Black Boy White School

by Brian F. Walker

  In his head, Anthony said a lot of things, asked questions, and demanded answers. But all that drifted out of his mouth was “No.”

  “It’s the truth,” Reggie said, sounding annoyed. “We woulda called you before, but didn’t nobody have your number except him.”

  He was stunned, and although they stayed on the phone awhile longer, Anthony didn’t say much of anything else. So far the police didn’t have any suspects, and they didn’t seem to be looking very hard. Reggie and others were asking around, but they weren’t having much luck, either. “That’s why niggas need you to hurry up and get back,” Reggie said. “We need to find out who did it and handle that shit ourself.”

  Anthony hung up and went back to his room, fought the urge to smash things, wanted to cry but didn’t. His best friend was dead, and he had missed the funeral. Floyd was dead and would never come back. The separation that had started almost a year ago was complete and irreversible. Poor Floyd. He had walked the hard road, burned bright on some street corners, and then died on one of them. And now Anthony was expected to hurry back home and help to avenge the killing. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. No matter how much he wanted to, even if he knew the shooter’s name and address. He would honor his best friend’s wishes and memory, not disgrace them in the way that Reggie wanted.

  He went to Brody’s desk and threw open the bottom drawer, found the stubby screwdriver and hammer that he kept for hanging pictures, and marched out into the hallway, gripping them like weapons. First he went to the telephone nook and then into the bright bathroom. When he was finished, he let himself cry. After that, he started a brand-new speech.

  A week later, he received some good news for a change. Mr. Hawley told him that a teen magazine was publishing one of his stories. But the police in East Cleveland still hadn’t found Floyd’s murderer, and the two-man cop team in Hoover still hadn’t discovered who had planted the cross. Anthony suspected that neither crime would be solved, but for completely different reasons.

  The time for his speech arrived, and Anthony marched out with the other kids who were running for office. Up for grabs, in addition to vacant proctor positions, were seats on the student council and the academic board. Anthony’s mother and Andre were standing in the front row, clapping wildly.

  At the podium, Anthony’s heart beat hard in his throat. It looked like the whole world was out there, waiting for a speech he hadn’t finished until four that morning. One he was sure they wouldn’t like.

  “Good morning, everyone,” he read from one of the note cards. “As you know, I’m only one of a dozen speakers today, so I promise to keep it brief. After all, we know the real big day is tomorrow.” Rowdy cheering and applause erupted from the senior section, along with good-natured insults and encouragement. For a second, it was as if the ugly things hadn’t happened. He was Tony again, and they were his friends.

  “I’m really honored to be here,” he continued. “I want to thank you all for showing me the world and for saving my life. That sounds a little dramatic, I know, but that’s exactly what Belton did for me. It saved my life. Before I came here last fall, one of my friends was shot in the head. I was there when it happened, and the guy tried to kill me, too. It was then that I decided to come to Belton, away from a violent world that didn’t make sense, to a place that seemed a lot like paradise. The other day, I got a phone call from home and found out that my best friend, Floyd, was shot and killed. I missed his funeral because I was here in paradise and they didn’t know how to contact me.”

  His mother gasped, along with most of the audience. He nodded at her, and Andre rubbed her shoulder. “I’d be lying if I told you that Floyd and Mookie were saints,” Anthony said. “But they were young and didn’t deserve to die like that. . . .”

  There were scattered giggles from a few of the students. For some, Mookie’s name had muddled the message. Anthony pressed on and ignored them.

  “. . . Mookie hadn’t even started high school yet and Floyd was just fifteen; both of them shot dead because of where they were standing. So yes, when I say that Belton saved my life, I really mean it. You gave me a safe place to study at night, and now I’m ready to take on the rest of the world, armed with everything that you taught me. And you taught me a lot. Like how to find the North Star in the sky, how to build a snow cave and find clean water in the wild. You showed me how bears mark their territory on trees; that moose really are as big as buses, and skunks smell the same everywhere. You gave me good friends like Paul and Khalik. You gave me Gloria and Big George and the other students of color. You gave me Brody and Nate and Alex Sanger, Venus and Alison and so many others. Before Belton, I didn’t know a single white person by name. Now I know more white people than I can count.”

