The first bell rings, which cuts off whatever Rose was going to say because in order to make it to our class before the second bell sounds, we have to run. Side by side, we race across the street and down the sidewalk, dodging the other stragglers and the large outdoor screens that flank the front door entry like sentries. The one to the right is dedicated to a running display of times and dates for school- and student-appropriate city events. The other is set to local news, as are the two screens in the cafeteria. As Principal Velshi has said in every assembly, the only way we can be sure what we want to do when we go out into the world is to first understand what is happening in it.
The truth, however, is that no one really cares what the chirpy anchor with the plastic-looking hair is saying about the stepped-up recycling effort as students shove their way to the front entrance. Assistant Principal Schmidt is near the door, shouting over the din for everyone to hurry up.
Breathing hard, Rose pushes her way forward. I’m about to follow when a bus pulls away from the curb. Out of the corner of my eye I catch the flash of red lights. I turn, thinking the light must be from one of the announcement screens, but it’s not. The flashing is coming from atop a police car in the distance. I stop walking as men in charcoal-gray suits shove a struggling person with magenta-and-black-streaked hair toward an open police car door. One of the suits backhands the man he’s escorting across the cheek. I flinch and hold my breath as I keep watching. The suit yells and points toward the street. He’s too far away from me to make out what he said, but several navy-blue-uniformed officers nod and race toward some bushes near the edge of the street.
“Meri, come on!” Rose tugs on my arm, and I start moving again toward the front entrance. I glance back in time to see the suited men shove the cuffed, shouting perpetrator into the police car and slam the door. Just before I step into the school, a uniformed officer pulls something out of a bush.
As I race down the hall trying to beat the next bell, I picture the scene from across the street and the item the officer waved in triumph at the suits.
It wasn’t something anyone used anymore.
Obsolete, but not illegal.
So why, I wonder as the bell rings just as I am sliding into my seat, did the police arrest someone over a piece of paper?
Two
My father once told me that when I was little I would stare at an object for hours. My head cocked to one side. My hazel eyes wide and focused. Never moving or saying a word. He said it was the way that I studied the world that made him realize I was going to be a visual artist, just like my mother. It was as if I was compelled to learn everything about the color and shape of a thing in order to understand it and myself.
I am staring out the window of my math class now at the scraggly bush far in the distance where hours ago the policeman found that paper. There is no sign of the flashing lights or men in suits. Just a sparrow sitting on a rusty-brown branch and sunlight shining on the forest-green leaves.
But still I focus out the window, looking for—I’m not sure what. No matter how I try to think about something else, I can’t erase the image of the man with magenta-streaked hair being struck by the officer before being shoved into the police car from my thoughts. Had that white page the officer dug out of the tree truly been the cause of the violence and the arrest?
It didn’t seem possible. Few people can afford the environmental tax that is charged to anyone who purchases anything made with paper. And even if they can pay the price, most would never bother. There was no reason to. Tablets are just as easy to write on and writing on paper is not only extravagant and unnecessary, it’s selfish. It means you don’t care about fresh air and the environment. My dad was proud that his parents were some of the first to recycle all paper in their house. Mom’s insistence on using canvases was always a sore spot between them, even though the canvases were made of linen, not pulp. He thought it would reflect badly on our entire family if anyone learned we created that kind of waste.
“Five minutes,” Mr. Greene announces. “Some of you might want to think about paying attention to the review in front of you instead of what you intend to do with your summer vacation. These are just like the questions you are going to have on tomorrow’s final exam.”
I look at Mr. Greene, who meets my eyes with a nod. He mouths, “You can do it,” and points down at the tablet sitting on my desk. I clutch my stylus tight, and I force my eyes to focus on the problems displayed in black and white on the screen.
If I expect my father to pull himself together and focus at work, I should be able to do it, too.
My teachers for the most part have been understanding of my situation, but I am not the greatest student on my best day. Unlike Rose, I have to really study if I want to get good grades. As it stands now, I have to do well on my finals or, concealer or not, people will start wondering if something is wrong.
I scribble numbers. I list whatever information I can come up with on the proofs that I am not sure how to solve, while wishing that I had taken Rose up on her offer to study with me last night. She is seated near the door, and by the way she is toying with her stylus I can tell she has already completed the work. Not a surprise. Ever since first grade, Rose has caught on to assignments faster than me, probably because she just does the work and doesn’t insist on understanding what practical use the information has. I’m annoying that way.
Somehow, I manage to come up with answers for all the questions by the time Mr. Greene says, “Time is up. Now let’s go over the questions one by one. If we do this right, you should be ready to ace your final exam.”
A bunch of guys behind me groan, and Mr. Greene laughs.
“Think of it this way,” he says, pushing up his green-wire-rimmed glasses. “The sooner tomorrow’s test is over the sooner your summer can begin.”
There are several high fives and calls to cancel the final exam as Mr. Greene quickly talks through the review test. He is going through the last problem for the third time as the bell rings. Everyone grabs their stuff and scrambles for the door. Over the chatter and sound of scraping chairs and desks, he shouts a reminder to get a good night’s rest. Rose raises her eyebrow at me from where she waits near the exit, pausing there so we can walk together to our next classes. I grab my bag off the back of my seat and glance out the window one last time.
A guy in a black hooded sweatshirt, blue jeans, and black high-top sneakers is strolling down the sidewalk toward the bush I’ve been staring at. He slows for a second and I wonder if maybe he sees something the police missed. But he keeps walking.
“How did you do on the review?” Rose asks as we navigate the noisy hallway.
“Fine,” I say. “A few things were wrong, but I understand enough to pass tomorrow’s test.” Which might not be good enough for Rose but is perfectly fine for me.
“Why don’t we get together after school and study?” Rose offers, waving to one of her brother’s friends. “Mom is working at home today, but she won’t mind if you come over.” Mrs. Webster can focus even when Rose and I are at our silliest. Rose’s dad cares less about fun and far more about the rules. I never see Rose when she runs out of excuses and finally has to spend a weekend at his place.
When I hesitate answering, she smiles and adds, “Isaac will probably be around, too.”