by Paul Langan
“Hey, Jackie!” Uncle Jason bellowed as he hopped out of the truck. “I’ll bet you’re worn out from that long trip.”
Darrell looked at his uncle with awe. He had rippling muscles and a barrel chest. He looked even taller than Darrell remembered.
“Well, I could sure use a hot bath and a good night’s sleep,” his mother admitted wearily, hugging her brother.
Uncle Jason turned to Darrell, seizing him in a massive embrace that lifted his feet off the ground. “Good to see you again, Darrell,” he said. Darrell could tell his uncle was looking at how small he was. “We’re gonna grow you, boy,” he added. “We’re gonna make sure you get what you need to grow into the big strong boy the good Lord intended you to be.”
Darrell felt ridiculous. His uncle treated him like a turkey that needed to be fattened up for Thanksgiving. He had never liked Uncle Jason. He had always been too loud, too pushy.
“The apartment is all set for you, Jackie,” Uncle Jason said, loading their bags into the back of the truck. “It’s furnished too. Your stuff arrived this morning. You got a bedroom, and there’s one for the boy.”
When Darrell and Mom were settled in the truck, Uncle Jason closed the back door, got into the driver’s seat, and pulled out into traffic.
“You’re so good to be doing all this for us, Jason,” Mom said.
Darrell knew his uncle did not mean to insult him, but he was doing it just the same. Darrell did not think he would ever be big enough for football or basketball, and he was not coordinated enough for baseball either. He wished his Uncle Jason would just shut up.
“You wanna build up your muscles, Darrell, do push-ups, run, whatever it takes,” he said. “You are gonna have to work extra hard, though, ’cause your arms are really skinny. You look like you could get hurt if somebody tried to high-five you.” Uncle Jason shook his head and chuckled to himself.
“Oh, Darrell is getting more height and weight every day,” his mother said.
Darrell tried to tune out their voices—his mother’s pathetic, false hopes that he would someday become a tall athlete, and his uncle’s insulting advice about getting bigger.
Trying to ignore their conversation, Darrell could think of only one thing—he hated California already. He hated it.
“This is our neighborhood,” announced Uncle Jason after a while. Two boys were standing in front of a sandwich shop at a street corner. One wore a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap backwards. That is how Malik always wore his baseball cap. The kid was built like Malik too—big and burly. He even leaned against the wall like Malik used to, one leg crossed at a funny angle. A bolt of sadness shot through Darrell.
Darrell imagined the kid was Malik, and he could hear their conversation in his mind.
“Malik, you ain’t ever gonna believe my uncle. He’s makin’ me feel ten times worse about my size. Yet he keeps thinkin’ that he’s helping me. All he does is tell me how small I am.”
“Man, don’t listen to him,” Malik would say. “He’s jealous ’cause you’re so young and he’s so old. Next time he says somethin’ to you, tell him to mind his own business. Anyone who sounds as dumb as him has no right to be givin’ you advice, you hear me?”
Darrell smiled weakly. He had always felt better when he talked to Malik. Even imagining what Malik would say raised his spirits.
“Here we are,” Uncle Jason said, snapping Darrell out of his daydream. He pulled into the small driveway of a stucco duplex. Uncle Jason and his family occupied the three-bedroom unit in front, and Darrell and his mother would live in the rear unit. Everything looked neat and clean, and multicolored flowers had been planted along the walkway.
“Come on, Darrell,” his mother yelled as they got out of the truck. “We’re home. This is home now.”
No, he thought, this isn’t home. Not my home.
She walked over to him, put her arm around his shoulders, and rubbed his back. “Just be patient,” she said. “You’ll learn to like it here.”
As Darrell carried his suitcase towards the back unit, a boy came running out of Uncle Jason’s house. He was a meaty boy, big for his age. He looked just like his father. “Hey, you must be my cousin Darrell,” the boy said. “I’m Travis. I’m nine. How old are you?”
Darrell had almosrgotten that his uncle had two sons. The last time he saw them was at his father’s funeral.
