The Cruisers

by Walter Dean Myers

  “If you have so many bad feelings about the movie why are you thinking about doing it?” I asked.

  “Because I also have bad feelings about taking money from your father and sometimes struggling to make a living for us,” she said.

  “Complex, huh?”

  “I think it is,” Mom said. “Do you think I look good in red?”

  “No.”

  “I do, too,” she said.

  THE CRUISER

  AN OPEN LETTER TO HATTIE MCDANIEL

  FROM ZANDER SCOTT

  Dear Miss McDaniel,

  I am glad you won an Oscar for your role in Gone with the Wind but I wish that at least one time you had turned to the camera and said, “I am a slave.” I know that they would have probably cut that out of the movie or even have taken you out of the movie altogether. But the problem I’m having is that when you don’t name something you can’t deal with it unless everybody is agreeing to it.

  Some people, a lot of people, really, think they can get away with putting people down just by changing the names they use. When somebody says that I’m from the inner city they are not talking about where I live, but they are saying that I’m part of an urban scene they really don’t respect. I have never heard anybody say, “Oh, he’s really cool because he lives in the inner city.”

  My mother said that you weren’t running around acting stupid in the movie and that was good. But if you were somebody’s slave you should have said that, too. Then they could make up their mind if they liked the person who kept you in slavery. I guess you needed the money and it’s hard getting a good role in the movies. But from what I have heard about the movie just about everybody was let off the hook about who they really were.

  None of this would matter if we weren’t dealing with race today. Some people, like Mr. Culpepper in our school, say that we are dealing with other issues. But if you see kids laughing and smirking and making little “jokes” like offering somebody up for sale (somebody who would punch him out!), you would know better.

  Your friend,

  Zander

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Watch Brer McRabbit Shake that Thing

  Cody called. Kelly Bena, who plays cello in the school band, saw Alvin’s new blog post and texted LaShonda, who left a message on Cody’s Facebook page. Alvin had volunteered to hand out sandwiches to homeless people at a shelter near Marcus Garvey Park in Harlem. He said he wanted to get himself involved in the swim of things, whatever that meant.

  “He said he had told Ashley but didn’t think she would print it in The Palette,” Cody said.

  Okay, so Alvin was working Ashley. He knew she would print the story about him feeding homeless people in Harlem.

  I needed to talk to somebody. I was going to call Kambui but he was still in his “let’s get tough” mode. LaShonda was leaning his way, too, and so I called Bobbi.

  “Yo, Bobbi, how come everybody is playing a game with us but nobody’s standing still long enough for us to get on their case?” I said. “Alvin was running his little Confederacy thing big-time and now he’s about feeding homeless people in Harlem.”

  “Zander, people can be about more than one thing,” Bobbi said. “Sometimes when you see the old movies about the South and you see all the people dressed up like ladies and gentlemen it’s really nice. The way they have it in movies, with all the black people taking off their hats and smiling like they didn’t know they were slaves, it’s kind of romantic and pretty. Sort of like a reality show in reverse.”

  “That’s exactly what it’s like,” I said. “Those reality shows where everybody is acting like they’re getting mad at each other or working together and all the time you know there’s a bunch of cameras about ten feet away from them.”

  “I’d like to be on a reality show,” Bobbi said. “I think it would be fun. Nothing in the woods, though. They should have one called Survival at the Mall. What do you think?”

  “I think that’s stupid, but if they get one, I’ll put your name in for it,” I said.

  When I hung up from Bobbi, I was seeing things clearer. People were doing their little dirt but it was like a reality show they could just back away from. They didn’t have to own anything. Like my father saying it wasn’t about him and his new wife, it was about me. And the kid on the patrol car saying that the dope the police found wasn’t his. But all the cops had to do was to take them downtown and say they saw them with it and that would be it. They owned it.

  I finished the last pages of A Raisin in the Sun, then looked up the synopsis on the Net to see if they agreed with me. They did but they thought it was a dynamite play and I thought it wasn’t all that hot.

