Union

by John Darryl Winston

  “Do the other Merchants know I’m back?”

  “You won’t be working for them anymore, just MeeChi’s.”

  Naz beamed. That’s all he ever wanted when it came to working since his mother had died, to work at his favorite Market Merchant, nowhere else.

  “What about the others?”

  “Well, I told you Mr. Moussa had to close Piccolo’s and the others … well, someone else can do that. I need you here.”

  “What will I be doing?” Naz stood and picked up his backpack.

  “Store Manager.”

  “Store Manager? But I don’t know—”

  “You’ll do fine. Now get out of here before you’re late for your first day.” Mr. Tesla led Naz to the booth door and down the stairs with a bottle of orange juice in one hand and his backpack in the other. When Naz reached Tone, he turned back to Mr. Tesla.

  “Mr. Tesla, is there a trap door?”

  “Goodbye, Naz.” Mr. Tesla waved.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Tesla. Bye, Tone.”

  Tone did not respond.

  Naz looked up as he walked out of Meechi’s. The sky was an overcast gray. He downed his OJ, took a deep breath of dawn, and slung his backpack over his shoulder. He marveled at how light the pack was but figured it wouldn’t feel that way for long once Union books occupied its almost empty space. At present, the backpack was home to only one article: his mother’s diary. It was one of only three books he could ever remember reading and actually paying attention enough to comprehend its contents cover to cover.

  At Dr. Gwen’s, Naz sometimes put the diary next to the Bible on his nightstand but kept it under his mattress otherwise. It was something sacred to him that only his and his mother’s eyes had beheld, and he wanted to keep it that way.

  As he bent down to tighten one of his shoelaces, the key that opened the sacred piece crept out of his shirt and dangled under his chin. The key was a constant and vivid reminder of his time in this cruel reality known as the Exclave with Meri and also that he didn’t need to hide his mother’s diary to conceal it from others, only to keep it locked. But he discovered early on, it was an inconvenience to keep locking it and unlocking it—better to hide it like Momma did. He thought of the floorboard she kept it under—ingenious.

  It was colder this morning. Naz watched the breath escape his mouth as he stood. He put the key back in his shirt, buttoned his black windbreaker, and took in his surroundings. He calculated it was approximately a mile and a half to Union from MeeChi’s: a fifteen-minute brisk walk and he used the time to reacquaint himself with his past home of almost four years. Nothing had changed except his attitude toward the landscape. The night before, in the twilight and darkness with his comrades, he sympathized with the despair he witnessed. This morning, he could see the face of his environment in a new light, and it occurred to him that maybe the people of the Exclave were happy in their predicaments.

  Naz passed by several individuals who appeared to be homeless—why else would they be out this early and not on their way to work … or somewhere. He crinkled his nose in reaction to the smell, something he didn’t remember doing before. Had he lost his stomach for the less fortunate? Did any of these people live in the cardboard boxes they had passed last night on the way to the Cage? But what struck Naz as odd was they were in good spirits. There was laughter. Two women played checkers with bottle caps and a decrepit board—how can they tell which side is which?

  Another block down, a man and woman were actually dancing—the way old people dance together, holding hands and spinning each other around. Naz lingered in amazement at their revelry, almost tripping over another homeless man in the process. He reached into his pocket to pull out some money to accommodate the derelict but decided against it. Even though he’d be working at MeeChi’s after school again, he wasn’t sure the weekly allowance Dr. Gwen had promised him would sustain him until then. He went down a side street and saw the devastation of abandoned and condemned houses covered in graffiti.

  Naz pulled out his phone. He had somehow lost track of time and at his present pace would be late, so he did one of the things he did best: he ran. Three unsavory-looking characters walked in his direction, causing him to slow down to a walk—I should cross. He could hear Meri’s words in his head—‘why don’t you stand up to them. This is where we live,’—and he punched his fist in his palm, Soul-style.

  One of the boys took notice, alerted the other two, and they immediately gave way and crossed the street.

