Ask the Passengers

Clay rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, you can’t really know it’s true unless you can truly define it,” he says.

She scribbles a little, and I look in my notebook at my paradox that I already sent to Ms. Steck via e-mail. Equality is obvious. I think this raises a sufficient amount of questions that I could argue all day about it.

Penny holds up her hands. “I got it! I got it! God! Why does this philosophy stuff have to be so difficult? Give me calculus any day!” She looks at Clay. “How about this?” She’s just about to read, and then she stops. “Shit. No. That doesn’t work.” She goes back to her scribbling.

Ms. Steck stands up and moves to her desk. “Today’s the day! I need those paradoxes on my desk before you leave. Don’t be worried if you get a better idea over the weekend. Philosophy does stuff to your brain. Makes you change your mind a lot. That’s good. I don’t care if you come to me Wednesday morning with a completely different paradox from the one you give me today. Just give me something today! And don’t forget to research what you’re going to wear. It all counts toward your grade.”

They say: She gets off on seeing girls in togas.

Penny hits her desk with her fist. “I got it!” She writes it down and shoves it into her folder.

Ms. Steck sits on the edge of her desk. “Before we go into Plato’s cave for the last day, I want to talk a little about next week’s Day of Tolerance, because this kind of stuff is what philosophy is all about. I’m sure you all have your own ideas of why the administration is doing it, and I’m sure you all saw the wonderful display I’ve had on my blackboard for the last few days.” She refers to the signs that are still taped on the board. My arrow is still there. UNNECESSARY APOSTROPHE. FAIL.

“Since we all have wildly different ideas about ethics and morality, I was thinking about how to approach this in class, or if we even should. And then”—she snaps—“then! I got a great idea.

“Since you’re Unity Valley’s best and brightest, I was thinking I could do an experiment.” She hands out little pieces of gray quiz paper.

“With all the recent votes and discussions in the news, I think we’re all pretty sick of talking about g*y marriage. So I don’t want to talk about it. Instead, let’s vote. I want you to write one thing on the paper I’ve just handed you. I want a YES or a NO. Yes means you vote YES for g*y marriage rights. NO means you would not give g*y people the right to get married. Everyone got that?”

We all nod.

“Then toss your votes into the box here.” She puts a shoe box on Clay’s desk.

Penny Uppergrove raises her hand.

“Yes, Penny?”

“Is this part of our grade?”

“Nope. Just a fun in-class exercise,” Ms. Steck says.

I write YES and fold the paper in half and in half again and put it in the box.

After a final discussion about Plato’s cave, we are left to our usual ten minutes of free time. Some are still struggling with their paradox, and they summon Ms. Steck to their desks or to the computer lab.

Before the end of class, Ms. Steck takes the shoe box off Clay’s desk and tallies the votes. She writes the results on the board.

NO wins, twelve votes to ten. Ms. Steck doesn’t say anything. She just leaves the results on the board above the ugly homophobic signs, and all I can think of is what she called us: Unity Valley’s best and brightest. And we’re three votes short of equality.

I snap a picture of the results and the signs with my phone. Since Justin isn’t around, it seems someone should document it.

The first and last time I see Kristina today is at lunch. She’s sitting at a table with her popular friends. I sit by myself in a booth to the right. When they all look over at me, I can imagine what she’s saying. The lie. Maybe even bigger lies. Maybe a skyscraper of lies. I think about what she said to me last night. How I had nothing to lose and how she had everything to lose.

I count eight people at her table. I count zero at mine.

37

I USED TO LOOK FORWARD TO WORKING ON WEEKENDS.

DEVEINING SHRIMP HAS BECOME my Zen thing. I know they’re going to ask me to do it, so I look forward to doing it, and I make sure I do it well. Sometimes it means I go a little slower than they’d like, but then they can fire me. I’ve seen Jorge’s cousin devein shrimp. His method is called mangling the shrimp.

I have to retrieve a box of shrimp from the walk-in, and I stop for a second once the door closes behind me, and I breathe. In. Out. In. Out. I’d put my bed there. In. Out. In. Out. I’d put my vanity there. In. Out. In. Out. And I’d put a desk over there, under the light. I look at the cage around the lightbulb. I know it’s caged for protection—so no truck-driving supplier tosses a box into the corner and shatters the bulb. But I can’t help seeing a cage for what it is. Sure, it protects the bulb, but maybe if people weren’t so careless, then nothing would need to be caged.

I get my box of shrimp and let the door slam behind me. I’m happy Dee didn’t come in after me. I’m glad to see her, but I’m still mad about what she said the other day.

When it’s time for Dee to chop veggies, she stops every few minutes and smiles at me. I try not to smile back, but I can’t help it. She probably forgot that she even said that thing about how I should come out. She’s just in love with me. And then I realize something. Dee doesn’t care about all the rumors. She doesn’t care about anything except her life, her future, and playing hockey and getting into Bloomsburg and playing more hockey. And being happy. She’s like Frank S. but a lot cuter. Except Frank wouldn’t require me to place myself in a labeled box in a public place in order to hang out with me. Frank would never want to put me in a cage.

“You okay?” she asks.

I snap out of it and go back to my shrimp. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“You ever gonna finish with that shrimp?” Juan asks.

“Metaphysically? No. In reality? Yes. In about four minutes,” I answer.

He looks at me quizzically and then goes back to his office.

When I’m done, I rinse the shrimp and then clean up the sinkful of shrimp veins and wash my hands and then get to the dishes. It’s a short day again—a dry season until Christmas catering, Jorge says.

“I can’t believe you haven’t told your parents yet,” she says. We are in her car with the heater on.

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” I answer.