Control Group: A Fair and Balanced Novel by I.M. Bristol (work in progress)

Trenton, New Jersey / May

“What's going on?” Rosie asks as she opens the door to see Latasha and Clinton. Both have terrified and worried looks on their faces. “Clinton, what are you doing here so late?

Clinton and Latasha say nothing as Rosie lets them inside. Rosie’s got this silly grin on her face, like she’s happy to see them. Clinton knows she doesn’t have a clue.

“Are you parents here?” Clinton asks.

“No. They're working these late hours so the gringos don't hafta,” Rosie says then laughs, and Clinton joins in. But he’s not laughing at what Rosie just said, but something he remembers she said the last day of school. She said, ‘Clinton, no matter what, I’ll survive.’ That’s what they thought, but all of them – Rosie, Crystal, Haley, Latasha and Clinton – lost control of their lives.

“You're creeping me out,” Rosie says. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

Clinton tries to speak, but for once in his life, can’t find the words. He feels his heart beating under his shirt as he glances at the gun Latasha has tucked in her jeans.

Latasha leans close, then whispers, “Rosie, we’re here to kill you.”

11 MONTHS EARLIER

Chapter 1 / Friday / June 11 / Last Day of School

Like the foreboding prison in the movie Shawshank Redemption, Trenton's Northeastern High School dominates the barren landscape that surrounds it. Formidable even while falling apart from years of deferred maintenance, the two story brown brick structure lies at the center of the Ivy League Avenues neighborhood on the northeast side of New Jersey's capital city. Cornell and Columbia avenues act as east and west markers, while Harvard and Yale avenues border the north and south. Foreclosed, vacant and burnt out houses dominate the avenues. On the sweltering hot last day of school, every unbroken window of the school is open. From a distance, some classrooms sound more like a prison riot than an academic environment.

“I finished first, right?” Clinton Garrison asks as he hands his test to Mrs. Carlson. The blue book passes from his thick black hands with chewed fingernails to her small white ones.

“You always do,” she whispers. Clinton beams as he looks back at the twenty other students in the room sweat over their final exams. He’s proud of his success in school and not afraid to show it to his teachers, but never to his peers.

“You can leave if you want,” she says. “This is AP English. I know it's just 10^th grade, but we're getting you ready for college. You've finished; you can go home.”

“Can I go to my mom's room instead?” he asks. “She might need help packing stuff.”

“Your mom's not leaving us, is she?”

Clinton’s mom talks often about no longer teaching at Northeastern, but he doubts she’ll quit. “She wants to take stuff home for the summer. She's not happy with how the year went.”

“I don't think any of us are,” Mrs. Carlson says. “Ever since this school board President Tara Fallon and her cronies took over, all we do is test, study for the test, and--”

“Study how to study for the test!”
She covers her mouth to stifle a laugh. “You're friends with her daughter, right?”

“I’ve been friends with Crystal since 9^th grade.”

“Can you ask Crystal to tell her mom that teachers are educators, not drill instructors?” Mrs. Carlson says. “Maybe she'll listen to Crystal because she doesn't listen to us.”

“Crystal's mom only listens to Crystal's mom,” he says.

“And Fox news,” Mrs. Carlson says.

Mary Gomez pushes past Clinton to hand in her exam. “Crystal’s a snob,” she says.

Clinton says nothing; instead he starts out of the room, two steps in front of Mary.

“Have a great summer,” Mrs. Carlson calls to Clinton and Mary. “Stay safe.”

“Easier said than done.” He opens the door and a wave of noise crashes against him. Clinton thinks sometimes he’ll drown if he stays at Northeastern. Drown in the hopelessness of most students, the apathy of some teachers, and the violent streets outside.

While Mary heads toward the school's exit, Clinton walks through the dark narrow halls toward his mother's classroom in the west wing on the school's second floor. He passes by rows of dented tan lockers and under the empty brackets where security video cameras once resided. He detours from a direct path to look in on a 10^th grade history class. Most of the students scribble in their test booklets, but Clinton smiles when he sees Rosie Garcia sitting in back reading a Stephen King book. This means she's finished the test early, thanks to his tutoring help. In the next room, he watches Latasha Fisher gaze out the open window, not the test in front of her. Latasha looks like every other hood rat with her dyed red hair, low cut white-t, and green ink tattooed arms. Clinton believes in his lifelong friend. She’s no rat, just a scared mouse looking for shelter. A few doors down, he peeks into Mrs. Becker's 10^th grade English class. Everybody's talking, not testing. Crystal Fallon and Haley Frost huddle together, an island of two white faces in a sea of brown. Crystal talks to Haley, while also listening to music and texting. Clinton wishes he was in Crystal’s spot sitting next to the smiling, nodding Haley.

The chaos of Crystal's room sounds controlled compared to the volume as Clinton nears his mom's classroom. He taps on the locked door and waits. Small groups pass behind him.

