Black Boy White School (10 page)

“Please don't,” he said before he could stop himself.

His mother looked up, surprised and wounded at the same time. She washed her hands and then forced a smile. “So you don't like being home no more?”

“It's not like that, Ma. Stop tripping.” He told her what had happened on his way back from downtown, how everything and everyone seemed more menacing than before. If he had to come back to East Cleveland now, he would spend all of his time in the house.

She tried to smile again, but it collapsed. Then she rubbed his head and looked at him. “It's bad, Anthony. I don't know what to tell you. But it ain't no worse out there now than it was before you left. Think about what happened to your friend.”

“I do,” he said. “Every second that I'm here. That's why I can't wait to leave.”

On New Year's Eve, Anthony stood in Reggie's backyard with the rest of his friends, holding a plastic cup of champagne and waiting for midnight, while Floyd slid bullets into the clip. There were ten minutes before the celebration, but successive explosions came from a few houses down. “Damn!” Curtis said, looking out over the fences. “Sound like Mr. Thompson got another cannon.”

They all laughed and Anthony made sure to laugh with them, and he tried not to think about all those little cannonballs screaming back down. He wasn't sure who had started the practice of shooting at midnight; all he knew was that his mother used to make them sleep in the basement on the holiday, where it was safe.

“I heard a preacher caught a bad one last year,” Anthony said. “Dude had just told the congregation to bow their heads and then a bullet came through the wall.”

“Guess it was his time,” Reggie said matter-of-factly. “The Lord giveth and He taketh away.” He tried to make the sign of the cross on his chest, but he looked more like a baseball manager giving signs. There was a
click
as Floyd slid the clip into the nine millimeter, and then Reggie forgot about what he was doing. “Lemme hold it.”

“Eat a dick, nigga,” Floyd said. “I'm goin' first.”

Reggie called second and then Curtis after him. That left Anthony last, but he didn't care. There was a whisper and a flash as someone lit a blunt.

“Y'all got loot?” Floyd whispered, holding out a wad of cash. It was considered bad luck to start a new year with empty pockets. One by one, they grabbed a bill, knowing that in just a few minutes they would have to give it back. Someone called out Mookie's name and then the names of others who hadn't survived the year. They poured champagne on the ground in their honor, and then the shooting started, all at once and from everywhere. There were shotguns and magnums and automatic MAC-10s, Uzis, and AKs and calibers they couldn't recognize.

Floyd joined the celebration by squeezing shots. Sparks and flame jumped out of the barrel and lit his snarling face. “Happy New Year, trick-ass muh'fuckas!” He popped off a few more and then passed the gun. After that the other two boys took their turns, adding bullets and curses to the sky. But when the pistol finally found its way to Anthony, the slide was open and the clip was empty. “Might as well give it up, dawg,” Floyd said with a shrug. “I ain't got no more bullets.”

Anthony had a dream on his first night he returned from vacation. He was older and in a business suit, walking toward his house in East Cleveland and swinging a briefcase. A crowd of young boys on bicycles suddenly filled the street and sidewalk. All were dressed in red and staring at him hard. One of them flashed metal and Anthony tried to run, but when he saw his best friend holding the gun, he couldn't move at all.

“Floyd?”

He worked hard over the next several weeks, and his grades got better. Brody saw the change and even made a big one of his own: He went to smoking weed on weekends only. But it wasn't just in the classroom that Anthony applied himself. He joined study groups, ate his meals at different tables, learned more names and hometowns and hobbies. He even signed up for pottery to fulfill his art elective and befriended kids who didn't eat meat. Seth McCarthy lost his swagger and eventually stopped chasing freshmen around. Some of his classmates thanked Anthony for it, but most didn't make the connection. And all the while, he still pined after Gloria, but she was becoming more distant, not just from Anthony but from the whole school. There were rumors that she wasn't returning in the fall, but he could never get her to talk about it.

One day Anthony was sitting in George's room, listening to one of the big junior's music mixes and reading a copy of
Sporting News.
That night there would be a game against Overlook Academy, and their star player's picture and stats took up an entire magazine page. His name was Tavares Slayton, and he was being heavily recruited by Duke, North Carolina, and Boston College.

“Damn,” Anthony said, and put the magazine down. “This dude sounds like Superman.”

George shrugged. “He is. Dude average something like twenty-eight and twelve boards. They blow us out every time we play.”

“Not this year, though,” Anthony said.

George hesitated, and Anthony recognized the look. “So, anyway,” he said, and clapped George on his back. “I've been taking your advice, man. Got friends all over the place now.” Anthony told him about how he'd gone skiing with Chris and to an Aerosmith concert with other kids. “Thanks for helping me out, man. For real. Otherwise, I don't think I would have lasted this long.”

George nodded, but his face was drawn. Later that night, Anthony understood why. Not only did Overlook beat the team in a blowout, their star player held George to nine points.

