Brendan Buckley's Universe and Everything in It

by Sundee T. Frazier

“Risky?” He crossed his arms and looked at me like I was being a chicken.

  “I don’t want my mom to catch me.”

  “Doesn’t it seem kind of funny to you that you never met your grandpa? I mean, my grandpa lives all the way in New Jersey, but I’ve still met him.”

  “Yeah. It’s strange. But my mom won’t tell me what happened.”

  He picked up the paper. “You’ve got his number. Why don’t you ask him?”

  My chest tightened at the thought of talking to Ed DeBose. Before, he’d just been a guy at a rock show. Now he was the grandpa I’d never met. But Mom said he knew about me. How could he not want to see his own grandson? What did he think about me? Did he think about me?

  I couldn’t let Khalfani know I was too scared to call. Tae Kwon Do warriors never showed their fear. “I want to see where he lives first, do some investigative work, like my dad does when he’s trying to solve a case.”

  “Okay, but only if I get to be the lieutenant.” He sat up straight. “Lieutenant Khalfani Jones. I like the sound of that.” Khalfani’s name means “destined to lead”—and he knows it.

  “Fine with me.”

  Khal sat in front of his computer. He went to a people search site and typed in “Ed DeBose.”

  I grabbed his arm. “Wait. I want to do it.”

  “You said I could be lieutenant.”

  “Lieutenants don’t do unimportant tasks like this.”

  “Oh yeah.” He saluted as I sat in the chair. “It’s all yours—Detective.”

  I rolled my eyes, then hit Return.

  In no more than two seconds, one result popped up.

  “‘Edwin DeBose,’” I read. “‘Milton.’ I see signs for Milton on the freeway all the time. How far is it?”

  “I know how to find out.” He scooted me out of the chair.

  Mrs. Jones yelled from outside. “Khalfani Omar, what’s Dori’s baby doll doing on the ground directly below your room?”

  I reached for the computer mouse. “Hurry up! We’re about to get it!” Mrs. Jones didn’t mess around when it came to punishment.

  Khalfani whipped out his arm and blocked my body with a sang dan mahk kee. I backed away. He found a map site while yelling back that he didn’t know anything about the doll.

  “Then why is your window open?”

  I shook Khal’s arm to make him hurry.

  He swatted at my hand. “You’re messing me up.” He typed in his and Ed DeBose’s addresses and clicked on Send.

  I swallowed. A map came up.

  The grandpa I’d never met lived only eight miles away.

  CHAPTER 5

  I ran through the parking lot, ahead of Mom and Gladys. Khalfani stood inside the door, looking through the steamy glass. We always wait for each other to go into the dojang. (That’s Korean for “studio.”)

  “Where you been? We’re going to be late,” he said. Usually he was the one coming in at the last second. I didn’t have time to explain Gladys’s denture malfunction, which had burned up about ten minutes at her apartment.

  “Tomorrow,” I said, huffing. “We’re going to Milton.”

  “On our bikes?” His jaws worked a huge piece of blue gum.

  “The bus.” I pulled off my shoes and threw them in one of the cubbyholes against the wall. “I looked up the route.”

  Mom and Gladys came in.

  “Got it?” I whispered.

  “Can’t wait,” he said, too loud.

  Mom came up behind us. “What can’t you wait for this time?” Mom asked.

  “Hi, Mrs. Buckley,” he said.

  Khalfani looked at me with big eyes.

  I pushed him toward the entrance to the dojang. “Our next promotion test. Bye, Mom.”

  She looked at me out of the side of one eye, which she does when she’s not sure if she should believe me, then lifted her hand in a small wave.

  I stepped into the studio, sucked in my breath and bowed toward Master Rickman, once again becoming Brendan Buckley, Tae Kwon Do Warrior. I moved to my place on the mat and got in choon bee ja seh—the ready position.

  Khalfani smacked his gum and Master Rickman gave him the eagle eye. Khal ran to the garbage can and spit it out. Gum’s not allowed in the dojang, but Khal isn’t the best at remembering rules.

