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It’s eleven a.m. on Friday, just before winter break. I’m outside the doors of the auditorium with my fourth period class and about a thousand other kids, waiting our turn to be let inside and herded to our seats for the annual winter concert. The full choir concert will be tomorrow night at a big Hamilton Heights church, but it’s a long tradition to do a short band and choir program for the school on the last day before vacation.
The singers stand grouped together by a side door. The guys are wearing black pants with white shirts and red ties. The girls wear red dresses that, according to Rosie, nobody likes. “Everybody looks fat in those dresses. Nobody likes to look fat.” Well, some of the girls look fat in those dresses, but only the fat ones. Most of them look good. Not as good as Rosie. But good. At least that’s what I think.
Sofia and Fatima are wearing the same kind of dresses. They all come from the same catalog, or pattern, or something, because they’ve all got to be alike. But Sofia and Fatima also have shawls, made from the same material as the dresses, covering their shoulders. Their head scarves match, too.
Finally, with lots of shuffling around and chatter, we’re all packed into our seats in the auditorium. Mr. Hockney walks on stage and stands in front of the microphone. He waits for things to get quiet. It’s the usual, how lucky we are to have such fine music groups, and everyone should be sitting with their 4th period classes, and here are the exits, etc., etc. And now let’s enjoy the concert.
The band director, Mr. Davenport, stands in front of the band with his arms raised. He waits, then brings his arms down, and the band starts with a jazz rendition of “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire.” I know that’s what they’re playing because it’s listed in the program.
Cameron has a short drum solo in the middle of the song. It only lasts about twenty seconds, but I can tell he’s pretty happy about it.
While the band’s still playing, Mr. Taggerty, dressed in his tuxedo, comes over to where I’m sitting. I think wearing a tuxedo for a high school assembly is extreme, but that’s Taggerty, all formal for choir concerts. He motions for me to follow him to a front seat on the right aisle, removes a “Reserved” sign, reaches under the seat, and pulls out a cardboard file box.
“Do me a favor. When the band finishes their last number, the lights will dim and singers will process in from the back of the auditorium, with candles, singing ‘Silver Bells.’ It’s a beautiful opening,” he says.
I’m waiting to hear what the favor is.
“So have a seat here until the first singer gets to about two rows from you. Then stand up and hold the box out so singers can drop their candles into it as they walk by. Not too complicated, huh?”
“They’ll drop lit candles into this cardboard box??”
“Fake candles. You know. With batteries.”
He’s all sarcastic, like I should have known that. Why didn’t he say fake candles in the first place?
“Got it, Eddie? Just sit right here, then stand with the box when the first singer gets close.”
“Got it.”
As applause for the band’s last number dies down, Taggerty walks up to the center of the stage. He welcomes everyone, makes his usual remarks about being a respectful audience, then cues someone backstage to dim the lights. There’s a faint flicker at the back of the auditorium as the first singers enter.
“City sidewalks, busy sidewalks, dressed in holiday style...” The sound is faint as the first few singers enter from the back, then gains in volume as others follow. It is pretty in the almost dark auditorium with the tiny lights and the full voices.
The first singer to walk past and drop a candle into the box is Brianna. Rosie’s about five girls back, right in front of Sofia. I’m watching her, listening for her voice, when from somewhere off to the side, a guy jumps out, yanks Sofia’s scarf from her head, stomps on it, yells “Go back where you belong, Raghead!” and runs in front of me toward the side door. Asshole!
I push into him, hard. He stumbles, nearly rights himself. I shove him down. Then Taggerty’s there, pulling the guy up by the arm. Matt grabs his other arm. Then Hockney’s there and Marcus.
There’s lots of jostling around in the auditorium, some gasping, some calls of “Oh, no,” and louder yells of “America for Americans!” and something about “illegals” and “faggots” and stuff I can’t make out. I see Rosie stop to pick Sofia’s scarf up from the floor. She brushes it off and hands it to Sofia. Security handcuffs the scarf-puller and walks him out of the auditorium. I don’t recognize the guy, but it’s a big school, and I don’t know everyone.
Davenport’s in front of the band giving a signal and they start blasting away at the “Star-Spangled Banner.” By the time they get to “the dawn’s early light,” most of the kids are standing quietly for the national anthem, like we’ve all been taught to do since kindergarten.
Singers rush past me, not singing, dropping candles in the box as they hurry on stage. Some start to take their places on the risers, but Taggerty shakes his head and points them toward the backstage door. By “the twilight’s last gleaming,” the singers are no longer in sight. Taggerty stands at the microphone, silent, looking out over the student body. It is pin-drop quiet now. It looks like he’s getting ready to say something, but then he just shakes his head sadly and follows the choir offstage.
Hockney takes the microphone. “Teachers, please take students back to your classrooms and proceed with your usual activities.”
Then, his voice rising, he says, “Students! Anyone who does not return to his or her classroom for the remainder of fourth period will have an automatic three-day suspension starting January 2nd!”
