Trent Reedy - Divided We Fall

“In the spirit of compromise, I hardly think threats are in order. This is exactly the sort of Democratic heavy-handedness that got us into this mess in the first—”

“That is not a threat, Mr. Speaker. That’s a promise. •—

I’m not gonna lie. Me and JoBell had had fights before. Show me a good couple who hasn’t. That’s what love is, still loving each other even when we both were mad. I wouldn’t have cared if JoBell was angry enough to hit me in the head with a ball-peen hammer. I would’ve still loved her. By Sunday, I was already missing her, but when I tried to call or text her, Digi-Eleanor wouldn’t let my messages through.

Weirdly enough, missing JoBell made me think about how she was constantly tracking news updates, and that made me check to see what was going on. The coverage, if not the mob of reporters outside the house and all over town, actually backed off the Idaho Crisis for a while on Saturday night, after the Iranian military hit US troops with a surprise attack in some place called Birjand. Maybe the attack reminded everyone that we were supposed to be fighting Iran, not each other, or maybe the seven Idaho soldiers among the forty-six killed made the “hate Idaho” crowd remember that we were all still Americans. I was just relieved that none of the casualties were from my unit. I guessed the deployed guys from the 476th Engineer Company were stationed closer to Tehran.

The governor seemed to be doing his best to make sure that Specialist Stein was the last Idaho Guardsman that the Fed could get its hands on. The Freedom Lake cops and the state police drove by the house a lot to make sure everything was okay. Good old Nathan Crow was living up to the promise he’d made. My father would have been proud. Crow became truly aggressive, arresting any reporters who trespassed on private property. Then he convinced some of his friends on the city council that the public sidewalk in front of my house was unsafe and needed to be torn up and replaced. While it was torn up, reporters weren’t allowed to use that sidewalk space to film their stories. Even better, he made sure there were always plenty of cars and trucks parked on my street so that news vans couldn’t get near my house. He had even arranged to have my mother moved out to her nursing conference undercover, driving her in his own car to Spokane. Despite all his efforts, though, the media still swarmed all over Freedom Lake.

On Sunday night, Schmidty finished the upgrades to the Beast. He’d worked overtime all weekend to weld two-inch steel pipes inside the doors and fenders and under the hood. The normal windows had been replaced by glass that was rated to withstand 7.62 rounds. Where he found that, I’ll never know. A heavy steel-pipe push bumper had been welded to the truck’s frame and wrapped the grill in a cool sort of cage. He’d even put a false bottom in the back behind the seats, raising the carpeted floor and toolbox to make a small hiding place back there. All of this made the truck even heavier and cut down further on gas mileage, but it would be safer if I ran into another crazy shooter like the one after that football game. It felt great to be up in the driver’s seat of the Beast again.

On Monday morning, I was relieved to see the school had hired private security to keep the parking lot clear of the media mob. After ignoring the reporters shouting questions from the street in front of the school, I moved quickly and quietly, hoping to avoid detection. I had a very serious mission, though it made me grin like a dork. When I reached my destination, I was in with a few quick spins of the combination lock, and I let out a little breath of relief. I would pull this off without being caught.

“Hold it right there,” said a voice from behind me.

I froze in place. I’d been so close, only to be stopped now.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I turned around to face JoBell and held out the bunch of roses I bought for her the night before. “I was trying to sneak this into your locker as a surprise. I thought you had a student council meeting this morning.”

“We wrapped up early.” She smiled and took the flowers. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.” I had hoped for a warmer reaction than that after our fight, but that would have to do. She held the flowers up to smell them. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion.” That was only partly true. “Just… Well. I’m sorry. I should have told you about the fight at the rodeo right away. I thought it would be better not to worry you about it, but I was wrong.” I’d been practicing that speech over and over all the way to school. “And with everything that’s been happening lately, I was thinking about how much I…”

It felt weird saying it, right out in the open hallway. Dylan was messing with something in his locker a few doors down. He’d have some jackwad comment at practice if he heard me getting all mushy.

JoBell looked down at the bouquet. “How much you what?” she said quietly.

I wanted to touch her, to hold her, but she stood a few steps away, and oddly enough, the roses were between us. “I’m a lucky guy,” I said. “To be with you, I mean.”

Her expression brightened a little, and that gave me some encouragement. “Thank you,” she said. “For being man enough to apologize. And I’m lucky too.” She smelled the flowers again. “I’m going to go put these in the office so they’ll get some water and won’t get all crushed in my locker. Thanks so much for this.” She spun so that her hair whipped out behind her and headed off down the hall.

“Smooth move with the roses, Wright,” Dylan said as he closed his locker. “That’s a slick trick. You’re a master.”

What guys like Dylan Burns would never understand was that it wasn’t a trick at all. I loved JoBell and liked to see her happy. She liked flowers and nice surprises. I only wished that this particular surprise had made her happier. It hadn’t gone as well as I hoped it would, but at least we were talking again. Sort of.

The halls were beginning to get crowded. Samantha Monohan and a group of cheerleaders taped up signs on lockers for the JV football game this Wednesday. A freshman girl hurried by with an instrument case. A group of kids copied a worksheet that was probably due first hour. They wrote down the answers in a big hurry.

I sighed. All of these different parts of high school life used to seem so important. I remembered scrambling to get some sort of assignment ready for my teachers and liking the way the locker posters signaled I was part of the team. Now half the country wanted me in jail or worse, and the other half seemed to talk about me like I was some kind of hero. I had never liked school that much — hated the assignments and couldn’t stand a lot of the teachers — but I had belonged here. Now this place was like the rodeo. I felt my old life slipping away.

Becca found me in the hall on the way to government. “Hey, cowboy, you still sore from the weekend?” She grinned and elbowed me.

“I’d be a lot worse off if not for you helping me with those three idiots,” I said. “I bet that dumb bastard’s balls are still in a sling. Without your help, they’d probably have put me in the hospital or something.” I shrugged. “I’d have gotten more behind on my schoolwork. Flunked all my classes. Failed to graduate.”

“Golly, I’m glad I saved you then.”

“I wouldn’t say you saved me, but you definitely—”

“I saved you! And good thing, because your grades are bad enough.”