Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
I’ve heard of it. My fingers curl, feeling myself clutch the chain-link.
Other machine sounds—a treadmill, for sure—hit my ears, but I can hardly see anything from here. It’s where they keep the expensive equipment to lock it up.
Ringing blasts overhead, and I pop my head up. “Shit.”
The bell.
I turn around, dash into the hallway, and jog back up the stairs. Being late to my first class is an entrance, and I don’t want to make an entrance. I race into the hallway, looking at my schedule to see what room I should be in.
Two-oh-two.
Following the room numbers, I speed-walk through the school, a few students still lingering in the hallways. I yank open the door to the classroom and rush inside, all of the students stopping and looking up.
The teacher pauses at the whiteboard, and I do a double take at how his chest fills out his blue Oxford that’s tucked into fitted khakis, and the brown leather belt around his waist. I think there are students in the Falls who’d love for him to be teaching over there instead. Even if he is my dad’s age.
After just a moment, he offers a tight smile, brushes his thick, brown hair back over the top of his head, and walks to his desk, checking his laptop. “Dylan Trent, right?”
I glance at the students again, only seeing about twelve.
“Yes,” I finally reply. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Have a seat.”
He holds out his hand, directing me to an empty one in front, next to Mace. I slide into the desk, taking out the notebook and pen I found this morning.
“I hear you volunteered,” the teacher asks.
Mr. Bastien, I think the schedule listed his name as when I looked.
“Shouldn’t I have?” I tease.
“As long as you plan on doing the work, I think you’ll be fine.”
Quiet chuckles go off around the room, and I don’t think I will be fine, even if I do all the work.
The person behind me leans in, their whisper hitting my ear. “I like your jacket,” he says.
People keep saying that.
I slide my fists in my pockets, holding it tight to my body.
The teacher moves around his desk, an uncapped marker still between his fingers, and a piece of paper in the other.
“The Weston-Shelburne Falls-St. Matthew’s rivalry is actually a good example of what we’ve been talking about in class,” he tells me. “The role of ideology in conflict. How belief systems, propaganda, religion, symbols, flags, colors…can organize and mobilize mass groups of people under the guise of pride.”
“Guise?” I repeat.
As if loyalty is meaningless.
I shouldn’t be offended. He’s insulting his own students with that assessment too.
“Think about it,” he goes on, half-sitting on the edge of his desk. “If you were born here, would you have any stake in being a Pirate?”
“No, you’re right.” I nod, taking the pen and grinding it between my fingers. “Most Christians are Christian because that’s what they were raised to be. Most Americans are loyal to America because this is where they were born. I’m a Pirate because…”
“Because…” he presses.
I remain silent. I’m not the only student in this class. Someone else can participate.
“Because of your roots,” a young woman replies off to my left, near the windows. “Your parents, your friends, your history…”
With the pen, I trace the figure eight that was already etched onto my notebook cover.
“You don’t question it,” she goes on, “because something to believe in gives you an identity. It feels good to stand for something. To wear a label and say ‘this is who I am,’ oblivious to the fact that you are only who you were ever taught to be.”
I turn the eight that someone else drew from blue to black, burrowing into the cardboard cover deeper and deeper.
“How easy it was for them to shape you to drive what your daddy drives,” she tells me, digging in, “and vote for your uncle’s politics as soon as you turn eighteen.”
“Isn’t it the same here?” the teacher asks us. “The colors, the rivalry, the pranks?”
“So, what if it is?” the guy behind me replies. “At least we’re aware of it.”
I pinch the pen tightly.
“And it’s fun,” someone else adds. “It kills time.”
The corner of my mouth lifts just slightly.
Mace looks to Mr. Bastien, chiming in, “You know my grandma would be pissed that you’re calling religion propaganda.”
She holds a Hydro Flask and hands it to the girl on her other side. I wonder if the teacher can smell the rum in it. I do.
Mr. Bastien gets up and goes back behind his desk. “Your grandmother can talk to me about that over spaghetti dinner this weekend.”
“She invited you again?” Mace whines. “No…”
But Mr. Bastien moves on. “So, what do you think?” he asks the class. “Refer to the examples we discussed last week. Rosie the Riveter, Uncle Sam, Triumph of the Will…a lot of which was commanded with the task of grooming youth to think a certain way. To work for the state in some capacity.”