He lets Jewel put on country top-forty radio, even lets her crank it up loud while they drive to school. He brushed her hair for her, put it in a simple ponytail, and he thinks how beautiful she is. Fragile in some ways, but in other ways not. She’s done well with everything that happened while David John was gone. The question, Jessup thinks, is if she’ll do well now that he’s back.
When he pulls into the drop-off zone at the middle school, he’s struck with a bolt of anxiety. There are two police cars parked out front. But even though the cops are out of their cars, they are standing together tightly, looking like they are chatting rather than on high alert. A rote response to yesterday’s bomb threat at the high school. None of the middle school students seem to care. They walk in crowds and individually, carrying backpacks and musical instruments in black cases, scooping up snow and throwing it into the sky. Somebody’s built an anemic snowman on the grass by the front door.
It’s the same at the high school: a casual acceptance that there’s nothing to really worry about. As he turns into the lot, he sees a Cortaca police SUV parked next to a cruiser, three cops near the entrance. Buses are starting to unload, so there’s a sea of students rolling off in waves.
He parks, grabs his bag, and shuffles through the cars. He has to work at keeping his head up. Knows that if he bows his head it’s an admission of sorts, that it will be read as an acceptance of guilt. He also knows, though, that he’s screwed either way. That to keep his head up, to look people in the eye could also be interpreted as pride, as a gleeful ownership of the violence over the weekend, of the rally planned for tonight, of everything that has happened or might happen.
He doesn’t see Wyatt’s truck in the parking lot. Could be he’s missed it, but he hopes not. He knows it’s selfish, but he doesn’t want Wyatt here. Doesn’t want anything else reminding people of his affiliations. Wyatt won’t keep his head down, and while Wyatt won’t spout off, he won’t back down, either. Jessup knows that now. Wyatt’s a different animal than he used to be. Metamorphosis. Wyatt isn’t joking about a racial holy war, and he’s willing to stand proud. But not Jessup. What he wants is a time machine. What he wants is a different life. What he wants is to be invisible.
But he can’t be invisible. Not here. Not now. Maybe if he were smaller, but he stands out, his size, part of what makes him invincible, is part of what keeps him from being invisible. He sees students staring, groups of boys and girls recognizing him, somebody pointing. Hears somebody call out the word “racist,” hears worse, but he doesn’t look.
He hears footsteps, someone running, turns just in time to catch a glimpse of a familiar face, a teammate, Steve Silver, but he’s not coming with a greeting. He’s coming with a fist. He catches Jessup on the side of the head, on the temple.
Jessup goes down.