by Andrew Cotto
“There’s a reason,” Grohl said, “that a connected cat like Todd Brooks goes to Hamden Academy and not one of them Harvard high schools in New England.”
“Super,” I moaned, feeling bad about the world. “So where is he now?” I asked.
Meeks grinned. “Military school.”
“Say that again?”
“You heard me,” he said, still grinning. “Military school! I guess Mrs. Brooks put her foot down or his father had enough of bailing Todd’s ass out. I don’t know. But that boy is the property of West Point until he turns 18!”
I wanted to kiss Mrs. Brooks. I also couldn’t help thinking that if I hadn’t played my cards right back at home, Todd and I could’ve met at military school instead of at boarding school. At least at military school, I wouldn’t have had to worry about him stealing my girl. Or hurting her.
Poor Brenda. She didn’t deserve what happened to her, of course, but she had stood up to him and maybe stopped some other people from getting hurt. That took a ton of guts. She had taken care of things on her own, the best she could after the fact, but there was still a little something I could do to keep her secret safe.
“I know it wasn’t Brenda,” I lied.
The Hardy Boys questioned me with their eyes. “You sure?” Meeks finally asked. “We were thinking something was up with her, you know, and him not coming back to school this year.”
“Must have been somebody else,” I said. “She dumped him over the summer, fair and square. No big deal.”
“How do you know?”
“She told me,” I said. “She must have figured that guy out first, smart as she is.”
“And what about you?” Grohl asked. “She figure you out, too?”
“Yeah,” I said. But I was going to work on that.
I went upstairs and wrote a letter. I wrote a letter to Brenda that didn’t mention anything about Todd or anything about me. I only asked for her to let me know she was OK with a smile or something.
I sensed a new beginning toward the end of winter. A warm wind danced around campus. Some flat clouds still hung overhead, but there was enough sunlight to make the new air sweet and easy to breath. My dreams were of those incredible things that usually fill a teenager’s sleep. Sometimes, I’d be sad after waking up, but during the day, I walked on green grass and thought about tomorrow. I thought about those things I had been denied, those things I had denied myself but still had coming.
I had other things to do besides dwell on myself and my future. I had work. Piles of schoolwork they dumped on us every day, assignments in history and math and other big-book stuff. I read. I wrote. And I monkeyed around with decimal points even though ‘rithmetic gave me a rash. And somehow, through the hassle of college preparation, I found time to think of Brenda. Her face and her smile filled every dull moment, every lapse in concentration.
Connecticut, that little state I had never thought about before, became my symbol. My dream. And it was there that I would make good. I’d get a scholarship to Stonington College and impress my parents with my maturity. I’d make new friends and be good to them while working on getting back my old friend, with her beautiful face.
Signs of spring began to arrive, squirrels and birds and buds on trees. And even though it was still a little cold, and it still got dark early, I felt the looming spring had good things coming. So I waited for winter to quietly close.
The basketball season ended on the road, in the first round of the state tournament, and they lost by a lot. According to Rice, Terence had his worst game of the year. “Homie barely showed up,” were his exact words. I swear. Future sportscaster, that kid.
Terence didn’t care. Compared to how private he’d been with most everybody all year, he went around now like the Pope on parade, smiling in his Brown sweatshirt, talking to people here and there. I guess you couldn’t blame him. He’d gotten what he wanted out of Hamden: a full scholarship to an Ivy League school. Not bad.
But before he could put away his high-tops, there was one last game. Every team that makes the state tournament gets to play against the faculty. It’s a tradition, and not such a bad one, since it’s kind of fun to get out there in front of the whole school and make the teachers look foolish. Last year, we played them in softball and ran those old-timers into the ground. Wrestling gets skipped, of course, though it would certainly be something to see… especially a rematch between Mr. Wright and McCoy. I’d be the first one there for that, hoping that Mr. Wright had a weapon hidden under his sweater.
Anyway, the teachers played the basketball team on a Friday afternoon. The school made a pretty big deal about it, since it was the first time in a long time we’d done anything in basketball. Wrestling season was still going, and they were on their way toward the state championship before going for the national title. Still, people seemed more excited about basketball.
Both sets of stands were filled, and I hoped to catch Brenda there, with that smile I’d asked for in my letter. But she didn’t show. There were a lot of blue jackets, though, spread out through the crowd in groups of two. I wondered about the spacing, since those guys ran like wolves. I wondered why they were there at all.
The scene on the floor was something else. The two basketball coaches were fairly young guys who still had some game and style, but the rest of the teachers were a wreck — old sneakers, bandaged knees, padded elbows, even some goggles and headbands. I was even embarrassed by the lack of material in some of the shorts they wore. And they played worse than they looked. It was like an old-timer’s reunion of the worst team ever.
The real team dressed in their own gear, with most of them following Terence’s style of baggy shorts and cut-off sleeves. Since the coaches were on the opposing team, Terence ran the player’s side. He directed all his guys around, made substitutions, and even got booed when he took himself out for a minute. Everyone loved him, and he ate it up, smiling and encouraging people, even trying a couple of half-court shots (one of which he made).
