"What precedent was set in the case of Brown versus the Board of Education and how does it apply to the case discussed above?"
Martha made a face as though she had just been told an obscene joke with no discernible punch-line, then heaved a heavy sigh and collapsed face-first onto the book that lay open in front of her with a groan.
Jonathan put his hands up and tried to approximate an apologetic expression as he leaned back in his chair and adjusted his reading glasses. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger. I'm just reading what's on the paper," he said, tapping his pencil on the study sheet he held in front of him. "And if you expect to get through all of this today we better keep going."
She sat up and eyed him tiredly. "Slave driver," she countered, then begrudgingly opened her notebook for any information that might help to answer the question posed to her. She had been meeting Jonathan at the library where they'd studied together for almost a week now, but at the moment she wasn't sure whether his determination on her behalf was endearing or a form of mental torture. Maybe it was just payback for her being so hard on him about his own study habits, which apparently consisted of whatever reading he could squeeze in between classes. "I don't have to take this abuse, you know. I can go home for that," she quipped.
"Oh, no, you don't." Jonathan took off his glasses, holding them as he gestured pointedly at her. "If I had to learn all those watchama-formulas by heart, you, Ms. Clark, are going to know this"--he poked his finger at the paper still in his hand--"by Monday."
"Who says?" Martha crossed her arms and raised an expectant eyebrow as she stared at her study-mate from across the table.
"Me," he answered simply, leaning back in his chair again and grinning.
She glared back at him and took one more peek at the pages then stood and tugged primly at her skirt before clearing her throat. "In the case of Brown versus the Board of Education, first tried in 1952 but decided in 1954, it was determined that 'separate but equal' did not afford minority children the same rights and privileges afforded to their white counterparts under the Fourteenth Amendment. The Fourteenth Amendment guarantees that 'No state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.' " She put her hands squarely on the table and bent toward her one-man audience. "Why then, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, do we continue to allow the denial of our own personal liberties as they pertain to life and the pursuit of liberty and --though not stated above-- happiness, under the guise of familial obligation when such action denies us the very freedoms we have fought so hard to attain? Such freedoms are God-given and supported under the law. So," she added forcefully, "If, under these circumstances, one decides that happiness is foremost, then the aforementioned individual reserves the right to do this. " The last word was punctuated by the closing of the book that had still lain open on the table.
Jonathan sat forward at the table, leaning on his elbows toward her. "Feel better?" he asked thoughtfully, peering up at her with a certain tranquil gleam in his eye-- and something else she wouldn't put a name to just then, but whatever it was, it made her very aware of how close they found themselves at that moment. Her hands were still on the table, her body still inclined toward his. Part of her wanted to move, step back, in some way remove herself from the awkward position she'd put herself into with her little theatrics. And part of her didn't.
She swallowed past the dryness in her throat and answered softly, "Yes."
"Good," he said almost as quietly, his eyes never leaving hers. "Do you wanna tell me what that was all about?"
It took a moment for the fog in her mind to clear enough to process not only the question but a coherent answer. Finally, she looked down, collected herself, and took a seat. "I don't know. I--do you ever wonder whether you're living your life or someone else's?"
"Every day," Jonathan sighed then straightened in his chair, laying his glasses and pencil on the table. To say Martha was shocked was an understatement. She had had a sneaking suspicion these past few days that the man could persuade a cat to bark if he so pleased. How could he possibly understand about her situation? He could do anything he chose to do....
"My dad's a farmer. His dad was a farmer, and now that's what he expects from me. The trouble is, I don't know that it's what I want, but I don't know how to tell him. He's given the shirt off his back just to keep the place. I'm busting my butt in three classes then have to drive home every Friday so I can try to make up as much work as I can around the place. Not to mention the part-time job at the loading docks to pay for this," he said, waving toward the books that lay stacked on the table. "Sometimes I wonder where it's all going to get me."
If a thimble had been handy, it might have made a nice hat at that moment. If she'd felt any smaller she might have disappeared--except for her eyes, which were large with shock. "Jonathan, I had no idea."
Jonathan almost laughed as he looked down and fidgeted nervously with the pencil he had left on the table. "Martha, I'm just a little on the poor side. I'm not dying." She'd never seen him blush before but was pretty certain that he had just been fairly close.
"Oh, no. I didn't mean...it's just that here I am feeling sorry for myself when my biggest problem is that I can't get up the nerve to tell my father I don't want to be a lawyer. I don't think I could ever manage all of that."
"Don't sell yourself so short--you work really hard. You're just smart enough to do it all with your mind and not your back." He tried to smile but his self-effacing jab didn't quite have the intended effect on either of them. "Any father would be proud of you," he added ruefully.
"I'm sure your father is just as proud of you," she assured him, resting what she hoped was a comforting hand on his shoulder.
But whatever melancholy mood had come over him was quickly swept away and locked safely in the secret place all men must have for those weaknesses that the world must never see. His eyes lit with that familiar happy glow as he turned to her and said, "Hey, I'm supposed to be the one cheering you up, remember?"
"You did." He stared back at her, probably likelier to believe she could fly, judging by the look on his face.
"You made me even more glad I met you. And, by the way," she said, her tone more cross, "the only thing I see that's poor around here is your view of me, Jonathan Kent, if you thought I gave two cents about whether you were a farmer, a plumber, or a Wall Street tycoon." Then she gave him a light pinch on the arm just to prove her point.
"Ow!" he cried, shrunk back in his chair, pretending to be mortally wounded and nursing his 'injury'. "You're brutal when you're angry."
Martha just rolled her eyes at his antics and his impossibly boyish grin. She had obviously said something right but sometimes he could be such a....a man. Maybe it would wear off, she thought absently, as she shook her head, smiled, and tugged her book closer to read.
"Of course, I could change my mind," A smirk crept across her lips despite her attempt to sound genuinely exasperated. She turned a page, purposefully not looking at him.
"You know, there's kind of a--well, a--a social thing in Smallville this weekend. I was wondering...if maybe you would want to go ---with me," he hastened to add, as though he honestly worried she might think he had asked on someone else's behalf.
So much for reading or anything else that might require actual thought. For a long moment she just sat there, staring blankly at the pages in front of her, replaying what he had said in her head just to be sure of the question. When Martha did look up, she almost felt guilty, him sitting there- fingers fidgeting once again with the pencil that lay on the table--looking positively vulnerable while he waited for a reply. But she couldn't exactly throw herself into his arms like some hokey scene straight out of a romance novel. After all, any self-respecting woman could never let a man think she was at his beck and call--despite the butterflies that now fluttered wildly around in her stomach.
"This weekend?" His face fell just a fraction at the uncertainty in her voice and she knew she couldn't let him linger any longer, especially since it was taking most of her own willpower not to jump up and announce the occasion to the whole building. "I think I can make it."
The smile on his face and hers was worth the wait.
TBC...