Apology by Jon Pineda (good novels to read .TXT) 📗

of the school. This time was their time, and there was no way they were going to surrender to the younger students, especially the lowly seventh graders. That would be an embarrassment.

Down by the track were special-needs students who had been brought over from the nearby center. They had only just arrived. Some entered the stadium and heard the roar and thought the students were welcoming them. Many of these visiting students were in wheelchairs, their arms one giant mechanism of jerking movements that made them appear robotic and slightly out of control. The remainder of their bodies did not move.

Mr. Rochambeau asked the junior high students in the bleachers above to welcome the visiting students, and this gave the throng yet another opportunity to unleash its collective crowing. Tom cried out, as did those around him. He closed his eyes and screamed louder than he had in a very long time. It felt amazing. Then the sounds fell away, everyone temporarily exhausted.

When Tom opened his eyes, he saw a girl waving at him from near the field. It couldn’t be, he thought, but then he remembered his mother telling him earlier that morning. He realized it had been to prepare him.

“Hey, there,” Teagan yelled. She was the only one. “Hey, there! Hey, there!” She was standing on her chair and waving up at all of the students. Tom realized she wasn’t just waving at him.

Many of the kids started laughing. Then more joined in.

Tom wanted to put his head down.

But he didn’t.

He stood up and waved back.

“Tommy!” Teagan said and clapped her hands. She seemed happy enough to cry. One of the teachers nearby guided her back down into her seat. It took some coaxing. Tom continued to stand, suffering the ridicule of his school.

“Young man,” Mr. Rochambeau said and pointed excitedly in Tom’s direction. “Yes, you there. Report to Ms. Smith, pronto. Hurry up now! You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

Tom shook his head, said, “Later,” to his friends, and clutched his yearbook as he made his way among the others still sitting. A few rows up, Mario started following him. He had also stood and waved at Teagan, though Tom hadn’t seen it.

Mr. Rochambeau continued, “Any other jokers out there want to join them? No? All right, then . . .”

Ms. Smith glanced down at her clipboard and asked for their names. She scanned the columns and then circled each one on the mimeographed list. “Go grab yourself a nice seat of asphalt,” she said, replacing the whistle between her lips. Luckily, there was still a good portion of the pavement covered by the shadow of the stadium. Mr. Rochambeau’s voice sounded muffled now, as did the screaming of their classmates.

“How long do you think they’ll keep us?” Mario said.

Tom didn’t answer.

He focused on the other students who sat lined up in front of him, their backs hunched and unmoving, as if the sound of their friends’ happiness weighed on them.

“How is she doing?” Mario said.

Tom looked over at him. “You don’t talk about her.”

Scuffed traffic cones had been placed along the perimeter and formed a barrier separating them from the teachers’ cars that were parked in the lot.

“She seemed really happy,” Mario offered.

Tom stared hard at Mario and eventually smiled.

“How’s your uncle liking jail?” Tom said.

After school, Tom came home to find his father already there. His father had brought home a few empty boxes from the base supply center.

“What are these for, Dad?” Tom said, lightly kicking one of the boxes as he walked into the kitchen. His father mumbled something Tom couldn’t understand. He realized too late it was in Tagalog, his father’s language. He wished he could remember some of the words, some of the history.

“Sorry, Dad,” Tom said.

“Your sister’s getting her hair cut,” his father said. “When they come back, you should tell her it looks good. Don’t forget.”

“I saw Teagan today,” Tom said.

“You what?”

“I saw her at school. She was at our yearbook signing. I think the center brought her on a field trip or something.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Why would she be at your school?”

“Dad, I just told you,” Tom said. He watched his father search around the kitchen, looking confused.

“Where did she put it?” his father said, moving some of the things away from the wall. It was obvious to Tom that nothing was hiding behind the squat, lidded containers of flour, sugar, and tea. “Your mother . . .”

“Put what, Dad?” Tom said.

“Where did she put my crossword?” he said without turning around. “She is always moving the paper around, you know that, right? I look away for one minute, and it’s gone.”

Tom checked the kitchen table, but there was only a magazine sitting beside the napkin holder. Then he went over to the empty boxes and peered into one of them. There was a folded newspaper resting at the bottom, though Tom wasn’t sure if it was the one his father was looking for.

“One of these days,” his father said, “I’m going to have my things in order. You’ll see, Tommy. Everything will have a place.”

That same evening, Mario stayed in his room and didn’t come out until he had memorized most of the periodic table. His parents were bewildered by the student he had become. Mario had heard his chemistry teacher say that anyone looking to go to college would be best served by committing the periodic table to memory. Mr. Sawyer had meant it as a joke. It was supposed to get a reaction, to gauge who was paying attention. The groan from the class would be one indicator. Mario, instead, had written in his notebook, Memorize the atomic weight of everything.

May 3, 198–

In regards to: Exequiel X. Guzman

DOC#331VA-77XX

Honorable Members of the Parole Board

Virginia Department of Corrections

P.O. Box 26963

Richmond, VA 23261

Dear Honorable Members of the Parole Board:

My name is Mario Guzman. I am fourteen years old. I have been a straight-A student at J. E. B. Stuart Junior High