Winter Carnival came a few weeks later, a day off from classes for contests and games, followed by a talent show that night. Coach Rockwell took the stage after the last act and brought the varsity basketball team with him. They needed to raise money for new warm-ups and were auctioning off their services.

“So how about it, people?” Rockwell boomed into the microphone. “You gonna help these boys look good for the tournament, or what?”

The crowd cheered, and then the coach pulled a big kid from the line. The opening bid was five dollars, but it eventually swelled to thirty. “Is that it?” Rockwell said after the bidding had slowed. “This particular athlete is a gentleman and a scholar. He can pull out your chair and do your homework, too.”

The boy nodded, and more hands flew up. He had one of the highest grade-point averages in the school. A girl eventually won him for sixty dollars, and then the coach called the next player. Everyone cheered, and the mood in the auditorium that night grew as bright as the snow outside.

Not for Anthony, though. His mood was dark and getting darker. It had everything to do with the raucous scene on stage and the bitter words from the girl sitting next to him.

“Can you believe this shit?” Gloria asked again. And, like before, she didn't give him time to answer. “Got them up there in an auction. A SLAVE auction!”

A few of the kids around them stared, and Anthony grinned self-consciously. “I hear you,” he whispered. “But chill.”

“You chill,” she said, and crossed her arms. “Got black people up there, on the auction block . . .”

And white people, too, Anthony thought. But he was smart enough not to say it.

Khalik was the next one to take center stage, and he was greeted by laughter and jeers. The coach tried to open the bidding at five, but the most he could get was three dollars.

“Come on, people,” Rockwell implored. Sweat popped on his forehead in beads, and he tightened his grip on the microphone. “Three lousy bucks? You can do better than that. Look at him, he's a sensitive guy. You're liable to hurt this poor boy's feelings.”

Going along, Khalik rubbed his eyes with the sides of his fists and pouted. “See what I mean?” Rockwell continued as everyone laughed. “Come on, people. It's for a good cause.”

A few hands went up reluctantly, and Khalik was sold for eleven dollars. After that, Coach Rockwell cleared his throat and raised a hand in the air behind him. “And now, people . . . now, what you've been waiting for . . .”

The place erupted as George jumped to the front of the stage, pulled off his Belton sweatshirt, and flexed. People shouted bids from every row in the auditorium, and the price for the big junior multiplied.

“See what I mean?” Gloria snapped. “That's
your
boy up there, half naked. Not mine.” She left and Anthony followed close behind, looking for a way to console her. She was right, though. It was fucked up. If George was too blinded to see how he looked, then what did it say about all his advice?

“I hate this place!” she shouted. “You hear me? I hate this fucking place and I wanna go home!”

He tried to hold her, but she pulled away. “I'm going straight to the headmaster about this bullshit and so should you. This school hollers all day about diversity and then goes and has a slave auction. What kind of sense does that make?”

Anthony stammered and said he didn't know. “Maybe they thought it was okay since they had white boys up there, too.”

“Yeah, and maybe they didn't think at all.” She shook her head. “Never mind. I forgot who I was talking to.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I don't know, Anthony. Or Tony, or whatever you let these people call you. You tell me.”

Pandemonium broke out from inside the auditorium. George had evidently just been sold.

“I ain't trying to be like him,” Anthony said. “Not anymore.”

She looked him up and down and said, “It might already be too late. Whose coat is that? Your roommate's?”

“Yeah. So what?”

“My father always says this thing,” she said. “Something like ‘Show me three of your friends, and I'll tell you who you are.'” She put her hands on his shoulders. “I like you, Anthony. I really do. But we wouldn't make a good couple. You know that, right?”

He knew. But he didn't want to say it. “You serious about going to Dr. Dirk? What if it backfires? What if we wind up getting in trouble for it?”

“In trouble with who? We weren't the ones selling black people on stage. We're just making a complaint about it.”

And that's the problem, Anthony thought. Half the school already saw him as violent; he didn't want to be labeled a militant, too. “Then we shouldn't go together,” he said. “Two different people, two different complaints about the same thing. It'll make our case seem that much stronger.”

The next day, Anthony went to see the headmaster. His office was huge and lined with crowded bookshelves. “Good to see you, Tony,” the grinning man said. “Have a seat.”

Anthony found the nearest chair and sat down. Dr. Dirk sat behind his desk. “So, how is everything?” the man asked. “Enough snow for you?” He laughed, and Anthony laughed with him.

“It is a lot,” Anthony said. “I've never seen this much at one time in my life.”

The headmaster laughed again. “Not like New York, right? They never keep a lot of snow on the ground.” He winked and then clasped his hands behind his head. “Anyway, Tony. What can I do for you?”

“It's about Winter Carnival,” Anthony blurted, to stop himself from correcting the man on his name and hometown. “What Mr. Rockwell did with the team.”

“You mean the auction?”

“Yeah, the auction,” Anthony continued. “I'm pretty sure he didn't mean anything by it, but with almost every black person in the school being up there for sale, well, in a way it looked kind of racist.”

