by Paul Langan
“Look at the big bully with the broken wrist. He cried just like a baby,” Tyray imagined Harold saying.
Just you wait, Tyray thought over and over. Just you wait. His day of revenge would come, and no one would ever forget it. Especially not Darrell Mercer.
Chapter 2
Tyray and Lark sat together at an unoccupied table in the cafeteria. Being back in that room made Tyray uneasy. As he ate his lunch, he tried to avoid looking at the spot where Darrell had thrown him to the floor.
“The only time I ever had to go to the hospital was when I was a little girl. I fell down my grandma’s steps and busted my lip open,” Lark said, interrupting Tyray’s thoughts. She was staring at a small straw which she twisted around her fingers as she spoke. “The doctor stitched it up. I guess you can’t notice it now unless you really look for the little scar.”
Tyray had not noticed anything unusual until Lark mentioned it. “Oh yeah, I see where they fixed it,” he said, leaning in closer to examine her face. A tiny scar ran along the top of her upper lip.
Lark suddenly got quiet. Tyray thought she might have been waiting for him to say something nice to her. But that was not Tyray’s style. No one ever said nice things to him, and he was not about to treat her any differently. Being nice to people was weak. Not being nice gave you an edge. Tyray’s father said that a lot, and Tyray believed it. Dad said he never praised the men in his crew because they would think he was soft and then try to take advantage of him.
“Gotta keep ’em guessin’,” Dad once said. “I like keepin’ ’em afraid their work isn’t up to snuff and maybe they gonna get laid off. Make ’em afraid to take time off when they got a little bellyache or somethin’. It’s the way things gotta be done, boy. That’s the way a man handles his business.”
Lark reached up and touched the small scar. “Mom’s always telling me it doesn’t show. But I guess that’s a mom for you, huh?” she said, with a faint sigh.
“Yeah, they think lyin’ to you is better than hearing you whine about somethin’,” Tyray answered between bites of his hot dog. He hated the cafeteria food. He often joked that it tasted like erasers and chalk. On days when his and Rodney’s pockets were full with other kids’ money, they often headed for a fast food joint right after school to get “real” food. Little chance of that now.
Just then, Tyray noticed Darrell and Amberlynn laughing and talking at a nearby table. Amberlynn immediately caught him watching her and turned away.
Tyray knew she hated him. Even though she used to flirt with him and he once told her he liked her, the two were now enemies. He shot her a mocking smile before turning his attentions back to Lark.
“Know what, baby?” Tyray said smoothly.
Lark blinked. “What?”
“You got beautiful eyes,” Tyray said.
“Me?” Lark asked, excitement in her voice.
“They’re beautiful, and they cast a magic spell,” he added. He had learned there were times to be sweet too, especially to get what you wanted. For years, he watched Dad turn on the charm whenever Mom cashed her paycheck. She would be planning to go down to the store and get herself a new dress, but Dad would sweet-talk her out of half her money. He would throw her a little compliment, like you would throw a dog a bone, and she would hand over the cash.
“Nobody’s ever said anything about my eyes before,” Lark said softly, turning her head away.
“Well, it’s true,” Tyray replied. “I ain’t never seen no girl with eyes like those. You could be a model in a magazine.”
“Are you kidding me?” Lark asked.
“I’m serious, girl.”
A big smile spread over Lark’s lips, making the tiny scar vanish entirely. She does have a pretty smile, he admitted to himself.
Then, over Lark’s shoulder, Tyray saw Amberlynn walking over to their table. He smirked at her as she approached, but she acted as if she didn’t see him. “Lark, why don’t you come eat lunch with us next time?”
“Okay,” Lark said awkwardly. “Tyray asked me to eat lunch with him today, and we’ve been having a nice time. Maybe one day we can all—”
“We’ll talk in science class,” Amberlynn cut in, her eyes narrowing.
Tyray was about to send Amberlynn running with a harsh insult. But he remembered Ms. Spencer’s warning and did not want to give her any excuse to punish him. One bad incident and he would be out of Bluford for good.
