Attack of the Black Rectangles

by Amy Sarig King

They seem

to believe that rules equal safety—by making more rules, they are keeping us all safe and keeping the town’s reputation spotless.

I don’t think any town is perfect and I don’t think any town is in the toilet of the world. I think life is what life is and we just have to try our best. Life is what life is and we just have to try our best. —Mac Delaney

No one is ever just one thing. And not everyone is telling the truth. That’s the closest anyone will ever get to perfect.

Grandad has his own kind of grace. It’s loud. Loud grace looks like attending protests and writing letters to the president about veterans’ benefits and civil rights. Sometimes he stands on the front porch and yells at anyone driving by our house at more than twenty-five miles per hour to “SLOW DOWN!”

Being around people who pretend something didn’t happen when it did happen requires grace. Accepting that Dad doesn’t live with us anymore requires grace. Helping him work on Grandad’s car every Saturday while he barely talks to me requires grace. Acting like this is all normal requires grace. Grace is a good thing to have. It’s like jam. It sweetens things.

I never mind what teacher I get, so long as I can read books when I want to, keep my desk messy because I like it that way, and pick projects and write reports on things that interest me.

My motto is: If it’s not interesting, I don’t care. No teacher I’ve ever met has been okay with my motto, but I keep hoping.

That’s always a bad sign. No plants.

“The way I want you to see this year of your education is like college. You get to choose what you want to learn about, you get to choose the books you read off our class list, and you get to make your own study schedules. If you do poorly, it’s on you. If you do well, your grades will reflect it. Sound good?”

Somehow I don't think this goes how they think it will

“It’s her. She’s just showing us the nice side today. I guarantee you there’s more to this first-day routine than we can see right now.”

He’s the best friend I’ve ever had. We’re going to be friends until we’re old and sitting on the benches on Main Street, me eating candy and him eating string cheese.

I want a best friend to eat candy and string cheese with when I'm old.

I try not to judge. Mom always says not to judge, and that no one knows the reality of another person. But looking at Aaron James and his smirk, I feel like something bad is going to happen in group six. I just don’t know what it is yet.

But we can’t pretend it didn’t happen—because when you pretend a thing didn’t happen, that means it can happen again.

“I’ve been to the camps. You can barely breathe there, even half a century later. Horrible. And I know horrible.” Grandad served two tours in the Vietnam War and has a Purple Heart medal. He knows horrible.

“Old enough to have actual breasts, so I don’t understand the problem.”

I laughed harder than I probably should have over this. perfect example of how stupid censorship is.

“It’s like they think we’re stupid,” Denis says. “They do think we’re stupid,” Marci says.

As they look at me and see a sixth-grade kid, I wonder what words they would cross out to protect me.

They’re afraid of the ideas, Mac. You know. Same as the watchdogs for candy and girls’ knees. Some people just think everyone should think like them. Or be like them.”

I’m trying to find enough grace jam to pretend like this isn’t happening. Sometimes jam is sweet, like when Aaron tells people at recess that the moon landing was fake and I can ignore him. But sometimes jam is sticky and hard to wipe off. Like when it lands on your shirt and dries. That’s the kind of jam I am right now. Forced grace. All sticky.

“You can’t think feminism is just about girls. It’s about you guys, too! The reason this book is censored is because people expect you to be immature and stupid. All boys. Sixth-grade boys. Too stupid to read about six million people who were murdered and not giggle at one word about a body part.”

I look at her and have this hole where my respect used to be. I don’t get how all my grace just disappeared today. But when I look at her, I can only see her sitting down and crossing out passages in books with a marker.

“Don’t you dare be sorry for crying,” Grandad says. “Crying is one of the most important things to learn how to do.”