All Broke Down

But even so . . . he feels like more.

And that’s how I know I’m on the right path. It’s not what’s on the surface that matters—not in other people or myself.

Chapter 17

Dylan

Maybe we could do a letter-writing campaign?” I ask.

Javier steeples his fingers down at the head of the table and looks at me. His accented voice is soft when he replies, “They didn’t listen to the petition, so I doubt they’ll listen to letters.”

“So we just do nothing?” I look around at the rest of our student activism group, and I can tell I’m the only one who wants to keep pushing the subject, and it makes me angry. “These are people’s lives at stake. If this shelter closes, the one at St. Mary’s only has thirty beds a night available. What about all the other people who don’t fit? What about them?”

“Dylan.” I can see Javier is trying to be kind, but he’s done with this conversation. Matt places a hand on my knee beneath the table, but I keep going.

“There are whole families that need help. Children who do poorly in school because they didn’t get a good night’s sleep or any food the night before.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, kid,” Matt murmurs to me.

“No, I’m preaching to a group that’s given up.”

“We do not give up,” Javier answers sharply. I forget sometimes that he’s been doing this a lot longer than any of the rest of us. He and his parents immigrated to the United States from Argentina when he was twelve after his brother was killed during a political riot. He’s a quiet, thoughtful kind of guy, but he can be pretty damn serious when he wants to. “We stop, rethink, reevaluate. And we face facts. Nothing will change if we are the only ones fighting. So we find support from more prominent members of the community. We wait for classes to start back in two weeks and come back at it then.”

“But the shelter is closed now. What do those people do in the meantime? While we’re waiting?”

“I don’t have that answer. But we must be smart about this. We cannot effect change with sheer force of will.”

He’s right. I know he is, but that doesn’t make it any easier to hear. We could spend every day protesting outside that shelter or City Hall or wherever, and it wouldn’t change a thing.

Because the world isn’t fair. It just f**king isn’t.

So I stay silent when Javier asks, “Any other business before we adjourn?”

A senior named Alana passes out stacks of flyers for a lecture at one of the local libraries about religious awareness and tolerance. I take a handful and promise to drop them off at a few businesses around my apartment and my parents’ house. Javier lets us know that at the next meeting, we’ll begin talking about state legislature elections, and what kind of stuff we can do on campus to get more students to vote. Then he calls the meeting to a close.

While the others say their goodbyes, I take off. Matt is hot on my heels.

“Hold up there, spicy pickle.”

“Don’t start, Matt, not if you want your organs to remain in their correct locations.”

“Jeez. I think hanging out with a certain sexy football player has made you more violent.”

I really wish I were the kind of person who could follow through on my violent threats.

“I’m not more violent. I’m just tired of staying quiet.”

“Riiight. Where are you off to?”

“Home.”

“You mind if I come with you? I wanted to ask Nell a question about one of the classes I’m taking. The professor I signed up for is out on maternity leave, and now I’m stuck with some dude that is apparently the biggest jackass this side of wherever Shia LaBeouf is currently standing. Someone said they thought Nell had him last year.”

I shrug. “Sure. I’m not sticking around, though, and you know you’ll annoy Nell if you distract her too much.”

“That girl needs some distraction like whoa. If she doesn’t spend some time out in the sunlight soon, she’ll end up all pasty white like me. You won’t even be able to tell she’s Italian anymore.”

“Please tell her that. I’d like to see her hand you your ass in the argument that follows.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I don’t care what you say, Silas is rubbing off on you.”

“Yes, well, you’ve rubbed off on me, too. Ooo! That’s it! I’ve finally thought of an appropriately awful nickname for you. Rash. What with your red hair and persistent personality, I think it’s a good fit.”

“If you call me Rash, I will call you Pickle every chance I get.”

“You already call me Pickle every chance you get.”

“Hmm. Good point. But have some pity . . . how am I ever going to land a hot guy or girl of my own with the nickname Rash?”

“Think of it this way, Rash . . . when you do land that lucky person, you’ll know it’s for real if they stick around.”

“You, my dear, are one coldhearted preserved cucumber.”

He climbs into my car, and I’m treated to two more pickle puns in the eight minutes it takes to get to my apartment. Antonella is seated on the couch with her computer when we enter, her long dark hair pulled into a knot on the top of her head. I drop my purse by the door and head back to my bedroom to change clothes. As I pass, Matt asks, “Whatcha looking at, Nell?”

She keeps her eyes on the screen and answers, “Summer internships.”

“You do realize that summer is pretty much over, right?”

“Next summer.”

Matt whistles, and I leave him to pry whatever professor advice he needs from Nell, and close myself in my bedroom at the end of the hall. There are still a few outfits laid out on my bed from my attempts to decide what to wear before the Voice for Tomorrow bimonthly dinner meeting.

It’s been a week since Silas was suspended from the team, and he gets to go back to practice tomorrow. His roommates are having a get-together at their place to watch some baseball game, and I’m going. Mostly I’ll be there to keep an eye on Silas and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid the night before his big day back. But it’s also the first time we’re officially hanging out with no ulterior motive. He went back to work at Renew with me twice this week. When he showed up the second day all on his own, I might have pulled a muscle, my jaw dropped so fast.