Social Intolerance - Part 7

I grabbed Glen Archer by the sleeve of his shirt the next day at school. "I think you have an idea of what had happened at Abby's house the other night, along with who keyed my car," I said with fire.

Glen's eyes narrowed. He tugged his shirt free of my grasp. "I told you that I had nothing to do with the keying of your car, nor do I know who did it. Nor do I care! And what happened at Abby's house that's such a big disaster and makes me deserving of your wrath?" He pulled away from me.

"Someone burned a cross on her lawn." I made my voice smooth as honey, hoping it mgiht calm him down a bit. "And I think that one of your posse members might have had something to do with it. Know anybody, perhaps, who is a part of the Ku Klux Klan?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Nuh-uh. I didn't even know there was a Klan in this town."

"How do I know you aren't lying to me?"

"If I was lying, I wouldn't be talking to you. I'd be avoiding you every chance I got, and that's the truth! Now quit perstering me!" He hugged his camouflage-printed notebook against his chest. As usual, he was wearing a shirt that matched the notebook, this time with yellow lettering stenciled across his chest: Lead, follow, or get out of the way.

I wasn't about to do either one. I was going to wrangle the truth out of this creep, or any creep, for whatever the price!

"Look, Glen, I don't appreciate having to pay for the damages on that car. I just got my car back today and when I get the bill, I'm going to make whoever did that pay dearly," I vowed.

He didn't look the least bit frightened, telling me clearly that he hadn't been the one to key my car, much less terrorize Abby. "Just tell me about the Klan, Glen," I persisted.

"I don't know anything."

I licked my lips. Maybe he didn't know anything. But who did? And how could I approach that person without getting killed by the Klan? Now that I knew they were active in this town, all I could do was wait for the Klan to come after my family.



That night, Carmen, Abby, and Carmen's friend, Ettiene Charac, crowded at my house with me to work on our biology lab. We had to dissect a mink and were going over notes and typing up the paper on it. Surprisingly, we finished early and an hour and a half later, the printer was spewing out our report. Mom brought us a plate of cookies and four glasses of soy milk to go with them as an afternoon snack, something she used to do for me quite often as a child whenever I had friends over. But I glanced up at her nervously, wondering if her being Hispanic would enrage the Ku Klux Klan.

"Pa told me it would be a decent neighborhood to live in when we first moved here," Abby said, running her finger up and down a sugar cookie.

Ettiene shoved his glasses up on his beak of a nose. "I thought the same," he offered. "But then I hear about the new black family in town being terrorized and I realize that this town is falling apart."

"Just like the rest of the world," Carmen said dramatically.

I bit into the moist cookie, listening to my friends chatter about the burning cross and how negative this beautiful small town was becoming. I didn't say anything. All I could think about was the burning and the vandalism. Who did it, and, most of all, why?

How could anybody do such a thing?

"Probably Glen Archer and his goons," Carmen grumbled.

I swallowed my cookie. "It isn't Glen. At least, I don't think it is. I confronted him about it already."

"A Klansman won't admit to being in the Klan. They don't call it the Invisible Empire for nothing," Ettiene said.

"I don't think Glen would readily talk to me if it was the truth. He'd run."

"Either that or he's just a dang good liar," Carmen shot out. "Tell me, how good is he at telling the truth, Miguel? He's bad at it. I wouldn't put it past him to key your car, either."

"It could have been some vengeful jock, too, Carmen."

"I doubt it. I can't think of any jocks that hate you, Miguel, or Abby. Nobody's even gotten the chance to know Abby, so I doubt anybody but that racist Glen is tied to these crimes."

I thought about that for a moment. No, I never had a problem with any of the jocks or athletes or anybody for that matter, except for Glen Archer. I remembered his topic, too, for that paper in government. The work force. I was still wondering if he would talk legitimately about it or if he'd use it to bash immigrants.

I still had to work on mine. I'd been so busy with this biology project and worrying about these crimes that I haven't given thought to it, even with the teacher bellowing every day about it.

I chewed on my lip. "You know what, Carmen, he might have. He is a dang good liar."

Suddenly, I heard the phone in the kitchen ring, followed by Dad's rumble. It was probably someone from work, I reasoned. I shrugged and turned back to Carmen, my mouth open as I prepared to detail a 'Glen Theory'. But suddenly, I heard Dad curse, followed by a loud "Oh my God! Now what?"

All four of us turned to the door expectantly. We heard Mom's clattering footsteps down the hardwood corridor leading to the bedrooms. She threw the door open. It banged against the wall, knocking a framed Dead Kennedys picture off the wall. The glass shattered, scattering pieces all over my bedroom floor. When I glanced up, I saw Mom's face was tear-stained.

"Abby..." she choked out, her gaze riveted on my friend. "That was your mom on the phone. She needs you home."

"Why? What happened, Mrs. Santana?" she asked.

"Your dad..." Mom barely choked out. "He's been shot."

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