  He paused and looked around at all the faces. Some of them were crying, but most were grinning ear to ear. “I came here hoping to meet Stephen King but got Mr. Hawley instead. He taught me how to write authentic dialogue, and the importance of revision. He taught me how to be a responsible young man who stands up for what he believes in. Before Belton, I used to dream of riding trains to places like Pittsburgh and Cincinnati, but thanks to Mr. Kraft and the financial aid office, I made it all the way here to the top of the map and have friends from all over the world.

  “But what people say about free lunches is true. Everything gained has a price. Admissions didn’t charge me much cash for my stay, but it still almost cost my identity. I learned early on that there was no room here for me, anyway. Not for Ant Jones from East Cleveland. If I wanted to stay and get along with the people at Belton, then I had to become somebody else. Being black was okay, even cool, but only when it was convenient for others. If I sat with other black kids or wanted to talk about prejudice, then I was the one being racist. So I put on a mask that was so perfectly polished that it only reflected who you all wanted to see. And I wore it around here, night and day, saving my true face for home.

  “For a while I thought that the mask made me clever. It gave me the chance to look both ways; it let me be Tony and Ant at the same time. But the thing about wearing that kind of fake face for too long is that some of it sticks and becomes permanent. Especially around the eyes. It changed the way that I look at the world and the way that the world sees me. . . .” He paused and looked out over the crowd. Some of the faces seemed red and disturbed, but at least everyone was listening. There were still a few unread cards in his hands, but he slid them into his pocket.

  “I know that this hasn’t been a typical proctor speech, but I’m not coming back next year, anyway. My family can’t afford it, and neither can I. Sorry if it makes me sound ungrateful, because I really do love this school. Like I said at the very beginning, Belton saved my life. It’s just that you can love a place and still want to help to make it better . . . I don’t know. A good friend of mine told me that people forget most speeches, so maybe I’m wasting my time. But I hope that the next Ant Jones who comes along gets to keep his name. And I hope that he doesn’t have to pay such a steep price for his free education.”

  Speech done, Anthony stood awkwardly at the podium, said “thank you” too loudly into the microphone, and hurried back to his seat. Someone stood up and started clapping. Others followed until everyone was standing and hooting.

  That afternoon, after they cleared out Anthony’s room, Maxine forced both of the boys to pee again before they climbed into the rented van. There was a long drive ahead of them, and she only wanted to stop for gas. Mr. Hawley was on hand outside in the parking lot, and surprisingly, so were a few other teachers. “Helluva son you’ve got there, Mrs. Jones,” one of them said, shaking Maxine’s hand through the window. “He’s going to go far. I can feel it.”

  “Thank you.” She beamed back. “Thank you very much.”

  Another one stuck his head partway through the window and shouted to Anthony in the back. “Take it easy, kiddo! Can’t wait to buy that first book!”

  “I’ll sign it. See you later.”

&
nbsp; Ms. Whitlock came over. “I just wanted to meet this spunky young man’s mother!” She patted Maxine’s shoulder like they had known each other for decades. Although Anthony couldn’t see his mother’s face, he imagined how it must have looked.

  “Thank you,” Maxine said, leaning away from the open window. “And who are you?”

  “Just Tony’s favorite teacher,” she said, grinning. “Constance Whitlock. I’m sure he’s talked about me?”

  “Sure he has . . . nice to meet you! Thank you so much for taking care of my son.”

  Ms. Whitlock blushed and said that the pleasure was hers. Then she went and stood with a few other teachers, under a tree. “She wasn’t my favorite teacher,” Anthony whispered. “She was weird.”

  “Be quiet, boy,” his mother hissed. “Here comes another one.”

  Mr. Hawley came shuffling over to the van. His eyes were red around the edges and his nose was running. “Ms. Jones,” he said, pressing her extended hand warmly between both of his. “I can’t begin to tell you how much your son has meant to this school, and to me. I’m supposed to be the teacher around here, but I wound up learning a lot from him.” He looked back at Anthony, who was trying to act like he hadn’t heard anything. “I’m serious,” he continued. “Thank you for coming here.”

  “I’ll be back,” Anthony said, and forced a laugh. “When I turn twenty-one we can hit a bar and go pick up some women.”

  “Anthony!”

  “I said when I turn twenty-one, Ma. Relax.”

  Hawley laughed and said he would think about it. Then Andre said something about the long drive ahead, and Mr. Hawley apologized. “Guess you guys should be shoving off,” he said. “Make sure to stay in touch.” He moved away from the window and joined the others by the tree. Seconds later, Anthony jumped out of the van and gave Mr. Hawley a hug.

