“Look,” he said. “We don’t want to cause any problems with you slave states, but the country can survive without slavery nowadays. We’ve established ourselves apart from England, and new industry is taking the country to new levels.”
“That may be all fine and dandy for you,” I said. I was getting into it a little. “But we Southern states depend on slave labor to run our plantations. It’s been done this way since the beginning, and there is no reason to change now.”
Then it was funny; something happened. Stephen Gary got really mad.
“What are you people saying?” he said. “It’s wrong! It’s dead wrong. I can’t believe you’re talking about it so calmly like this!” Stephen was playing Massachusetts, and he sat next to Jerry. His outburst was a shock to everyone. Stephen’s face was flushed, and his eyes were big. He looked mad and like he was going to cry at the same time. Mr. Hurston’s face was blank and he stared into the back wall. I looked to the other students. Some were interested in the debate now. Lewis, the only black kid in class, had a blank look on his face too. Stacey, the prettiest girl in class, was picking a scab off the back of her hand.
My slave state partners didn’t say anything so I spoke up again.
“It is not wrong,” I said to Stephen as calmly as possible. I was being real rational. “It is our God-given right as white Americans to own slaves because we are a superior race.”
Stephen’s big eyes got bigger, and his mouth became a black hole. He stood like that and no one said anything. Everyone was waiting. Good Jerry had begun to speak again when Stephen jumped up from his seat, his belly shaking like a water bed. He was screaming.
“You racists! Ray-sists! No wonder Hitler killed all the Jews, because you’re all a bunch of racists!”
In general, Stephen was an idiot. He didn’t have many friends. He wasn’t handsome, he didn’t play sports, and he was really quiet. But more than that, he was just strange—the way he picked food from his braces in class and left the little colored bits on his desktop, or like when he told Mrs. Steinbach that he wouldn’t read The Picture of Dorian Gray because gay people were goblins who stole children to use in sacrifices. But usually he didn’t say much.
The class was very interested in the debate now. Ivan and John were laughing silently in the corner. Stacey had stopped picking her scab and looked from Stephen to me.
I said, “I think that that is a pretty racist statement in itself. And I don’t really know how it applies, especially because I’m not Jewish, but I think it’s the wrong century.”
Mr. Hurston broke off his stare and landed back on earth for a second.
“Yes, Stephen, you can’t say that because it’s a hundred years past the time we’re depicting here.”
“Hitler is timeless!” screeched Stephen. Now he was crying. Most people were laughing out loud now. John and Ivan were about dying in the corner. They slapped each other’s back and cackled. Lewis, the black kid, was over in his spot doing nothing.
“Stephen, why don’t you sit down,” said Mr. Hurston.
“No, I won’t sit down! I won’t bow down to these racists! They deserve to die! They should burn in the ovens!”
Now even cool Stacey looked surprised. Then she smiled. Everyone was having a great time except Stephen. I really felt bad for him, but Stacey’s smile did something to me. If I look back on it, that’s what did it, that little upturn at the sides of her glossy pink lips. I wanted to make Stephen go crazy so that I could see Stacey smile.
“Well, Stephen,” I said. “Since we’re confusing different centuries, why don’t I bring up a little book called The Bell Curve. It shows that whites and Asians are superior to black people.”
“Racist! Racist Jewish institutional testing. It doesn’t count,” screeched Stephen. He was gesticulating now. His arms swung out at his sides like coiled wet towels and his belly shook some more.
“Boys,” said Mr. Hurston. “You can state your opinions as freely as you like, but you must keep the discussion to the 1860s.”
Stacey wasn’t smiling anymore. She was bored. She went back to picking the scab on the back of her hand.
I should have stopped arguing with Stephen but I didn’t. I know I got everything I deserved afterward, but I couldn’t stop because I wanted Stacey to laugh. I looked over at Lewis, but he still had that dumb stare. Lewis was a bad student. He hung out with the tough black crowd. There weren’t many black students at the school, but a group of them hung out together and acted like they were a gang. Lewis was the runt of the group. It didn’t look like anything I was saying even registered with him so I really got into it.
“Niggers,” I said, and “Niggers” and “Niggers.” I kept saying it as part of my act. And Stephen would scream and bring his arms together in a strangling gesture. He’d grit his teeth and hiss and strangle the air to emphasize his points. I couldn’t believe that Mr. Hurston allowed it to go on. It was a real show. Everyone was laughing except Stacey and Lewis.
And then it was over. Mr. Hurston ended the debate a minute before the bell rang. He told Stephen to sit down, but he wouldn’t. Then he told the class that it was a great exercise and that it was okay and brave of me to act like I had, using the N word and all, because it gave everyone a sense of what people were like back then.
“Some foolish people have tried to get the N word removed from Huckleberry Finn because they find it offensive. Good-intentioned idiots,” said Mr. Hurston. “But if they were ever successful, we would lose a sense of what things were like before us. And if we don’t know our history . . .”
“. . . we’re doomed to repeat it,” the class mumbled as the bell rang. Everyone stuffed notebooks into bags. From across the room I saw Stephen leave with his head down. Mr. Hurston called after him but he was out the door.
I went back to my regular seat to get my stuff. Stacey’s desk was a seat away from mine. She was already packed up when I got there.
“Pretty funny, huh?” I said.
“What?” she asked.
“Stephen, getting all mad like that.”
“I thought it was kind of scary,” she said. I didn’t have anything else to say so she walked out.
The rest of the day was uneventful. I ate lunch, went to the rest of my classes, and then walked home after school. I passed the field and saw Jerry Holtz and the soccer team warming up for the big game against Gunn.
That night I called Stacey. I got her number when I volunteered us for a joint report on the Salem witch trials at the beginning of the year. She never helped me with the report, but I had asked her if I could keep her phone number, just to see how she was doing sometimes. I had never used it.
I was nervous as I called. I had prepared some funny things to say when she answered, but she didn’t answer and I didn’t leave a message. I called her a few more times that night while I watched Beavis and Butt-Head and then The X-Files. I got her machine each time. Her voice was hoarse, and the way she said “Stacey” was so raspy and whispered it made me want to squeeze my penis until it hurt. Later, when I called again, I realized that it was a pager, so I typed in my home number. In the middle of playing DOOM on my computer, I heard the phone ring. It was about eleven thirty. There was loud music wherever she was.
“Hello? . . . Hello?” she said, close to the phone. Hearing her voice outside of class made me tingle at the back of my neck.
“Hey, it’s Jeremy,” I said.
“Oh, hey,” she said.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Hugh?” she said. There were other voices near her.
“What are you doing?” I said.