Black Boy White School

by Brian F. Walker

  “For real,” Anthony said. “He probably gotta squat to take a piss.”

  McCarthy lunged and grabbed Anthony by the arm. “Got you, you little shit!”

  Got you, too, Anthony thought, and then punched him in the eye.

  McCarthy yelped and covered his face, pulled his hands away, and stared down at the palms. The rest of the boys looked on in stunned silence.

  “You hit me,” McCarthy said.

  “You tried to throw me in the brook!”

  McCarthy pressed a hand to his eye again and winced. “Why did you do that? What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  Anthony wanted to finish his plan: throw McCarthy or one of his friends into the brook. But something stopped him from doing anything else, and it was more than McCarthy’s odd reaction. Even the freshmen were looking at Anthony differently, like he had just kicked a puppy off a rooftop.

  All the boys cleared out except for Paul and Khalik, who stood next to Anthony, looking stunned.

  “You see that shit?” Khalik asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “I saw it,” Paul said. “But I don’t know what I saw.”

  Anthony looked at them and then the empty path. What had just happened? Why hadn’t his classmates carried him off on their shoulders? “He grabbed me first, right?” Anthony asked, just to be sure that his memory was straight. When his friends nodded, he nodded, too. “Good. ’Cause I was just defending myself.”

  They started back, and even though Khalik proclaimed him victorious, Anthony could only think of George’s warning. Yes, he had won, but what had he lost in the process?

  News of the confrontation traveled quickly. By evening, Anthony found judgment everywhere he went. He had an anger problem. He couldn’t take a joke. Some kids weren’t sure if they were safe around him. They wanted the school to do something.

  That evening, Mr. Hawley pulled Anthony from the common room and brought him down to his apartment. Once inside, he grimly closed the door. “I wish you would have listened to me,” Hawley said. “We take fighting very seriously here.”

  Anthony protested. “I was just defending myself, Mr. Hawley. I told him not to touch me, and he went and did it anyway. Ask Paul and Khalik. A whole bunch of people saw it.”

  Hawley was nodding before Anthony finished. “I know. I already checked around . . . talked to the dean of students, too.” He told Anthony to take a seat. “You drink coffee?”

  “Coffee’s cool.”

  Mr. Hawley brought two steaming mugs to the table and sat one of them in front of Anthony. Then he went back for a carton of half and half, a bowl of sugar, and a spoon. “Here you go,” Mr. Hawley said and sat down.

  Anthony took a sip and then put the spoon to work. With the right amount of sugar and enough cream to cool it, he could make a cup of coffee taste like candy.

  “Jeez,” Hawley said. “You’re gonna be bouncing off the walls.”

  “I’ll be all right. This is good; still not sweet enough, though.” Anthony dumped in a couple more spoonfuls, stirred, sipped, and sighed. “That’s better.”

  Hawley laughed, and Anthony laughed along with him. But then he remembered the circumstances. “So,” Anthony said, unsure if he wanted to hear what was next. “How much trouble am I in?”

  Mr. Hawley put his cup down. “You’re both on behavioral probation for the rest of the marking period. You’re not to talk to each other or interact in any way, unless it’s to express an apology. . . .” He picked up his mug and sipped. “Like that’s gonna happen.”

  Anthony waited for more, but that was the end of it: a slap on the wrist for a punch in the face. “What about him, though? I won’t just stand there if he comes at me.”

  “You don’t need to worry about Seth McCarthy,” Mr. Hawley said, laughing. “I don’t think that kid has ever been more afraid in his life.”

  Anthony suppressed a smile. “What about Zach? I don’t know how you expect me to listen to him anymore.”

  “You’re right,” Hawley said, and ran a hand through his hair. “Guess I’m going to have a talk with him, too.” He opened the door, and Anthony stepped out into the hall. Before he walked away, Hawley called him back.

  “Hey. How would you feel about being my proctor next year?” Hawley asked. “I could show you how to apply for it, if you want.”

