We All Looked Up by Tommy Wallach Page B

sense when it came to the weaknesses of others.
    The principal did his best to ignore the interruption. “As I was saying, school is still technically mandatory, though this policy is being reviewed at the federal level as we speak. Please continue to attend your classes as scheduled.”
    â€œSay something,” Bobo whispered.
    â€œDude, why are you helping me? There’s money on the line.”
    â€œBecause, Mary, I want a real competition here, and you’re already blowing it.” Bobo raised his voice again. “Answer the question! What’s the point of calculus?”
    Mr. Jester squinted into the audience. “Calculus is important, sir, because it’s a part of mathematics. And mathematics are important because numbers, you see, are the cornerstone of an education, along with science and history and, uh . . .” He swallowed the rest of his meandering sentence. Another flash went off, right in Andy’s eyes this time—Eliza had just taken Bobo’s picture! His dumb yelling had actually managed to prick the thick bubble of her awareness.
    â€œListen,” Mr. Jester said, “I’m trying to tell you some important stuff here, so if you could just cut me a little bit of slack, we can—”
    â€œWhat are these cops doing here?” Andy shouted.
    â€œThat’s not important right now. It’s just regulations.”
    â€œWhat regulation says we need armed police officers at a high school? What are you afraid of?”
    â€œNothing, and that’s quite enough, Mr. Rowen.”
    Andy ignored him, electrified by the attention. “Yo, Hamilton, if you care at all about your personal rights, come to the bleachers after school. We gotta stand up for ourselves. This is how fascism starts—”
    He felt something tighten around his shoulder; one of the cops had grabbed hold of him and was trying to lift him out of his seat.
    â€œWhat the hell?”
    â€œThat really isn’t necessary, officer,” Mr. Jester said.
    â€œGet off me, pig!” Andy wrenched himself out of the cop’s grip, but his momentum sent him careening forward into the metal rim of the empty seat in front of him. A white flash of pain, then a slow trickle of blood tickling the follicles of his right eyebrow. Outrage rippled through the room like a murmurous earthquake. Another white flash, only this one came from Eliza’s camera. Andy looked right at her and smiled. Blood leaked into the corner of his mouth.
    â€œBleachers after school if you value your freedom,” he shouted one last time, as he was dragged up the stairs and out of the auditorium.

    At lunch they considered their next move. Kevin insisted that they had momentum now, politically speaking—Andy’s injury was all anyone could talk about—and they had to strike while the iron was hot. Of course, none of them really knew what striking would entail. Bobo offered to take point at the bleachers, and Andy was only too happy to agree. He’d never really liked the limelight, and the last thing he wanted was more trouble. He was lucky to have gotten out of that assembly with just the head wound. (“Let’s not make some kind of federal case about this,” the cop had said, holding a soggy ball of paper towels to Andy’s forehead, “and we’ll forget about the scene you caused in there. Deal?”)
    Almost a hundred people were waiting out on the bleachers after school, their hoods pulled up against the drizzle like a monastery’s worth of monks who’d neglected to color coordinate. A lot of different crews had answered the call. There was James Hurdlebrink—he of the hideous mullet and the stratospheric IQ—along with the gamer kids and mathletes he ran with. The slackers from pretty much every class had shown up, though good luck getting them to actually do anything. Finally there were the artsy types—girls who dressed like Joan Baez and