Black Boy White School (2 page)

“I guess so.”

Quick as a blink, his father pulled him close. “See?” He chuckled. “The old man still got some speed left in him.” They hugged quickly, patted each other on the back, and then separated.

“Good to see you,” Anthony said.

“You, too.”

“Tell yo' momma I said hi. And tell her I still ain't remarried.” He winked and went back to his friends.

Inside the car, Anthony stared at the unopened bottle of Private Stock between his knees and thought about his father. He didn't remember living with him, although his mother said they stayed married until Anthony was four. What he did remember, though, were the broken promises; fishing trips that never happened because somebody had broken into his car and stolen the poles; birthday presents, mailed instead of hand delivered, that the post office always managed to lose. The lies were weak, but Anthony played them off. It was his father's way of saving face, and deep down he believed that his old man would do all of those things if he could, even if Anthony's mother thought the man was incapable of doing anything good at all.

Anthony leaned forward and tapped Curtis on the shoulder. “Yo, run me to the crib, man.”

In his driveway, Ant nodded a quick good-bye to his friends and slid his key into the deadbolt, but didn't open the door. People upstairs. Andre and Darnell, John Mays and some girls. He could hear them laughing and saw the twin living-room windows glowing red like demon eyes. “Fuck lights” was what Andre called the red bulbs he kept in the drawer along with his rubbers, his weed, and his X-rated movies. He only used them when they had girls over. And he only had girls over when they knew their mother would be gone overnight.

She had a new man, tall and light-skinned, with reddish-brown hair. He carried a briefcase and talked like a white boy, even though he looked a little like Malcolm X. His name was Patrick, and he hardly ever came into the house, opting instead to beep the horn from the safety of his locked Lexus. The man could go ahead and sleep with his mother, as far as Anthony was concerned. But he would never be his daddy.

His daddy.

Leaning against the back of the house now, Anthony briefly entertained thoughts of his parents together, living the TV sitcom life of sit-down meals, neighborly neighbors, help with homework, and warm hugs and kisses before restful nights. Anthony laughed, but nothing about it was funny.

Flakes, floating softly like ash, brushed Anthony's cheeks and turned to water. It was late and he had school tomorrow, despite the red lights in the windows. He would just have to sleep in his mother's room, since it was clear that she wouldn't be coming home.

Anthony sat in the back row of English class, eyes shut and listening to a recording of “The Cask of Amontillado.” Ms. Kennedy, their teacher, was pretty and young, and she liked to wear low-cut dresses. But she also exposed her students to Poe and to Plath. Sometimes she even showed movies.

Half of the class had gone to sleep right away, while some others cracked jokes or fidgeted. But Ant was caught up, mesmerized and enthralled by the hollow scrape of the spatula, the tombstone grate of brick against brick as Montresor sealed Fortunato in the cellar. “I wouldn'ta never went down there,” he said absently, and opened his eyes.

Next to him, his best friend lifted his head from the desk and shook it. “Hell naw,” Floyd agreed. “Over some wine, nigga? Old dude must be crazy.”

“Or a alcoholic.” They snorted. Ms. Kennedy turned toward them and put a finger to her lips. Floyd stuck up a different finger but held it low, behind the desk.

“I got somethin' for her mouth,” Floyd said. “Got somethin for that juicy booty, too.”

Ms. Kennedy looked up angrily and shook her head. “Yeah,” Floyd continued, more to himself than to his friend. “Bet she like one of them white teachers in the suburbs. Be boning her favorite students, on the low.”

Ant sniffed and checked her out. She was grading papers, and her breasts rested heavy on the top of the desk. His mouth watered. “You probably right, playa,” he said hopefully. “After school, she might be a freak.”

“That's what's up,” Floyd whispered, and the two of them bumped fists.

Just then, the door swung open and in walked Virgil Sheeley: hall monitor, student council president. Punk. He had a note but announced his news anyway. Anthony Jones was wanted in the principal's office.

“Damn, Ant,” Floyd said as the rest of the class murmured. “Davis be on yo' back, nigga. Whachoo do this time?”

Ant shrugged, shoved books into his bag, and flung one strap over his shoulder. “Where you gon' be after school?”

“We be somewhere,” Floyd answered. “Probably the same spot as usual.”

At the front of the room, Ms. Kennedy slapped her desk hard and hooked a thumb toward the door. “Get a move on, Mr. Jones. Right now.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

In the office, Mr. Davis was nestled in the broad chair that farted when he moved. It was in front of his desk, a few feet across from the little straight-backed vinyl job he kept for students. The rule was simple: behind his desk and sitting in the swivel, he was Mr. Davis the scowling principal who detained, suspended, or expelled. But in front of the desk he was the princi
PAL
, the good-natured buddy who liked to talk about sports and use ancient slang.

“Take a load off, brother man,” he said, grinning. “Let's rap.”

