Barbara Gregorich - The F Words

Contents

For Linda and Guy,

who would march with Cole

Chapter 1

I balance on the chain link fence in the growing darkness, tilting into my work, finishing the last word. Fifteen of them. Fifteen of the F word, stacked one on top of the other like a long stretch into forever. Some of them red, some black. I stash the red can in my pocket next to the black can, let go of the brick wall, and jump down from the fenceright against Mr. Nachman, my English teacher.

Holy shit! I shout. And then I dodge to the left, positive Ill get away. Im on the cross-country team and Nachman isnt a jock.

But it turns out he has fast reflexes or maybe just knows which direction to move in, because he grabs me by my collar and pins me against the fence.

Cole, he says, spray painting the school wont solve anything.

I dont know what youre talking about.

He shakes his head. Hes wearing a Cubs baseball cap, the dark blue kind with the old 1908 logo, a bear holding a bat. My favorite of all the Cubs hats. Why the school? he asks. Why not the police station? Or the courthouse?

In class Nachmans always asking questions like thatpenetrating questions my mother calls them whenever I tell her. Questions that show he knows what youre thinking, and that he wants you to go further.

I want to tell him about the injustice of injustice, cause I know hell appreciate that. I want to tell him I dont know what he means about the courthouse or police station. But he knows about Dad. The whole school knows. All of Chicago knows.

So I tell him the truth. The courthouse has lights all around it. So does the police station.

He nods at this and studies the words on the wall.

Or maybe hes admiring my tagging skills.

Its not easy to fight against injustice, he says.

Is he talking about me?

Or about Dad?

There are effectual ways and ineffectual ways, he continues. Legal ways and illegal ways. Solitary ways and group ways.

He stares hard at me, like were in class and he wants his point to sink in.

Dad didnt incite people to violence. It was a peaceful sit-in. Until the cops came. He shouldnt be in jail for fighting against injustice.

Nachman nods and keeps looking at the words on the wall. Technically just one word, fifteen times. Hes dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Im dressed pretty much the same way. Except for the two cans of paint in my pocket.

Why red and black? he asks.

Why red and black?! Man, how am I supposed to know why red and black?

They look good together?

He studies the words. Or the wall. Or maybe the night sky.

Lots of politics there, he says. Red, the color of workers revolution. Black, the color of anarchy. Which, maybe, spray painting the walls of a public building might qualify as.

Hardly, I think.

Still pinning me against the fence with one hand, Nachman pulls out his cell phone.

No! I shout, grabbing for it. Who are you calling?!

Relax, he says. Im calling Ms. Delaney to

No! I struggle to get free, but he plants one of his feet on top of mine and increases the weight against me. Nachmans stronger than I would have guessed.

Please dont report me, I say. Okay, beg. I cant get kicked out of school. Ever since I took part in the student boycott of state testing last spring, Delaneys had it in for me. Every time she sees me in the hallwaywhich I make sure isnt oftenshe scowls.

Trust me, Cole. Im calling Ms. Delaney to tell her theres graffiti on the school wall and she needs to call someone to cover it up before school starts in the morning. He glances up at the F words.

But but shell ask you who did it.

I saw you standing near the school, Cole, but I didnt see any spray paint in your hands or on your clothes. Proximity doesnt prove guilt.

Is this the truth? I run the scene through my head at rapid speed, like the finish line is just ahead. The cans were in my pocket before I jumped off the fence. I glance at my clothes. Clean.

Im impressed.

With my cleanliness, yeah.

With Nachmans noticing it.

Most of all with his quick thinking.

Youll have to clean this up, he says. Heres the plan. Ill tell Ms. Delaney you and I think that spray-painting the school walls was somebodys immature act, and you volunteered to clean it up. He looks at me.

No way. It was an angry act.

He gives a tiny smile about something, takes his foot off mine and moves back. Anger is most useful when its controlled and directed.

I move away from the fence. In case he wants to pin me against it again.

So. You volunteered to clean up the spray painting. He waits.

I think about my position, almost like this is a cross-country meet. If Principal Delaney knew what Id just done, shed suspend me for sure. If I got a suspension, I couldnt run cross-country. Coach is totally strict about that. And Mom couldnt take my getting a suspension, not on top of Dad going to jail this morning.

You arent going to tell her I did it?

As long as you clean it up, starting tomorrow after school, and as long as you turn in an extra assignment every week.

What?! What kind of extra assignment?

Another tiny smile flits across Nachmans face. Call it an F-word assignment. Every week from now until the end of the school year, I want you to look up two F words in the dictionary and write a poem about each.

Two! I shout. Poems! I shout. Until the end of the school year! Man, you may as well turn me over to Delaney now.

Nachman doesnt say anything. He just waits.

After a while, I try again, There arent that many F words, not as many as there are weeks from now until June.

There are a lot of words that begin with F, Cole fair, fight, family, fear , false, foe, futile, final . He looks at me with his assignment face. Get a dictionary and pick any two words. Every week, from now until the end of the year.

But why do I have to write them in a poem? Cant I just copy out the definition each week?

Anybody can copy. I want you to think and I want you to create. When we were writing poetry last year, yours were very good. I think you have a knack for it.

A knack for it, yeah, sure. Its just my luck to have Nachman as my English teacher two years in a row. Why they moved him from ninth grade to tenth is a mystery. Not that I mind him, thoughhes fair. And he usually has interesting stuff to say. In class, that is. But whats he doing out here in the dark, on the grounds of August Mersy High School?

I let out a big sigh. Not the kind like when I win a race and am happy and trying to get my breath back all at once, but the kind like when Im waiting for the gun to go off. The nervous kind you let out when you know youre in for a long, bad, pain-filled time of it, but you can do it because because you can. Yeah, I mutter. Okay.

Okay what?

Thats just like Nachman, too.

Okay, youll tell Ms. Delaney I volunteered to clean the spray paint off the wall. Okay, Ill start cleaning it off the wall tomorrow.

He waits.

Okay, okay! Ill turn in two F-word poems a week.

Good, he says, adjusting the brim of his cap. Tonight is Thursday, which means that this weeks assignment is due tomorrow. Ms. Delaney will arrange for you to start cleaning.