  Naz smiled, sped up, and made his way to Union with his head held high and an air of confidence.

  Naz approached Union overwhelmed. It was at least four times bigger than Lincoln Middle School and even more crowded. He and Harvis had agreed to go to school separately, in the beginning, to feel things out on their own. Harvis also wanted to catch up on things with Soul, and Naz was by nature a loner, so the idea appealed to him as well. He liked Soul, but only considered Harvis a true friend. After Ham, Naz was squeamish about the concept of friendship and avoided the idea altogether. Still, he would’ve felt a lot more comfortable walking into the gigantic high school with Harvis at his side. To say it was intimidating was an understatement. It dwarfed International Academy. But to Naz it represented legacy; his mother and father went to Union—and if it was good enough for the smartest man on the planet and my mom, it’s good enough for me.

  Naz wormed his way around a sea of students and through the massive, front doors. Once inside, the students bottlenecked through a metal detector that, unlike the one at Lincoln, actually worked. It sounded not long after Naz made it through successfully. He resisted the temptation to turn around and see who had set it off. He made his way to the office in short order where his schedule was waiting for him—Dr. Gwen knows how to pull strings. He read.

  Fears! Naz laughed. He’s always up to something. Not Spanish! How’d that happen? Seven classes? Honors Biology? Advanced Algebra? What’s Dr. Gwen trying to do, kill me? And what’s Art Survey?

  First stop, the security officer for his locker combination. He walked down the crowded hallway, looking at the numbers over the doors.

  “102 … 104 … 106 … 108 …” Then there was nothing for a while—the gym or the auditorium must be on the other side of this wall. He looked across the hallway—Natatorium … what’s that? Then a little farther down, back to the other side, “110.” He took a peek at his schedule again to make sure and then at the door with a sign that read:

  110 SECURITY

  The door was a few inches ajar. Naz knocked. Nothing. Harder. Still nothing. Naz opened the door wide enough to take a peek inside.

  A man sat leaning back in a chair with his feet up and crossed on the desk in front of him, his back to the door. He must’ve been listening to music in the headphones he wore as his head bobbed up and down in a steady rhythm.

  “Ahem.” Naz tried to get the man’s attention to no avail. He walked in slowly. “Hello. Excuse me.”

  The man’s head continued to bob up and down. The windowless room had barely enough space to accommodate the wooden desk that sat beneath a bulletin board and next to a tall, black, metal file cabinet. There were two large computer screens on the desk in which every camera in the school must’ve fed. In three steps Naz was almost next to the man—so much for Union’s security. Pictures of fancy cars cut out of magazines and candid shots of female students in the hallways peppered the bulletin board. Naz scrunched his nose—perv. The nameplate on the desk read:

  NORMAN CLATURE

  SECURITY OFFICER

  Clature? One more step and Naz stood next to the officer. His eyes were closed as music played through headphones that compressed his medium-sized Afro. Naz was torn between tapping the man on his shoulder and yelling to get his attention. Either way, he was concerned he might scare Clature into pulling the gun holstered on his hip.

  Naz twisted a tendril of his hair, hoping the motion alone would alert the officer to his presence. No such luck. He thought abou
t something he read in his thought transference book, that people could transfer thoughts to each other. He and Dr. Gwen had never talked about the subject, but he thought now was as good a time as any to put the theory to the test.

  Not even sure how to pronounce his name, Naz focused and called Clature in his thoughts. Nothing. He tried again only to receive the same negative result. He looked at his phone—I’m gonna be late. He turned to leave, but before he could reach the door—

  “Hey!” Clature snapped.

  Naz turned back around.

  The officer was still in the process of taking off his headphones. “What chu doin’ in here?!”

  “I-I came to get the combination for my locker?” Naz handed Clature his schedule.

  “You know how to knock?” The guard stood up, his hair retaining the shape of the headphones he now held.

  “I did knock.”

  “I don’t remember sayin’ come in.” Clature rose a little higher on his toes, putting him eye-to-eye with Naz.