  Then I read the Declarations of Causes of Secession of some of the seceding states that Mr. Siegfried had assigned us and read them over again. The states talked about property and the Constitution, but none of them talked about how the slaves felt or holding human beings against their will. Alvin wasn’t talking about it, either, and I needed to change that.

  THE CRUISER

  ROBBY MCRABBIT GETS INTO THE

  SWIM OF THINGS: A STORY

  By LaShonda Powell

  Ain’t none of the bears in Vinci Woods liked Robby McRabbit. Robby was a nasty little rabbit that was always talking trash to the bears.

  “All y’all bears got stink breaths and big feet!” he said.

  Them bears used to look at Robby McRabbit, and when they did they were mean mugging him from the tip of his pointy ears to his nasty little toes.

  “Them feet of yours would sure look good on a key chain!” Bo Bear called out.

  Robby McRabbit didn’t care. He would just turn his little fluffy tail toward the bears and give it a little shake-shake and grin because he was satisfied being his nasty self.

  But one Saturday Robby McRabbit was sitting in the woods all by himself. He was listening to the laughing going on from the picnic that the bears held each weekend.

  “I sure would like to have something good to eat,” he said.

  He peeped through the tall leaves and saw the bears doing the Swim, a new dance that one of the bears had learned in Memphis, Tennessee. All the bears were doing it and having a nice time.

  The Swim started off with the bears just moving their hips. Then they started moving their stomachs in and out, and finally they got their whole bodies going left and right and ’round and ’round while their arms made a motion that looked like they was swimming. Ummmm-um! It sure looked good to Robby McRabbit.

  Robby McRabbit thought about it and thought he could learn that dance. It didn’t look like much and he already had the moves down by practicing in front of a mirror.

  He practiced by himself for a whole week and then went over to where the bears lived.

  “Look,” he said, “I can do the Swim.”

  He started with his hips moving and then his stomach and then he got his arms going just right. Or that’s what he thought, anyway.

  “You ain’t doing it right,” Bo Bear said. “Get in the line and we’ll show you how to do it.”

  All the bears lined up and they started moving their hips. When all of them got the hips going they started moving their stomachs in and out. When they got that down they started moving their arms like they was swimming and also started moving around in a circle.

  Robby McRabbit was at the end of the line, right behind a lady bear with a big behind. He followed her and he was really getting down.

  “You ain’t moving your arms right,” Bo Bear said. “You got to do it like I do it.”

  Robby McRabbit didn’t say nothing. He just watched Bo Bear, making sure that he didn’t get up into his face too much because he had stink breath just the way Robby McRabbit knew he would.

  “Rabbits don’t swim like bears,” Robby McRabbit said. “I do the Swim different than you do.”

  “You got to learn how we do it if you want to hang out with us,” Bo Bear said. “Get on in the water.”

  The bears had made them a round
pool just big enough for two bears to get into. Robby McRabbit didn’t want to learn to swim like no bear but he wanted to hang out and party with them. He jumped into the pool and old Bo Bear turned up the music.

  The sounds were on the money and the beat was deep. Robby McRabbit started moving his hips and was looking good but he started to sink.

  “Throw me a life preserver!” he cried.

  All the bears threw in life preservers. Robby McRabbit thought the bears were stupid because they were throwing in celery and onions and you couldn’t hang on to no celery or no onion.

  “I’m fixing to drown up in here!” Robby McRabbit called out.

  “That’s ’cause the water is too cold to swim in!” said Bo Bear, and he started a fire under the pool.

  When the water got a little warmer it made Robby McRabbit feel good and he started moving better.

  “I think I’m getting it!” he said, noticing that the water was getting a little too warm.

  After a while the water got really hot and Robby McRabbit was jumping around and hollering, but it was too late. He was soon Robby McRabbit stew and the hit of the picnic.

