Fear & Hope

By Luke Marusiak

The collapse of the steel industry in the 1970s hit Western Pennsylvania hard. Hundreds of thousands lost their livelihoods, population sank, schools closed, and despair ruled many. In the midst of these trials, the destinies of three who came of age during that timePhilip Bennet, Liam Conti, and Ruth OBrienwere determined by the choice they made: that of fear or that of hope. As the three grapple with their situation and their yearning for significance, they discover their fight is part of a much larger struggle.

Excerpt from the prefaceBarack Obama referring to Pennsylvanians, April 2008:
Its not surprising then that they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who arent like them . . .

That characterization is so far from the truth; an answer is in order. Fear & Hope is intended to be that answer. This novel is meant, first of all, to entertain because the Western Pennsylvania tragedies and triumphs are one heck of story. But it is also, in some small measure, meant to both rebuff Mr. Obamas pompous marginalization and point out the cautionary tales of high-cost mistakes made then that are being repeated today.

This novel is part of the Good Fight Series and overlaps times and characters of Marx & Ford, Loud & Clear, and the upcoming Gold & Glory.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483645742

Luke Marusiak

Luke Marusiak was raised in Western Pennsylvania. He served in the U.S. Army culminating with the 1st Infantry Division in Desert Storm. He has resided in the Silicon Valley since the early 1990s working in semiconductors, hard drive media, and vacuum chamber systems in positions from process engineer to chief operating officer and CEO. He draws on his family, friendships, and experiences for his writing.

Book preview

Fear & Hope

Luke Marusiak

Copyright © 2013 by Luke Marusiak.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 06/10/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

133921

Contents

Preface

PART I ANGST

PART II HAVOC

PART III FAITH

PART IV RECKONING

Epilogue

About the Author

TO THOSE WHO CAME OF AGE DURING THE TERMINAL DECLINE OF THE SEVENTIES AND, WITH LITTLE TO GAIN AND EVERYTHING TO LOSE, PUT THEIR SHOULDER TO THE WHEEL AND, AGAINST ALL ODDS, REVERSED IT.

AND

TO THE MILLENIALS AND THOSE YOUNGER OF TODAY WHO ARE LOOKING LEFT AND RIGHT WITH THE REALIZATION THAT SAME TASK PRESENTS ITSELF ANEW.

Preface

When I started writing the Good Fight Series, I never planned on Fear & Hope. One of those odd things happened; it was a patronizing pronouncement that couldn’t go unanswered:

You go into some of these small towns in Pennsylvania, and like a lot of small towns in the Midwest, the jobs have been gone now for 25 years and nothing’s replaced them. And they fell through the Clinton administration, and the Bush administration, and each successive administration has said that somehow these communities are gonna regenerate and they have not. So it’s not surprising then that they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren’t like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations.

—Barack Obama, San Francisco Fundraiser, April 2008

When I first heard this in 2008, I was irked. That someone raised in Hawaii, Indonesia, and Illinois as well as educated in the rarefied atmosphere of Columbia University and Harvard Law wouldn’t know anything about Western Pennsylvania was no surprise, but I wasn’t prompted to action; a politician said this in what he thought was a private moment in a California fundraiser, telling the audience what he thought they wanted to hear. In the spring of 2012, just as I was finishing Loud & Clear, in the midst of another election cycle, sycophants bandied about the 2008 Pennsylvania quote as an example of a politician speaking truth. It was as if the disrespectful, uninformed comment had taken on the aspect of validity. It is time for redress.

I’ve lived in California for over twenty years, so I am well aware of the misconceptions Obama was seeking to validate, but I did come of age in Western Pennsylvania during the 1970s steel industry collapse, and I never forgot where I came from. It is undeniable there were great tragedies spawned by this collapse that caused a lot of bitterness. But, love him or hate him, Mr. Obama never lived there, doesn’t understand the people, and failed to understand or address the relevant points: the cause of the collapse was never mentioned, the fact that there were equal parts of triumph in the tragedy was not acknowledged, and the fiber of people’s character was dismissed as clinging. That characterization is so far from the truth that an answer is in order.

Fear & Hope is meant to be that answer. I realized in the spring of 2012 that I created all the backstory needed for Fear & Hope in my earlier novels: Marx & Ford and Loud & Clear. All I needed to do was use those characters as well as that backstory, revisit my youth, and tell the tale in the form of historical fiction. What you hold in your hands is the result.

I hope you come to feel the anxieties, hopes, and dreams of Philip, Ruth, and Liam or, failing that, at least gain understanding of their environment and character. This novel is meant, first of all, to entertain because the Western Pennsylvania tragedies and triumphs are one heck of story. But it is also, in some small measure, meant to both rebuff Mr. Obama’s pompous marginalization and point out the cautionary tales of high-cost mistakes made then that are being repeated today.

