Anthony shook his head. “It’s time to pay up or pack my shit in a couple of months.” He thought about his reason for coming to see Floyd. It still wasn’t too late to change his mind, but he couldn’t think of an alternative. “So like, if you put me down with your man,” Anthony said. “How long would it take for me to make what I need?”
Floyd scowled, but then he chuckled. “You gon’ sell dope, Ant?”
“I’m serious.”
“Yeah, right. You serious as cancer.” He laughed again, and it made Anthony want to run away or take a swing.
“Look,” Anthony said. “If you don’t wanna help me, I can go holler at Shane myself.”
“Shane?” The bigger boy smiled sadly and shook his head. “Shane been in Lakeview damn near four months, nigga. Only way you gon’ talk to him is through a Ouija board.”
Anthony closed his eyes. When he opened them, nothing had changed. “Shane is dead? How?”
“Two to the dome. No witnesses.” Floyd looked Anthony up and down. “Man, what the hell is you wearing?”
Anthony checked his reflection in the mirror and almost dropped. He had rushed over there in a bowling shirt and Birkenstocks.
“No offense, bruh,” Floyd continued. “But how you gon’ be on these streets, wearing this bullshit?”
His friend was right, and for so many different reasons. Anthony suddenly wanted to peel off his sandals and throw them through the window. Who the hell was Tony Ohio when it came to East Cleveland? Maybe Floyd would lend him different clothes to wear on the walk back home. “Well, I guess it’s back to E.C. and Shaw,” he said despondently. “You can show me around, right?”
“Don’t look at me, nigga. I ain’t been inside that school in a minute.” Floyd laughed, but he didn’t sound happy. “Been too busy chasing that paper.”
Anthony looked at the street below. It was sunny and warm, but no one was outside. “Yeah? How soon before you can chase it to a different city?”
Floyd grimaced. “Not for a while. My momma still got another two months in jail, and she gon’ have to see a parole officer for a while after that. . . .” He sighed. For a second he seemed much older. “I ain’t never told nobody this before, man,” Floyd said. “But you the only dude I know who done actually been somewhere.”
“You cain’t really count Maine as somewhere,” he said. “The whole state is just one big, boring forest.”
“Yeah, but you seen all them trees, man. And you seen New York and Boston, too. You done climbed mountains, drove snowmobiles, stayed in rich people’s mansions, with waiters and butlers and shit. How many niggas around here can say that? How many niggas around here can even say they know somebody like that?” Floyd clapped Anthony on the back. “Don’t take this the wrong way, nigga, but you kinda like a hero to me. Straight up.”
Anthony fought a strong urge to hug his best friend hard. Floyd may have teased him about Maine over the months, but it was clear that he’d also been listening. “Stop tripping,” Anthony said. “I ain’t no hero, man. You are. You already got your own apartment and pay your own bills. . . . Shit, I’ve been up there wasting time while you’ve already started living.”
Floyd waved his hand. “If you wanna call it that. But I’m just grinding the same way my daddy did, the same way a whole buncha other dudes been doing for the longest. I could die tomorrow or live to be a hundred and never be nobody different than who you looking at, right now. I ain’t never gon’ make a name for myself except for around here, where a nigga with a name don’t last long.” He pinched Anthony’s bowling shirt between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the polyester like it was expensive silk. “But you done already made something new outta yourself. David.”
“Yeah,” Anthony said, looking at his sandals. “And every time I come home, it gives y’all something new to crack on me about.”
Floyd chuckled. “Come on, dawg. You gotta admit that some of that junk be funny. Like how you be calling pop ‘soda’ now, and that bullshit about twenny-five-twenny.” He laughed again but then straightened his face when he saw that he was laughing alone. “But niggas still got love for you, dawg. Even Reggie. He be the main one bragging ’bout how his boy fi’n to be a big-time writer.”
Anthony made a face, but his friend ignored him. “For real, playa,” Floyd continued. “We all be talking about you. When you blow up like Tyler Perry or some shit, everybody in E.C. gon’ be like, ‘We know him!’ But we gon’ be like, ‘Yeah, but that’s our boy!’”
