“What if they call her on the phone?” Junior said.
That’s the problem, Buddy thought. They could call up Junior’s mother if one of the pink slips got past Mr. Pool. But they wouldn’t because nobody cared about Junior. Nobody wanted him or even missed him. Buddy knew he couldn’t tell Junior that.
“You just don’t worry,” Buddy said. “Let’s wait and see what’s going down.”
They waited almost an hour before some man came out and motioned them to come with him. They went through the office to the back room where the man worked. He had chairs arranged for them in front of his desk.
The AP was a black dude with wavy, black hair. He wore a tweed sports coat. Both Junior and Buddy figured at the same time that he wasn’t Puerto Rican or Haitian. He was Mr. Rountree, according to the name plate on his desk.
“I’m the assistant principal,” he told them. Like they hadn’t figured that one out yet. They could tell Mr. Rountree was feeling good about himself, about his suit, about where he was.
What do you do with a dude like that? Buddy wondered. What do you do when your hair won’t even make an Afro?
Buddy was feeling mean. The whole business of school made him sick. Here was this Rountree cat who probably was a decent cat. But the dude had got himself tied up with working himself higher and higher so he could keep wearing those good-looking jackets.
No. Maybe he’s all right. Maybe he believes he can help the kids by being with them when they find out how much they don’t have.
Buddy gave up trying to figure out the dude. For a minute he didn’t even feel like protecting Junior.
Buddy thought, Let Junior find out what it’s all about. Time he knew what was going down.
“Which one of you is Junior Brown?” the dude said.
Junior waved his hand and shifted slightly in his seat. He was so used to being in the presence of authority, he knew how to act. He was calm.
“Then you’re Buddy Clark,” the dude said, turning to Buddy.
Now that’s cool, Buddy thought. You’re using your head.
“Yessir,” Buddy said stiffly. He kept his voice gruff and thick.
The dude was looking at him, at the way he was dressed. Buddy had been in his windbreaker for days because the weather was so cold. There were dirt creases all over it. The wrists and collar were grimy.
As the dude flicked his eyes away from Buddy over to Junior, Buddy had a chance to think. Once, Doum Malach had told him, “Caution and camouflage.” And as the dude studied Junior Brown’s nice-looking sweater and high-priced shoes, Doum’s words sounded inside Buddy.
The dude turned back to Buddy. By that time, Buddy already knew that the dude was going to try to psyche him.
The dude sure did have some cool eyes. Buddy was about to stare him down when “caution and camouflage” again clicked in his head.
Be the poor boy. Let him know you are tight with Junior but you ain’t living off him. Show him you like Junior and want what Junior has. But then why are you on the hook? Why is Junior?
Buddy lowered his eyes, unable to sort out the posture he should take.
“Until two and a half months ago, you boys had a fairly good record,” Rountree told them. “Obviously both of you are better equipped than most students.”
Buddy kept his eyes down, for the dude was trying to psyche both of them.
“Then, for some reason, you both went on the hook. You deliberately blew everything. Now I want to know why.”
Buddy figured this was their chance to confess and get themselves straight with the school. For a fleeting moment he thought how great it would be to see the dude’s face when he told him about the hidden room in the basement, about the solar system and Mr. Pool.
Blow his mind!
Instead Buddy played the only game he knew might work. Camouflage.
Buddy looked deep into the palm of his hand and sighed. He raised his eyebrows in surrender, knowing the dude was watching his every move. Slowly he turned his head to glance at Junior Brown. Junior was looking at the dude, pleading. He was leaning forward, hanging on the dude’s words.
Buddy stared at his hand again.
We sorry to miss school but you know, we had our troubles. We were too proud to ask for any help. We didn’t want nobody to pity us.
“I’m giving you a chance,” the dude told them. His voice was not unkind. “Can’t either of you tell me what’s been going on?”
There was a pause before Buddy blurted out: “We haven’t done a thing wrong!” He allowed his voice to sound resentful and to stutter over the words. But he would say no more. Junior said nothing.