  “Cha rut,” Master Rickman called out. Everyone stood at attention. “Kuk ki ba ray.” We all bowed to the Korean flag hanging at the front of the room. “Choon bee.” Ready. “Warming-up exercises. Shi jak!” Begin.

  Master Rickman led us through our warm-ups.

  “Yup cha gi!” he commanded. I kicked my leg high and to the side, the heel of my foot hitting my imaginary opponent’s chest.

  I made a fist and punched strongly to the front, pulling my other arm in tight by my hip.

  In the mirror, Gladys and Mom watched me. Whenever Gladys came to my practice, she sat in a chair at the back. Every time I kicked or punched, she kicked out her foot or threw her fist, her forehead scrunched into a scowl. I tried to keep my eyes focused shi sun ahp—to the front—but it was hard not to notice. She lurched and jabbed as if defending herself from swooping bats. Or maybe she was imagining hitting that guy Bernard.

  “Ki hap!” Master Rickman commanded.

  We stood with our fists pointed down in front of us and yelled: “Ha!”

  Then we did the hyung, or form, for each rank, up to whatever rank we were. Khal and I are fifth rank—blue belts with a purple stripe, which stands for “blue sky helps growing.” We’re beyond the seedling and sprouting stages, but not yet to the “growing nobly toward harvest” stage. That will come with the purple belt.

  When we were done with our forms, Master Rickman put a board in the mount on the wall. He stood in side stance with his arms in a blocking position. He reminded us about proper kicking technique—foot flexed with the heel out front. His leg shot out and back so fast, I barely saw it touch the wood. The board snapped with a loud crack. Gladys hollered and muttered something about a heart attack.

  Khalfani raised his hand. “When do we get to do that, Sa Bum Nim, sir? ’Cause I think I’m ready now.”

  I stifled a laugh so I wouldn’t break tenet number four: guk gi. Self-control. A Tae Kwon Do warrior is in control of his body and mind—his actions and reactions—at all times.

  “Your confidence is admirable, Mr. Jones. Actually, you will need to do the kyepka to be promoted to the next level.”

  “All right!” Khalfani said under his breath.

  Khal and I are both you gup ja, which means we have colored belts, not black belts. When we get our black belts, we’ll be you dan ja. When we heard about an eleven-year-old girl getting her first-degree black belt this spring, Khalfani got mad. Since then, he’s been saying he’s getting his this year. Khalfani turned eleven in May.

  “Speaking of promotions,” Master Rickman said to the class, “the next test is scheduled for July twenty-fifth, so make sure you’re practicing every day if you would like to be eligible to take it.”

  I gave Khal a thumbs-up sign and we grinned at each other.

  Together the class recited the five tenets of Tae Kwon Do—courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self-control and indomitable spirit—then bowed to Master Rickman. I started toward the door, but Master Rickman stopped me. “Do you want to test for your purple belt, Brendan?”

  “Yes, sir. Khalfani and I want to be you dan ja.”

  “You know, purple stands for ‘noble.’ I’ll start working with you and Khalfani on the boards next week. You’ll be ready.”

  “Great!”

  “Your dad will be proud.”

  I beamed thinking about Dad watching me break boards with my feet and receiving my noble purple belt.

  He patted my back. I met Khalfani at the door. “He says we can be ready for purple,” I said.

  “Bring it on!” he said. “Black belts, here we come.”

  Mom and Gladys met us in the shoe room. I said goodbye to Khalfani, who left with his dad. I g
rabbed my shoes. “Mom, can we have pizza for dinner?”

  “Sounds good to me!” Gladys said.

  A little boy stood off to the side, watching us. “Mommy,” he said. His mom was talking to another parent. He pulled on her pant leg, then pointed in my direction. “Why don’t they match?”

  I looked at my feet. Had I accidentally put on two different shoes?

  The boy tugged on the woman again. “Why don’t that boy and his mommy match?” He and his mom both had brown skin.

  The woman stopped talking. She whispered something to the little boy about not being rude. The other lady took her daughter and left.

  My muscles had tensed and my armpits were hot. Mom put her arm around me.

