Gumbo
Page 4
He spit on the boy’s shirt, causing laughter and clapping as the crowd dispersed like roaches when the kitchen light comes on. Cassidy stood there. Frozen. Inside, she felt sorry for the guy. She’d seen him many times since he and his family moved in across the street. He’d walk around with his Walkman on, carrying paint buckets or brooms. Another boy who looked a little older would be with him, too, working on that house, horsing around. They’d done a good job painting it, too. It looked completely different and halfway decent when they’d gotten done. She was curious what the inside looked like now. Every now and again, a woman showed up at the place… possibly their mother.
They hadn’t been in the house for a week before someone stole something out of their car. She only knew that because the older boy had rushed out to the front yard, cursing and yelling so loud, his voice carried. The police arrived an hour or so later. Sometime later, the White boy’s shoes were stolen after he’d changed for gym class; he’d made some sort of warning about it in fourth period and the teacher threatened to send him to the principal. Later that same day, the lady she assumed was his mother had to come up there and handed him another pair, but the new ones looked cheap and old.
Everyone had been talking about his kicks that had vanished like a magic trick. They were nice… real nice… looked expensive. She had a suspicion Street had taken them. He always tried to look fresh at other people’s expense. Shaking herself out of her deliberations, she turned away, feeling so badly about it all… but what could she do?
“AHHHH!” She jumped when she heard the sudden commotion, the quiet cracked open as if with a whip. Screams, curses…
Oh no… this shit isn’t over…
The White boy had somehow gotten up just that quick and charged Street like a damn bull. Everyone gathered back around to create a scene of pure pandemonium. She raced into the crowd… and gasped. The White boy was throwing left and right hooks like she’d never seen! Blood was splattering everywhere as his long arms moved like twin streaks of white lightning.
“You stupid ass motherfucker!” BAM! “Been fucking with me all fucking week!!! I hate it here! I hate this school! I hate you! I hate every fuckin’ body!” BAM! BAM! BAM!
“Street! Man, what chew doin’?! He kickin’ yo’ ass! You gone let dis White boy kick yo’ ass like dis, man?!” someone yelled.
“I hate you!!! I fuckin’ hate you, ya hear me?!” the White boy repeated over and over. The sound of his fists landing against Street’s body was hard and swift, as if he were pounding meat, trying to get it nice and tender in Godspeed, record timing for a hot skillet. Suddenly, Principal Nollie burst through the mob, his dark, round face shiny as it always was as he yelled at everyone to disperse.
“Come on, now! Get away from here!”
He yanked the White boy up by the back of the shirt, tearing him away from Street like some yo-yo on an extra-long string.
“Break this mess up! Break it up! Y’all go on and get your behinds home!” Principal Nollie shouted, his voice booming like a primo car stereo.
It seemed everyone ignored Principal Nollie as they looked down at Street, curious to see if he was even still alive. Street’s face had been rearranged like dark, fleshy puzzle pieces that had been bent and turned at the edges, then scattered from a shove of a foot. His lips swelled right before her eyes like pink birthday balloons. Blood was everywhere, even dripping out of his nose, and the side of his face was sliced open… but she’d never seen a knife. Street definitely appeared dazed and confused. Someone drove past blasting ‘Love is a House’ by the Force MDs. Cassidy loved that song, but she wasn’t quite in a dancing mood right then.
“Damn, dog…” someone murmured. “White boy to’e yo’ ass up, Street. He ain’t De Niro or Tony Montana, man, but you got that Rocky Balboa action on yo’ ass today, boy! Yo’ Aaaaadrian!” A bunch of people burst out laughing, some seeming more shocked than anything else.
The boy became an instant hit; nobody had ever seen or heard of a White kid throwin’ down like that. Wasn’t but a handful of Whites in town anyway, but she’d never seen it on the news hardly, either.
The White boy was dragged inside the school building, disappearing behind the doors with the principal, his head down. Street was simply left there, like he wasn’t worth a damn, drowning in a puddle of his own blood, the red pool of shame. She shifted her gaze from the school to Street, then to the people who were now walking away, no longer giving a shit.
