Darius & Twig

by Walter Dean Myers

  “I can stretch as good as he can, anyway,” Twig said when he came over to me. I was going to ask who he was when Coach Day came up. “That’s Jameson,” he said. “He’s got a chance to break the meet record in the 3200. There are probably a dozen scouts in the stands watching him today.”

  “Scouts?” I asked.

  “Guys who sell reports to colleges, or even some alumni who check on local athletes,” Coach said.

  “They sitting in the stands with stopwatches and stuff?” Twig asked. “See who does the fastest 100, the fastest 200, stuff like that?”

  Coach looked at Twig. “Mostly longer races,” he said. “If you can come anywhere near Jameson, they’ll be writing your name down, too. You can bet on that.”

  I felt someone sit next to me and saw that it was Twig’s uncle.

  “When are you going to run?” he said to Twig. “I don’t have all day.”

  “This is my uncle,” Twig said.

  “Oh, you’ve got a good little runner here.” Coach Day extended his hand and Twig’s uncle extended his. “Unfortunately, he’s up against one of the best in the district today. All those reporters are here to see that kid in the maroon jumpsuit do his thing.”

  Twig’s uncle looked over to where Jameson was still being interviewed. There was a woman with a small camera in front of him.

  “How old is he?” Twig’s uncle asked. Good question.

  “Eighteen. A half dozen colleges are interested in him. They even called me to ask how good I think he is.”

  “How good is this boy?” The uncle points toward Twig.

  “He’s coming along,” Coach said. “He’s coming along. They’re going to have the sprint prelims, and then they’ll have the 3200 after that. Normally they’d have the 1600 first, but the press wants to get the 3200 in so they can write up their stories for tomorrow’s paper and still have time to party tonight. Jameson is the story.”

  Coach went back to his position on the sideline. Twig’s uncle returned to the stands and sat two rows up from Twig’s mom. He was going to be aloof all the way. Twig sat next to me.

  “How you feeling?” I asked.

  “Nervous good,” he said. “I’m edgy, like I want to be.”

  “The coach said if you just stay close to this guy, they’ll notice you,” I said. “You ever see him before?”

  “Yeah, one time I was running around the reservoir and he was running at the same time,” Twig said. “He started first and I was just running after him, using him to pace myself. I liked the way he ran and I ran with him, not thinking about much because I was just exercising. Then he took off for a short distance, and then he stopped. It was like he was finishing a race. Later I saw his picture in the paper and then I knew who he was. I always wanted to run against him.”

  “You think you need to relax more?”

  “No, I need to be nervous,” Twig said. “It’s a good feeling.”

  There weren’t any surprises in the sprint semis. Black and Latino kids won; white kids who expected to lose made a showing and gave up.

  In the infield, white kids threw the javelin farther, pole-vaulted higher, and shot-put farther. Black and Latino kids showed up, got eliminated, and put their sweats back on.

  The high jump was mixed, with kids of all races doing fairly well.

  Then came the 3200.

  There were nine runners in the race. Jameson had the inside lane, and Twig was in the fifth. When the gun went off, the racers broke together, but one of the runners from the far outside cut quickly across the track and took the lead. He wore the same maroon-and-gold uniform as Jameson and was going to be the rabbit, the one to set the pace.

  He sprinted ahead of the field quickly and then settled into a steady rhythm. For the first two laps, Twig was fourth, but by the third he had moved up behind the two runners from Ridgefield. He didn’t look good. Several times he wiped at his face, and I wondered if something was bothering him.

  Twig’s uncle had moved above and behind me. I glanced back at him and saw him sitting with his hands folded on his lap, his head cocked to the side.

  “The runners are on pace for a new district record!” came the announcement over the loudspeaker system. Several of the reporters looked at their wristwatches. I wondered what they could tell from that.