Fear & Hope had far less early manuscript readers than my other novels, but they were every bit as important to the completion. I am grateful to the following:

My wife, Diana, who loved the idea of the story, for her enthusiasm throughout its construction.

My son, David, a millennial who is realizing that the challenge of the 1970s is once again upon us.

My early manuscript readers Jewel Knofler, Ken Zadegan, Brenda Thrasher, and a fellow Western Pennsylvania high school classmate Tony Pitrone. There were a lot of comments on how different this novel was and how it was a story that needed told.

As to the iconoclastic aspects of this novel, I offer no apologies and accept no disparagement from anyone, except from those marginalized others who were raised in Erie, Pittsburgh, or the small towns scattered in rolling wooded hills of Western Pennsylvania.

For my blog and for more information on my current and future books, visit www.lukemarusiak.com.

—Luke Marusiak

March 28, 2013

PART I

ANGST

Chapter 1

Ruth O’Brien considered her young friend Amy Bauer on the lazy weekend of July 4, 1969. The family reunion at the Waynesville Lake Park was a large event. Eighty-nine people showed up either as part of the O’Brien family or as friends. First cousins had a good chance of knowing one other, but once they got to the brother’s wife’s sister’s son type of relationship, the connection broke down. The large ensemble filled the picnic tables and grills that were scattered around the lake while the men flipped hamburger patties and burned hot dogs to a charcoal crisp.

You’re too little to climb trees, Ruth told Amy with a condescending air.

Am not! I’m eight like you, and I can climb trees just as good! Amy responded with defiance.

Can not!

I’ll show you!

The two girls ran to the edge of the woods that surrounded the lake. Ruth pointed to a pine tree. Go ahead. Show me.

Not that tree. It’s all sappy. Amy went farther into the woods and considered a birch tree.

Shh! Ruth hissed.

What? Oh!

A large white-tailed deer stood no more than twelve feet in front of the girls with head down, munching leaves off a sapling. Both girls stood wide-eyed, holding their breath, staring at the deer. A ball bounced to the edge of the woods behind them. The deer raised its head at the sound of the noise, and the girls saw its auburn-colored velvet antlers that spread out into an imposing eight-point rack. The buck stooped and tensed its muscles, a coiled spring ready to jump.

That’s my ball! A boy’s voice hollered.

The buck snorted and bounded away in graceful jumps with its white tail waving.

"Did you see that?" Amy asked. I’ve got to tell Daddy!

No! Ruth grabbed her hand. We don’t tell anyone! Hunters will shoot it.

So? Deer meat is called venison and it’s okay.

"Not this deer. This deer is our deer."

What? It can’t be our deer.

"We’re the only ones that saw it. We’re in a club to tell no one!"

Amy’s eyes brightened. "You and me are in a club?"

Only if you don’t tell! Ruth said.

Hey! A boy bent to pick up his ball. What are you girls doing in there?

I won’t tell, Amy whispered as the two girls exited the woods.

The boy threw the ball into his gloved hand, removed it, and threw it in again. You two are too little to be alone.

We’re fine, Ruth answered. What’s your name?

My name’s Philip. What’s yours?

I’m Ruth and this is my friend Amy.

The boy continued to stare at the two girls. Did you see something in there?

Ruth and Amy exchanged a glance. No! We didn’t see anything.

He looked at the two girls. I thought I saw something move in there.

No, there was nothing. Amy followed Ruth’s lead.

Philip’s catch partner called, and he jogged away.

Stupid boy! Ruth said.

You and me are in a club! Amy stated.

Only as long as you don’t tell.

Philip Bennet left the girls, ran to middle of the large field, and faced his older cousin. He hid the baseball in his glove and fingered the ball’s laces with his index and middle finger. Once he had a finger over each lace, he withdrew the ball, wound up, and flung the ball with all his strength. His shoulder muscles quivered as the ball left his hand.

Thwack! The ball made a resounding sound in Neil Bennet’s glove.

You don’t have to throw so hard, Neil said.

I do! I’m going to be on the Pittsburgh Pirates with Roberto Clemente! Philip answered. He was pleased that, although two years younger, he was just as big and could throw just as hard.

Liam Conti, dark haired with a dark complexion, sat next to his mother, watching the two boys play catch.

Why don’t you join them? his mother asked.

Because catch is stupid, Liam answered. I want to get my cap gun and play Cowboys and Indians with those kids. He pointed. The ones in the woods.

Go ahead.

Liam went to the station wagon, extracted his toy, and ran to edge of the lake, waving his chrome cap gun. The two boys were dueling with their cap guns, and they turned on Liam’s approach. Let’s play Cowboys and Indians! Liam said.

Okay, but we get to be the cowboys, one of the boys demanded.

That’s okay, Liam answered. I like being the Indian.