  “The door was open … and you couldn’t hear me ’cause—”

  “Igod Andersen … what kinda name is that?!”

  “It’s just a name.”

  Clature wasn’t paying attention. His clothes hung off his wiry frame, and his teeth seemed to barely fit in his crooked mouth. He looked at the schedule Naz had given him, pulled out a manila folder from his desk, and rifled through the short stack of papers in it. “Where you from?”

  “Um … Marshal Park.”

  “What school?”

  “Oh, International Academy.”

  “International Academy!” Clature laughed. “They’re gonna eat chu up here. 6 … 32 … 41.”

  “What?”

  “That’s your locker combination. I’m only gonna say it one more time.”

  Naz took his backpack off his shoulder.

  “Don’t write it down. Never write anything down. That’s how people break in your locker. Memorize it.” Clature said the numbers again.

  Naz committed the numbers to memory. “Thank you.”

  “Next time, knock.”

  “OK.”

  “I got my eyes on you.” Clature pointed to his own eyes with two fingers and then back at Naz with one.

  Naz nodded—weirdo!

  NAZ FOUND HIS way up the stairs to the second floor and then by process of elimination finally his locker. When Naz opened his locker, he found he obviously already had a locker partner, a partner who had taped a color picture of Bruce Lee in a fighting stance with bloody claw marks on his chest and stomach. He laughed. Someone tapped him on his shoulder—Harvis.

  Naz said as he turned, “Bruce Lee has to go, Wordsmith.”

  “I kind of like it,” said Pharaoh as he peered past Naz into the locker and nodded.

  “Oh, I … I thought you were somebody else.”

  Pharaoh turned his attention back to Naz and got a little closer, looking Naz directly in his eyes—my black eyes.

  Uncomfortable, Naz turned back to his locker as if he was searching for something.

  Pharaoh put out his hand. “I’m sorry about last night. That game can really bring out the worst in you, well me. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  Naz looked back at Pharaoh and in a millisecond could tell he was sincere, but it didn’t matter; Pharaoh had already drawn first blood. “No problem.” He shook Pharaoh’s hand unenthusiastically and then turned his attention back to his locker.

  “So I hear you’re not gonna play for the team.”

  Naz shrugged—Soul.

  “You guys are good, man. Lucky for us, huh?” He smiled and walked away.

  “Hey,” Naz called out.

  Pharaoh turned around.

  “Thank you.” Naz nodded with a half-smile.

  “Hey, we’re warriors, not animals.” He glanced at the clock. “The bell’s about to ring so you better hurry.” He walked away.

  Naz had to walk all the way back down the stairs and to the end of the hallway in less than a minute, or he would have to incur the wrath of—Fears. He ran down the stairs and was halfway down the hall when the bell rang. Bam! Bam! Bam! Classroom doors closed one by one. When he arrived at his destination, he could already hear Fears’ booming voice through the closed door, and he smiled. He was back.

  He hated being the center of attention, and now he would be. He clenched his jaw, slowly turned the doorknob and tried to open the door quietly. But it squeaked loudly, and the already silent room seemed to become quieter still as Fears and all of the students looked at Naz.

  “Mr. Andersen,” bellowed Fears, “Glad you could join us. Are you familiar with the three by three by three rule here at Union?” He pointed to one of the only empty desks, near the front of the class. Harvis sat in the front row near the window, and Soul sat behind him, chuckling.

  “No, Sir,” Naz hurried to the desk Fears had indicated.

  “Sir?” asked Fears.

  “I mean, Coach … Fears.” Naz slouched down in his desk.

  “Thank you,” said Fears. “Sir was my father’s name—”

  Someone in the back of the room distracted him.

  “Yes, Miss Dinwiddie.”

  Dinwiddie? Naz came to attention—Wait, D? When he heard her voice the butterflies returned, he stopped breathing, and the thoughts rushed in. He resisted covering his ears and making a scene. He took a few deep breaths, calmed himself, and the jumble of voices subsided.

