by Rob Thomas
“Come out, redskin, or the squaw gets it.”
I hear a few of the students boo their peer’s lack of chivalry as I break for the faculty rest room. I’m without cover for ten feet or so, but from this distance, I think it’s fair to say that the one shot he gets off misses. Maybe it grazes me. No more than a flesh wound.
I lock the door behind me. Thomas starts pounding on it soon after.
“You can’t hide in there the rest of the period. That’s not fair. You’ll be doing my laundry the rest of the day, Cochise!”
What Parks doesn’t know is that I have no intention of staying in here for the few minutes that remain of lunch. The faculty rest room also has a kitchen entrance. I hurry out the other side and almost knock down one of the cooks. She screams, drops the tray she’s carrying. Frozen Tater Tots tumble across the floor.
“Hush!” I say, realizing a second after I do so that I’m pointing the pistol at her.
I can still hear Thomas pounding on the door of the rest room behind me as I ease my way out of the kitchen, around the corner, down the hall, and back into the cafeteria. The students who see me are too intrigued to warn their classmate, or perhaps they are still disappointed in his choice to use that poor girl as shield. Regardless, they say nothing as I tiptoe behind Parks. I get one glimpse of the remaining faculty members: Denhart is grinning ear to ear, Mrs. Mills has stopped knitting.
I stick my pistol into the back of Parks’s head.
“Game over, paleface.”
Parks freezes. “I’ll take that,” I say as I relieve him of his weapon. I back up a few steps. “Now I want you to raise your arms and turn around very slowly.” Parks does as he’s told. “Though it troubles me to do so, I’ll forget all about Wounded Knee, 1890; the Manhattan Purchase, 1624; the Trail of Tears, 1830 to 1842. I’ll put that all behind me.”
Parks smirks.
“Like heck I will!” I blast him with both cap guns. Thomas clutches his heart and stumbles forward, his eyes wide in shock. He falls into the condiment table, and when he rolls off it, his hands and arms are covered in blood. Or ketchup, rather. The students at nearby tables applaud his untimely death.
CLINT
1:52 P.M. Lunch, my Jeep
Times like this I’m glad to be alive. Offspring cranked. Top’s off. Three chicken-frieds down the hatch. Jen’s hair is flyin’. Tomorrow’s game day. Kinda from outta nowhere I scream—my weight-lifting power scream. It’s gonna be a long night for the Liberty Valley ground game tomorrow. I’m mighty agged when Jen commits a serious party foul by turning down the jams.
“What?” I say.
She cranks it back up and pouts. I turn it down and soften up a bit.
“I’m sorry. What’d you wanna say?” When I look at her I can tell she’s bothered by somethin’.
“What do you think about Timm?” she shouts over the music.
“Great hands, fair speed, doesn’t care much for blockin’.”
“No. I mean do you think he’s a good person?”
“He’s kinda wild,” I say, rememberin’ his plans for Madonna, “but you girls don’t seem to mind.”
“Some don’t. Most girls see right through him. Annabella isn’t interested in him at all. I can promise you that.”
“Bet.”
“Bet what?”
“I’ll bet that after today they’re dating, or at least that she wishes they were. It’s tough to tie Trim down, ya know.”
“We can’t bet about something like that,” she says.
“That’s what I thought,” I answer. I reach down to turn the stereo back up.
“Just a sec,” Jenny says. She grabs her flailin’ hair and pulls it out of her face. “What did you want to bet?”
“Sexual favors?”
“Get serious, Clint.”
“Didn’t think you’d go for that,” I say. “How ’bout if I win, you wear that lipstick two days a week ’stead o’ just pep rally days?”
“And if I win?”
“Name it.”
“If I win, you hafta make me cookies.”
“I can’t just buy you some cookies? You want ’em edible, don’cha?”
“Uh-uh. I don’t care what they taste like. You hafta bake ’em. You can’t have your mom do it, and I want ’em wrapped up in a box with a little note tellin’ me to have a great day and how great I am. Maybe one of those poems you left on my answering machine ought to be included, too.”