The dude shuffled his papers. This time, when he spoke, he was cold as ice.
“You boys have broken the Compulsory Education Law by being out of school while still minors. This institution can press charges against you and your parents. If we do press charges, both of you will be taken away from your parents and sent to reform school.”
Junior had to hold onto the arms of his chair, his hands commenced to jump so. He turned to Buddy, stunned.
Buddy hadn’t known how much fear he had deep within himself. Now the fear rose inside him, turning him numb. Buddy took hold of the fear and lay it out in front of him, like a deck of cards.
The dude picked up the telephone on his desk.
“Outside line,” Rountree said into the phone. He looked at Buddy. “I have a number here for a Lucille Clark who is your aunt. Now I’m going to call her and get her down here, right now if I can. And then I’m calling Junior Brown’s mother and I’m going to get her down here too.”
Junior, how could you do this to me? Aren’t you ashamed!
Junior’s mother entered his thought and took it tightly in her hand. But before she could say another word to Junior, she began to cough and wheeze.
Junior staggered to his feet. Buddy started talking fast. Junior sat down, trembling, and sweating down his sides.
All his life Buddy had feared being somehow caught and locked up someplace where he couldn’t get out. Desperately he took a single ace out of his fearful deck of cards. He played it.
“That’s not my address anymore,” Buddy said. “My aunt, she went back down to Texas so I had to move in with her brother who is my uncle, Mr. Malach.”
“What’s his number?” the dude said.
Buddy gave the dude the number. “He isn’t home,” Buddy said. “That’s the number of his newsstand. He’s got a phone and he’s always there this time of day.”
The dude dialed the number. Doum answered promptly.
Come on, Doum. You my friend, I know you are.
“Mr. Malach? Good morning to you, sir. I’m Mr. Rountree, the assistant principal at your nephew, Buddy Clark’s school. Now he says he is living with you …”
Rountree paused. Buddy waited. Junior Brown kept his eyes on the black phone in Rountree’s hand.
The dude picked up his pencil and wrote on a sheet in Buddy’s folder.
“… About five months?” the dude said into the phone. “Okay. Now, Mr. Malach, were you aware that for more than two months, your nephew hasn’t been in school? He and his friend, Junior Brown, came back this morning. That’s right. I’m afraid being sorry isn’t going to help. This is a serious matter, you know. We have a Compulsory Education Law and under it, you as well as your nephew can be prosecuted.”
There was a long pause. The dude wrote on the sheet. “Harlem Hospital?” the dude said into the phone. “When were you released?” The dude wrote it down. “Now, you say both boys worked your newsstand while you were in the hospital?”
Doum must have given an elaborate explanation on the other end of the phone.
Buddy let himself relax inside. He allowed Doum to take care of everything. But he was ashamed of himself for never trusting Doum.
Here he is, saving my life, Buddy thought. I could have told Doum about the planets. He could’ve been my friend.
Just before the dude was ready to han
g up, he asked Doum to come down to the school right away. Then the dude gave Doum the school phone number and his own extension. He hung up. They waited. A few minutes passed and the phone rang.
“Yes,” the dude said. He waited while Doum talked on the other end. “But I really wanted to get this taken care of this afternoon,” the dude said. (Pause) “Well, I don’t want you to close it down. (Pause) I agree, they’re worth it. They aren’t ordinary kids out on the hook; they get good grades. (Pause) All right, then, I’ll expect you here—it’s on the fourth floor—the first thing in the morning. Just come in and tell the secretary you have an appointment with Mr. Rountree.”
That was it. The dude hung up. He closed Buddy’s file and opened Junior’s.
Oh, no, Buddy thought.
Rountree picked up the phone.
“Let’s see.” The dude looked at Junior. “Your mother is Junella Brown.”
Junior got to his feet again, his mouth hanging open.
“Sir,” Buddy said, “please, don’t call his mother.”
The dude looked at Buddy. “So she doesn’t know, either,” the dude said.
