Black Boy White School (8 page)

Brody left, and Anthony did the same a short time afterward, cruising campus and looking for Gloria, hoping for a chance to casually bump into her. She still didn't know that he liked her, and that was fine with him. Anthony wasn't ready for rejection.

He didn't see her, though, and it was getting cold. He went back inside and was surprised to find the phone nook empty. On a whim, he called home and spoke to his mother. After a few minutes of teasing and small talk, her voice took on a different tone. “We need to talk about Thanksgiving,” she said. “I don't know if we can afford to bring you home.”

The next day, Anthony sat in English class, barely listening. The vacation news had haunted him all night. His mother had said she wasn't sure yet, but he could hear it in her voice. No way would she be able to pay all her bills and buy a plane ticket. He wasn't going home, which meant he had to find somewhere else to go.

“So how about it?” Mr. Hawley said from the front of the room. “Steinbeck called it ‘the animal,' but it still boils down to mob mentality, just like in the other story.”

A hand shot up. It belonged to Alex Sanger. “Somewhat akin to the fog of war,” he stated. “Disturb a beehive or an anthill, and the insects respond with crushing force, attacking anything within a certain radius, regardless of guilt or innocence, subspecies or size. Human soldiers are practitioners of that very kind of group think. In times of battle, they can commit atrocities, but the fog, I suspect, exonerates them.”

“But those are soldiers,” Gloria protested. “Steinbeck was talking about everyday people.” She looked at Mr. Hawley. “Are you saying people in mobs aren't responsible for their actions? We can't blame them because they surrendered their will to some animal . . . ? No disrespect, but that's garbage.”

“Is it?” another kid asked, clearly affected. Her name was Debbie Callahan, and she was from a town near Lewiston. “Mob mentality started the Revolutionary War. Without that, we would all still be under British rule.”

“Yeah, and mob mentality killed a lot of slaves, too,” Gloria shot back. “Don't forget about that.”

The two girls glowered at each other. Mr. Hawley cleared his throat, but then Alex raised his hand again. “Interesting postulate,” Alex said. “History shows that the Brits ended slavery well before we did. If they had won the Revolutionary War, would they have ended slavery on this continent?” He gestured toward Anthony and Gloria. “And if so, would our two most appreciated classmates never have lived here?”

Debbie mumbled something, and the boy next to her laughed.

“What's so funny?” Mr. Hawley asked, growing agitated.

The boy turned red and bit his lip. Then he pointed at Debbie. “Ask her.”

“Well?” Mr. Hawley shifted his gaze to Debbie. She pouted and scribbled circles on her notebook. “We're waiting?”

“Nothing,” she said not looking up. “Just a stupid joke about all the Salamis in Lewiston. I'm sorry.”

“Dude!” Brody said, speaking up for the first time. “Not cool!”

That afternoon before dinner, Anthony found his roommate in bed. Brody had stormed off right after class and stayed invisible. “Where you been all day?”

“Here and there,” Brody said absently. “Town. The woods. Wherever.” He sat up and shook his head. “Sorry about Debbie, dude. People like her really piss me off.”

“Tell me about it.” Anthony thought about the word Debbie had used and where he'd heard it before. “Salamis,” he said, leaning down on his elbows. “What was that supposed to mean?”

Brody looked surprised. “Somebody from Somalia. It's kind of a slur, you know, because Muslims don't eat pork.” He paused and sat up completely, flipped the hair out of his eyes, and smiled. “Dude, you do know about all the Somalis in Lewiston, right? Like more than anywhere in the state.”

“What?” Anthony said, unimpressed. “Four?”

“Try four thousand, dude. Maybe more.”

Anthony made a face. “We're talking about black people, right?”

“Yeah, but don't call them that. And whatever you do, don't call them African American, either. That really ticks them off, for some reason.”

Anthony smiled. He wasn't going home for Thanksgiving, but maybe he would still see some black people. “I need to ask you a question.” He told Brody about his vacation dilemma. “I might still be able to get home, but I needed to know, just in case.”

“Sure, dude,” Brody said, but he didn't look very sure at all.