“I can live with that,” I say.
I turn into the parking lot of good ol’ Lee High. As a matter of principle, I don’t slow down for any o’ the speed bumps. Jen knows my routine and she hangs on to the handlebar above the glove box. When I got D. and Alex with me, they unbuckle and try to catch air. Jen just ain’t that adventurous.
KEENE
1:54 P.M. Lunch, cafeteria steps
Tamika is sticking around, talking, eating fries. She offers some to Shawn, but I ask her politely not to feed the slaves. She’s acting kind of nervous around me—she keeps thanking me for “being so nice”—that has to be a good sign. A bunch of students, mostly black—odd, isn’t it, that all the white students have cars and can afford to eat off campus?—have gathered around to watch the basketball star shine shoes.
At first, people are getting a pretty good free shine. Shawn’s whistling that “bluebird on my shoulder” Uncle Remus song, snapping his towel, calling his customers “boss.” The fun winds down when Tyler Rutherford, this notorious redneck who once beat up his own sister for supposedly holding hands with some poor brother in Laurence’s grade, sits in front of Humphrey and sticks his boot up on the box. People returning from off-campus lunch are walking by, a lot of them stopping to watch. The crowd is beginning to reflect Lee’s standard racial breakdown.
“Glad to see you’re learning a trade that’ll be useful someday,” Tyler tells Shawn. “Or are you planning on being one of those millionaire basketball stars?” Then he and maybe a couple others start laughing.
Shawn looks over at me, obviously perturbed, but I can’t tell if it’s at me or Tyler. Half of me wants to tell Shawn he doesn’t have to shine Tyler’s shoes, but then again, maybe this will finally do the trick. Maybe Shawn won’t be able to laugh this one off.
“Come on now, don’t be lazy,” says Tyler.
Shawn’s wrapping the rag around his hand, and I think maybe he’ll punch Tyler—I’m sort of hoping he does—but instead he takes a deep breath, gets back on his knee, and starts buffing the Nocona calfskins.
“Aren’t you gonna whistle me something? Maybe that ‘We Shall Overcome’ song?” asks Tyler, laughing some more.
About that time these football players stop next to Shawn. Humphrey Brown, Jody Anderson, Ray Cook—all of them looking seriously agitated.
“What’s up?” says Humphrey.
Let me explain for a minute how Humphrey says “What’s up?” because it’s important. There are lots of ways you can say “What’s up?” Most of the time you say it, it sounds friendly. Sometimes you’re genuinely curious about what’s going on. And some guys can say it, add a “Yo, G.” and sound seriously down. (I’m not one of those.) But the way Humphrey says it to Shawn right now—it’s the first time I’ve heard it sound scary.
“Humpty Dumpty!” responds Shawn, oblivious to the anger in his homie’s voice.
“Well?” says Humphrey.
“Ah, you know, it’s a student council thang.”
“Man, you gotta cut this shit out,” says Humphrey. “You look like some kinda”—he pauses, struggling for a way to finish this off—“fool,” he says finally.
Porch monkey, buffoon, Uncle Tom—I could have come up with better ones, but I wasn’t asked.
“Ain’t nothin’ but a thang,” says Shawn, sounding as black as I’ve ever heard him. “If you don’t make it anything mo’.”
“What the hell are you thinking?” says Humphrey.
I’m curious about this as well, and I’m waiting for an answe
r when I notice that the quarterback of the football team is talking to me.
“What?”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to prove,” says Humphrey, “but whatever it is, it ain’t working.”
This turn of events gets me thinking about how W. E. B. Du Bois was ignored by most everyone except his intellectual equals. God, how many times did Mr. History go over that?
“I’m raising consciousness,” I say, hoping Tamika notices how I’m holding my ground.
“I don’t know ’bout that,” he says. “Whole thing looks personal to me.”
I don’t really have a response. Humphrey shakes his head and looks around, first at me, then the football players, then around the circle of people who’ve gathered. “Shit,” he says and walks off.