Mercifully, the game only lasts two quarters and, by the end of the first, it was like the Harlem Globetrotters vs. those stooges they beat by 100 points every time. When they started up again, Terence came out on the teacher’s side, and a little bit of a game began. Terence got the old guys involved, and the crowd cheered as they sort of made a comeback. Some of the teachers even started talking some smack to the youngsters, best they could, at least.
It was a lot of fun. Everyone cheered and laughed and it felt, for the first time, like we were a real school with real pride and camaraderie and all that. I got kind of sad for a second, thinking that this was the last year. Then I got back into watching the game.
With the lead down to 10 points, Terence switched back to the player’s side and the rout was on. He caught an alley-oop pass and slammed it home, hanging on the rim with his feet dangling above the poor art teacher’s head. Next time, he did a fancy spin move in the lane and dropped in a floater. Later, when the teachers surrounded him, Terence threw blind passes to wide open teammates, mostly Rice decked out in shorts suited for a flag pole.
With only a few minutes left, the teachers gave up and handed the ball at mid-court to Terence. He smiled and started toward the basket in that same way he had in their last home game, when he’d topped his dynamite performance with a crazy, twisting dunk. Just like before, he swung out to the right and approached the basket from the side. I, like everyone else who was at that last game, knew what he was up to and sat up to watch. But there would be no crazy, twisting dunk this time. No finish at all.
When Terence was a few feet from the basket, in the dead quiet of a gym tight with anticipation, one of the wrestlers jumped up from his seat and yelled, “Your Mama’s white!”
The ball bounced off Terence’s foot and rolled away as he skidded to a stop. “Your Mama’s white!” Another wrestler stood and yelled from the other side of the gym. Snapping in the direction of the other voice, Terence stood there all alone on the empty side of th
e court. I felt helpless and out of breath.
“Your Mama’s white!” A third turd in blue stood up to yell from the far corner. It was Chester. McCoy stood right next to him. They stared at Terence.
It was as silent as our dorm on the first day of school when the wrestlers were waiting on Terence to say something. That same frozen scene seized the gymnasium, with all eyes set on Terence. Not just the dorm, but the whole school this time. He looked around as some teachers gained their senses and climbed the stands for the wrestlers, but Terence didn’t stick around. He stepped toward the nearby exit and started running before he reached the door. I jumped from the bleachers and went after him.
I hauled ass down the path and barged through the Montgomery doors. After racing up the steps, I walked into the room, huffing hard. Terence breathed heavy, too, as he paced back and forth beside the window. When he turned and saw me, his eyes flared up. I put my hands out to the side. He charged and grabbed the front of my jacket.
“What are you doing?” I asked, being slammed into the closet door. “Get off'a me!”
I grabbed his wrists and tried to free myself, but he wouldn’t let go. His eyes were round and red at the edges. I could smell the sweat and hot breath coming off him, and my hands slipped off his forearms.
“It was you that done that,” he kept saying. “You.”
I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, but I knew this wasn’t the time for questions. I drew my hands from his waist and broke his grip around my neck. I pushed him hard in the chest. He punched me in the mouth, and I tasted blood as my shoulder crashed into the closet door, knocking it off the hinges. I whipped off my jacket as he shifted for another punch and was barely able to duck in time. I tackled him to the ground. We landed between the beds and wrestled like maniacs on the tiled floor. As we rolled, back and forth, my elbows and knees smashed into the hard surface. It hurt like hell, but I kept going.
I did my best to get the upper hand, but Terence had so much rage it felt like I was fighting three guys. His arms and legs were everywhere, getting leverage off every surface, using his size and strength to spin me over. Punches landed on the back of my head. The sound of knuckles filled my skull. I flashed to getting beat by those guys back home and dug down for some anger of my own. An elbow over my shoulder caught Terence in the jaw and knocked him off of me. I lunged for his face with my thumbs aimed at his eyes when Mr. Wright came flying into the room.
“Stop it, stop it, stop it!” he screamed.
For some reason, I listened. I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want it at all.
I pushed off of Terence’s face and made sure his head caught some ground. He jumped to his feet, but Mr. Wright stood between us. “I will call the police and have you both arrested if you don’t stop this right now!” Mr. Wright kept us separated with his arms out to the side. He breathed almost as heavy as we did.
“What in the world is going on in here?” he asked.
“I didn’t do anything, Mr. Wright,” I said, panting and pissed off. “I came in here to check on this guy and he starts throwing punches.” Spit flew from my mouth as I spoke, and I could still taste blood.
Mr. Wright turned to Terence. “This has been a very, very challenging afternoon for you, Terence. I realize that. What happened back there was totally unacceptable, and I will personally see to it that those responsible-”
“He’s responsible,” Terence yelled, pointing over Mr. Wright’s shoulder at me.
“Me?” I screamed. “The hell did I do?”
“You told them that crap about my mother!”
“I didn’t tell nobody nothing,” I said.
“Where’d they hear it from then, huh? Where’d they hear it from?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe they heard us clowning around that day in the Can. They could have been sitting right behind us for all I know.”
Terence calmed for a second, then flared up again.
“Yeah, but you’re the one who started with that shit in the first place. Then you and the rest of y’all racist chumps ran with it.”
