I told everyone in my class that I’d heard from Bright, and that he’d asked for Mr. Howe’s email address. He’d said he wanted to find out what he could do to help.
“But did he tell you if Rick and Oliver are gay?” Luther asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Allison interrupted.
“That’s right,” I agreed. But the truth was, I hadn’t felt comfortable asking the author that again. It felt personal. Maybe if we’d talked about the book a little bit more in our emails, I would have asked. But once I gave him Mr. Howe’s contact info, it was like Bright was off to plot things with him, not me. There was no way Bright could know that my mom was the one who started everything, but still I knew that at some point he would know. And that had made me feel more shy.
I definitely was not going to tell my mom or dad that I’d been in touch with the author of the book that was dividing my town. Actually, that wasn’t fair—the book wasn’t dividing anything. It was just a book. It was my mom who was doing the dividing, or at least a part of it. Preparing for the school board meeting had become a full-time job for her, with phone calls and meetings and late-night emails. After the initial accusations, nobody at school really mentioned my mom to me. And at the same time, my mom never acknowledged what any of my friends at school might have thought. It was like because she thought she’d prevented me from reading the book, she also thought I didn’t know what was going on.
Mostly I tried to avoid her. And while my dad wouldn’t have admitted to aiding this avoidance, when we were all forced to be in the same room together—usually over a meal—he took on most of the burden of conversation.
This worked fine until the night before the school board meeting. Dad had to work late, so Mom and I were home alone.
I hid away in my room and opened more textbooks than necessary, to create the illusion of an avalanche of homework. Still, I could hear her on the phone—rallying the troops was what she called it. And all I wanted to ask was Why this war?
I tried to block out the sound of her phone conversations by playing music louder than I usually did. This meant I also blocked out when she called me for dinner. I nearly jumped as high as the ceiling when she threw open the door and said, “That’s too loud. It’s time for dinner.”
I felt about as excited as a prisoner would be when told he’d have the honor of dining with the warden. Even worse, the warden seemed to be in a good mood. She’d made mac and cheese, which was my favorite. (There was also broccoli, but I didn’t mind the broccoli when there was mac and cheese because I could just drown it in the mac and cheese so it didn’t taste like broccoli at all.)
Once we sat down, she asked me, “So how’s school?”
This could only be a trick question. So I gave my usual answer.
“Fine.”
If Dad had been there, this would have been his cue to start talking about something else, like the weather or football or the state of the economy. But without Dad there, there was instead … a follow-up question.
“Have the kids been giving you a hard time about our effort?”
She went there. She actually went there. And I was so surprised that I actually answered with the truth.
“They were giving me a hard time until I told them I was on their side. Now they don’t give me a hard time at all.”
For a second, nothing in the kitchen moved. The food sat there on our plates. The silverware stared at the ceiling, hoping the awkward moment would pass. The refrigerator hummed disapprovingly, Not a good idea, Donovan. And then some ice cubes decided to fall, crashing in the freezer as if they were calling out, We’ve got to see THIS!
The phone rang. I thought I was saved. But she didn’t make any move to answer it.
“What do you mean?” she asked me.
I said, “I mean, I think it’s a good book.”
My mother speared a piece of broccoli. Put it in her mouth. Chewed. Made me wait. Swallowed.
The phone stopped ringing.
“Where did you get a copy of the book?” Mom asked. “Did Mr. Howe let you have one?”
I didn’t want to get Ms. Guy in trouble, so I said, “I read Allison’s copy. When she was done with it. Then I gave it back.”
I ate some mac and cheese. It burned my tongue.
My mother didn’t yell. She sighed.
Then she asked, “Why would you do that?” And before I could say anything, she answered, “No doubt because I told you not to.” While I tried to think of another excuse, she went on. “I should have known that would happen. It’s perfectly natural for you to be curious. But still, I wish you hadn’t.”
I actually felt bad for a second, because there were plenty of other things she’d wish I hadn’t done, like getting in touch with the author. I wondered if there was any chance that would stay a secret.
She saw me thinking something, but had no idea what it was.
“There are so many books your teacher can choose from,” she said. “So many great books. All I’m saying is that he should choose one of those books, not this one. I loved that you read Johnny Tremain. I still remember reading that when I was your age. And when you told me I had to read A Long Walk to Water, I was so glad you did, because that’s a fantastic book. I’m not saying Mr. Howe makes bad choices or that he’s a bad teacher. I think he’s a very good teacher. He just chose the wrong book. And when parents think a teacher has chosen the wrong book, there’s a process in place for us to say so. That’s all that’s happening here.”