JENNY
1:59 P.M. Passing period, foreign language hallway
I put Damien out of my mind for most of lunch, but he’s waiting for me by the door to Spanish. My first thought is “happy to see him,” but almost as fast, I want to turn and head the other way. Since it’s obvious he sees me, I press on. Two of my friends appear over Damien’s shoulder, and I wonder what they’re thinking. Nothing. They can’t think a thing. I talk to Damien all the time.
“I had to know, before I go to fifth period, if you told Clint anything,” Damien says.
“No,” I say, but I catch myself holding my books in front of my chest, rocking back and forth from my heels to my toes. Try to be cool for once in your life, girl.
“Did you get rid of the note?”
Panic. Look at the hallway clock. “Yeah,” I lie.
“Great,” he says. “It would mean certain death.”
Damien takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose, one of the many habits that Clint and Alex tease him mercilessly for. As he does it, I try to judge his cuteness factor. Like, what would he look like with contacts? Without the goatee? Next to me? He starts pulling something out of his backpack.
“This is for you,” he says. “I printed it during lunch.”
I take the photo from his hand. It’s one that he shot this morning before the assembly. That seems like days ago. I realize that he took this shot before I noticed him, before he started asking me to pose. I’m sure of this because I don’t have that stupid fake grin or that fake model outer-space look on my face. The print is out of focus, but not as out of focus as most of Damien’s work. It’s what they would call soft-focus. It makes me look like I’m in a dream. A sweet dream—I’m smiling a bit. But the photo isn’t what impresses me the most. It’s the frame. It’s not some expensive frame like the ones I always buy myself down at the Paper Bear. It’s homemade. The backing is some sort of thin pressboard, but the frame is covered completely with fortunes—you know, from fortune cookies. He’s glued the little strips of paper so that they completely blanket the cardboard surrounding the photo. I read a few of them: IT IS WISE TO SAMPLE ALL OF LIFE’S MANY FLAVORS; GREAT THINGS AWAIT THOSE WHO SEIZE OPPORTUNITY; IN MATTERS OF LOVE, IT IS BETTER TO TRUST YOUR HEART THAN YOUR HEAD.
“It’s great,” I say.
“Have you thought about tonight? About after the bonfire?”
I catch myself rocking again. Stop it! “Damien, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
He looks disappointed and relieved at the same time. The tardy bell rings.
“Gotta boogie,” Damien says, “Herr Twilley, you know.” Then he drags his index finger across his throat and makes a noise like it’s being cut. I step into Ms. Cisneros’s class. She hasn’t made it in from the teachers lounge yet.
CLINT
2:00 P.M. Fifth period, history
The twenty-two people in this school you can count on to get back from lunch on time are the ones sittin’ in here right now. You just don’t show up late for Twilley’s class. Not only does he give you a zero for the day—doesn’t matter if he’s givin’ a major test, pop quiz, or plain daily grade—but he makes you stay after class for just as long as you were late to his class. So you might end up tardy to your next class, too. That sucks, ’cuz other teachers like to tell coaches when they have a football player show up late. Then the coaches run you like a dog.
I’ve been waitin’ for fifth period to talk to Damien. We both have Twilley, but early in the year he caught us talkin’ and moved the Beast up to the front o’ the room. I still sit in the back. Funny thing is, I think Twilley sorta likes Damien now. D’s as close to being a teacher’s pet as you get with Twilley. Every time Twilley asks a question and no one knows the answer, he gets this real sour look on his face, then he asks Damien. Bingo. D likes history. Don’t ask me why. Once, after Damien got an answer right, Twilley put his hand on D’s shoulder. I ’bout busted a gut tryin’ to keep from bustin’ a gut.
So anyway, the tardy bell rings and no Damien. Spookier still, no Twilley. People start lookin’ around, ’cuz this’s never happened before. Everyone stays at their desk, though. Twilley counts you tardy if you’re not in your seat and quiet when the bell rings. A minute later, Damien slips in, but he doesn’t look back at me. By now there’s some murmurin’ goin’ on, but it’s not what you’d call loud. Then in comes Twilley. He’s wearin’ a full Indian headdress, and he’s carryin’ what looks like a pistol.