  “What kind of fool question is that?” Gladys said loudly. “Sister, you need to teach your child that black people come in all shades.” Mom let out a small laugh.

  My face felt like it was a bright reddish brown shade right about then.

  The woman glared at Gladys and beckoned for her older son to hurry up. She pushed her kids out the door.

  “And teach him some manners while you’re at it,” Gladys muttered after they’d gone.

  “You know, Miss Gladys, I’m not black,” Mom said, laughing again.

  “More Caucasian people got black in ’em than care to admit it.”

  On the way home, I thought about being black. I don’t think about it all that much. Until something happens like that kid saying my mom and I don’t match. Then I remember that my skin makes me stand out in some places—like with my mom.

  Truthfully, I hear more about how tall I am or how good I am at science than anything about what race I am. But I know I’m black and I’m glad to be that, because that’s what Grampa Clem was and what Dad and Gladys and Khalfani are.

  If I ever wish something were different, maybe it’s that Mom was black, too, or at least had brown skin like the rest of us. Then I wouldn’t get asked about what I am all the time at school. Seems like things would be simpler.

  And there’d be no question about whether we belong together.

  CHAPTER 6

  The next morning, I had breakfast with my parents. Mom made French toast, my favorite.

  “I want you to call me at work today.” Mom poured a small circle of syrup at the side of her French toast. “No forgetting like you did on Wednesday, or I’ll send you to Gladys’s.”

  “Now, there’s a serious threat.” Dad’s eyes smiled, even though his mouth was busy chewing sausage.

  “If I don’t hear from you by noon, I’ll be calling Mrs. Jones to make sure you’re all right.”

  I’d have to find a phone, even though I didn’t know exactly where I’d be. Somewhere in Milton. Tracking down my long-gone grandpa.

  “Okay.” I kept my chin down. I don’t really believe in mental telepathy because it’s not scientific, but I couldn’t be too careful. I had this feeling that if Mom looked into my eyes she’d be able to tell where I planned to go today. I covered every square millimeter of my French toast with syrup.

  “I heard what happened after Tae Kwon Do last night,” Dad said. “With the little boy.” He piled his French toast and cut it all at once so he could get four bites in one.

  I shrugged. “He was just a curious kid,” I said.

  “You should know something about that.” Dad shoved the toast tower into his mouth.

  Mom spoke. “You know, sweetie, there are plenty of ways we do match, even if we’re not the same color.” She pushed her hair behind her ear. “We’ve both got freckles on our noses, for one,” she said. “And green eyes…”

  “And you’ve got the same great smile,” Dad said with his mouth still full. Sometimes Dad forgets his own rules. He reached out and put his arm next to mine. “We’re not exactly the same color, either, are we?” he asked.

  “Black people come in all shades,” I said, remembering Gladys’s words.

  “That’s true,” Dad said, pulling back his arm, “and the world is going to see you as black.” He stabbed another stack of French toast bites. “You know how I feel about that.”

  Dad was always saying how I needed to learn to control my actions and most of all my anger, because people look at black boys more suspiciously than they look at others. I think he started me in Tae Kwon Do so I would learn how to stay cool under pressure. Tae Kwon Do warriors don’t let anything throw them off.

  He also told me that black boys get stopped by police more and are questioned more roughly, and that’s why he became a policeman. So he could help change the system.

  I don’t understand totally. I’ve never seen people look at me more suspiciously. And I’ve never been stopped by any police. But what Dad says makes me wonder.

  “You can also see yourself as biracial if you want,” Mom said.

  Black. Biracial. I guessed it was important to have a label, but I was still just Brendan Buckley.

  I took my last bite. “Can I go to Khalfani’s now?”

  Mom glanced at Dad. “I can give you a ride,” Dad said.

  “I want to ride my bike.”

  “I won’t argue with that,” he said. “Gotta be in shape for your purple belt exam, right?”

  “Sure,” I said, but my mind had already left the room. I had a new question to write down, but this one didn’t give me the Jitters. This question sat heavy in my gut like a big twisted knot that I had to figure out how to untie. Or maybe that was the French toast.

