At first she thought it was some crazy dance, performed by lunatic figures in the far shadows, waving arms and kicking at something in their center. Then, maybe a game, her mind grasping for the familiar in the dusty silence of the school hallway.
In that instant, all that she was and would be converged, as though the eyes of the girl she had always been met the eyes of the woman to come and flashed in full agreement. It was an instant of change, but more, it was an instant of confirmation.
By now Bailey knew the violence for what it was. Despite the deception of silence. Despite the placid halls of the weary brick high school that, like her parents and their parents, she’d soon leave in her past. The stillness of the corridors, her intimacy with the place—they made it worse, this thing she saw, obscenely worse. It was real, all right, and it was loathsome.
In the next moment, the adrenaline, the tensing of her muscles and the flash memory of Gillie’s bunny snatched by coyotes loping close from the front pasture; her rushing them while Mother screamed her back; Daddy dropping them with the crack of his rifle just before she tore into their midst.
The moment passed and she was charging, her action born without deliberation, compulsory because of who she was, because whatever she saw, it was wrong.
She knew them, the four seniors who stood above and kicked him, familiar faces through twelve years of school and more. It seemed methodical, the way they assaulted his crumpled body just below the banner stretched across the painted block wall that read: Hillsdale High Class of 2003, Tomorrow’s Texas Heroes. The boy they beat she did not know, but when she glimpsed his face she recognized the new student, the one she’d seen not twenty minutes past in calculus.
His smile had made her secretly study him. It seemed a private smile, beautiful but not for the public. The kind of smile he might use for his mother. If she glimpsed some confidential joy in him, it quickly passed, not to be shared.
He was new there and that had caught her eye in class right away. His was not, as all others there, a face she had seen most days of her life all the way back to where memory grew dim. A dark face, blue-black hair, lush, brushed to one side, not long but trimmed in neat around the ears like most boys in this school. Dark eyes. White shirt, black jeans. Newish white Nikes. Dark hands, kept mostly folded on the desk in front of him. The rare passing of that smile. That was the thing that held her, calling her back to his profile enough times that even calculus passed painlessly.
She had mouthed a silent question to Yoli, one desk over, tilting her head toward the new student, where he sat in the last row against the windows, steadily watching Ms. Valdez, who paced and worked her hands in her personal mode of full-on instruction. Yoli had shaken her head and scrunched her mouth in her established way of expressing failure to know, along with a pronounced lack of interest.
Hispanic? Bailey whispered.
Yolanda shook her head. Scrunched her mouth.
Well, Ms. Butler? Do you have an answer for us? Ms. Valdez had waited, watching Bailey with hands on hips, her peers smirking as she squirmed.
Sorry, ma’am, can you repeat the question?
The little instructor sighed with gusto, rolled her eyes. True or False, Ms. Butler: The sign of the second derivative of a given function f informs you on the concavity of the graph of f.
Oh, well, true, I think.
You think?
Yes, true.
If the teacher was disappointed in the correct answer, she had hidden it behind a half smile, whirling to target a new victim.
Stop! Bailey shrieked as she charged them. The books she dropped slid on the waxed floor behind her, the papers of her notebooks fluttered like fallen doves. Even when she reached them, striking out, grabbing, pulling at them, they seemed not to notice.
Rick, you bastard! Pete, get out of here. Idiots! Leave him alone! Leave him alone!
When a loose fist struck her face, she gave a little cry, fell to the floor, banged her face against a locker. As one they froze and stared with open mouths.
Bailey! A boy dropped to his knees before her. He reached a hand as though to touch her bruised eye, jerked it back when she shrieked and struck at the offending hand.
Don’t touch me! Don’t you touch me, Donald Winston.
Aw, Bailey….
His words were cut off by the blow from behind, the backpack slung against his head with such fury that he fell to the floor, the thud of his head against it loud and shocking. The figure behind him dropped the pack and whirled to his friends, raising clenched fists before her and stepping toward them. You want some, assholes? Wanta pick on a girl?
They backed away from her, shaking their heads and grinning. On the floor, Donald Winston rubbed his head and pushed himself to his feet. Damn dike. That hurt.
Good, asshole. Get out of here before I do something that really hurts.
Wanda. Bailey pulled herself to lean against a locker. It’s okay.
