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Authors: Doug Wilhelm

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BOOK: The Revealers
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“What?”
I don't know what got into me, but I said, “You figure you can go pushing people around and that makes you so great. Is that all you can do, act like a tough guy? Is that
it?”
“That's another stupid question.”
“Okay, why? I really want to know. Why?”
He got right in my face. “You're on thin ice right now, mister, you know that?
Really
thin ice. I'm telling you: Push me one more inch and, so help me, I'll teach you a lesson you will
never
forget.”
“You do talk like a dad from hell!” I blurted out. “Is
that
it?”
Total silence.
Oh my god.
Then he exploded.
“You
shut up!
You
shut your damn face,
all right? You
SHUT UP
!” He stood over me, shaking, and his face was very weird. His punching hand drew back in a fist, then unfisted, then clenched again.
Richie's eyes darted around and landed on the tape recorder. He lunged and grabbed its handle, lifted the little machine up and held it with both hands. His face was silent and wild.
“Don't,” I breathed. “Please don't. It's my mom's.”
He swung back and smashed the thing against the end of a spiral staircase. With a
thunk
the machine shattered and bits of it flew everywhere—chunks hit the back wall and scraps clattered into the pile of chairs.
Richie stood there, looking into that darkness. From the handle in his hand hung little wires and wreckage.
He dropped the thing. It hit the floor, and without looking back he climbed up the spiral staircase.
“I'm sorry, Richie,” I said. “I'm sorry.”
At the top, Richie turned and looked at me, and for just a second he looked incredibly sad. Then he tightened his mouth and shook his head, hard.
“I told you no stupid questions,” he said in his tough-guy voice.
“I'm sorry.” I didn't mean about the questions.
He looked down at me.
“You can't tell anybody about this,” he said.
“I know.”
“Not ever. You can't.”
“I won't. I wouldn't.”
He looked down at the floor. Then he sucked himself up straight. “Pick up that mess—or there'll be trouble,” he said. “I'm warning you.”
He turned, opened the door, and was gone.
 
“I don't have a story,” I told Elliot in the computer lab.
“Why not?”
I shrugged. “He didn't say much.”
“Nothing on tape?”
I shook my head. “The tape recorder doesn't work.”
“Oh. You didn't test it?”
“Yeah. It worked before.”
“Oh. It's old, huh?”
“Yeah. Kind of beat-up.”
“Huh.” He seemed distracted, like he was also thinking about something else.
“Here's something,” Catalina said, sitting at a computer.
I'm scared to write this story but I want to tell the truth. I don't like what I'm being made to do. It's not right. Please help me tell this story.
I'm a seventh-grade girl, and I wanted to be in the most popular group. That meant I had to be accepted by Bethany DeMere.
“What's this?” Elliot said.
Everybody in the seventh grade knows Bethany D. Anybody would say she is the most popular and powerful girl in our grade. If you want to be in her group, that means you have to be accepted by her. I wanted that so much, I said I would do what she told me I had to do.
It's so hard for me to write this—I feel so ashamed of myself. Maybe if you would put this in your
Revealer
so the truth would come out I would feel better. I hope so.
Bethany said if I wanted to be in her group I would have to write her paper. For social studies. I didn't want to do it but I said I would. I felt sick the whole time, but I did it. I wrote a paper for her about Anne Frank. I wrote that Anne Frank was actually a fairly annoying person, and did not have the most attractive personality. I felt TERRIBLE writing this, because Anne Frank is my hero! But Bethany said that's what I had to say.
Maybe you will say it was worth it, because her group is the coolest group in the grade. But I am feeling sick about what I did. I'm not brave enough to tell this myself. I hope you will please put this in your
Revealer,
and tell people the truth.
“Wow!” Elliot said.
I was staring at the screen.
“It's true,” I said.
“It is?”
“Yeah. I read that essay. We got paired up to conference, remember? I read it. That's exactly what it said.”
Catalina was still looking at it.
“I don't know,” she said. “It gives Bethany's name.”
“So?” I said. “We already did that.”
“We did?”
“Yeah. With that story about the kid in the toilet. Remember? He gave names, and nobody said anything about it.”
“But … I don't know,” she said. “This gives me a funny feeling.”
“Catalina, this is your personal tormentor,” Elliot said.
“I would almost feel bad for her, though, if this came out. I mean, that's cheating.”
“Yeah, and she
did
it,” I said. “Look, we will never get a better chance to take Bethany down. And
nobody
deserves to get taken down more than Bethany!” I was still feeling rattled. But this I didn't have to think about.
“We could take the name out,” Catalina said. “Everyone would still know it's her.”
“But this girl wrote it this way. She
wants
us to tell the truth.” I pointed to the message. “See? That's what she says. Anyway, I don't think we should start changing what people write. We talked about that before. Either we send it as is or we don't.”
Catalina shrugged.
“All right,” she said. “Should we wait for more stories?”
“What the heck,” Elliot said. “Let's get it out there.”
She nodded. Across the top, she typed
The Revealer.
“Let's leave out ‘Darkland' from now on,” she said. “It's a bit much.”
