The War Between the Classes (Laurel-Leaf Contemporary Fiction) Page 3

  Otero catapulted from a room across the hall, shaking out a clump of keys. He unlocked the classroom door and everyone started pouring in. I took my usual seat with Adam beside me, near the front of the room. “Do you suppose where you sit means anything?” I asked, settling my books under the chair. “Just look. You and I always sit where we can look Otero straight in the eye. Justin always sits right near the door so he can bolt as soon as the bell rings.”

  “Yeah,” Adam said. “And Paul Thomas always sits where Otero can't see him, kind of slouched down. So, what's it mean? For that matter, does the fact that Otero scurries around like a squirrel whenever we see him mean anything?”

  I liked Mr. Otero. Most kids did. It was because he seemed so really excited about what he taught. And from what I heard, he cared about the students, because you'd often find him staying late to talk. He was kind of funny, too. I liked how he joked about his baldness, saying what didn't grow on top grew twice as thick at his chin. And he sure had a knack of keeping my interest in class; fifty minutes went by like ten.

  “Today,” he said, coming around to the front of his desk, “we're going to begin a great social experiment. For the next four weeks we'll be playing what I call the Color Game. In just four weeks we're going to change the world.” Otero began writing on the board as he spoke, turning from time to time back to the class. “Imagine you're on a new planet where colors represent special status/’ he said. “Blue is the highest color. Blues are superior beings. Think of purity, of blue bloods, those with money, respect, and prestige. Blue children attend private schools and go to the best colleges. Their parents travel without worrying about cost; they live the good life in beautiful homes with maids and gardeners. And they intend to keep it that way.” Otero stood aside so the class could read what he'd written on the board. I copied it into my notebook: Blue = upper class.

  “Now, below the Blues are the Dark Greens. Like the upper middle class on earth. Dark Green people are often workaholics. They figure if they try a little harder they'll make it to the Blues. Dark Green children almost always finish college. They're expected by their parents to go into the family business or become important in their professions. They're aware of the colors below them, the Light Greens and Oranges. But they're too busy trying to keep what they have and do even better to consider lending these less fortunate colors a hand.”

  What is my family? I wondered uneasily. Dark Green? No, not quite. Aspiring to be. Adam, of course was a Blue.

  “Now, below the Dark Greens you'll find the Light Greens. They are the most numerous in society—the blue-collar workers, the lower middle class. Light Greens don't have it easy. If they have a job and a decent place to live where crime isn't too terrible, they're grateful. Their kids may go to junior college; few graduate. Light Greens aspire to become Dark Greens, but many are happy just to keep their heads above water.”

  Otero chuckled with a kind of delighted satisfaction. “Finally we come to the Oranges. Now, there's a sad group. They're often out of work, on welfare, in trouble with the law, and no matter how hard they work, if indeed they can get jobs, they can barely make ends meet. Since welfare breeds welfare, you find second- and third-generation Oranges with big families and often no father figure around.

  “Oranges would like a bigger piece … in fact any piece … of the planet's apple pie, but the way society operates, they may never get it.” He paused, then said, “Of course these are all the stereotypes of our class system.”

  Even though I'd written it down, I wasn't sure all the colors were sorted out in my head yet. Pretty soon Otero would have us selecting a color. What did I want to be? Certainly not an Orange or Light Green. No. Who'd want to have to struggle so hard to get along? It would be fine to be a Dark Green or Blue. They had respect and money to live well. That's what I wanted.

  “I hope you've got all the colors straight,” Otero said, “because now I'm going to explain the rules of etiquette on this unique planet.” He toyed with a stick of chalk, then said, “We have a system of bowing in our new society. Oranges must always show their inferiority by bowing when they meet their superiors, all colors above them. Light Greens must bow to the Dark Greens and Blues. Dark Greens bow to the Blues. But the Blues, bless them, don't bow to anyone. Why should they? They're top dogs.” He thought for a moment. “We have sex discrimination in our society, also, but we'll discuss that next time we meet. I wouldn't want to confuse you with too much at once. Especially you Oranges.’9

  I laughed, along with everyone else. It was easy laughing when you weren't the one looked down on, and I had no thought that I could possibly become an Orange.

