Dignity - a novel - 6. Chapter 6: Media Circus

Chapter 6: Media Circus

I walk the noisy corridor of my school with my backpack on. The 3 o'clock bell has rung, and there is a flood of immature energy spilling from every pore of this shit hole. Jocks pump up egos with fist-punches to fellow jock shoulders. This is followed by inane talk of 'practice is gonna suck today,' while next to them, hair-tossing bimbo wannabes gather to squeal and cry out 'OMG – I know!'

Serious kids, like me, pull out our phones and get connected.

I walk towards the exit, using my sightless instincts, and see that I have a new text from Jack – I mean, from Sean, LOL – it reads:

I made it. On the beach now. It's perfect. TUL

Lucky bastard. He's free, free at least of this place! As I think what to text back to him, my screen appears to take on an odd pallor. I glance up, and realize it – this change in the atmosphere that I perceived – has nothing to do with my phone.

The students have quieted down, and now like some mass of iron pellets influenced by a magnet, are pulled towards the front doors of the school.

They are gathering to watch something, and grow eerily quiet to listen to what is going on just outside, on the steps.

I struggle my way through, and get outside. A podium is set up on the side, and an array of microphones sprout like mushrooms on top. Most of them have badges, like WKRQ radio, or Channel 5 News.

Behind the podium are two groups of grown-ups to the left and right. On one side are Principal Voorhies, the school district administrator woman – who I've only ever seen at our school once before – and, a brass-wearing bulky dude in a goofy-as-hell cowboy hat. Actually, I guess the hat is more like Pharrell Williams, or Dudley Do-Right's headgear, and it has a badge front and center. On the other side is Jack's family: his mom, his brother Hamish and sister Christie. I'm surprised to see Hamish, 'cause he goes to college in Virginia.

Mrs. Shaw makes brief eye contact with me, before she drops her head again.

Reporters line the steps, and remind me of terraced algae on boat launches. Some have camera crews with them; some have hand-held mics or recorders: all are clambering over each other for the circus to start.

Mr. Voorhies steps up. Like the geeky dweeb he is, he taps the microphones a few times. Yeah, dummy – they're on!

"Thank you for coming here today."

There is a clicking frenzy of flashes, then he continues with a stunned and blinking composure.

"I am Principal Voorhies, and we at the Indian Hill School District commit ourselves and our resources to do whatever we can in this time of crisis. I now turn over the mic to Sheriff McClaskey."

The dude in the Mounties hat hikes his beltline an inch, and strides up to bat.

"We at the Hamilton County Sheriff's office have alerted Homeland Security, and the FBI, that a missing boy is sick and in desperate need of hospitalization. If you have seen…"

He fumbles with some papers on the podium, and suddenly holds it up. It is a fricking 'Wanted' poster with Jack's goofy grin plastered on it.

Cameras go crazy clicking shots left and right.

"…Jack Shaw, a fifteen-year-old runaway boy, alert your local authorities immediately. We have reason to believe the child was traveling to Northern Illinois, so please be on the lookout. The family has more information, and I believe some news of a reward fund being set up. I will now turn it over to Mrs. Shaw, the missing boy's mother."

Jeez-iz, they make it sound like Jack is a toddler, and that he might keel over any minute; this is a fucking sham.

There is a pause from behind the podium. All the cameras are set to attack, but Mrs. Shaw hesitates. Hamish steps up.

"My name is Hamish Shaw, Jack's brother." He waits until the cameras' activity of 'capturing the moment' dies down. His pause seems to make every lens draw in close to his face. At last, he says plainly, "Jack, if you are watching this, come home. It's time to face this. We – we can talk about next steps, but don’t leave Mom like this…"

Mrs. Shaw puts her hand on his arm. He slowly backs away from the mics.

Jack's mom sighs, and amid the torrent of flashes, looks calm.

"My son is only fifteen years old. There are some decisions no fifteen-year-old child is ready to make on their own.

"Help my son to make the right one, and come back to Cincinnati to receive the treatment he desperately needs for his leukemia. As the sheriff mentioned, a fund has been set up at helpsavejack.com. Please contribute, and the person or persons who locate him, and who are able to guide law-enforcement to recover him for us, will receive the reward funds. As of this morning, this stands at just over five thousand dollars, but check back often, as this amount will grow."

Her tone changes, becoming steely and determined. "And I appeal to you, students of Indian Hill High School, or any of Jack's friends, if you know about his plans, where he intends to go, or with whom he wants to stay, you have an imperative, moral obligation to tell us."

I swear to God, her head rotates to stare at me. My palms begin to sweat, and the rest of the statement is only meant for me.

"There is more information out there; there are people who know exactly where he is…"

Now the cameras and hand-held mics swing to me. I can almost feel the zoom lenses coming in to crush me.

"…That know where he is," she repeats for hair-raising emphasis. "And perhaps under a false sense of, of – love – keep it a secret. That is being a false friend to Jack, and should not be tolerated."

"Miss, what is your name?" one reporter suddenly asks me. The others too start shouting at me.

"What do you know!"

"Where is he!"

The rest is a voiceless drone against my eardrums; I can hear no more.

I stumble back into a pair of jocks standing right behind me. My arms raise, and I try to squeeze between them, and back into the building. I pry them apart, and run.

