EDITED BY KWAME MBALIA
STORIES BY:
B. B. ALSTON
DEAN ATTA
P. DJÈLÍ CLARK
JAY COLES
JERRY CRAFT
LAMAR GILES
DON P. HOOPER
GEORGE M. JOHNSON
VARIAN JOHNSON
KWAME MBALIA
SUYI DAVIES OKUNGBOWA
TOCHI ONYEBUCHI
JULIAN RANDALL
JASON REYNOLDS
JUSTIN A. REYNOLDS
DAVAUN SANDERS
JULIAN WINTERS
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2021 by Kwame Mbalia
“The McCoy Game” © 2021 by B. B. Alston
“Extinct” © 2021 by Dean Atta
“Epic Venture” © 2021 by Jay Coles
“Percival and the Jab” © 2021 by P. Djèlí Clark
“Embracing My Black Boy Joy” © 2021 by Jerry Craft
“There’s Going to Be a Fight in the Cafeteria on Friday and You Better Not Bring Batman” © 2021 by Lamar Giles
“Got Me a Jet Pack” © 2021 by Don P. Hooper
“The Gender Reveal” © 2021 by George M. Johnson
“The Definition of Cool” © 2021 by Varian Johnson
“The Griot of Grover Street” © 2021 by Kwame Mbalia
“Five Thousand Light-Years to Home” © 2021 by Suyi Davies Okungbowa
“Coping” © 2021 by Tochi Onyebuchi
“But Also, Jazz” © 2021 by Julian Randall
“First-Day Fly” © 2021 by Jason Reynolds
“Our Dill” © 2021 by justin a. reynolds
“Kassius’s Foolproof Guide to Losing the Turkey Bowl” © 2021 by DaVaun Sanders
“The Legendary Lawrence Cobbler” © 2021 by Julian Winters
Cover art copyright © 2021 by Kadir Nelson
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 9780593379936 (trade) — ISBN 9780593379943 (lib. bdg.) — ebook ISBN 9780593379950
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TO THE ONES THEY CALLED ANGRY, BROKEN, SAD, AND HOPELESS, BUT WERE SILENT AMIDST YOUR JOY
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Introduction
The Griot of Grover Street: Part One by Kwame Mbalia
There’s Going to Be a Fight in the Cafeteria on Friday and You Better Not Bring Batman by Lamar Giles
The McCoy Game by B. B. Alston
The Legendary Lawrence Cobbler by Julian Winters
First-Day Fly by Jason Reynolds
Got Me a Jet Pack by Don P. Hooper
Extinct by Dean Atta
Epic Venture by Jay Coles
The Definition of Cool by Varian Johnson
The Griot of Grover Street: Part Two by Kwame Mbalia
Five Thousand Light-Years to Home by Suyi Davies Okungbowa
Coping by Tochi Onyebuchi
The Gender Reveal by George M. Johnson
Kassius’s Foolproof Guide to Losing the Turkey Bowl by DaVaun Sanders
But Also, Jazz by Julian Randall
Our Dill by justin a. reynolds
Percival and the Jab by P. Djèlí Clark
Embracing My Black Boy Joy by Jerry Craft
The Griot of Grover Street: Part Three by Kwame Mbalia
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
INTRODUCTION
Here’s a secret: I don’t like watching the news. Is that weird? It’s because for a long time, when I would come into the kitchen for my fifth snack in thirty minutes and my parents had the television on, the news was always reporting on some local shooting or some death or some other tragedy that made my mother shake her head and my father scowl at the screen. Because nine times out of ten, a face like mine was on the screen.
Here’s another secret: when I’m happy I cry. Happy for myself, happy for my friends, happy for some stranger who just won a lifetime supply of string cheese—it doesn’t matter; I will tear up as I’m jumping up and down in excitement.
One more secret: I want you to be happy.
Okay, that one wasn’t really a secret but it had to be said, so just pretend with me, okay? And as long as we’re pretending, imagine me dumping those three secrets into a giant bowl, inviting sixteen Black author friends to help me stir while they add in a dollop of magic and a sprinkle of swag, and what do we get?
Black Boy Joy.
The term was coined back in 2016 by Danielle Young and has grown to encompass the revelry, the excitement, the sheer fun of growing up as boys in and out of the hood. Their stories—our stories—deserve to be highlighted on the afternoon news. Explored. Seen and celebrated. I am thrilled that this book brings together so many different types of these stories from so many incredible authors.
So sit back. Grab your string cheese. Prepare to laugh, cry, and maybe even dance, but most of all, prepare to feel joyful.
PART ONE
HOMEGOING. That’s what Fort’s mother and Aunt Jess and Mimi called it. Homegoing. Sounded fun, actually, like returning to your own bedroom after sleeping over your cousin’s house for a week. Or a party at three p.m. every day when school let out to celebrate being done with classes. That would’ve been cool. But homegoing meant something different.