“He was only helping me out with the newsstand,” Buddy said. “His mother will kill herself.”
“What are you trying to say?” the dude said.
Buddy took a calculated deep breath and then blurted out what he knew about Mrs. Brown’s asthma, about the oxygen mask, about the needle and the epinephrine.
It all sounded plausible. “I mean,” Buddy finished, “Junior is her only child. His daddy is away all week and so Junior and his mother are real close. If she knew he wasn’t in school, she could just have an attack and Junior wouldn’t be there. Nobody’d be there.”
There was nothing the dude could do but put the phone down.
“It’s a terrible situation with you boys,” the dude said. “Here we have a sick mother of one of you and a sick uncle of the other. The problem isn’t easy. If you had to work, you could have told the school. With your grades, you might have worked part-time starting about two o’clock in the afternoon.” The dude stopped and looked very troubled. “We have these kinds of problems every day. A fourth of the students here have to work to help out their families. Do you think they all go on the hook? No, of course not. We arrange for them to work part- time. We’re not their enemy—when are you going to learn that the school is all you’ve got? We want you here and getting an education!”
The dude was serious, that’s what Buddy couldn’t get over. Rountree really believed what he was telling them.
So you get an education, Buddy wanted to tell him. So what? Half of the educated cats on the street couldn’t remember the last time they had even a lousy job.
“All right, Virgil Brown, I will give it to you as straight as I can.”
Buddy and Junior were both startled to hear the dude use Junior’s given name.
“I’m going to trust you to tell your mother to be here the first thing tomorrow morning when school opens.”
Tell the dude you’ll tell her to be here. In his mind Buddy prompted Junior.
Just lie! Tell him anything so we can get out of here!
Junior couldn’t say a word. He was huge and silent, racked with tiny tremors.
The dude wrote out two more passes. When he finished, he gave them to Buddy.
“This will get you into the Third Period class. You’d better hurry because it’s a half-hour mode and you are about to miss it.”
Buddy took the passes and he and Junior got out of there as fast as they could.
They left Rountree sitting at his desk with a sneaking suspicion gnawing at him. He glanced at Junior’s file again. After a long moment he picked up the phone.
“Outside line,” he said. When he had the outside, he dialed Mrs. Junella Brown. He let the phone ring but there was no answer. He never did have any luck getting hold of mothers of students in the morning. They were always out shopping or doing laundry somewhere. He hung up and was at once confronted with some student’s aching-tired, irritated mother with two small children hanging to her coat.
“I figured I waited long enough so I come on in,” she said. “I got to get these kids to Day-care. Going to be late for my job as it is. Mabel Johnson,” she told Rountree. “My sister took your message, say you wanted to see me. I wants to see you. What you all trying to say Ronnie done!”
Mr. Rountree had time enough to scoop up the folders of Junior Brown and Buddy Clark and shove them in his desk drawer before the five-foot, skinny, tough mother of Ronald Johnson cornered him behind his desk.
Junior and Buddy made it to their class just in time for the ringing of the buzzer. They handed the teacher their passes and retreated with the flow of students heading for other classrooms. They managed to reach the basement stairs on the first floor.
“We’re taking us a chance,” Buddy panted to Junior, “but I got to see about Mr. Pool.”
At the foot of the stairs Buddy had to find a key to fit the heavy, inside door. It took him awhile, frantically searching through his keys to find a skeleton key that would fit. He did find one though, and, turning the key in the lock, he held his breath as the door swung open to his touch. Halfway down the corridor they stopped to listen, then went on cautiously to the broom closet. They went in, dropping their books in one dark corner. They moved one wall back and entered the hidden room. All was dark. Mr. Pool wasn’t there. Suddenly they could hear voices in the corridor. They waited, not moving a muscle. Footsteps. No, kids above them. A sound, clawlike, a muffled rattling, slowly quieted. It was close to noon before Mr. Pool could chance coming to the basement room. When he did come, he tiptoed in.
