Beyond the looky-loos is an angry mob of hundreds, shouting, chanting, bellowing threats into the air. Their words wear brass knuckles. They carry signs, too. freaks! monsters! animals! satan’s spawn!—all the classics, and, not surprisingly, a lot with scribbled Bible verses.
“Stay close,” my father says as he takes my hand. In turn, I grab Bex and we squirm into their numbers. I’m elbowed and jostled until one of the protestors blocks our way. He’s wearing a T-shirt with an eagle ripping through an American flag on it and those jeans with the elastic waistband I didn’t know they made for men. He’s as tall as he is wide, sweaty and red, and ten minutes from a stroke. His sign misspells the word abomination.
“You don’t have to go to school with monsters!” He sprays spittle all over me.
“Actually we do,” Bex says. “It’s the law.”
“Don’t engage with them,” my father barks as he drags us onward. “These people are on the edge. The slightest thing could make them erupt. Use your head!”
As we get closer I see soldiers in green camouflage uniforms. Each carries an assault rifle strapped to his or her chest. Some stand on street corners watching and waiting, their fingers resting on triggers. Some cruise slowly by in black jeeps with high-pressure water cannons mounted on top. Others lurk on rooftops and talk into radios. One is on horseback. He trots back and forth behind a barricade, barking a laundry list of rules into the air.
“Citizens must stay ten yards from the barricades unless they are students, parents, or staff. Violators will be arrested. Anyone can be stopped and searched. Individuals who do not submit will be immediately arrested. Citizens who fail to obey direct orders will be arrested.”
In the crowd is a stocky boy with shaggy brown hair hanging in his eyes. He’s Latino, with milky brown skin and a wide grin. His smartphone scans the crowd in every direction, capturing the protest and the vicious words. When he spots us, he smiles, turning his lens on Bex and me.
“Say hi to the world,” he urges.
“Hi, world. I’m Bex and this is Lyric and this sucks!”
He laughs, as usual. He finds Bex endlessly entertaining, and when they are together, the two turn into a couple of giggling idiots. His name is Tito but we call him Shadow because he’s been following Bex around since the fifth grade, shortly after we found him in our elementary school cafeteria trying to get milk to dribble out of his eyeball. He swore he saw someone do it online, so we watched with disgusted fascination. After three cartons, all he had managed to do was give himself a headache, but Bex saw his potential as a friend and a curiosity. Shadow gradually lost his baby fat and grew into a handsome guy. Thank goodness he stopped trying to do the milk trick.
Now his fascination, aside from Bex, is making movies and putting them on the Internet. There is a lot to document in the Zone and an endless appetite for a peek inside. The Daily News and the LA Times pay to use the videos he posts. I’ve seen some of his stuff on CNN. His website gets a million views a month.
“Are they here yet?” Bex asks him.
He shakes his head and continues to record the crowd with his phone. “Not yet, but I hear they’re on their way.”
My father talks to a soldier who points us toward some blue police barricades that mark off a path to the front steps of the school. He tells us we have to get in line, but I don’t see any other students waiting, so I guess we’re first, or maybe we’re the only kids coming to school today. Many parents threatened to keep their children home when the integration plan was announced, even under threat of arrest. Bex, Shadow, and I might have the whole place to ourselves—well, except for the Alpha.
When we get to the front of the line, another cop orders us to wait while he shouts something into his radio. He’s a short, stubby fireplug who might as well have the word Irish tattooed on his blotchy, freckled face. His white shirt is soaked through with sweat and reveals way more than anyone should ever see. His arms and hair glisten. Wet thumb stains smear the paperwork on his clipboard.
When he sees my dad, his face falls as he eyes his list, like he’s being asked to choose which one of us will live or die. “Leonard? Your girl goes here?”
My father nods. “Tommy, this is my daughter, Lyric, and her friends Becca Conrad and—kid, what’s your name?”
Shadow grins. “Tito Ramirez.”
Irish Tommy takes our IDs and double-checks his list. “Okay, kids. Keep your identification on you at all times. If you are found in the halls without it, you will be arrested, whether you’re this guy’s daughter or not. Got it?”
I nod my head.
“Once inside, go to your homerooms and stay there until you’re told to move to the next class. The bells don’t mean anything today. Do not linger in the halls or bathrooms between classes. Your lockers are subject to search at any time. If a soldier, police officer, teacher, or staff member tells you to do something, do it. We’re not putting up with any teenage crap today. If you start a fight, argue, or look at anyone cross-eyed, you’re going to the Tombs.”
“No way!” Bex cries.
Even if my father wasn’t a cop, I would know about the Tombs. It’s a jail in lower Manhattan stocked with crackheads, muggers, and rapists waiting for arraignment. It’s notoriously dangerous. People walk out with their noses in different places than when they went in. Sometimes people die in there. Bex’s stepfather has spent more than a few nights inside Hell Hotel. He comes home tame as a housecat, until it wears off and he’s back to being an ass.