At lunch, someone grabs my elbow. It’s Niall. As far as I’m concerned, he is the cutest boy in the school. His wavy black hair shines down past his shoulders. He’s the school high-jump champion, wiry and nimble. He has a perpetual cold, which means there’s not a lot of competition for dating him. Niall makes supercool stuff. He once connected an amplifier to the cutlery drawer so the rattling of knives and forks was broadcast through his house. He did the same thing with a drainpipe. He called it audio art. Usually Niall is mellow, but today he seems agitated.
“Liza, I’m going to propose a compost program,” he says. Niall is in BRRR!, Boys for Renewable Resources, Really! They’re GRRR!’s sibling organization. “It’s cheap and simple. A bucket in every classroom for lunch scraps. We only need to find a farmer to pick up the compost once a week.”
“I can find a farmer,” I say, a little too eagerly. Mom knows a few farmers.
“Killjoy will probably say no,” says Niall, “unless there’s a whole lot of support for it.”
Mrs. Reynolds—Killjoy—has blocked every one of BRRR!’s and GRRR!’s initiatives. Last year we held a bicycle wash and a plant sale. We raised hundreds of dollars for solar hot-water panels for the school. But Mrs. Reynolds said the panels were aesthetically detrimental. She meant they were ugly.
“I was going to ask if you would help me draw up a petition and collect signatures,” says Niall.
A petition sounds exciting—if I’m working on it with him.
Niall and I spend the rest of the lunch hour in the library. We laugh a lot trying to get the wording right. The petition can’t be too brazen or too shy.
Niall asks where I had gone last week. He’d seen me and the boys get in Mom’s car. I tell him a little about Richard.
“Yeah, I used to see him around,” Niall says. “He was just a bum.”
“Well, I don’t know,” I say, surprised Niall would be so cold. “He was homeless.”
“Yeah, I know. Lots of those guys on the street are totally fine, and young. Why don’t they just get a job?”
“Well, he was sick, I think. He lost his parents when he was young, and never recovered.”
“Come on, Liza. Isn’t that lame?” Niall said. “I mean, if my parents died, I’d be freaked, but I’d recover. Why are we supposed to feel sorry for these people? They don’t do anything to help themselves.”
For a second, I want to agree with Niall. If it was Richard’s fault that he was the way he was, I wouldn’t have to feel bad about the way he died.
But I surprise myself. I say something I’d never thought through before: “Maybe that was the best Richard could do.”
Niall considers this. “Okay. Maybe,” he says. “But, come on. How could he live like that?”
“I wonder about that too,” I say. “But I don’t know what went on in his head. Maybe he was thinking about cool things, having beautiful daydreams. He was serene.”
“Passive.”
“So what? Do we always have to be doing, making, taking, shopping?” I ask. “Look at my friend, Olive. Her family decided not to buy anything for a whole year.”
“That’s crazy!”
“It’s good for the environment. And they say it’s kind of spiritual. There was a lot of stuff they thought they needed, but really, they only wanted it.”
“But that’s not as humiliating as living on the street,” Niall says. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with wanting something, Liza. Needs are basic: food, shelter. But what’s life without friendship”— he looks at me—“or, say, art?”
“Richard walked with a really light footprint,” I point out.
“That wasn’t what he was trying to do. He suffered too much,” Niall says. “He was bent over, wrinkled up and worn out. He was not thriving. And what did he give anyone else? Nothing!”
“Well, he wasn’t hurting anyone,” I sputter. “People say that he made them slow down and count their blessings.”
“He didn’t mean to. Those were accidental benefits,” Niall says. “He was lazy.”
“He was supremely gentle,” I say.
“Stupefied.”
“He wasn’t totally healthy,” I say. “Or he was shut out. There was nothing for him to do.”
“I guess,” Niall considers.
“Richard may not have intended to make a difference by living the way he did, but the fact is, he did make a difference,” I say. “He certainly never meant harm. Which is a lot more than you can say for others—like oil companies.”
Niall smiles. “I never thought it through before. You’re smart, Liza.”
I feel warm. Then I feel too warm. My heart pounds and my face burns, and possibly my hair stands on end.
“You too,” I mumble.
Luckily, Niall shifts gears. “Let’s print these off.” We argue over the best font and then send the petition to the printer.
A couple of days later, Niall and I meet in the library to tally up our signatures. Between the two of us, we have collected 246 names. Some of the kindergartners signed in crayon.
“That’s ninety-two percent of the student body,” Niall gloats as we staple the pages together.
“I’d photocopy those if I were you,” says Mme. Falette, our school librarian. She gives us a knowing look and says something about despots and destruction of records.
Ten minutes later, we slide the thick petition into Mrs. Reynolds’s mailbox.
“She can’t possibly say no,” Niall says, turning to me. “What do you think?”
I’d been thinking that I had to get a little braver on the girl-likes-boy-who-maybe-likes-girl-back front. “I think we make a good team,” I say, putting out my fist. He taps it with his.
“I’m down with that,” he says and grins.
I feel my hair rise again. When Niall looks back as he hops on his bike, he probably thinks I’ve been electrocuted.
From: LittleLizaJane@whoohoo.com
To: listserve, GRRR!
Subject: Don’t tell Olive!
Hi Everyone!
I’m hosting a surprise clothing and book exchange in honor of Olive’s family’s crazy/amazing year-long commitment to live with what they have.
Come to my house on Saturday at 1:00 pm with books you’ve already read and clothes you’re tired of.
We’ll spread everything out. Everyone gets a number, and we take turns choosing two items from the pile. We keep going until no one wants anything.
I’ll make sure there’s a change room, mirrors and snacks.
We’ll probably have clothes and books left over. Could someone volunteer to take them to the Women in Need thrift shop after the party?
Hope to see you there! Don’t tell Olive!
Liza