The girl called Wanda faked a charge at Donald Winston, causing him to jerk back and raise his hands. She laughed then, loud, and turned away from him. You okay, Bailey?
Fine, thanks. Fine. Bailey drew deep breaths and watched the four attackers retreat down the hall, the shuffle of their shoes fading as they went from there without looking back.
Assholes. I should’ve pounded every one of ‘em. Wanda’s face was red, her solid shoulders rose and fell as she heaved for air. Oh! Look what they did to you. She knelt by Bailey and would have touched her face had Bailey not recoiled and knocked her head against the locker.
I’m okay, really. But thanks, Wanda. Thanks.
Wanda drew back, her eyes gone dark and away from Bailey. Oh, yeah. Of course. She drew herself to her feet and stooped to clutch her backpack, casting a quick glance at the boy. You all right, guy? She turned away at his nod and stood a moment before Bailey, sitting with her back against the locker, rubbing her jaw. You sure you’re okay? You need anything? She brushed a hand over her stiff orange bristle of hair.
Bailey shook her head. No, I’m good. Thanks, Wanda. That was…. Wanda’s back was to her as she left them. Bailey blew her breath out and watched her march down the hall until she was gone.
She let her body still itself, found the boy across the gleaming floor. Are you all right?
He had pulled himself to sit as she did, back against the wall, hands beside him on the floor. His shoulders rose and fell above his ruined shirt. Open mouth. Eyes not quite focused on her, as though he tried to see through something hanging between them. The pain maybe. She would have sworn it looked like disappointment.
Down the hall, behind the scattered books, near the double doors from where Bailey had charged, Yoli stood and watched. Her hand was to her mouth. She made no sound.
The silence of the hallway rolled on waves of dust that settled now across the shadows from the high windows. It was a long, square gray space, with streaks of shining floor where the light rays fell, with walls of metal lockers where no locks clicked and no doors clanged shut with the finality of yet another moment of youth spent. It was a long and empty space, undisturbed by the shouts and laughter of rushing youths pressing to class before the bell amid the bubbling of girls’ laughter and the boasting of loud boys. It was a starkly silent place, with closed doors and no watching adult figures tapping a hand with a pencil, no bellowing coaches or stern principals; not even the swish of a lone custodian’s mop, side to side, wiping off the grime of another day’s molding of the carefree young into something else.
When she was able, Bailey stood and approached him, a hand held before as though to brush away something foul. He swiped at his forehead with the back of his fingers, regarded the stain of blood they brought away. She saw the blood and raised her eyes to his, gave a little gasp to see his thin lips twitch, as though he meant to build a smile. His eyes were soft, not hard and angry as she’d expected, dark and full of pain that came from far within the battered bones and flesh in which he dwelt.
Are you all right? Her voice cracked through the dryness of her throat.
I think so.
She shook her head. I don’t… I… I’m sorry.
He surprised her with a raised palm. Don’t apologize. You helped me. A look of amazement came over him. He gave a little laugh. You terrified them.
I did? I don’t know how. I was shaking I was so mad.
And your friend. He tried a chuckle, gagged in pain. I wouldn’t want her mad at me.
Wanda’s… pretty tough.
She turned away to watch Yoli approaching down the hall, a mess of books and papers clutched to her chest.
Bailey?
It’s okay. Bailey reached for the books Yoli handed her.
Yolanda turned wide eyes on Kamil. Halfway smiled.
Yoli, this is…. I don’t know your name.
Kamil Shenouda.
Kamil. I’m Bailey Butler. She reached a hand to shake. It seemed to surprise him. It hung there thin, white, vulnerable. He hesitated, took it finally in his brown fingers, squeezed, smiled, gave it back to her. He swayed to his feet, steadied himself against the wall.
You’re hurt, she said. Come on, let’s get you to a bench.
He made no objection as they led him, moving beside him with hands ready to catch him if he failed, down the hall toward the front doors. They made the length of it in silence, his breathing labored through teeth he clamped together. They opened the glass and wood doors to let him pass. Steered him to a stone bench off the concrete porch in the grass beneath a live oak. They faced him while he sat, watching. He tried to hide his pain.
You should see a doctor, Bailey said.
I’m okay. A little stiff.
Stiff! They might have hurt your liver or something. They were beating you. Kicking you. She clenched her jaw. Her head hurt. Dizzy.