It meant a funeral.
The church marquee read antoinette robinson’s homegoing, friday 5:30 p.m., and it was wrong. Nobody knew an Antoinette Robinson—they called her Aunt Netta. She had the warmest hugs, the biggest smiles, and the sweetest apple turnovers Fort Jones had ever tasted, which she dusted with sugar and served after church services at the repast.
Fort would miss the turnovers, not because they were delicious (they were) or because she made one special for him when he couldn’t sit still during the sermon and got sent to the kitchen to help (she always had one set aside), but because as he sat there kicking his feet and eating the hot, sticky dessert, Aunt Netta would sing.
He’d miss the singing too.
That’s what Fort was thinking about when the strange old man appeared in front of him like magic. There Fort was, running out the Grover Street Church’s double d
oors into the Carolina sun, sprinting through the parking lot to the grassy field on the other side, cuffing the tears out his eyes, when the man materialized out of nowhere. Fort almost managed to pull up and sidestep to the left.
CRASH
Suddenly down was up, left was right, his knee throbbed painfully, and Fort tasted the delightful flavor of dirt. Crunchy dirt. He was going to have to brush his teeth for an hour to get the taste out. But as he lay on his back staring up at the sky thinking of the amount of mouthwash he’d need, he heard the strangest thing. Words, yes, but strung together like he’d never heard before.
“The lightning! Spilled the lightning! And the fireflies, oh, they’ll be angry. Hmm, is that—Oh, biscuits! The chuckle-snorts!”
Fort sat up to find the strange old man on his knees, digging through an overturned wagon with the saddest expression. And if that wasn’t weird enough, the man’s outfit was. He wore a long cape—black on the outside, purple on the inside—silver pants, mismatched flip-flops with the tag still attached, and, to top it all off, a yellow derby hat with a white feather, the words “Gary the Griot” stenciled on the brim.
Fort gawked at him, but when the man finally looked up and their eyes met, the boy hurried to help.
“Sorry!” Fort said. “I didn’t see you. I was…well, I wasn’t paying attention.” He didn’t want to mention the tears or the reason behind them. Why did there have to be so much sadness in the world? But before the corners of his eyes could prickle all over again, Fort spotted a humongous glass jar tilted on its side and frowned.
“Happens to the best of us at the worst of times,” the old man said. “Apology accepted. I’m sure you didn’t—OH, BISCUITS, THE JOY IS GONE!” He reached down and grunted and heaved the jar into the air, studying a giant crack that ran along the bottom.
Actually, maybe humongous was an understatement.
The jar came up to Fort’s waist, and he was tall for his eleven years. And not only was it big, it was wide as well, so wide that Fort struggled to understand how it could have fit inside the wagon with the rest of the stuff in the first place. The glass was stained blue, so much so that it looked like it used to hold blue raspberry Kool-Aid.
“The joy, the joy! It’s gone! My last delivery, gone!” The man waved his arms in the air—which should’ve been impossible because he still held the jar—in dismay.
Fort went to dust himself off, then tried not to groan as his hands came away wet and stained. He was going to be in so much trouble. Bad enough he’d left the church in the middle of the service, crying like a toddler, but now this. His one good suit (he was getting too big for it; his ankles were peeking out from under his cuffs) was covered in that blue stuff, and…what was it?
“I’m so sorry. This is all my fault,” Fort apologized. “I was—”
“FORTITUDE JONES, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
Uh-oh.
Mama’s voice was so sharp it could cut glass. As Fort turned to see her marching down the stairs—her black dress and black shawl fluttering in the summer breeze, one hand on her back, one hand on her rounded stomach, one week away from her due date—he braced for the tongue lashing sure to come. This wasn’t the first time he’d gotten in trouble at church, and it wouldn’t be the last.
So when she stepped past him to help the strange man, Fort was confused.
“Are you okay, Mr. G?” Mama asked.
Did she know this guy?
The strange old man, still struggling under the weight of the giant cracked jar, waddled around to face her and tried to bow. “Of course, Madam Jones, it was but an accident.”
At least, that’s what Fort thought he tried to say. But the man, Mr. G, had his face smushed against the bottom of the jar, so what it sounded like was “Offacoursh, bagabones, lizard butt dragon lint.” It was so preposterous that Fort started to smile, which of course was the exact moment when Mama whirled around and laid into him.
“Fortitude Jones, how many times have I told you to watch where you’re going? You get so excited you don’t look but two feet in front of you. Did you apologize?”
“Yes, Mama,” Fort said, but for good measure he turned to Mr. G and did so again. “Sorry for knocking over all your stuff.”