The three went in the woods as confident outdoorsmen running over unnoticed buck tracks. The two cowboys set up to defend a small rise. Liam planned to catch them off guard. The two waited as Liam went deep into the woods and circled around. He came up behind them, let out a bloodcurdling whoop, and ran toward them, firing his cap gun.

I got you! You’re dead! Liam proclaimed.

Am not!

No, he got you, one of the cowboys said, but I got him so I’m alive.

Did you hear that girlie scream? the dead cowboy asked.

That was an Indian cry! I’m part Indian, Liam lied.

Sounded like a girlie scream.

Glenn O’Brien turned at the scream. He noted the three boys playing and turned back to the grill. He looked up at his neighbor, Al Bauer, who was holding a plate with an open hamburger bun. It’ll be a couple of minutes.

Al nodded. Do you think our moon shot’s going to show the world?

Show the world what? Glenn asked.

We beat the Russians to the moon.

It’ll show the world that… if we make it… but it won’t fix Vietnam.

Nothing will fix that, Al agreed. The country is being torn apart.

Glenn didn’t like that admission. At the ripe old age of forty-one, he wanted to think he could still right things. He flipped the burger and poked it. Do you want cheese?

That’d be great, Al said. He pointed to the field where the youngsters cavorted. They’ll be the ones to fix our screwed-up country.

Who? Glenn extracted a slice of cheese.

The kids.

Glenn placed the cheese on the hamburger patty and looked at the kids. His eight-year-old daughter, Ruth, was being chased by their neighbor, Amy Bauer, with her waist-long blonde hair flouncing. He glanced at the three boys in the woods whooping, hollering, and firing their cap guns. He watched as a friend of the O’Brien family, Philip Bennet, played catch with his Pittsburgh cousin Neil Bennet.

Noting the cheese was well melted, he slid his spatula underneath the hamburger patty and lifted it. Here you go. He placed it on the bun. You think these kids will fix our country?

They’re all we’ve got.

God help us!

Chapter 2

Philip Bennet motioned for Neil to stay low as he approached the large, damp, moss-covered granite boulder that hung over the fishing hole. Water sprayed into the hole from a four-foot-high waterfall overcoming the other forest sounds with a constant rhythmic splash. I know there’s a brook trout in there, Philip thought.

The next hole is mine! Neil intoned.

Shh!

Philip moved his fishing pole to ease his wriggling worm over the boulder. He let out line, lowering the bait into the water where the lead sinker pulled it to the bottom. He tugged the line to move the worm around and was rewarded with a sharp counterstrike. Philip jerked his rod tip back, setting the hook well in the fish’s mouth. He held his bent pole as the fish struggled, lifted it from the water, and slung it behind him.

Lucky bastard! Neil said as he ran up to the flopping fish.

Philip grinned. That’s good-sized. He got out his ruler. It’s legal. I’m gutting it. He pulled out his lock-blade knife, tapped the fish on the head in a solid strike, slit the underside of the brook trout, removed the entrails in quick fashion, and put his catch in a plastic bag.

He looked upstream, saw Neil approaching the next hole, and shook his head. My Pittsburgh cousin doesn’t know how to sneak up on fish! He sat back as Neil tried to coax a fish to his worm. Philip pulled his rolled-down hip boots from his knees to his hips and crossed the stream below the hole where he just caught his trout. He moved upstream until he was opposite Neil behind a large pine tree that angled over the stream. He waved to his cousin. "This is how you approach," he whispered.

What?

When you walk up to the hole from that side, the fish can see you. Didn’t you see how I snuck up to the last hole?

You’ve caught three and I’ve caught nothing. Neil pulled his bait from the water. I hate this.

Philip gasped as he re-crossed the stream. It was a blasphemy for any red-blooded Pennsylvania boy to express anything other than a love of outdoor activities—fishing and hunting most of all. I’ll show you at the next hole. He shook his head. You need to get out of Pittsburgh more often.

Why? So I can hide in the woods? Neil’s expression was pained. My dad got laid off from the Monongahela Steel Mill.

Pittsburgh rules steelmaking. How could he get laid off?

Neil shook his head. Monongahela Mill is too old. Dad says they’re shutting it down. He sighed. Dad spent eighteen years there.

So he’ll find another job in steel.

It’s not that easy. You come out here and don’t see what’s happening. Our Pittsburgh neighborhood is getting empty.

What do you mean, empty?

I mean people are getting the hell out of Pittsburgh. Most of our neighbors worked at the Monongahela Steel Mill. The mill shuts down and they leave. Those of us who stay are in for tough times.

"It can’t be that bad."

My dad thinks it’s going to get worse.

Philip hated this talk. That’s why I spend so much time out here in the woods. Everything everywhere is going wrong. Mom talks about Vietnam, Dad talks about how great we used to be. He shook his head. What did we do wrong to be in a country where everything is so screwed up?

Mom thought the seventies would be different.

It’s already 1973 and things are getting worse. Philip stared at his cousin who stood with his fishing pole over his shoulder. The noise of the stream pulled him back to the present. But we’re here. I’ll show you how to fish.