Ant fought the urge to roll his eyes and sat down across from his principal. For a while he watched the spinning ceiling fan. Then he looked at the framed picture of Davis and Mike Tyson on the wall, the shelves filled with statues and knickknacks instead of books, and at Mr. Davis, who was staring patiently at him with eyes doubly magnified by thick glasses. “So,” the man said, and smacked his hands on his meaty neck. “You heard from that school yet?”

“No.”

The principal reached for the phone. “When are they supposed to let you know? You want to call them?”

Anthony tried to protest, but it was too late. Stubby fingers were stabbing buttons. Soon Mr. Davis was talking to Mr. Kraft, the director of admissions at Belton. Their conversation was a verbal roller coaster, big fits of loud laughter followed by murmured words. Judging by his principal's body language, not only had Anthony been accepted, but he had also been given heavy financial aid.

The news confused and numbed him. He could feel Davis's big eyes boring in, waiting for him to say something, but what was he supposed to do? His whole life had been in East Cleveland. Did they really expect him to just walk away?

The principal moved to the familiar corner of his desk and grinned. “Looks like a done deal,” he said. “Our loss is Belton's gain. What's your mother's number at work?”

There was a long pause. Anthony let his head roll back and looked at the ceiling. Rising tears blurred his view but didn't fall. He wouldn't let them. It was a matter of pride and survival. Kids who cried got beat up all the time. “I'll tell her.”

Anthony left the principal's office just before the final bell. Doors opened and lockers slammed as black kids streamed through the exits. He found Floyd and Mookie down the block, leaning on a building across the street from the police station. Then he took his place with them, against the wall.

“What he want?” Floyd asked, not bothering to look at him.

“Nuthin'.” Ant slipped off his coat and wiped his brow with the heel of his hand. It came away slimy. “It's hot out here. You know, for March.” He watched a group of approaching girls, Shameeka Lewis in front of the pack, talking loud and fast. Ant didn't like her because she told everybody he couldn't kiss. He could kiss just fine, though. He just hadn't liked kissing her.

She bumped him as she passed, deliberately and hard. He could have let it go, but Ant decided not to. “Better watch out, ho.”

The girls stopped at once and spun around. “What you call me?” Shameeka snapped.

Before Ant could say another word, Mookie nudged him aside and raised his hand. “Go on, girl, before you get slapped.”

Shameeka looked at the hand and laughed. Floyd laughed, too, and so did the other girls. Mookie's face never changed, though, and Ant braced himself. He knew that his friend wouldn't think twice about hitting Shameeka, a grandmother, or anyone else.

“This fool done lost his mind,” Shameeka said over her shoulder. “Better put that toy down, fool. You don't even know how to use it.” She grabbed Mookie's arm, but he snatched it away.

“Do it again,” he warned, and stuck a finger in her face. “Go on 'head and touch this toy, so I can show you how I play.”

“Chill, Mook,” Ant said almost desperately. “You fi'n to get in trouble over some nonsense.”

“Better listen to your boy.” She grabbed Mookie's finger, just as the bigger boy's other hand clapped the side of her head. A shining earring flew into the street, and Shameeka slumped bonelessly to the ground.

“Told that bitch not to touch me.” Mookie lifted his hand to take another swing, but Floyd said something before Anthony could.

“Don't do that shit,” he said flatly. “Leave her alone.”

Mookie lowered his hand without protest. Shameeka drew a big breath and wailed. One of her friends rushed over and bent to her aid. “You ain't hafta hit her like that,” the girl said, lovingly brushing dirt from her face. “What kinda nigga is you, punching on girls?”

“A real nigga! What you think?”

Shameeka blinked at him from her place on the concrete. Her friends helped her to her feet and led her away, shouting threats over their shoulders.

Twenty minutes later, the boys were still on the corner. Mookie made a joke about how fast Shameeka had hit the ground, and when no one responded, he sulked. “She hit me first.” He went into the street and grabbed the abandoned earring. “Here you go, Dr. Phil,” he said, trying to hand it to Floyd. “Give it back and she might give you some stank.”

Floyd smacked his hand and the hoop went tumbling again, this time landing in ragged bushes. Anthony stared at the earring and then back at his friends, who were squared off like they were ready to fight. He knew that they wouldn't, though. Mookie was bigger and had a bad rep, but Floyd was their leader. It had been that way since kindergarten.

“Both of yaw need to chill,” Anthony said. “We don't need to be fighting each other.”

Floyd started walking and Anthony fell into place by his side, with Mookie trailing close behind them. “Mr. Davis told me some shit today,” Anthony said, and then immediately regretted opening his mouth.

“What?” Floyd said, not breaking stride. “Thought you said he ain't want nuthin'?”

“It was about that school . . . guess I got in.”

Behind them, Mookie laughed, but the other two boys got quiet. Anthony suddenly wanted to be somewhere else. “The nigga Ant 'bout to hit reform school and ain't never been arrested,” Mookie said. “Your moms be trippin' hard!”