“Sure,” I said. “Whatever.”
“Show me how to do this again. You pull down Send …”
Elliot leaned over. “Distribute. That's it. Hold the shift down. Now select Grade 6 … 7 … 8. That's it. Now hit Send.”
Catalina sat back. The little Sending window came on the screen, and then it was gone.
“Amazing that you saw that one essay, so you knew to believe this,” Elliot said to me as we left the lab.
“Yeah,” I said. “Tough break, princess.”
Two mornings later we got pulled out of homeroom. All three of us. A note came instructing us to report to Mrs. Capelli's office.
In the hall, Catalina was bug-eyed and silent. Elliot whispered, “What is it?” I shook my head. I thought maybe it was about being in the boiler room. But no. That would be just me.
We went slowly down the hall. From the classrooms came ordinary murmuring. I wished I was in there, in an ordinary class.
In the office, the secretary behind the counter flicked her head toward Mrs. Capelli's closed door. It said PRINCIPAL on the frosted glass.
“They're waiting for you,” she said.
Elliot mouthed, “
They
?” Catalina nudged me forward.
I turned the knob and the door clicked open. Inside, Mrs. Capelli sat rigid behind her desk. Mr. Dallas, red-faced, fidgeted in a chair. And there was a man in a suit.
The man was sitting in a chair, holding a briefcase on his
lap. He had pale hair and a pale mustache. I knew I'd seen him before; then I remembered. He was Bethany's dad.
I stood in the doorway. Catalina and Elliot bumped up behind me.
“You're in the right place, Mr. Trainor,” Mrs. Capelli said. She nodded toward three empty folding chairs, set up side by side.
We sat.
“You know Mr. Dallas,” she said. He nodded quickly at us. With no gusto.
“And this is Mr. DeMere. His daughter, Bethany DeMere, as I believe you know, is your classmate.”
Bethany's dad nodded in our general direction.
“Mr. DeMere is an attorney.”
“Yes?” said Elliot.
“Yes,” Mrs. Capelli said. “A lawyer.”
Mr. DeMere was looking past us, as if we weren't worth seeing. Just like the lovely Bethany.
Mrs. Capelli folded her hands and leaned forward. “Would you care to tell us why you think Mr. DeMere might be here?”
We just looked at her.
“All right, perhaps Mr. DeMere will explain. Mr. DeMere?”
The guy clicked open his briefcase. He pulled out a paper. He held it by the top two corners with his thumbs and forefingers only, like it was odious. He turned toward us and held it out. I saw that it said
The Revealer.
A hot flush fell down my face and chest and arms.
“Two days ago,” Mr. DeMere said, “did you three e-mail this … anecdote about my daughter to the entire student body of this school?”
Mrs. Capelli glared at Elliot. He nodded.
“What was the source of this anecdote?” Mr. DeMere said.
“We don't know,” I said.
“You don't know.”
“Well, no. It was anonymous.”
“How did you get it?”
“Someone left it at Catalina's locker.”
“Did you write it?” he said to me.
“
No.
I told you. It was on a computer disk taped to her locker door.”
“Do you know who wrote it?”
“No. It was anonymous.”
“Do you know that it's false? Do you know that it's a piece of libelous fiction?”
He looked at us, one after another. Catalina sat there like a wax statue of herself.
“One of her friends wrote it,” Elliot said quickly. “She didn't want to use her name 'cause she'd be out of the group.”
“How do you know that?”
“Well … that's what she wrote.”
“That's what she wrote,” Mr. DeMere said slowly. “Of course,
any
one can write
any
thing. Couldn't they?”
When we didn't answer, he took a breath. “This is a pretty wild story—saying there's some kind of girls' mafia here. Did you just assume it was true? Did any of you do anything to find out?”
We didn't answer.
Mr. DeMere cleared his throat. “So without checking anything you broadcast to the entire school a story that accuses my daughter, an honor-roll student since the fourth grade, of systematic cheating. Do you have
any
idea how serious an allegation that is?”
He looked right at us. “If in fact this were true, she could
be suspended—or worse,” he said. “This would go on her permanent transcript.” He shook his head. “Do you know how seriously something like this could affect her life?”
I could hear a clock ticking.
“How do you know it's not true?” said Elliot.
“I'll tell you how. First, I have questioned every one of her close friends. Every single one of them knows nothing of this. Second, I have questioned my daughter, whom I trust. Third, my daughter does her homework at the kitchen table. Either my wife or I have watched our daughter work on every single one of her essays for social studies this year. We look at her work. Every night. We looked at this essay the night our daughter wrote it. In her own handwriting.”
He stared straight at me. “So every single person who might know anything about this story you've shared with the whole school has said, and will testify if necessary, that it is false. It's fiction. It has no basis
whatsoever
.”
He slapped the paper back down in his briefcase and clicked the locks shut. He looked at Mrs. Capelli, crossed his arms, and just sat there.
The principal shook her head. She spoke more softly than I expected. “Didn't it occur to you three that if you were given an anonymous story, someone might have made it up? Don't you think you might have looked into that possibility before you broadcast it?”
