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ROLAND SLUNG HIS BACKPACK over his shoulder and closed his locker. Waves of apprehension washed over him. The diversity group met in twenty minutes and while he didn’t want to show up early, he didn’t want to stroll in late either. Actually, he didn’t want to go at all. Maybe he’d go hide in the library for a few minutes and then lurk in the hallway outside the room where they met.
Attentive to the way his body moved with his healing leg, he strode to the end of the hallway and turned a corner.
“Roland!” a girl shrieked from somewhere down the hall behind him.
Recognizing the voice, Roland turned.
A group of kids passed by and Caitlyn—in her crinkled white dress with the royal blue pattern around the edges—came into view, her green eyes locked on him, her wild red hair framing her sweet face . . .
His heart rate kicked up a notch, and a tingle of excitement replaced the waves of apprehension. “Hi, Caitlyn, I, uh . . .” he stammered. His backpack slid half off his shoulder, but he grabbed it before it fell.
“I was hoping to catch you before you left.” She smiled.
“I’m not leaving for a while.”
“Oh, that’s right.” She glanced in four directions, then turned back to him with eyes open wide and whispered, “You’re joining the diversity group.”
“Yeah.” The apprehension returned with the sensation of thick moth wings flapping in his chest. He appreciated that she’d whispered it, but everyone would know soon enough. He could only imagine the rumors that would come from this impulsive decision. Way to keep a low profile.
“I just wanted to tell you who else I talked to today. I don’t know his name. He’s a junior.” She grabbed the top of her head. “He’s got spiky red hair. Not red like mine . . .”
Roland’s gaze drifted to Caitlyn’s wild mane of red curls.
“. . . but more crayon red.”
“Oh.” Roland couldn’t remember what she was talking about. Something about hair. He glimpsed movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he couldn’t believe what he saw and the moth wings in his chest flapped harder.
Jarret jogged toward him, somehow making the hasty action look cool. Kids moved out of his way, a few of them turning to watch. A blond girl—a cheerleader?—stood back near Jarret’s locker, probably where he came from. Keefe walked up to her. She said something to him, tossed her hair, and sauntered away. Jarret kept coming, looking uncharacteristically anxious. He had been acting weird lately. Maybe he had something to say about whatever Caitlyn had said to him in the hallway on lunch break. Roland never did ask how that went.
“Anyway,” Caitlyn said, “I asked what he thought about the vandalism to Brice’s house, and he said he knew who did it.”
Acutely aware that he had seconds before Jarret reached him, Roland shifted his attention back to her. “Who are you talking about? Who knows?”
“The junior. The one with spiky red hair.” Frustration flitted across her pale face, making her reddish-brown eyebrows twitch.
“Oh, okay, so who’s he think did it?”
Her eyes opened wide and she leaned toward Roland. “A subgroup of jocks, the mean ones with the super short hair. He knows it was them.”
Not one for labeling kids and even less interested in gossip, Roland didn’t know the kids. Granted, he knew “jocks” referred to the kids that lived for sports, but . . . “Why do you call them the mean jocks?”
“Oh.” She gazed into his eyes for a second, probably thinking of how to word her answer or maybe confused as to why he didn’t understand in the first place. “You know, the ones who’ve been thrown off the teams, they pick on younger kids, make fun of outcasts . . .”
He shifted, feeling a bit self-conscious at her last remark. “Right. Okay. So how does he know it was them?” Overwhelmed by her fresh-air and candy scent, Roland stepped back and his gaze slid to Jarret again.
Jarret slowed his pace and stopped two feet away. “Hey, Roland, we need to talk.” He shoved his thumbs in his belt loops and gave Caitlyn a sullen glance, looking like he wished she’d leave.
She hugged her books and angled her body away from him and toward Roland, straightening with that air of confidence that she showed around arrogant kids. “Well, I asked him that, but he didn't have an answer. I'm sure it’s just his opinion. I don’t think he has any proof.” She leaned and whispered in Roland’s ear, “He might be in the diversity club. It’s called Empowerment, right? Look for a junior with crayon red hair.”
