Rumble

  You just asked Vince for forgiveness.

  Maybe the price is giving it.

  I Haven’t Managed It

  By the time I get home. Man,

  not sure I can fall for a girl

  who can out-philosophize me.

  How annoying, although, in

  retrospect, sort of lovable, too.

  I’m softening a little, but then

  I walk past Luke’s room, where

  the open door leaks the scent

  of new paint. I peek in. Khaki,

  aka baby shit green. Lovely.

  How am I supposed to forgive

  that, not that it surprises me.

  Lorelei will forevermore be

  synonymous with baby shit green.

  That must mean her kids are little

  shits. Ha! I will take amusement

  where I can find it in this mess.

  Speaking of messes, the one that

  was my room this morning has

  been straightened away. I am not

  amused at that. “Hey, Lorelei,

  wherever you are!” I yell. “Leave

  my messes alone! They’re mine!”

  I Lock Myself In

  My artificially clean room,

  mess up the bed, just because,

  and when I peel back the quilt,

  I notice she’s changed the sheets.

  These smell of some unfamiliar

  detergent. It probably has a name

  like “Garden of Clean” or “Rain

  on Apple Trees.” Too feminine,

  and I bet it makes me itch.

  I give the sheets time to air out,

  go to my desk, and turn on

  my laptop, start writing a letter

  to the school board in my head.

  It would be easy to let emotions

  interfere with stating what should

  be obvious to any thinking person

  in a clear way. I remind myself

  not to use obscene language; not

  easy when it comes to Mr. DeLucca.

  Finally, I Type

  Dear Lane County School Board Members:

  I am writing to urge you to retain the book The Perks of Being a Wallflower in Lane County High School libraries and classrooms. This book is an honest representation of issues every young person is faced with, offering the necessary perspective teen readers need to make informed choices.

  Frank DeLucca, the man who is spearheading this challenge, wrote in a recent letter to the editor that many parents aren’t involved enough in their children’s lives. I agree with him there, and nowhere is this more apparent than when it comes to frank (excuse the pun) discussions about sex and sexuality. However, his assertion that dialogues about masturbation or rape somehow equate to pornography makes me worry a little about what arouses the man.

  That he chose to involve other members of his church and insinuate God into the conversation is likewise alarming. From what I’ve observed, “high moral standards” are not the exclusive domain of Christians, and the phrase itself is obscure. Who gets to define it or decide which literature fits that definition? I don’t know that much about the Bible, other than it was written thousands of years ago, which dilutes its relevance. However, I know its faithful followers tend to cherry-pick verses to suit their needs, the same way they cherry-pick words or scenes from other books to label obscene. It’s all about context, and if you don’t read a book in its entirety, there is no context. Have these people who are challenging Perks actually read it, or are they relying on Internet research to find objectionable material?

  Finally, I must address the “homosexual agenda” accusation. First of all, what agenda, exactly, is that? Demanding the equal rights promised by the Constitution, rights already afforded them by the Supreme Court of the United States? Second, what’s next? Removing books with Muslim characters, because these somehow promote Sharia law? Banning books with Latino characters because they might make readers sympathetic to immigration reform?

  In discussing the challenge, my English teacher, Ms. Hannity, said some kids have no one to speak for them. My little brother was one of those kids. Luke was gay, and nobody spoke for him. If he were here today, I’d make sure to give him books like Perks, with characters who could speak for him, so he’d know he wasn’t alone and that he’d find his way eventually.

  But Luke isn’t here. He took his own life, a victim of intolerance. Maybe if the kids who drove him over the brink had read the right books, they would’ve understood that being gay doesn’t make you bad or even different. It’s an intrinsic element of who you are. Maybe they would have shown the tolerance their parents and ministers never taught them.

  There are young people who need books to speak for them. And there are others who need books to speak to them. Perks is a necessary book for all. Please keep it on our bookshelves, with unrestricted access. And please don’t allow a clearly prejudiced few to decide for the rest of this community what we may or may not read.

  When I Finish

  I go back, insert business

  letter headers and the date,

  clean up spelling

  and grammar, clarify

  meaning. Sign my name

  at the bottom.

  The content satisfies

  me, but in writing

  it, one thing crystallized.

  I was Luke’s big brother.

  It was my job to be his voice,

  and I failed miserably.

  I never told anyone about

  him being depressed or

  taking Mom’s pills.

  Both probably contributed

  to his decision. And I didn’t say

  a word. Not even a hint.

  Neither did I confront those

  jerkwads, tell them to back off

  or face imminent destruction.

