The Latte Rebellion by Sarah Jamila Stevenson Page A

to this charge, a few of the school board members leaned their heads together and whispered, casting sidelong glances at me and making me squirm in my seat. As if the word “terrorist” hadn’t been enough to do that all on its own.
    I knew I should be outraged about it. After all, I’d yelled at Roger Yee for less. But mostly, after everything that had happened, I felt numb. And I felt scared.
    “We will now hear from a number of witnesses who will shed light on the circumstances prompting this disciplinary hearing,” the hearing officer said when he returned to the podium. He coughed like my Old Geezer of a car when I start it on a cold morning. “I’d first like to call Ms. Carey Wong.”
    Now I felt nauseated.
    Carey had told me that the school board had called and asked her to give testimony, but it was still a shock to see her, dressed to kill in her tailored, gray-blue linen jacket and black dress pants. I’d helped her pick out those clothes during a shopping trip last summer, but she seemed like a different person now, standing there tensely in front of the hearing panel. A person with red, puffy eyes and a clenched jaw; a person with apprehension oozing from every pore.
    “Ms. Wong,” the hearing officer said, “you’ve already told us in a separate statement about your involvement in the Latte Rebellion group. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Ms. Jamison’s role in the events.”
    “Yes, sir,” Carey said, her hands trembling at her sides. She didn’t look at me.
    I sucked in a sharp breath. I had no idea Carey had given them any kind of advance statement. She hadn’t told me. Why hadn’t she told me?
    Had she said it was all my fault? I couldn’t let myself believe that. I glanced at her parents in the audience—Dr.-Wong-the-Dad (a pediatrician) glowering in his suit and tie, Dr.-Wong-the-Mom (a professor of Asian art) looking pale and anxious—and I couldn’t be sure of anything.
    “My question for you, Ms. Wong, is straightforward. You were present during the planning and perpetration of the rabble-rousing.” I heard someone in the audience snort with laughter. “Did Ms. Jamison knowingly violate school rules and school district policy as described in the charges against her?” He looked at her, his unibrow bushier than ever as he frowned at her.
    “Knowingly?” she said, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
    “Yes, knowingly,” the hearing officer repeated. “Answer the question, please.”
    “I guess it depends on how far back you go. When we started, we didn’t know it was against the rules. But later on …” There was absolute silence in the room as Carey finally turned to me and said, “I’m so sorry, Asha.” Her eyes were pleading, and I knew then that she wasn’t going to hold anything back.
    I could hardly hear what she said next. At first I was so furious I thought I might pop a blood vessel, and I resisted the urge to clamber over the wooden table in front of me, grab her by her linen lapels, and shake her. How hard could it be to just say we didn’t know we’d be breaking any rules and leave it at that? It wouldn’t make any difference to her. She hadn’t even gotten suspended after what happened, while my entire high school career was on the line.
    The worst part of it was, she was supposed to be my best friend, my partner in—well, crime. And thinking about that just made me despondent. Why did she have to go all “I cannot tell a lie, I did chop down your cherry tree” on me? Wasn’t our friendship worth more than that? As I gritted my teeth, focusing intently on not completely breaking down right here in front of the school board, the disciplinary hearing officer, and a rather sizable cross-section of my classmates and the general public (not to mention that pesky newspaper reporter), Carey said something about never intending to make trouble but getting carried away.
    Carried away. “Careyed” away. I almost felt like laughing