The Year They Burned the Books

The youth group meeting was held in the basement of Lord’s Assembly Church, where there was a comfortable living room with a fireplace. Folding chairs had been arranged in a double-row semicircle facing the fireplace, and a table with three chairs behind it had been placed in front of the semicircle for Jamie, Clark, and the moderator. A longer table, holding napkins, pitchers, a coffee urn, two jugs of cider, and several plates of cookies and slices of cake, stretched across the back of the room.

When Jamie arrived, a few adults—Nomi’s mother, Lisa Buel, the pastor of Lord’s Assembly Church and his wife—were already seated in the back. The adults were in a straight row of chairs behind the semicircle, which the youth group members, Al Checkers among them, were gradually filling. Nomi came in soon after Jamie and Clark took their places; she went right up to the front table, hugged Clark, and whispered something to him. Then she turned to Jamie and gave her a quick, faint smile, without speaking. Before Jamie had time to react, Nomi had fled to the first row, where she sat in the middle, directly opposite Clark.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the moderator announced. “We are pleased tonight to have a guest from Wilson High, Jamie Crawford, editor in chief of the school newspaper, who will debate our own Clark Alman on the controversial condom issue. Here with us also are Mr. Bruce Donnelly, our beloved pastor, and his wife, Susan. Mrs. Lisa Buel of the school committee is here as well. I believe Mrs. Buel has something to say before we begin. Lisa?”

Lisa Buel walked to the front of the room. “Thank you. I don’t want to hold things up, but I’d just like to say that I’ve put a sign-up sheet and some pamphlets on the refreshment table for anyone who’s interested in finding out more about our new group, Families for Traditional Values, FTV for short. We’ll be holding our charter meeting tomorrow night in this very room, and everyone is welcome. Tell your parents, kids,” she said to the youth group members, “and come yourselves if you like. All our meetings will be open to everyone.”

“Thank you, Lisa,” said the moderator. “And now let’s begin. Jamie and Clark will each make an opening statement, and they will each have the opportunity to rebut what the other has said. After that, I’ll probably ask them a few questions myself, and then we’ll open the meeting to questions and comments from the floor. At the end, Jamie and Clark can each make a closing statement, if they wish. Jamie, as our guest, would you go first, please?”

Jamie felt her stomach turn over, and was instantly aware of perspiration rolling down her sides. But she tried to ignore that. “Sure,” she said in the firmest voice she could muster. “Thank you. Some of you,” she began, glancing down at her notes, “may have read the editorial I wrote in this year’s first issue of the Wilson High Telegraph. But it’s been about a month since then, so let me just go over some of the points I made, in which I still believe …”

For an hour after the debate, Jamie sat at home in the kitchen talking about it and drinking cocoa with her parents. Then she spent another hour on the phone with Tessa. And at last she went to her room and got ready for bed. But she couldn’t sleep, so she went to her closet, took the yellow notebook out of its box, propped herself up in bed, and started writing:

Well, it’s over, anyway, that debate. I’m not sure how I did. I pretty much just said what was in the editorial, and Clark talked about morality. It was like this big impasse, with no one convincing anyone to change. The weird thing is that both sides want to save lives and think the other side is risking lives and is therefore immoral. Clark’s is an idealistic idea, and mine is a practical one.

Afterward, Al Checkers came up to me and said he’s got nothing against me personally. I sort of smiled, and he said, “But you’re preaching sin, and you’ve got to give that up. It’s poisonous, what you’re doing, against God.” Then he said, “I like you, Jamie, and God loves you. But God hates the sin in you. And bad things happen to sinners.”

He walked away before I could think of anything to say. But I saw Mrs. Buel put her hand on Al’s shoulder and give him a friendly nod when he passed her.

On the way out I went over to the refreshment table and picked up one of the pamphlets Mrs. Buel had put there. At first I thought it was from FTV, but on the back in teeny type it gives the name of some organization that’s not even in this state. The pamphlet’s full of lies about homosexuality, like gay people molest children and try to “recruit” children to make them gay, and “the homosexual lifestyle” is promiscuous and against God’s will and the Bible, and books and articles about homosexuality and even things like gay pride marches are attempts to “promote” homosexuality so more people, especially kids, will “become” gay. It calls homosexuality a “selfish choice of lifestyle,” too. Ha! I sure didn’t choose to be gay, if I am, and neither did Terry or Ernie. Who’d choose something people hate so much?

I’m not sure what it meant by “selfish,” except it did say something about homosexuals not having kids—which isn’t true—and having more money than straight people because they don’t have kids, and I think “selfish” has something to do with that reasoning, if you can call it reasoning. You know, God wants everyone to be fruitful and multiply, maybe.