  No, I, in my infinite wisdom,

  decided the best way

  to proceed was to do nothing,

  to let it all blow away like wildfire

  smoke, and that’s what I told

  Luke to do, too. “It will get

  better, just like everyone says.”

  Was it because I believed

  the counsel or because it was

  the easier route? Even before

  all the shit stirred up,

  when Luke first came out to me

  I begged him to stay quiet.

  I’m just as guilty of intolerance

  as anyone else.

  I was his brother.

  I should have been his voice.

  Instead, I was his censor.

  It’s a Two Pills to Sleep

  Kind of night. No booze

  chaser. Don’t want to emerge

  from my room, nor risk

  confrontation.

  I settle into my

  strange-smelling bed,

  think about firing up my music.

  Instead, for some

  inexplicable reason,

  I call Alexa, who is surprised,

  and pleased, that my churning

  brain chose to dial her number.

  The problem with pills

  is they make you want to spill

  your guts, but your tongue

  grows thick and your stream

  of thought slows to a trickle.

  Still, after two or three

  sentences of minuscule talk,

  and a couple of false starts,

  I manage to come clean

  about both the pills

  and what’s bothering me.

  “I sucked as a brother.

  If only . . . I mean . . . ah,

  Jesus. I can’t fix any of this.

  I can’t bring him back.

  And no one but me

  gives a shit, you know?”

  I do. Her voice is a gentle

  wave lapping against

  my ear. No one can bring

  him back, Matt, a
nd there’s

  more than enough guilt

  to go around. Get some

  sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.

  I think she’ll hang up,

  but instead she starts singing

  in a clear, beautiful alto,

  Linkin Park’s “What I’ve Done.”

  The lyrics swallow me.

  Will mercy ever come and

  wash away what I’ve done?

  Or maybe, more accurately,

  what I didn’t do.

  When I Turn In

  My letter, Mr. Wells reads

  it on the spot, along with

  several others. He observes,

  Looks like we’re coming

  down around five to one

  in favor of keeping the book

  available. Does anyone care

  to share what they wrote?

  Hands go up. Mine is not

  among them. I have no desire

  to share. At least, not until one

  of the Biblettes, Kerri Cook,

  decides to read hers. The highlights

  (although “high” is an incorrect

  reference) come straight from

  the Frank DeLucca Handbook:

  • Community standards . . .

  • Impressionable children . . .

  • Easy access to pornography . . .

  • Doing battle for the Lord . . .

  As She Reads

  I do a little Web search on

  my phone, and when she finishes

  I blurt out, “Do you even know

  the definition of pornography?”

  Well . . . not exactly, she admits.

  Dirty books and pictures?

  “Dirty? You mean, like,

  they need a bath? But no,

  as per the World English

  Dictionary, pornography

  is ‘words, pictures, films,

  etc. designed to stimulate

  sexual excitement.’ Do you

  believe that’s what Stephen

  Chbosky was trying to do

  when he wrote Perks?”

  Um, probably not, but what if

  that’s an unintended side effect?

  “Does reading about rape

  turn you on? Because if it

  does, you might as well stop

  battling for the Lord. You’ve

  already lost the war.”

  Gasps and Whistles

  Send Kerri back to her seat,

  beet-faced. Mr. Wells does

  his best to rein in the noise.

  Okay. That’s enough. Can we

  show a little respect for opinions

  that differ from our own, please?

  I really think you ought to read

  what you wrote, Matt, since

  you’re clearly on opposite sides.

  He offers my letter and I reach

  out to take it. “I guess. Whatever.”

  I’m usually not big on standing

  up in front of a bunch of people

  and sharing my opinion verbally.

  I much prefer writing my thoughts

  down on paper. Fortunately, I have

  that in front of me, and when I finish,

  most everyone, with obvious exceptions,

  joins a chorus of approval—right ons,

  and yeahs and a no shit or two. Poor

  Kerri can only cross her arms and frown.

  Finally, Mr. Wells breaks it up.

  Ahem. Okay. Thank you for

  the well-organized and thoughtful

  way you pleaded your case, Matt.

  You, too, Kerri. I’d like both of you—

  no, all of you—to consider attending

  the school board meeting. I’m happy

  to send these letters ahead, but

  showing up in person and asking

  to be heard is much more powerful.

  It’s important for the board to understand

  the impact their decision will have.

  The meeting is next Thursday evening

  at seven o’clock, here in the cafetorium.

  Come see how government works.

