Reed’s position would praise me for losing my temper and saying such a thing.
But how dumb would I need to be to criticize my principal for being a racist? She’s giving me a get-out-of-jail-free card. I’d have to be a moron or a martyr to turn that down. And I’m neither.
“All right,” I mutter and get up and go.
I don’t look at Nancy as I pass. I can’t meet her eyes. She probably thinks it’s because I’m upset at having been punished. But it’s not. It’s because I’m ashamed that Mrs. Reed thinks I’m a racist. And because I’m worried that she might be right.
ELEVEN
On my way home, I choose to tell Dad about what happened with Tyler, Nancy and Mrs. Reed, figuring it’s better that he hear about it from me rather than someone else.
To my surprise, Dad is already there when I arrive. He must have clocked off early. He’s in the kitchen, talking with someone. No sign of Mum.
Dad often has people over to the flat. As Mrs. Reed noted, he’s heavily involved with local movements to stem the tide of immigration and keep Britain white. He does a lot of canvassing for politicians, works hard behind the scenes, helps stir things up.
I’ve always tried to stay out of that area of his life, but it’s getting harder. Now thatI’m older, he’s started taking me to meetings. I’ve been to a few rallies with him too, and once he took me to a house packed with Muslims. I stood outside while he went in and had a long conversation with them. Well, it was more of a screaming match. I could hear them from outside, the Muslims shrieking, Dad shouting even louder. I felt small and afraid, no idea what was going on or what would happen next, standing in the middle of the street like a lemon, wondering what I should do if Dad never reappeared.
But he did emerge in the end, and I saw a Muslim guy glowering behind him. Dad pointed to me and said, “That’s who I fight for—my kid, my wife, my friends. Anything ever happens to any of them, I’ll come back here and burn the lot of you down to the ground.”
Then Dad hugged me hard. I glared at the Muslim and shot him the finger. Dad laughed, clapped my back, took me for dinner and bought me the biggest hamburger I’d ever seen. I felt bad about it afterwards but at the time I was on cloud nine.
Part of me knows I should stop acting, that I’m on thin ice, growing less sure of where the actor ends and the real me begins. When I grunted at Nancy, that wasn’t part of an act. That came from the soul.
I should tell Dad I don’t share his views, that I’m not warped inside like he is, start standing up to him. But how can you say such a thing to your father? He loves me, I know he does, despite thebeatings when he’s angry. It would break his heart if I told him what I really thought of him.
Dad doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s discussing the state of affairs with his friends and associates, so even though I’m hungry, I slide on by the kitchen, planning to head straight to my room. But Dad must hear me because he calls out, “B? Is that you?”
“Yeah.”
“Come here a minute.”
He sounds more subdued than usual. That tips me off to the fact that there might be somebody important with him. Dad’s loud and bullish most of the time, but quiet and submissive around people he respects.
I head into the kitchen, expecting someone in a suit with a politically perfect smile. But I stagger to a halt halfway through the door and stare uncertainly. The guy with Dad is like nobody I’ve ever seen before.
The man is standing by the table, sipping from a cup of coffee. He sets it down when he spots me and arches an eyebrow, amused by my reaction.
He’s very tall, maybe six foot six, and thin, except for a large potbelly. It looks weird on such a slender frame, and the buttons on the pink shirt he’s wearing beneath his striped jacket strain to hold it in. He has a mop of white hair and pale skin. Not albino pale, but damn close. Long,
But how dumb would I need to be to criticize my principal for being a racist? She’s giving me a get-out-of-jail-free card. I’d have to be a moron or a martyr to turn that down. And I’m neither.
“All right,” I mutter and get up and go.
I don’t look at Nancy as I pass. I can’t meet her eyes. She probably thinks it’s because I’m upset at having been punished. But it’s not. It’s because I’m ashamed that Mrs. Reed thinks I’m a racist. And because I’m worried that she might be right.
ELEVEN
On my way home, I choose to tell Dad about what happened with Tyler, Nancy and Mrs. Reed, figuring it’s better that he hear about it from me rather than someone else.
To my surprise, Dad is already there when I arrive. He must have clocked off early. He’s in the kitchen, talking with someone. No sign of Mum.
Dad often has people over to the flat. As Mrs. Reed noted, he’s heavily involved with local movements to stem the tide of immigration and keep Britain white. He does a lot of canvassing for politicians, works hard behind the scenes, helps stir things up.
I’ve always tried to stay out of that area of his life, but it’s getting harder. Now thatI’m older, he’s started taking me to meetings. I’ve been to a few rallies with him too, and once he took me to a house packed with Muslims. I stood outside while he went in and had a long conversation with them. Well, it was more of a screaming match. I could hear them from outside, the Muslims shrieking, Dad shouting even louder. I felt small and afraid, no idea what was going on or what would happen next, standing in the middle of the street like a lemon, wondering what I should do if Dad never reappeared.
But he did emerge in the end, and I saw a Muslim guy glowering behind him. Dad pointed to me and said, “That’s who I fight for—my kid, my wife, my friends. Anything ever happens to any of them, I’ll come back here and burn the lot of you down to the ground.”
Then Dad hugged me hard. I glared at the Muslim and shot him the finger. Dad laughed, clapped my back, took me for dinner and bought me the biggest hamburger I’d ever seen. I felt bad about it afterwards but at the time I was on cloud nine.
Part of me knows I should stop acting, that I’m on thin ice, growing less sure of where the actor ends and the real me begins. When I grunted at Nancy, that wasn’t part of an act. That came from the soul.
I should tell Dad I don’t share his views, that I’m not warped inside like he is, start standing up to him. But how can you say such a thing to your father? He loves me, I know he does, despite thebeatings when he’s angry. It would break his heart if I told him what I really thought of him.
Dad doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s discussing the state of affairs with his friends and associates, so even though I’m hungry, I slide on by the kitchen, planning to head straight to my room. But Dad must hear me because he calls out, “B? Is that you?”
“Yeah.”
“Come here a minute.”
He sounds more subdued than usual. That tips me off to the fact that there might be somebody important with him. Dad’s loud and bullish most of the time, but quiet and submissive around people he respects.
I head into the kitchen, expecting someone in a suit with a politically perfect smile. But I stagger to a halt halfway through the door and stare uncertainly. The guy with Dad is like nobody I’ve ever seen before.
The man is standing by the table, sipping from a cup of coffee. He sets it down when he spots me and arches an eyebrow, amused by my reaction.
He’s very tall, maybe six foot six, and thin, except for a large potbelly. It looks weird on such a slender frame, and the buttons on the pink shirt he’s wearing beneath his striped jacket strain to hold it in. He has a mop of white hair and pale skin. Not albino pale, but damn close. Long,
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