Courage

by Barbara Binns

  Linda and I were both in the courtroom with our families the day Lamont was sentenced. Barnetta had been working at Frank’s Place when the gang tried to rob the place. She made a short victim statement. Then it was Mr. Frank’s turn. The restaurant’s owner stood with his arm in a sling and fresh stitches on his face. His victim statement went on forever, cold, angry words that made Mom cry. Linda never looked at me that day.

  She stops, waiting for me to catch her near the cafeteria entrance. “Hey, T, Carmela asked me to ask you why you haven’t joined the Racing Rays yet.” I’m surprised. Carmela usually picks Fantasia to carry her messages.

  “I, uh, I changed my mind,” I say.

  “I don’t believe you. Did you know Mr. Hundle is in charge of the swim team?”

  “Seriously?” Our Mr. Hundle? Whoa!

  “Carmela says he’s listed as a managing partner. I think his father started it or something. Yesterday, when I went to practice to watch her, I heard him say he wished more students from the school where he teaches would join. Carmela’s the only one.”

  “Linda,” Carmela calls from the lunchroom door, her voice sharp. I realize Linda and I have stopped moving, and everyone else is inside.

  “Do you like Carmela?” Linda asks me, making no move to go join her friend.

  “Everyone likes her.”

  “But why do you like her?” Linda insists.

  “Because.” I like Carmela because . . . There must be dozens, maybe even hundreds of reasons. But with Linda staring at me through brown, knowing eyes, nothing comes into my head right now except, “I like her name.”

  “Yeah.” Linda nods like she expected that. “It’s not ordinary, that’s for sure.”

  “Nothing about her is ordinary. And she’s a good swimmer too.”

  “She’s not the only good swimmer,” Linda says, her voice suddenly harsh.

  “You swim too?” I ask another dumb question. “Then why don’t you join?”

  Linda shakes her head. “You should know.”

  I look down. How many dumb questions is a guy allowed in one day? She and I have the same problem: money. Her aunt lives on Social Security disability payments. They have less than my family does. “If Mr. Hundle wants kids from our neighborhood to join his team,” I say, “why make things cost so much?” Managing partner sounds like he runs things. That means he could let anyone in if he wanted to. Linda and even me.

  “Linda!” Carmela calls again, and stomps her foot.

  “I have to go,” Linda says, but she doesn’t move or even turn to look at her friend.

  “Why are you friends with her?” I ask. Carmela and Linda are so different. I don’t understand why they hang together. “You’re smarter than she is. Nicer too.”

  Linda gives me a long, silent stare. “I know she’s bossy and controlling and determined and lots of other things. After my mom was killed . . . Well, I wanted to die too. Carmela’s dad helped me get help. And she became like a sister, staying with me, talking to me, helping me get over things. I could talk to Carmela. We may not always be best friends, but that doesn’t change the ties between us.”

  We could be friends, I almost say.

  “Maybe part of our friendship is because she likes being around people who make her shine. I’m happy to do that.”

  “You shine pretty good yourself.”

  She blinks and seems unable to speak for a moment. When she does talk again, her voice breaks a little. “Mr. Hundle really likes you. Maybe if you talk to him, he could show you a way to get in. Just ask. Anything is possible.” With those words, she turns and runs after Carmela.

  I remain in the hall. Maybe she’s right.

  I take a deep breath and reverse directions, heading upstairs to the teachers’ offices on the second floor.

  Chapter

  Eleven

  I’VE BEEN IN MR. HUNDLE’S office before, but this is the first time I notice the swimming trophies on one shelf. He doesn’t seem to notice me at first. His big shoulders are hunched as he sits bent over a computer keyboard.

  I am not sure how to start. I take a breath, clear my throat, and begin. “Excuse—”

  “I’m not changing your grade,” he says without lifting his head.

  “Um, I got a ninety-eight on the last history quiz.”

  That makes him look up. “Oh, yes, T’Shawn. You were tied for the highest grade. Congratulations.”

  “Tied? Who else got a ninety-eight?”

  He leans back in his chair and chuckles. “I don’t share student grades. But I like your competitive spirit.”

  Linda, I think. She and I are always fighting for the top spot. “Actually, I’m here because of the Racing Rays. The swim team that practices at the community college. I heard you were in charge.” I point to a trophy on the shelf.

  “Yes,” he says, crossing his arms. “It was my father’s passion. He started the club six years ago. Then I took over when he retired last year. I competed in both freestyle and butterfly when I was younger. Now I’m part of the board.” He sounds a little sad. No, wistful: that was the vocabulary word from last month.

  “Did you make it to the Olympics?” I ask, voicing my secret dream.

  He chuckles again. “Not even close, although these arms set a few records and earned a full ride to college. My father worked in an athletic supply store. I’d never have been able to afford college without a scholarship.”

  He gestures for me to come closer. “It sounds like you might be interested in becoming a competitive swimmer. What’s your stroke?”

  “Actually, I want to be a diver.”

  He nods. “Even better. Mr. Mung, our diving coach, needs more kids your age for his program.”

  “I hear you don’t have many students from here on your team,” I say, watching his face carefully.