I’m still standing with the box at my feet in the front row. I’m shaking. Not panic-attack shaking. Anger shaking. What a wimp-ass thing to do, rush a girl from behind and grab her scarf! I wish I’d given him a swift kick to the nuts. Or spit in his face when he was down or...Okay, deep breaths. Stop with the coulda, shoulda. Another calming breath and I go backstage to find Rosie. The girls are huddled together in a bunch, and it takes a minute to see her in the midst of the look-alike dresses. They’re all in a close circle around Sofia and Fatima. The boys are mostly standing to one side, ties loosened, looking at their feet. Rosie’s got her arm across Sofia’s shoulder. Sofia’s got her scarf back on.
I’m making my way over to Rosie when Taggerty stops in front of me. “Mr. Hockney wants you to come to his office,” he says.
“Why?”
“Probably wants to talk to everyone involved in the incident. That was a brave thing you did, Eddie.”
“Really? It’s not like I thought about it.”
“Well, then you’ve got good impulses.”
Hockney’s secretary shows me into his office. Marcus is there, too. And a policeman. With a notebook.
“This is Officer Christy,” Mr. Hockney says. “He’d like to ask you a few questions.
“Officer Christy, this is Eddie Barajas, the young man who stopped the aggressor.”
We shake hands. Christy takes a pencil from his shirt pocket and turns to a blank notebook page. “I understand you knocked the anti-Muslim boy down as he was running to the exit. Do you know who he was?”
“No. I didn’t recognize him.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Not to me. I heard him yell ‘Go home, Raghead’ at Sofia.”
“And you just happened to be standing there in front when he ran past you?”
“I was collecting candles,” I say.
“Candles?”
I explain about the candle collection job.
“Where did the guy who pulled Miss...” he checks his notes “...Khan’s scarf off come from? Did you see?”
“He came from just a few rows back, on the other side of the aisle. At least, I think that’s where he came from. All of a sudden, he was there, yanking at Sofia’s headscarf.”
“You were in the far right section, facing the stage?”
I nod.
“And the aggressor was coming from the middle section to your left?”
“Yes.”
“You know, he would probably have gotten away if not for your quick action.”
I nod.
“That’s the pattern with this bunch. Strike fast. Run fast.”
“What do you mean, ‘bunch’?” Hockney asks.
“Well, you know. It’s more than one person, the hate signs, the nooses, swastikas, the ‘white lives matter’ flyers. It’s a whole group.”
“Patriots?” I ask.
Christy glances over at me. “Can’t say for sure,” he says. “Wish we could.” After a few more questions, Christy hands his cards around to us all, takes our cell phone numbers, and leaves.
At lunch, it’s like everybody wants to talk to me about what happened. Some of it’s “good for you,” and high five/two-ing, and a couple are like, “Are you a Muslim now?” That’s too stupid to even tell them how stupid it is.
Partly because Rosie keeps asking, and mostly because I want to change the subject, I try to talk to Brent about Brianna. I can’t, though, because people keep coming to our table wanting to relive the assembly moment. Cameron’s drumming the table like he’s in another world and all I want to do is eat my lunch. I tell Brent and Cameron I’ll see them later and take what’s left of my lunch down to the yoga room.
Joe’s in his office, shuffling papers. He glances at the clock. “Hey, Eddie. You’re early.”
“I need a quiet place to eat my lunch,” I say, taking a seat on a bench against a side wall.
“No problem,” he says.
Only five kids show up for Yoga today. The last day of school before vacation, and we’re on a shortened schedule. Joe leads us through some stretches and then a series of poses. It helps, getting lost in yoga, focusing only on the yoga moment. The shakiness goes away, and my mind quiets. But here’s something else. In warrior pose, when I turn my head slowly and gaze back over my extended right arm, I see that Jason, still farther back than anyone else, is doing the pose too.
We spend several minutes in child’s pose, and I feel my neck, shoulders, and back release tension, totally relax.
As we sit in Sukhasana, Joe says, “Have happy holidays, Maricella, Alice, Miranda, Eddie, Jason.” He pauses to hold eye contact with each of us as he says our names. “Be kind,” he says. He bows his head and holds his hands in a prayer position. We do the same. “Namaste,” he says. “Namaste,” we respond. Except probably not Jason. I didn’t hear his squeaky voice.
I’m rolling up the mats when Joe walks over. “I heard what happened at assembly,” he says.
“You and all the 3,000-plus others here today.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“You did the right thing, but you probably made more enemies today, or at least made your old enemies angrier.”
“I don’t care,” I say. “They’re a bunch of chicken-shit cowards, that guy picking on a girl who’s about half his size.”
“You should care. He got arrested, probably will be charged with an assault designated as a hate crime. He’s going to be really pissed. His friends are going to be really pissed.”
“Yeah, well if they’re that Patriot bunch, they’re always pissed anyways.”
“Okay, but watch out for them.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
