Donna is driving too fast, bobbing her head to the beat, singing all of the lyrics at the top of her lungs, her hands pounding out the beat on the steering wheel as Ricky counts inaudibly.
I think it’s funny that Donna listens to songs about freaks, because she is so cool and hip and stylish and smart and together and she is definitely what every woman wants to be as far as I’m concerned—certainly not a freak like me.
Maybe she just listens to music like this so she can relate to her son Ricky and The Five.
Maybe.
But she is rocking pretty damn hard this morning—so much that she even blows through a stop sign, but I don’t say anything, because I don’t want to kill the mood, which is totally rocking, and how often does one truly get to rock out hard-core? Let alone a high-powered attorney who has a murder case to worry about. Sometimes you just have to let crap slide when it comes to adults acting like kids, because that can be a beautiful thing. True? True.
When we arrive alive at the high school, Donna kills the music, kisses Ricky, and tosses me the XXL camo shirt for Franks.
“Your boy Franks should be proud today,” Donna says, and then winks at me before she turns up the tunes again and pulls away.
“Going to play Halo 3 with Mr. Jonathan Franks!” Ricky says, and then we’re knocking on the outside basement door.
Ty kicks open the door this morning, and then Franks and Chad kill off Ty’s and Jared’s spacemen so that Ricky can join the action—just like every other morning.
Before I lose my boys to video games, I say, “Franks, check this out,” and then hold up the camo shirt.
“For me?” Franks says.
“Mommy Roberts made a shirt for Mr. Jonathan Franks and all five members of Franks Freak Force Federation!”
“Cool,” Franks says, taking the shirt from me, admiring the orange lettering and rubbing the material between his thumb and forefinger as if the shirt were made of precious fabric—like it’s the original American flag sewn by frickin’ Betsy Ross or something. “Very cool,” Franks says.
“You do see that we are all wearing the same shirt?” I say.
“Also cool,” Franks says.
“We playing a game, or what?” Ty says, and then all of the boys are logging into the virtual world.
Did my boys forget all about last night, or did they already discuss the school board meeting with Franks?
Before I can bring up the subject, just before their minds are sucked into the various Xboxes positioned around the room, Lex Pinkston knocks on the hallway door and sticks his head in. “Um, Mr. Franks, may I come in and say something?”
“Mr. Pinkston, all students are welcome in my room. Enter.”
Lex enters slowly. He is tall and full of muscles and dumb-looking, but today he has this very sincere look on his face. “Listen,” he says to the room. “Sometimes I say dumb things because I like feel I have to in front of people or something because there’s a lot of pressure on me, being that I’m the QB and all, and well, I know that what I’ve been telling Ricky to say is well, um—not cool.”
“Are you trying to apologize?” I say.
“I’m sorry that I said those things to you, Amber.”
“I’m praying for you every night,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because you need it.”
“Well, I’m also sorry for telling Ricky to say those things to Ryan. I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again. Okay?”
“Did your daddy make you come down here this morning?” I ask—like a total cat.
“Listen, I said I was sorry. It won’t happen again. Okay?”
“No. It’s not okay, because you can’t just erase—”
“Do you like playing Xbox, Lex?” Franks says.
“What?” Lex says.
“Are you a gamer?” Franks says. “Do you like video games?”
“Yeah. Who doesn’t?”
“Are you any good at Halo 3?” Franks asks.
“Beat anyone in this room,” Lex says.
My boys all exchange glances and restrain smiles.
“Why don’t you play a game with us,” Franks says.
“Right now?”
“Homeroom doesn’t start for fifteen minutes.”
“Are you serious?” Lex says.
“You’re on Ricky’s team,” Franks says. “Amber, why don’t you pull up a chair?”
I pull up a chair next to Franks and for the next ten minutes I watch my boys’ virtual spacemen kick the crap out of Lex’s virtual spaceman in every way imaginable. If I had to guesstimate, I’d say Lex gets killed an average of five times per minute, and never even records one kill.
My boys are unmerciful.
My boys are triumphant.
My boys are beautiful.
“You guys are really good,” Lex says when the game is over.
“Bring your friends next time,” Franks tells him. “We play every day before school and at lunch. All are welcome.”
When the warning bell rings, my boys skedaddle like someone yelled fire or something—the lab rats—but I hang back.
“Why did you tell Lex he could hang in our room?” I ask Franks.
“This is everyone’s room. All are welcome,” Franks says.
“Lex Pinkston? Do you know that just yesterday he called me a disgusting single-syllable word for a woman, which I’m not even going to repeat?”