  “Any questions so far?”

  I raised my hand. “What if you aren't the same color as a friend? Besides bowing, is there anything else you have to do?”

  Otero glanced at Adam, and I blushed, sure he knew why I asked the question. “Inferior colors may not speak with or socialize with superior colors. A superior color may address an inferior one, but not vice versa. Understood?”

  I reached an icy hand across the aisle to join with Adam's warm one and gave him a worried look.

  “What's the penalty for disobedience?” Adam asked.

  “You can be fined, harassed, given lower status, any of a number of things.”

  “That's okay.” Adam grinned that warm, confident smile I loved so much. “We just won't let anyone know.”

  Otero grinned right back. “I wouldn't count on that, Tarcher. We've got a spy network you wouldn't believe. Anyone who ever took part in the Color Game before— maybe three hundred students—will be watching you. And then, of course, there's the police force you'll meet in a moment, the G4's. In addition, you're encouraged to report on each other if you see any rules broken. You get extra points for squeal—er, uh … reporting, and the more points you earn, the better chance to move up in society.”

  “Ah, come on, Mr. Otero,” Adam said. “We don't go around squealing on each other in real life. Besides, we don't really have class differences. Look around. We're all friends here. I don't care how much money anybody's got, and I don't give a hoot what color anyone is.”

  “Really? Tell me, Tarcher. When was the last time you had a black friend home to dinner, or a Latino? How many minority students sit at the same lunch table with you and your white friends?”

  Adam's face turned a bright shade of pink. “I have soccer friends to the house….” he protested, but I knew Otero had made a point.

  “For that matter,” the teacher continued, his attention back to the class, “how many of you black students have Latino or white friends? Friends, not acquaintances? And how many of you Latinos have black friends?” Only a few hands went up. “I thought so. Well, that's what this class is all about. We're going to expose the prejudices many of us have and maybe build some bridges between us.” He pulled at his beard and said, “Okay! Now to sum up before you meet the G4's. Good behavior counts. The students who earn the most game points get credits toward a higher grade. Call it a prize. So, if you want a good grade in this class, play the game to win.” He stepped back behind the desk. “Okay, G4's. Explain about the armbands and journals before we choose colors.”

  “Journals?”

  “Right.” Otero reached behind him for a small spiral notebook, which he held up to the class. “You'll need something like this to keep a daily record of your feelings and experiences during the Color Game. If you don't keep it up to date, or don't have it with you wherever you are, you can get in trouble from a G4.”

  “Everywhere? Fin on the track team. Got no pockets in my shorts.”

  “Everywhere,” Otero repeated. “Tie it to your back, if you have to!”

  Five students came to the front of the room. Otero said they'd all played the Color Game before and had volunteered to be G4's, the police force. “You can't put much over on them because they've been exactly where you are now,” he explained. “They know just what you're thinking and feeling and what ways you m
ay try to sabotage the game. But they're also here as counselors. When things get too heavy and you need someone to sort things out with, they're here to help.”

  Police force. It sounded so formidable, but they stood there watching us and smiling.

  Mary, one of the girl G4's, stepped forward. She wore a karate uniform that made her look sort of intimidating and official. She introduced each of the G4's by name and then said, “We can challenge you any time of day or night. Anyplace. Asking to see your armbands and journals. We keep records on everyone, putting down what we observe and what others tell us about civil disobedience, uppityness to the higher classes, and so on.”

  “What's the penalty for assaulting a G4?” Juan called out, making everyone laugh.

  “Death.”

  I giggled, beginning to relax. Nobody seemed to take the game very seriously. A few more questions were answered, then one of the G4's took a box and plastic bag from Otero.

  “Now, this is how we go about choosing colors,” Mary said. “In this bag we have a lot of disks, blue ones, dark-green ones, light greens, and oranges.” She held up the plastic bag and handed the box to another G4. “Since there are many more poor people than rich, there are more light greens and oranges than other colors.