I think I’m fine.
You’re an awful liar. She offered a short laugh.
He smiled. I’m probably better off than the guy your friend whacked with that backpack.
That’s Wanda. She’s in love with Bailey. Yoli smirked at her.
Oh, shut up, Yoli. That’s not funny.
Her best friend laughed as though she was certain that it was. But true. Anyway, we oughta go. We’re supposed to meet Bobby and Sam, remember?
You go ahead. I’ll just stay with Kamil a while.
Whatever. I’m going. Yolanda shrugged and turned toward Kamil. I hope you’re okay. I’m sorry for those guys.
They watched her walk across the lawn to the sidewalk leading to the avenue. When she reached it, she turned and made her way beneath the limbs of the live oaks. Soon she was gone. Bailey stepped to the bench, eased down beside him.
You don’t have to stay. I’m all right.
I know. I want to.
He noticed the bruising of her eye, red with blood, the puffiness and deep gash in her cheek. They hurt your eye.
She touched two fingers to the swelling. I’ve lived through worse. Once a cow kicked me in the forehead. I looked like a racoon for a week.
A cow?
She shrugged. We’re farmers.
They faced the spread of grass in silence. A quiet breeze worried the branches of the trees. It brushed away the heaviness of heat against their skin, to soothe the cloying wetness of an August afternoon in southeast Texas.
Across the avenue the tassels of tall corn stalks waved, rippling as though the vast fields were a golden lake disturbed by currents from something restless beneath. Soon the giant harvesters would rumble there to stir up clouds of dust that crept through classroom windows to torment all within.
Then as quickly as they came, the huge machines would grind down the avenue to the end of town and a different field, lined up one after the other to occupy most of the road so that cars and trucks must pull over and let them by. In their wake the dust would settle in the classrooms. The sleepy silence of the afternoons would be restored. The greenish golden shimmering sea that she now gloried in would turn to dirt, brown and stubbled by the broken stalks of that which never would return; just to be replaced next year by next year’s crop, as classrooms filled and emptied in an endless cycling of young souls, all desperate to grow their wings and fly.
Did you just move here?
He turned to meet her eyes. My mother brought us from California.
Really? Where?
North of San Francisco. My dad was a professor at UNC.
She considered this, her eyes returned to the corn. Your mother brought you? Your father….
Died. A few months ago.
I’m sorry.
It’s all right. We’re going to be all right.
Why here? Why Hillsdale?
My father’s old friend owns the Valley Hotel on the interstate.
The no-tell motel? She choked on her laugh. Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that. That was terrible….
He was grinning, his teeth shining white, his eyes not quite so dark. That’s a good name for it.
She flushed. Squirmed on the bench. I really am sorry. That was rude.
It’s all good. He gave a short laugh.
Do you live there?
He shook his head. No way. Mother wouldn’t do that to us. She bought a house by the park.
White Oak Park, over by the library?
He nodded.
Were you born in California?
I was born in Egypt. Alexandria.
On the coast. They say it’s beautiful.
You know it?
Just by reading. Maps. Pictures. Someday I’ll go there. And everywhere. She glanced sideways.
He appeared not to think her revelation strange. I think you will.
Why’d you leave Egypt?
It’s pretty hard there for some.
Oh…. She let it trail off in the sounds of the breeze and distant traffic. I’d love to hear more about Egypt. Sometime when, well, you aren’t bleeding.
He smiled. I was eight when we left. I’m more American than anything. Well… theoretically.
The silence hung as heavy as the afternoon heat.
I’m really sorry about those guys.
It’s no big deal.
A young man walked up the sidewalk, dark like Kamil, same blue-black hair.
My brother. Probably wondered where I was.
Kamil! The shout was loud enough to reach them from the sidewalk. He stopped where the walk cut up from the street. Stared at them with no smile. Come on.
He’s four years older than I am. Thinks he owns me. He shrugged, brought himself to his feet, slow, sucking in his breath.
She moved with him when he stepped out.
I better go. He stopped to block the way.
I’m really sorry about those idiots.
He shrugged. Thanks for jumping in. He moved down the sidewalk, his movements stiff, considered, as though to disguise the pain.
She heard his brother’s voice from the street. What the hell happened to you?
The gold of the cornfield had turned brown, the shadows of the trees long across the grass. It was later than she had thought.
—
