"I'm not rushing off anywhere. What's on your mind?"

I can't ask her how I did in the debate. That's just sad. But I can ask her what she thinks about the issue itself, right? That's not pathetic. That's just getting information.

So I ask her. Who did she agree with-me or John?

She gives me this nervous little laugh. "It doesn't matter what I think."

"Come on. Please?"

She sighs. "Look. My generation messed up a lot of things. We did a lot right, but we messed up a lot, too. But here's the thing-we tried. We marched and we protested and we complained until things changed. We didn't always change the right things and we didn't always get our way, but we tried. And I'm glad to see you trying, Kevin. That's what matters."

Um, no-that's the same old adult bull they sling when they're trying to avoid bad news. Hey, Dad, I went 0 for 4 at the plate and dropped an easy fly ball!

Well, you tried, son. That's what matters.

No, what matters is I suck.

"Tell me the truth: Do you think I'm right or do you think John's right? Just tell me. I can take it."

"Well, look. I probably shouldn't say, but ... I think you're right."

I can't help it-a happy little "Yes!" slips out.

"Don't go celebrating," she warns me. "I was predisposed to agree with you in the first place. You didn't convince me of anything. I felt the same way from the start."

"But I'm right, right? I mean, I'm not losing my mind or anything-John's wrong."

"Well, I think so."

"Then why is everyone listening to him instead?"

She leans against the circulation desk. She looks really, really tired. "People-especially young people-can be swayed pretty easily by something attractive. A slick presentation. A sophisticated message. If you make a complicated issue seem simple, you can get a lot of people on your side, even if you're wrong and even if it's not true."

"That sucks."

"That's what I try to teach you in Media. Just because something looks professional or has high production values or is nice and shiny and neat doesn't mean that it's right."

"But the shiny stuff will always have an advantage?" Man, that's depressing.

She echoes my thoughts: "As depressing as it sounds ... yes. Sorry, Kevin."

And on that lovely note, I head home.

I flip around the radio stations, stopping to listen to a story on NPR. I learn how many soldiers have died or been wounded recently, about the threat level, about the things the president says we need to do to defeat "the evildoers." Which is such a weird and wimpy way of describing them, really. It makes them sound like goofy-a.s.s mad scientists, rubbing their hands together and cackling...

Make a complicated issue seem simple...

Maybe that's the point.

Most of the cars I see on the way home have new ribbons on them, replaced almost immediately after the Council's theft. As if people couldn't bear the thought of not having them for even an instant. As if they feared other people would judge them. I do see one homemade b.u.mper sticker that gives me a chuckle, though: COURAGE IS BEING A LIBERAL IN LOWE COUNTY.

But that's the only thing that makes me feel like maybe the whole universe isn't against me.

Well, what did I expect-the world to change just because I gave a speech on the morning announcements?

My key chain dangles from the ignition. The key to Brook-dale clings and clangs and makes me feel even worse. Why do I keep it? It's like a reminder of all my lies, all my fears. G.o.d.

I keep thinking about Riordon's speech. It's better than thinking about Riordon macking on Leah and Leah just lapping it up. There are so many weaknesses in his argument it's ridiculous. But now I think that's my own fault. I went into this with the wrong att.i.tude. I mean, I know that I'm right. Which means that the other side is wrong.

My mistake was thinking that if they're wrong, they must be stupid.

Man, that sends a chill right up and down my spine. I always thought that the wrong side was wrong because they were too dumb to get the truth. But Riordon proved that the wrong side can be smart. And that's worse than them being stupid. Because it means that they can convince the people who are stupid that they're right.

Jeez. What a tool. Burning a flag. Like I would do that.

At home, Dad's not making corn bread today, unfortunately. He's watching a ball game that he taped last night instead. I try not to disturb him. We've never talked about that stuff Reporter Guy published about Dad, and it's like I've been tiptoeing around it ever since.

And I'm sick of it.