“I’m fifteen,” Darrell said.
“No way! You ain’t fifteen. I’m almost as tall as you are. How come you’re so short?” Travis demanded, dribbling a basketball as he ran alongside Darrell. “Huh? Why are you so short?”
Then Uncle Jason’s other son, Nate, appeared. Nate was almost three years younger than Travis. Darrell tried to ignore the boys as they dodged in front of him with the basketball.
“How tall are you?” Travis asked. “I’m gonna be bigger than you soon.”
Before Darrell could answer, his uncle came out of the duplex and went up to the boy. Pretending to be an opposing basketball player, he quickly knocked the ball from Travis’s hands. “You gotta be fast, boy,” he said, putting his hand on his son’s head. “Now go help your momma with dinner, or you won’t get no dessert, hear?” He laughed then, shaking his head as the two kids sprinted inside. It was clear to Darrell that he was bursting with pride over them. “Those boys of mine are something else. When they get a little older, they’re gonna be the best basketball players this town ever saw. Man, they been dribbling since they learned to walk!”
Darrell went to his room and started unpacking. He had just finished putting his favorite Allen Iverson poster on the wall when his mother poked her head in the door.
“All unpacked, honey?” she asked.
“Almost, Mom,” he answered, trying not to sound sad.
“I’m going over to the office with your uncle. He’s going to show me where I’m going to work and introduce me to everybody. Will you be okay?”
“Sure,” Darrell mumbled.
Darrell waited until his mother was gone. There were still a couple of hours of daylight, and he thought he would walk down the street and check out the neighborhood.
Darrell headed for the shopping plaza at the corner. He tried to look cool, walking calmly as if he knew where he was going but was in no particular hurry to get there. Malik and his friends had that kind of walk down to a fine art. They moved as if they owned the street and could handle anything that came along. They were not menacing, but no one wanted to mess with them. Most people would look the other way whenever Malik walked down the street.
Darrell caught his reflection in a store window as he walked. He reminded himself of a rat scurrying down an alley, hoping no cats could see him. He figured that to the rest of the world he looked like a little kid afraid of his own shadow.
Ahead there were five boys in front of a small sandwich shop. They looked to be around fifteen or sixteen years old, and each of them was bigger than Darrell. They did not look like the tough kids he knew of back home. Instead they seemed like ordinary guys just hanging out, the way he and his friends did. Two had soda cans and were shoving each other and laughing. Malik and Reggie used to do the same thing. Darrell wondered if any of the boys were freshmen at Bluford.
He thought about what to do. Wouldn’t it be something if I smiled and introduced myself, and they turned out to be friendly guys, he said to himself. Maybe they’re just like Malik, Reggie, and Mark. If I get to know them, the first day at Bluford won’t be so bad.
Darrell moved closer and tried his mother’s advice. He smiled at the group of guys, trying to hide the fact that his bony knees were almost knocking together.
“What are you laughin’ at, fool?” thebiggest boy called out. He was almost as tall and muscular as Malik. “You think we’re funny or somethin’?”
“No, no,” Darrell said quickly, his mind spinning, searching for the right words. It was easy to talk to Malik and the guys back home, but these guys are different, Darrell thought. He had no idea w
hat to say to them. “I’m . . . new around here,” he mumbled nervously, “and I’m going to Buford.”
“Buford? What’s that? You stupid or something?” the big one demanded as his friends laughed almost on cue.
“I . . . I mean Bluford,” Darrell stammered, “yeah . . . Bluford.”
“Why didn’t you say that in the first place? You got some kinda speech problem?” the big one asked. “Anyhow, you ain’t foolin’ nobody. You some sixth grader tryin’ to pretend you’re in high school.” He stepped so close that Darrell could smell his breath, a sickening mixture of onions and cigarette smoke. “What’s your name, kid?” he asked.
“I’m Darrell . . . Mercer.”
“Darrell . . . Mercer,” the boy repeated with a chuckle.
