rededication of the fountain for the grown-ups."