Then in a boxed-in section in different type it said, “This is the deviant lifestyle that the new health education curriculum will teach as acceptable to the children of Wilson.” I think FTV must’ve added that to the rest of the pamphlet. It sure looked as if that boxed-in section could have been left blank for different groups to put in their own stuff.

And then when I showed the pamphlet to Mom and Dad, Mom literally turned pale. She agreed about the boxed-in section, and she said the organization whose name was in tiny type is a big national one that backs local groups, especially on school issues, and she gave Dad an I-told-you-so look, and Dad gave me the lecture again about the paper’s needing to be careful.

I sure hope Ernie never sees that pamphlet or anything like it. But lots of people were reading it.

And I still didn’t say anything about it. I couldn’t think anymore, and I was shaking. All I could do was leave. I felt sick, like I was going to throw up.

I have to not be that way. If someone says something wrong about homosexuality, I should argue against it, just like I’d argue against anything else that was wrong. I should do that even if it’s scary. When kids tell fag jokes or say “That’s so gay,” or say someone’s dykey-looking, I never say anything. Once or twice I’ve walked away, but that’s mostly been to hide my red face. My stomach cramps up and my hands sweat and my head sort of buzzes, and it’s all because I want to say, “That’s a lousy joke” or “Would you say something like that about black people?” (Actually, some of them might, though.) But I’m a coward.

Why?

I guess because I’m afraid they’ll think I’m gay.

Well, aren’t I? And don’t some of them think that already? Brandon’s sure never stopped thinking it. Al, too, I’m sure. And maybe Tessa.

Haven’t I gone beyond being a Maybe?

I know I’ve never felt about a boy the way I feel about Tessa. I know I can’t see myself married to a man or buying into all that traditional male-female stuff. I don’t think I fit with that, even though I love my own family, and I think “normal” families are fine. It’s just that I think being in one—being the wife and mother in one—would be wrong for me and whatever poor guy I married. A lie.

And I don’t want to live a lie, even if people like Mrs. Buel think I should.

Jamie put the yellow notebook away. Then she lay down on her bed and closed her eyes.

But sleep didn’t come to her till it was nearly dawn.

The next morning, remembering her promise to Terry, Jamie looked for Ernie as soon as she arrived at school, but she couldn’t find him anywhere. In English, Terry said he hadn’t seen him either, and at lunch, he said, “I think Ernie’s cut school. And I don’t want to get him in trouble with his mom by calling to make sure he’s not home sick, in case he has cut. What I’d really like to do is go find him.”

“Yeah, but how’d you know where to look?”

“I wouldn’t. But I could make some good guesses.”

“There’s only a few more hours of school.”

“Jamie, if something’s really wrong …”

The end-of-lunch bell rang, and Terry headed down the hall to his locker. “I’m going now. Sudden stomachache,” he said, “if anyone asks.”

“Okay,” Jamie called after him. “Good luck.”

An official-looking piece of stationery headed WILSON SCHOOL COMMITTEE fluttered off Matt’s desk when Jamie unlocked the newspaper office later that afternoon; Terry hadn’t returned. Jamie grabbed it and was about to put it back unread when its single sentence caught her eye:

You are requested to appear before the Wilson School Committee on this Wednesday evening, October 13, to discuss your position as faculty adviser to the Wilson High Telegraph and the paper’s policy, especially as regards editorials.

Jamie was just putting the letter back when Matt came in. Silently, she showed it to him. Then she said, “I probably shouldn’t have read this. But it fell off your desk.”

Matt took it from her. “I probably shouldn’t have left it out.”

“What’s going on?”

Matt sat down heavily, his face creased with worry. “I’m not sure. But obviously it has to do with the condom editorial.”

“Then why didn’t they ask me to come?” Jamie asked angrily.

“Because you’re a student and I’m a teacher.”

“Well, if they’re going to get mad at the paper, I want to be there!”

“I like your spirit, Jamie, and I admire your guts. But I think I ought to handle this alone.”

“No,” said Jamie. “I’m going to go to that meeting. They can’t throw me out, can they?”

“I don’t know. I suppose they can try. But it’s an open meeting. I don’t think there’s anything in the open-meeting law that says minors can’t go. But look”—he put his hand on Jamie’s arm—“I have a feeling it’s going to get pretty nasty. I guess I can’t stop you from going, but promise me you’ll clear it with your parents first?”

“Okay,” Jamie said—and then Tessa burst in, waving a manila envelope and shouting, “I’ve got them! Our nature pictures, and they’re …” She stopped, looking from Matt to Jamie. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing that can’t wait,” Matt said. “Let’s see those photos.”

