Double Dutch

by Sharon M. Draper

  “Your daddy on drugs?” the owner asked.

  “What? No, sir! I told you my father is sick. Really sick.” Randy bowed his head and sighed. He felt sick himself at that moment. He was tired of being alone, tired of making do, tired of pretending that everything was all right when nothing could be further from the truth.

  “I know your daddy. Winston Youngblood. You look just like him.” Mr. Clifford kept staring at Randy. “Ain’t seen him around here lately.”

  Randy’s head jerked up. “You know my daddy? How?”

  “Seen him around the neighborhood. He don’t come in here much, but I know who he is. Is everything okay, son?” Mr. Clifford’s eyes softened a bit. His voice seemed to offer understanding.

  Randy was about to cry. He missed his dad so much. “Yeah, everything’s fine,” he forced himself to say. “Dad’s just been sick. He can’t work, and I’m trying to help out. That’s all.”

  Mr. Clifford took the VCR and put it behind the counter. He continued to look at Randy very closely. “Giving the electric company twenty dollars is like spittin’ in the ocean. Won’t do much good,” he said finally.

  Randy sighed again. “I know. But last night when she called me for the fourth or fifth time, the lady from the electric company told me if I gave them a small payment she’d keep the lights on for another two weeks. I’m sure my dad will be better by then,” Randy told him.

  Mr. Clifford said nothing but turned to the cash register and took out some cash. He gave Randy a pink form. “Fill this out for me. Don’t leave nothin’ blank.”

  Randy obeyed, trembling a little from nervousness and a little from hunger. He had eighty-seven cents in his pocket.

  Mr. Clifford took the form, looked at it carefully, and tossed it into a shoe box on the counter. “I have examined this VCR very closely,” he said, although Randy knew he had only glanced at it, “and I find it to be rather valuable-a collector’s item. Since I am a businessman, I cannot give you the full value, but I am willing to give you half of what I think it is worth.”

  “Seven dollars and fifty cents?” Randy asked hopelessly.

  Mr. Clifford ignored him and said sternly, “You may not be aware of this, but your machine is worth over six hundred dollars!”

  “Really?” Randy asked with astonishment. He knew for a fact that his father had bought it on sale at Wal-Mart for eighty dollars.

  “Never doubt a man of business,” Mr. Clifford said, softening his tone a bit. He handed Randy three crisp one hundred-dollar bills. “And don’t go advertising to the neighborhood that I cheated you out of a valuable piece of merchandise!”

  Randy looked at the money in disbelief. He could hold the tears back no longer. “Thank you, Mr. Clifford,” he said softly. “Thank you so much.”

  Mr. Clifford peered at Randy once more through those purple spectacles. “Give the folks at the electric company fifty dollars, son, give thirty to the phone company, a hundred toward your rent, then space the rest out as best you can. Come see me if your dad gets better. And come see me if he don’t. You hear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Randy mumbled.

  “And don’t be expectin’ your TV to be no collector’s item in a month or so. If things don’t get better, you go get some help. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Randy said again. “I really appreciate this.”

  “Get outta here now!” Mr. Clifford turned his back to Randy, pretending to sort through some papers on the counter.

  Randy walked slowly toward the door of the shop. “Thanks again,” he said quietly. “I’ll be back.” As Randy walked into the Saturday morning April sunshine, he sighed with relief, but he knew that he could not keep up this situation much longer. Along with food and other expenses, he knew that even Mr. Clifford’s generosity would not last long. He evaluated all his options as he rode the bus downtown to the electric company.

  As Mr. Clifford had predicted, the fifty dollars was enough to hold the lights on for another month at most. Randy left there and walked slowly across the busy downtown street to pay the phone bill, at least a small part of it. Finally, he stopped at a market and bought a few groceries, and headed home to feed the cat. He made himself a fat, juicy hamburger and ate it in three huge bites. He burped.

  He plopped down on the sofa after eating, and found himself talking to the cat once more.

  “Well, Cat, I gotta get help. I guess Dad has deserted me just like Momma did.”

  The cat, content and full for a change, dozed near his feet.