  “What you'll do is reach into the plastic bag, pick a disk, and show it to me. Jennifer will hand you an armband of the color you chose, and Brian will make a record of your color in our record book.” She shook the disk bag vigorously. “Okay, who wants to go first?”

  As students began reaching into the bag for their disks I turned to Adam. “What color would you like to be?”

  “Light Green, I think. Then Fd get to see how the other half lives without having to be in abject poverty. How about you?”

  “Fd like that, too.” I didn't want to admit my real preference. After all, any color would be fine as long as Adam chose it, too.

  In moments Mary was in front of me holding the bag out. “Oh, I don't like this!” I cried, backing off. “You go first, Adam.”

  “Pick!” Mary ordered. “You're holding us up.”

  Her harsh tone startled me. I closed my eyes and reached into the bag, feeling around among the cold disks for the right one. If I concentrated hard enough, maybe I could influence my choice so I'd pick a light green. At last I grasped a disk and slowly withdrew it. “I can't even look! What is it?”

  “Blue!” Adam announced, disappointed. “You're a Blue.”

  “Here's your band,” Jennifer said. She helped me put it on. “Always wear it on your right arm so we can see it, and give your name and color to G4 Brian.”

  Secretly pleased, I tightened the Velcro, then held my arm out for Adam to see. “Now you! And please pick a blue!”

  “I've got one chance in four, so who knows?” Adam plunged his hand into the bag, dug around a while, then brought out a disk.

  “Orange!” I cried as he opened his fist. “Oh, Adam, no!”

  Adam's forehead wrinkled in uncertainty, but he took it all in good cheer. “So, I'm an Orange. Bottom of the barrel. This should be interesting.” He held out his arm for the color band. Jennifer contemptuously threw his band on the floor and turned away.

  The G4's moved on, holding out the disk bag, handing out color bands and recording each student's choice, but all of a sudden Adam and I didn't have anything to say to each other. Just wearing the blue band and knowing what it stood for made me feel different, kind of important somehow. I don't know how or why, but with the orange band on Adam, he seemed quieter, less self-assured.

  Otero's voice boomed out over the commotion.

  “When you've got your bands, change seats. Blues get the superior seats up front. Dark Greens behind them, Light Greens behind them, and Oranges in the back. Tomorrow there'll be some further seat changes according to sex, but we haven't time to explain that now, so just seat yourselves by color.”

  Adam picked up his books and prepared to take a seat in the back. I put a hand on his.

  “Gotta play the game right, honey. But don't worry. Maybe we can change to the same color later. You be bad and get demoted, and I'll be good and get promoted. Never know. So long. See you after class.”

  I watched him weave through the disorder of students moving to different seats until he found a place in the back of the room with the Oranges. He waved to me, then turned to a girl beside him.

  Paul Thomas settled in the seat Adam had left, a wide grin on his dark face. Once I'd joined him at a cafeteria table, not knowing only blacks sat there. I'd felt as welcome as a good bout of flu and never made that mistake again.

  “Hi, Amy,” he greeted. “Man, this game's gonna be fun. I'm gonna love lording it over those poor Orange brothers; they always got it so good.”

  “Oh, come on, Paul,” I chided. “You're not going to take advantage of anyone just because you're a Blue?”

  “Wanna bet?” He laughed with villainous glee. “Just watch. Hey, girl!” he called out to Carol, who was a Dark Green. “You didn't bow proper. G4! You see that?”

  Had the game been rigged? So many of the minority students seemed to have chosen the dark colors, the upper classes, while most of the white students including Justin and Adam were either Light Green or Orange. Before I could prove my suspicion, Otero began explaining about the game money, which equaled the points. Blues would get more, and so on down the Une, with Oranges getting the least.

  “Hey, no fair!” Juan called out.

  “Who said life is fair? G4, mark that Light Green's name down. If he complains again, we'll fine him.” Otero paused as the bell rang to end the period. “G4's will pass out the money. Stay in your seats until you get yours.” He held up a hand as several students rose to leave. “You may as well start playing the game right now! None of you will leave before your superior colors do. Blues first, Oranges last. See you tomorrow.”

