The Latte Rebellion (27 page)

13

W hen I was in third grade, I got sent to the principal’s office for pulling Amy Federman’s hair after she grabbed my notebook and wouldn’t give it back. Sitting there on the little orange chair, waiting for tall, scary Principal Kim to come out of her office, had been the longest ten minutes of my life.

Now, waiting in Mr. Malone’s office for my parents to pick me up, I wished I could enter that kind of time warp and linger there forever. I would rather have stayed in the administration building listening to parents haranguing the receptionist and the school nurse tut-tutting over David Castro’s split lip than face my parents and explain to them why I’d gotten suspended. But after what seemed like mere seconds of me fidgeting in the hard plastic chair and sweating, my mom knocked on the door of the office. The look on her face was angrier than I’d ever seen, and I could hardly look her in the eye as she sat down stiffly in the chair to my left.

And just when I thought I couldn’t feel any worse, my dad walked in, brisk and businesslike in a dress shirt and crisp black jeans. More like stormed in, really. He set down his briefcase and sat in the chair to my right. I felt like I was sweating gallons, but there was no way I was taking off my jacket. The Latte Rebellion shirt was under there, and I didn’t want to provide any more ammunition for the impending siege.

There were a few terse handshakes and introductions, and then it began.

“Now,” Mr. Malone said, very quietly, with exaggerated patience. “I’m sure your parents are just as eager as I am to hear what happened.”

I felt sick, but there was no point in keeping anything secret anymore. If I didn’t come clean now, my parents would just hear some sort of ridiculous hyperbole or lies from the school—or worse, from other parents. And I realized I didn’t really care what Mr. Malone thought. I just didn’t want Carey or Miranda to take the fall.

And, when it came down to it, I
wanted
my parents to hear the story. I wanted them to know what we’d gone through, how far we’d come from our original lemonade-stand idea, and how proud I’d been of what we’d accomplished. Even though the situation was completely different now and I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to continue being a part of it.

So I knotted my fingers together in my lap, stared at a spot on the wall just above Mr. Malone’s left shoulder, and started at the beginning. I told them about how Carey and I got the idea for the Latte Rebellion, that our plan was to earn money for a vacation before college; I talked about Miranda’s logo and the shirts, about Bridget and Leonard and how everything got out of hand. Nobody interrupted me, which was frightening. I kept waiting for the cross-examination to start, but they just sat in silence, Mr. Malone with his eyebrows slightly raised as if he were interested despite himself. By the time I got to the end, and told them about the firecrackers and how scared we all were, I had tears running down my face yet again. My mother’s face softened and she moved her chair a little closer to mine, putting one of her hands on mine.

“I didn’t know … people could be so
hateful
,” I choked out. “And I didn’t know that any of this would end up mattering so much
.
But it matters to me.”

My mother squeezed my hand, then let go, frowning again. There was a slight sheen of anxious sweat on her forehead and she brushed it away absently. “I know it does. I know you wanted to help people. But you have to understand, Asha, it’s important to maintain balance. You have to stay focused on your own welfare, too.”

“There are other ways of helping people than disrupting the school day,” my father said, still sounding majorly peeved. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him crossing and uncrossing his legs, a sign that he was trying to control his temper. Mr. Malone just watched, silently, but I could tell he had something more to say and was just waiting for us to finish.

“The sit-in was only supposed to be a lunch thing,” I said, my voice muffled. I sat up again and wiped my eyes with my sleeve. “I wasn’t even really involved
.
I didn’t organize this. I just gave a speech, that’s
all
.”

“The point is, you shouldn’t have been involved, period,” my dad said, glaring at me. He took a deep breath and I knew that a lecture was coming. “Didn’t you say the Rebellion or whatever it is was banned by the school? What made you think it was okay to defy the rules? You’re almost done with high school, and you pull a stunt like this—for
attention
, as far as I can tell—well, let me just say that I think the vice principal was right to suspend everyone who was involved.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Mr. Malone began, putting his hands up in a placating gesture, but I couldn’t let him finish.

I looked up, flashing each of them an angry glance in turn. “I didn’t
do
anything, I had
nothing
to do with the firecrackers or the fighting, and I did
not
do this for attention! Not because
I
wanted attention, anyway. I—we—think this is an important issue, but maybe you wouldn’t understand.” My voice got louder, and I could feel my face get hot. I turned to my dad again. “I thought for sure you’d understand because you’re half-and-half, too, but I guess you’re really just …”

I trailed off at the look on my father’s face. It was dangerous, angry. “I’m really just what?” he said quietly.

My brain froze, and for a second I almost let something truly awful slip out of my mouth. Part of me wanted to. But instead I hung my head and said, “Nothing.”

“Listen,” Mr. Malone said placatingly. “I know this is difficult, and I don’t want to make this any more complicated than it already is. But there is a prior warning on Asha’s record, so my hands are tied. I’m sure you understand that because violent events did occur, and your daughter was present … and because the fact remains that specific school rules about explosives were flagrantly disregarded … it’s district policy to consider whether a disciplinary hearing is warranted. We have a zero tolerance rule. I’m sorry.”

“
What?
” My father sat forward in his chair. “I don’t know anything about a prior warning. And now you’re saying we have to go straight to a disciplinary hearing? We can handle Asha’s discipline at home.”

Uh-oh. I wasn’t sure which was worse, a school board hearing or the idea of my dad choosing my punishment.

“Mr. Jamison, I’m sure you understand that due to the nature of the incident, we need to take all possible precautions.” Mr. Malone stared steadily back at my dad, his hands folded calmly in front of him. “We are trying to ensure the safety of your daughter as well as the rest of the student body. We suggest that Asha remain at home in off-campus suspension until the district decides whether a hearing is appropriate. You should find out within a day or two.”