Her breath on his ear made the moths leave his chest and zip from his head to his toes.
A smirk flashed on Jarret’s face. “You need to come with me.”
“Okay, well . . .” Caitlyn shifted her gaze to Jarret and stumbled back a few steps. “I'll talk to you tomorrow.”
“See ya.” Roland watched until she turned around. A bit hesitant, he faced Jarret. “What’s up?”
Jarret tilted his chin, indicating that he wanted to walk while he talked. They headed toward Keefe. “We need to talk about something, you, me, and Keefe. But not here and not at home.”
“Now?” Roland whined. The opportunity to get out of going to Empowerment tempted him, but he couldn’t let Caitlyn and Peter down.
“Now,” Jarret commanded.
They neared Keefe, who busied himself in his locker.
“But I just joined a group,” Roland said, “and they meet right after school.”
Keefe slammed his locker shut and turned as Roland and Jarret walked up to him.
“You did what? What group?” Jarret sneered, looking both incredulous and disgusted. “Never mind. I’ll take you right back up here. Okay? We won’t be that long. We just need to talk.”
~ ~ ~
ALMOST HALF AN HOUR later, Roland jogged down the empty hallway, every other step sending daggers through his healing leg. Jarret had dropped him off at the door after their “meeting” in the park. What a waste of time. Apparently, Jarret found Papa’s recent behavior troubling. Just because he’d taken the online teaching job and was around the house more. Why shouldn’t Jarret be thankful instead? And, really, why didn’t he just talk to Papa about it? Roland remembered distinctly Jarret’s advice about finding his attitude in case he had something to say one day. Maybe Jarret needed to take his own advice.
Turning the corner, Roland’s stomach churned. He hated being late, walking into a room right in the middle of things, interrupting someone’s talk, all eyes on him. It always made his temperature spike to around 200 degrees. And it took him forever to cool down. Maybe he could slip into the room and no one would notice.
Voices and laughter traveled through the open door to the art room. A handmade sign with the word “Empowerment” surrounded by construction-paper people in every shape and color, hung on the wall next to the open door. They’d probably started the meeting already.
Roland glimpsed a boy at the front of the classroom and a girl sitting on an art table. Taking the plunge, he darted into the room and, without making eye contact, strode along the wall toward the back of the room.
Everyone stopped talking. Roland felt their eyes on him before he turned his head. Five kids sat on the tops of the art tables, and four sat on stools. No boy with crayon red hair. Some kids shot daggers with their eyes, but most looks held questions. What’s Roland West, loner, doing here? Looking for someone? Delivering a message? Forget something in art class? Is he lost?
The teacher, Mrs. Addie Lowrey, one of the twelfth-grade literature teachers, leaned her backside against the art teacher’s tall desk. A boy with bubblegum-pink streaks in his tufted brown hair stood by a whiteboard covered with doodling, a marker in his hand. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, then he moved his head from side to side and arched his brows.
“Are you here to join Empowerment?” Mrs. Lowrey pushed off the desk and tugged on her shirt, removing the crease over her ample midriff.
Roland’s Adam’s apple bobbed before he could speak. He cleared his throat and found an empty stretch of wall to lean against. “Um. Yeah. The sign by the door said, um, Empowerment.”
“Yes, that’s right. Just making sure you were in the right place.” She flashed a smile and adjusted the silky scarf around her neck.
The boy with the pink-streaked hair set the marker down and approached Roland, offering his hand. “Marshall Pierce.” His big smile brought dimples to his cheeks. “Welcome. I’d always hoped we’d see you here.”
Heat slid up Roland’s neck as he shook Marshall’s cold hand. What’d the boy mean by that?
“So why are you here . . .” Mrs. Lowrey said, smoothing her hair now, “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“Roland West,” two girls and Marshall answered for him.
Another wave of heat washed over him, bringing the smell of sweat and deodorant to his nose. Still leaning his back against the wall, he stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and shifted his weight off his sore leg. Why did everyone know his name? “I’m here, uh . . .” What reason could he give without admitting the truth—that he was investigating the vandalism of Brice’s house—but also without lying? “The principal suggested it, right? So, we could help, uh, I don’t know.” He swallowed his Adam’s apple again, wishing the attention were off him, but all the staring seemed to imply they wanted more of an answer. “I hate what happened to that girl’s house.” There. That was true.
