“OUT!” a voice roars from behind.
“Nice try, Armstrong,” I say.
“That ball touched your shirt.”
“Its breeze touched my shirt. The ball missed. The run’s ours. Two nothing. One out.”
“You’re a damn liar.”
“You’re a sore loser.”
“Come over here and say that to my face.”
The last time we faced each other like this, I backed down out of fear. But I’m not about to this time. Some things are worth fighting for.
I turn around and walk right up to him.
“You’re a sore loser,” I say.
My hands form fists, just like my dad’s did in the navy. Armstrong and I circle each other, boxers in the first round. If one steps forward, the other steps back. If one steps left, the other goes right.
The crowd rings us so fast it’s like they were always there. And then I hear someone start to chant:
“Fight, fight! Darkey and a white!”
For half a second Armstrong’s eyes leave mine to make a mental note of who said it first. But soon the chant gets taken up from behind him.
“Fight, fight! Darkey and a white!”
He jerks his head around to see who else said it.
The circle around us feels like a cage, the chant like a drum. “Fight! Fight!”
But in my head I hear a song. The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home …
Suddenly I don’t want to fight Armstrong anymore. It’s Stephen Foster I want to fight. And Mr. Mitchell. And this crowd that won’t stop shouting, “FIGHT! FIGHT! DARKEY AND A WHITE!”
Just then, a ball flies over my shoulder and bashes Armstrong on the head. He spins around and looks at me with rage in his eyes.
His fist flies up. It strikes me in the jaw.
My head whips back. Blood splatters the blacktop. Armstrong knees me in the gut. I try to breathe but there’s ice in my chest. My feet get swept out from under me.
The fight is over. The white is on the ground.
INCIDENT REPORT
Submitted by: Edwina Gaines, Yard Supervisor at Wonderland Avenue School
Date of Incident: Friday, January 17, 1975
Time:12:50 p.m.
Location: the lower yard
The children were playing sockball and Charlie Ross was rounding third when Armstrong threw him—well, that’s just it—either he threw him out or he threw and missed and Charlie would have scored a run. The boys disagreed. There was loud shouting and insistence that each was correct. I drifted over, but soon a wall of other students enclosed them. Then a cry roared up from the crowd that went something like “Fight, fight!”—and then a word I don’t care to put on paper—“and a white.”
I blew my whistle and made my way through that wall of students. I discovered Charlie Ross on the ground, folded over with the wind knocked out of him. I gave him my full attention and, once he recovered, escorted both boys to the office of the principal.
Armstrong
“Here,” I say, handing Ross a paper towel with a little red stain. “Your tooth.”
We’re side by side in the office, waiting for the secretary to type Mrs. Gaines’s Incident Report. Ross is trembling and I don’t blame him for that. I know what it feels like to get the wind knocked out of you.
He looks at the paper towel. Doesn’t take it, though.
“I saw it on the ground while Mrs. Gaines was tending to you. Since I’m the one who popped it out of your mouth, I’m the one should give it back.”
I hold it out to him some more. He still doesn’t take it.
“Might be worth something at home.”
He won’t look at me, but he takes the tooth and tucks it in his pocket. Snot trailing down his nose. Streams drying under his eyes. Here comes another shaky breath.
The thing is, I wasn’t that mad at Ross. I was mad at whoever said that word. And at Stephen Foster for writing the song. And Mr. Mitchell for playing it. Everything got messed together. Though I still think Ross was out on my throw. And that was cheap, hurling a ball at my head when it was turned.
Man, I wish he would just breathe.
Sometimes one word’s so hard to say. I can say it in my mind. Sorry. I can think up other words to go along with it. Ross, believe me when I say I am sorry I knocked the wind out of you. And the tooth.
But between the mind and the mouth is a long way.
“You all right?” I say.
No answer.
“I’ll take that as a maybe. Look, Ross—”
“Shut up,” he says. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Looks like we won’t be talking, then.
Charlie
In the principal’s office Mrs. Wilson’s glasses hang by that heavy chain. She sees me still trembling. I’ve got snot trails on my upper lip. My mouth tastes like blood.
She looks at Armstrong, perfectly calm. Could he be scared? I hope he’s scared.
“Sit down, boys.”
We sit. She hands me a tissue from the box on her desk. I blow my nose as quietly as I can.
“The punishment for starting a fight at Wonderland,” she says, “is expulsion from the school.”
Armstrong looks right at her. “Send me back, then, if that’s your rule.”
They stare at each other. Mrs. Wilson sighs, leans back, and looks at us both.
“Do you boys know why Wonderland is an Opportunity Busing school? I requested it. I asked to be part of this experimental year. You should have seen the mob of parents in here. What’s wrong with Wonderland the way it is, they said. A neighborhood school. A strong community. Kids who’ve grown up together. Why bring in another element? This is Laurel Canyon, they said. Not Little Rock. Not Boston. Exactly, I told them. It’s Laurel Canyon. Where everyone can learn to get along.”
She looks at Armstrong. “Was I mistaken?”
He looks away.