“Can I come in?” Clinton asks his mom when she unlocks and opens the door. He re-adjusts his glasses and takes a step inside. The step turns into a fall when someone walking past Clinton pushes him. He tumbles to the scuffed-up floor as the class roars in laughter. Clinton wills himself to show no emotion. He’s used to this. Being humiliated at school is as much his routine as delivering newspapers, eating an after school snack, and attending church on Sunday.

“Quiet!” his mom shouts at the class. The volume decreases, but doesn't vanish. She reaches out her to her son and her tone changes from hard to soft. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” He picks himself up off the floor without her help.

“Don't let it get you down,” she whispers.

“I don’t.” He heads toward the front and sits, squeezing his too large modern body into the small old desk. As his mom tries to regain control of her class, he thinks that when he’s at Harvard, whoever pushed him will still live on Harvard Avenue unless they're dead or in prison.

“So, class, what are your summer plans?” Mrs. Garrison asks her 10^th grade remedial math class. No one answers. A crowd of Latino students talk loudly as they stand near the door. Most black students in the back orbit around Donte Folsom like he was the sun. In the room of twenty five, there are five white faces. Three stand with the Latino kids, the other two sit next to each other. His mom sighs. “I feel like I'm talking to myself. No one has summer plans?”

“Putting it in a hot tamale!” Donte shouts, then laughs. The black males laugh loudly, while the lips on the few girls in the class curl up in disgust. The Latinos wait for Carlos.

“I’ll be putting it in your sister,” Carlos Hernandez shouts. Donte pushes his desk aside and shouts curses. Carlos replies with slurs in Spanish. Clinton’s mom hits the panic alarm on her belt, and returns to her desk. Clinton wants to help, but knows he’s powerless to do anything.

The shouts continue for a few minutes. The tan-shirted Viking security officer arrives as the final bell of the final hour on the final day of school sounds. The floor shakes like army tanks rolling past as students stampede out of the classroom. Clinton notices how none of them say goodbye to his mom. She gives so much and gets so little back. It makes him sad, and mad.

“Sorry I wasn't here sooner,” the guard says. “Busy day. That's why they hired extra.”

“Tyrone Miller?” his mom asks the young African American man in the tan shirt.

“Hey, Mrs. Garrison,” the guard says as he studies the floor. “You remember me?”

“I remember you dropped out.” She shakes her head and gets a look on her face that says "I’m disappointed, but still hopeful." Clinton knows that look very well and strives to avoid it.

“School just wasn't for me.”

“Did you at least get a GED?”

He nods “yes” but still looks at the floor. “I wish I wouldn't dropped out.”

“I always tell my students that I'll see them next year,” she says. “But I know there's a better chance that my husband will see them before I do, and that's a tragedy.”

“What does he do?” Tyrone asks.

“He's a Trenton cop,” Clinton says with pride in his voice. His dad serves and protects, while his mom prepares the next generation. They’re not rich, but their work matters.

Andre looks down at the floor again. “I think like fifty of us dropped out that year.”

“It used to be bad,” she says. “But we have a new principal. He's making a difference.”

“Dropout rates are down, and test scores are up,” Clinton says. “As a matter of fact --”

The guard’s radio crackles like fire. “Fight in the parking lot,” he says then runs off.

That look returns to his mom’s face as she shuts down her computer. “I'm almost ready.”

“Great. I can hardly wait to get home so I can go to work,” Clinton says, then sighs.

“That paper route has been good for you,” she says. “You're saving money for college, working outside, learning responsibility, and we get a free paper. You're lucky to have a job.”

“But for how much longer? Hardly anybody gets the Register any more. Since nobody gets it, the size of the paper keeps shrinking, and because the paper is so small, nobody gets it.”

“Clinton, you worry too much. Now, I've put some stuff in boxes.” She points to a pile of tan legal boxes on a far table. “I think this is my last year teaching at Northeastern.”

“Mom, you say that every year,” he says. “But even if you leave, I'm not going no place.”

“Anyplace,” she says. It sounds like she’s holding back tears. Clinton moves toward her.

“What’s wrong?” His mom goes silent. She reaches into her desk and hands Clinton his normal after-school snack of a tart apple and a sweet raisin cookie. “Thanks mom.”

“What's wrong is this.” She picks up a packet of gold stars and holds it high like a trophy.

“I love gold stars! What could be wrong with gold stars?”

“I give them to students who succeed. It's the best part of my job. Putting up yellow crime scene tape is the worst part of your father's. There's more yellow tape than gold stars now.”

“Mom, you're exaggerating. And besides, not every student is like that.”

“You and most of your friends are not.” Clinton cringes at how she says the word “most.”

“That's because I don't have many friends.” Clinton knows he’s good at the things that make him popular with adults, and none of the things that make him popular with other students.

“Don't talk that way,” she says. “I think the problem today is students are zombies.”

Clinton laughs. “Mom, have you been reading one of Rosie's Stephen King books?”