Darrell’s name struck them all as funny. They kept saying it over and over in a mocking way. Darrell looked for a way to get away from them, but he was surrounded. Finally, the big kid asked, “You got any money on you, Darrell Mercer?”
“For what?” Darrell asked.
“We thought you’d make us a loan, so we don’t put your scrawny butt in that trash dumpster over there,” the big one said. His friends started laughing out loud. One kid in an oversized Lakers shirt doubled over, unable to control his laughter.
“He looks like he’s going to wet his pants,” the kid in the Lakers shirt said, struggling to catch his breath amidst his laughter.
Darrell gave them $3.25, all he had. His hands were trembling when he turned over the money.
“Three bucks? That all you got?” the muscular kid demanded. Darrell stared at him in open-mouthed terror. Then, without a word, Darrell tried to walk down the sidewalk past them, but they all moved into his path, blocking him. The large kid raised his finger and poked Darrell’s chest. “I’m Tyray Hobbs. I’m a freshman at Bluford, and I run things around here. Hear what I’m sayin’?”
“Yeah,” Darrell said, nodding his head. He wanted to go home, not to Uncle Jason’s, but back to Philadelphia. Once again, he tried to move down the sidewalk. This time, the boys stepped aside. But as he hurried to get past them, Tyray stuck his foot out. Unable to step over Tyray’s Nikes, Darrell tripped and fell into the gutter. His teeth jammed into his lip when he hit the ground. He could taste the salty blood oozing into his mouth.
“You clumsy or what?” Tyray asked.
“You some kind fool or something?” another boy asked.
Darrell got slowly to his feet. The cut in his mouth was small. He hid it by sucking in his bottom lip. He did not want anyone to see he was bleeding.
So this is how it’s gonna be, Darrell thought.
“Look at him shakin’,” Tyray bragged, and they all laughed again, the sound like car horns in a rush-hour traffic jam.
Darrell turned around and started walking slowly back towards his new apartment.
A young couple pushing a baby stroller were coming towards him. The man was burly. Darrell figured Tyray and his friends would not mess with them. When he got about ten feet from the baby stroller, he looked back. The boys were gone.
Tyray and his friends had slipped back into the shadows, but Darrell knew he would see them again. When he arrived at Bluford High, they would be there, walking the halls, sitting in the locker room, hanging out in the gym.
They would be waiting for him.
That night, Darrell listened to his mother talk excitedly about her new job as a secretary at Uncle Jason’s office. She had fixed Darrell’s favorite dinner—fried chicken, mashed potatoes with plenty of thick brown gravy, and a big salad with crisp lettuce and tomatoes. “It’s such a nice place, honey,” she said. “The construction workers come in, and they are so friendly. Mostly I just need to talk to people. I use the computer a little bit too.”
“Sounds great, Mom,” Darrell said. There was no way he was going to tell her what had happened. He did not have the heart to ruin her first day in California. Besides, he thought, all she would tell him to do was smile. Look where that got me, he thought.
That night Darrell could not sleep. Even though it was quiet, he could still hear the sound of laughter, Tyray’s laughter.
And all Darrell could think about was that this was just the beginning.
Chapter 3
On the following Sunday, before Darrell’s first day at Bluford, his mother asked him to walk to the supermarket to pick up some groceries. She said the store was only four blocks away. Darrell was nervous about going out again, but it was early Sunday, so he thought everything might be okay. To be safe, Darrell made sure that Tyray and his friends were nowhere in sight before he headed down the street.
The supermarket was nicer than the one back home. The aisles were cleaner, and the vegetables did not look as old and limp as they did in Philadelphia. Some things were the same, though—security guards were posted at the doors to stop people from stealing, and the lines seemed long and slow. After Darrell gathered all the things on his mother’s list, he moved to the nearest checkout. In front of him was a pretty girl reading a magazine. Darrell noticed she was wearing a snug blue T-shirt with the words Bluford High Buccaneers printed on the back. The image of a pirate’s face with a patch over his eye filled the rest of her back.