Neil lifted his head. Okay.

If things go so bad that we need to live out here, we’ll be able to catch our food. Philip led Neil up an incline. There’s a perfect hole upstream. He stopped and looked into the woods.

What’s up?

This is where I got my four-point buck last November. Philip smiled. It was my first year of hunting. I cleaned it and everything.

Were you going to help me catch a fish or what?

This way.

The two moved upstream and stopped below another small waterfall. Philip pointed to a rise and whispered. There’s a large hole right over that rise. We need to be quiet and ease the bait into the water. He turned to Neil. Let me see your setup.

Neil held up his hooks that held a shredded worm. Oh.

Let’s rig that right. Lemme see. Philip took the pole from his older cousin, extracted a night crawler from his bait box, skewered it in the clitellum—the collar-like structure a third of the way down from the head, and buried the barb. He lifted it for Neil to see. You see how I did this? That way only a big fish will get to the barb. He handed the pole back to his cousin. Now carefully drop it into the water. Don’t make too much of a splash.

Neil crawled to the edge of the rise and let out line. The bait no sooner hit the water than a brook trout took it. Neil shrieked, stood up, pulled back on the bent pole, and launched the trout in an arc over his head onto the ground behind him.

Damn! Philip said. You’re lucky it stayed hooked.

Neil ran back to the flopping fish and laughed. Look at ’em. He’s a big one! He reached down, grabbed a palm-sized rock, and knocked it on the head.

Philip pulled out his ruler. Nine-and-a-quarter inch! That’s the biggest today.

Fishing’s fun when you catch something.

Philip lifted his head at an unwelcome sound. Get back.

What’s that buzzing sound? Neil asked.

Rattlesnake, get back.

Neil pulled his fish back while Philip used the reel side of his pole to nudge the coiled rattler. The snake buzzed its rattle with higher pitch.

What are you doing? Neil asked. Get away from him.

I’m far enough away, Philip answered, still holding his reel in front of the snake. We hunt rattlesnakes in the spring so we don’t run into them come fishing season. There’s a contest for most rattles.

Are you nuts?

Philip spoke in a nonchalant manner but kept his eyes on the head of the rattlesnake. If I had my snake stick, I could catch it. He took two steps away. But we’ll let it be.

They both watched the rattlesnake slither away. Neil shook his head. First, the Monongahela Steel Mill gets shut down. Now this.

What?

Everything is trying to hurt me.

*     *     *

Liam Conti skipped school again. He considered it a waste of time. He scanned the empty buildings of the day’s conquest. It’s only me. Ever since the car accident, ever since he became an orphan ward of the state, he knew he was on his own. Last week, after skipping school, he scored six dollars from an attic in an abandoned house. The empty steel mill had more potential. The fifteen-year-old scrambled down a soot-covered mound. He looked at the hoppers, conveyers, and massive buildings. I didn’t know this steel mill was so big. He frowned. Where’re the desks? That’s where the good stuff will be.

He scampered to a large metal-sided, soot-covered building of the closed Monongahela Steel Mill. He looked around. Liam considered a colossal building with corrugated metal sides; the three-story-high sloping roof was topped by a large-windowed room that stretched the length of the building. I wonder if that’s where the desks are. He ran to building and shook a lock on a side door. He stepped back and saw something more promising: a two-story red brick building. That has to have desks.

The first-floor windows were covered with plywood, but a yellow fire escape led to a second-story door. Liam ran up the fire escape stairs and was pleased to find the door open. He went in, and his hopes sank. The interior was gutted. The fifteen-year-old saw stairs in the middle of the room, went down them, and, at the single landing halfway down to the first floor, heard angry voices.

Pay me for the blow or I’ll cut you!

Heart pounding, Liam crouched down on the landing and saw three men standing over the only desk in the building. Blow is drugs, he thought. It’s that white powder that’s a lot stronger than the grass I tried last summer.

I don’t have the money!

That’s too bad for you. A menacing, tattooed man waved a large knife. Now I got to take two of your fingers.

No! The man lunged at the knife.

The tattooed man swung the knife down and stabbed upward. The man short of money gurgled, gasped, and fell.

Why’d you have to kill him?

The tattooed man shrugged and examined his knife. Liam moved and was horrified when he knocked a bolt off the stairwell. The two men turned at the clank.

What have we here?

He sees us. We have to kill him too.

Liam crouched in the corner of the stairwell, frozen in terror as the tattooed man approached and brandished the bloody knife. He laughed. He pissed himself. A lesson will do.

What lesson?

The tattooed man walked up the stairs and held the bloody knife within a foot of the boy’s face. The power of fear. See this? He waved the knife.

Liam watched with dread as a rivulet of blood coursed down the sharp knife edge.

The tattooed man smiled and twisted the knife back and forth. If you so much as peep, there won’t be a rock you can crawl under. Understand?