Mr. G sighed and flapped a hand (nearly dropping the jar—Fort was starting to get concerned). “No worries, young man, provided, of course”—Mr. G waddled over and peered at the boy from beneath a pair of impressively bushy eyebrows, which looked like a caterpillar doing the worm when they moved—“you help me refill the jar.”
Wait. Fort started to shake his head. “I don’t think—”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Mama said. “Fortitude, you go on and help Mr. G. I gotta get back inside and help out. Go on, now! Aunt Netta wouldn’t have wanted you ’round outside anyway.”
Mama’s tone left no room for argument, and—if he was being honest—she was right. Aunt Netta always told him moping and a quarter could buy him a soda.
The world is harsh. Find your joy, Fortitude, and it’ll be your night-light when everything is dark.
So, before Mama’s eyes could narrow, he dusted off his pants and stood. “Yes, Mama.”
She nodded, kissed his forehead, and went inside. It was hard on her, being not quite nine months pregnant and losing one of her closest friends in Aunt Netta. Fort tried to help out, tried to do as much as he could for her, but getting in trouble was definitely not making things easier.
“Well then, young Fortitude.”
Fort turned to find Mr. G studying him, before the man handed him a butterfly net, two nickels, and a broken bubble wand. Fort held all the items, confused, but the old man had already twirled around (yes, twirled, with more agility than seemed possible) and pranced over (yes, pranced, is this going to be a thing?) to the wagon before Fort could ask any questions—like what, exactly, they were meant to be collecting. Mr. G tucked the jar inside, then pulled out a bright blue nylon roll. He yanked a cord, skipped backward, then clapped his hands together and laughed.
Fort stared in amazement. Where there had been nothing but painted yellow lines in the church parking lot there now stood a large inflatable door.
A door.
Fort rubbed his eyes, blinked, then squinted.
Mr. G was already lugging the wagon and whistling as he unzipped the air-filled entrance and pulled it open. Instead of revealing the other side of the parking lot, bright and sweltering in the midday sun, Fort saw cool darkness and silver stars dangling at ground level on the other side.
“Come on, young man, come on! The final delivery of joy must be collected if balance is to be found!” And the strange old man danced through the doorway, the wagon disappearing behind him.
Fort stepped closer to the door. It shimmered as he approached, and…was it growing bigger? He could smell something delicious coming from inside…like…apple turnovers. Fort looked back at the church. He couldn’t go back there—if Mama didn’t catch him, someone else would and he’d still get in trouble. It takes a village to ground a child, apparently.
“Well?”
Fort startled out of his thoughts.
Mr. G stuck his head out the doorway and frowned. “Aren’t you coming to help?”
Find your joy, Fortitude.
Fort took a deep breath, nodded, and stepped into wonder.
* * *
Imagine walking through the stars. An interactive planetarium where you can reach out and touch worlds. Galaxies. Nebulas. Clusters of suns that appear and disappear with every step. Imagine trailing your fingers through the tail of a comet that burns through space right beside you. Fort saw all this and more.
Mama would flip if she was here. Did she know about it? She always did love to look at the stars, point out meteors, and just sit and hum under the light of the moon. As Fort turned in wonder, a planet the size of
a beach ball with two marble-sized moons floated toward him.
“What is this place?” he whispered.
“The Between.” Mr. G’s voice came from somewhere ahead. “The realm between worlds.”
“A different realm?”
“And a shortcut.” The old man appeared to Fort’s left. As he pulled his wagon, he was sprinkling what looked like sparks into the air above his head. When he reached Fort he stopped, turned around, and blew out a strong puff of air. The sparks scattered, speckling the dark and twinkling.
They’re stars, Fort realized.
Mr. G dusted his hands and nodded thoughtfully. “Traveling from world to world would be terribly inefficient if not for the Between. Could you imagine the fuel costs? Astronomical. Not to mention all the rest stops. No, no, simply impossible. But we have the Between, and thus the joy can be collected like that!” He snapped a finger. “Now, where’s that net?”
“What do you mean, joy?” Fort asked as he handed over the butterfly net. “How did you find this place?”
Mr. G laughed. “Find? Ha! No one finds the Between, young one. They are shown. Led. Taught. My teacher showed me, and now I show you. This will be your responsibility soon.”
“Me? Why?”
The old man reached forward, his hand disappearing behind Fort’s head, then reappearing with one of the nickels he’d given the boy. “Balance. You wondered why there had to be so much sadness, my boy. Oh, don’t make that face, I know you were thinking it. And where there’s a question, there must be an answer. Besides, you broke the collecting jar, so now you have to replenish the joy. Your mother said so.”
The words whizzed around Fort’s head like moons around a planet. Nothing made sense. Maybe he could sneak back and find the weird inflatable door, and then he could go back to…
Black Boy Joy Page 1