“Buddy? Junior?”
“We’re here,” Buddy said, whispering. “Where you been? What’s happening? I got to talk to you.”
“Did you get caught?” Mr. Pool asked them. He skirted the darkened planets—gently touching them as he headed toward the sound of Buddy.
“They caught us,” Buddy told him. “They going to have Junior tell his mother to come down here tomorrow morning, but you know he can’t. I’m supposed to bring this cat I work for, who I’m supposed to be living with and who’s supposed to be my uncle. Only I don’t live with him and he ain’t my uncle.”
“I got caught too,” Mr. Pool said.
“We saw it happen,” Buddy told him. “What all the man say to you?”
“Nothing he can prove,” Mr. Pool told him. “Just say he can never find me, which is a fact. But I do my work. I do my job. Trouble is, they want me to do the whole job and when they say to do it.”
Junior listened to Mr. Pool. Comfortable in the dark, he felt warm.
“All right now,” Mr. Pool said. He turned on the juice of the solar system so they could have some light. At once the room was transformed, for Junior especially, into deep space and glowing, revolving spheres.
“Oh, that’s so pretty,” Junior said. “It’s the first time I been here when you turn it on.”
“Yes, it’s pretty,” Mr. Pool said. “Ain’t it so, Buddy?”
“Yea,” Buddy said, “but I’m worried for it.”
They knew what he meant.
“Look at the planet of Junior Brown,” Mr. Pool told them.
They looked at the great planet. It was brown. It was stupendous. Somehow the other planets were mere copies of spheres already known. The planet of Junior Brown had come to life right in the room, out of themselves and how they felt about one another.
“Listen,” Mr. Pool said. “I got to dismantle the whole thing.” His bald head glistened. Its shining, anxious heat was the signal telling Junior and Buddy that the end was near.
“In other words,” Mr. Pool said, “we got to vacate the premises.” He spoke glibly, trying to make it easy on the boys. But Mr. Pool had no idea where he could rebuild the solar system. And he feared for Junior and Buddy if they stayed on the hook and took to the streets.
“Junior Brown is fixin’ ta die,” Junior said. In his f
olding chair he spoke as a sage. He was Buddha tamping the eternal light.
“Don’t put my sun out yet,” Buddy told him.
Mr. Pool said, “I’ll have to start taking everything apart tonight and be finished with it by tomorrow night. I don’t know what to do with it.” He lifted his hands, but kept them from touching the spheres. “I guess I can pack up everything and take it home. I bet I could get it all in a good-sized foot locker or cardboard box.”
Mr. Pool felt suddenly foolish. Here he was acting like a child, building himself some forbidden toy and playing with it in secret. He’d best be thinking about keeping his job. The thought of his job made him angry. What had come over him anyhow? No job or the hidden room, either, was more important than the one thing he knew to be true.
“The human race is bound to come one time,” he said, through the whirl of planets. He never was sure what he meant by always having to say that. But to his soul he knew Junior and Buddy were forerunners on the road down which the race would have to pass.
In the dimness Buddy blinked. Then his eyes widened and shone back the light in a stunning thought.
“Maybe it’s already come,” he said. “Maybe the race is been here and is still here and you don’t know where to find it.”
Mr. Pool had to smile. “If I don’t know, then who does?” he said.
In the folding chair Junior rocked and rocked. “Say I got to tell my mother to come on down here,” Junior said. “Say I’ll go to reform school if I don’t.”
“He talking about Mr. Rountree,” Buddy told Mr. Pool. “Tomorrow morning that old AP going to catch up to all the lies we told him.”
Mr. Pool looked sympathetically from Buddy to Junior. “You boys got real unlucky,” he said. “It’s a darn shame!” Grimly he smiled. “Rountree will have to get the attendance officer on you, or maybe worse, when you don’t show up. But where for you to go, there’s the worry.” Mr. Pool rubbed his forehead as though to wipe it of pain.
The Planet of Junior Brown Page 11