Who is worse (continued)? (Ezzy's Education: Part 27), by Garrett Murch
Ezzy looked at the brook trout on the wall above Link. “I still don’t know who is worse, Trunk or Lucinda,” she said. “But whoever wins, their most obnoxious followers will be louder than ever, rubbing it in or protesting the result.”
“Trunk and Lucinda will encourage them,” Link said.
“Them?” Mateo asked.
“He means the people who blindly admire Trunk and Lucinda,” Ezzy said. “There aren’t that many of them, truth be told. But Trunk and Lucinda seem to feed off their admiration. And those kids would follow their anointed hero off a cliff if their hero was fighting their opponent. Who they’re fighting against seems to matter more to them than what they’re fighting for.”
“Got it,” Mateo said. “What about the rest of the students? The ones who aren’t blind followers?”
“Most students don’t really like either of them,” Link said. “But since there’s no other choice, they have to choose who they think is the least bad.”
“The lesser of two evils,” Mateo said.
“Yes,” Ezzy said. “So life at school will stay crappy the rest of the year, I’m afraid. And neither Trunk nor Lucinda ever mention our school’s declining literacy, math, and science scores. They went down during the pandemic school closures. They were going down before that, and I guarantee they’re not going back up now. But pushing politics at school has definitely gone up—a ton.”
”Raising academic standards is probably not the best platform for winning votes, Ezzy,” Mateo said.
“Maybe not. Although Trunk and Lucinda are so unpopular with so many students, it might have a chance!”
“Fair enough,” Mateo said. “If there was a third candidate advocating for that.”
“Some of our classes aren’t even hard,” Ezzy said. “Like history, civics, and English. And the politics has to be stunting kids’ logic and critical thinking skills. It’s more important to say the right thing than to think well. And both the Justice and the Patriot forces encourage this in their own ways.”
“C’mon, Ezzy,” Mateo said. “Who needs logic and critical thinking when you already have an agenda and a leader to follow?”
“Very funny, Dad. I get maybe Trunk or Lucinda couldn’t fix how we’re taught, but they could at least force discussion of the problem, push for improvement, demand it. But it’s not even on the radar for them.”
“Sad,” Mateo said.
“It’s embarrassing,” Link said while staring at an old map on the wall showing the nearby lakes, rivers, and mountains.
“Well, you two keep studying, and learn on your own, too. Definitely learn on your own. School will be over before you know it. Same with life.”
“Whoa, Dad! The same with life? That’s dark.”
“Sorry,” her father said. “I’m just saying, if you don’t want to make things better, you have that option. Life will go on with its Lucindas and Trunks in charge or without them. Either way, it will go on. You can fish your life away if you like.”
“Okay, Dad. Not cool. I’m going to bed. You and Link can stay up and figure out what to do about narcissists and mindlessness. I’m sure you’ll figure out how to save the world, too.”
“Good night, Ezzy,” her father said.
Inside the bunk room doorway, Ezzy faced them and said, “I do wish I had run for student body president. All I would have promised is getting politics out of our classrooms and pushing us all to do our best and get better academic results.” She disappeared into the bunk room darkness.
Link and Mateo quickly made eye contact. “I’ll be up at four, too,” Link said. “There’s a book I’d like to loan to you, Link,” Mateo said. “I think you might like it.”
“Oh wow. Thank you. What book is it?”
“It’s called The Vision of the Anointed, by Stanford University’s Thomas Sowell. It’s an oldie but a goodie. A professor recommended it during college. He wasn’t the most popular professor with his colleagues, but he was the smartest, and the students loved him. I thought it was an okay book when I read it then, but I read it again recently and it makes more sense to me now. You’re much further along in developing your views than I was at your age. I think you’re ready for it.”
“Thank you! I can’t wait to read it.”
* * *
Friday, 11:46 p.m.
Blitzer Langston was watching a rerun of The Simpsons in his living room, the television and an old metal lamp with a yellowed shade providing the only light in his trailer. Beginning to nod off, he was not expecting a knock at the door when he got one. “Who is it?” he weakly hollered from his recliner with torn, brown upholstery revealing the chair’s inner machinery. He took a sip of his whiskey with an ice cube mostly melted in it.
“Blitzer. It’s Officer Holmes. Shit. It’s Marcus, Blitzer.”
Blitzer set his plastic cup down and lifted himself up, his knee tender from taking an awkward step off a ladder that week at a painting job. What the hell? I haven’t done anything! “Hold on, Marcus, hold on. I’m coming. I’ve just been sitting here since the game!” He opened the door and saw Officer Holmes’s solemn face. “What is it?”
“It’s not you,” Officer Holmes said. “It’s Trunk.”
“My boy had his best game of the season: six touchdowns.”
“He’s been arrested, Blitzer.”
Huh? Impossible. “What for? Speeding or something?”
“No. He was arrested for allegedly drugging a girl at a party after the game. Students found the girl passed out with Trunk at her side. Your son’s water bottle tested positive for Rohypnol. That’s the drug people call roofies.”
“I know roofies, Marcus! Jesus, man. No way. Trunk wouldn’t even know how to get that stuff. What, you think I gave it to ‘em?” He took a sip of whiskey as Marcus stood, statuesque, in the trailer doorway.
“No one has suggested that, Blitzer. I just needed to let you know what has happened. He was arrested about an hour ago by the state police. He’s being held on two thousand dollars bail.”
“Damn!” Blitzer screamed. Two thousand dollars? “I can’t get him out.”
“I can drive you to the station where he’s being held.”
“It’s not that,” Blitzer said. “I don’t have two thousand dollars.” He tried to think about how long he’d known Marcus Holmes, how Marcus joined the Navy after being a star Ebbing football player like him, and now he was the most respected police officer in town, even as his profession of law enforcement came under political attack. He recalled he hadn’t been all that nice to Marcus in high school. He caught a whiff of his own body odor.
“Maybe Sarah can help,” Marcus said.
“His mother? To hell with her. Trunk hardly talks to her anyway, and he hates his stepfather. She don’t care ‘bout him; she only cares ‘bout her rich husband.”
“Maybe they have two thousand dollars. Sarah may have been contacted already, but you might want to call her.”
“Something’s not right, Marcus. No way in hell my boy tried to rape a girl. He’s an excitable boy but, just, no way.”
”Right now it doesn’t look good. I’m sorry, Blitzer. I just wanted to make sure you knew.” Marcus closed the door.
Blitzer stared at the door before finishing off his cup of whiskey. He pulled out his phone. He cleared his throat and slapped himself in the face a few times. “Sarah. Oh, yeah. A cop just told me. You and Jake goin’ to pay his bail? Of course I can. I said can’t! Okay. He’ll wanna come here. No, he won’t stay with you. Okay. Sarah? Thanks, Sarah. Bullshit. He has to be innocent. Bye.”