Liam nodded. He couldn’t have identified the man in any case as he was fixated on the knife blade. The two men laughed, departed the building, and left the boy alone with the dead man. Liam stayed motionless on the landing a long while. I wish . . . I wish . . . I went to school today.

*     *     *

Ruth O’Brien, sitting in Waynesville Elementary School’s seventh grade classroom, was unhappy at the announcement. She glanced at her friend Amy and raised her hand. So, she said once called, "if they’re shutting down Waynesville High, where are we supposed to go to high school?"

Bus routes will be set up so you attend Clarawalk High School eight miles away. This consolidation and move away from small classes and small schools will improve education.

Ruth and Amy Bauer walked from the Waynesville Elementary School toward home. Let’s go past the high school, Ruth suggested.

Why? Amy asked.

Let’s see it before it closes.

The two girls got to the high school just as classes were ending. Ruth stared as students laden with books exited the imposing building. She felt an overpowering sense of loss. Look at the cornerstone: 1901.

Yeah, Amy replied. I remember the seventieth anniversary celebration. She sighed. And now they’re closing it.

Ruth loved the grand structure: a symbol of Waynesville’s proud past and a prod to a greater future. Four stories of majestic brickwork—it was built to last centuries. The ground floor was walled with large stone-faced bricks; a wide stone staircase sloped up to two Corinthian columns that held three-story-high arches; windows on the main floor were topped by graceful arches; the third floor had rectangular lintel-framed windows; the red roof was punctuated by protruding windows of upper rooms and topped by ornate chimneys. On either side of the high school were windowed turrets that housed stairwells. Guarding the approach to the entrance were two massive naval cannons from a Spanish-American War era battleship with a pyramid of cannonballs between them. The cannons and fortress brickwork protected the students, the history, and the prosperity of Waynesville against all ravages of time and adversity—until now.

I looked forward to going here, Ruth said. They’re going to tear it down.

Amy was silent as she stood next to her friend and wondered about the passing students. She turned and started. Ruth! Are you crying?

Chapter 3

Ruth thought it a cruel twist that the bus stop gave her a view of the destruction of Waynesville High School. The grandeur and hope of the bicentennial celebration was two months past, and it did nothing to stop the feeling and reality of inexorable decline. Ruth watched on a dreary Monday, September 13, 1976, as a combination of two truck cranes and a lifting tower wrestled to get one of the massive cannons onto a heavyweight flatbed truck.

They’re going in front of our pool, Amy commented.

What is? Ruth asked.

The cannons and cannonballs. They’re taking them down the hill and going to put them in front of the Waynesville Pool.

Oh.

Even partially dismantled, the Waynesville High School retained much of its multistory grandeur. The workers disassembled the structure with care so they could reuse the material on the construction of senior housing units that were scheduled to be built on the old school grounds. I wonder why, Ruth thought. I wonder why this had to happen. A yellow school bus pulled up; Ruth and Amy entered and took their customary seat in the curbside second row, with Ruth next to the window.

Things will get better, Amy offered.

Nobody knows us and nobody likes us at Clarawalk High School, Ruth answered. Why do you think things will get better?

Because… just because.

Amy’s tenacious optimism did little to cheer Ruth. The two girls kept to themselves during the hour-long bus ride as it filled with students caught up in the school consolidation. Ruth looked out the bus window and watched houses, buildings, and woods stream by. Everything is like Waynesville High School, she thought, noting a dilapidated house pass by. It doesn’t matter if it was good or not. It just gets destroyed. She tried to find something to hang on to, an optimistic Amy-like thought to give her confidence. Her attention, along with that of the busload of students, turned to the driver who, at a stop with red lights flashing, hollered and shook his fist out the window. A car sped by, ignoring the flashing red lights and attendant regulation to stop. Nobody pays attention to anything.

The bus ride ended, and Ruth felt cold indigestion at the view of her high school. This school is so ugly. The large sprawling, single-story structure with a flat roof, multicolored windows, and brushed aluminum letters spelling out Clarawalk High School was already swarming with students—those who lived nearby.

Come on, let’s go, Amy said as the bus door opened.

Ruth got up, grabbed her books, and followed Amy out the door. Clarawalk High School lockers were sequenced alphabetical per last name, and since Ruth’s last name started with O, and Amy’s with B, they were in different hallways. She went to her locker and heard an it’s a Waynesville hick comment from a girl behind her. Ruth ignored the comment and worked her combination lock. She examined her schedule on the door, grabbed her Algebra I book, turned, and started at seeing a sneering freckled face of a redhead girl a foot away. She cleared her throat. What?

Nothing, the redhead said. You’re nothing!

Ruth watched the girl walk away. She dropped her head, stared at the tops of her saddle shoes, sighed at the unfairness of everything, slammed her locker shut, and walked to the classroom.