  “Only one. I’d hoped for more. The location makes for an easy commute.”

  “But the costs don’t make anything easy.” It’s time to ask the big question. He has to know there isn’t much money around here. I take a deep breath and continue. “I could be number two from this school if there is maybe some kind of scholarship to pay the fees or something.”

  “Oh.” His face goes blank like a door slamming shut. “I’m afraid not. The Racing Rays are a private club, and we have significant costs. Our goal is to create swimmers and divers prepared to compete at the highest levels, and that takes money. We hire top coaches and have expenses associated with participating in invitational- and championship-style meets. We don’t receive any funding from the state, so every member has to pay their own way.”

  “But you could squeeze one kid in, right?” I lean close and do my best sad-puppy imitation.

  “I’m sorry, T’Shawn. I don’t have the authority.” His voice is kind and sympathetic but full of no.

  “Aren’t you in charge?”

  “It’s a family business. I’m part of the governing board, along with my uncles and my sister. Every penny is important. They would never agree to a team member who doesn’t pay his way. The club is barely breaking even now; I’ve put a ton of my own money into things to keep my father’s dream going. You have no idea how much we pay to rent the facility, for good coaches, for . . . Sorry.” He takes a deep breath. “You don’t need to have the details dumped on you. I apologize. This isn’t an economics lesson.”

  No, it’s a reality check. It sounds like he and the club have the same money issues as my family. Hope melts and runs down to my shoes. “I get it. Only rich people should apply.”

  The Hun smiles wanly and remains silent as I walk out.

  When I arrive home after school, I head for my room, which is empty. There’s no sign of Lamont. Good.

  I pull out a set of geometry work sheets and settle down at my study desk. I like school, even math, but we’re starting to work on geometry. Geometry is— Well, I call it a challenge. For challenges, my brain needs the special help only the right music brings. I have set my own iTunes playlist
s with my favorite artists, each playlist designed for a different mood or task. I choose songs from Florida Georgia Line. Dontae laughs at me, but I love the two guys in that country duo. For me, they make music to calculate by. Maybe it’s the chords and patterns in the music or the voices and the way country weaves spoken and melodic verse together. Whatever. I have put together the perfect playlist for geometry. I don’t think I could find the surfaces and areas of the crazy shapes on my work sheets without the help of these sounds.

  An hour goes by, and I’m deep into studying circles and calculating with pi when Lamont walks in. His feet drag.

  “Where have you been?” I ask.

  “Job hunting. Isn’t that all people want from me?”

  “How did things go?”

  Lamont grips his throat and sticks out his tongue like a cartoon character choking himself.

  “That good, huh?” I have to laugh. He should try changing clothes next time. Wearing old jeans and a stained T-shirt, he might be accepted as one of the guys. But hired . . . no way. I did a school report on jobs last year. The research taught me that the unemployment rate here in Illinois is higher than the national average. Chicago unemployment is higher still. And down here, on Chicago’s South Side, the unemployment rate is astronomical. People line up outside hardware stores hoping someone with a do-it-yourself project might not want to do it all by himself.

  “Once you have a past, hiring managers stare through you, leaving you with no good job choices.” My brother kicks off his shoes and throws himself on the bed, one arm behind his head, the other covering his eyes.

  “If you can’t find a good choice, then take a bad one,” I suggest.

  “You sound like Cho.”

  “Just because I sound like your parole officer doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

  “Do you know how many guys around here are like me? Nothing to do and nowhere to go.” He jumps back to his feet, staring at me through tight lips, as if I were an enemy. “I’m not the only guy who’s been in trouble, made a few wrong choices. But here’s what happens.” He steps in the middle of the room, shoulders back, chin up like a stage performer in front of an audience. “No sir, I’ve never been to college, but I do have a GED. No, it’s not a high school diploma, it’s a certificate, and it’s supposed to be just as good. From where? Oh, I finished my education in prison. Yes, I said prison. . . . Of course, I understand. I won’t call you, and you definitely will never call me.” He slumps, the performance over. He no longer looks like the self-named King of the World. But something about him remains strong and powerful. Scary, even. Maybe that’s part of the reason he can’t get a chance.

  He moves to the window, hands on his hips, staring out at the world, apparently lost inside his thoughts. There’s just him and me and music from Florida Georgia Line streaming from my phone. They are singing about a man surveying the countryside searching for a chance at something better. Change the countryside to a Chicago building courtyard, and the words could be about my brother.

  Lamont turns away from the window, frowning and pointing at my phone. “That’s country music. Why are you listening to some guy wailing about his dog or his truck or whatever?”

  “It’s not some guy. They’re famous. Florida Georgia Line have lots of country music awards.”

  “Like I said, country music.”

  “I don’t care. They’re great. And I like trucks.”

  “Look in the mirror, Short Stack. This is not our music.”

  “Music is music. It belongs to everyone. Plus, if white people can listen to J-pop or reggaetón or rap, I can listen to country when it helps me. I get to choose what I like and who I like. You don’t know me. You don’t care. This is my room. You’re just squatting in it. I can play what I want.” I try to sound strong, but my voice squeaks a little.