“I’ve read Mrs. Gaines’s report. I know that a hurtful word was chanted on the yard. It can’t have been easy for you to hear, Armstrong. But physical violence is never acceptable at this school. You made a boy bleed. You put him on the ground. A kid who reacts like that …”
She’s really going to kick him out. If I don’t say anything, Armstrong’ll be gone for good. I’ll never have to deal with him again.
Just as wrong to ignore an injustice, Charlie …
My dad’s voice in my head. But what about my voice? The one that couldn’t talk twenty minutes ago because I couldn’t breathe?
Just as wrong …
I look at Armstrong, at Mrs. Wilson, at Armstrong again. Then I say the words. Not loud. But I say them.
“He didn’t start the fight.”
“What’s that, Charlie?”
“Armstrong didn’t start the fight.”
“He threw the first punch. That’s what the witnesses said. It’s here in the report.”
“Only after somebody threw a ball at his head.”
Armstrong snaps his head my way. I can feel his anger rising.
“Why say ‘somebody’ when you know it was you?”
“It wasn’t me. It came from behind. I don’t know who threw it.”
“For real?”
“For real.”
“Honestly,” Mrs. Wilson says, “I don’t see how it matters where the ball came from. What matters is your reaction, Armstrong. End of story.”
But it’s not the end of the story, I think. There’s another part that wasn’t in Mrs. Gaines’s report.
“The word didn’t come from the school yard,” I say. “It came from class. From a song Mr. Mitchell played. It upset Armstrong. He asked to leave the room.”
“What was the song?”
“‘My Old Kentucky Home.’”
Her eyes close. She lifts her glasses to her mouth and bites down on the frame. She sits there thinking for so long that the clock does its backwards tick and its forward tock as a whole minute goes by.
“Well,
” Mrs. Wilson finally says, “I can’t exactly expel a song.”
Under her breath, I think I hear her say, Or a teacher. But I’m not really sure.
We come out of the office, and I get a drink of water from the fountain. It’s a long fountain with three faucets so more than one kid can drink at a time.
Armstrong steps up and turns the knob on the last spout. I drink at my end. He drinks at his.
Armstrong
“I’m surprised you lasted this long,” Mama says when she tucks me in.
“Aren’t you going to ask what happened?”
“You lost your temper, I suppose.”
“Aren’t you going to ask why?”
She doesn’t. But I tell her anyway. I’ve got to so she’ll know it was different this time.
Afterward she sighs and says, “He had to pick that song.”
“He said language is changing all the time. And Stephen Foster didn’t mean any harm. But it felt like harm to me. So I asked could I leave the room.”
“You left the room?”
“Old Mr. Khalil says to be who I am, not who they expect me to be. Mr. Mitchell expected me to just sit there and listen. But that’s not who I am.”
“You did the right thing, Armstrong.”
“The anger came out later, during a game. And then somebody—I didn’t see who—called me the word from the song. Only it wasn’t just one somebody, Mama, but a whole crowd. The whole school, it felt like.”
You can hear the train whistle from over by the tracks. Most nights that’s the sound I fall asleep to. We wait for the train to pass.
Then Mama says, “You know, Armstrong, this program, it’s not mandatory. If you have to, if you want to, you can go back to Holmes anytime.”
I don’t answer right away. I got to think about that.
“A funny thing is,” I say, “Charlie Ross—that’s the boy I got in a fight with—he told the truth. All of it.” I got my cheek on the pillow, so I can’t see Mama’s face. But I can picture the wrinkles that show up every time she’s lost in thought.
“Scratch my back?”
The covers come down. My shirt lifts up. Here come her nails, light and soft, the way I like it.
“I wish I could tell you that’s the last time you’ll hear that word,” she says.
“I know.”
“Or others, even worse.”
“I know.”
“They’re our shadow words.”
She scratches some more.
“You think his people got a shadow word?”
“What do you mean, ‘his people’?”
“Back in September, Charlie Ross was out of school for one day. Ten days later, he was out for another. Said his mama made him go to temple.”
“That means they’re Jewish. Yes, they have a shadow word.”
“You know what it is?”
“I do. But you don’t need to.”
Charlie
The Tooth Fairy catches me tucking my tooth under my pillow. She wants to know what happened.
“Armstrong and I got in a fight. It didn’t last long. One punch was all it took.”
“What precipitated the fight?” the Tooth Fairy’s husband wants to know.
I tell them about the song and the game and the chant. I tell them I’m glad I don’t have to lift weights anymore or stand up to Armstrong in front of the school, because now everyone knows I’m a wuss who could never kick his ass anyway, so why try?
“Is there anything we can do for you?” Dad says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’d like fifty cents for my tooth so I can buy some candy from the Helms Man.”
“Look under your pillow tomorrow. Is there anything else?”
There is something else. Something I thought of when we were in Mrs. Wilson’s office and she almost threw Armstrong out of school.
“I want to go to Carpenter with Keith. Can we use Aunt Trudy’s address in Studio City so I don’t have to go back to Wonderland?”
There’s a long silence while Mom and Dad just look at each other. Sometimes parents can look at each other for only a few seconds and have, like, a twenty-minute conversation.
“We’re not going to do that, Charlie,” my dad says.