On Thanksgiving Day, Anthony sat at a table in Lewiston, watching Brody's father carve up the big bird and wondering what his family was doing at home in East Cleveland. It was after six, which meant they'd already eaten hours ago, and his mother and Aunt Florence were probably getting drunk and complaining about men. And his brothers had already gotten up from their naps, gone outside, and gotten into something.

“Pass your plate, dear.”

He handed his dish to Brody's compassionate mother. Her eyes had been filled with pity since the moment that he got there. The way that she treated him made Anthony uncomfortable, like she thought he was an abused orphan. It made Anthony miss home even more. Brody had been right about Lewiston. Black people from Somalia and other places in Africa walked around with kufis or scarves on their heads. A few were dressed like Anthony, but he hadn't connected with any of them. At a thrift store to buy more used bowling shirts, the dark clerk had nearly bowed down to Brody but treated Anthony like he was invisible.

“Here you go, buddy,” Mr. Lavallee announced as the plate came back around. Anthony looked at the dry meat and wet stuffing, the neat peas and what he guessed was cranberry sauce. At home, it came clean and in the shape of the can, not riddled with actual berries. “Thank you,” he said, and waited for everyone else to get served. Then Brody's father bowed his head, thanked Jesus, and told them all to dig in.

“Bet you don't get a spread like this at home, huh?” the man said, forking food.

Anthony smiled. “No, sir.” The spread at home was twice as big. Twice as big and a hundred times easier to eat. “Do you think I could make a phone call after dinner? I haven't talked to my mother yet.”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Lavallee said. “Just dial one. We don't mind paying for it.”

“Yeah,” her husband added. “As long as it's not to Mogadishu.”

She laughed and sawed into her turkey. “Oh, you. Always the kidder.”

After dinner, Anthony called home, but no one picked up. Then he went down to the basement, where Brody was playing video games. The house was big, but nowhere as big as Anthony had imagined. If the Lavallees had money, they were hiding it well. “Can I play?”

“You can play,” Brody said, motioning toward the other controller. “But can you beat me?”

“Like a baldheaded stepchild.”

They raced their cars around oval tracks and through snowy woods, across deserts, and along mountain passes. Brody won most often, but Anthony took his fair share, until Mr. Lavallee moved in front of the screen.

“Evening, ladies,” he said. “Time to stop destroying the universe and help earn some real money.” He was in a leather apron and had goggles around his neck. It made Anthony think about Stephen King.

“Where we going?”

Mr. Lavallee laughed, and after a pause, Brody laughed, too. “Someplace cool,” his roommate said, and tugged Anthony along. “Nothing to worry about, dude. You'll like it.”

They went behind the garage and into a wooden shack with one door and a dirty window. Inside and hanging head up from a hook was a hollowed-out deer with black and glassy eyes.

“Whoa,” Anthony said, and took a step back, bumping into Brody's laughing father.

“Don't worry,” the man said, and slid on his goggles. “This one ain't gonna bite you.” He put on gloves and grabbed a big knife from the wall, cut a circle around the animal's neck, and connected it to the long belly slit. Then he grabbed the skin and started pulling it down, carving it away from the white fat and pink flesh. “Coming to the end of hunting season,” Mr. Lavallee said as he worked. “Business is getting backed up.”

It was then that Anthony noticed the other carcasses on the floor, already gutted and stacked up in a corner, their straight legs sticking out. “If it wasn't for this,” Brody's father continued, “we could never afford Belton. Friggin' immigrants got all the other jobs.” He made a final savage cut across the tail, and the pelt came off cleanly.

Brody rolled his eyes, put on gloves, and grabbed a knife. Inside an hour the two of them had cut away the meat, rolled up the pieces in white paper, and set them aside. Anthony was amazed to see his roommate work so skillfully. This Brody was nothing like the slow-moving burnout he knew. When they were done, Mr. Lavallee asked if he wanted to do another one. “You, too, Tony,” he said. “You can help me skin it.”

“No, thanks, Mr. Lavallee.”

“Same here,” Brody chimed in, and peeled off his gloves. “I'm supposed to be on vacation.”

They sat in front of the TV screen again, this time playing soccer instead of racing cars. Anthony told Brody about how he'd had to work at the barbershop, how free tuition at Belton hadn't seemed very free at all.