He is a damn fool. That’s what he gets. Serves him right.
Street’s left eye was swelling up now, making him look like some strange puppet. One of his boys reached down to help him up, and he swiped the guy’s hand away, snarling and looking all ugly as he did it.
“I’m alright, nigga!” he hissed as he stumbled to his feet. Then, the guy landed his one good eye on her, and his look of disdain could set the world on fire.
“What you lookin’ at, stuck up bitch?!”
Cassidy quickly turned away, hating that her best friend, Danica, was out sick for the third day in a row. She had to walk home by herself again… something she absolutely hated. She could hear the guys talking and Street pretending he wasn’t hurt. He went on and on until she couldn’t hear him anymore. Readjusting her bookbag on her shoulder, she took off and finally reached home. She paused on the sidewalk to check out the White boy’s house across the street. The windows had pretty little white curtains, and there was a flag out in the front now. The grass was still dead, but somehow, some yellow roses were growing by the steps. She smiled as she hurried up to her front door and opened it.
“You uh little late today,” Grandmama yelled out over the sound of her gospel music and her soap opera playing on low volume on the television. “Come on in here, girl, and help me cut up these potatoes ’nd onions. Hope you hungry. Gotta cook ’em all today. They turnin’ bad fast…”
CHAPTER THREE
Have Your Cake and Eat it Too
…Two weeks later
“And I mean it Tony, I’ve had it! You keep your behind in this house all damn night. Stay put. I don’t want you even looking at the sidewalk!” Ma pointed her long red-painted fingernail in his direction before getting in her beat-up car she’d gotten after selling the new car Dad had bought her, they needed the money. She was heading off to her second job as a 24-hour clinic receptionist. Some dime store level mechanic had just about Elmer-glued and electrical-taped the vehicle together so she could get another month or two out of it. It looked like the burnt insides of a robot, after being crushed by a barreling semi-truck, then chewed on by some metal-eating alien.
He sucked his teeth as he slumped down on the tilted porch swing and rocked back and forth, eyeing his disheartening surroundings. The wind, fragrant with smells of the neighborhood, blew in his hair. Barbecue… weed… despair. Back and forth he moved on the slanted, hard board, the damn thing squeaking like Dante’s bed when he’d snuck that Mexican lady with the missing front tooth in the house the other night. What a fucking ruckus. The girl had sounded like a feral cat, like she was dying. Her voice had annoyed the fuck out of him and her wailing had gone on to no end. He highly doubted his brother was such a lover man that women practically fell to pieces beneath him. Another ten minutes had passed, and she was screaming in Spanish, only with a lisp, as if the wind was tunneling through where the space from the missing tooth resided, making a funnel of air that whirled about like a Wizard of Oz tornado.
Tony had put the pillow over his head and practically suffocated himself to death to prevent hearing but things only got worse when his brother’s headboard had started knocking against the thin wall divide of their rooms.
He shoved the memory out of his mind and rammed his hand in his lint filled pocket to pull out a little treasure—a cigarette butt he’d found that still had a little love to give. He twirled it around, to and fro, debating on whether to try and light it up, give it new life, even if only for a minute or two. He’d been bored out of his mind,
especially since Ma had put him on punishment, her own version of house arrest. He’d had four fights in the last two weeks and she blamed him for the whole mess, saying he had a bad attitude.
Nothing could have been further from the damn truth. Some bastard had tried to steal the lunch he’d packed himself, a sandwich with thinly sliced roast beef Ma had scored on sale. Another guy had dared to fight him after the scuffle with Street, and that piece of shit had ended up getting his ass kicked, too. People just kept trying him. His uncle had taught him and his brother how to fight since they’d been little kids. Uncle Danny was a local underweight legend—tall and lanky, and could beat a giant to death. Tony had only gotten into a couple of fights back home, silly shit, but this was a whole new ballgame. It was tiring, a lesson in frustration having to put all of those old lessons in that musty basement of the small red brick house in Jersey to good use. He didn’t like it, but it was necessary.