Darrell’s heart raced. Here was a chance to meet a girl from Bluford. He wanted desperately to say “hi,” but he did not know what he would say after that. He did not want to make a fool of himself. He had decided it would be better to keep quiet when she suddenly looked up from her magazine and smiled.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” Darrell said in a voice barely above a whisper. The girl had warm brown eyes and a friendly smile. She was a bit taller than he was. Most girls his age were. He thought it would be great to be friends with her, but he still could not think of anything to say. He wondered what Malik would do in his shoes.
“I shoulda known not to come in on Sunday morning,” she said. “That’s when everyone does their shopping, and the lines take forever. I can’t stand being stuck here doing nothing.” She put the magazine back in the rack.
“Yeah, I know what you mean. The other day I took a bus ride that lasted for three days. I almost went crazy sitting still that long,” Darrell said.
“You traveled that long just to get here?” she said, seeming surprised. “Where are you from?”
“Philadelphia. My mom and I moved ’cause she got a good job out here. Tomorrow I start school at Bluford,” heid.
“Really?” This time she seemed almost shocked.
She probably thinks I look too young to be in high school, Darrell thought.
“Yeah, I’m a freshman,” he said, trying to hide his annoyance.
“I thought you looked like one,” she laughed. “So am I. I guess we freshmen have sort of a look about us, no matter where we’re from.”
“We freshmen.” Darrell turned the phrase over in his mind. He liked it because of the word we. It meant he was not alone. At least not as alone as he was before she said it. He held on to that simple phrase the way a drowning person clutches a rope.
“So, what’s your name?” she asked.
“Darrell Mercer,” he replied.
“Well hello, Darrell Mercer,” she said. “I’m Amberlynn Bailey.” She smiled and reached her hand out to shake his.
He took her hand. It was warm and soft. For a second, he forgot about the fact that he had lost all his friends, and that Tyray would be waiting for him at Bluford tomorrow.
Finally the line moved, and Amberlynn turned around to pack her groceries. For once, Darrell wished that the checkout line was even slower.
“Well, see you at school, Darrell,” she said, handing money to the cashier. “Maybe we’ve got classes together.”
“That’d be cool,” he said.
Walking home, Darrell felt a little better about California. Amberlynn was really nice. Maybe there were other kids at Bluford like her. Maybe it’d be okay after all. Tyray and his friends might not be in any of his classes. They mi
ght even forget all about him. Darrell hoped there would be someone like Malik in Bluford.
Carrying three heavy bags of groceries home, Darrell mumbled, “Maybe the exercise will help build up my muscles.” As he neared the driveway, he could hear the sound of a basketball being dribbled against the concrete. Turning the corner, he saw his cousin Travis taking shots at the basket near the edge of the driveway.
“What are you doin’ carrying all those bags?” Travis asked.
“I just went to the store to get groceries,” Darrell replied, walking quickly past the boy.
“When we go to the store, we take my Dad’s new truck. It’s a Nissan. What kind of car does your mom drive?”
Darrell hesitated. He wasn’t sure if Travis knew that they did not own a car. He didn’t want to admit the truth to him.
“We left our car in Philly because one of our friends needed it,” he said, walking up the stairs of the new apartment.
“Are you and your momma poor?” Travis asked. “My daddy says you were poor people in Philadelphia and that’s why he brought you here. ’Cause you couldn’t take care of yourselves,” the boy added, watching Darrell closely.
Darrell took a deep breath, trying to contain the anger that suddenly boiled in his chest. Would Uncle Jason say such a thing? He must have said something, Darrell thought, because no nine-year-old kid would say something like that on his own. Not unless he was mean. Real mean.
“We ain’t poor, and it ain’t any of your business what we are. Now, I gotta put these groceries away,” Darrell said, fuming. As he turned to open the apartment door, Nate came outside. The young boy said he wanted to shoot baskets with his brother.
“You’re too short to play basketball,” Travis said, holding the ball over Nate’s head so the boy could not reach it.
