Black Boy White School (14 page)

“Thank you,” Maxine said, leaning away from the open window. “And who are you?”

“Just Tony's favorite teacher,” she said, grinning. “Constance Whitlock. I'm sure he's talked about me?”

“Sure he has . . . nice to meet you! Thank you so much for taking care of my son.”

Ms. Whitlock blushed and said that the pleasure was hers. Then she went and stood with a few other teachers, under a tree. “She wasn't my favorite teacher,” Anthony whispered. “She was weird.”

“Be quiet, boy,” his mother hissed. “Here comes another one.”

Mr. Hawley came shuffling over to the van. His eyes were red around the edges and his nose was running. “Ms. Jones,” he said, pressing her extended hand warmly between both of his. “I can't begin to tell you how much your son has meant to this school, and to me. I'm supposed to be the teacher around here, but I wound up learning a lot from him.” He looked back at Anthony, who was trying to act like he hadn't heard anything. “I'm serious,” he continued. “Thank you for coming here.”

“I'll be back,” Anthony said, and forced a laugh. “When I turn twenty-one we can hit a bar and go pick up some women.”

“Anthony!”

“I said when I turn twenty-one, Ma. Relax.”

Hawley laughed and said he would think about it. Then Andre said something about the long drive ahead, and Mr. Hawley apologized. “Guess you guys should be shoving off,” he said. “Make sure to stay in touch.” He moved away from the window and joined the others by the tree. Seconds later, Anthony jumped out of the van and gave Mr. Hawley a hug.

“Take care, Mr. Hawley,” he said. “Sorry if I offended anybody today, you know, with the speech. I was just trying to speak from the heart.”

“Are you kidding me? You don't need to apologize for that. Half the people were crying.”

“Yeah, but what about the other half?”

“Relax, Anthony. Everyone was in awe. It took a pretty big pair to say what you said. It was special, and I'm glad I witnessed it.” They hugged again, and when they separated, Mr. Hawley's face was wet. “Jesus,” he said, wiping his eyes. “You would think I was the one leaving.”

“I'm gonna miss you, man,” Anthony said. “You helped me grow up.”

“You helped me grow up, too,” Hawley said. “The whole school. You made a big impression on all of us.” He reached out and gave Anthony a playful punch in the shoulder. “Speaking of impressions,” Hawley said, “Floyd Mims wouldn't be the same Floyd from today's speech, would he? Because I noticed that somebody practically chiseled ‘FLOYD MIMS WAS HERE' into a couple of walls downstairs.”

“For real? I don't know about that one, Mr. Hawley, but if a person went through all that trouble, then it must be pretty important, don't you think?”

“I do. Which is why I'm going to make sure that both of them stay. Even if it means that I have to go over them every year with a screwdriver or something.” He winked and Anthony almost cried, but he gave the man one last hug instead.

Minutes later, the van was speeding down the highway, blurring all of the trees.

This might sound corny, but first and foremost I'd like to thank my mother. She filled our house with books and encouraged me to write stories (I still have the one about the “where-wolf” from the third grade, thanks to you). I want to thank my brothers, Melvin and George, and my sisters, Carla and Karen. Your guidance and support throughout the years has been invaluable. Daddy, you inspire me more than you know. Keep fighting and don't give up. Tap, thanks for everything, man. Over the years, you've taught me a lot. To the rest of my family (too many to name without adding another twenty pages to this book), I love you and thanks for everything.

To the Mims family, the Thompsons, the Jacksons, D. C. Hardy, Phil G., and the rest of E. 133rd St., thanks for being the best friends anyone could ever have. Thanks to East Cleveland for teaching me hard lessons but teaching them well. Thanks to Bob Flanagan, Dick and Debbie Dorhman, Pete and Vicky Rackliffe, Jim and Lucia Owen, Jim Fiske, Clayton Burroughs, and every other teacher who inspired me. To Adam, Craig, Tommy P., Paul, Dino, Dave, and the rest of my friends from Gould Academy, thanks for the memories. And to all of my friends and colleagues at the Cambridge School of Weston, thank you for nineteen wonderful years of support and growth. I can't wait to see what the next nineteen will look like!

To my agent, Jodie Rhodes, thanks for believing in me. To my editor, Phoebe Yeh, thanks for your help and guidance. I can't wait to do this with you again!

Lastly, I want to acknowledge my wife, Ava, for introducing me to a level of love that I didn't know existed. Thank you for keeping me sane, safe, and unbelievably happy. And thanks to our daughter, Olivia, who is the most beautiful baby in the world. I can't wait for her to watch me grow up. . . .

BRIAN F. WALKER
grew up in East Cleveland, where he ran with gangsters, drug dealers, and thugs until age fourteen, when he was sent to an elite boarding school and a world he had no way of understanding. For the past seventeen years he has taught high school English, coached basketball, and served as an admissions officer at a prep school in Weston, Massachusetts. He recently won a grant for fiction writing from the Massachusetts Cultural Council, in addition to numerous awards for playwriting, short stories, and journalism. Brian lives in Massachusetts with his wife and daughter.

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Black Boy / White School
Copyright © 2012 by Brian F. Walker
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Walker, Brian F.
Black boy/white school / Brian F. Walker. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-06-191483-6
[1. Identity—Fiction. 2. African Americans—Fiction. 3. Race relations—Fiction. 4. Preparatory schools—Fiction. 5. High schools—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction. 7. Maine—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.W15216Bl 2012

[Fic]—dc23

2011016608
CIP
AC

11 12 13 14 15 LP/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

First Edition

EPub Edition © November 2011 ISBN: 9780062099174