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Authors: Carol M. Tanzman
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whistle-blower on you. Val and I will find a way to talk to whoever it is
without them knowing we spoke. If you want it to stop, you have to give us a
name.”
With a resigned sigh, Mira whispers, “Trey Lyman.”
Marci grimaces. “You poor thing.”
“Why?” I ask. “What’s wrong with Trey?”
“Are you kidding? Trey Lyman in love with you?” Marci shivers.
“The guy’s had a creepy little mustache ever since fifth grade. Real hair, too,
not some little pencil line.”
“Oh, come on. How would you even know that?”
“I went to P.S. 27 with him. Before I knew you, Trey and I rode
the magnet bus together. Boogers came out of his nose and milk bubbled from his
mouth every morning. Nobody would sit next to him.”
“Thank you!” Mira exclaims. “At least I’m not the only one
grossed out.”
“That was elementary school,” I point out.
“It’s hard to get the picture out of your head,” Marci
says.
Mira nods vigorously. “I met him at Hebrew school. Same
boogers. Same milk. He never said a word to me until last year, but I always
knew he liked me.”
“Okay, Mira, thanks for the tip,” I say. “Trey will never know
we’ve talked.”
* * *
After soccer practice, Marci and I walk to her house.
She lives at Cadman Towers on the nineteenth floor. A corner deck overlooks
downtown Brooklyn. Daylight saving time hasn’t ended yet, so the late
afternoon’s infused with a last gasp of warmth. We settle on lounge chairs, a
bag of chips and Marci’s laptop on our knees.
“I need new boots,” she tells me. “Brown. Mom said if I find a
good deal, she’ll buy them.”
Marci’s idea of a good deal is on the loose side. Ten dollars
off counts as a major sale. It doesn’t take long before we bookmark at least ten
pairs, not one less than two hundred bucks.
“You didn’t find any you like?” she asks.
“Are you kidding? The only way I get new boots is if I find
them at the discount place on Fourth Avenue. In the sale bin. We have twins,
Marci. They need new shoes, like, every other month!”
She brightens. “Why don’t you tell your mom to buy them two, or
maybe three, sizes too big? They can grow into them. Money saved goes to
you.”
I throw the bag of chips at her. “You’d make a terrible older
sister.”
“I guess.” She shuts the laptop. “I was thinking about
something all through practice. How are we supposed to interview Trey and not tell him we talked to Mira?”
“How should I know? It sounded good at the time.”
“Do you have any classes with him?” she asks.
“Uh-uh. You?”
She shakes her head. “Maybe one of the guys. Gym or something.
They could propose a ‘girls who won’t give you the time of day’ story.”
I reach over and grab the chips. “Cuts Jagger out.”
Defiantly, she grabs them back. Her perfectly tweezed eyebrows
arch. “Send Raul. I’m pretty sure he can relate!”
Anarchism is the great liberator of man from the phantoms that
have held him captive.
EMMA GOLDMAN
MP LOG
I’ve been thinking about how modern man is completely tied
down by rules and regulations. It’s not like back in the day when you could do
what you want when you want. Now all decisions are made by people you can’t
influence or talk sense to. It’s exactly the same at WiHi. We’ve got to eat when
they say and stand when they say and sit where they say and even get permission
to take a shit.
MP has got to start changing things. That’s what I told the
rest of the group. We’re the only ones willing to show the world it can be done.
We should start with Campus News . Block them from
broadcasting stories about us. Once that stops, once we break the power ladder
in this school, it can’t be put back together. It can’t be controlled.
Phantom said, “It’s cool to be on school news because nobody
knows who we are. Everyone wonders about us.”
I said, “Uh-uh, we need to control the informational flow.
When we’re ready, then we’ll tell them
without them knowing we spoke. If you want it to stop, you have to give us a
name.”
With a resigned sigh, Mira whispers, “Trey Lyman.”
Marci grimaces. “You poor thing.”
“Why?” I ask. “What’s wrong with Trey?”
“Are you kidding? Trey Lyman in love with you?” Marci shivers.
“The guy’s had a creepy little mustache ever since fifth grade. Real hair, too,
not some little pencil line.”
“Oh, come on. How would you even know that?”
“I went to P.S. 27 with him. Before I knew you, Trey and I rode
the magnet bus together. Boogers came out of his nose and milk bubbled from his
mouth every morning. Nobody would sit next to him.”
“Thank you!” Mira exclaims. “At least I’m not the only one
grossed out.”
“That was elementary school,” I point out.
“It’s hard to get the picture out of your head,” Marci
says.
Mira nods vigorously. “I met him at Hebrew school. Same
boogers. Same milk. He never said a word to me until last year, but I always
knew he liked me.”
“Okay, Mira, thanks for the tip,” I say. “Trey will never know
we’ve talked.”
* * *
After soccer practice, Marci and I walk to her house.
She lives at Cadman Towers on the nineteenth floor. A corner deck overlooks
downtown Brooklyn. Daylight saving time hasn’t ended yet, so the late
afternoon’s infused with a last gasp of warmth. We settle on lounge chairs, a
bag of chips and Marci’s laptop on our knees.
“I need new boots,” she tells me. “Brown. Mom said if I find a
good deal, she’ll buy them.”
Marci’s idea of a good deal is on the loose side. Ten dollars
off counts as a major sale. It doesn’t take long before we bookmark at least ten
pairs, not one less than two hundred bucks.
“You didn’t find any you like?” she asks.
“Are you kidding? The only way I get new boots is if I find
them at the discount place on Fourth Avenue. In the sale bin. We have twins,
Marci. They need new shoes, like, every other month!”
She brightens. “Why don’t you tell your mom to buy them two, or
maybe three, sizes too big? They can grow into them. Money saved goes to
you.”
I throw the bag of chips at her. “You’d make a terrible older
sister.”
“I guess.” She shuts the laptop. “I was thinking about
something all through practice. How are we supposed to interview Trey and not tell him we talked to Mira?”
“How should I know? It sounded good at the time.”
“Do you have any classes with him?” she asks.
“Uh-uh. You?”
She shakes her head. “Maybe one of the guys. Gym or something.
They could propose a ‘girls who won’t give you the time of day’ story.”
I reach over and grab the chips. “Cuts Jagger out.”
Defiantly, she grabs them back. Her perfectly tweezed eyebrows
arch. “Send Raul. I’m pretty sure he can relate!”
Anarchism is the great liberator of man from the phantoms that
have held him captive.
EMMA GOLDMAN
MP LOG
I’ve been thinking about how modern man is completely tied
down by rules and regulations. It’s not like back in the day when you could do
what you want when you want. Now all decisions are made by people you can’t
influence or talk sense to. It’s exactly the same at WiHi. We’ve got to eat when
they say and stand when they say and sit where they say and even get permission
to take a shit.
MP has got to start changing things. That’s what I told the
rest of the group. We’re the only ones willing to show the world it can be done.
We should start with Campus News . Block them from
broadcasting stories about us. Once that stops, once we break the power ladder
in this school, it can’t be put back together. It can’t be controlled.
Phantom said, “It’s cool to be on school news because nobody
knows who we are. Everyone wonders about us.”
I said, “Uh-uh, we need to control the informational flow.
When we’re ready, then we’ll tell them
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