  Randy mused, trying to figure out his limited options. His dad was an only child. His mother had been an only child. His grandparents were dead. He refused to call the police or a child abuse hotline. But he didn’t know who else to call. A teacher? Too complicated. Bomani? He already had ten kids of his own. He had enough problems. Randy just didn’t know what to do.

  Randy stared at the phone. “Please call, Dad. I won’t be mad. Just come home.”

  The phone, as if it had heard him, rang shrilly. Randy lunged to pick it up. “Hello,” he said hopefully.

  “Hi, Randy.” Even Delia’s cheerful voice didn’t cheer Randy.

  “Hey, Delia. What’s up?”

  “Not you. You sound down—like you’re livin’ in a pit or something.”

  “Actually, it’s been a pretty good day,” Randy told her. “I was just thinking about getting ready for practice. Starts at five, right?”

  “Well, that’s one reason why I called. Bomani’s wife called, and four of their kids have the chicken pox, so he’s canceling practice today.”

  “Great. I mean, I’m not glad his kids are sick, but I didn’t feel like the noise and funk of practice today. I got a lot on my mind.”

  “Me, too,” Delia said with a sigh. “You know that the state test is the week after we do our projects.”

  “Why do you care about that? I hear it’s pretty easy.”

  “I don’t like any kind of test. And I don’t do good on standardized tests—all those little blue bubbles to fill in and somebody walking down the aisles looking over your shoulder, holding on to a stopwatch—freaks me out.”

  “Yeah, I feel ya. But you’ll do fine. You’re smart, Delia. Look what a good job you did filming us for Miss Benson’s project.”

  “That was no test-that was fun! I bet we get an A on it.”

  “You got that right. Hey, Delia, what do you think the Tollivers are going to do for their project?”

  “I have no idea. Miss Benson tried to get them to tell her, but they just told her wait and see.”

  “I think Miss Benson gave the assignment before she had it all figured out. An older teacher would have made us write down what we were going to do, then approved it. Miss Benson is fun, but she’s kinda dumb as a teacher,” Randy said.

  “I don’t think she’s dumb—she just doesn’t know all the teacher secrets yet.”

  Randy thought about his own secret that everyone was unaware of.

  “When do the Tollivers give their presentation?” Delia asked.

  “Let’s see. We do ours on Tuesday. If we finish it in time, the Tollivers would do their presentation right after us. Ought to be an interesting day.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know whether to be scared or worried,” Delia said.

  “Probably both.” Randy laughed nervously.

  “How’s your dad?” Delia asked.

  “Uh, he’s good. Just left last night on another trip.” Randy just couldn’t bring himself to admit that his father had deserted him.

  “How do you manage, Randy? Being by yourself all the time. Don’t you get scared? Or lonely?”

  “Naw, I like being alone. No one to mess with me. No one to beat me to the bathroom. I feel like I’m grown—livin’ large—all on my own. It’s great.”

  “Well, you got the large part down,” Delia said with a laugh. “The rest is scary to me.”

  “I ain’t never been scared,” Randy lied as he imagined his father lying bleeding and dead on t
he side of the road, or, even worse, happily cooking spaghetti in a city hundreds of miles away, with no thoughts of Randy on his mind.

  “Well, I have been, lots of times. The Tollivers scare me. Tests scare me. Thunderstorms freak me out. And being alone terrifies me. I’ll catch you Monday. If you need to call me before then, I’ll be at my dad’s house. Later.”

  Delia hung up, and Randy stared at the phone, thinking about the day, about Delia, and about his dad. He thought about real fear and how it was slipping like smoke under his door, into his space, and throughout his body. He listened to the phone click, echo, then finally beep that annoying sound to let him know he needed to hang it up. He did so slowly, and the silence of the small apartment was somehow suddenly loud and stifling. Randy ran to his room, turned his radio up loud, and fell across his bed. The music bounced off his back as he buried his head in his pillow. He fell asleep with the music echoing through the empty rooms.

  twelve

  DOUBLE DUTCH PRACTICE ON MONDAY WAS HOT AND horrible. Delia tripped over the ropes like they were made of tree branches. She couldn’t get past 50 on her speed jumps, when her average was usually closer to 350.

