Keith looked like a mummy with his face wrapped in gauze. Only his eyes showed. A straw protruded from his mouth through the gauze. Two holes allowed him to breathe through his nose. An IV bag hung beside the bed. A tube from it ran into Keith’s arm—he was totally helpless, unable to talk or move. Fear flashed into his eyes when he saw Cole approach. His gaze darted around the room for help.
Cole fumbled with his words. “I just came to see how you’re doing.”
After staring up for a moment, Keith reached to his side and picked up a notepad and pen. Awkwardly he scribbled a message and handed it to Cole. The note said, Why are you here?
“To see how you’re doing,” Cole repeated. “I don’t want you hurt.”
Keith scribbled another note and handed it to Cole. It said, Thanks for the help.
“No big deal,” Cole mumbled. “You were choking and bleeding—nobody else was helping you.”
Keith stared up curiously.
Cole coughed and looked around. Keith’s parents were watching him. “Hey, we gotta run,” Cole said to Keith. “I just wanted to check on you. Get better, okay.”
“Yeah, g-g-get better,” Peter said.
As Cole and Peter turned to leave, Keith’s father stopped them. “Thanks for coming. I’m Troy Arnold, Keith’s dad.” He put out his hand. “And your names are?”
Cole shook his hand. “I’m Cole,” he said. “And this is Peter.”
The man frowned. “You’re not Cole Matthews, the boy who filed assault charges against my son?”
“He beat me up pretty bad,” Cole said, pointing to his own black eye and swollen cheek. He lifted his shirt to show his bruises.
Mrs. Arnold gasped. “Then why are you here today?”
Cole hesitated. “I’m not exactly sure, but I didn’t want Keith hurt. I gotta get going.”
“That was too weird,” Peter said as they rode the elevator down to the main floor. “Way too weird. Why did you do that?”
Cole didn’t answer.
“Hello, Planet Earth to Cole.”
Cole stopped on the sidewalk outside the hospital and faced Peter. “When my mom gets home tonight, I’m going down to drop the charges against Keith.”
Peter frowned. “You’ve really lost it now. First you visit Keith at the hospital and then you drop the charges? Excuuuse me! This is the jerk who beat you up and tried to run you over. You should be beating the snot out of him.”
“I am still fighting him,” Cole said, realizing it even as he spoke.
“By visiting him at the hospital and dropping charges?”
Cole nodded. “I’m fighting him with my heart.”
Peter jabbed a finger in Cole’s chest. “You’re really weird.”
Cole wanted to be quiet without hurting Peter’s feelings, so he pointed to a small knoll just past the end of the parking lot. “Let’s go sit on that hill and try to be invisible.”
“Okay.”
Soon both boys were sitting quietly on the grassy knoll, their eyes closed. This time Cole focused his mind simply on being empty. He pretended he was a big leaky bucket hanging from a hook, and every drip from the bucket made him emptier. The water dripped slower and slower and slower. For nearly an hour he imagined water leaking out until finally the bucket was completely dry and floated away into the sky. As the bucket disappeared, Cole opened his eyes.
He found two robins close by picking worms from the grass. Sensing another presence, Cole glanced up and caught his breath. Barely twenty feet away stood the old homeless man, his ragged white blanket draped over his shoulders. Baggy pants hung from his bony frame, but his shirt was tucked in and his pant cuffs were rolled up neatly so they didn’t drag on the ground. The bum stood motionless on the grass, halfway between them and his cart. His gaze was relaxed, as if he had been standing there for some time.
Cole reached out and touched Peter’s arm. Peter opened his eyes, blinked, and spotted the old man. He started to stand but stopped when the homeless man crouched and placed something in the grass. Without looking back, the man retreated and continued down the sidewalk, pushing his cart.
Peter jumped to his feet and ran to retrieve the object. “It’s the same bear he was carving the day the police arrested him, except now it’s finished,” he exclaimed.
Cole took the miniature bear and rolled it in his fingers, tracing his thumb over the delicate body. “It looks real enough to start breathing,” he said. “Why did he give it to us?”
“Maybe because I gave him the bear I carved,” Peter said. “Or maybe he knows we returned his cart to him that day.”
“Maybe,” Cole said.
Chapter 9
THAT EVENING, COLE told his mother he wanted to drop charges against Keith.
“You’re making a huge mistake,” she argued.
“It’s what I need to do,” Cole insisted. He told her of his visit to the hospital. “Do you remember when Garvey said I should try fighting with my heart?”
“Are you sure this is what he meant?”
Cole wasn’t sure of anything, but it seemed right. He nodded.
“Okay then, let’s go—I’ll get the car keys,” she said.
As Cole had figured, the police tried to talk him out of dropping charges. “We need people to stand up and fight,” the sergeant argued. “That’s all thugs understand.”
“I am fighting. In my own way.”
“You’re chickening out,” the sergeant insisted.
Cole didn’t know how to explain to the officer that it had taken far more courage to visit Keith in the hospital than to file charges or fight him with fists. A huge weight lifted off his shoulders as he walked from the police station. It was the first time in his life that he felt he had really won a fight, not by controlling Keith but by controlling his own reaction. This was what Garvey had been talking about.