The Headmaster jerked at the mention of the word, but his expression didn't change. “I see,” he said. “You think it looked like a slave auction?”

Anthony nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Even with the white kids up there and the fun environment . . . ? Even though it raised money for a good cause?” Anthony nodded after each question. “Let me ask you something.” Dr. Dirk rested his elbows on the desk and leaned in. “Why didn't George Fuller or any of the other black kids on the team say anything about it? If it was racist, why would they even participate?”

Because they were getting new warm-ups, Anthony thought. Because sometimes it was easier to row the boat instead of rock it. “I don't know,” he finally answered. “Maybe they did it for the team.”

Dr. Dirk took off his glasses and cleaned them with a white cloth. “Would have to be a pretty important team for him to ignore something like that,” he said. “I think I'll ask George about it. See what he says.”

Anthony slumped. A heart-to-heart between George and the headmaster wasn't going to win him any points with Gloria. “Okay, but I still think the auction was a bad idea, Dr. Dirk. Maybe you should think of doing something different next year, like selling tickets to a dance.”

Dr. Dirk put his glasses back on and looked at Anthony like he was seeing him for the first time. “That's an excellent idea,” he said. “What year are you, Tony? A freshman, right?”

Anthony nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“It takes a lot of guts for a ninth grader to come in here like you did. Especially considering the subject matter. Ever think about student government? I think you'd be a great class representative.”

“No, sir,” Anthony said. “But Mr. Hawley said something about being a proctor for him next year. I might try that.”

“Good. I can see why Mr. Hawley would want you on his floor. You're a natural leader, Tony.” He cleaned his glasses again. “You would have to apply, though,” he cautioned. “It would mean writing an essay and giving a speech in front of the graduating class, their families, the teachers and trustees . . . think you're up for it?”

“I don't know,” Anthony said. “I never wrote a speech before.”

“They're easy. I give speeches every day. Just speak clearly, establish eye contact, and be sure to know your subject. And it's always good to sprinkle in a joke or two, for good measure.”

“Okay. I'll think about it.”

“You should,” Dr. Dirk said seriously. “Being a proctor at Belton is a very big deal. You'd be more than just an authority figure. You'd be an extension of the school's proud traditions and history. Trust me, Tony. You want to do this.”

Anthony thought about Zach stomping up and down the hall and giving orders, intimidating the freshman boys who were too small to defend themselves or too meek to realize that they should. Was that what the headmaster meant by being an extension of the school? Was sacrificing ninth graders to people like McCarthy supposed to be a proud tradition? He guessed it was, but Anthony didn't think that it should be.

“I'll try,” Anthony said finally.

Dr. Dirk rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. Glad to hear it. And as for that other thing, I just want you to know that we take diversity very seriously here. You're not the only student to express concern about the auction, and I promise to investigate it thoroughly.”

Anthony bit the inside of his cheek, but the name escaped his mouth anyway. “Gloria?”

The headmaster looked at him over the top of his glasses, drummed his fingers on the desk, and sighed. “Well . . . I think it might be better not to mention individual names,” Dr. Dirk said. “It could prove counter to what we are trying to achieve.”

Anthony blinked. Achieve what? “Okay,” he said. “No names.”

“Good!” The headmaster stood up and shook Anthony's hand. “I'm genuinely interested in your perspective on things, Tony. Like, are we doing enough for our minority students?”

Anthony thought. “Well, I think we sho—”

“Not right now,” Dr. Dirk said, already moving to the door. “I have a meeting. But you work on that speech and earn that position, Tony. Then we'll have plenty of time to talk.”

That afternoon, Anthony went into town alone, walked into the pizza place, and kicked the snow off his feet. Two bearded men in plaid jackets were talking with the woman at the counter. They looked at Anthony, and one of them said, “Speak of the devil.”

“Not him,” the woman said. “This is one of them New York imports, from that school.” She winked at Anthony. “Take your order?”

“Medium pizza, with everything.” He paid and slid into an empty booth. Other than the two men at the counter and a few townies playing pool in the back, the place was dead.

“I hear Lisbon Street looks just like Mogadishu,” one of the men said. “Mosques and friggin' bazaars everywhere.”

“Ayuh,” said the other one. “Another bunch of 'em just moved in, up to Birch Street. Won't be long before we get a ghetto, right here . . .”

Anthony moved to a booth in the back, near the pool tables. He knew that the men at the counter were talking about Lewiston, and probably the supermarket manager. Lately everything seemed to be about race: George and Gloria, in his classes, and even with Dr. Dirk. He was tired and wanted to get away from it somehow. But he couldn't, without losing his skin.

More people arrived and ordered food. Anthony was relieved when one of them put money in the jukebox. The woman brought his food, and by the time he finished eating, Brody and Venus showed up. Nate was with them, and they convinced Anthony to shoot a game of pool.