  Adam bolted from his seat, ignoring Otero's instructions just as Brian handed me a wad of play money.

  “Just a minute, you dumb Orange!” he cried. “What are you doing bothering this Blue? Get back to your seat and don't dare enter blue territory again or you'll be sorry!”

  Adam hesitated, then grinned, clicking his heels together. “Jawohl mein Kommandant!”

  “Bow before you leave, Orange! Bow to the female Blue!”

  “You're kidding!”

  “Record keeper … get this Orange's name.”

  “Adam, please. Don't get into trouble. Remember what you said about moving up,” I pleaded.

  Adam bowed, his face a deep shade of pink. I hated being bowed to, especially by him, and looked away.

  “Blue!” Mary called out. “In the future you report it when an inferior addresses you without permission! Understand? Now, lead the other Blues out, please.”

  I began to tremble, unused to such harsh criticism made so publicly.

  “Come on, girl,” Paul said, nudging me. “Let's go! Those lowly Oranges aren't worth a bag o’ beans.” He lapsed into black jive. “They's nothin’ but lowdown lazy bums who won't work for a living an9 just waste the big taxes us rich folk pay!”

  I gathered up my books, eyes on Adam, who had returned to his seat. With an uneasy pain in my stomach I led the Blues … all six of us, all minorities … out the door.

  4

  Something had happened in that strange exchange that confused and upset me. But it wasn't until free period that I could get off by myself to think. Sitting at a back table in the library with my books open but unread, it began to make sense.

  All I cared about lately was what Adam wanted, thought, or felt. When I didn't agree with him, I swallowed my words and said nothing, sometimes even smiling approval. It seemed my whole self-image depended on Adam's opinion of me.

  What about what I thought, wanted, or felt?

  But boys didn't like girls to have too many ideas of their own. I'd learned that two summers ago at a special Japanese camp Mama and Papa sent me to. They wanted me to mix with other Japanese kids
and learn something about our culture. And I had learned, about calligraphy and origami and the tea ceremony and holidays, and even some Japanese. But what had made the greatest impression was what I'd learned about being “female.”

  The most popular girls, it became clear, weren't always the prettiest. They were the sweet, agreeable, nonthreatening ones, those who made the boys feel strong, smart, and important. Girls who didn't play that role weren't likely to have boyfriends.

  It didn't take long to see, even in high school, that most boys liked girls that way. So, I became a chameleon. I adapted to whomever I dated. And after a while I hardly knew what / really felt and thought because I became so good at adapting.

  Adam had bowed to me. He'd been forced to, and he'd hated it. Yet I bowed to him all the time in all kinds of ways. Why? Staring at my hands as I sat thinking in the library I remembered his most recent urging. “Just be bad and you'll get demoted, and I'll be good and get promoted.” That would bring us together at some in-between color.

  I hadn't protested. By silence I'd agreed. Yet a small knife had twisted in my stomach then, and did again now, because that wasn't what I wanted. It wasn't in my nature to try to fail. As wonderful as it would be going through the game with Adam, I really wanted to be Dark Green or Blue, not a lower color. And now I had that chance. Why shouldn't I savor the experience, play the Blue, and see how it felt having power and privileges I'd never had, power and privileges Adam had every day of his life?

  I'd tell him, but would it make him angry? And could I actually free that “me” trapped so long inside the person pleaser, the father pleaser, and now the Adam pleaser?

  I bit my lip and stared out the window at a liquidambar tree shedding its fall colors against a clear blue sky. It was only a game, and for only four weeks, as Adam had pointed out. I would try to convince him we should play the game as it should be played and not try to fix it for our own benefit.

  At lunchtime I stood on tiptoe, craning to search for Adam above the heads of students in the line. Usually, he arrived first. His last class was only three doors down from the cafeteria. He could often tell what was on the menu each day just from the smells which reached his math class.