Cole rode home with his mother, lost in thought. He had always assumed that when two people fought, someone needed to lose. But today, nobody had lost. Cole realized he had done more than make it hard for Keith to be an enemy. By preserving Keith’s dignity, he had also saved his own.
It was a week before Keith returned to school, his cheeks and nose still bandaged. Cole spotted him in the hallway and approached him. “How are you doing?” he asked.
Distrust showed in Keith’s eyes. “How does it look like I’m doing?”
“Man, you really crashed hard,” Cole said. “Are you okay?”
“It hurts to talk and I have trouble breathing. Does that make you happy?”
“I didn’t want you hurt,” Cole said.
He could see Keith struggling with his emotions. “Thanks for dropping the charges,” Keith said. “Why did you do that? And why did you help me when I crashed and then come to see me in the hospital?”
Cole shrugged. “To show you I wasn’t a jerk.”
Keith stared down at his shoes. “I’m the one who’s been a jerk.”
The bell rang.
“We better get going,” Cole said, feeling the world lift from his shoulders.
Cole felt good to be sorting some things out for himself, but Minneapolis Central High still simmered with fear and anger. Tensions ran high, and each morning the bulldog’s pedestal was tagged with new gang symbols. Many students feared coming to school. Cole wondered how long it would be before something boiled over.
His answer came all too soon.
That weekend the school was vandalized; windows were broken and paint was sprayed on the front doors.
After school on Monday, Cole was waiting patiently for Peter near the front entrance. Students milled around, talking and waiting for rides. When Peter didn’t show, Cole returned inside. From the hallway, he spotted a commotion in the main office. Peter’s parents were there, along with Ms. Kennedy and the school nurse, all crowding around someone in a chair. Cole ran in to find Peter, sitting bent over, clothes torn and face bruised and swollen. “What happened?” he cried.
Peter’s father turn
ed and gave Cole a shove. “Get away from our son.”
Cole backed away and watched as Peter was helped to his feet and led, limping, from the office. His lip was cut and his eye was swollen, nearly closed.
“What happened?” Cole asked the secretary.
“He was attacked in one of the bathrooms. Somebody turned out the lights and beat him up.”
Cole thought he might vomit. Peter had worked so hard and come so far—he didn’t deserve this. Cole felt responsible. Stomach churning, he walked from the school and wandered aimlessly. He wished he was on a spaceship leaving Earth, never to return.
When he finally got home, Cole skipped eating and told his mother he didn’t feel good. He spent the evening lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
The next morning at school, word of Peter getting beat up was overshadowed by news that one of the students had committed suicide by taking a bunch of drugs. It turned out to be the girl who’d been called a slut the first day of school—the one Cole had helped when she was hassled in the cafeteria. Her mother had found a note beside her bed saying she couldn’t take being picked on anymore.
Talk of the suicide spread like wildfire. Cole walked the halls feeling numb. First the vandalism, then Peter’s beating, and now this! His eyes filled with tears. It was crazy, so crazy. Suicide hadn’t killed the girl. The kids who tormented her were the real killers.
After school, Cole returned home and called Peter’s house. When there was no answer, he tried calling Garvey. As the phone rang and rang, Cole squeezed the handset harder. “C’mon! Don’t they give parole officers answering machines?” he muttered with building frustration. He was about to hang up when Garvey answered.
“Hello?”
“Garvey, this is Cole. Did you hear about Peter getting beat up?”
“No, what happened?”
Cole tried to keep his voice from shaking. “Someone turned the lights out in the bathroom and beat him up really bad.”
“How is he now?”
“I don’t know. Nobody answers the phone. His parents won’t let me near him. And then, last night, a girl at school committed suicide. This place is going crazy.”
“Those are bad things,” Garvey said plainly. “What are you doing about it?”
“The principal is the only one who can do anything, and she doesn’t care,” Cole said.
“There’s always something you can do.”
“It’s not that easy,” Cole protested. “I can’t just snap my fingers and fix a whole school.”
“Did I say it would be easy?” said Garvey. “But when the ground is torn up, that’s when you plant seeds.”
“We’re not talking about farming here,” Cole said. He fought to keep his voice calm. “This is something wrong with our whole stupid school.”
“Then get busy,” Garvey said.
“Doing what?”
“That’s something you need to figure out for yourself.”
“You’re a big help,” Cole snapped, slamming down the phone.
Frustrated, he walked back to the school grounds. Most of the students had left, but a few remained near a memorial that had been set up on the front lawn for the dead girl, Trish Edwards. Cole walked around the football field and gathered a handful of wildflowers. He placed them beside her picture with a note that said simply, Nobody can pick on you now. He signed his name, tears welling in his eyes.
The principal was heading to her car. She noticed Cole and walked over to him. “I’m sorry for what has happened to Peter and to Trish. Did you know her?”
Cole nodded. “A little. I knew something like this would happen if you didn’t do something!”
Ms. Kennedy pressed a fist against her lips and blinked back tears. “I can’t bring Trish back but I am doing something.” Her voice shook as she continued. “I was so worried about my job, about pleasing parents, teachers, the superintendent, and school board members. All along, I should have been most concerned about the students.”