  At the beginning of the fourth lap, the runners still held the same position except for some jockeying at the rear of the pack. Twig was still five yards behind Jameson, but there were fifteen yards between him and the fourth runner. My legs were moving with Twig’s. I could feel them, but I couldn’t stop them. I tried to imagine myself flying above the track, looking down at the lead runners, thinking about what I would want to do.

  The runner who was the rabbit in the race moved up slightly as Jameson neared him. Did Jameson say something? Could he feel Twig’s presence?

  By the end of the fifth lap, the kid setting the pace had moved aside, letting Jameson pass him. Twig moved up quickly, but the rabbit picked up speed and Twig didn’t make a move. Twig fell back a few feet, waited until they had passed the first turn, and then moved easily past the guy who had been setting the pace. They knew what they could do, what their roles were. But by the time they had finished the second turn, headed down the long stretch, Twig was another ten yards behind Jameson.

  “Jameson is still on pace for a district record!”

  Now it was no longer “the runners,” it was Jameson. They were circling the 400-yard track in four to six seconds over a minute. A man standing with the reporters gave them the stats for each lap. And at the end of each lap, the loudspeaker announced that Jameson was still on pace.

  There was a buzz from the crowd, a rising murmur that seemed to grow as the runners started the final quarter. A lapped runner moved and let the leaders past. Jameson looked strong, his long arms and legs moving effortlessly, efficiently, along the black cinder track. Twig moved to within a few yards of Jameson, and they were running almost as if they were a team.

  As they went around the far turn of the eighth lap, Jameson took a quick peek over his shoulder. He saw Twig and turned toward the track. He seemed unconcerned. Off to my right, I saw one of the reporters stand up for a better view.

  Nearing the final turn, they were two yards apart. Jameson glanced toward the finish line, and I thought he was calculating just how much energy he had to expend.

  Then they were on the straightaway.

  “It could be a district record!” blared over the loudspeaker.

  Less than a hundred yards to go.

  “It’s going to be a race to the finish!”

  I felt too weak to stand, almost too afraid to look.

  Twig moved a step out and went past Jameson with sixty yards to go. Jameson seemed surprised, but his effort was huge as he pumped his arms furiously. He closed a step, but no farther.

  Twig crossed the finish line mere inches ahead of Jameson. His hands shot into the air. He ran a few yards farther before stopping and bending over, his arms across his chest. Then he stood and turned to where he knew his family was, and where I was, and pumped his fists in the air.

  Afterward, there were hugs all around. Guys from the school tried to lift Twig but let him slip to the ground, and he was lucky to catch himself. Reporters got to Jameson and to Twig. The announcer stated that it had to be verified, but that he thought Fernandez had just set a new district record.

  A reporter walked over to Coach Day, who motioned for Twig’s uncle to come from the stands.

  I listened from a few feet away as Twig’s uncle said something about people in his family having a lot of dedication. I tuned him out. Twig came to me, exhausted, and slapped my palms as I held them up.

  “Was that sweet?” he asked. “Was that sweet?”

  “It was sweet!” I said.

  On the way back to the nabe Twig’s uncle talked about character and, touching his own chest, how races are won by character and heart. He said that when he was young, he was the fastest boy
on his block. But it was Twig’s grandmother who spoke the most. Her face was lit up by an old-lady smile as she said again and again how excited she had been to see Twig run.

  “You were such a small niño,” she said. “No bigger than a handful. Look at you now. No, no, really, look at you!”

  chapter thirteen

  Does the hawk fly by thy wisdom?

  —Job 39:26

  Saturday night and I was on Skype with Twig. I saw he had a new poster on his wall and I asked him about it.

  “That’s Saint Margaret of the Sacred Heart,” Twig said. “My aunt said I should put a saint up in my room instead of worshipping football players.”

  “And you put her up?”

  “No, my aunt did,” Twig said. “And she’s going to stay up until my aunt goes back to the DR.”

  “You still floating from this afternoon?”