“Racist?” I asked. “You’re the one who cares about that crap.”
“Oh yeah, right, right,” he said, with his chin raised. “Why don’t you just call me a nigger and get it over with.”
“Ah!” Mr. Wright screamed in reaction to the forbidden word. Panic plastered his face.
“Hey,” I said to Terence. “That must be your word. It ain’t mine.”
“Hell it isn’t,” he said. “You just don’t got the guts to say it ’cause you’re scared of what it’ll getcha.” He pointed at my lip.
“Ah,” I waved him away. “I know nuns that hit harder than you.” It was true.
He started to step around Mr. Wright. I crushed a fist, ready to start whaling.
“Oh, no, no, no, no!” Mr. Wright yelled. “I let you both speak. Now this is over. One more punch or push or shove out of either of you and you will be immediately expelled. I promise you I will see to that. I promise you that.”
Terence gave me a bring-it-on look. Mr. Wright steadied himself. I thought about getting on with it, but then I thought better. I was smarter than that now.
“Hey,” I said. “I’m not going back to Catholic school for nothing, especially not a dumb-ass like you.”
I walked out of the room and waited outside the door for Sammie, already deciding that we’d be roommates again. I was back where I’d begun at Hamden Academy.
Chapter 16
No one spoke much at all about what had happened. And no one asked about me being down at Sammie’s, since it seemed obvious that Terence needed solitary confinement. He was like a kid on fire, walking around with flames coming off his clothes. I couldn’t believe he stayed at school.
Mr. Wright called me in for a meeting. We sat at his desk in the front hallway. He told me how he was going to keep this fight a secret. You gotta love these private schools: all rules and almost as many exceptions. I didn’t complain, since it was nice to be part of the exception for a change. Though I was surprised Terence saw it that way.
Mr. Wright explained that there had been a long phone conversation with Terence and Mr. and Mrs. King. And while my former friend and roommate was ready to hit the road, like I’d figured, his mother had other plans. He would stay at Hamden Academy until graduation, and then his butt was going to Brown. End of conversation. Sounded like the chats I’d had with my folks.
Speaking of which, Mr. Wright had a conversation with my father, too. So much for the secrecy. I didn’t have to be there for their talk but, afterward, I was told to call home. He handed me the phone and walked to the back of his apartment.
“Hey, Pop.”
“How’s things, Pal?”
“Not so hot.”
“I heard.”
“So, I guess I’m in trouble, huh?”
“I don’t know, are you? Mr. Wright told me what happened, and that he was chalking it up to, ah, what did he call it? Extraordinary circumstances.”
“That I know,” I said. “I meant with you — I guess I’m in trouble with you.”
“I don’t know, Pal. Sounds like a tough situation.”
“Extraordinary?” I asked, with a heavy dose of optimism.
He laughed. “Yeah, maybe, Pal. But I’m not as interested in labeling it as I am in making it right.”
“How am I going to do that?”
“First of all, I’m assuming this guy Terence is a friend of yours, right?”
“Yeah, I guess he’s my friend,” I said. “Or he was.”
“Good. Then you should be able to figure out where he’s coming from.”
“Houston?”
“OK, that’s a start. And where’s he going?”
“Get this, Pop. The guys got a free ride to Brown, an Ivy League school, and somehow he’s bent out of shape about it.”
“You have any idea as to why?”
“I’m not exactly sure, but I think it might
have something to do with the fact that he’s mental or something.” Pop didn’t laugh, and I was sorry I’d said it like that. I wanted Pop to help me figure this whole deal out just like used to, so he mostly talked and I mostly listened.
“Mr. Wright tells me this Terence is an African-American, the only one in the school, and that he had a lot going for him, and the world is calling him. And his parents must know it, and somewhere inside he must know it, too, or he wouldn’t have done what it takes to get into a school like Brown.”
“So?”
“So, for some reason, he’s struggling with it.”
“Struggling with what?”
“You know, I’ve worked with minority kids for 15 years, and one thing that some of them share is a real resistance to the world outside their own. And if you think about history, and even the way things still are, it’s not so hard to understand why. So maybe this Terence is struggling with all that, with who he is and where he fits in.”
“I don’t know, Pop,” I said.
“I think you do, Pal,” he answered right back. “I think that you do.”
He was right. I knew what it was like to be an outsider, or, at least to feel like one. I thought about Terence. It’d been a long time since I’d thought about what it would be like to be anybody other than me. No wonder I had such a hard time figuring things out.
“So, you see where he’s coming from?” Pop asked.
“I’m working on it,” I said.
“Good. It shouldn’t be such a stretch for you, Pal. And remember, you were brought up to look out for other people. If you’re in a position to help someone, you’re supposed to do it.”
“OK, Pop,” I said. “I got it.”
I hung up the phone and thought of the dominoes again, and how I could help Terence from falling the wrong way.
Sammie sat crisscross on the floor, switching up CDs. I sat in the window, pounding a ball into my glove and looking out over campus. A week had passed since the conversation upstairs with Pop. April had arrived, but spring and everything after seemed secondary to making things right with Terence.