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“...And with you, we’ll have three!” Alex finishes, flashing Aaron a bright grin. He is so damn cocky, absolutely certain that because he opened with flattery (“Aaron, you’re a better student than me”) Aaron is going to get on board with his and John Jay’s madcap scheme.
“No.” says Aaron. Alex’s eyebrows shoot together.
“What? Why?” He demands.
“Because I have eighty lines of Virgil to translate, a paper on Louis XVI, a math test tomorrow, and I’m skyping with Theodosia at eight,” he answers. “And,” he says, forestalling Alex’s interruption with a raised finger, “because I don’t care.”
Alex frowns. “Yes, you do. You came to every single one of the student protests. You almost got expelled.”
Aaron has to stifle a grin at the memory, because with the Student Constitution they’d demanded finally drafted, he doesn’t want to convey the slightest interest in Alex’s anonymously-published-defending-the-document-to-the-public shenanigans. “‘Almost’ was quite enough for me,” he says, then clears his throat. Time to redirect the conversation. “Still, I’m surprised James said no.”
Alex blinks at him. “Who?”
“You know--James. Jemmy.” Aaron points to where the boy, practically drowning in a green sweater several sizes too large, is struggling to reposition the podium they’d used for their conference. “The one who planned this whole thing?”
“That’s ridiculous,” scoffs Alex, opening his crookedly-stapled brochure. “It specifically says right here that the convention was organized by…” he flips through the pages. “Madison.”
“Yes,” replies Aaron testily. “James Madison.”
“Oh.” Someone who doesn’t know Alex wouldn’t notice the slight blush on his cheeks, but Aaron does know Alex, better than he’d like at times. “Well, the kid doesn’t even have a Facebook,” he says dismissively. “How was I supposed to know he had a last name? And wasn’t he sick for like half of spring term last year?”
“Yes, and I don’t have a Facebook, but you still know my last name,” points out Aaron. A thought seizes him. “Wait, Alex, you do kn-”
“Oh my God, Burr, shut up!” cringes Alex, punching Aaron in the shoulder. It’s inappropriately forceful for their level of friendship, but he lets it slide. “You were in the Revolution. Jemmy never went to a single protest.”
“Like you said, he was sick.” Aaron shrugs. “Doesn’t mean he can’t help you now.”
Alex fiddles absently with the strings of his hoodie. “Okay, but you saw him when he spoke on stage today. He was an absolute mess. And he looks about twelve.”
His bid to end their argument has instead become another debate, something that happens often enough for Aaron to suspect Alex of doing it on purpose. The dismissive grin on Alex’s face is perfectly calibrated to make Aaron’s teeth clench, and he can feel his blood pressure rising. But nearly submerged beneath the smile, visible only to the trained eye, is Alex’s other side: the part of him that respects Aaron’s opinions and wants to know more, but would deny it to the ends of the earth out of a misplaced sense of pride. Combined, the boy’s expression shouts: convince me.
Aaron is more than happy to. “Low blow, Alex,” he snaps. “I expect better from you. James is the one who wrote the original draft for this Constitution. Just because he has stage fright doesn’t mean he can’t use a word processor.”
“‘Word processor?’ What is this, 2004?” Alex rushes ahead before Aaron can respond. “The original draft was adequate, but it wasn’t nearly as good as my idea about revitalizing the core curriculum, which if anyone had bothered to listen” --through the full, two hour presentation, thinks Aaron-- “they would have adopted on the spot. The weaknesses in Jemmy’s so-called Constitution are why we need to defend it to the public.”
“I thought you were for the thing,” Aaron parries, leaning in. “Or was that before you realized someone else might get a little bit of the credit?”
Their voices have risen, and Aaron glances over at James, relieved to see that the boy is still dragging extra chairs across the stage. He flicks his gaze back to his opponent, holding eye contact until Alex looks away.
“Well, fine,” he admits, running a hand through his hair. “It’s a damn good constitution. But it was a group effort,” --and don’t think Aaron misses that change in tactics-- “so we still have no evidence Jemmy can actually write. I don’t want to be holding his hand if he can’t keep up with me and John.”
By way of an answer, Aaron pulls out his smartphone, and he can see that Alex is a little curious now. As he starts Safari, he glances up briefly. “Remember that bill in my neighborhood last year? The one about the churches?” Patrick Henry, Virginia Street’s resident blowhard, had proposed an extra tax on all the local families, with funds to go to the three nearby Sunday schools. Aaron, who had been forced to sit through one of those schools until age fifteen, had ranted to Alex repeatedly about the debacle until the Neighborhood Association had rejected it.
“That was James?” splutters Alex. “He’s even worse than I thought! I can’t believe--”
“No, it was Mr. Henry.” Aaron interrupts. “James was the one who defeated it, even though minors technically aren’t allowed to participate in the Association votes.” That rule is another sticking point for Alex, but Aaron doesn’t care about it much as long as nothing going on directly involves him--which most of the time, it doesn’t.
He finally succeeds in navigating to the local subreddit, which is inactive enough that James’ thread, posted under a throwaway account, is still on the front page. He taps the link and hands the phone to Alex.
