sit next to Tom Miller in the back of Mr. Trehorn’s classroom. I didn’t used to be a back-of-the-classroom student. But it’s not so bad, being in the back, the backs of everyone’s heads spread out before me, Mr. Trehorn standing up at the board, turning to write something down, turning back to explain what he’s written down. Notebooks open. Pens scratching. Legs stretched in the aisle. The windows open and the sound of the birds outside, and the custodian mowing the far edge of the school grounds, next to the trees that line the edge of the soccer field.
Once in a while someone’s head swivels to the back, to sneak a peek at me. Rose Latham with the brain-dead sister. Rose Latham who used to sit in the front row. Rose Latham the slut. Next to me Tom Miller doodles in his notebook.
Warren Graves turns around and looks at me. I meet his gaze.
Think you can hurt me, Warren? You have no idea.
Warren turns back around.
“Tet,” Mr. Trehorn says. “Mekong. My Lai. Are these terms familiar to you?”
Heads nod.
“Why? Tell me what you know.”
Hands raise. Mr. Trehorn stands at the board rolling the marker between his palms. A clicking sound each time it strikes his wedding ring.
“My grandfather said we could have won it, but they didn’t let us win it.”
“My uncle from Cleveland was a conscientious objector, and they put him in jail for two years.”
“My mother worked at the base then; that was before she quit. But she says she still remembers the planes flying out, all night long some nights.”
Assignment. Copy it down.
What was the main reason the United States military decided to become a presence in Vietnam?
What was the military history of the United States in Southeast Asia that preceded the Vietnam War?
Why did the Tet Offensive come as such a shock?
Joe Miller once told Ivy that Tom Miller’s father, Chase, hadn’t wanted to go to Vietnam. That his draft number was called but that he wanted to go to Canada instead. But Spooner was all for the war. Spooner used to work at Griffiss Air Base even. Spooner was ashamed of his son. Wanting to avoid his patriotic duty.
Next to me Tom Miller is silent. Doodling away.
Fifteen minutes.
The un-bell unleashes itself from the loudspeaker.
My locker, still broken. I didn’t get a new lock for it. Why bother? Nothing of value in it, unless you count outgrown sneakers and crumpled doodled-on notebook paper. A sweatshirt still hanging in there from before Ivy and I had the accident, when it was still winter, still cold. And the broken-spined book of wars.
The buses leave one after another, grinding out of the driveway, blue exhaust fading into the blue May sky, heading down Thompson Road into Sterns, or up Thompson Road into the foothills. Where’s William T.? I’ve waited my twenty-seven fifteen-minute blocks, counted each one out, and he promised that after twenty-seven of them he would be here to pick me up. Down on the curb I sit and bend over my backpack, filled with the books I don’t want to read.
“Rose.”
Tom Miller’s voice. I nod into my backpack.
I’m here, Tom Miller, and I hear you,
but it’s too much effort to think of opening my eyes or lifting my head. I made it through all those fifteen minutes and now I’m tired. So tired.
“You waiting for William T.?”
I nod into my backpack again.
“He taking you down to see Ivy?”
Nod.
“Isn’t he supposed to be here by now? William T.’s never late.”
Nod.
“Rose. Lift your head up from that goddamned backpack and talk to me.”
Shake.
His palm presses the back of my neck, a warm solid weight.
“You want me to take you down to Utica instead?”
Shake.
“You don’t have to stay with me,” I say. “William T.’ll be here.”
“I know he’ll be here. I’m just offering to take you down now, is all.”
He strokes my hair.
“I could take you,” he says. “I haven’t seen her since the night it happened, you know.”
I squinch my eyes tighter shut
Once in a while someone’s head swivels to the back, to sneak a peek at me. Rose Latham with the brain-dead sister. Rose Latham who used to sit in the front row. Rose Latham the slut. Next to me Tom Miller doodles in his notebook.
Warren Graves turns around and looks at me. I meet his gaze.
Think you can hurt me, Warren? You have no idea.
Warren turns back around.
“Tet,” Mr. Trehorn says. “Mekong. My Lai. Are these terms familiar to you?”
Heads nod.
“Why? Tell me what you know.”
Hands raise. Mr. Trehorn stands at the board rolling the marker between his palms. A clicking sound each time it strikes his wedding ring.
“My grandfather said we could have won it, but they didn’t let us win it.”
“My uncle from Cleveland was a conscientious objector, and they put him in jail for two years.”
“My mother worked at the base then; that was before she quit. But she says she still remembers the planes flying out, all night long some nights.”
Assignment. Copy it down.
What was the main reason the United States military decided to become a presence in Vietnam?
What was the military history of the United States in Southeast Asia that preceded the Vietnam War?
Why did the Tet Offensive come as such a shock?
Joe Miller once told Ivy that Tom Miller’s father, Chase, hadn’t wanted to go to Vietnam. That his draft number was called but that he wanted to go to Canada instead. But Spooner was all for the war. Spooner used to work at Griffiss Air Base even. Spooner was ashamed of his son. Wanting to avoid his patriotic duty.
Next to me Tom Miller is silent. Doodling away.
Fifteen minutes.
The un-bell unleashes itself from the loudspeaker.
My locker, still broken. I didn’t get a new lock for it. Why bother? Nothing of value in it, unless you count outgrown sneakers and crumpled doodled-on notebook paper. A sweatshirt still hanging in there from before Ivy and I had the accident, when it was still winter, still cold. And the broken-spined book of wars.
The buses leave one after another, grinding out of the driveway, blue exhaust fading into the blue May sky, heading down Thompson Road into Sterns, or up Thompson Road into the foothills. Where’s William T.? I’ve waited my twenty-seven fifteen-minute blocks, counted each one out, and he promised that after twenty-seven of them he would be here to pick me up. Down on the curb I sit and bend over my backpack, filled with the books I don’t want to read.
“Rose.”
Tom Miller’s voice. I nod into my backpack.
I’m here, Tom Miller, and I hear you,
but it’s too much effort to think of opening my eyes or lifting my head. I made it through all those fifteen minutes and now I’m tired. So tired.
“You waiting for William T.?”
I nod into my backpack again.
“He taking you down to see Ivy?”
Nod.
“Isn’t he supposed to be here by now? William T.’s never late.”
Nod.
“Rose. Lift your head up from that goddamned backpack and talk to me.”
Shake.
His palm presses the back of my neck, a warm solid weight.
“You want me to take you down to Utica instead?”
Shake.
“You don’t have to stay with me,” I say. “William T.’ll be here.”
“I know he’ll be here. I’m just offering to take you down now, is all.”
He strokes my hair.
“I could take you,” he says. “I haven’t seen her since the night it happened, you know.”
I squinch my eyes tighter shut
Similar Books
