Wide Awake Read Free Page A

President? I’ll bet some of you would like that.”
    I saw Jimmy’s posture draw to attention and immediately knew he was going to say something. Part of me wanted to stop him, to prevent the trouble that it would lead to. But part of me wanted him to speak up…because I knew that I wouldn’t.
    “Haven’t we already had serial killers as President?” Jimmy said levelly, not bothering to raise his hand. “Insofar as we’ve had Presidents responsible for needless deaths in a calculated, premeditated way. That’s nothing new. But I’m interested—do you think you can liken him to a criminal because he’s gay, or is it the fact that he’s Jewish?”
    “Oh, you have all the answers now, do you?” Mr. Davis didn’t leave the front of the room, but he turned to face Jimmy directly. This was one of his favorite responses when he was presented with a statement he didn’t agree with—
Oh, you have all the answers now, do you?
Jimmy had already been asked this when he’d pointed out that the Founding Fathers were far from flawless and that the Constitution and Bill of Rights were best viewed as starter documents, not ends in themselves, or else we’d still have slavery, black men would still be three-fifths citizens, and women wouldn’t be able to vote at all. Mr. Davis viewed this as taking things out of context, but Jimmy insisted it was actually putting them
into
context.
    Now we didn’t have the benefit of hundreds of years’ worth of hindsight. History was happening at this very moment, and the only context Mr. Davis would allow was his own.
    “Is the world now yours?” he asked Jimmy. “Am I just supposed to step aside? Because that’s not going to happen.” He paused, and for a second I thought he was done. But then he said, almost offhand, “I’ve had enough of you. Get out of my class.”
    Jimmy didn’t look like he was about to go anywhere. If anything, he sat more firmly in his seat.
    “Get out of your class?” he said. “No.”
    I started to do what I always do when a moment is too much for me—I started noticing the wrong things. That Mr. Davis’s tie was green and blue. That Keisha had put down her pen, and it was about to roll off her desk. No, she caught it. And Mr. Davis’s voice rose as he said, “No? What, do you think you’re in control here? I believe that I’m the teacher, and this is my classroom.
Get out.
”
    Jimmy stayed seated, stayed calm. I knew his expressions so well—even the way he breathed—and I couldn’t spot a single hesitation, any shade of doubt. All the hesitations and doubts seemed to have been placed within me, fidgeting in my seat, looking to the clock for help, wanting to explode. I imagined Mr. Davis in fake fatigues, thinking war was a game. Re-enacting it as one. Playing at killing.
    Jimmy looked Mr. Davis right in the eye and said, his voice barely conversational, “This might be your classroom, Mr. Davis, but this is as much my school as yours. It is as much my town as yours. And it is damn well as much my country as yours.”
    “Is it?” Mr. Davis snorted. “What have
you
done for this country, Mr. Jones? Have you fought for it? Have you even
supported
it? No, you’ve just tried to tear it down. I’ve known kids like you all my life. So
idealistic.
But you have no clue how the world really works. You think you’re going to get a Great Community through
equality
and
kindness
? You are going to have your ass handed to you. Weakness is never a strength. You might think you’re strong right now, but mark my words, you are not. You are nothing more than a small, ungrateful mongrel, and you are going to get out of my classroom if I have to throw you out myself.”
    Jimmy stood up, looking pleased. I sat there, stunned. I noticed that it was still sunny outside. It was a nice day outside.
    “Thank you, Mr. Davis,” Jimmy said. “You’ve given me everything I need.” Then he looked at the rest of us and said, “Let’s go.”
    I don’t