  I went to my room and pulled out my Book of Big Questions. I turned to the first section. “What am I?” I wrote. “Black? Biracial? Am I white, too?”

  I shoved my question notebook into my backpack. I grabbed the Official Rock Collectors’ Field Guide I’d checked out at the library the day before and looked at more of the pictures. I had gotten a stack of books on rocks and minerals so I could read up on the subject—because I was interested, but also in case I saw Ed DeBose again. If I knew some things about rocks, maybe he’d be impressed and want to hear what else I knew.

  I put the field guide in my pack, said goodbye to Mom and Dad and took off.

  Riding my bike to Khalfani’s, I went over the plan in my head. I had the bus numbers and times memorized. I knew where we needed to transfer and where to get off.

  I pedaled slowly, my back and face heating up under the sun. I noticed how much around me was made of rock, just like one of the library books had said. The sidewalk, street, walls, driveways and a lot of stuff in houses and roofs—they wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for rocks and minerals. I crossed the stone footbridge at Olympic View Park, the water flowing over rocks in the creek bed below.

  All the reading I’d done and pictures I’d seen the night before had given me more Big Questions. Like what made diamond the hardest mineral in the world? And how was it possible to pound an ounce of gold thin enough to cover a football field? And what made minerals come in so many different colors?

  The field guide showed pictures of dozens of minerals. One had thin, needlelike, bright pink crystals and looked like a sea urchin. Another had orange-red, pointy, clumped crystals like flames that had turned to glistening rock. And there was one with blue crystals the color of Mom’s toilet bowl cleaner, covered with copper-orange dust. I liked the polished chunk of hematite best. It looked like a silvery-black alien brain.

  Different colors…just like people. I remembered again the little boy from the night before: “Why don’t they match?”

  Why different colors? Grampa Clem had once said that God made people different colors to test us—and we’d been failing ever since.

  I stopped my bike at the railroad tracks and picked up a piece of solid black rock from between the ties. Basalt. I’d read about it in one of the library books. It was an igneous rock formed from magma that seeped up through cracks in the ground and got hard. Magma was underground lava. I shoved the rock in my front pocket.

  When I got to Khalfani’s, he told his stepmom we were going to the park, and we rode away on our b
ikes. This was all part of the plan. We would stash the bikes in some bushes near the bus stop and pick them up on the way back.

  There weren’t many people on the bus—just a lady with her baby, a teenage boy and a few old people. I zipped my metro pass into my pack.

  “Go to the back,” Khalfani said from behind me.

  I chose a seat about halfway down. “This is good,” I said. I slid in, but Khalfani had to be difficult. He dropped into a seat three rows farther back on the other side.

  I didn’t care. Between Gladys and Grampa Clem, I’ve learned all the tricks of having a successful bus ride. Like don’t sit near the front, because that’s where the people with lots of bags sit and you always end up with stuff in your lap or spilled drink on your shoes. And don’t sit in the rear, because you get all the fumes.

  Besides that, Grampa Clem told me, black people used to have to sit in the back of buses because they were seen as second-class citizens, but then they fought back and did this thing called a boycott, and so now black people can sit anywhere they want to on a bus.

  So the middle—that was the place to be.

  After we made our transfer, I knew it wouldn’t be long. My legs were starting to feel jumpy, like if I didn’t run up and down the aisle, they were going to do it for me.

  This time, Khalfani sat in the seat in front of me. He pointed out the window. A sign on a post read WELCOME TO MILTON, POPULATION 6,025.

  The bus turned at an intersection with an Albertson’s grocery store and a Dairy Queen on the corner.

  I reached up and grabbed the cord to ring the buzzer. Grampa Clem let me pull the cord, but Gladys always tried to beat me to it. I moved into the aisle. The bus lurched as the driver pulled up to the curb, and I almost fell into an old white man’s lap. He glared.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  As we walked down the street, I kept thinking about the man on the bus and how he had looked at me. What if Ed DeBose was actually a mean man? My intestines started to feel bubbly, like hot magma moving around below my stomach.

  Did Ed DeBose really not want to have anything to do with my family? If that was true, what would he do when I showed up at his house?