  “But, Mr. Fears, isn’t the title ‘Sir’ a show of respect?” asked D.

  Naz turned around, as did some of the students who must have been familiar with Fears. D obviously didn’t get the memo and was still operating on the premise that the substitute Ms. Schlecky was running things. Harvis looked at Naz and shrugged while Soul put his face in his hands and shook it. It didn’t take long for Fears to regroup and respond.

  “Not necessarily, Miss Dinwiddie. Respect is a relative concept.”

  “But aren’t some things constant, no matter what? The sun we see on this side of the planet is the same one seen on the other side, and it serves the same purpose to warm, guide, and provide energy.”

  Everybody’s eyes shot back to Fears, even Naz’s for a moment, but he immediately took the opportunity to look back at D. He hadn’t seen her face or heard her voice since Meri’s funeral at the cemetery. He missed the feeling, and it stirred him, how she could somehow stop time—Did she stump Fears?

  “Good answer, Miss Dinwiddie.” Fears, who had been standing in front of his desk, walked to the window and peered outside. “But even your energy-providing sun with its properties of warmth and guidance can mean so much more. To some, its rays are harmful and are to be avoided at all cost while others bask in its radiant glow daily.”

  “That’s beautiful, Coach.”

  “Shut up, Mr. Bender. And we’re not talking about the sun, Ms. Dinwiddie; we’re talking about culture and point of view. The same statement can be respectful in one culture and an insult in another. People have different points of views, and that has to be respected. It’s called tolerance. Now what was I saying?” asked Fears.

  “Sex education, Coach, sex education,” blurted out Ham.

  Two girls whispered and giggled to each other while one boy turned around and gave another a high five.

  “My specialty.” Soul patted himself on the chest.

  Fears scowled at Soul. “Settle down.”

  The class quieted down immediately.

  “Right, Mr. Martinez. Miss Schlecky collected all of your permission slips, so without further ado, we’ll begin. The sex-education you will be learning is abstinence-based. Who can tell me what that means?” In a class of mostly boys no one raised their hands until D’s hand shot up again, and with no one else to call on, Fears called on her.

  “Miss Dinwiddie.”

  “It teaches not having sex outside of marriage. It doesn’t talk about birth control and safe sex.”

  “Another good answer, Ms. Dinwiddie. The scope—”


  “But isn’t that irresponsible, Mr. Fears?” interrupted D.

  “Excuse me?”

  Many of the students turned around again to look at D, including Naz.

  “Isn’t it irresponsible to only give out half of the information, especially with the statistics out there on teenage pregnancy and people getting STIs?”

  D’s challenge was unprecedented. No one had ever attempted to take Fears to task, not in any class. It was academic suicide. Naz could hardly wait for Fears’ rebuttal. But Fears’ attention was elsewhere.

  “Yes, and what is your name,” said Fears to someone on the other side of the room.

  “John Hornbuckle, sir, I mean … Mr. Fears.”

  “Hornbuckle?”

  “Yes.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Hornbuckle?” asked Fears.

  Was Fears dodging D’s question?

  “I agree with her.” John nodded in D’s direction. “For the most part, you’re preaching to the choir and not addressing the real problem. Technically, the ones who aren’t going to have sex for whatever the reason don’t need to be told that’s a good thing. It’s the ones that are having sex, or on the fence and thinking about it. They … or we need options, and if we can’t get them from our parents … or our teachers, where do we turn?”

  You could literally hear a pin drop, and Soul tested the cliché by flipping his pen in the air. When it hit the floor, everyone seemed to come back to reality, a reality that the great Marcus Fears had to address, and in a hurry.

  The class awaited a response in silence.

  Fears clapped slowly and loudly, his huge hands coming together like seal flippers as he leaned against the window frame. “Congratulations, you’ve figured it out.” He stopped clapping. “Each other.”

  “Come again, Coach.” Soul never looked more serious.

  “You heard me, each other. You turn to each other. What do I always talk about?”

  “Family,” said Harvis.