The protest isn’t working.
The bell rang ten minutes ago, and there was no silent protest. Everybody’s in here talking, like normal. We’re losing momentum. Maybe Omar’s mad at me because I didn’t call him when I got back last night. Maybe he’s pissed off because we haven’t talked since Folly Beach. Whatever.
We’re on day eleven, and the situation is no better than when we started. The spring play auditions usually happen this week, but since there’s no drama club, that’s been canceled too. Cruella probably thinks she can wait us out; that we’ll get complacent, give up on it. Not me. I’ll ride this fight until the wheels fall off. As long as she doesn’t follow up on that whole Harvard threat thing.
“Oh, snap, look at this,” Belafonte screams from his seat near the window. Everyone, including Mr. Washington, looks out to see what he’s gawking at.
There is a sea of white vans lined up in front of our school. Every TV station is represented. And not just the local ones. There’s a CNN and a Fox truck. I chuckle to myself when I see the BET van.
“Mr. Washington, we’re famous,” says Tami, who had to take out her tongue ring because of an infection. Now I can understand what the heck she’s saying, but I can’t look at her.
“BET is in the house. We’re gonna be on 106 & Park, y’all,” yells another student.
“What’s this?” asks Mr. Washington.
“They’re probably here for the protest,” Belafonte says.
“I just hope the principal and the school board are listening,” I say.
“Well, they’ll certainly hear us now,” Mr. Washington adds. I love the fact that he says “us.”
“Hey, Claudia, why didn’t we do the silent protest today?” says Tami.
Omar didn’t post it on his Facebook, and it was too late to call when I got in at two in the frickin’ morning.
Actually, it wasn’t too late, but I really needed a break from him, from whatever I was feeling. The weekend gave it to me. Maybe he’s done with the silent treatment. Maybe Miami threatened to take his scholarship away if he continued. Maybe he just punked out. Maybe he’s pissed. Maybe I’m trippin’.
“Claudia, what’s the deal with the silent treatment?” Belafonte asks.
Now everybody’s looking at me, even Mr. Washington. They want an answer. I’m sure the whole school does. Just as surely as Omar and I got the school amped up, we can lose ’em.
Omar’s the popular guy, the friend to everybody, the face of our movement. This is what I’ve always known. Now it’s really slapping me upside my head: Omar “T-Diddy” Smalls is our leader. And right now, I know as much about his plan as the rest of the school. Not good, Claudia.
“Claudia, what’s up? Did you talk to Omar?” Belafonte asks.
“Well, what we are doing is very important, and I, uh, like all of you, I’m still fired up, and I can’t take no more.”
But, before I can finish, an announcement begins.
“What’s up, Panthers?” says the voice over the loudspeaker. Is that . . . “It’s your boy, T-Diddy.”
In the background, we hear banging on a door and a voice that sounds like Cruella herself. “Open this door now!”
“I gotta make this quick people, ’cause the Man is out to get me. First off, sorry I left y’all hanging on the silent treatment today, but T-Diddy was a little lovesick last night, and I didn’t got a chance to tweet or post. Thas right, T-Diddy’s in love.”
My heart sinks right below my stomach and down near my toes. I hope he’s not about to do what I think he’s going to do. He’s in love? Again, everybody’s looking at me. Or at least it feels like it.
“Open your windows, Panthers. Let the newspeople hear our cries.” Everyone looks at Mr. Washington, who nods, giving permission to open them. Belafonte and a few other boys do just that. Omar continues. “T-Diddy’s in love with righteousness. T-Diddy’s in love with freedom.”
Whew! That was close. For a second I thought he was going to . . . uh, never mind. Reporters and guys with news cameras hoisted on their shoulders are now out of their vans, inching closer to the school.
“Second, we made our demands clear, but they still don’t hear us. What do we want? We want band back. We want the choir back. We want dance, we want the drama club. We want all of the part-time teachers restored to full-time. That’s what we want.”
The cheers are raucous. Not just in our class, but all through the school. The sound of everyone clapping at the same time is thunderous. Boom mics from the TV people are pointed at the school.
“Mr. Smalls, open the door this minute or don’t come in to school tomorrow,” we hear Cruella scream, like the madwoman she is.
As much as I want him to keep on leading us, I really don’t want him to get suspended.
“We gotta step up our game, people. Feel me. They thought five minutes a day was something, wait till they see how Panthers ride from now on. Starting tomorrow, we’re gonna double it.” The cheers are even louder this time. I’m getting that warm feeling again.
“That’s two days’ suspension, Mr. Smalls. Somebody break this lock, please,” Dr. Jackson yells. Mr. Jensen is our school custodian. He’s a real good man, but he’s also got a very sick wife, and as much as I don’t want him to break the lock on the door, I also know he needs to keep his job to take care of her.
“Just for that, let’s put in some work now. When the bell rings, let ’em hear us. Feel me?” Yes, Omar, we feel you! “They can suspend me for a week or a year, it doesn’t matter. These jokers can’t suspend justice. T-Diddy’s riding with y’all for life. Don’t stop now, Panthers, we catchin’ our stride,” he finishes. This is the frickin’ beach all over again. Jeez!
And then Omar plays a song over the loudspeaker, a reggae song that nobody but a few diehard ol’ school music heads recognize. It doesn’t matter, though, because the beat is fierce, and the words speak volumes:
Ain’t nothin’ gonna break my stride
Nobody’s gonna slow me down, oh no
The next voice we hear is none other than Cruella’s, and she’s angrier than a Democrat in Texas.
“Teachers, this silent treatment nonsense is over. If any of your students participate, please let the front office know, and they will be suspended immediately. That is all. Good day.” And then the bell sounds.
Everyone in class looks at each other. No one knows exactly what to do. Sure, we’ve been given our mission by our fearless leader, but nobody really wants to be suspended from school. Mr. Washington would never turn us in. Would he? I can’t even imagine how that’s going to go over with Harvard. Two things happen next that tell me what I should do.
First, Belafonte points at something outside. We get up to look and see Omar being escorted out of the school by the assistant principal. Cruella obviously was serious about suspending him. He gets to the sidewalk, where all the TV reporters are, and turns around to look back at the school. The way he scans the building lets me know that students in other classes are looking at him. He raises his hand in a balled fist, then slowly brings down his hand to his mouth and places his index finger to his mouth.
Second, when we go back to our seats, Mr. Washington removes his sweater to reveal a black T-shirt printed in white with six letters and an exclamation point:
SHHHHH!
I don’t know if I love Omar Smalls, but today I’ve decided I really really really like him. Really.