“How,” he says to the class, ignorin’ the fact that some of us were talkin’. He’s got this tiny smile fightin’ its way across his face and he’s raised his palm toward us like he wants to share a peace pipe. No one reacts, though, and his minigrin disappears. It’s business as usual.
SHAWN
2:03 P.M. Fifth period, math wing hallway
I catch up to Humphrey before he reaches his math class.
“Hump, what crawled up your butt back there, man? You were making me look bad.”
Humphrey slows down, but he doesn’t stop. “Didn’t you hear anything I told you this morning?” he says. “Were you payin’ attention at all when I told you what Coach said?”
“I heard you, but I don’t see what difference that makes now.”
“What do you think people, white people especially, think when they see you out on the cafeteria steps shining shoes? Not all of them get the joke—I promise you that. Plus, I heard all about you pickin’ cotton this morning.”
“Who cares what white folk think?”
“You do,” he says. “You care more than any brotha I know.”
“Shee-it,” I say, laughing, though it bothers me that Humphrey’s still wearing his Iron Man face. “You’re startin’ to sound like Keene Davenport.”
“Well, he’s right ’bout one thing—Slave Day is one fucked-up event.”
“Uh, excuse me, but weren’t you bidding on me this morning? How did something we laughed at for three years turn into this big racist statement in the space of five hours?” I say. We both ignore the tardy bell.
“A lot has happened.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m off the football team. So are all the brothas—all the seniors, at least.”
I hear the words, but it’s tough for me to believe it. Humphrey’s the best football player to come through this school in a long time, and he’s playing on the best team Deerfield’s had in twenty years. But like I say about Humphrey, one thing you can count on—he ain’t joking.
“What happened?” I ask.
“I told some of the other guys about what I heard Coach say ’bout brothas not being able to take a hit. We went in at lunch and had a talk with him. I told him that he owed all the black guys on the team an apology and that we weren’t going to play against Liberty Valley unless we got one. He said he hadn’t bowed to players’ demands in twenty years of coaching, and he wasn’t about to now. He said that if we were going to sit out tomorrow’s game that we might as well turn in our equipment right then.”
“So that’s what you did?” I say.
“Well, I woulda wanted to talk about it with the other guys. I’m still gonna get to play in college. For guys like Jody and Ray, tu
rning in that equipment meant they would never play ball again. Didn’t get a chance to say anything, though. Jody walked right out of the office, got his shit out of his locker, walked back in with it, and set it on Coach’s desk. Wasn’t even a decision for him.”
“We’re gonna get our ass kicked tomorrow night,” I say.
“Hope not,” says Humphrey. “But I don’t think I’m gonna be able to watch it either way.”
“Are you sure this won’t fuck you up for college? You think Penn State is gonna want a quarterback who calls for team walkouts?”
“Don’t matter. I’m calling up Eddie Robinson, the coach at Grambling.”
“An all-black school?”
Humphrey looks at me real serious, and I think he’s got some important shit to say, but all he says is, “Shawn, I ain’t goin’ pro. There’s hundreds of guys out there with arms like mine. I just want to go somewhere, get a free education, and play for someone I can look in the eye.”
“Grambling games are never on TV,” I point out. I’ve been holdin’ on to the dream of both of us playin’ for UCLA.
“You’re always missin’ the point,” says Humphrey, and for a minute I think he’s gonna use one of his patented jukes to get by me and into his classroom. “It ain’t ’bout all that.”
“Naw, G., I know what you’re sayin’. I’m just making sure you do. Tell you what—you don’t wanna go to tomorrow’s game anyway. Plus, I feel like I ought to do something. I can’t let you football players take all the heat. You know the student council is supposed to meet the Liberty Valley student council at halftime on the fifty-yard line in some ‘spirit of friendship’ bullshit thing. I’ll boycott that. Then, tomorrow night we’ll have a party at the same time as the game. We’ll get every brotha and sista in school to skip the game and come to the party. People from Liberty Valley will look up in our stands and think they’re playin’ Westlake, the stands’ll be so white.