“What are you doing?”
“You’ll see tomorrow.”
Cole watched the principal walk away. She looked tired, but she walked in a determined way that Cole had not noticed before.
The next morning, an assembly was called for the first period. Cole knew something was up—metal detectors, manned by police officers, had been installed inside both entrances.
On his way to the gym, Cole spotted Peter, who kept glancing around fearfully as he walked. His face was still swollen and bruised. Cole ran up to him. “Are you okay?” he asked, surprised to see Peter back in school.
“No,” Peter said without looking up. “I want to go back to the island where nobody can ever pick on me again.”
“I want that myself,” Cole said. They entered the gym to find half a dozen police officers patrolling the bleachers. Teachers who usually ignored all the shouting, shoving, and hitting were warning students who acted up.
“What is this? A drug bust?” one student shouted.
Ms. Kennedy stepped up to the microphone. At first she made no effort to quiet the students. She just stood and watched the chaos. Finally she tapped on the microphone and called out, “Okay, listen up everyone!”
“Shut up, you old witch!” a boy behind Cole shouted.
There was scattered laughter.
A teacher motioned for the student to come down from the bleachers.
“Go screw yourself!” the boy shouted, loudly enough to be heard across the gym.
Immediately a police officer came over, reaching for his handcuffs. “Come down now or you’ll be arrested!” he shouted.
Surprised, the boy came down. He flashed a peace sign and grinned as he was led from the gym to prove he wasn’t afraid. Cole guessed he was probably wetting his pants.
“Okay,” Ms. Kennedy said, “who else would like to leave at this time?”
An uneasy hush fell over the gym. The principal continued. “This week, we had a suicide, an assault on a student, and major vandalism.” Ms. Kennedy stopped and pointed at a girl who was grabbing another student’s hair. An officer stepped in and led the girl away.
“What you just witnessed was assault,” said the principal. “And that girl will be charged. If you shoved, kicked, or slapped a stranger downtown, you would be guilty of assault. The law does not change just because you are in a school.
“I don’t want to hear anyone say ‘I only teased someone a little bit.’ If you stab somebody a little or a lot, either way, you’ve stabbed him.” She let the words sink in and then continued. “The biggest lie ever told to you is that sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never harm you. This week, words killed one of your classmates.
“Words can be weapons, and beginning today, no student will speak to or touch any other student in a way that demeans, threatens, hurts, or causes even the slightest fear or intimidation. If you do, you’re guilty of assault. As of today, this school has zero tolerance. And zero means zero!”
“Hey, Hitler, what happened to free speech?” yelled a student from the middle of the bleachers.
As he was led away, the principal held up her hand. “Let’s talk about free speech. The Constitution of America, contrary to your belief, does not permit hate speech. Free speech is the freedom of responsible speech.”
Cole looked across the bleachers. Most kids were listening, but a few continued to yawn, talk, or harass others.
The principal studied the students. “You are probably wondering about the police officers. They are here to remind each of you that no one is above the law. Each day, if your behavior improves, there will be fewer officers. My hope is that your maturity and responsibility will allow them to leave soon.
“Also, as of now, this school has a dress code—the guidelines are now posted in the halls. Using gestures, colors, or symbols to intimidate others will no longer be allowed. Tomorrow, no student will be permitted in the school if he or she is not following those rules.
“Students, an educati
on is money in your pockets. You let somebody rob you of that, you are letting them steal money from you. Now, unless there are questions, the gym will be dismissed one section at a time beginning on the east side. There will be no standing until your section is called. Anyone who shouts will be detained.”
The principal removed her glasses in thought, and then stepped back to the microphone. “Students,” she said, “hiring more police officers or passing more rules isn’t a solution for what happened here. I challenge each of you to ask yourself what you personally might have done to contribute to this week’s senseless tragedies. How could you have helped prevent them? Each of us carries blame, including me. Nothing will ever change unless we change.”
All of this was too little, too late, Cole thought as he left the gym. Nobody would look in a mirror. Nothing would change. What had the teachers done before all this stuff happened? What had anybody done?
Chapter 10
COLE WASN’T ABLE to talk with Peter during the day, but after school he caught up to his friend and gave him a big hug. “Who hurt you?” he asked.
Peter shook his head. “It doesn’t m-m-matter.”
“You and I need to have a talk,” Cole said.
Peter shrugged as they headed away from the school grounds. For several long minutes neither of them spoke. Peter kept his head down and finally he muttered, “I did like you did. Every time I was picked on, I told the bullies I’d report whoever touched me. It worked until I w-w-went into the bathroom and somebody shut off the lights. Then a bunch of guys started hitting me and kicking me.”
“Was it Keith and his friends?”
“It was dark and they never said anything when they were beating me up,” Peter said. “I’d be really pissed if Keith was one of them after you helped him.”
“Me, too,” Cole agreed. “Are you okay now?”
“No, I’m not okay.” Peter broke into tears. “I’m scared. Everything’s messed up—I keep having nightmares and I can’t think straight. My parents always argue over me, and I don’t think people will ever quit picking on me.”