I wait for a commercial and then make my move: "Hey, Dad?" Before he can say anything, I plunge on in: "I'm really sorry."

"What? Why? What did you do?"

My throat goes dry, just like when Leah came up to me in the cafeteria.

"About the ... You know, Dad. The paper. The Loco."

He stares at me so hard that I imagine I can feel him pushing me away just by force of eyesight.

"What are you talking about? That wasn't your fault."

"But-but he wouldn't have written that if he wasn't writing about me..."

"No, no, no." Dad gets up, shaking his head. "No. Listen to me: He's writing about you because you got rid of those ribbons, which is what I told you to do. But if it wasn't that it would have been something else because that's what these people do-they build you up and then they tear you down."

"But-"

"No. That's all ancient history anyway." He gets a soda from the fridge and returns to his chair just as the game comes back on. "Don't worry about it. It's done and over with."

OK, that totally isn't what I expected. After a lifetime of being told never to talk about Dad and the army and all that, suddenly it's just, like, "Don't worry about it" and "It's my fault." Which it is, because he did make me get rid of those ribbons.

I flop on the bed and watch the game with him for a little while. Maybe he's not as messed up in the head as I always thought.

Or maybe I'm just getting messed up enough that he's starting to make sense to me.

Either way, though, I have to admit he's got more experience at ... well, just about everything. So I might as well use it.

Another commercial comes up. Dad reaches to fast-forward the tape, but I jump in: "Hey, Dad. How do you stop people from being stupid?"

He grunts and rolls his eyes. "You don't."

"Really?" You're kidding me. I thought for sure that at some point someone must have figured this out.

"I've tried to explain to people when they're being stupid," he says, "but then I realized something: Most people like being stupid."

"I don't get it."

He pauses the game as it comes back from commercial. "Some people just prefer it. It makes their lives easier if they let other people think for them."

"But that doesn't make any sense. That's just stu ... Oh."

He nods in satisfaction and starts the game again.

"Hey, Dad?"

He does one of those hiss-y inhales that makes me think I've bugged him one too many times, but then he pauses the game. "Yeah?"

"What, uh, what do you think about flag burning?" Riordon's jab is still bugging me.

"You planning on burning a flag?" he asks with such stern disapproval that I feel guilty for something I've never even contemplated doing.

"No."

"Well, good. I mean, it would be a stupid thing to do. You'd get people so riled up that they'd miss the point. There are better ways to get your opinions across."

"But what about the people who do?"

He shrugs. "Who cares, really?"

"But the flag's, like, a symbol of our country. People died for it."

"When I was only a little bit older than you ... There was a picture, OK? That picture..."

He shakes his head. Clears it. It's a good talking day for Dad, I guess. "I remember seeing a picture. In the paper. The collapse. You know, the collapse of the Soviet Union. A Russian soldier, burning a Soviet flag. You see? If he can ... I remember thinking to myself, 'If he's free enough to do that over there...' Isn't that what it's all about, Kevin?"

Well, OK. Tell the truth, I'm not 100 percent sure what the Soviet Union is or was. But anyway, I get his point-if people in other countries can burn their flags, then shouldn't we be allowed to, here in this, "the freest country in the world" according to John Riordon?

"Thanks, Dad."

He nods sort of dreamily, like he's glad he doesn't have to talk anymore. Did he always know this kind of stuff, back when I wasn't listening to him? It's tough to know someone's smart when they don't talk. Mom always said he was smart, but Mom also said she loved him.

I stay up late thinking about it all. Dad's right: People will stay stupid if they can. And in being right, he confirmed what I was thinking before, so that's cool.

What people don't get is that symbols may be great, but they're just symbols, right? And the problem with a symbol is that you don't always know what it means, or what it means to someone else. So you think you're on the same page, but you're not. If it took us hours of arguing in English cla.s.s and we still couldn't agree on what the moors symbolize in Wuthering Heights, how the h.e.l.l can we a.s.sume we all agree on what the flag symbolizes?