  Randy yelled at her from across the floor, “Get it together, Delia. You jumpin’ like a kindergartner—a clumsy one at that!”

  “You’re not the coach!” Delia yelled back at him. “Don’t mess with me! At least I’m not sweatin’ like a pig!”

  Randy grabbed a towel and wiped his face. It had been unusually hot all day—more like July than April. Randy was hot and hungry and angry. “Well, you’re jumpin’ like a pig! We ain’t gonna win nothin’ if you jump like that at the finals next week!”

  “I don’t believe you’re dissin’ me like that!” she retorted angrily. “If you don’t like it, you can just—”

  “That’s enough!” yelled Bomani from the other side of the gym. He was physically restraining two screaming, sweating ten-year-olds who were angry enough to fight. One swore she had been tripped. The other claimed she couldn’t turn for somebody who was stupid and ugly. “Teammates do NOT fight each other,” he told the girls sternly. “Go sit on the sidelines and make up, or I’m calling your parents to take you home. It is too hot to be dealin’ with this kind of foolishness tonight.” Both of them scowled, but they quieted down and obeyed. “And Delia,” Bomani yelled, “Randy’s right. Go get some water, rest a little, then try again. You’re off your game tonight.”

  Delia stormed off the floor, hot with anger, as she dug in her bag for her water bottle. “How dare he talk to me like that?” she muttered to Yolanda. “Where’s he get off thinkin’ he can talk to me like he’s my mama or something? He better fix his face to be lookin’ someplace else!”

  “It’s the heat, Delia,” Yolanda said, trying to calm her down. “You know Randy isn’t usually like this. He’s crazy about you—you know that.”

  “Well, he sure has a crazy way of showing it!” Delia was still angry. She refused to look at Randy, who sat near the table of refreshments that some parents had brought. “You jump for a while, Yo Yo. Get Charlene and Misty to turn for you. I’m not doing anybody any good.”

  “It’s too hot for anything,” Yolanda complained as she went to find her own water bottle. “When my body gets overheated, I sometimes go into cardiac arrest. I must be careful.”

  “You’re gonna get arrested for tellin’ tales,” Delia said, chuckling. “Get out there and jump! Let me see your fastest speed routine.”

  Yolanda walked over to the ropes, gave the signal to Misty and Charlene, and proceeded to jump fast and furious. She smirked when she stopped, and said to Delia, “Piece of cake!” The only signs that she was aware of the heat were small drops of perspiration on the bridge of her nose. Delia stood and cheered loudly. Yolanda, who clearly had been awesome, took a bow and walked off the gym floor. Bomani nodded in approval from the other side of the gym.

  Randy set the timer for the younger girls, then moved slowly across the floor to the folding chair where Delia sat. She had her feet propped up on another chair and a wet paper towel on her forehead. Her eyes were closed.

  “Hey, Delia, uh, my bad,” Randy said softly. “I’m like, uh, sorry. You’re the last person here who I want to be mad at me. I’m just... I’m just...” He could not finish the sentence.

  Delia did not move or open her eyes at first. Finally she peeked from behind the quickly drying paper towel and asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

  Randy sighed. “Can I call you tonight? I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “What is it?” Delia asked, sitting up straight and looking at him intently. She could feel her anger melt.

  “I promise I’ll tell you tonight. I can’t talk about it here. And Delia?” he added nervously.

  “What?” she asked quietly.

  “Don’t mention this to Yolanda or Charlene. Please.” Randy looked miserable.

  Delia continued to look at him carefully. “Okay, no sweat.” She smiled then. “Actually that’s the problem—too much sweat tonight! But don’t worry, I got your back.”

  Randy looked relieved as the buzzer for the timer sounded. He bounded back to the scoring table.

  Yolanda, Misty, and Charlene headed directly for Delia when they finished their jumps. “What’s up, girl? What did he say?”

  “I thought you were supposed to be jumpin’, not dippin’ into somebody else’s business!” Delia laughed.

  “It’s easy to do both,” Yo Yo said between gulps as she swallowed half a bottle of water. “I do it all the time!”