“Brice Maddox,” several kids said in unison. Then a few long-haired girls exchanged glances and giggled.
“Okay, that’s admirable. You saw an injustice and you want to do something about it. You could say that’s what Empowerment is all about.” She made a sweeping gesture. “Why don’t you find a seat, Roland? Actually, why don’t we all find seats? Off the tabletops.”
A few groans and mutters followed the suggestion.
Marshall took a seat at the table nearest Roland and pushed the chair next to him out. “Sit here.” He beamed a smile.
Wishing he could keep his spot against the wall, Roland shuffled to the offered chair and sat down, all under Marshall’s attentive gaze.
Indicating each student with her upturned hand, the teacher introduced everyone. Then she sat on the edge of an art table and clasped her hands on one leg. “Principal Freeman has commissioned our group to develop a program to help educate the entire school.” She paused. “I suppose I should first explain the purpose of our group, of Empowerment, for Roland here and anyone else who may have lost focus.”
Two girls moaned in an exaggerated way, one dropping her face to her arm on the table.
“So, Empowerment’s first concern is for the individual student. We are here to offer support to students who’ve been discriminated against because of their differences. This goes beyond racial or ethnic identities. This includes people with disabilities, those from different socioeconomic backgrounds, or people who embrace different ideas and beliefs or practices, and even those who feel different in other ways.”
Marshall shifted in his seat, kicking the leg of Roland’s chair in the process. Intentionally or accidentally?
“Sorry,” Marshall mouthed and put a hand to his mouth.
“Basically,” Mrs. Lowrey said, “we don’t want anyone to feel bad or left out because of their differences.”
The girls in Empowerment outnumbered the boys eight to three. Two tables away, a heavyset girl with jet black hair, a long-sleeved black plaid shirt, and dark lipstick sat hunched with her arms crossed over her abdomen and her head down. With a shy glance, she leaned and whispered to the dark-skinned girl with the purplish hair next to her.
A girl with sunglasses, a white shirt buttoned up to her neck, and stringy light brown hair slouched across from them, her legs stretched out on another chair. At the next table, sat a chubby black kid in a t-shirt worn inside out and a black fedora. He sat with another boy and two girls. Three other girls sat at the table nearest the teacher, one dressed in eclectic style—like Caitlyn’s friend Phoebe—and another with a super short haircut. The third wore her hood up. None of them fit into the “popular kids” category. Were these kids all considered outcasts? Would one of them end up the next victim?
Even though a bunch of misfits made up the group, Roland liked what he heard. No one should be made to feel like less of a person. No matter what. Maybe this group could help all outcasts to feel less like outcasts—not that every outcast would want to fall into another category and get a new label, but maybe the pranks against outcasts would stop.
Mrs. Lowrey was still talking. “. . . we also try to understand each other and build bridges—relationships—across differences. We want to find ways to develop an appreciation for and celebrate our differences.”
“Right, so how do we do that?” The girl with the hoodie flung her hand out, and her sleeve slid back to reveal a brown bracelet.
“Well, Tessia, we need to come up with ideas. That’s our mission, your mission too. We want to find ways to celebrate differences, but I think it’s also necessary to find ways to educate our student body about unconscious bias and hurtful stereotypes.”
“Unconscious bias?” Roland mumbled, the words slipping out inadvertently.
“So, like . . .” Marshall leaned into his space, gesturing dramatically with one hand while he spoke.
Everyone else turned to Roland and Marshall.
Roland shifted in his seat, angling his body toward Marshall while inching away from him, hoping to gain a more comfortable distance between them.
“. . . you put people into boxes, stereotypes based on gender, appearance, mannerisms . . . and you treat them differently because of that. Subconsciously.” He tapped his head and winked at Roland.
Roland jerked back. “Treat them differently, like what?” He always thought he treated people the way he wanted them to treat him, with respect for their privacy and a healthy distance.