  After all the dancing and the eating was over Bo Bear sat with his friends drinking Kool-Aid and listening to some jams.

  “Rabbits are good to have at picnics,” he said. “But don’t they make your breath stink?”

  He got an “Amen” behind that.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Attack on Fort Sumter!

  In the lunchroom. The service counter had peas, green beans, some nasty-looking spinach, rice, something that looked yellow and round, spaghetti, chicken tenders, fish sticks, chilled pears, and cookies. I settled on the fish sticks and spaghetti. I looked around and saw LaShonda and Bobbi sitting together and went over.

  “Yo, what you doing?” I asked LaShonda.

  “She’s painting the first ten prime numbers on my fingernails,” Bobbi said. “I would have her paint the next ten on my toenails but they’re too small.”

  “You don’t have any toenails,” LaShonda said, holding up her nail polish. “You have toenails on your big toes but your other nails are too small to be called real nails. They’re just like tiny spots on top of your feet.”

  “That is seriously stupid,” I said.

  “What are you eating?” Bobbi pointed to my plate.

  “Fish sticks and spaghetti,” I answered.

  “That doesn’t look like a fish to me,” Bobbi said. “It doesn’t have a tail, it doesn’t have eyes, and it’s rectangular. If you threw it in the water, it wouldn’t swim, and if you walked down the street it wouldn’t follow you home. And I’ve never heard of a fish called ‘stick.’ And now you’re going to put it in your mouth and eat it. Now that’s weird, Zander.”

  “It looked better than the chicken tenders,” I said.

  BLAM! BLAM!

  I was trying to think of something else to say when we heard the noise coming from the other side of the lunchroom. Everything got quiet for a second and then it came again.

  BLAM!

  I looked over the table and saw kids clearing out from near the window.

  “Come on, punk!” It was Alvin McCraney pulling off his shirt. “Bring it! Bring it!”

  He was facing off with Kambui about four feet from the far wall.

  I started across the floor as fast as I could. I didn’t want Kambui getting into any fights in the lunchroom. I was almost to them when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. It was a body coming toward me.

  I couldn’t tell who it was but then I saw another blur as two guys clashed, knocking a girl down as their bodies crashed onto a table. I could see the second body. It was Cody.

  I turned back to where Alvin was still standing, his shirt half off and his face pale and twisted with anger. His mouth fell open as he saw Cody and Billy tangling big-time.

  I got between Kambui and Alvin and held my hands up. From the corner of my eye I saw some of Alvin’s friends move behind him. It looked like the war was about to begin.

  “What’s going on here?” A man’s voice. Then again, slower. “What is going on here?”

  “Nothing.” Alvin McCraney was putting his shirt back on.

  “Cody?!” Mr. Culpepper watched as Cody and Billy untangled themselves.

  “Nothing, sir,” Cody said.

  “Your father would not appreciate your fighting in the lunchroom, Cody,” Mr. Culpepper said. He was puffed up so that his neck looked bigger than his head.

  “No fight, sir,” Cody said.

  “Okay, then,” Mr. Culpepper said. “Let’s see if you gentlemen can live up to the title.”

  He looked around again and then walked away. I knew if it had been anyone except Cody there would have been a lot more screaming and taking down of names. Cody’s father worked in the school and Mr. Culpepper didn’t want to make trouble for him. I watched as Alvin and some of his guys got together and shot some dirty looks our way before leaving the lunchroom together.

  “I don’t know if they make jerks in grades,” Cody said, standing near me, “but if they do, then Billy Stroud is class A all the way. He was coming at you like a freight train.”

  “Thanks, man,” I said.

  “No problemo,” Cody said.

  I went over to Kambui and saw that he was steaming mad.

  A girl named Zhade Hopkins, Shantese’s sister, was with him and I asked her to tell LaShonda and Bobbi to meet us in the media center. Kambui had a thing for Zhade. He’d been trying to get a date with her for over a year.