Amy met her at the door. Are you okay? What’s the matter?

I’m fine, Ruth said as the two entered the classroom.

Lunchtime offered hope. Ruth and Amy, sitting together at the end of a table, were joined by a senior and Ruth’s second cousin: Hannah O’Brien. The senior was a woman in every respect—a marked contrast to the two adolescents. Heads swiveled to see what freshmen girls could command such attention.

I remember you, Hannah said as she smiled at her cousin.

I forgot you were here, Ruth answered, pleased beyond description.

Mom told me I should check up on you. Ninth grade can be hard enough without being an outsider from Waynesville. Hannah glanced over at Amy.

This is my friend, Amy Bauer. Ruth motioned to across the table.

Hannah acknowledged Amy and turned back to her cousin. So how’s your first two weeks been?

Ruth inhaled. Nobody knows us and nobody likes us.

Well, give it some time, but let me know if anyone in particular makes it rough. Hannah smiled. You know, you guys are lucky.

How’s that?

The seniors keep an eye on the underclassman. After this year, they’re breaking out seventh, eighth, and ninth grade into the new Clarawalk Junior High that’s on Sheridan Avenue. Hannah pointed from one girl to the other. You guys were the last ones to come here as ninth graders and the last ones to get all the way to eighth grade at Waynesville Elementary. It will stop at sixth grade after next year.

Why are they doing this? Ruth asked. "Last year they assigned us eighth graders a third grader to sponsor and watch out for… that was so cool."

Amy laughed. Your third grader got a crush on you.

He did, but it was still cool. How is that going to continue?

It won’t. And the ninth graders will go straight to junior high where there won’t be seniors like me around.

Amy frowned. "Seventh, eighth, and ninth grades will be grouped together in junior high? That’s terrible."

The teachers are going to have to stop a lot of fights, Ruth said.

Hannah laughed. That won’t happen! Have you seen our history teacher, Mr. Jefferson?

No, why?

The senior leaned forward over the table, and the two freshmen leaned in close for a conspiratorial whisper. He’s a draft dodger, Hannah said with certainty. He told us he got an educational deferment and ate to get fat so he wouldn’t get drafted.

That’s wrong! Amy said. My dad is proud he was in the Army, and I saw the parachute and eagle patch of my uncle who was in the Normandy invasion.

Hannah snorted. "Mr. Jefferson said he met his wife because she was proud he dodged the Army."

I think he should be ashamed, Amy said. "Somebody who joins the U.S. Army wants to be a hero. I’d love to date a soldier."

Ruth chuckled. "Yeah, Amy, like that’s ever going to happen."

So you two are lucky that you get to come here for ninth grade, Hannah said.

And I’m lucky to have my cousin here.

Hannah smiled. Let me know if anybody gives you a rough time.

Ruth’s spirits rose after the unexpected visit. I have a senior who knows me and talks to me! Maybe this will get better.

Ruth got through the rest of her classes without incident. At day’s end, she peeled away from Amy and went to her locker. She worked her combination lock and started when a loud ruckus erupted a few lockers away. It was a fight: a three-versus-one ninth-grader affair. The one accosted was a Waynesville student. That’s Ed. He was in my class last year. Three ninth graders shoved, pushed, and then punched Ed who dropped his books.

Ed was a Pennsylvania boy through and through; running away was not an option. Ruth stared in suspended alarm as Ed managed to connect a right cross to a boy’s nose, which caused an immediate spurt of blood. The two uninjured boys attacked: one shoved his chest while the other tripped Ed with an extended leg. Ed crashed backward on the hard floor. The two planted their knees on his chest and struck Ed with balled fists. Ruth saw that although Ed was flat on his back, he still managed to pop one of his assailants on the chin.

Where are the teachers? Ruth panted in fear, plastered up against her locker, frozen in place by the unchecked violence.

That’s my cousin! Knock it off! a boy to her right hollered.

Two boys ran down the hall and sailed into the melee. Ed’s cousin pulled one of the boys away. Ruth’s eyes riveted to the second, bigger boy. The much larger boy, big enough to be a senior, grabbed the shirtfront of the last assailant and lifted him off of Ed. Ruth inhaled in rapt admiration as the large boy pinned the bully up against the lockers and grinned.

The large boy, holding the assailant’s feet off the ground, turned to his friend. Is he all right?

Ed? Are you all right?

Ed rose, wiped blood from his nose, and glared at his attackers. He went to the pinned boy and drew a fist back.

Hold it there! the large boy commanded. This shit stops now!

Philip, don’t you think he deserves one revenge punch? the cousin asked.

Philip! The name expanded in Ruth’s mind and took on a lustrous quality.

No! Philip answered. He turned to the pinned boy whose expression was one of openmouthed distress. You got that! This shit stops now!

I… g-got it, the boy answered.

Philip let the boy down and turned to Ed with a wide smile. Warm embers of gratitude burned Ruth’s chest.