“Well, you see someone fat and you think they’re lazy,” Marshall said. “So maybe you don’t invite them with everyone else on a hike.”
“Or you don’t make accommodations for the kid in the wheelchair or the autistic kid to come on the hike,” the girl in the eclectic outfit said.
Roland thought of Peter’s younger brother, Toby, who had autism. Did he feel left out of things at his school? Roland had never really thought about it before. Maybe he did have subconscious bias, or unconscious . . . or whatever she’d said.
“Or someone’s black, so you think he’s a criminal,” the black boy said, gesturing with gang hand signs.
“Or you avoid relationships with people because they’re different.” Marshall gave him a long, unblinking gaze.
A girl at the table near the front of the room, the girl with the hoodie, looked directly at Roland. The teacher had called her Tessia. With elbows planted on the table and hands raised, she played with her bracelet. Dark wood beads in different colors . . .
It reminded Roland of the bracelet they’d found at Brice’s house, except Tessia’s didn’t have glass beads between the wood ones.
“Let me guess?” Tessia said, her voice sounding familiar though her face was not. “All your friends are straight, white, and privileged. You come from similar backgrounds. You all like the same things, believe the same things, and do the same things.”
A few comments came from around the room, the word “privileged” standing out.
Roland opened his mouth to reply but didn’t know how to respond. All his friends? He considered two people to be close friends: Peter and Caitlyn. The rest of the Fire Starters were friends too, just not as close. He had a hard time making friends. And so what? It didn’t mean he hated everyone else.
“I hope there’s more to you than that.” Marshall smiled, his dimples popping out. “Is that who you are?”
“Well, I-I don’t have a ton of friends. And yeah, they’re white, but one’s a girl.” Why did he feel like everyone was judging him?
Tessia stopped playing with her bracelet and leaned toward him, her eyes accusing. “All your friends are Catholics, right? And Catholics have a rigid belief system. They’re always condemning people and telling them what to believe.”
“Well, I . . .” How should he answer that? It wasn’t rigid. What did that even mean?
“You think everyone who doesn’t agree with you is wrong. You’re not open to people who are different.” She flung her hand up and slouched back in her chair. “Why are you even here?”
“That’s not who I am.” Roland tugged at the neckline of his shirt to avoid overheating. He felt like he’d been stuffed in an oven and he wanted out.
“Phew.” Marshall wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “That’s a relief.”
“Tessia, don’t be so hard on Roland.” Mrs. Lowrey slid her leg off the table and pushed her fists onto it instead. “If Roland does have a few wrong beliefs, you can’t blame him. I’m sure we all have, at one point in our lives. And that’s why we have Empowerment.” She stared intently at Roland. “If we want to understand one another and build bridges, we need to fight judgmental and discriminatory belief systems. We need to take a close look at ourselves. Are we blindly following old-fashioned ways of thinking that condemn others for their choices? We aren’t living in the Dark Ages.”
She smiled, her toothy grin at odds with the pointed look in her eyes. “In looking closer, we might find we need to change. We don’t want to be haters, hiding behind outdated religious beliefs.” She made air quotes around the last two words, her gaze still pointed. “Right, Roland?”
All eyes focused on him, most kids looking curious or interested in his response, one looking a bit hostile.
Was Mrs. Lowrey expecting him to answer? Overheating from the attention, Roland wiped his sweaty forehead and dried his hand on his jeans. His conscience nudged him. Or maybe his guardian angel. Or God. He should try to explain himself, let everyone know what Catholics believed. But what could he say? He sure didn’t want to get into a lengthy debate about religion and morality. He wasn’t a “hater” because he believed in right and wrong. Should he have to change his beliefs or keep them to himself because someone else disagreed with them? No, he should speak up.
Marshall elbowed him in the arm, as if he too expected an answer.
“Well, I . . .” His mouth had gone dry but he tried to swallow anyway.
After an uncomfortable pause, Mrs. Lowrey straightened, triumph in her posture now. “No need to answer, Roland. Your silence is enough. It’s never too late for us to open our minds, embrace our differences, and be more tolerant. That is what Empowerment is all about.”
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