“Maybe if he were in this room more, he wouldn’t have called you that name. Maybe you’d become friends?”
“Are you for real, Franks?”
“No, I’m an illusion,” he says, and then laughs at his own joke—like a moron.
“Have you heard how the school board voted last night?”
“No.”
He doesn’t bring up our saving his job, so I assume my boys didn’t tell him.
“Aren’t you worried about the vote?” I ask.
“It’s of this world.”
“Your wife was pretty pissed when I came to your house last night.”
“You shouldn’t come to my house, Amber.”
“She doesn’t really think I’m in love with you, does she? Why can’t I hug you, Franks? Just once.”
“Why do you do that? Why do you insist on making me feel uncomfortable whenever we are alone?”
“A hug is a good thing, Franks.”
“Not always.”
“Like—when is a hug not a good thing?”
“When it makes someone uncomfortable.”
“I’m down with hugging,” I say. “I hug everyone indiscriminately.”
“Not everyone wants to be hugged.”
“Well, that’s just dumb.”
“Why, because you say so?” Franks says. “Would you hug Lex Pinkston?”
I’m sorta getting pissed at Franks, especially after everything I did for him last night—not to mention how he invited Lex and his buddies into The Franks Lair—but the second bell rings, which means I’m late, so I just leave without answering and go to homeroom, where there is a pink slip waiting for me, so I about-face and walk my little behind down to Prince Tony’s office.
All of my boys are on the bad-boy bench, except Chad who is in Das Boot.
“Amber,” the red-lipped Mrs. Baxter says to me just before I address my boys, “can you come over here?”
So I walk over to Prince Tony’s secretary’s desk.
“I heard about last night,” she whispers. “You certainly have chutzpah.”
“Thanks,” I say, and then join my boys, who are more than a little bit fidgety sitting on the bench of discipline.
“We better not get in trouble,” Ty says.
“Ricky Roberts needs to go to calculus in how many minutes?”
“This don’t seem so good,” Chad says from Das Boot.
“Beats going to gym,” says Jared.
“Guys, it’s Prince Tony,” I say. “Just let me do the talking. No sweat.”
“What if he calls us in one at a time?” Ty asks.
“No chance,” I retort.
“How do you know?” asks Jared.
“How many minutes until math?”
“I know Prince Tony. He’ll want to save time. He’s efficient to a fault.”
The door opens. Prince Tony says, “The lot of you. Inside.”
I give my boys a knowing glance, as if to say Told ya!
Inside we all take seats in the various corners of the office, Chad motorizes Das Boot front and center, and Prince Tony sits behind his huge desk.
“The school board voted to keep the business department.”
We all clap and cheer!
“You’ll be pleased to hear that Mr. Franks will be getting an increased budget.”
I smile and nod my head confidently. Score!
“Now, all of those other things you were complaining about last night,” Prince Tony says, “were you serious? Do you really feel strongly about those other issues, or was it just a collective front to save Mr. Franks?”
“Pretty much just a front,” says Ty.
“We just really like Franks,” Jared says.
“How many minutes until math?”
“Halo 3 during lunch and before school. Is that too much to ask?” Chad adds.
“So this matter is resolved?” Prince Tony says. “No more busting into school board meetings? You’re satisfied?”
“Pretty much,” Ty says when no one else speaks up.
“Good,” Prince Tony says, and then adds, “you kids were impressive last night. Truly. Now off to class.”
All of my boys jump up and happily follow Das Boot and Chad out of Prince Tony’s office, but I stay seated and shake my head sadly.
Even after all the slaying they have done in their virtual Xbox world, my boys just don’t have the killer instinct.
“Ms. Appleton?”
“Is that how it works with adults?” I say.
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“It takes a bunch of threats to get what you want, but no one really cares about anything that doesn’t concern them? No one cares about doing what’s right for the sake of doing what’s right?”
“What are you talking about? Mr. Franks’ program is secure for at least another year—through your graduation. You’ve accomplished your goal. You should be happy.”
“Maybe.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
“You can talk to me, Amber,” he says, like any old adult would.
“Don’t you think that we should recognize MLK day and diversify the faculty? Don’t you think we should make the entire school handicap accessible and friendly? Don’t you think that kids shouldn’t have to endure harassment from people like Lex Pinkston?”
“Of course. Yes to all of those.”
“Then why don’t you make all that stuff happen?”
Prince Tony leans forward, looks me in the eye all fatherly, and says, “Don’t you think I would if I could?”
“But you’re the principal of the school. You can do anything you want.”