  “Why? So I can be like Zach?”

  “No,” Hawley said. “So you can be the opposite of him. Zach got teased a lot last year, and I guess the power is getting to him. It happens to people sometimes. Even good ones.” He put a hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “Not you, though. I can tell. You have a strong sense of justice.” Hawley grinned. “So what do you say?”

  “Maybe,” Anthony answered. “Let me think about it.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I don’t get it, man,” Anthony said sincerely, and not for the first time that afternoon. A couple of weeks had passed since his run-in with McCarthy, and some people still treated him like a terrorist. Even fellow freshmen gave him a wide berth or apologized if they accidentally touched him. If it hadn’t been for Brody and a couple of others, Anthony wouldn’t have had any friends at all. “Seriously, man,” he said again. “I don’t get it.”

  George looked up from his Spanish book and sighed. He had let Anthony hang out in his room a lot since the incident, but it was clear that George was getting tired of the company. “What don’t you get this time?”

  “Everything,” Anthony said. “I mean, why is every­body tripping so hard, like I carry an ax or something?”

  “Because in their eyes, you do. How many times do I have to tell you, son? Twenty-five-twenty is a bitch.”

  Anthony looked around the living space. George had his own bathroom and an oversized bed, hidden microwave in the closet, unseen television and fridge. Everyone knew that he had the contraband, even his proctor and dorm parent. But Mr. Rockwell was also his basketball coach, which allowed George a lot of latitude. “I’m talking about the other freshmen,” Anthony continued. “Not a single one of them has been in the brook since it happened, and do they thank me for it? No. They treat me like I’m some kind of psycho. . . . Forget these people, man. My friends back at home wouldn’t do me like that.”

  “But you’re not at home anymore,” George said. “You’re in Maine, son. Belton Academy, established in 1844. I told you what would happen, but did you listen?” He closed his book, stood up, and grabbed the empty laundry basket from the floor. “Last load. Hold it down.”

  Anthony stretched out on the bed and thought about the last month and a half. Plane rides and canoe trips; midnight study sessions with ramen noodles and gallons of Coke. He had come to know some of the Belton kids as well as his friends at home, from how their shit smelled in the morning to what kept them awake at night. But now there was a strain on everything because he had crossed an invisible line.

  George returned and shooed Anthony off the bed, dumping the basket of clothes in his place. He started folding. “Gotta do it now, before they get wrinkled.”

  Anthony looked around the room that was more like an apartment, at the books and the trophies and all the photographs of George, smiling with friends of all colors. “I need to know how you do it,” he said.

  “Do what? Fold shirts?”

  “Naw, man . . . tell me how you got everybody on your side.”

  George left his clothes and straddled a chair backward, resting his arms across the top. “Let me get this straight, you want me to show you how to get along with white people?”

  “And still be myself, yeah.”

  George winked. “You can’t. I told you that already. Around here, you have to be somebody else. More than one person, really.” He held up one of his hands. “Five things,” he said, and lowered a digit as he counted each one. “First and foremost, don’t ever hit anybody, no matter how much they piss you off. I don’t need to tell you why because you already know. Second, smile instead of scowling all the time, like you’re mad at
the world. The minute these people start feeling unsafe, brothers start getting sent home.”

  “Has that happened before?”

  “More than you think. To tell the truth, I’m surprised you’re still around.”

  “Me, too,” Anthony said. “Somebody must be looking after me.”

  “That’s good. Without Coach Rockwell watching my back, I would have been gone a long time ago.” He stopped and looked somewhere far off. Then he blinked a couple of times.

  “Third,” George continued, “hit those books, son, and hit ’em hard. There’s nothing more powerful in this world than a black man who uses his brain. And fourth, get to know these people. Learn their hobbies, where they come from, and what their parents do for a living. You never know when it all might come in handy.” George stopped talking and arched his eyebrows, leaving his rigid middle finger still standing all alone.

  “What’s the last one? You said five things, right?”