I saw a guy on TV once who said that the flag didn't symbolize freedom-it symbolized years of slavery and oppression. I don't really agree with that, but who am I to tell him he's wrong?

So it's like everyone can dump whatever meaning they want on a symbol, which means that you can't really rely on it. You can't be sure it means what you think it means, so it's better to go to the truth of the matter, to the meanings themselves.

Right?

My head hurts. This stuff is complicated. I'm not used to it.

OK, here's the thing-no one died for the flag, for the symbol. That's stupid. They died for what the symbol represents.

I mean, the flag represents freedom. To me, at least. And that's fine and I'd probably be willing to die to protect my freedom.

But would I be willing to die to protect the flag? Duh-no! It's just a flag. It's just a piece of fabric. No one would die for that. Even the people who think flag burning is wrong-if you put them in that position, I bet they'd choose their own lives instead.

In fact, around about midnight, I have something of a revelation, which is very cool. The right to burn the flag is the greatest possible symbol of our freedoms. That's what I realize.

So, I consider burning a flag at school. Just to make my point. Leah couldn't help but be impressed, right?

Only it wouldn't be a real flag. It would be one with forty nine stars. Or one with a single off-white stripe. Or something like that. Some tiny, minuscule difference, just to show how stupid it is to get upset about it. Because, like, burning that extra star somehow makes it terrorism or what Father McKane used to call "apostasy"? (I love that word. It sounds cool when you say it, but how often do you actually get to use it? Apostasy.) But two things stop me: One, Dad's right. The act of burning the flag would get everyone so p.i.s.sed off they would miss my point.

And second of all-I don't know where to get a flag with just forty nine stars or a single off-white stripe.

So, I settle for a reb.u.t.tal. It's not fair that Riordon got to critique everything I said but I didn't get the chance to bash him back. I'll take up Fam's offer to help and I'll go to the Doc and demand a reb.u.t.tal.

I drift in and out of sleep. I've got Dad and Fam and Leah and Dr. Goethe and Reporter Guy all yelling and screaming and cajoling inside my head, and who can sleep with that kind of racket going on?

Mom joins in the chorus, too. I still haven't told Dad about her offer. I need to, but I can't for some reason. I mean, I'm definitely going. There's no question about it. I'm going. I need to get away from Brookdale, away from the whole hero/villain thing, away from Leah, because ... Because it's not good for me to be around Leah.

I think of what I really wanted to ask Dad: Is it true what they said in the Loco? Did you betray your country? What happened, Dad?

I mean, I need to know. Because I feel like I'm following in his footsteps, in a way. And I need to know if it's the right thing to do, or if I'm gonna end up p.i.s.sed off and depressed and just plain messed up, emptying garbage cans for a living.

So after Dad leaves for work in the armpit of the morning, I start snooping through his stuff.

It takes longer than I figured it would. Dad's bedroom is tiny, but, like the rest of the apartment, it's piled high with all kinds of un-garbage. Three broken vacuum cleaners, one of those powered mop things with a cracked plastic case, the guts of a computer monitor, and two different nightstands with the drawers removed and stacked up in a corner.

I go pawing through all the junk, looking for hidden stuff, then go through the dresser. Dad's clothes, in total opposition to the surroundings, are folded and stacked all military-like. I'm very careful handling them-for all I know, Dad has memorized exactly how everything is positioned.

Nothing in the dresser, so I move to the tiny closet. There's boxes of my stuff in there, things I haven't looked at in years. I don't let myself get caught up in it, though-I have a mission.

At the bottom of the closet, way in the back, I find a shoe-box that doesn't look all that s.e.xy, so there's gotta be something in it for Dad to have kept it. I sit there for a second, holding the box, and I'm sure that when I open it it's going to actually be shoes, because that's the way my luck seems to run.

Instead, there are two smaller boxes inside, and some papers. I try to read the papers, but it's all military gobbledegook and my brain gives up because the boxes are much more interesting.

I open them.

Wow.

Medals.