“Dude, I should be on work-study, but my dad won't let me do it.” He blew the hair out of his eyes and tapped the controller. “If you haven't already figured it out, he's proud and has a particular view of the world.”

“I hear you,” Anthony said, and checked behind them. “To tell the truth, I'm surprised he let me stay here. I'm surprised he even let you be my roommate.”

“He didn't want me to at first. Thought you were gonna steal all my stuff.”

“There's still time,” Anthony said, taking a shot at the goal. “I'm just waiting for you to let your guard down.”

After vacation, they quickly fell back into the Belton groove, only now Anthony spent afternoons trying out for basketball, while Brody attacked the ski slopes. One day a couple of packages arrived for Brody from Lewiston. One was a ski suit, sent by his mother. The other was a lone can of deodorant, in a plain cardboard box.

“Who sent you that?” Anthony asked, laughing at the Right Guard. “Somebody must be trying to tell you something.”

“They are,” Brody said, and locked the door. “They're saying, ‘Smoke up, dude! The bud in Lewiston at harvesttime is a lot to be thankful for.'” Brody picked up the can and unscrewed the bottom. Then he pulled out a plump bag of weed. “Couldn't get it while we were there, so I had it shipped. Care to partake?”

“Okay.”

Brody looked at him in surprise as Anthony smiled back, more than a little stunned himself. “Hurry up,” he said. “Let's go before I change my mind.”

“Give me thirty seconds.” Brody shoved into a parka, grabbed what he needed, and led Anthony off into the woods. They found a mossy rock big enough for them to sit on and smoked. The high Anthony got from the little glass pipe was the best he ever had.

“You were right,” he said, laughing for no reason. “This really is some good-ass weed.”

Brody nodded and then packed the bowl again. He lit it, and they passed it back and forth, smoking easily. “I need to ask you something,” Brody said. “How come you never did this with me before?”

“Because I didn't know you before. Now I do.”

Brody leaned back.
“Getting to know you, getting to know more about you . . .”
He laughed. “That has to be like the worst song in the world, dude.”

“You don't hear me arguing,” Anthony said. “Espe­cially when you sing it.”

They talked and teased each other a while longer, until Brody stood up and announced that he was hungry. After drops of Visine and mouthfuls of Reese's Pieces, the boys went into town.

In the supermarket, they grabbed Oreos, Nilla Wafers, and potato chips. On their way to the front, Brody picked up a few jars of Gerber baby food.

“Are you serious?”

Brody grinned at the jars in the basket. “I know. Crazy, right? Dude, I just gotta try these sweet potatoes!”

The man at the register looked at them strangely as they unloaded all of their food. “You guys from Belton?” he asked, scanning the items.

“Yeah, dude,” Brody said happily. “I'm Brody Peyote and this here's Anthony Epiphany. Pleased to meet your personage.”

“You guys are high, huh?” the cashier asked. His name tag said
MARK
. “Don't worry, I'm not a narc. What do you think I'm gonna do, first thing I get home?”

“That's awesome,” Brody said. “Mark's not a narc.” The three of them laughed as Brody paid for the food. Then Anthony saw a black man approaching, the first he had seen in Hoover.

He was slender and dressed in a button-down shirt that had
MANAGER
and
AL-SAID
stitched above the breast pocket. “Mark?” the man said, walking directly toward them. “When you are finished with these young men, I need you to investigate something. A woman insists that she can buy power tools here, but I know we do not sell these things.”

“I'll get right on it. Sir.”

Anthony waved, but the manager walked past him and shook Brody's hand. “Hello, young man,” he said. “Welcome to the Farmer's Corner. You have enjoyed your shopping?”

Brody nodded, and the manager turned to leave.

“Asshole,” Mark hissed as he stuffed the bag. “Goddam illegal immigrant, job-stealing, Salami son of a bitch.”

Walking back, Anthony didn't have the munchies anymore. And he didn't feel very high, either. “That's the second time,” he said of the manager's snub. “First at that store in Lewiston and now this. What do you think they have against me? I'm just as dark as him, if not darker.”

“I dunno,” Brody said. “Maybe everybody needs someone to hate.”