Dad’s old words haunted him: ‘Son, we show people how to treat us, all right? Give people one chance, and one chance only. If they do it again, you gotta speak up for yourself. They did it on purpose, trying to test ya; it’s not an accident. It only takes a few times of doing the same thing over and over to form a habit. Don’t let anybody practice on you. Don’t put up with anyone’s shit. Give these bastards an inch, they’ll take a mile…’
Tony lowered his head and swallowed. His chest warmed like chicken noodle soup on a gas stove, his heart quickened as the emotions deep within formed a tight, knotted ball around his heart and squeezed.
I miss ya, Dad. I fucking hate you, too. How could you leave like this? We need you. I’m losing my mind.
He ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling it, as he peered down at the ground. Swinging back and forth, the concrete porch below him showed nothing but the same old ugly shade of gray.
When the hell would it end?! He was sick of these fuckin’ people… He’d never had problems with any of his Black pals back home. He was tired of being called Snow, Peckerwood, White boy, Mayo, White-Out, and all the other bullshit they came up with.
Let me call someone a nigger though… the whole fuckin’ school would be on top of my ass like an avalanche. But it’s all right for them to call me all of that shit… double standard. I ain’t have shit to do with anything that happened way back during slavery times. These people are ridiculous, they’re stupid… it’s always somebody else’s fault. All they do is fuckin’ start shit all day; half the guys that jumped on me probably can’t even read a fifth-grade book without stumbling over the words… too busy trying to act hard as they say, instead of paying attention. I fuckin’ hate it here! I hate everything about it!
Ma had never raised him or Dante to be racist, nor had Dad though he seemed to not care for Arabs too much. In fact, Ma was an ‘all inclusive, diversity makes the world go round’ kind of broad. He despised these new feelings he was developing; they were ugly, but justified. He supposed some would describe them as racist, but he was just trying to survive. Every day it was always something, and just like Dad had raised him and his brother to know and believe, the day he backed down from a fight would be the last day of his life. He refused to be anyone’s doormat, no matter what.
He twirled the cigarette stub between his nimble fingers, wondering where the cheap BIC orange lighter was that used to be in the junk drawer in the kitchen. Maybe Ma had moved it when she wanted to know who had been smoking weed in the house the week prior? She’d claimed to smell it, but he didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. That was more Dante’s thing.
Just then, something … or someone … moved across the street. Slowing to a crawl, he rested the tips of his sneakers against the concrete of the porch and leaned forward.
He heard music coming from that direction. Drums, singing, like a concert of sorts, only he was certain it came from an old radio by the sound quality and all. A girl dressed in a jade green shirt and tight dark jeans plopped down on an old chair on her porch, crossed her long legs on the seat beneath her, and opened a book on her lap. Her long, dark hair fell in front of her face as she dove into the words on the page. Seconds later, she tucked some of the strands behind her ears, then, as if someone had sounded an alarm from his side of the road, she looked up and their eyes locked. He could have sworn she smiled before she quickly turned away.
I’ve seen her before…Oh yeah, she goes to my school. I think her name is Carla… Cathy… no, Cassidy. Yeah, that’s it. Cassidy. He stood up, cleared his throat, and made his way down the front steps. She looked up once again, then quickly looked away as he walked fast across the street towards her. He slowed down when it hit him that he didn’t want to appear too eager or desperate.
“Hey!” His cheeks burned from his wide, uncontrollable smile. Standing on the broken down sidewalk right in front of her house, he waved at her, taking note of the broom leaning against the side of the door and the strong aroma of heavily seasoned, delicious foods wafting from her house. “How ya doin’?”
She looked up as if surprised to see him there, but he knew better. This time, she was definitely smiling, though he could tell she was trying to fight it.