She made it sound so simple, so scientific, so commonsense. But it wasn’t simple. Or scientific. Or commonsense.
Normally I would have kept my mouth shut.
Normally I would have kept my head down and eaten my dinner.
Normally I wouldn’t have spoken because when a kid speaks in a way that is in opposition to an adult, adults call it talking back. And when they call it that, they never mean talking back is a good thing.
But I wasn’t entirely myself at that moment. I wasn’t normal. No, I felt something rise in me. It made my heart beat faster. It pumped my blood faster. It made my brain feel like it was coming into focus. It was something that was nameless to me, but it contained anger at unfairness, resistance to restriction, and an inability to remain silent even when I knew the easiest course would be silence. It was nameless as I felt it, but really it had a name: outrage.
I didn’t yell.
I didn’t knock my food off the table.
I didn’t lock myself down, or shut myself up.
Instead, I started asking questions.
I began with: “Why do you think it’s the wrong book?”
She’d been lifting a forkful of mac and cheese to her mouth. Now she held it there, as if for two seconds I’d stopped time.
“It’s inappropriate,” she said. Then she took a bite.
“Why do you think it’s inappropriate?” I asked.
She swallowed.
“We aren’t having this conversation, Donovan,” she said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“You know why I think it’s inappropriate.”
“Not from you. Only from other kids who heard it from their parents. You didn’t talk to me about it. Not once.”
“I’m sorry if the other kids have been saying things—”
“No. It’s not about that. This is about why you think a good book is a wrong book. I read it, Mom. Beginning to end. And I have no idea why you have a problem with it.”
“It contains themes that aren’t appropriate for kids your age.”
“What themes?” I asked.
She sighed again. “This display of immaturity only proves my point, Donovan.”
Okay, my outrage said. It’s time to use the words she won’t use.
“I don’t know what world you think we live in, Mom,” I said, remembering what Allison’s mom had told the newspaper. “There are plenty of gay, lesbian, bi, trans, and nonbinary people on YouTube and TikTok and all the other things we watch. And other books I’ve read have had gay, lesbian, bi, trans, and nonbinary characters. Kira in our class has two moms, and there are other kids in our school with two moms or two dads or two parents who just want to be called parents. Some kids have nonbinary older siblings. And there’s even a gay kid in my class.”
“No, there isn’t,” Mom said.
“Yes, there is,” I said. “How can you say ‘No, there isn’t’? That makes no sense.”
“Nobody your age can know what he or she is. You’re too young. You can decide those things later, but not now.”
“But if that’s true, isn’t it also true that no one can know for sure that they’re straight?”
I wasn’t talking about myself. I was only trying to point out how weird her argument was. But the moment I said it, something new crossed her face. She looked helpless. It was the answer to a question I hadn’t asked: What are you afraid of?
“We are who we are,” I said. “And we’ll be who we’ll be. A book can make us feel that, but it can’t invent that. It’s already inside us.”
“Donovan … what are you saying?”
I’m not coming out to you, I could have said. Because for all I felt at that moment, I wasn’t gay. But at the same time I wanted her to understand what she was doing to all the kids who were or would be gay or lesbian or bi or trans or nonbinary by trying to pull a book from our class just because it had one boy saying he loved another boy.
So what I told her was:
“I’m saying it’s a good book and that Mr. Howe should teach it.”
“Donovan, I’m on your side.”
I thought of the Halloween costumes she’d sewn for me. The two of us sneaking off to an after-school movie and then telling Dad we’d been working. I remembered vacations where we climbed to the top of mountains. I remembered her reading me stories before I went to bed when I was little. I considered how much she knew I loved mac and cheese, and how that was the reason it was sitting in front of me right now.
“I know you’re on my side,” I told her. “Just not this one time. This one time you thought you were on my side, but you got it wrong.”
My outrage was quieter now. What had risen a few minutes ago was now going away.
I ate some more. She ate some more. Whenever I looked at her, I could see her thinking something. I had no idea what it was.
Finally, I was done with all my mac and cheese and enough of my broccoli.
“Can I be excused?” I asked.
She nodded.
I pushed back my chair and carried my dishes to the sink. As I walked past the table to go back to my room, she said, “I love you, Donovan.” And I said, “I love you, too.”
We left it there.