The next evening, Anthony met George in the gym to fine-tune his game. There was only one practice before the coach made the cuts, and Anthony still had an outside chance. Varsity basketball. The thought of it made him work even harder, until George finally called for a timeout. “What got into you?” George asked, sitting down. “Play like that tomorrow and you might take my spot.”

“I don't know about that,” Anthony said, and suppressed a smile. “But maybe I can start on JV.”

Gloria walked in wearing headphones and dribbling a basketball. She saw them and rolled her eyes, went to the far end of the court, and shot lazy jumpers.

“That's my cue,” George said, and got to his feet. “You should stick around and handle your business, though, before Paul or somebody else scoops her up.”

Anthony grabbed a ball and went to the free-throw line, concentrated on the rim and the sounds from behind him; a few bounces, short silence, and then the swish of the net or, more often, the thud of the ball against the rim. Gloria was good but not incredible, more middle of the pack in the girls' hoop pecking order than anywhere near the top.

He took his shot and missed, chased the ball down, and went back to the line. This time he tried to block out the other sounds, but the bouncing behind him grew closer and louder. A ball came sailing over his head, snapped the net as it fell through the rim. “Game over,” Gloria said, trotting by to retrieve it. “Think you can do that?”

“Easy.” Anthony stepped behind the three-point arc, flicked his wrist, and by some miracle the ball went in. “What I tell you? Piece of cake.”

“Scared of you,” she said, laughing. “Guess all that work is paying off. Maybe Uncle Tom is good for something after all.”

“Leave George alone,” he said. “The dude is all right. You just don't know him.”

“I know enough.” Gloria sniffed. “I know brothers like him are dangerous.”

“There you go again,” Anthony said, at first faking the frustration but then realizing that it was genuine. “Why do you always have to put him down? Call him names just because he has a lot of friends? White people can be good, too. You can't lump them all in one box.”

“Why can't I? They do it to us.” She looked at him with sad eyes and wedged her ball underneath an arm. “Oh, no,” she said. “Don't tell me you're about to run out here and start chasing white girls, too?”

“I'm in Maine,” Anthony said, “at an all-white prep school. Who else am I supposed to chase?”

Gloria smiled then and slid her headphones back on. “I don't know,” she said, walking toward the exit. “But not every girl in this school is white.”

Anthony didn't make the varsity team, and it couldn't have bothered him less. Gloria liked him, or at least she was interested, and that was all that really mattered. The two of them were in town one day when they ran into Brody and Venus. It was cold, and Venus was wearing a hood, but a gust of wind blew it off.

Gloria leaned closer to Anthony and whispered,
“Oh
.
My
.
God
.
”
Venus had twisted her hair into flat and dirty dreadlocks. “Is she serious?”

“You dudes wanna stop somewhere before we get back to campus?” Brody asked, patting his pocket. “Got some of Lewiston's finest, right here.”

“That's okay, man. Some other time.”

“Yeah,” Gloria said coldly. “Some other time.” She was still locked in on the hair.

Venus ran a hand through her new tangle and smiled proudly. “It's really cool, right?” she said. “It took me forever. I don't know how you do it.”

“Do what?” Gloria snapped. “Does it look like I have any dreadlocks?”

Venus blushed. “Sorry. I just meant . . . you know. Black people.”

Anthony gently held her arm, but Gloria twisted free. “Of course I know what you mean,” she said, and showed her front teeth. “Come here. Let me look at it.” Venus bowed, and Gloria lifted one of the clumps. “Ooh, yeah,” she continued. “I really like this. What did you use?”

“Mostly beeswax and a few other things,” Venus said. “I heard real dreadlocks use cow dung, but I'm not gonna find that around here.”

“Cow dung?” Anthony made a face. “Who the hell would—” Gloria shot him a look and he stopped. Then she turned her attention back to the blond girl.

“I'm sure you can find some,” Gloria said. “I'll even help you out, if you want me to.”

Venus blushed again. “Wow. That's awesome.”

On campus, the couples separated. Gloria was still fuming, and although he understood why she was so upset, a part of Anthony thought she was overreacting. So what if the girl had tried an African hairstyle? If anything, she had done it to show solidarity, not as a sign of disrespect.

But maybe that was only big George speaking in his mind, telling Anthony to give up more ground in the invisible war to win nothing.

