Sorta Like a Rock Star(19)

“Sit,” Donna says, as if she were talking to Bobby Big Boy.

Amazingly, Mr. Pinkston looks up, surprised, and then sits.

The room is dead quiet.

“Ms. Roberts,” Prince Tony says in a calm, soothing voice. “What’s going on here? We don’t allow these meetings to be videotaped. Surely you can understand why.”

Donna completely ignores Prince Tony and addresses the room. “Boys and ladies. I’m with Roberts, Bradley, and Wong. If you haven’t heard of our law firm, I guarantee your lawyers have, and those boys will want to know what has been said tonight, so take notes. It’s come to our attention that you are considering cutting funding for Mr. Jonathan Franks’ marketing classes. I’ll be representing Mr. Franks and all five of the students who will be speaking tonight. All pro bono, for as long as it takes. You need to know two things before we begin. One. Roberts, Bradley, and Wong. That’s not alphabetical order. Two. Name one. The one in charge. Roberts. That’s me. Amber?”

Donna starts filming me.

I’m in total frickin’ awe.

“Amber?” Donna says.

Ty elbows me in the back.

“You’re up,” Donna says.

I look at all of the school board members. With such freaks as us in front of them—represented by one of the most feared lawyers in the tri-state area—they are in total panic mode. I can see it plainly all over their faces. All of them are impressed with Donna, except Mr. Pinkston who looks sorta like Dick Cheney and is glaring at me like he might want to roast my carcass alive and eat me for dinner. Like father, like son. Suddenly, I find my swagger.

“As my colleague clearly stated.” I called Donna my colleague. Was that a mistake? Too much? “We are here on behalf of Mr. Jonathan Franks. You may—”

“Okay. Enough foolishness. This school board is within its legal rights here tonight,” Mr. Pinkston says, completely interrupting me. “It’s perfectly legal to consider—”

“Don’t you ever interrupt my client again, Mr. Pinkston.” Donna locks eyes with Mr. Pinkston. She is unflinching. “And I think my client knows a little bit more about the law than you or anyone else in this room, because I’ve informed Ms. Appleton of her rights. As a taxpayer and a concerned citizen, I’m trying to help you avoid making yet another classic and extremely costly blunder.”

Donna turns the video camera on Mr. Pinkston.

“Don’t you dare film me!” he yells.

Donna smiles, keeps the camera on Mr. Pinkston until he turns red, and then she turns it back on me.

I clear my throat and then say, “You may think Mr. Jonathan Franks is expendable, but he serves at least two great purposes, one of which is to protect you from lawsuits. Lawsuits? I can hear you asking. Lawsuits. I’m the poorest girl in the high school. I haven’t been to the doctor or dentist for a decade because my mother cannot afford health insurance. For all I know, I may have cancer or may be in need of a lung transplant. But I’d never know it, because we cannot afford to go to the doctor. Maybe if she worked for a good employer, I’d have health insurance. But she works for your school district—for fifteen years now—driving buses, which doesn’t pay so hot. No benefits either. So I don’t have money for the sorta fitting-in clothes your sons and daughters wear, nor do I have money to fix my messed-up teeth, and this has led to some serious self-esteem problems. But can I see one of the quality therapists some of my classmates get to see? No. Because I don’t have health insurance. Word. This high school is a daily hell for me, let me tell you, but there is one place where I am always welcome—where I don’t feel like going on a freaking rampage—and that is Mr. Franks’ room. I am the Marketing Club team leader, and I oversee the Childress MC chapter. I personally won second place in the marketing fast food competition last year at the regionals. Mr. Franks runs this club for little to no pay when you break down the hours and the costs of the trophies, ribbons, and pizza parties he throws to boost MC morale. And it is the only thing in this school that gives me any sense of self-esteem. So don’t take away the one good thing in my school day—or I might just snap, and start needing all that therapy you don’t provide the children of your employees. Ty?”

I take a step back. I survey the school board and catch a few sympathetic eyes. One large woman even nods at me and gives me a wink, like she is my mom or something and is proud. Cool, I think. We’re moving people tonight.

Ty steps forward and says, “I have a dream. I dream that some day in the near future Childress Public High School will diversify the faculty and recognize Martin Luther King Day. I’m the only black kid in the school, and the only place I feel comfortable is in Mr. Franks’ room. If Mr. Franks lost his job, there would be no refuge left for me in this school, and I think I might have to start writing letters to the local papers about how hard it is to be black at Childress High School, a place that does absolutely nothing to celebrate my heritage. A place that inadvertently says to me every day that white is right. No black authors in the English curriculum. Coaches always asking me to join the basketball team. Mrs. Watts always trying to get me to sing Negro spirituals in her all-white choir. I’m sick of it, yo. The only thing I’ve ever done through CPHS in celebration of my heritage was to raise money for the United Negro College Fund, because a mind is a terrible thing to waste. I ran a charity Ping-Pong tournament last year and do you know who was the faculty member that helped me market and chaperone that tournament? Mr. Franks. He also made the biggest faculty donation too. Don’t fire Franks, or you’ll be sorry when MLK day rolls around and you don’t observe the holiday again! Because I’m speaking up this year if Franks gets cut.”