Mrs. Smith quite well—she'd furnished her with an Oriental rug and two Phoenix glass lamps—and she knew for a fact that the Smiths would never, ever accept such a ridiculous plea bargain with those foreign people.
But they did.
Henry hid the next
Blythbury-by-the-Sea Chronicle,
since he read the "Letters to the Editor" first and he didn't think his parents needed to.
Because the letters were right. Chay Chouan had crashed into his brother. Franklin's left arm was gone. He might not ever open his eyes again. And Chay Chouan was going to have his driver's license suspended? His
driver's license
?
Henry did what he could to not think about it. He rowed so hard in crew practice that Coach Santori said that if everyone only worked as hard as Smith here, then maybe they'd make it to State. As it was, Coach Santori wondered if they'd even make a respectable showing at Regionals—if they even got that far, because no one was working as hard as Smith, and they should all do what he was doing if they wanted to represent Whittier with anything approaching pride. And if they didn't want to represent Whittier with anything approaching pride, then they should get out of his shells before he took them out of his shells, and they had better move to someplace else—like Little Cambodia in Merton—because they wouldn't want to stay here and find out what he was going to do to them.
Which speech, of course, made everyone—especially Brandon Sheringham—hate Henry's guts for the rest of the afternoon and probably accounted for his shampoo falling off the shelf and emptying into the shower drains and his missing red-and-white boxers—which he discovered with an identifying note hanging beneath the red-and-white Whittier Academy flag when his mother dropped him off the next morning and he went to see what everyone was looking at.
Meanwhile, Blythbury-by-the-Sea seethed. The unfairness of it. The injustice. The judge must,
must
be going after the immigrant vote. Probably he was looking toward a political career. If these people wanted to come to America, why wouldn't they agree to abide by American laws? When was this country going to wake up? Everyone in Blythbury-by-the-Sea believed that something should be done. Something had to be done.
Everyone except Sanborn.
"There wasn't anything else your parents could have done," he said while they waited together after Debate—still on the future of nuclear power.
"Wasn't it just a few days ago that I beat you up?" said Henry.
"You must have been dreaming that, little man. Chay Chouan has no police record. He tried to help. He bandaged Franklin's arm. And he went to find the policeman."
"And he's Cambodian. And no one is supposed to say anything mean about Cambodians, because America is big enough for everyone and we should try to understand people who are different from ourselves. Do you want me to keep going, Sanborn, or should I just go ahead and throw up now?"
Sanborn shook his head. "I think you did just throw up," he said.
"And since when did we become everyone's business?"
Sanborn shrugged. "People like to see other people in trouble, as long as it isn't their own."
Silence.
"I really can take you, you know," said Henry.
"I think I could probably pin you in under a minute," said Sanborn.
"Maybe, Sanborn. Maybe you could pin me in under a minute—if I had triple pneumonia and five broken bones and a really, really runny nose."
But Sanborn was pretty close when Henry's mother drove up to bring them home.
The last week of April and then the first week of May came in soon afterward. There were sweet showers, and the forsythia burst into yellow blossoms, and the purple and white lilacs began to swell, and the tender daffodils bobbed back and forth in the warm breath of the wind. The gardens along the back side of the house came out with their solid greens and shy yellows and blues—as they did every year, to show that some things do not change.
And still
But they did.
Henry hid the next
Blythbury-by-the-Sea Chronicle,
since he read the "Letters to the Editor" first and he didn't think his parents needed to.
Because the letters were right. Chay Chouan had crashed into his brother. Franklin's left arm was gone. He might not ever open his eyes again. And Chay Chouan was going to have his driver's license suspended? His
driver's license
?
Henry did what he could to not think about it. He rowed so hard in crew practice that Coach Santori said that if everyone only worked as hard as Smith here, then maybe they'd make it to State. As it was, Coach Santori wondered if they'd even make a respectable showing at Regionals—if they even got that far, because no one was working as hard as Smith, and they should all do what he was doing if they wanted to represent Whittier with anything approaching pride. And if they didn't want to represent Whittier with anything approaching pride, then they should get out of his shells before he took them out of his shells, and they had better move to someplace else—like Little Cambodia in Merton—because they wouldn't want to stay here and find out what he was going to do to them.
Which speech, of course, made everyone—especially Brandon Sheringham—hate Henry's guts for the rest of the afternoon and probably accounted for his shampoo falling off the shelf and emptying into the shower drains and his missing red-and-white boxers—which he discovered with an identifying note hanging beneath the red-and-white Whittier Academy flag when his mother dropped him off the next morning and he went to see what everyone was looking at.
Meanwhile, Blythbury-by-the-Sea seethed. The unfairness of it. The injustice. The judge must,
must
be going after the immigrant vote. Probably he was looking toward a political career. If these people wanted to come to America, why wouldn't they agree to abide by American laws? When was this country going to wake up? Everyone in Blythbury-by-the-Sea believed that something should be done. Something had to be done.
Everyone except Sanborn.
"There wasn't anything else your parents could have done," he said while they waited together after Debate—still on the future of nuclear power.
"Wasn't it just a few days ago that I beat you up?" said Henry.
"You must have been dreaming that, little man. Chay Chouan has no police record. He tried to help. He bandaged Franklin's arm. And he went to find the policeman."
"And he's Cambodian. And no one is supposed to say anything mean about Cambodians, because America is big enough for everyone and we should try to understand people who are different from ourselves. Do you want me to keep going, Sanborn, or should I just go ahead and throw up now?"
Sanborn shook his head. "I think you did just throw up," he said.
"And since when did we become everyone's business?"
Sanborn shrugged. "People like to see other people in trouble, as long as it isn't their own."
Silence.
"I really can take you, you know," said Henry.
"I think I could probably pin you in under a minute," said Sanborn.
"Maybe, Sanborn. Maybe you could pin me in under a minute—if I had triple pneumonia and five broken bones and a really, really runny nose."
But Sanborn was pretty close when Henry's mother drove up to bring them home.
The last week of April and then the first week of May came in soon afterward. There were sweet showers, and the forsythia burst into yellow blossoms, and the purple and white lilacs began to swell, and the tender daffodils bobbed back and forth in the warm breath of the wind. The gardens along the back side of the house came out with their solid greens and shy yellows and blues—as they did every year, to show that some things do not change.
And still
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