  “Take care, Mr. Hawley,” he said. “Sorry if I offended anybody today, you know, with the speech. I was just trying to speak from the heart.”

  “Are you kidding me? You don’t need to apologize for that. Half the people were crying.”

  “Yeah, but what about the other half?”

  “Relax, Anthony. Everyone was in awe. It took a pretty big pair to say what you said. It was special, and I’m glad I witnessed it.” They hugged again, and when they separated, Mr. Hawley’s face was wet. “Jesus,” he said, wiping his eyes. “You would think I was the one leaving.”

  “I’m gonna miss you, man,” Anthony said. “You helped me grow up.”

  “You helped me grow up, too,” Hawley said. “The whole school. You made a big impression on all of us.” He reached out and gave Anthony a playful punch in the shoulder. “Speaking of impressions,” Hawley said, “Floyd Mims wouldn’t be the same Floyd from today’s speech, would he? Because I noticed that somebody practically chiseled ‘FLOYD MIMS WAS HERE’ into a couple of walls downstairs.”

  “For real? I don’t know about that one, Mr. Hawley, but if a person went through all that trouble, then it must be pretty important, don’t you think?”

  “I do. Which is why I’m going to make sure that both of them stay. Even if it means that I have to go over them every year with a screwdriver or something.” He winked and Anthony almost cried, but he gave the man one last hug instead.

  Minutes later, the van was speeding down the highway, blurring all of the trees.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This might sound corny, but first and foremost I’d like to thank my mother. She filled our house with books and encouraged me to write stories (I still have the one about the “where-wolf” from the third grade, thanks to you). I want to thank my brothers, Melvin and George, and my sisters, Carla and Karen. Your guidance and support throughout the years has been invaluable. Daddy, you inspire me more than you know. Keep fighting and don’t give up. Tap, thanks for everything, man. Over the years, you’ve taught me a lot. To the rest of my family (too many to name without adding another twenty pages to this book), I love you and thanks for everything.

  To the Mims family, the Thompsons, the Jacksons, D. C. Hardy, Phil G., and the rest of E. 133rd St., thanks for being the best friends anyone could ever have. Thanks to East Cleveland for teaching me hard lessons but teaching them well. Thanks to Bob Flanagan, Dick and Debbie Dorhman, Pete and Vicky Rackliffe, Jim and Lucia Owen, Jim Fiske, Clayton Burroughs, and every other teacher who inspired me. To Adam, Craig, Tommy P., Paul, Dino, Dave, and the rest of my friends from Gould Academy, thanks for the memories. And to all of my friends and colleagues at the Cambridge School of Weston, thank you for nineteen wonderful years of support and growth. I can’t wait to see what the next nineteen will look like!

  To my agent, Jodie Rhodes, thanks for believing in me. To my editor, Phoebe Yeh, thanks for your help and guidance. I can’t wait to do this with you again!

  Lastly, I want to acknowledge my wife, Ava, for introducing me to a level of love that I didn’t know existed. Thank you for keeping me sane, safe, and unbelievably happy. And thanks to our daughter, Olivia, who is the most beautiful baby in the world. I can’t wait for her to watch me grow up. . . .

  About the Author

  BRIAN F. WALKER grew up in East Cleveland, where he ran with gangsters, drug dealers, and thugs until age fourteen, when he was sent to an elite boarding school and a world he had no way of understanding. For the past seventeen years he has taught high school English, coached basketball, and served as an admissions officer at a prep school in Weston, Massachusetts. He recently won a grant for fiction writing from the Massachusetts Cultural Council, in addition to numerous awards for playwriting, short stories, and journalism. Brian lives in Massachusetts with his wife and daughter.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Credits

  Jacket photograph © 2012 by BRAD WILSON / GETTY IMAGES

  Jacket design by ERIN FITZSIMMONS

  Copyright

  HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

  Black Boy / White School

  Copyright © 2012 by Brian F. Walker

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Walker, Brian F.

  Black boy/white school / Brian F. Walker. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-06-191483-6

  [1. Identity—Fiction. 2. African Americans—Fiction. 3. Race relations—Fiction. 4. Preparatory schools—Fiction. 5. High schools—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction. 7. Maine—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.W15216Bl 2012

  [Fic]—dc23

  2011016608

  CIP

  AC

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  First Edition

  EPub Edition © November 2011 ISBN: 9780062099174

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