“Just 'cause I got in don't mean I'm gon' go,” Ant said, glowering. “Plus, it ain't no reform school, anyway. How many times I gotta tell you that?”

“About a million,” Floyd said. “And even then, this dumb nigga still won't understand.”

They reached the point where each boy went in a different direction. Anthony turned a corner and was surprised to see his mother's car squatting in their driveway.

Maxine Jones was an inch shorter than her youngest boy but every bit as strong. Muscles rippled her calves when she wore shorts or dresses, and they creased her angry arms. She ruled her boys like an overseer, snapping her belt and whipping them instead of using child psychology. But with age and growing size came a kind of emancipation; for his brothers the leather strap had already lost its sting. That day was coming for Anthony, and it was coming soon. He would welcome freedom from the belt, but it also made him sad. After him, she would have no one left to take care of.

He opened the door and went inside, found the house dark and still. His iron mother was in bed, home early with a stomach bug.

“Where you been, anyway?” she asked hoarsely. “School ended damn near two hours ago.”

“I had detention . . . sorry.”

She rolled her eyes toward him without moving her head. “Don't know how in the world you expect to go to that school if you cain't stop acting like a fool.”

“What if I don't get in?” He sat on the edge of the mattress. “Would it be so bad if I had to stay here with you?”

“You'll get in,” she said, not looking at him. “You as good as gone, I can feel it.” She grabbed his hand then and rubbed it. “My baby gon' be the next president!” Her smile quickly faded and then disappeared altogether. She dropped his hand and looked at him sternly. “Now once you get up there, you cain't get in no trouble. No fights, no detentions, no nothing.”

“I know, Ma. . . .”

“And make sure to be friends with them white people. Somebody's daddy might give you a job.”

He swallowed hard. “But what if I don't wanna go? Do I get any say at all?”

“Of course you do,” she answered. “As long as you do what I tell you, you can have all the say in the world.” She laughed and turned the TV to Oprah. The audience was screaming over gifts.

The next night Anthony found himself at Reggie's house, playing video games with friends. By then, he had told his mother the Belton news and was tired of hearing her brag to her friends. It was good to spend some quality time with people who didn't care about Maine.

What they did care about, though, was beer. Anthony volunteered to go out and buy more, along with Mookie, who said he needed some air. They had tried to get Floyd to make the trip too, but he was busy kicking ass in John Madden football. It was dark outside and getting cooler. Mookie fumbled with his unzipped coat and mumbled drunken lyrics.

“Fuck a white cop at the end of my block, got the Glock in my sock and it's ready to pop, make that blood drip-drop on the ground like it's hot, till his fuckin' heart stop beating bullshit . . .”

Mookie stopped dead in his tracks and raised his arms like a heavyweight champion, obviously pleased with his latest freestyle. “Oh, shit. You hear that shit, nigga? Off the top of the dome, nigga. Now that's what's up.”

“I heard. We gon' have to start calling you Fi'teen Cent.”

“Forget you, man. Don't ask to be in the video.”

They got to the store and bought two bottles of Olde English. Back outside, they were halted by a disheveled man with a salt-and-pepper beard. “Hey, Johnny,” the man said, stepping in front of them. “You got any spare change?”

“Hell naw,” Mookie snapped. “Get a job.”

“Johnny . . . ?”

Mookie kept walking, but Anthony stopped and gave the man all the change in his pockets. “Here you go, dude. It ain't much, but you might get a nip.”

“God bless you, Johnny,” the man said, and approached someone else.

The boys walked in silence for a while. Anthony could feel his friend looking at him, but he wouldn't look back. “Why you be givin' that nigga money all the time?” Mookie finally asked. “He don't even know yo' name. Johnny. Who the hell is Johnny?”

“Why you be askin' me the same question all the time?”

“How come you don't never answer?”

Anthony didn't say anything. Sometimes it was best to ignore him. They came to a brick-strewn and muddy lot with a low fence. “Let's cut through,” Anthony said. “I need to hurry up and hit the bathroom.”

“Pee right here. Ain't nobody looking at you.”

Anthony made a face. “I ain't gotta pee, dawg.”

Mookie nodded, but he still kept to the sidewalk. “Naw man, you can make it. It be big-ass rats in there at night.”

Anthony pleaded, but Mookie shook his head and moved more deliberately. They were halfway to the corner, anyway. Just then, a blue Buick pulled to the curb. A light-skinned man in the passenger seat stared hard at them through his sunglasses. Anthony wanted to dash, but another fear gripped him. If he wound up running for no good reason, the teasing would be merciless.

“Yo, cuz,” the passenger said, leaning out the open window. “Yaw know where we can cop some weed at?”

Anthony stayed where he was but his friend moved closer. “Back that way,” Mookie said pointing. “Past the RTA station. Niggas always be there.”