Silence again. Finally I said, “We're just kids, Mrs. Capelli.”
“Yes.” She nodded. Her voice was tighter. “You are children with unchecked access to a medium that is just too powerful … for children.” She looked hard and quickly at Mr. Dallas.
Then Mrs. Capelli looked at Bethany's dad. She took a long breath.
“Mr. DeMere … I cannot tell you how very sorry we are
that this terribly unfortunate mistake has been made. We acknowledge, and very much regret, the pain it has caused your family. I want to thank you personally for bringing this very, very unfortunate matter to my attention. I can assure you, speaking personally and as the principal of this school, that I will see to it that nothing like this can ever happen again.”
Bethany's dad stood up. “That doesn't undo the damage, Mrs. Capelli,” he said. “My daughter is devastated. She doesn't know if she wants to come back to this school. She doesn't know if she can.”
“I hope she will, Mr. DeMere,” Mrs. Capelli said. “I very much hope she will come back to us. We will do everything we possibly can to make the truth known to everyone here. And, as I say, nothing like this will
ever
occur again.”
He looked at her for a long time. Then he nodded. “We'll see how the situation unfolds, Mrs. Capelli.”
She stood up; she held out her hand. He looked at it for a second before he decided to shake it.
He left.
 
Mrs. Capelli blew out air like she was expelling steam.
“Of all the foolish, dumb, reckless, idiotic things you could possibly have done. Do you have any idea the kind of trouble you have exposed us to?”
“I guess not really,” I said.
“Lawyers don't just come into people's offices and talk like that,” she said. “First they talk like that, then they
sue
people. And schools. For
lots
of money.”
There was a pause. Elliot said, “Is that why this is so bad?”
“Mr. Gekewicz? I beg your pardon?”
“No, I mean, we're really sorry for what happened. We're
really
sorry. But, like, does this mean when kids get beat up or dropped off bridges, or people make up stories about
them,
the only reason you don't do anything is 'cause their dads aren't lawyers?”
She shot him a look. “This is not some kind of joke, Mr. Gekewicz.”
“I totally agree with you.”
She slapped her palm on the desk. Hard. “I take my responsibilities to this school very seriously. And you have created a very, very serious situation.”
“We're sorry,” Catalina croaked.
“It is now my responsibility to do everything I can, in a very public and visible manner, to make sure this can never happen again. Just as I said.”
Mrs. Capelli looked at Mr. Dallas. “I am revoking student access to the SchoolStream network,” she said.
He jerked forward like he'd been punched in the stomach. “Which students? These?”
“All students.”
“What?
Janet … no. That would be a terrible mistake. You've got no idea how much the kids use the LAN. How much they get out of it.”
“The potential for abuse has been made very plain, Mr. Dallas. I have the responsibility to take decisive action. You just heard me promise I would.”
He looked desperate. “Janet, the Technology Committee decided on these levels of access.”
“With a great deal of pressure from its chairman.” She glared at him.
“Yes. Because it was
right
,” he said, and he started talking fast. “Because it's a tool for learning. It has limitless potential. Limitless. It's not that there won't be any mistakes—of course there will be mistakes. How many books have been published that maybe shouldn't have been? How many unfortunate phone calls get made every day? The point is, networked communication is the new world. Trusting kids to
explore it and make sense of it is trusting them to
learn.
To learn its lessons.”
Mrs. Capelli shook her head. Mr. Dallas spread his arm toward us.
“This is what's
really
happening here,” he said. “Three kids make innovative use of the network. Really innovative. They start doing some real good, too. Then they make one mistake. One serious mistake—but still, just one mistake. They have a chance to learn from that. Everybody has a chance to. They can use the network to make it right, for gosh sakes. But if you take the network away from the whole student body because of this …”
Mrs. Capelli just glared. Mr. Dallas looked all around the room. He sagged, like he was losing air.
“I don't know what that says. I guess it tells people you shouldn't try something new, stick your neck out, or try to make a difference—because your boss might get a lawyer in her office.”
Mrs. Capelli's face darkened. I jabbed Elliot. He elbowed me back.
“Open student access to this school's computer network is a loose cannon pointed at every single person in this school community,” she said to Mr. D. “It is my responsibility to protect this institution from that kind of exposure. In view of what has happened, I am overruling the decision of the Technology Committee. Student access to SchoolStream is to be confined to retrieving information from the library and so forth. There will be no more electronic mail. No more bulletins. Effective immediately.”
Mr. Dallas stood up. He just stood there, breathing loudly. Finally he said, “We can't do this immediately. The kids will need time to take it in. To wind it down.”
Mrs. Capelli thought about that. “I don't see why, Mr. Dallas. But all right. You have two weeks.
“Now,” she said to us three. “Let's talk about what you're going to do to make this better.”
 
We had to write a letter of apology to Bethany, which killed me to do—and make a copy for her dad. We had to give the letters to Mrs. Capelli, so she could mail them with, no doubt, some fawning and scraping little note of her own.
BOOK: The Revealers
2.5Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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