Anthony smiled, amazed by the picture Floyd had just painted because it reflected his dreams. “That’s what’s up,” Anthony said, and then panicked a little. He wasn’t even the best writer in his English class. “I’m gonna give it a shot, but I don’t know if I’m really good enough.”
“You good enough,” Floyd said. “Ever listen to yourself tell a story, man? Swear to God, it be just like watching a movie.”
“Thanks, man. I needed to hear that.”
“Then keep listening ’cause I’m telling you what I feel in my bones.” He put a hand on Anthony’s shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “Look, I know we don’t hardly be hanging out no more. You got your thing up at that school and I got my thing, right here. Both of us done changed a lot, but that don’t mean we ain’t still boys. I can go five years without even seeing you and still call you my best friend. You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” Anthony said. “I know.”
“Good. Then that’s why you gon’ let me help. Come and see me in a few days, and I should have some cash for you.”
Anthony shook his head. “Don’t do that, man. You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to, playa. I want to. Believe me, it won’t be a whole lot, anyway. My cousin’s rent is due.”
Anthony went home and sat on his porch. Cars rolled by, blasting music. Kids pedaled bikes across lawns and off curbs. Girls walked in groups, trailing perfume behind them; boys walked in packs, spreading fear. He had two more months at Belton, and then it would be over. Two months before he came back to East Cleveland for good.
Floyd came by a few days later with four hundred dollars in a brown paper bag. Anthony thanked him but wouldn’t accept it, saying that his mother had hit the lottery. He spent the last night of the long vacation on the couch and mostly alone. On the news, there were more stories about murders and robberies. Some of them had happened in his neighborhood, but Anthony didn’t recognize the victims.
Rolling away from the bus terminal, Anthony watched his neglected city scroll by and wished he was in an airplane instead. From the sky, he would only see shrinking rooftops and neat streets. He wouldn’t see the rotten yards and liquor billboards; wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the red boys and the blue ones, the white from black or rich from poor. From the clouds, he wouldn’t hear the gunshots, shouts, and sirens, and he wouldn’t see shrieking mothers fighting through yellow tape. From way up in the sky, everything below was as pretty as a postcard. But from where he sat inside the northbound bus, everything to Anthony looked bleak.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Back at Belton, Anthony did what he could to fall into a normal groove. He went to all his classes and hung with his friends, joined the freshman lacrosse team and became a pretty good defenseman. As the days grew longer and warmer, kids talked more about the upcoming summer. Seniors found where they’d be going to college, underclassmen paired with buddies and picked their rooms for September. Anthony decided not to tell anyone that he wouldn’t be coming back. He didn’t want to have to explain that his family was broke.
So he chose Brody for his sophomore roommate, in case he wasn’t voted a proctor, and he left the kitchen dish crew that spring to work for Mr. Kraft in the admissions office. Anthony also wrote a short story for the literary magazine that Mr. Hawley called “raw and inspiring.” Mr. Hawley offered to help try and get it published in a book of teen writers. In many ways, it was Anthony’s best stretch at Belton. The better i
t got, though, the more difficult it was going to be for him to say good-bye.
And then one morning, while sitting in one of the bathroom stalls, Anthony relieved himself and read all the new graffiti. In black marker were the words WHY ARE YOU READING THIS WHEN THE JOKE IS IN YOUR HAND? And another one in red warned to PISS IN SPURTS! MAINE CRABS CAN SWIM UPSTREAM! He laughed and flushed, put his hand on top of the swinging door, and was about to push it open when he noticed another slogan, written in pencil, just above the sliding lock.
NIGERS SUCK
Anthony sat back down. Another freshman had written that, knowing that Anthony and Paul would see it. But who was bold and hateful enough to write it? Most of the boys on his floor marched around in Barack Obama T-shirts.