  George waved the finger back and forth. “You’re right,” he said. “This last one is the most important: No matter how much time you spend with them and how hard they try to do it, most of the kids here will never really know you.” He put the finger down.

  Anthony frowned. “Why not? Because I shouldn’t let them?”

  “Because they can’t,” George said sadly. “To them, you’re not just Tony, you’re that black guy, Tony, or their black friend, Tony, or that crazy black guy, Tony, who went berserk at the brook. The color of our skin makes them blind, sometimes. These Belton kids can’t see us because they can’t get past the blackness.” He smiled at Anthony. “Think about your name, son. For real. No matter how many times you tell them, they still keep calling you what they want.”

  Anthony agreed but then thought about it. Something still didn’t make sense to him. “What about you?” Anthony said. “Almost every time I see you, you’re hanging out with some white people, laughing and joking around. Seems like you made some friends that really know you.”

  George smiled. “I did,” he said. “It took some work, though. From both sides. I had to drop some stereotypical things associated with black folk.”

  “Yeah,” Anthony joked, “but not basketball, though.”

  “Not that, but other things,” George said. “Things like my music and how loud I listen to it, making sure I pull my pants up and wear a belt. And another thing I don’t do is eat fried chicken up here, which is more than I can say about some people. Your girl was at dinner the other night, eating wings like they were going out of style.”

  At first he wasn’t sure, but then Anthony figured it out. “You mean Gloria?”

  “The one and only. People like her are dangerous. They can set black people back a hundred years.”

  “For eating chicken in public? Come on, man,” Anthony said. “I don’t know about that one.”

  “How about for being a segregationist, then? I know that she can’t stand me for associating with white people. Swear to God, I think she would have been happier during Jim Crow.”

  “Whatever, man. You just don’t know her.”

  “Yes, I do.” George grabbed a paperback from a stack of books and threw it to Anthony. It was dog-eared and most of the color was worn away, but the title was still legible: Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. “Check it out sometime,” George said. “You know that the cowboys scalped the Indians first? When the Native Americans started scalping back, white people started calling them savages.”

  “That’s messed up.”

  “I know. They also cut the Indians’ balls off and used the sacks for tobacco pouches.”

  Anthony flipped quickly through the yellowed pages, grabbing his crotch while he did so. “So when I read this, I’ll understand what you mean about Gloria? ’Cause right now I’m kind of lost.”

  George sat down and scooted close. “Turn on the TV and what do you see?” he asked. “The Braves, the Redskins, and your Cleveland Indians, with that big-toothed clown on the uniform. They took a whole race and made them two-dimensional, just a bunch of drunks and mascots.”

  “I know,” Anthony said, and moved back a little. “Like I said, that’s messed up.”

  “Don’t you see, though? Now you got half the Native Americans believing that crap, doing everything they can to fit into that image. What happened to them is the same thing that’s happening to black people, only our self-hatred runs so deep that we like to shoot each other.” George sniffed. “Gloria is the worst kind of black girl in the world, reinforcing every negative stereotype she can find, always crying racism when something doesn’t go her way, intimidating white folks with all that stupid attitude. Forget the KKK and the skinheads, son. People like Gloria will put those fools outta business.”

  Anthony stared for a while and tried to put it all together. George thought Gloria was too black. And Gloria thought George was an Uncle Tom. They saw themselves as opposites, but Anthony disagreed. If they ever took the time to really listen to each other, they would see they weren’t very far apart.

  Before dinner, Anthony played basketball with a bunch of other varsity hopefuls. His game was still the worst, but he had come a long way since September. George even said so, and the compliment excited everyone except for Khalik, whose court mastery over Anthony was weakening.

  Silhouetted in the window high above the floor was Coach Rockwell, his office lit up behind him. He tapped on the glass and waved.

  “Peep it,” George said, glancing up. “Coach thinks you might have a chance to be a swinger. Hector did it last season, and look at him now.”

  “It’s the truth, bro,” Hector said. “The best of both worlds. Starter on JV and garbage time on varsity. Either way, all I had to do was shoot.”