Then his father would deal with him. Tyray did not want to face his wrath again. He was never quite sure how far his father would go. When he was a boy, Tyray had overheard his brother Warren tell friends stories about how Dad had beaten up men who crossed him, leaving them draped in garbage cans in dark alleys. As he got older, Tyray suspected some of the stories were lies meant to impress neighborhood kids, but some of them were probably true.
After Amberlynn left, Lark said, “I was looking in an old yearbook from Lincoln High School, and I saw pictures of your father. My Dad went to Lincoln back in the day too, but he wasn’t a football hero. Your Dad was practically on every page of the yearbook. I bet you’re proud of him.”
“Yeah,” Tyray said bitterly. He had seen the pictures too. Dad in his football uniform. Dad making a block. Dad running interference. Dad as most valuable player. When Tyray was younger, he hoped to be a big football star too, just like Dad. That would have been a way to be somebody despite his lousy grades. But Tyray lacked his father’s talent. He constantly fumbled the ball, and his low grades made it a constant struggle just to be eligible for sports.
“Did your father ever play football in college?” Lark asked.
“He got a college football scholarship,” Tyray said, “but when he got there, some teachers didn’t like him. He lost the scholarship . . . ruined his chances.”
“That’s so sad,” Lark said.
Tyray rolled his eyes at his own words. He knew he was just repeating his father’s old lie. He had heard the story many times before about how the college teachers had it in for Dad because he was black. That they resented a smart black athlete and deliberately sabotaged his future just because of his skin color. Tyray heard repeatedly about how Gil Hobbs would have eventually been drafted by the Broncos or the Cowboys and ended up rich and famous. But out of pure racism, those college teachers ruined his plans.
Tyray knew such things happened, but not to his father. The truth was Gil Hobbs just could not get good grades. Not any more than Tyray. That was the truth, and the truth hurt. Tyray understood that. Dad had made up the lie to hide the fact that he was a poor student.
When he was younger, Tyray was also ashamed that he could not get good grades. In middle school, he would often break into a cold sweat before tests, and he just could not seem to focus on books or what his teachers said. To hide his embarrassment, he practiced the one thing he was good at—bullying. Such behavior stopped other kids from picking on him. By eighth grade, Tyray was so big and tough that he got his way without being school smart. And it worked, until now.
“I bet your Dad is really mad about what happened,” Lark said. “Those athletes make such good money.”
“Yeah,” Tyray said. “He’s mad all right. Real mad. He won’t even watch football on TV. Me and my brother used to sneak over to a neighbor’s house to watch it.” Tyray stopped himself. He could not believe he was sharing a personal story with Lark. Even girls he liked did not get him to say so much about himself. He had to remember to keep his guard up.
After lunch, Tyray went to Mr. Fitch’s history class. Mr. Fitch was a short, balding man who always wore gray suits and hardly ever smiled. The tone of his voice made Tyray sleepy. He was nothing like Mr. Mitchell, who wore shirts with cartoon characters on them and told funny stories. Mr. Fitch even bored the students who liked history.
When Tyray sat down in the back row, Kendra Wilson, a girl who used to like him, whispered something to her friend. Tyray could not hear what they were saying, but he knew they were talking about him. Then s
he spoke loudly enough for the back half of the class to hear. “Hey, he don’t look so big anymore, does he? Looks like he shrunk!”
The girls laughed hysterically. Even Harold Davis smiled. Tyray clenched his hands into fists, struggling not to throw his chair across the room at everyone who laughed at him.
Tyray wanted his old world back. He wanted things to be as they were before Darrell came to Bluford.
At the end of the day, Tyray bolted from Bluford, which felt more like a prison than a high school. Halfway home, he stopped in front of a fast-food restaurant, eager to grab a burger and forget the day’s humiliation. But when he reached into his pocket, he found only enough change for a soda. Weeks ago, he had money to buy anything he wanted, but not anymore.
“Looks like his wrist ain’t the only thing that’s broke,” said a voice behind him, followed by a chorus of laughter. Tyray turned to see a group of Bluford students walking by on their way into the restaurant.