You got some licks in, Philip told Ed. This ends.

Ed wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve and nodded. Okay.

What’s going on? a faint, anxiety-tinged voice asked.

Ruth and others looked up the hall and saw a rotund, mustachioed, frizzy-haired teacher waddle toward them. That must be the draft-dodging history teacher.

It was Philip, with an imposing and commanding presence, who answered. There was a bit of a tussle, but all’s fine now, Mr. Jefferson.

That was all Mr. Jefferson needed to hear. Well—he pointed to Philip—Mr. Bennet, you boys need to behave yourselves. With that ridiculous admonition, he turned and waddled away.

Ruth stared at Philip Bennet as if he were a god that came down from Olympus. She was dazzled by the tawny muscles displayed by his open-collar shirt and the dark hair combed in a thick diagonal across his forehead. His coffee bean brown eyes danced with mischievousness. Ruth’s heart fluttered. He entered a storm of chaos and righted it with little exertion. And she knew his name. Philip, his name is Philip Bennet.

An admiring crowd of students surrounded Philip. Ruth continued to stare in his direction as she worked her combination lock. She opened her locker and was startled by an avalanche of books. The locker’s contents careened outward as Ruth tried to block the opening. Her spirit plummeted as her school possessions hit the floor. She dropped to a crouch to gather her strewn books and papers. They hate me so much they set my locker. It must’ve been the redhead that scarfed my combination. She clung to two books as she sat on the floor with head down and eyes closed.

A hand clasped her shoulder. That must be the redhead now. Ruth braced for a jerk backward, but instead, there was a light pat.

Hey, a smooth, baritone voice asked, are you okay?

Ruth opened her eyes and stared into the coffee bean brown eyes of Philip Bennet. She gasped. I… ah… Ruth felt her cheeks burn; she was overwhelmed by the attention. I’m fine. Thanks.

Philip smiled at her, and she felt as if the sun and the moon and the stars combined in the gleam of his white teeth and twinkling eyes. Good, he said. He rose holding three of her books in his large hand.

Ruth scrambled to her feet. This is the perfect man. Philip put her books in her locker and reached out to her shoulder. His large hand gave her shoulder a caress and reassuring squeeze. She felt the touch as gentle, ineffable, and soul-warming. Ruth’s spirit lifted to undreamed heights as she stared into the eyes of her crusading hero.

Philip! The staccato tenor voice of a shapely brunette scolded. "Come on!"

Okay, Gail. Philip turned away from Ruth and hugged Gail. He gave a nod before departing.

Ruth stared in crestfallen disbelief. How could he be going out with her? She stared as the two walked away.

Ruth? Amy asked. What happened? Someone set your locker?

Oh, yeah, Ruth answered. She scooped up the rest of her papers and books and dumped them in her locker. Let’s go so we don’t miss the bus!

Ruth entered her Waynesville home in a daze. Hi, Mom.

Hi, honey, her mom replied. Your dad is going to be at the work site till late, so it’s just us for supper.

Okay. Ruth went to her room and started her homework. She found algebra a welcome diversion. After doing her algebra problem sets and reading a history chapter, she came downstairs for supper.

Her mom gave her an inquisitive glance. Honey, how was school?

Fine, Ruth answered. Her mind replayed the experience of being frozen up against her locker, staring at uncontrolled violence, until Philip came running down the hall. She remembered the shoulder caress, mischievous glance, and tawny arms. Maybe more than fine.

Did Hannah come see you?

Oh, yeah! She smiled. That was great. She emptied her glass and wiped a milk moustache with the back of her hand.

Ruth! Use your napkin.

Ruth watched some television with her mom. Her father entered as she was about to go to bed. She gave him a long hug and enjoyed the familiar smell of sawdust. Ruth went upstairs and lay back in her bed. She stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the day. She closed her eyes, slid her hands to her chest, and sighed. I’m glad I finally got my breasts. I just wish they’d be bigger so Philip would notice. She sighed again. Maybe I can sleep away the torments.

She dreamt she was on Philip’s arm going up the stairs under the Corinthian column-framed arch of Waynesville High School and awoke realizing Philip was going steady with an older girl, and the Waynesville High School was gone. The cruel unfairness of reality compared to her dream resulted in a sobbing jag, and she soaked her pillow. She panted. I must sleep.

Drained after pouring her dismayed frustration into her pillow, she dozed again. This time she dreamt the redhead, Philip and Gail were laughing as books tumbled from her locker. Ed ran by, was tackled, pummeled by a group of boys, and all around laughed. This is so awful! Amy shouted her name, Ruth! Ruth!

Ruth! her mother said, framing her bedroom doorway. You need to get up or you’ll miss the bus.

Exhausted, bleary-eyed, and pensive, Ruth sat with her forehead against the bus window as it pulled away from the stop. Amy didn’t brighten her mood.

