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Lion and Jeff are chiseled out of marble block with crude tools. These are not sleek sailboats; these are destroyers.
    I removed the paper from under my plate and gave it a look. It was called the Aryan Press and in the center of the front page was a not very professional drawing of an ape alongside an equal-quality drawing of a black man. Both were side profiles in similar positions, bent forward and staring straight ahead. Around each picture were labels and arrows showing assumed similarities between the two. I’ve seen it before on a poster—though more professionally drawn—down in the men’s can at the Red Rooster. It’s the “scientific proof” bigots use to prove blacks are further back on the evolutionary scale than whites. If it weren’t so silly, it’d be downright offensive. The rest of the paper was filled with stories about atrocities Jews and blacks have committed on the blue-eyed, blond population through the ages—a couple of hard shots to the stomach about “equal opportunity” and some serious warnings about the dangers of contaminating a pure bloodline. I stared at it a few seconds, then asked Jeff where he got it.
    â€œThey’re all over school,” he said. “Somebody’s been sticking them in unlocked lockers, and there’s a stack of them out by the front entrance.”
    Before any of us could say what we thought we should do, Lion was up and headed for the door. Jeff and Elaine and I followed him out of sheer habit. At the front entrance he took one look at the stack of papers, moved them to the middle of the sidewalk, broke the bailing wire that held them together, spread them out a little for air and put a match to them. The match blew out and he tried another. Someone threw him a disposable lighter and that did the trick. Without thinking, we were into the spirit, moving the metal garbage cans around the fire to keep it contained, and stood watching the papers burn as kids and teachers poured out of classrooms and the cafeteria. Most of them obviously didn’t know what the commotion was about, and Lion passed a couple of unburned copies among them. Then he stood up on one of the garbage cans and raised his hands. He presented enough of a spectacle to get something that vaguely resembled silence, and he roared, “I catch anyone passing this crap out and he’ll answer to me for it! I’ll kick his butt! I’ve been going to this school four years and I’m proud of it! This crap stinks and Iwon’t have it!” He got down as Mrs. Stevens, the vice-principal, stormed through the doors with a fire extinguisher. She extinguished the flames in seconds, then turned to the crowd, furious. “Who’s responsible for this?” she demanded, and Lion stepped forward.
    â€œI am,” he said, “and I’m headed for your office.”
    Mrs. Stevens said, “You better be, Buster, and you better have a darn good explanation.” They both disappeared as Elaine and Jeff and I started picking up the partially burned papers, cramming them into the garbage drums. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Max. “What’s going on?” he asked, and I handed him one of the papers. He looked at it and smiled, shaking his head. “Lion find a cause?” he asked.
    I smiled and nodded. “Looks like it.”
    Max shook his head again and said, “I wouldn’t give it my time.” He went back inside.
    It had all happened so fast no one had time to think. That’s the way Lion is. When he’s hot, he comes on like a flash flood. He knows exactly what his values are at any given moment and what he’s willing to go to the wall for; let the consequences fall into place later. Consequences would be light for this. Lion would be back in the cafeteria almost before we would. Mrs. Stevens came to Frost seven years ago because she’sbeen the most successful administrator