Rage took over, and Anthony kicked the stall open. Then he kicked the door again and again, until it hung from bent hinges. Curious faces pressed into the bathroom, and Anthony thought about kicking them, too. “Move!” He stormed into the crowd and the boys fell into one another, trying to avoid him. Seconds later, Anthony was knocking on Mr. Hawley’s door.
“You need to see this,” he said, and brought Mr. Hawley to the bathroom, where the boys were gawking at the ruined door and misspelled slur.
“Well,” Mr. Hawley said, inspecting the writing. “Whoever it was, he’s not the brightest bulb in the box.”
“I want to know who did this,” Anthony said. “I’m serious, Mr. Hawley. These people don’t know who they’re messing with.”
Mr. Hawley tried to calm him, but Anthony kicked the door again. “I can’t believe this shit!”
Hawley looked at the dented door and then at Anthony. “Are you finished with that?”
“With that,” Anthony said. “Let me catch who wrote that bullshit and I’ll stomp on him instead.”
Hawley crossed his arms and sighed. The disappointment on his face was obvious. “You can’t make those kinds of threats around me, Tony, even in a situation like this. People need to know they’re safe around you.”
“Safe around me?” Anthony kicked the door off the final hinge. “What about me being safe around them?” He glared at Mr. Hawley. “Do what you gotta do, man,” he said. “But don’t expect me to just shrug this shit off.”
For the next few days, things were tense among the students. Gloria and a few other black kids filed complaints. Dr. Dirk called a schoolwide diversity assembly and gave a presentation about the dangers of hurtful words. Some of the kids listened attentively, but a lot of them did homework. And others were offended. They didn’t understand why they all should be punished because of one person’s stupidity. The school administration was only making things worse by forcing them all to address it.
“Typical!” Gloria shouted without raising her hand. Then she stood up, and a lot of the students sighed. “Just stick your heads in the sand,” she said. “Act like it never happened.”
“We want to,” someone yelled, “but you won’t let us!” A few kids laughed and some even clapped until Dr. Dirk warned them to quiet down.
“We’ll never make any progress on this if we don’t behave with civility to one another,” the headmaster said. “Let’s use this unfortunate incident as a teaching moment and a chance to come closer together.”
Anthony went to his room after that, with Brody close on his heels. “I’m sorry, dude,” his roommate said, slowly pushing the hair back from his eyes. They were green. It was the first time that Anthony had noticed.
“Sorry for what,” Anthony said, thinking about the antagonism at the assembly and how it all had felt directed at him. “You didn’t do anything.”
“I know, dude, but still . . . I’m just sorry.”
Anthony could tell that Brody was mad about the whole scene, too. But his roommate was white, and nigger was a black word. He didn’t want or need Brody’s empathy. He didn’t want his condolences, his pity, or his sympathetic anger. What Anthony needed more than anything in the world at that moment was the company of other black people.
“I’ll be back.”
He went down to Paul’s room and found Khalik already there. Neither one looked surprised when Anthony walked in and closed the door behind him.
“Assembly got you buggin’, too?” Khalik asked, leaning back against the desk.
“Yeah,” Anthony answered. “Bugging hard.” He told them about his brief exchange with Brody, how his roommate’s attempt to understand had only pissed him off.
Paul slammed a fist on his desk. “What does big George call them? Twenty-five-fifty or something like that?”
“Twenty-five-twenty,” Anthony said, remembering how mad George had been that day in the kitchen, but also how he had mugged for the crowd at the auction. “I wonder what he has to say about all this?”
“He’s pissed,” Khalik said. “What you think?”
Anthony hesitated but then said it anyway. There was no use in holding his tongue anymore. “I don’t know what to think about your boy,” he said. “I used to think he was gaming on these white people, but now I’m not so sure.”
“What you mean?” Paul asked defensively. Over the course of the basketball season, he and George had grown close.
“I don’t know.” Anthony looked at the floor to find the words. “He’s just real slick. He does all this stuff to kiss up to the white people and tells us that he’s doing it to get over on them. The more I think about it, though, the more I think the dude is kissing up to them for real, and he’s really running game on us.”