Jamie looked over Matt’s shoulder as he studied them. They were good: a red-winged blackbird flying low over the marsh, with tall grass waving in the wind; a gnarled apple tree, heavy with fruit; a big pile of raked leaves in someone’s yard with two small children and a dog playing in it; a shot of lobstermen hauling traps against a stormy-looking sky …

“Great,” said Matt when they’d gotten that far. “Autumn in Wilson. Any more harbor shots?”

Tessa flipped to the back of the pile and pulled out a photo showing a forest of masts in the yacht basin and one of a small boy rowing a punt among moored lobster boats.

“What can I say?” Matt shuffled through the rest of the pile. “Jamie, why don’t you choose some for your essay, draft it, and then let me see? How about the issue after this one? Or do you think you could have it ready by this one …”

Matt broke off, looking through the puckered glass pane in the door, where someone was gesturing frantically.

Jamie, who was closest, got up and opened the door, revealing Terry, his jacket awry and his face pale.

“Jamie,” he said under his breath. “Jamie, you’ve got to come. I don’t want the others. Please come. It’s Ernie.”

Jamie nodded and went back into the room. “Emergency.” She picked up her books. “I’ll try for this week, Matt, and I’ll be back today if I can. Meanwhile”—she shoved a manila folder toward him—“here’s what I’ve got so far for this issue.”

“Jamie …” Matt began.

“Sorry.” With an apologetic wave, mostly toward Tessa, Jamie hurried out the door.

“What?” she said to Terry as soon as the door had closed behind them and he was hurrying her down the hall toward the main entrance. “What’s happened?”

“I found him. He was on the beach; I thought he’d be there. He was just sitting, staring at the water, and he didn’t say anything when I went up to him. It was weird, Jamie, really spooky. So I sat down and put my arm around him, and he started crying. It was like he’d never stop. Then he did stop, all of a sudden, and sort of smiled and said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m okay now.’ He wouldn’t say anything more than that, but I got him to get into my car, and …” Terry stopped; they were outside now, on the school steps. “And he said he was hungry, can you believe it? So I said okay, we’ll get something to eat, and I asked him if he’d mind if you came along and he said he wouldn’t. I’m scared, Jamie; he’s acting so weird.”

“He wouldn’t have taken anything, would he?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know for sure, but it wouldn’t be like him. He’s so careful of his body, because of swimming. I don’t think so. Here. My car’s over here.”

Terry led Jamie to the far end of the parking lot, where his car was parked under some low-hanging trees.

It was empty.

“Oh, no,” Terry groaned. “Oh, God. Ernie!” he called. “Ernie!” He glanced frantically around the lot.

“Wait, Terry,” Jamie said. “Let’s think. It’s a warm afternoon. He could just have decided to go for a walk, or …”

“Or the pool!” Terry exclaimed. “There’s another meet this Saturday; if he was feeling better, he might have decided to work out. Sometimes when he’s depressed he swims. ‘Swimming it off,’ he calls it. He said once it was better than Prozac—not that he takes Prozac; I think he was kidding. But he does get depressed. Come on.” Terry grabbed Jamie’s hand and pulled her toward the gym.

“But wouldn’t there be other kids practicing? If there’s a meet …”

“It’s too late. They don’t have a long practice on Mondays.”

Terry hurried Jamie into the building and through the hall to the pool entrance. The damp, acrid smell of chlorine hit Jamie’s nostrils as soon as Terry opened the door—and she heard the rhythmic sound of someone swimming …

“It’s him,” Terry whispered, sinking down into one of the stadium seats. “He’s doing laps. Oh, Jamie, look at him! Thank God he’s okay.”

“Yes,” said Jamie. “Hey, I was sure he would be. I bet he’s a lot tougher than you think.”

Terry gave her an odd look, but he didn’t say anything.

“Aren’t you going to let him know we’re here?”

“Nope. I’m going to let him swim it off. And then when he’s finished, I’m going to tell him how great he looked out there. And then I’m going to take him to get something to eat, if he still wants that, and on the way I’m going to try to get him to talk to me.” He leaned over and kissed Jamie’s cheek. “Thank you, friend.”

“No problem.” Jamie got up. “I’ll make your excuses to Matt. Just—do you think you could finish that feature on the football coach by deadline?”

“Along with the story about last Saturday’s game? Yeah. Yeah, they’ll be done. I’ll tell the reporter to have the game piece tomorrow, okay? I’m doing the coach one, and it’ll take me a little longer; I haven’t interviewed him yet.” Terry’s eyes were still on Ernie, who was swimming steadily, smoothly, his body making hardly a ripple as it glided through the aquamarine water.

“Okay.” Jamie inclined her head toward the pool. “You’re right that he’s beautiful when he’s swimming.”

“He’s beautiful when he isn’t swimming, too.”

Jamie squeezed Terry’s shoulder. “Take it easy. Call me tonight if you want, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. And, Jamie—thanks again.”