My Own Revolution by Carolyn Marsden Read Free Book Online

Lenin’s elbow, I reach down and grab Karel’s hand. I yank him. He dangles, then gets a grip and hauls himself onto the statue’s outstretched arm.
    “I’m not giving up on Danika,” I tell Karel.
    From his perch, he says, “Don’t torture yourself, Patrik. I’ve seen the way she looks at Bozek. . . .”
    “But she knows me better. She’s loved me all these years.”
    “She loves you like a friend.”
    “That can change. I can change it.” And then I know I can’t. I shove at Lenin’s immovable shoulder with the toe of my green-spotted shoe. I shove harder, Karel watching from his own Lenin arm. When I start up a low growl, he says, “Come on.”
    So we unzip.
    I feel the release, hear the splash of two streams of pee hitting metal. Both of us aim right onto the face. The pee runs into Lenin’s eyes, down his metal beard. It drips onto his vest.
    The
pop, pop
grows softer.
    I zip up.
    Karel pulls something from his pocket. “My sister’s,” he says, holding up a bra.
    “That’s not going to fit . . .”
    “How about over the eyes?”
    “Ha! That’s good.”
    Working together, we pull the bra across Lenin’s metal face, manage to hook it behind the head.
    A car starts up nearby. We slither down. At the bottom, I pick up a stick and write in the dirt: REMEMBER ADAM UHERCO .
    “Bravo,” Karel says, then glances into the night as if looking for Adam. Or for those who locked him up.
    “No one’s out there,” I whisper. “No one.”
    We slap each other’s palms, then dash off into our own separate blackness.
    By morning, the bra is gone. A garden hose lies coiled at the base of the statue, and puddles of clear water pool on the paving stones.

Mr. Babicak’s secretary summons me to the office.
This isn’t fair,
I think, following her down the hallway. If only Danika had said yes, I wouldn’t have done such a stupid thing. And why pick on me? I’m not the only one here who hates Lenin.
    The white bra — very plain, no lace or frills — is lying on Babicak’s desk. Beside it stands a jar filled with pencils and the sharp blade of a letter opener.
    As soon as I’m seated, Mr. Babicak comes to the point. “You are playing into the hands of the imperialist Americans,” he says. “Did you know that the Americans are aggressors throughout the world, Patrik? Did you know they are developing nuclear weapons?”
    I nod. I won’t point out that Russia is also building missiles and bombs. Not if I want to keep my head, I won’t.
    Mr. Babicak lifts the bra and dangles it from the tip of his pencil. “I think you know where this was found,” he says, his beetly brows inching together.
    This is a trick question. Everyone knows. It was Bozek, I hear, who climbed up to fetch the bra. Bozek Estochin who patriotically turned it in to the office. Everyone in school is giggling about this bra. If I say I don’t know, Mr. Babicak will mock me. If I say I do, he’ll pounce on me. So I say nothing.
    “What about it, Chrobak?” His voice scoots across the desk.
    “It’s not mine, sir. I don’t own a bra.”
    With a snort, he drops the bra back down. The hook clicks lightly on the wood. “Don’t be a smart aleck, Chrobak.”
    A fine rain has been falling since early morning. Washing away fingerprints. No one saw us. Babicak can’t prove anything. Without proof, I can’t be locked up.
    To my surprise, he says, “This will of course go on your record.” He reaches for the jar, where I think he means to pick out a pencil. Instead his hand closes over the sharp letter opener. He runs his hand over the smooth blade.
    I should keep my mouth shut. But I can’t help myself. “But that’s not right, sir,” I say, putting both hands flat on his wide desk. “Nothing has been proven against me.”
    Babicak gives a bitter laugh. “I don’t have to
prove
anything, young man. I only have to suspect. And”— he aims his glassy eyes upon me —“I strongly suspect.” He lays down the letter opener,