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 princiPAL, 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 a
in’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.”
The boys continued walking toward the corner, not saying anything. Anthony wanted to turn around and look but kept stopping himself. He was afraid though. Something felt wrong. Weed was everywhere in East Cleveland, and the dope spots were obvious. The men were either cops or something worse. Anthony checked over his shoulder and then didn’t care about getting teased. The car was trailing quietly behind them, close to the curb. “We gotta cut through.”
Mookie looked and his eyes got wide, but he sniffed and stuck to the sidewalk. “You cut through, nigga,” he said. “I ain’t no punk.”
A sound from the street made Anthony turn again. The passenger was out of the car and moving toward them, his head on a swivel and right arm glued to his thigh.
“RUN!” Ant threw the beer in the air and vaulted the fence. His feet stumbled over things that he couldn’t see, but he kept going. The man shouted, and then there were two quick explosions. Something angry whistled past Anthony’s ear, and he dropped face-first in the mud. He wanted to cry and to run and to pray; he wanted to crawl to safety. But he was too petrified to move, too scared to stop the spreading warmth in his crotch.
Ant stayed still and listened long for more gunshots or footsteps. What had the man shouted? Was it gangs or money? Shameeka or something else? Slowly he rolled over onto his back and lifted his muddy head. The Buick was nowhere in sight. But neither was his friend.
“Mookie?”
He called him again, more urgently. “Mookie-Mook? Where you at, man? I think they gone.” Still no answer. He hoped that his friend had run away, but somehow Anthony didn’t believe it.
He got to his knees and saw a dark bulk on the fence, knew that it was Mookie, and ran over. His friend was bent over the top rail at the waist, dripping blood. Bits of brain were in his hair and on the ground like chewed bubblegum.
Anthony ran to the store and begged for help, went back to his friend and stood guard but tried not to look at him. Soon there were sirens and people with badges who asked him all kinds of questions. No, he and Mookie were not in a gang and no, neither one of them sold drugs. He gave a description of the man and the car but hadn’t thought to look at the license plate.
An ambulance came and then more policemen. They set up lights and unrolled yellow tape to control the growing crowd. After that, the television trucks arrived and parked halfway on the sidewalk. White reporters in expensive clothes stood in front of scruffy cameramen, stared griml
y into living rooms, and shared the latest news: Another kid had been gunned down in East Cleveland.
And all the while as they talked, Mookie stayed bent over the fence, away from the cameras but bleached by other floodlights. Police and detectives scuttled around him like crabs, sometimes laughing. Why did they have to go for more beer? Why did Mookie slap Shameeka like that? Why had Mookie been too proud to run?
An officer, the first one Anthony had talked to, came over and leaned into the open cruiser. “How you doing, there, kid? Just a few more minutes and we can take you home.”
“It ain’t right for him to still be up there like that,” Anthony said. “Somebody need to take him down.”
The officer held up his hand. “Wait a second, they will. We just have to finish the initial investigation. . . . It sure would be nice if you could remember something else. If not the license plate, a motive? Anything?”
“What about a sheet? Cain’t you at least cover him up?”
The officer started to say something but closed his mouth. Then he went and found an EMT. Minutes later, someone brought a sheet and draped it over the body. The officer came back. “So, you ready to go?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll walk.” Ant stood up and started off. He went in the wrong direction at first but crossed the street and doubled back. His feet were heavy and numb. It took a lot to pick them up and put them down. Mookie was dead and hanging over a fence; his brains were stuck in his hair. He would never get a record deal, never get to drive a car or live on his own. He was fourteen years old and done with his life, while Anthony was walking home. It didn’t feel right.
Before long, Ant stood on his porch but didn’t go through the door. The red lights were on in the windows upstairs, and he could hear loud music and laughter. He sat on the steps and stared at the lawn, wanted to be alone but needed company.
He started walking again. It was dark and too cold for the clothes he was wearing, but Anthony didn’t care very much about comfort. He didn’t care about the drying mud on his pants, and he didn’t care about his damp crotch, either. He just walked with his chin on his chest and no destination in mind, walked because it was better than sitting. And it wasn’t until he found himself in front of Mookie’s house that Anthony realized he’d walked too far.
Black Boy White School Page 2