“You okay?”

Gloria had covered her face with both hands. “No,” she said. “Are you?”

Anthony nodded. “Yeah, I'm straight. No big deal, to me.”

“Then I feel sorry for you.” She scooted away from him. “Suzy Cream-cheese wearing dreadlocks . . . I don't know how you can be friends with her ignorant ass.”

“She's not my friend,” Anthony said. “And she's not my enemy, either. She's Brody's burnout girlfriend. That's all.” He put a hand on her back, but she jerked away. She was beautiful, but anger made her ugly sometimes. “You want me to go?”

“Do what you want. I don't care.”

“Do what I want to?”

“You heard me.”

Before he could think about it, Anthony gently knocked the hands away from her face and kissed her. It was just as warm and soft as he'd imagined. “You said to do what I wanted,” he said, stealing a glance at her.

She touched his arm. “About time. I was starting to call you
Slow-
hio for real.”

They met in the gym after study hours and kissed until it was time to go to their dorms. Just before going inside, though, Gloria nearly broke Anthony's heart. “We need to slow down,” she said. “I'm really not looking for a boyfriend right now.”

Anthony stared. “Are you serious?”

“Don't look like that,” she said, and touched his face. “I said slow down, not stop hanging out.”

On the way to his dorm, Anthony thought about all the times he'd used similar lines on girls at home. Girls he'd fooled around with but didn't really like. But if Gloria wasn't interested, then why had she flirted with him in the first place? Why had she said “about time” and kissed him for half the night? Maybe it was all the kissing that had made her change her mind. He wasn't tall, and she was probably tired of bending down.

Brody was already in the room when he got there, lying on his bed and reading a guitar magazine. “Smells like farts in here,” Anthony grumbled, walking by to open a window. “How can you even breathe?”

Brody grunted and turned a page. “Sorry. I was alone when it happened.”

“Well, you ain't alone now.” He dropped down at his desk and blindly grabbed a book; tried to read but couldn't concentrate. From the corner of his eye, he saw Brody roll over and sit up. Then he dropped his magazine on the floor and loudly cleared his throat.

“So, Tony Romeo,” he said. “Saw you and Gloria in a serious lip-lock. Dude, you must be psyched!”

“Something like that.” Anthony thought about her parting words. “Why do girls always have to make things so mysterious? Why can't they just say exactly what they mean?”

“Because that would spoil their fun.”

“I'm serious, man.” Anthony told him what Gloria had said at the end of their night. Then he looked at his roommate and waited.

“Wow,” Brody said finally. “I have no idea what that means.”

“Me neither. That's the problem. Tomorrow I'm just gonna ask her, flat out.”

Brody flipped the hair out of his eyes and shook his head. “Not tomorrow, dude. Too soon. Sometimes girls don't say what they mean because they don't really know what they want.”

Anthony opened his mouth but didn't say anything. His roommate was smarter than he looked. Not once had he even stopped to consider that Gloria was just telling the truth. “So how long should I wait?”

“Don't ask me. I'm making this up as I go along. . . .
Just a song, sung by a humble Brody bard, without a shard of . . .
shit. Dude, that really sucked.” He laughed, and Anthony laughed with him. And he thought about Mookie, like he always did whenever Brody made up a song. He missed home, but he was also really beginning to like Belton. Despite all the rules, it didn't feel like prison anymore.

“I had a friend who could do that,” Anthony said. “He rapped, but it was the same thing, making up lyrics on the spot. He was pretty good sometimes. Just like you.”

Brody bowed. The hair fell back in front of his eyes and stayed there. “Why, thank you, kind sir. Maybe me and your friend could do a little duo sometime.”

“I don't think so,” Anthony said, and then stopped himself. He hadn't told anyone at Belton about Mookie. Not even the kids from Brooklyn.

“Why not?” Brody asked, laughing. “Afraid we might be a big success, make a ton of cash, and go Hollywood?”

“He got shot. Somebody killed him.” Anthony had trouble with it at first, but he told Brody the whole story, and how the murder had scared him all the way to Maine.

Brody listened silently until it was finished. “Sorry, man.”

“You don't need to apologize,” Anthony said. “I saw the dude who did it, and he didn't look like you.”