Allen Zadoff - Boy Nobody

“What are you doing about it?” Justin says.

Sam doesn’t say anything.

“So you’re just like us,” Justin says. “All talk.”

Sam stands with fists clenched, her face blotched red.

“He’s full of it,” the Shaggy Giant says. He puts a hand on her arm.

“Let go of me!” she says. “I’m fine.”

But she’s not fine. Her eyes are darting around like she’s going to hurt someone.

It’s a big reaction to a little class debate. And it’s got me wondering about Sam’s emotional stability.

Most of the class look away from her, staring at their desks or scribbling in notebooks.

Sam takes a minute to calm herself.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she sits back down.

“It’s okay,” her friend with black hair says. She rubs Sam’s back.

“It’s just politics,” Justin says. “Nothing personal.”

“For me, politics is personal,” Sam says.

The teacher purses his lips, looks back and forth between the students.

“Now would be a good time to lighten the mood with a joke,” he says. “But my sense of humor seems to have left the building.”

The students laugh. The mood is broken.

I see Sam’s frustration as she attempts to disengage from the debate.

Passion plus intellect, with some deep emotional baggage beneath the surface.

It’s an unusual combination. Challenging.

The question remains: How do I approach her?

I don’t have the answer yet. But I’m getting closer.

The teacher says, “Ladies and gentlemen, your mission, should you choose to accept it—”

I’m expecting a groan, but I get the opposite. Excited faces, notebooks open, pens at the ready.

“Our dramatis personae: Stalin, Hitler, Mussolini,” the teacher says.

He scans the room, a mischievous grin on his face. He glances at me and moves on.

“The scenario: These three infamous dictators meet in hell to discuss their mistakes during the war. Write it in the form of a dialogue, ten pages minimum. You may work with a partner.”

The end-of-class tone sounds, and the students stand, looking to partner up and talk about the assignment.

I’m packing my backpack when I hear Sam’s voice:

“What about you, new guy? Which side are you on?”

She’s standing over my desk staring down at me. No posse now. Just her, a couple of feet away and glaring.

First contact. And I didn’t choose it.

I can think about why she’s here later. Now I have to react.

“You really want to know what the new guy thinks?” I say.

“You’re the only one who didn’t say a word all class, and I was the only one who actually cared about it, so yeah, I’d like to know,” Sam says.

“Maybe the new guy is stupid and doesn’t have much to say.”

“Doubtful.”

I want to shake her up if I can, try to regain the upper hand. So I say, “I think the assignment is bullshit.”

She nods, interested. “Go on,” she says.

“Why should we assume the dictators are in hell?”

“Hitler doesn’t belong in hell. Is that what you’re saying?”

“No. I’m saying the underlying assumption of the assignment has gone unchallenged. Dictators are bad. War is bad. Bad people go to hell and good people go to heaven. It’s simplistic.”

“So you’re making a case for moral relativism.”

“Why not?” I say, and I see her bristle. “Every dictator on the list believed he was right at the time. Or at minimum, he was doing wrong for the right reasons.”

“The ends justify the means.”

“Sometimes they do. It’s easy to be outraged about genocide because what’s the counterargument? It doesn’t exist. But think about a whistle-blower at a company. A father who cheats on his taxes to have enough money to pay his child’s tuition. A mother who lies about her medical history to get health insurance.”

And me.

The things I do. My assignments.

“All bad things,” I say. “All good reasons.”

“So I can hurt someone if it will be for the greater good?” Sam asks.

“Maybe so.”

“The problem with that is—who gets to decide what the greater good is?”

“That’s a fair question,” I say.

“Do you have an answer?”

Who gets to decide?

I think about it for a second.

“Not us,” I say.

She crosses her arms and gives me a disappointed head shake.

“Sounds like the new guy is a Republican,” Sam says. “I’ll have fun crushing you in future debates.”

She smirks at me, then turns and walks away.

Conversation over. For now.

THE SHAGGY GIANT IS WAITING FOR ME OUTSIDE.

The moment I’m out the door, he steps up to block my path.

“Did you really get kicked out of Choate?” he says.

News travels fast in this school.

I look at this guy playing alpha, his chest out, his tone mocking. I consider the options, and I decide to answer the question, see what he’s up to.

“I really got kicked out,” I say.

“For being an asshole?”

“A big one.”

“That’s not going to fly here.”

Behind him, Sam is talking to a girl with blond hair, a skintight skirt, and dimples. Not someone from AP European. Edgier than her other friends. I watch their body language as they speak.

The Shaggy Giant notices my attention has drifted from him. “You get distracted easily.”

I look back at him.

This guy talks a good game. It’s time to push back a little, see how good he really is.

“I’m not distracted,” I say. “You had nothing interesting to say, so I assumed the conversation was over.”

“I’ll tell you when it’s over.”

“Who are you, my mother?”

“I’m your worst nightmare, my friend. I’m the guy between you and what you want.”

He points at me. One long finger stabbing in the air.

“What do I want?”

“Every new guy in school makes a play for Sam,” he says. “It’s the fastest way to get in.”

That explains it. He’s got some connection to Sam.

“I’m not making a play,” I say.

“I saw you talking to her after class.”

“She was talking to me.”

“In your dreams,” he says.

“Believe what you want to believe.”

He frowns, glances behind him. Sam and her group head down the hall without him, disappearing from view.

“I guess Sam’s your girlfriend?” I say.

He twitches.

Guess not.

“For your information, we are longtime friends,” he says. “I look out for her. Think of me as the early asshole warning system.”

“You specialize in ass, that’s what you’re telling me.”

“Funny man,” he says. “Consider yourself warned.”

He points at me again.

Less than a second , I think. That’s the amount of time it would take to disable him.

A quick grab and twist. In the movies the tough guy pulls the finger backward toward the wrist. That’s effective enough, but it takes a little too long.

The finger joint has backward flexibility, but very little side flex. If it’s about speed and shock, a side snap works better.

Shaggy Giant stands with his finger outstretched, not realizing the danger he’s in. But I don’t need to take this guy down, not yet at least. Better to show him I’m not afraid and use his anger to find out more about Sam in the coming days.

He says, “I’m watching you. Don’t forget that.”

“How could I forget?” I say. “You’re fourteen feet tall.”

I USE MY LUNCH HOUR TO GO TO THE APPLE STORE.

That’s the benefit of an open campus. I leave school without causing so much as a head turn and walk south, taking the opportunity to learn the neighborhood better.