roof over part of the yard, fiberglass I think, the kind with white swirly strings. Some of the kids who werenât wearing yellow tags talked to each other, but I was looking for Shorty. I mean, the short guy with the black hair. I felt like I wanted to punch his lights out, but when I saw him, I realized how pathetic that would have been. First, I wasnât sure it was him whoâd ratted. Second, he was a pipsqueak. So instead I decided to find out more about him. I needed to believe that not everyone in this place was a rat, which meant that it would be really helpful to me if I knew which ones were which.
Slowly I made my way over to where he was kind of huddled into a corner, watching everyone else. I stood near him, which wasnât hard, since no one else didânot a good sign for him; it could mean everyone knows heâs a rat and hates him. Then I started humming. Very quietly I began the tune from the âBattle Hymn of the Republic,â which has at least seventeen different sets of alternative lyrics, ranging from silly to scatological. I watched Shorty out of the corner of my eye for any signs at all. If he hadnât ratted, heâd look puzzled. If he had, heâd look either guilty or defensive or both.
At first I wasnât sure he could even hear me, âcause I couldnât catch a sign that anything had registered at all. So I started humming a little louder, in my head hearing lines like âWeâve wandered down the halls writing cuss words on the walls,â and âShot âem up to heaven with an AK47.â
Suddenly his hand flew up to cover his mouth, and this confused me enough that I looked right at him. He was laughing. Laughing! Like he was thinking in his head some of the raunchier lyrics and couldnât stop himself singing along silently. Well, this didnât seem like the reaction of someone who had just ratted on me for humming, so I grinned at him. He dropped his hand and grinned back.
Even though he didnât have a yellow sticker I couldnât talk to him because of mine, so I wandered away again before anyone wondered what was going on. I lost sight of him after that, until he wandered out toward the other end of the yard.
This little encounter brightened my whole afternoon. For the first half-hour I hummed for all I was worth, going over the âBattle Hymnâ again and again, loudly enough that I was sure to be heard over the other noise in the room, until Sean finally came over to me, looking like he was trying not to grin.
He said, âOkay Taylor, thatâs enough. Youâre driving everyone around you crazy, you know.â He squeezed my shoulder and said, really quietly, âYouâve made your point. Quit while youâre ahead.â
So I had to stop humming. Which meant I had to find some other way to occupy my mind, because otherwise I knew I was gonna be looking around trying to figure out whoâd ratted on me. I looked around anyway, trying to identify something that would lead to other thoughts. And that happened in a way I really didnât want it to.
What came to me was thinking about Mom. It was the laundry room itself that did it, actually. Like I said, the laundry room at home is where she usually goes when something awful has happened, like when Dad got arrested a few years ago for getting into a fight at this beer joint he goes to some Friday nights. He hadnât started it; one of his buddies had. But when he tried to break it up, the thing escalated, andâ¦well, he never was one to walk away from an injustice, as he saw it, or from a friend in need, as he probably would have seen it. So he got involved, and a whole bunch of them were hauled into jail for the night. Nothing came of it, but Mom spent quite a while in the laundry room that evening.
What hurt was that sheâd freaked as much as Dad when Iâd told them I was gay.
It had nearly made me crazy seeing Dad go over to Mom