  “That’s your problem!” Misty said. “If you’d concentrate on what we’re supposed to be doing out there, instead of tryin’ to run Delia’s love life, we’d have the championship tied up!”

  “Speak for yourself, girlfriend,” Yo Yo replied. “I have no interest in Delia’s love life. I have a dynamite love life of my own, thank you—seventeen boyfriends, last I counted—but it still might be interesting to hear what the large one has on his puny little mind.”

  “He was just talking about tomorrow’s project presentation at school,” Delia said smoothly.

  “That wasn’t a school project look he was giving you,” Charlene said with envy in her voice. “That was a ‘Hey-Delia-you-so-fine-you-so-fine-you-blow-my-mind’ kind of look!”

  Delia ignored them all and headed out to the floor to jump again. She noticed that the two fifth graders who had been fighting a few minutes before were giggling together, getting ready to jump again as well.

  “Well, are you guys gonna turn for me or what?” she asked Misty and Charlene. They laughed and ran to pick up the ropes. Yolanda stayed on the sidelines, fixing her hair.

  Delia jumped in from the left and went through the mandatory routine almost without thinking. Her mind was on Randy.

  “Lookin’ better, Delia!” Bomani shouted with encouragement. Delia never ceased to be amazed at how Bomani could see everything that was going on in six different areas of the gym. “Pick up those feet, Shantelle! Watch the ropes, DeLisa! Say, Shasta! Left foot, remember? Left foot!”

  Bomani let them leave a little early because the gym was so stuffy and warm. Delia was glad to see her mother waiting for her in the parking lot. The air conditioner was cold and refreshing when she slid into the seat. “You need a ride, Randy?” Delia asked as she rolled down the window. “You better decide quick, because all the hot air is trying to sneak into the car!”

  “You don’t mind, Mrs. Douglas?” Randy asked, leaning his large frame down so he could peek into the window. “It sure beats taking the bus!”

  “Of course not, Randy. Actually, it was my idea,” Delia’s mother told him. “Hop in.”

  Randy climbed gratefully into the back seat, inhaling deeply the cooled air. “Why do you think it’s so hot, Mrs. D.?” he asked as they headed down the street.

  “I read in the newspaper this morning that the weather is expected to be unusually hot like this until the end of the week,” she told him.
“My grandfather used to call this tornado weather,” she added. “It’s that time of year around here, you know.”

  “Makes me want to skip spring and jump right into summer vacation,” Delia commented. “It’s too hot for school.” Delia usually glanced at the copy of the Cincinnati Post on the kitchen table when she got home from school, but except for the photos, the newspaper, along with the detailed weather forecast, was just a lot of gray fuzz.

  “Hot for the next couple of days, at least, I heard. Then a cold front is supposed to come through.” Delia’s mother turned the air-conditioning fan up as high as it would go.

  “We could use a couple of feet of snow!” joked Delia.

  “Be for real. Maybe rain-humid and sticky, for sure,” said Randy.

  “You’ll survive,” Mrs. Douglas said calmly.

  “Maybe not,” Delia muttered under her breath. Mrs. Douglas didn’t hear her, but Delia noticed that Randy did. Delia turned the radio on to her favorite station.

  “So, is the team ready for the finals?” Mrs. Douglas asked, turning the music down.

  “Oh, yeah, we’re gonna kick butt!” Randy said with feeling. “Uh, excuse me, Mrs. D. We’re going to do real good.”

  Mrs. Douglas laughed. “It’s wonderful that the league has chosen Cincinnati to be the location of the world championships.”

  “Yeah, I guess it’s cool for kids from Atlanta, who get to come here on a plane, but for us, we don’t even get to go out of town! That sucks,” Delia complained. “Last year we got to go to New York, and the year before that we went to Myrtle Beach. It’s boring staying here at home.”

  “You still get to stay in a hotel and swim in the pool and do all the stuff you would have done out of town. Enjoy it and quit complaining,” Mrs. Douglas said mildly.

  “Being the hometown team gives us more power,” Randy said.

  “And more pressure for the jumpers,” Delia added.

  “But you get your picture in the paper and you get to be interviewed on TV. I heard Bomani talking to Clifton Grayson, the reporter, last week,” her mother added wisely.