“Game on us for what?” Khalik asked. “What we got that he need?”
Anthony thought and stuck out his arm. “We got this. All the white kids in the world can love him to death, but he knows we’re the only ones who can judge him. He needs us to stay in his corner so he can keep believing himself.”
Khalik grinned and looked at Anthony. “Sort of like how you used to be, huh, Tony Granola? I see you stopped wearing all those crazy clothes since you went home. Somebody must have said something to you, huh?”
“Something like that.” Anthony had traded his bowling shirts for Phat Farm and Rocawear, switched one type of uniform for another. But the clothes didn’t define who he was on the inside, any more than the color of his skin. “Let me ask you guys a question,” Anthony continued, “and really think about it before you answer. If you could be home in Brooklyn right now, hanging out somewhere with all your friends, would you go or stay right here?”
Khalik sniffed. “What kind of stupid-ass question is that?”
“An important one,” Anthony snapped. “Here or at home?”
Khalik drew a breath to say something else, but Paul spoke up first. “I know what you’re getting at, man. I wonder that same stuff myself, sometimes.”
Khalik made a noise and then started laughing, but the other two boys stared him down. “Don’t front, son,” Paul continued. “I know the truth.” Holding an imaginary phone to his ear, he did his best to imitate the heavy boy’s high voice. “Yo, P, let me come and chill at your spot, man. Niggas around my way is on some other shit.” He laughed and the other boys laughed along with him, but it only seemed to make the mood darker.
“I don’t know,” Anthony said, thinking about his lost friends, his family, and all the red boys hanging on the corners. “Sometimes I don’t feel like I belong at home anymore.”
The other boys looked down. Khalik cleared his throat but didn’t say anything.
“I know,” Paul said solemnly. “The whole time I was home, I couldn’t wait to get away. Everything was different, even though it was the same.” He crumpled a piece of paper and flicked it toward the trash can across the room. He missed badly, but no one made a comment.
“But I don’t feel like I belong here, either,” Paul continued. “So tell me, where in the hell am I supposed to go?”
The following Saturday, Anthony went into town with Brody and Nate. They ate pizza and talked about the bathroom stall, which was still a big topic at school. “Call me an assh
ole,” Nate continued. “But don’t you think they exaggerate, sometimes?”
Anthony knew that by “they,” Nate was talking about the other students of color. But he also suspected that his friend wasn’t trying to be offensive. “Maybe sometimes,” Anthony said. “But that word is pretty straightforward. You can’t say that the person didn’t know what he was writing.”
“Yeah,” Nate agreed. “‘Niger.’ Maybe it was one of those Korean kids and not even a white person. Ever think about that?” Nate glanced at Brody, who wouldn’t look back at him. Anthony knew then that the two of them had been talking about it. “And even if it was a white kid,” Nate continued, “crap like that assembly last week does more harm than good. I don’t even think about skin color until somebody forces me to.”
“Maybe that’s part of the problem,” Anthony shot back. “People like you have that luxury, but I have to think about it all the time.”
Nate raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean, people like me? If I said something like that, I’d be a racist.” He looked at Brody again, whose cheeks were turning red. Suddenly Anthony wanted to fly across the table at both of them.
They finished their food and left. It was getting dark, and most of the shops were closing. “Let’s go,” Anthony said. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
Brody quickened his pace. Nate called them pansies but walked faster than both of them. They rounded the bend and saw the still-distant campus just as a strange sound grew behind them. Anthony thought about Mookie, turned around, and walked backward, watching the curve in the road. “You guys hear that?”
The boys listened and Nate shrugged. “So what? It is a public road, you know?” They walked on and hit the edge of campus and all its twinkling lights. But then a different kind of light from behind them turned the boys around. The yellow glow bounced off the road and trees like the dazzle from an ambulance. Instead of a siren, though, the boys heard footsteps.
Black Boy White School Page 13