My mom said she can’t drive me to games, Amy said, sitting next to Ruth. So my dreams of being a freshman cheerleader are gone. Amy nudged her friend. It’s like these eight miles between Waynesville and Clarawalk are a canyon. We have no way to fit in. Ruth sat motionless, leaning against the window. Hey, what’s going on with you?

Nothing.

"I saw that big sophomore helping with your locker yesterday. He’s cute!"

Ruth cleared her throat. Tears welled in her eyes.

"You like him!"

Shh! Ruth blinked and cleared her eyes. How could I not like him? She remembered. Philip stopped the violence! She turned to Amy. Do you know what that means?

Ahh… no.

It wasn’t the teacher or any adult that stopped the fight. It was Philip! And he’s just a student like us.

And a lot bigger.

"But he didn’t have to do that. He chose to."

And you like him.

Stop it! I’m thinking. She turned to Amy. "Maybe we’re the ones to make this right."

What?

We have to be like Philip. Us kids are going to have to stand up and fix things.

"You mean like in Lord of the Flies? Kids in charge?"

"We need to do better than that. The kids pummeling Ed were from Lord of the Flies. The new Clarawalk Junior High School with only seventh, eighth, and ninth grade kids is going to be Lord of the Flies. A faint smile crossed her lips. We need to make this right. We need to stop being kids."

So we’re adults?

We’re going to have to act like it. Mr. Jefferson and the other teachers won’t. The faint smile grew to a wide teeth-baring beam. "I choose to make things right!"

Amy laughed. Me too. So what about you and Philip?

Ruth shook her head. That’s impossible.

Maybe not.

What do you mean?

The girl he’s with, Gail, goes after the most popular boys.

So?

She had three boyfriends last year. She won’t stay with Philip.

Okay, great. Then what? He’s going to ask me out after he picks my books off the floor?

Have you heard of the Sadie Hawkins Dance?

Ruth shook her head. No.

It’s where the girls ask the guys out. It’s November 20.

"Girls ask the guys out? You’re saying I ask him?"

Or you could let some other girl do it.

Stop it, Amy. How do you know he’ll be free by then?

"I don’t, but, if it does happen… when it does happen… you could give him a note asking him to the Sadie Hawkins Dance."

Do you think that’ll work? Ruth shook her head as the bus stopped at the school. I don’t know if I can.

You know, Amy said as she got up from her seat. "It’s not just choosing. You need the guts to act on your choices!"

Chapter 4

Philip Bennet pulled on his football jersey and noted the large 74 on the front. Making varsity my sophomore year and leading our defense was a dream come true, he thought. We won the first three games on defense alone. I rove the backfield like Jack Lambert, cranking any receiver the moment he catches the ball. He exited the locker room. We won our second game 3-0 on a fumble I caused that led to our only field goal.

He walked on the field for practice and saw the quarterback, junior Matt Gestor, taking snaps and working short passes. And then, in game five, our quarterback starts spiraling the ball and we start scoring.

Go, Matt! Gail shouted from the sideline.

Philip scowled. So Gail decides she wants to be with Matt. He crouched in his linebacker position as the formal practice started. Did everyone forget my linebacker play that started our winning streak? The center snapped the ball, and Phillip backpedaled in rapid steps, glancing left and right. He saw Matt cock the ball and look at a receiver. Philip angled for him. Matt Gestor threw a pass with a tight spiral, but as soon as the receiver got it in his hands, Philip used his trademark hit: both forearms popping under the ball. The football careened away, and the receiver sprawled on the ground.

Bennet! This is practice! the coach hollered. You need to pull up.

I thought I did, Coach, Philip answered as he extended a hand to the prone receiver.

Practice continued, and Matt completed passes on crossing routes that Philip could have disrupted with ease. It wasn’t just Gail. The coach also focused prime attention on the quarterback. Philip walked to his car after practice in an agitated state. What am I doing wrong? I’m only a couple of months younger than Matt even though he’s a junior. I should be getting more credit! He opened the door of his four-door, green-painted, black vinyl-topped 1973 Chevy Impala. I even have a great car that I paid for with my own money! He drove the short distance to his Clarawalk home.

The next day at school didn’t help his agitation. Matt and two football teammates cornered Philip in the hallway. The drive-in closes on Halloween, Matt said. We need to use your big car this weekend.

"Use my big car?" Philip asked.

Well, just the trunk, Matt answered. "We want to see The Omen, man! It’s supposed to be this wild horror movie. Can you sneak three of us in the drive-in in your trunk?"

Forget it.

"Come on, Philip! I need to see The Omen before taking Gail in my dad’s car next weekend. He elbowed Philip. I’ve got to make sure she’s the only one scared."

Philip narrowed his eyes. "Do you think I want to help you get in her pants?"

"Hey, Gail and I are both eighteen now and it’s time we do it! I’ll tell you all about it. She told me