Yeah, that’s Cassidy. I’m sure of it now. Cute. She’s fuckin’ cute. Real fuckin’ pretty… I didn’t know she lived here, this close. I noticed her on my first day at school. I wonder if she likes White guys? Probably not.
“I’m fine.” She closed her book with a hard thud, bringing him out of his deliberations.
“My name is Antonio, but everyone calls me Tony. I live, uh, across the street from ya.” He pointed behind himself.
She looked over at his house, nodded, then smiled at him again. “I figured, since you were sitting there. No reason for you to be over there like that, all of this time, unless you lived there.” She smirked. “I’ve seen you around.”
“Yeah? Well, uh, guess we’re not strangers then. You’re Cassidy, right? You’re in a few of my classes.”
“Yeah, I’m Cassidy and I know you from school, too. I think this is the most I’ve ever heard you talk.” She giggled. He smiled and moved a bit closer to her, up to her front steps, walking on the grass and ignoring the slender walking path that was full of broken and uneven cement planks.
“I guess I don’t see the point in talkin’ much if I don’t have anything to say.” He shrugged as he jammed his hands in his pockets.
“And now you do?” Her brow rose.
“Yeah… I do.” It was then that he noticed her eyes were a rich hazel, and her toasty brown skin had a gorgeous glow, as though she were made of dark bronze. He took note of the incredibly high cheekbones on the angel’s face, and how wisps of thick, dark brown hair with a slight crinkly pattern brushed against the bridge of her nose from the wind, same timing as the leaves on the palm trees, swaying to the music.
“What cha readin’?”
“Jackie Collins’ ‘Lucky,’” she whispered. The girl looked over her shoulder then back at him, as if she were afraid of waking Jack from his big ass bean stalk.
“Why are you whispering?” He squinted his eyes when the sun gleamed, blinding him, or perhaps it was her beauty.
“’Cause my grandmama don’t really like me reading books like this. That’s why.” She glanced down at the book, flipped a few pages, then looked back into his eyes, mischief floated in hers. Perhaps she was no angel after all.
“What’s it about?” He climbed up the steps real easy like and sat on the top one. Tony leaned back on his palm, now so close, he could smell her sweet perfume. It blended in with the scent of the food, a perfect merger. He sat there like he belonged, like he was some long-awaited guest. Her eyes grew wide; maybe she couldn’t believe his nerve. And he liked that.
“It’s kinda hard to explain but it’s the second book in a series.”
“A series? So it’s like one after another, huh?”
“Yeah. The first one was called ‘Chances.’ Anyway, it’s a romance. I doubt you’d be interested.”
“Yeah, I suppose you could say so. You’re funny.” She laughed a little more then quickly settled. “You’re from New Jersey, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You knew my name. That’s funny, too.”
“Why is that funny?” he asked, crossing his arms.
“I’m surprised you remember me from class. You seem to keep to yourself.”
“I keep to myself and don’t talk much according to you. I guess you’d be right. I talk a lot, actually, just only to a few select people. Anyway.” He shrugged. “I notice everything, ’specially you.”
Her lips curled in a grin. He sat there for a moment, sniffing the air.
What the hell is that?! Damn, it smells good! Is she cooking? Probably not since she’s out here. Must be her mother then… Well, it could be her father, I guess. How come Black people cook so well? I mean, my ma cooks good, too, but there’s no comparison.
He recalled his friend Jerry in Jersey at that moment, one of his closest pals. Jerry had a goofy laugh that made him sound like Eddie Murphy, and he kind of looked like him, too. Jerry’s mother, two aunts, and grandmother were always cooking and celebrating with food. That had caused him to gain sixteen pounds one summer. He’d been grateful though; he’d needed to put on weight at the time, anyway. Those had been good times. He missed Jerry… he missed all of his friends in the worst way. His stomach rumbled just at that moment, and he hoped Cassidy hadn’t heard it. He looked down by the girl’s chair and took notice of a drinking glass filled with what appeared to be ice-cold cola.
“So, did ya hear me? I think you’re pretty.”