“What?”
“I’m Ronnie,” I said, a little louder.
“Oh,” she said. “Hi, I’m Jamie.”
She turned back to her magazine, but then looked over to me.
“You don’t happen to be left handed, do you?” Her tone was hopeful.
Before I could say no, a tall, bald man in a bright-blue blazer scrambled into the room. His posture was hunched, jittery. He looked truly excited to be teaching this subject, which made me nervous as hell. Benji Cutis, one of our beloved class clowns, gulped comically loud, sending a wave of chuckles through the room.
The teacher sat some papers on his desk, then turned to us.
“Ladies, gentlemen, welcome to Government Two. I’m Mr. Donahue. Now, I know some of you may still be on a mental vacation, but I expect that problem to rectify itself as soon as we—”
The intercom above the door hummed to life.
“Hello students,” Principal Yonker said through the speaker. “Welcome back. Before we get to the morning announcements, let us stand for the Pledge of Allegiance.”
The entire class stood up.
We faced the flag above the window. The morning light gave it an ethereal glow. We covered our hearts, our eyes fixed on the flag. Every kid in the building stood the same way: half-awake and barely conscious of our actions, let alone their meaning. Then we mumbled the unkeepable promise of our fathers, once again.
“IPLEDGEALLEGIANCE
TOTHEFLAGOFTHEUNITEDSTATESOFAMERICA
ANDTOTHEREPUBLICFORWHICHITSTANDS
ONENATIONUNDERGOD
INDIVISABLE
WITHLIBERTY
ANDJUSTICE
FOR—”
―
“All I know is this: if Bill says she’s a gook, she’s a fucking gook.”
It was the first thing I heard when I entered the locker room, and I instantly knew who said it. Stink Wilson’s voice was as loud and grating as mine was hoarse and subdued.
Stink wrestled 165, but his imposing nature made him seem twenty pounds heavier. He had a face to match his voice, all raw zits and meanness. Kids like him weren’t usually popular, but he possessed an asset more powerful than looks or charm—horror. Sophomore year, there were rumors he stabbed a colored boy in Old Town. I thought the rumor was bullshit, but wasn’t eager to test that theory.
I turned the corner to find him and Marty at their lockers getting changed. Milo was sitting on a bench nearby, lacing his wrestling shoes and not making eye contact with the two bigger boys. He nodded when he saw me. I nodded back, and opened my locker.
“Bill don’t know what a gook looks like,” Marty said to Stink. “He ain’t never been to Vietnam.”
“Bill knows,” Stink said, crossing his arms for dramatic effect. “His cousin sent him snapshots from Saigon, pictures of hookers. So Bill knows, man, and he said she has that gooky-eyed whorehouse look.”
His words made Milo flinch, as if he’d been stung by something.
“I heard she’s a chink,” Marty responded, “but I’m like, if she is a chink, why don’t she go to the colored school? How’s that even legal?”
Milo’s brow creased cartoonishly low and his leg began to twitch.
“She ain’t colored enough for the coloreds,” Stink shrugged, “but she ain’t white, and she ain’t a chink. Once she sets herself on fire to protest meatloaf day in the cafeteria, you’ll see how wrong ya were.”
“Jesus Christ!” Milo yelled, stomping his foot on the floor.
My back tensed. I tried to play it cool as I changed my clothes, but my nerves were on high alert. I prepped myself for a fight that I wasn’t looking to join.
“I’m fuckin’ disturbed that you two made it past fifth grade,” Milo said. “She’s half Japanese, not Vietnamese, and it’s legal for her to be here because school segregation ended fourteen years ago!”
“Not down here,” Stink huffed.
Which was true. Every school in the state remained segregated despite Brown v. Board of Education, and they’d stay that way for the foreseeable future.
“Watch yourself, spazoid,” Marty said. “Just ’cause you’re a dork don’t mean ya can suss out a chink from a gook from a jap from a goddamn space alien.”
“I don’t have to suss shit out,” he scoffed, “Hana told me she’s half Japanese, that’s a pretty good fuckin’ indication. Y’all just quit it with the ‘gook’ shit.”
Then Milo sighed and sat back down. I could tell he was exhausted by the argument. It was understandable. Trying to reason with these guys was like debating with a goldfish.
“You really talked to her?” Marty asked.
“Believe it or not, Marty,” Milo sneered, “asking works better than trying to decipher Bill’s secondhand jerk-off pictures.”
“Talked to who?” I finally asked, before Marty could reply.
“The new girl,” Milo said. “Hana. I met her this morning on the way to school. Her family moved into the Criswells’ old place, right across the street from us.”
“There goes the neighborhood,” Stink grumbled.
Milo looked back to Stink and Marty.
“You better be careful,” Milo said. “Her pops works for the Browning Corporation, and they just bought stake in the P&P. Hana told me they sent him here to assess the viability of the mill—including the usefulness of the employees.”
Marty and Stink looked at each other nervously.
The Cordelia Island Paper & Pulp Mill employed the majority of men in town. Marty’s dad, Stink’s dad, and pretty much everyone’s dad worked there—everyone but mine, who was six doors down, and Milo’s, who was six feet under.
“Jeez,” I said, feigning concern, “if her dad overheard your racist jive, then—“
“Poof!” Milo said, spreading his arms like a mushroom cloud. “Your fathers will be begging for change on the street, and they’ll sell the mill for scrap.”
Stink slammed his locker. Marty was bigger, so he slammed his harder.
“She lied to you,” Stink snapped. “She lied about the mill, and she lied about being a jap! I bet she’s a V. C. assassin sent here to take me out! High Command knows my boots hit the ground next year, and they’re already scared as hell. Every gook in my path is gonna be dead meat!”
“Yeah,” Marty yelled, “gook meat!”