I go down the corridor, turn right and slap down the panic bar of a side door.

I run all the way home. The heavy weight of my schoolbooks in my backpack punishes me, but I do not look behind me. I can only hope no one is tracking me back to where I live.

˚˚˚˚˚

Now in my bedroom, I quickly close the door and lock it. I like the sound that click makes – it feels good, or at least, it feels better.

I shrug off my backpack and let it slump on the bed with a bounce. I then go to my curtains and shut them.

I have a notion, and my fingers reach blindly back behind the drapes to make sure the window latch is in place. It is.

I need to calm down, gather myself a bit.

My fingers fumble and unlock the lid of my laptop. I switch it on, and while I wait, I sit on my bed.

"What a fricking circus," I tell myself. "I know, right!" I have the answer too, LOL.

I begin to think that grown-ups, and maybe parents specifically, really are phony, hype-mongers.

Just because a person is 15, or any age under that mythically magical, and totally arbitrary "18," they act like the person can't understand a thing about themselves. Fuck, don’t they remember themselves from this age; don’t they remember how they felt? I don’t get it.

Shit, it's just like those asshole, hater parents, who force their teenage kids to go get 'treatment' at anti-gay camp. Where's the dignity in that, people? Parents? Forcing your kid to be tormented, and psychologically damaged, by a constant barrage of verbal abuse. A torrent of hate speech that he or she is just a pile of shit for something as innocuous as brown eyes or red hair! They are Gay! People, get over it. Any problems your children face in this fucking world is your fucking fault, not theirs!

Parents; adults – no matter what you say, no matter what you do, it's our birthright to dignity itself that allows us all to decide our own destiny.

I log on, and go online.

I can't believe it. I have 72 new e-mails! I have to scan the names, 'cause most of them are from kids at school I barely know. They all have subject lines like: "Check this out!," or "You gotta see this!" However, a few are elaborately called: "Jack Shaw, Runaway Leukemia Kid."

One of these is from my female bestie, Susan. I open it up. She writes:

OMG! The internet is full of Jack. Here's a vid you gotta see!!! Call me after 7:30. TTYL

Attached is a YouTube link. I click on it, and the big black text of a rolling title pops up:

"Please Help

Jack Shaw

15 yr. Old Runaway

And Sick Child."

I slip in my earbuds. I am shocked. The setting looks really familiar to me – it's Jack's living room!

Mrs. Shaw, Hamish and Christie sit on the couch, and Jack's sister speaks.

"Thank you for all your support during this trying time. We ask that you keep your eye out for a lost-looking fifteen-year-old boy with brunette hair, which he wears in bangs. He is five-foot-nine, and weighs about one-hundred-and-forty-pounds."

Some pictures and a brief video of Jack goofing off at the dining room table play.

"Jack Shaw, my brother, is a good kid, but he is confused and needs our help. If you see him, please contact your local officials at the police or sheriff's department, and try to keep Jack confined in one place until help arrives."

Suddenly Christie looks choked up.

"You see, Jack Shaw is sick. This is the third time he has had to face the horrors of recurring leukemia, and he is understandably frightened.

"Please, if you have any information to share – I urge you to do so.

"Thank you."

The vid ends, and immediately the black screen is filled with a dozen thumbnail pics of other vids featuring Jack's face, or that of his family.

Shit. That was rough to watch.

I scan the right-hand column of related videos, and there are already about 30 of the media circus from the school's front steps. One catches my eye, although I dare not click on the link. I see a close-up shot of a confused and scared-looking girl standing amid a sea of other students near the front door. Yes. It's me – already there are vids of me getting accused, and of me running.

I slowly sigh and lower the lid of my laptop.

My chair rotates, as I use my feet to turn me from the desk, and I absent-mindedly stare at the Tavi Gevinson poster hanging on the back of my door. She's so cool…

Wait. I have to stop a moment and consider that Jack can't look at his beloved Zayn Malik poster anymore. He may be the cause of all this difficulty I'm in right now, but I cannot allow myself to turn into a whining little complainer.

It's Jack who's suffering, really suffering, despite his disgustingly high spirits. He's the one in pain, and I must help him do what he thinks is best, no questions asked. But still, it is really frickin' sad to think that he may never see Zayn hanging on his own wall again.

Shit. I know I have to get up. I know I have to go back out into the house and see if my mom is home. I have to let my folks know what kind of shit storm media circus is about to descend on our house.

I stand up. I smooth down my clothes, and as casually as I can, I go over the details one more time.

- Jack met a boy his own age online.

- He went to stay with him for a while in Chicago.

- I don't have a name for the boy.

- I don’t have an address for the boy.

- I don’t know when Jack will be back...

but

- Jack told me, he will come back soon.

Lies; check. Lies; check. Lies; check.

I scoff at a notion to myself. I cynically wonder what color ribbon will be handed out at school tomorrow – the 'Bring Jack Home Safely' ribbon. What color would he like..? Maybe orange. An orange ribbon for Jack, yes, he'd like that, as long it was fluorescent-bright orange, 'cause that's a party color!

I hope he appreciates what I am doing for him, but then, I know he does, and more than anything else, I hope he is finding that moment to breathe free, and enjoying his chance to live – I know he would do the same for me.

"I love you, Jack," I whisper, and head out the door.