  “Then your boy’s in trouble,” Khalik said, and laughed a little too loudly. “Slow-Hio still can’t make a foul shot.”

  That night, Anthony sat at his desk during study hours, puzzling over the marks on his latest English paper. Gone were the silly spelling mistakes that had plagued him for weeks, corrected were all the problems with grammar and punctuation that MLK Junior High had failed to address. But on the back of the last page, there was still a long-winded comment scrawled in red ink. It said that Anthony had to learn how to dig deeper, that his essays still read like simple reports, lacking passion or original thought. And the grade at the bottom, consistent as always, was a prominently circled C.

  Anthony sighed at his roommate, who had his head in a French book. Brody looked up. “Bonjour, mangeur.” Brody winked at Anthony. “That means ‘hello, eater,’ but I like the rhyme.”

  “I think I’m in trouble,” Anthony said, holding up his graded essay. “No matter what, I just can’t get this shit right.”

  “I know what you mean.” Brody closed his book and pushed it away. “All this French is Greek to me.” They shared a laugh and Brody turned to his computer, put on a song by the Doors, and dialed the sound down low.

  Anthony jeered. “Boo! Put on something by that other dude you played for me. Floyd Pinkney.”

  “You mean Pink Floyd, not Floyd Pinkney. And it’s a band, dude. Not a person.”

  “I don’t care, just play it. Maybe it’ll help me concentrate.”

  Mellow music filled the room. Anthony looked at his paper again, balled it up, and threw it in the trash. Then he went through his desk for all his other failures, smashed them up, and tossed them, too. He felt better, but it hadn’t changed anything. He would still have to work his ass off to be average.

  “Tough day at the office?” Brody had been watching him the whole time, smiling out of one side of his mouth.

  “I don’t know why you’re laughing. Both of us are gonna end up in the support center. Your grades are as bad as mine.”

  “You mean sports center,” Brody corrected. “Nobody’s ever in there but dumb jocks.”

  Yeah, Anthony thought. Dumb jocks and almost every student of color on campus. So far he had avoided it, but now it seemed inevitable. At least B
rody would be there to help blur the color line. “Once they put you in, how long do you have to stay?”

  “I dunno,” Brody said. “Good question. Maybe for the rest of the year or until you get your grades up, whichever comes first.”

  Anthony thought of the windowless room in the main building that smelled like feet and mildew. He didn’t want to spend two and a half hours in there every night, being bossed around by Mr. Voght. I have to do better, he said to himself, and then settled his eyes on Brody. “I’m serious, we need to get it together. Both of us.”

  “You sound like my dad,” Brody said, leaning back. “‘Get it in gear, or get left behind.’” He laughed, but it didn’t sound happy. “He’s always saying stuff like that, like I have to race against the whole world. . . . Dude, I don’t know. Sometimes I just wanna grab a backpack and tool around, playing songs, meeting cool people, never putting down roots. You ever heard of a walkabout? In Australia, some people drop everything and just walk around for weeks, chasing kangaroos and living with nature.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “It is, dude!” Brody said, missing the sarcasm. “Get up and go to sleep when you feel like it, no road to tell you where to go, nobody’s stupid platitudes and bass-ackward rules to follow. Just you, in nature, with no one else around. If that’s not getting close to God, then I don’t know what is.”

  “You believe in God?” Anthony asked, growing interested. “I took you for one of those other people.”

  “An atheist? No, dude, I believe in God. And when She gets back, She’s gonna be pissed!” He tapped a little drumroll on his thighs.

  Anthony laughed with him but didn’t know what to think. God had to be a man. Otherwise, the world wouldn’t be so full of vengeance. “A walkabout, huh?” he said, warming to the idea of it. After all, wasn’t that what he did back at home, hanging on the train tracks? “That sounds cool. You saw that in Australia? How long were you there?”

  “How about never, dude,” Brody said, sounding surprised. “Who can afford to go Australia?”