“They're over-medicated, tested to death, or they've given up like they're dead inside.”

“That doesn't make them zombies.”

“I know, Clinton, I know.” Mrs. Garrison raises her large body from behind the tiny desk. “That’s why I still believe that every student has the potential to succeed.”

“Do you want me to help with the boxes?” Clinton takes a bite of the apple.

“We'll get them later.” She looks at her room like a mother gazes at her child.

“Can we give Juusan a ride?” His mom goes mute again so she doesn't have to answer “no.” Clinton organized a study group of Haley, Rosie, and sometimes Latasha in 8^th grade. Crystal joined in 9^th grade. Clinton’s mom never understood their name. Haley was into Manga and they were all 13 at the time, so they choose Juusan, the Japanese word for 13.

“Of course,” his Mom finally answers with a frown. “Latasha isn’t coming, is she?”

Clinton stares at the floor as he walks toward the door. “No.”

“Good.” As Clinton’s mom turns off the lights and locks the door, she says, “While I hate leaving any child behind, in Latasha Fisher's case, I'm willing to make an exception.”

Crystal sits on a green bench near the school's circle drive. Haley, as always, is by her side. On the bench, a small gold plaque notes the bench was dedicated in memory of Dave Vann: graduated from Northeastern in 1968, died in Vietnam in 1969. On the back, a black NEK tag brands the bench. The green clashes with Haley’s blue t-shirt, blue eyes, and long blonde hair. Crystal’s all black clothes are too big for her small frame, and too dark for her pale skin and her dyed blonde hair. She changed her style from bright cheerleader pastel to dark Goth the day Logan left for Texas. Her jewelry is all black, except the silver purity ring on her left hand.

“So, Logan isn’t coming home this summer?” Haley asks.

“Only for a few weeks,” Crystal says. “Then he needs to get back for summer football practice.” Each word hurts just like every mile between her and the love of her life. “It was one thing to go to different high schools, but this is so hard.”

“Well, maybe you can hang out with Juusan again this summer?”

“My mom says I should stay away from all of you. She says you're bad influences.”

“Bad influences! It's because of Clinton you didn't flunk math. It's because of Juusan that you found friends when you came to this school. How can we be bad influences?”

Crystal shakes her head. “Who else wanted to be friends with the fat, ugly white girl?”

“Stop that,” Haley says. “You're not fat or ugly. That's just your mom beating up on you.”

“Maybe.” Crystal fingers the gold cross around her neck. She knows kids at school whose parents actually beat them. She almost envies them. Her mirror shows her she’s not fat or ugly, but her mom’s bruising words weigh heavier than the facts. “Haley, are you here all summer?”

“Except for a week with jerk-Dad.” Haley tugs at her silver St Christopher necklace.

Crystal’s phone rings and she rolls her eyes. She flips down her head sunglasses then starts toward the circle drive where her mom's huge white Yukon SUV awaits.

“Hey, Crystal, did your Mom set foot in our school this year?” Haley shouts.

Crystal laughs so she doesn’t cry. She glances at the oversize SUV, sighs like it was her last breath, then shouts. “She doesn’t care about our school. She just cares about herself.”

“Where’s Rosie?” Clinton shouts as he walks toward Haley. “My mom's waiting.”

“There.” Haley points toward a group of Latino kids crowded around a tricked out red Chevy in the parking lot. The bass of the loud reggaeton echoes like distant gunfire.

“I’ll text her.” Clinton pulls out his phone. “Are you getting a phone this summer?”

“No,” Haley answers. Clinton’s used to Haley answering “no” to his questions.

“Why not?” he asks Haley, while he’s asking Rosie by text why she’s not there.

“Because.” As they walk toward his mom’s car, Clinton readies for another rejection.

“You want to come to Latasha’s sister’s graduation party with me?” The words fire out of his mouth like bullets. Haley hesitates, and that’s all Clinton needs to know. She tugs on her medal and stares down at her black Chucks. Clinton feels like he’s hanging from the gallows.

“Rosie and Latasha will be there,” he says, pretending his invite wasn’t rejected.

Haley tugs her medal again and makes Clinton wait, then says, “In that case, sure.”

Before Clinton can say anything, he sees Rosie running toward them, fast and furious.

“Sorry, I’m late,” Rosie says when she arrives. She smiles, but Clinton frowns.

“I wondered if maybe you’d found some new friends.” He points at the parking lot before the three of them walk toward his Mom's car. “Thought maybe you weren't going to make it.”

As they arrive in the teacher's parking lot, Rosie pulls a red ribbon out of thick black hair and puts it in her purse. As Clinton opens the door, Rosie says. “Teach, don’t worry about me.”

Clinton finally smiles when Rosie uses her nickname for him. “Sorry, but it's what I do.”

When they arrive, Rosie crams her small curvy body into the backseat of the big boxy Buick. Rosie clicks on the safety-belt then says, “Clinton, no matter what, I’ll survive.”