  “No, man, I was thinking about it— Uh-oh, I gotta go—I’m supposed to be doing the dishes. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “No, wait, what were you thinking?” I asked.

  “Like how easy it would have been for me not to have been running today,” Twig said. “If my uncle Ernesto had got to my mom, I would have been pushing a broom around his store. It would have been so easy, Big D. That shit is scary. Look, I gotta go!”

  “Later.”

  I hung up and flopped on my bed. Twig was right. It wouldn’t have mattered how fast he was, or how much heart he had, if his uncle had killed it. It just wouldn’t have mattered.

  I took out the story I had sent to the Delta Review. It was a good story and they had got into it. But if they didn’t publish it, then it wouldn’t matter how good it was. Like Mr. Ramey had said, colleges were interested in what did happen, not what could have happened. The editors were asking me to make it clear whether the boy had faith in the dolphins to save him. I knew I needed to find the truth. What was it Miss Carroll had said? All of fiction is truthful. What you create is your own truth and no one can take that away or change it.

  Did the boy, swimming farther and farther away from the safety of the shore, think the dolphins would be there for him? Or was he just finding a way to give up?

  And why had I given him a bad leg?

  “What we need to do,” said Reverend Allen as he stood at the podium at Thursday-night services, “is to show the world that no matter what the world says, there are people in this community who are still right with God! Can you hear me?”

  “Still right!” came from the small gathering.

  “Who are still right with God!” Reverend Allen repeated. “They may not be right with the electric company. They may not be right with the gas company. And they may not be right with their husband or wife, but they are still right with God! And when you’re right with God, nothing else matters except for a little inconvenience.

  “I remember an elderly sister I went to visit about this time last year. I found her sitting up in her kitchen in the dark because she hadn’t been able to pay her light bill. I said, ‘Sister, it’s a shame you have to sit up here in the dark. Let me go out and buy you some candles.

  “She reached over, put her hand on mine, and said, ‘Reverend Allen, it’s just a small bother because my God can see in the dark!’”

  “Amen!”

  “We got people in this community who will always be right with God and some people who need a little help. That’s why I want to get some church members to that party the mayor is throwing this Saturday night. All I want you to do is wear one of the armbands we wear for parades. We have enough of them. And just walk around and let yourself be seen by the young folks. Just let them see that God is making his presence known even at something as light as a little October celebration. We don’t want the headlines to read that our community did worse than the community downtown, or that there was any trouble up here in Harlem. From what I hear, they had quite a few young men patrolling the streets during their party downtown to make sure that nothing went wrong. We’re going to show up, and show out for God, and ask his holy blessing on our community and on the celebration. Can I get an amen?”

  He got several amens and then the choir started singing.

  Brian and I didn’t usually go to Thursday-night services because it was a school night. I didn’t mind going to church, I just didn’t want to go all the time, especially at night. Mama had started going when the store cut her Thursday hours.

  When services were over, Reverend Allen said, “Anyone who needs to talk, please tarry and pray, please stay.” Mama said she was staying, but that me and Brian could go on home if we wanted.

  “She said she keeps falling behind no matter what she does,” Brian said. “I asked her what happened, and she said nothing happened, that she just keeps slipping back all the time. She said she might start looking for an extra job.”

  I knew she wouldn’t, but I didn’t want to say that to Brian. Mom wasn’t making it and I knew she wasn’t. Brian was beginning to see it, too, but I didn’t want to spell it out for him. Not yet.

  “We need to hit the lottery,” my brother said.

  “You got some money to play the lottery?”

  “Okay, first we rob a bank.” My little brother was letting his imagination loose again. “Then we lay low for two weeks, then take all the money we get from the bank and buy a kazillion scratch-off tickets. Then whatever we win with that, we buy two kazillion lotto tickets and hit the lotto and get rich.”

  “Suppose we get caught robbing the bank?” I asked.

  “Then I say you made me do it and I go free while you go to jail forever,” Brian said.