  When Class Breaks Up

  And I start toward the door,

  Mr. Wells catches me.

  One second, Matt. I really

  do hope you’ll come to that

  meeting. I’m afraid the other

  side is going to be quite well

  represented. They’re very

  organized. There needs to be

  a strong contingent speaking

  out against censorship, and

  your letter is a compelling

  argument. You’d be a great help.

  “Thanks, Mr. Wells, but I’m

  not sure the school board would

  care about hearing from me.”

  The classroom has emptied,

  a fact he confirms before he

  adds, I hear Frank DeLucca

  is running for a school board

  position. I think this is a grand-

  stand play to get his name out

  there. If he manages to sway

  the current board, it would

  definitely position him well.

  The last thing we need are zealots

  in charge of our schools, yeah?

  Please think about attending.

  DeLucca’s decisions probably

  wouldn’t affect me, but he’s got

  a point. “I’ll try to be there. And, hey,

  maybe I should run for the school

  board!” It’s supposed to be a joke.

  So why does he say, Maybe

  you should. Are you a registered

  voter? That’s the main requirement,

  and living in the district you run in.

  Of course, you might have a better

  chance of winning in a year or two.

  But as I told you, I really think you

  should consider politics, and school

  board is a good place to get your feet

  wet. And maybe major in poli-sci?

  The Dude Is Relentless

  “Thanks, Mr. Wells. I’ll keep

  that on my radar.” Me, a politician?

  Don’t you have to be morally

  bankrupt and heavily connected

  to old guys with vaults full of

  money to burn? I don’t know

  many of those, but even if I did,

  I’d probably try to get them to buy

  me something better than a school

  board position. Still, I just might

  attend that meeting. It would be

  fun to go full throttle up against

  Hayden’s Peeping Tom father.

  That thought stays with me the rest

  of the day, and people probably

  think the big-ass grin I’m wearing

  is indicative of an impending mental

  breakdown. Can’t wait, Mr. DeLucca.

  Alexa Catches Up

  With me after school.

  I have to admit it’s kind of nice

  having someone—anyone—come

  looking for me who doesn’t have

  an ulterior motive. Or does she?

  Are you busy this afternoon?

  Have time to drive me home?

  Okay, not the worst ulterior

  motive and I don’t have anything

  to do but homework. “Not busy.

  Happy to drive you home.”

  We are barely out of the parking

  lot when she says, Any chance

  we can go somewhere and talk?

  Shazam! I hear Martha tell me,

  Communication is key to any

  relationship. I suppose Alexa and

  I do have a relationship of some kind.

  “Do you have someplace in mind?”

  Anywhere, really. I just have

  something I need to tell you.

 
Something She Needs to Tell Me?

  Crap! No, it can’t be that. She swore . . .

  Wait. How effective is the pill?

  Ninety-eight percent, yeah? “Okay,

  but can you give me a little hint?”

  Just please take me somewhere

  we can talk privately? Somewhere

  I can walk home from in Steve

  Maddens if I must. It’s a joke,

  and she smiles, but doesn’t offer

  another word, and, disturbed

  only by the metronome rhythm

  of the windshield wipers, the silence

  swells with uneasy anticipation

  until we reach one of my favorite

  contemplation spots next to the river.

  “This okay?” She nods, then withdraws

  again for several long minutes.

  Finally, I’m not good at keeping

  my feelings stashed inside, so please

  forgive me if I make you uncomfortable. . . .

  She Tells Me

  She realizes Hayden

  is still a ragged wound,

  that this isn’t a demand

  for commitment, or for

  me to hurry and make up

  my confused mind.

  (Okay, the “confused”

  is my interpretation of

  the tone of her voice.)

  I just need to know

  if there’s any chance

  of an “us.” I feel like

  there might be. When

  we’re together, we have

  fun, and there was that night,

  which was spectacular

  and . . . I mean, I don’t

  mind waiting, as long as . . .

  She’s so adorable and

  genuine and anxious,

  I can’t help myself.

  I Reach Across

  The seat, pull her to me, and

  before my lips can even find

  hers, she offers her tongue.

  I suck it into my mouth,

  and the slippery dance begins.

  Her lips taste of berry gloss,

  too subtle to be seen, but delicious

  to savor. Her dark hair is a silky

  cape down the length of her back,

  and when I thread my fingers

  through it, the luscious perfume

  of her shampoo envelops me.

  We kiss without pause for a very

  long time, and when she pulls back

  to take in air, I kiss down her neck,

  back up her jawline to her ear.