  “If you guys get into it don’t use any guns,” Zhade said. “It ain’t worth it.”

  The word was on the street.

  “We need to get some brothers together and just get busy with the Sons of the Confederacy and anybody else who needs to get his head whipped,” Kambui said, looking me down. We were meeting in the media center and Kambui had brought the Jackson brothers and Phat Tony from the Genius Gangstas to the meeting. “I’m dealing on my own because you’re acting like you’re scared of them.”

  “I’m not scared of anybody,” I said. “But if we’re going to war you need to show me the win you found. If there’s going to be a fight there’s got to be a win in it somewhere. Show me what you got.”

  “One of Alvin’s dudes came up to me in Social Studies and said if I picked enough cotton he would let me sit on the front porch with him in the evening,” LaShonda said. “I told him if he needed any cotton picked he’d better tell his mama to pick it. Making him keep his mouth shut is a win for me.”

  “And Alvin was up in my face in the lunchroom,” Kambui said. “He’s moved the set from his little jokes to jumping bad because he knows you’re too scared to fight.”

  “The civil rights movement wasn’t about fighting,” I said. “Martin Luther King, Jr., wasn’t about fighting.”

  “No, but he had some righteous brothers in the streets who were ready to get down if they had to,” Kambui said. “And Frederick Douglass was down for peace but he still told Abraham Lincoln that the Union needed to get some black soldiers involved in the Civil War. Yo, man, if it was good enough for Frederick Douglass, it’s good enough for me.”

  “I think Zander is running shy,” LaShonda said. “He definitely doesn’t look like he’s ready for no serious throw down.”

  “I think we should remain true to our role as peacekeepers,” Bobbi said. “And that’s not about fighting.”

  “Bobbi McCall, how are you going to fix your mouth to say that when you’re not black?” LaShonda asked. “It doesn’t affect you the way it does us.”

  “LaShonda, I may not be as dark as you”—Bobbi got both hands up on her hips—“but I’m every bit as human as you are. If you’re putting down human beings, then you’re putting me down, too.”

  “Anybody that paints their nails with the prime numbers is not as human as I am,” LaShonda said. “You may be smart but you are freaky.”

  “Yeah, well, that, too, LaShonda,” Bobbi
said, checking out her nails. “But that doesn’t move me away from what I’m feeling about this.”

  “Alvin’s walking around with bodyguards now,” Kambui said. “He’s been hanging out with some of the big guys in the school. I think they’re just looking for a fight.”

  “Yeah, but isn’t that the way all wars get started?” I asked. “The textbook said that most of the people in the South didn’t have slaves but got caught up in the idea they were fighting for their states or for their homes. I think they forgot about why they were fighting and just got on with it.”

  “Whatever!” Kambui was on his feet. “The bottom line is that he’s walking around with his ha-ha on and it’s us that he’s goofing on. It might not bother you because you’re not rolling with the people, but it bothers me.”

  “And having these dudes up in my face is messing with my mind,” LaShonda said. “They’re fingerpicking on my last nerve and making me feel four kinds of stupid because I ain’t got no comeback!”

  “Okay, if I can get Alvin and his crew to the table and make them own what they’re running, will you hang with me?” I asked.

  “How are you going to do that?” Kambui rolled his eyes toward me.

  “They don’t want to take credit for what they’re saying,” I said. “They want to make it light stuff and, like you’re saying, they’re blowing themselves up and thinking they can push up on us. Okay, suppose we give them credit and give them exactly what they want. Suppose we start agreeing with what they’re saying but put it up front so they can’t get around it?”

  “Zander, are your mouth and brain on the same page? What are you talking about?” LaShonda’s voice went up about four notes.

  “He’s punking out,” Kambui said.

  “I’m not punking out,” I said. “I just think if we make the Sons of the Confederacy responsible for what they’re saying and doing we’ll have something going on that we can deal with.”

  “So what’s your plan?” Bobbi asked.