  “Good plan,” I said.

  chapter fourteen

  The happiness, and relief, I felt when Twig won the race stayed with me. Brian kidded me about it, and Mom, as she does, began to worry about it.

  “You can’t live somebody else’s life,” she said, frowning.

  Okay, I knew that. I knew that Twig’s winning wasn’t mine to own, or to keep. But it was mine to hold up and say, “Hey, this is a win for all of us.”

  Brian came with us to Marcus Garvey Park for the party.

  We watched people setting up vending stands, and soon smoke and scents from all over the Caribbean competed for air space. There were a few guys, old brown-as-coconut guys, playing chess at some of the concrete tables. Black heavy-chested women found spots on the benches, and the steel band—I was surprised it was all girls and women—set up their instruments on the grass.

  The mayor showed. She pulled up in a limousine, dressed in jeans, a bright orange sweater, and heels that made her taller than the black guy I took to be her bodyguard. A sound crew set up a mike, and the mayor said she was glad to see so many people out.

  “We’ve got a lovely, lovely day,” she said. “A New York kind of day!”

  There was some cheering, and she went to the first vendor she saw and bought a hot dog.

  The steel band was good, and I wondered if they were from the neighborhood.

  “They sound like professionals!” Twig said.

  They played some corny music, make-believe calypso, which everybody seemed to like, and a few couples got up to dance.

  “We should have brought some hot dogs and cooked them to sell to people,” Brian said.

  “You can’t cook,” I said.

  “Why you always have to get so technical, man?”

  We watched for a while without talking and then Twig told us about a phone call he had received.

  “Some racing official dude wants me to run in Delaware,” he said. “I don’t think I want to do that. I asked Coach Day about it and he said it was a bad idea, too.”

  “He just said it was bad?”

  “He said they were trying to build up the Delaware games to rival the Penn relays. But if they bring in a lot of the top runners and I have a bad day and come in fourth or fifth, then it would just look like I couldn’t compete against the top guys. But if I just did really well in the high school meets, and added
that on to beating Jameson, I would get more attention from colleges.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I like to run, but I don’t like to plan strategy and stuff about what I want to get out of it,” he said. “Running should be, like, fun—like the way you look at it. You and me felt the same way when I ran. We were just glad I won. In a way we—I was hoping for somebody to come along and say, ‘Hey, maybe we can get you into a college on a free ride.’ But even if that doesn’t happen, I still think I’d like to compete. What do you think?”

  “I’ll go down to Delaware with you,” I said.

  “Yeah, man!” Twig put his hand up, palm down, and I put mine out, palm up. He slapped my hand hard. “I knew you were going to say that! I want to run against the good dudes. I do!”

  Twig was glad I had understood him. I was glad, too. I could look at him and see what he wanted. Twig wasn’t down with college. He would have worked in his uncle’s store if he could still train and run. For Twig the race was what it was all about, testing himself and seeing what he could do. That whole bit was so on the money. He didn’t have to worry about what anybody else was doing, just himself. Maybe it wasn’t ambitious enough for some people, but for Twig, it was life.

  A yellow city school bus came and a group of kids—they looked about nine or ten, and all dressed down—got off. They lined up two by two and marched into the park.

  “Yo, Brian, here come your peeps!” Twig said to my brother. “Only they got their wives with them.”

  “They look Latino,” Brian said. “They must be your peeps.”

  “You can’t be Latino until you’re a teenager,” Twig said.

  “Twig, that is soooo stupid!” Brian said.

  “I know.” Twig smiled.

  Some Parks Department people met with the kids and the women with them and spoke for a moment. Then there was a lot of nodding and the women had the kids stand in a circle while they were setting up another sound system.

  Three white girls—they looked like high schoolers—were sitting on the grass near us, laughing and drinking sodas. I remembered what some people were saying about white people buying property in Harlem and taking over the community. The girls didn’t seem like much of a threat.