“You keep talkin’, and your face is gonna be broke too,” Tyray shot back as the kids passed. One girl snickered as she opened the door and went inside. Though no one else said anything, the damage was done. Tyray’s face burned in anger. Frustrated, he cursed loudly and kicked the restaurant door, sending a knife of pain into his foot.
“Hey, boy, you best get outta here before I call the police,” said a middle-aged employee who suddenly came out of the restaurant.
“Yeah, whatever,” Tyray growled, spitting on the ground defiantly. Frustrated, he turned to head home when he noticed a tall, skinny man standing on the corner ahead of him. The man was watching him closely. At first, Tyray ignored the man, who remained statue-like, but then he recognized the face.
The man’s name was Bones, and he was practically a legend in the neighborhood. Years ago, Warren had hung out with him for a while, even bringing him to the house once. Bones was a guy everyone feared, someone people sought when they needed something illegal. Though he hadn’t seen Bones much since Warren went to jail, Tyray had heard plenty. Countless rumors pointed to Bones as the suspect in many area crimes. Others said Bones had actually committed a number of gang-related hits.
Whatever the story, Tyray was in awe of the man. Nobody messed with Bones.
“What’s up, little brother?” Bones asked, his voice crackling like dry leaves. “How’d you hurt that hand?”
“What’s up, Bones,” Tyray answered nervously, covering his fractured wrist. “I got problems in school. People messin’ with me.”
Bones lowered his head thoughtfully. “Hard to get respect in this world sometimes,” he said.
“I used to get lots of respect,” Tyray replied, studying Bones’s face, which seemed gaunt and prematurely aged. “Nobody dissed me. But this little punk snuck up on me and caught me off point. Now everybody’s dissin’ me bad.”
Without a word, Bones nodded towards an alley and started walking. Tyray was puzzled for an instant, but he quickly followed. As they turned into the alley, Bones reached into his coat with a swift, smooth motion. He had the quickest hands Tyray had ever seen—like a magician doing a sleight-of-hand trick. In a split second, a gray metal object appeared between his fingers. Tyray’s jaw dropped as he realized Bones was holding a small gun. Its shiny steel barrel glimmered in the afternoon sun.
“Here’s respect, boy,” Bones said, holding out the gun.
Tyray felt his heart flutter as if someone had jolted him with a spike of electricity. He reached out instinctively to touch the gun, but Bones withdrew it with catlike speed. He smiled at Tyray for the first time. Two of his front teeth were gold capped. Others, long and discolored, looked like fangs.
“You sellin’ it?” Tyray asked eagerly.
“Maybe,” Bones said.
Tyray felt as if the world had suddenly shifted. Everything seemed different somehow. A gun, he thought, as a feeling of excitement and relief spread through his veins. A gun is the answer. It was a way of turning back the clock. With a gun, no one at Bluford would laugh at him. No one would dare disrespect him again. Instead, they would cower in his presence.
“I want that gun, man,” Tyray said.
Bones chuckled, a sickening rattling sound coming from his chest. “We’ll see,” he nodded. “We’ll see how bad you want it.”
“What do you mean?” Tyray demanded. For an instant, he forgot his fear of Bones. “Why’d you show me the gun if you ain’t gonna sell it?”
“You think about it some more, little brother. Let it stew for a while. I owe it to Warren to make you think on this one. He made his choice, and he’s livin’ with it. Before you go down the same path, you best do some thinkin’.”
“I don’t need to think about nothin’. I need the gun now,” Tyray insisted, his voice rising in desperation. After what happened in the cafeteria, Tyray saw no other way to get his reputation back. And he could not tolerate more days like the one he just had. He had no more patience, not even with Bones. “How long do I have to wait?”
Bones took a raspy breath and stared at Tyray, his eyes cold and serious. “This time next week, meet me in the restaurant. Bring fifty dollars with you.”
“Next week!” Tyray cried. “That’s too long!”