“Now, wait a minute,” my mother said, frowning. “What is supposed to be the ultimate outcome of this hearing?”

Mr. Malone stood up, a clear hint that our time in his office was finally, at long last, over. “Mrs. Jamison, the hearing will determine whether or not Asha should be expelled.”

My heart pounded and I felt like I might pass out. Me?
Expelled?

My mom paled. Then her lips tightened with anger and she gestured with her chin toward the door of the office, without a word. I followed, meekly, and my dad brought up the rear after shaking hands with Mr. Malone. Without a word to me, he told Mom, “I’ll see you at home,” and stalked out the glass doors of the administration building.

Mom’s expression was cool and businesslike as she signed me out with the receptionist, but I could tell: she was steamed
.
Steamed like rice in a rice cooker. When she was done processing my paperwork, she took me by one arm and yanked me out the door, her dark, arched eyebrows pulling together in a thunderous frown.

On the drive, she was completely silent, not speaking to me at all, even when I said meekly, “Mom? I’m really, really sorry.” She just shot me a look full of disappointment and turned her eyes back to the road. I clamped my jaw shut, grinding my teeth. There had to be something I could say to make things better, but I couldn’t think of anything. I couldn’t think at all. The only thing that crossed my mind was … my car. I’d have to come back to get my car. Or maybe Carey could bring it back for me. I clung to those thoughts instead of worrying about what was probably my imminent and untimely demise.

After driving in silence for a few minutes, she finally spoke.

“I had to call a substitute teacher so I could come here, you know. And Dad had to take time off work. If you’re having disciplinary problems at school … let’s just say this is too serious to be solved by a simple ‘I’m sorry, Mom.’ ” She clenched her hands tightly around the steering wheel, precisely at ten and two, as always.

“Asha, if I’d had any idea … I’ve been feeling for a while that this Latte business isn’t a wise use of your time, especially after that horrible news story, but I was hoping I was wrong. It’s the kind of thing that can influence you in ways you don’t even realize. I wish you could be just a little more like Carey, working hard all the time and not making trouble. When you get to college …” She trailed off with a sigh. I could tell what she was thinking—that I’d probably ruined my chances at college.

“And what are we going to tell your Nani?” she continued, a new note of aggravation making her voice harsh. “If you get expelled … she’s probably going to blame it on me ‘not teaching you enough culture’ or some other mumbo-jumbo.”

I looked out the window, a couple of angry tears rolling down my flushed cheeks. I was tired of people thinking I was just an impressionable vessel for whatever random ideas might float my way. This was the most I’d thought for myself in a long time, maybe in my whole life. I sighed with frustration. My whole family wanted me to live up to an ideal I couldn’t attain. Even before all this happened, my mother knew I wasn’t a perfect paragon of success. Yet the expectations still hovered over me, my mom and dad both setting standards that seemed impossibly high. I couldn’t win.

Meanwhile, Roger Yee was probably at home celebrating with Kaelyn about his starring role in the downfall of the Latte Rebellion. As exasperated as I was with my parents and Mr. Malone, my rage at Roger was so towering that it could only be adequately expressed by exaggerated cartoon violence. If I had an iota of Miranda’s drawing talent, I’d be thrashing him in effigy in panel after panel.

When we got home, I trudged inside. Mom gestured sharply toward the living-room couch, so I sat down obediently and leaned back against one of the plush, wine-colored throw pillows. It was funny; all those other kids at school who called their parents were able to cry on their shoulders and get patted on the head and told everything would be okay. Meanwhile, I was shaking, not just with dread of the upcoming shout-fest but with fear at how close we’d all been to the exploding firecrackers, to the fighting. For the first time, it hit me how close I’d come to getting seriously injured. I clamped my hands together to try to keep them from trembling.

I hoped Roger would get expelled for this. Of all people! He was Asian American, too. He should
get
it, what we were doing. But apparently he just wanted to impress his friends with who had the biggest club membership, and get into Kaelyn’s short little cheerleading skirt.

People like Roger, or Kaelyn—they always talked a clever game, but in reality they all seemed to be self-centered, or ignorant, or indifferent to anything that really mattered. Or scared.

Especially me—I was the biggest coward of them all. I couldn’t even tell my parents the truth about not getting into Stanford, about getting wait-listed at Berkeley and Robbins. My jaw ached, I was clenching it so hard.

I was only sitting on the couch for a minute or two before my dad got home and started in on a lecture so long that by the end of it, my head was spinning and I could hardly think straight. My mom just sat there in stony silence watching my dad pace back and forth, wearing a little path into the tan carpet and saying, “what were you
thinking
?” about a million different ways until he finally ran out of steam. Then Mom said, “Asha. Did you ever once even
think
you might get carried away by all this? Did you think about the consequences at all? Expulsion, Asha. I don’t agree that it’s called for, but that’s beside the point.”

Of
course
I never thought I’d get carried away. That was obvious. I sat there, unsure what she wanted to hear.

“Well,” my dad said. “If you don’t have anything to say about that, then maybe you can explain these.” He brandished a wad of crumpled papers. “It looks like the Latte Rebellion isn’t the only thing you haven’t been forthcoming about. Why didn’t you tell us about these rejection letters?”

“You were searching my
room
?” My mouth dropped open.

“What were we supposed to think, when we got a call from school saying you were being held in the front office after being involved in a disruptive incident?”

I turned to my mother, appealing to her for some kind of reasonableness, but I could barely form a coherent sentence. “When have I ever—I’m not some kind of drug addict, or—it’s not like I’m sneaking around behind your back!”