“Why not? Why can’t we be like the other families? There are no Armstrongs at their schools.”
“Because we’re not like those other families. We don’t run away from problems. We deal with them.”
I turn away to the wall. All I want to do is sleep.
· 9 ·
One Saturday
Charlie
“TWO FOR FLINCHING.”
It’s a Saturday morning in February, and I feel the double tap of a fist on my shoulder. I turn around and see Keith standing on our driveway. I just finished washing my mom’s car and would’ve seen him coming, but I was coiling up the hose.
“Hey, Keith,” I say. “How’s it going?”
“One boring day at a time,” he says. “Wanna make this one stand out?”
Before his parents pulled him out of Wonderland, Keith was the one kid I wanted to be able to call my best friend. He’s fearless, a tiny bit crazy, and fun. He gets me to take risks I’d never take on my own.
“What do you want to do?”
“Ride our bikes down to Studio City.”
In the category of unintentional injuries, car accidents are the deadliest kind. Next comes drowning, and after that, other transportation.
Including bikes.
To get to Studio City, you have to ride along Mulholland Drive. It’s a twisty road on the top of a mountain. One pothole and you could go over the edge. If that’s not dangerous enough, then comes the deathtrap of Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Four lanes. Speeding cars. A whole lot of steep.
“How will we get home?”
“Easy. My mom’ll pick us up. We’ll tell her your mom drove us down with our bikes in her trunk so we could ride around in the flats where it’s safe. Our moms don’t talk much anymore, so we’ll trick ’em both.”
Keith sees me hesitating.
“That was Andy’s, wasn’t it?” he says, pointing to the Mammoth Mountain sweatshirt I’m wearing.
“Yeah.”
“We can go to Baskin-Robbins and get ice cream. We’ll drink a couple of malts in his honor. Jamoca Almond Fudge. That was his favorite, right?”
He remembers.
“And I’ll show you my new school.”
“I don’t know, Keith,” I say. “You think it’s safe?”
“I don’t know, Charlie Ross,” he says. “You think it’s safe?”
His blue eyes laser through me.
Armstrong
Having all sisters, and all of them older, is its own kind of education. For instance, I’ll bet you Ross doesn’t know there’s a right way and a wrong way to dry their personal items. You have to hang them on the line for the whole neighborhood to see. If you dry them in the machine, they stretch.
“Armstrong, bring in the laundry. It’s hanging on the line.”
“Can’t my sisters do it? It’s mostly their underthings out there.”
“Which is why,” my daddy says, “they’re not about to step outside without ’em.”
So here I am, snatching bras off the line and praying none of the boys around here see me. But here comes Jerome and his let’s-laugh-at-Armstrong smile. And here’s me in plain sight with three bras and six panties draped over my arms. Fourth bra around my neck, like a scarf.
“Say, Armstrong, if you get tired of wearing your sisters’ clothes, I got some old ones you can have.”
“These aren’t my sisters’ clothes,” I say.
“They’re not?”
“They belong to my girlfriend.”
“You got a girlfriend with cups that size?”
“I’m going with a college girl.”
“Armstrong, you ain’t dating no college girl.”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“What’s her n
ame?”
“Beatrix.”
“Beatrix what?”
“Potter. She goes to USC. Majoring in reverse psychology.”
“For real?”
I look Jerome straight in the eye without even a twitch. Reach up and pluck Charmaine’s panties off the line. “Jerome,” I say, “do you know what the word entrepreneur means?”
“No.”
“Are you familiar with the work of Mr. James Emanuel?”
“I’m familiar with the work of Mr. James Brown.”
“I am referring to the poet, not the singer. Or the running back.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Well, maybe if you dated a college girl like Beatrix Potter, you’d expand your horizons like I’m expanding mine. Now, if you don’t mind, Beatrix is waiting for her bras.”
I carry that laundry inside and put the shade down. I don’t want Jerome looking for Beatrix in my window.
And I don’t want him seeing my five sisters in search of their clothes on a Saturday morning. I just stand there like a hat rack and let them pluck what they need.
A bra gets snatched off my neck.
“Thanks, Armstrong,” Lenai says.
“Those are mine!” Ebony says, yanking some panties off my left arm.
“They’re mine!” Nika says. “You bought the yellow ones, remember?”
They go on fighting over the pair. Charmaine and Cecily come for their things, and pretty soon I’m empty.
In case you were wondering, I kept my eyes closed the whole time. They’re my sisters!
Charlie
On Skyline Drive we pop wheelies onto a vacant lot, one of about twenty-five that tumble like a giant set of stairs down to Mulholland Drive. Soon they’ll have construction sites for us to play on. But for now the empty lots are where we ride.
“Race you.”
There’s no “ready, set, go.” We fly over the first lip, land on the next lot, and tear across it, Keith on his Stingray in the lead. I beat him across the next few lots, but just before the last one he surges ahead, skidding to a dusty stop ahead of me.
We ride Mulholland single file, Keith out front, me hugging the edge. A car buzzes by on my left. My front wheel wobbles. I veer close to the cliff. But at the last second I regain control.
At Laurel Canyon the light is red. I catch up to Keith. Side by side we wait for the green.
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