“The wait will do you good, little man,” Bones said. “You’re a baby yet. A little baby. That’s what I see. This time next week, we’ll see if you’ve done some growing up.”
As Bones strutted away, Tyray heard him coughing with a violent, chest-shaking rattle.
Tyray turned slowly and continued his walk home, his heart racing at the thought of the gun.
Chapter 3
Tyray was glad to arrive home before his father. Dad usually came home in a bad mood. Mom would rush around making dinner, trying to keep the peace and stay out of his way. But even she could not avoid catching blasts of his foul temper.
“This house is filthy! Can’t you do anything right?” he would often complain.
“Gil, I just cleaned it yesterday. The only mess I see is from your work boots,” Mom would reply softly.
“You want to start an argument tonight, don’t you?” Dad would shout, slamming doors and stomping around the house like a drunken elephant. Then he would settle down in his chair in front of the TV, his dinner on a metal tray on his lap. Within a few minutes after he finished eating, he would begin snoring in his chair, and peace would return to the house.
During such times, Tyray would look at his father and remember what he once said. “I might not be the smartest man in the world. And I ain’t the best lookin’ neither. But you better believe that folks are gonna respect me ’cause they know I ain’t scared of nothin’. I don’t care who I’m talking to. I just look ’em in their eyes, and they’re afraid ’cause they know I can hurt ’em. All the education in the world still ain’t too much for the fear I put in folks. That’s all I need.”
Tyray had accepted that philosophy for himself long ago. Like his father, he knew he wasn’t as smart as other kids, at least not at school. His brother Warren had always been a stronger student than Tyray. Warren was better-looking, too. He looked more like Mom, tall and slender with nice, well-shaped features. Tyray, on the other hand, had inherited his appearance from his father. As a boy, he hated his stocky body, thick neck, and square jaw, features which made him stand out from his peers.
“I’m ugly,” Tyray wailed when he was eight, after a group of older kids chased him home, taunting him.
“Moose,” they had called him over and over again. “That boy look like a big old ugly moose.”
“Don’t take nothin’ from them, Tyray. And never let them see you cry,” Warren had said, chasing the boys away. “Anytime anyone give you trouble, you send ’em to me. That’s what brothers are for, you got that?”
Tyray wished his brother was home and able to help him. But Tyray knew he had to handle this problem alone. And the only way he could see getting his respect back was by owning a gun. That alone would rescue him from the dark hole into which he had fall
en.
Saturday finally came, and Tyray decided to try to get a gun before his meeting with Bones. He just could not wait a whole week, not with daily humiliations at Bluford.
Tyray knew he could buy almost anything in the neighborhood after dark. Just last year, Londell James got a gun and used it to shoot Roylin Bailey, Amberlynn’s older brother. Even though Roylin was only grazed, Londell became one of the most feared kids on the street. Just mentioning his name made many kids nervous. Tyray hoped one day that his own name would have the same effect on people. No matter what, he just had to get that gun.
Near the corner of Cypress Street, Tyray saw two guys on bikes and a couple of others shooting baskets at a hoop bolted to the side of an abandoned building. Tyray recognized them immediately. Cedric Hodden and Shamar Briggs were the two kids jumping curbs on bikes. They were both in his freshman class. Eddie Bryson and Len Staley, two Bluford dropouts, were the ones shooting baskets. Tyray was certain one of them could help him find a gun. Taking a deep breath, he edged towards the makeshift basketball court.
“Whassup guys, how y’all doin’?” Tyray asked. He knew Eddie and Len from middle school. In the seventh grade, he got money from Len by shoving and smacking him around a bit. Len seemed pretty scared at the time, but that was years ago. Len had probably forgotten about it by now, Tyray thought.
“I remember you,” Len said, stepping back when Tyray approached. “You the dude that us’ta steal my lunch money. Whatcha want?”
“He did that?” Eddie asked, before Tyray could answer.
“Yeah,” Len replied. “Roughed me up a few times, even when I didn’t have anything to give him.”
“Man, that was just kid stuff,” Tyray said, extending his hand to Len. “We way past that now.”