“‘On the Proposal for Locally Funded Christian Education,’” he reads, “‘An Itemized List of Fifteen Different Disagreements.’” For once, Alex is quiet for ten consecutive seconds, as he scans the opening paragraphs of the document. He looks up far too fast to have read the whole thing.
“Okay,” he starts, “but he should also point out that exempting only Jews ignores all the other non-Christian groups in the neighborhood.”
Aaron points at bullet number four.
“And he didn’t bother to talk about whether all the churches even want the Neighborhood Association to--” Aaron scrolls down to number seven, jabs a finger at it. Alex rolls his eyes confidently.
“That doesn’t address the fact that the Sunday schools are already financially solvent on voluntary donations from their--” Aaron, practically snarling, grabs the phone from Alex’s hand and scrolls to number five before handing it back.
“Okay,” says Alex, and his tone is only the tiniest fraction less obnoxious, “but the argument would appeal to Christians better if--” Aaron, seeing where this is going, points to number twelve, but unbelievably, Alex just swerves again. “Which doesn’t account for the feasibility of even imposing a law like that without--” This time, Aaron’s eyeroll is enough, and Alex stops to read point thirteen. His jaw drops a little, and Aaron can practically see the gears grinding in his brain. The boy quickly scrolls up to the top of the page and begins to read again, carefully this time. A furtive glance across the room confirms to Aaron that James is still sitting on the edge of the stage, washing down a handful of his daily pills with a plastic water bottle.
Looking over Alex’s shoulder, Aaron can see that he has reached point ten (“Added Tax Would Exacerbate High Real Estate Prices, Spurring Emigration”), and his mouth has dropped open into a slight ‘o.’
“I didn’t think of that!” he says indignantly, and Aaron almost laughs at how shocked he is. As if the idea that someone else might have thought of a notion before him defies plausibility.
Aaron waits another few minutes, for Alex to finish reading, then takes back his phone before he can get a look at the inflammatory comments. They need to stay focused.
“So,” he inquires. “Convinced?”
Alex nods. “Yeah. I gotta clear it with John, but we can probably let him join if--”
That’s where Aaron snaps. He had been about to relax, smile even, but instead he grabs Alex by the arm before he can think, then seizes his other shoulder to anchor him in place.
“Hamilton,” he hisses, drawing himself up to his full height, and Alex’s eyes widen, because when Aaron uses last names you know things are bad. “Let me make myself very clear. You will not let James do anything. You will ask him whether he would please be willing to help you in your project, which otherwise could not possibly succeed.” Alex’s face is a battle between terror and irritation.
“But I--”
“James Madison is a genius. I don’t care what he looks like, I don’t care how he sounds up on stage. He is at least as smart as you and you have no right to talk down to him that way.” Or talk down to any of us that way, he doesn’t add. Aaron realizes he is squeezing Alex hard enough to hurt, and relaxes his grip. “Alright?”
A long, slow nod. “Alright.” He follows the statement up with a muttered “geez” as Aaron releases him. Then he turns towards James.
James is about to leave the room, texting his mom to say he’ll meet her in the parking lot, when a taller boy runs up to him. It’s the kid who wouldn’t shut up during the morning session, or, as James soon learns, “Alexander Hamilton, at your service, sir.”
“Can I help you?” He blinks. Despite Alex’s effusive greeting, the ensuing silence stretches on far too long, and James realizes that Alex looks almost like he does when his throat swells up. Shit, is the kid having an allergic reaction? James is about to offer his epipen when Alex swallows and begins to force a few words through his teeth.
“Je--James,” he starts, and James has no idea where this is going, though at least anaphylactic shock is looking less likely. “John Jay and I are planning to write some articles for the school paper, defending the new Constitution.” Alex takes a deep breath. “And we were wondering if you would please help us.” He explains the plan, how the three of them would each write essays advocating for the new Constitution as a better form of student government, and ends by praising James’ work on the conference and on the Virginia religion bill last year. By the end of the speech, which he delivers without once stopping for air, Alex is panting.
James thinks for a moment, then smiles. “Sure!” He says. “Actually, I had a similar idea.” He pulls out a laptop. “I gotta go soon, but I took some notes in a Google doc, so if you add your names, we can start dividing up arguments.”
Across the room, Aaron Burr grins in satisfaction, shoving his hands in his pockets. It’s nice to see James get some respect for once, and even better to see Alex taken down a peg.
As the pair shake hands and part, Aaron takes a moment to contemplate. Sometimes, he thinks Alexander Hamilton is absolutely hopeless, and will forever remain as self-centered, infuriating, and pompous as he has been all the years he’s known him. Other times, he thinks the kid might actually change. And, though his own ego flinches at the thought, once in a while he wonders how much he wants him to. Alex as he stands may not be succinct, but he is passionate and persuasive, and that counts for something: it’s hard to ignore the fact that Aaron has just spent quite a bit of time and effort arguing towards the success of a project he supposedly doesn’t care about.
Speaking of time...Aaron glances down at his watch and yelps. It’s already 6:30, and getting home will take at half an hour at least. Aaron snatches up his backpack and sprints for the door, sneakers skidding. He really, really hadn’t been kidding about that math test.