it down and marched it to the tall trash can she’d been filling with Charlie’s useless junk.
The quote at the bottom snagged her attention:
Champions are built, not born.
The drive comes from inside, fed by dreams, fueled by desire.
Champions fight harder, longer, faster than all the rest.
They have the moves, yeah, but what counts is the heart.
A champion’s heart beats a rhythm only he hears.
El corazón es todo—the heart is all.
That was kind of touching, actually. Without thinking it through, she rolled the poster into a tube and set it in the corner to deal with later.
THE NEXT©AFTERNOON, Gabe arrived at the gym an hour later than usual. He’d asked Conrad to start training because he’d had to pick up the engraved marble vase his family would add to Robert’s grave when they visited on the anniversary of Robert’s funeral in two days.
As he pulled up to the school, he noticed that his fighters were crowded onto the sidewalk, marching and carrying signs. Picket signs. What the hell?
He got out of the car, his eyes scanning the slogans, all drawn in Alex’s fat-cap graffiti style. Jorge Largo’s said Kids Need Gyms. Digger Jones carried Strike Back for STRIKE. Tony Lizardi jiggled On Strike for STRIKE.
The boys were chanting, responding to Victor’s shouts from a mic hooked to a boom box. “What do we want?” he yelled.
“STRIKE back!”
“When do we want it?”
“Now!”
“What’s going on?” Gabe asked Conrad, who was standing near the curb.
“Dave Scott chased us out for not having some forms. Then he tells us we’re getting kicked out for good. What the hell did you say to the principal?”
“We’re still talking,” he said, angry that the vice principal had gotten involved prematurely. “Damn. He had no business saying that.”
Alex noticed Gabe and came over. “We’re gonna be on the news, Coach. I called that TV 6 On Your Side hotline.” He looked so proud Gabe didn’t have the heart to tell him that unless this turned into a drive-by or a drug bust, he doubted a reporter would show.
“So what’s the story on this?” he asked Alex. Watching his boys march, their voices loud, strides firm, faces determined, he got a tight feeling in his chest. They were standing up for what they believed in. They weren’t beaten down. If they could stay that way long enough to make good lives for themselves, Gabe would be happy.
“We have a right to the gym, so I got the idea to protest.”
“It’s the principal’s call. We don’t have a lease. But I’m impressed with what you got going here.” He noticed Devin fidgeting near the door. “Devin! Get in there with a sign.” Damn, that kid needed to nut up.
Victor started a new chant. “Strike back for STRIKE… On strike for STRIKE… Strike back for STRIKE…” The fading afternoon sun glinted off the windows, making the signs flash golden. Cars driving by honked their support, hip-hop blaring from open windows.
Smalls Griggs ran up to the group carrying a case of water bottles and bags of tortilla chips Feliz Mercado had donated to their cause.
The kids broke for snacks until a cop car pulled up. Then they picked up their protest signs and started marching again.
A female officer stepped out, face stern. “Who’s in charge here?”
“Gabe Cassidy. I coach these boys. They’re protesting the loss of their gym.” He figured she was mentally skimming statutes for possible violations, so he jumped in. “This is legal, since they’re not disrupting traffic or interfering with commerce. And a permit is not required.” This kind of deal was why he’d wanted to become a lawyer—to defend people who got mowed down or tossed aside, work toward fair play and justice.
He’d been naive.
She stared at him, deciding if he was being a smart-ass.
He had to smooth that. “If it helps, I’ve got the number to the principal’s office.” He wondered why Felicity wasn’t already out here having a fit.
Seeing that he wasn’t challenging her authority, the cop relaxed, took the number and went to her cruiser. When she returned, she told him the principal was on her way from the district office, and asked him to keep a lid on things until she returned from a dispatch call.
“Aren’t we getting arrested?” Alex asked him as the cop drove off.
“You’re already in the system, Alex. You don’t want juvenile hall.” Robert’s stint there had sunk him. That and Cici abandoning him. That had broken him in two. And what was her excuse? She moved. They don’t write letters in Flagstaff? Use phones?
“But it’s publicity. We need publicity.”
“Keep your nose clean. I’m not kidding, Alex.”
A few minutes later, a white van with the district logo on the door pulled up and Felicity jumped down from the driver’s seat. She headed over, her mouth an angry line. “I got pulled out of a district meeting to take a police call. You organized this?”
“Just got here myself. This is on your guy. Dave told the kids they were being evicted, so they got understandably upset.”
“I did not authorize him to do that. I asked him to call the district to find out if the waivers you’re having the kids sign would suffice.”
“Hell, no, we won’t go!” was the current chant.
Tyrell, from North Central, waved his sign: STRIKE a Blow for STRIKE. Beside him Devin waved a piece of notebook paper that said Defend Our Right to Fight. The kid had a way with words, at least.
“This is not good,” Felicity said. She was maintaining her cool, but was clearly flipped out. Maybe he had some leverage here.
“It’s about to get worse. The TV 6 investigative team should be here any minute. I believe the police will be back, too.”
Felicity’s eyes went wide, but she kept her voice calm. “You need to stop this right now.”
“I’m not sure I can.”
“Come on. You can’t control these boys?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t. Aren’t you impressed with their initiative? This is democracy in action. Don’t you teach kids to stand up for their rights? Isn’t that a lesson these poor barrio kids need to learn?”
“You think sarcasm helps?”
“Probably not,” he said. “Couldn’t resist.”