  His eyes flicker and my heart jumps. Is he going to hit me? “Not tonight.” He grabs the phone and closes the iTunes app. In the silence, his words loom large. “You have no business listening to that, and I’m too tired to keep arguing, Short Stack. You don’t know what a bad time I’m having right now.”

  “What about the bad time I’m having?”

  “Why are we arguing about this? Just play something good. It doesn’t have to be rap. I’d even take some jazz or blues.”

  “I can’t do math to a blues playlist.” Between my anger and the growing silence, I can’t even think right now.

  He picks up my unfinished work sheet and shakes his head. “Geometry, eh? No one ever cares about a hypotenuse or Pythagoras in real life. I only remembered any of this long enough to pass a test, and then poof, it was gone.”

  Poof is right. The word explains why he’s still stuck on stupid. Bet he wouldn’t even remember what a hypotenuse was if the word wasn’t written on the page.

  “Do you know where I should be right this second?” I ask. “Not here, hurting your poor, precious eardrums with music. I need to study and keep my grades up and actually become something. But right now, I should be at the pool, on the swim team. Only I can’t, because you get everything. Your food, your clothes, even these stupid beds cost money, and I have to sleep on top because of you, and I hate being up there.”

  He flinches. His eyes narrow, his jaw clenches, making him appear less than two steps away from a monster explosion. I’m inside the blast radius, but I don’t care! I want to hurt him.

  He turns and walks to the window, where he stands, his back toward me, staring out at the world. “If you wanted the lower bed, why didn’t you say so?”

  Because you said it wasn’t safe.

  I blink, trying to force back tears I feel pooling in my eyes. It’s like we are two enemies in this room instead of two brothers.

  Maybe we’re both.

  “We’ll talk about this another day,” he mutters after a few moments, his voice so low I almost miss hearing the words. I know the truth. We won’t talk, not tomorrow or the next day or ever. He’ll order me around and expect me to obey. I’ll fight again and then end up being overwhelmed again. I push away from the desk and run from the room because dumb tears are racing down my face.

  Rochelle is in the hall, standing in front of me.

  “Are you hurt, T?” she asks, gazing into my eyes like Mom does when I am sick. I wish she wasn’t here to see me like this. Next time I need to cry, I’ll use a closet.

  “No, I’m fine,” I say, wiping my cheeks. “There’s just something I wish I could have, only no matter how hard I try to get it, I can’t.”

  “If at first you don’t succeed, you just have to try real hard.” Rochelle repeats Mom’s favorite saying with an earnest expression that makes her look just like our mother.

  “You don’t understand,” I say.

  “Try!” she insists, flapping her hands in the air. I kneel, pull her close, hug her tight, and wonder if I ever believed the way she does, that wishing my hardest could make miracles happen.

  She looks around me at the door and suddenly says, “You better go away! You made my real brother cry.”

  Turning, I see Lamont staring at both of us. He swallows but doesn’t move.

  “I don’t like you.” Rochelle pulls free and stamps her feet. I grab her again to keep her from throwing herself at him. “Go away. Leave my T alone.”

  He looks at us hard, shakes his head, and turns to go. “Stay here,” I tell Rochelle before I follow him back to our room. He grabs a jacket from the closet. Then he pushes past me and Rochelle on his way to the front door.

  Mom steps out of the kitchen to ask, “Lamont, where are you going?”

  “I need some air,” he says.

  “But it’s almost dinnertime,” she pleads to his back. He’s already out the door and racing down the staircase so he can’t see the worry in her eyes.

  “Did I make him go?” Rochelle asks.

  “No, I did that,” I say. I won’t let her blame herself for any of this. I grab her and swing her through the air until she dissolves into giggles
. The truth is I don’t know what’s going on inside my brother’s head. I don’t understand him.

  I barely understand myself.

  Chapter

  Twelve

  WHEN I WAKE UP, THE world is quiet. Sunlight fills the room, and a glance at the clock shows it’s after seven. I bolt upright, throw off the blankets, and jump to the floor. What happened to my alarm?

  Lamont’s bed is empty. A quick glance out the window shows a dusting of snow fell last night. Chicago weather is as undependable as he is.

  I rush for Rochelle’s room, still in my pajamas, expecting to hear her complaining because I’m late and she’s hungry. Her room is empty too.

  I follow the smell of bacon and eggs into the kitchen. Lamont is up and dressed in a white T-shirt and black jeans. Rochelle is there too, sitting at the table pretending to feed her doll. Today’s fashion choice includes a pink sweater over orange-and-blue polka-dot pants.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Breaking my fast,” he says while shoveling food into his mouth. His shirt makes the muscles under his dark skin look even more intimidating. Watching him makes me sick, and the feeling worsens when I see what he put on the plate in front of my chair. Two big yellow, runny, sunny-side up eggs. His favorite food.

  “How could you give her something like this?” I yell. “She doesn’t eat runny eggs.”

  “Eggs don’t usually get people this upset,” Lamont says, his voice so calm, hearing him only makes me madder.

  “You turned off my alarm.”

  “I thought you needed a little more sleep. Are you that mad because I tried to give you a break?” He winks, grinning like I’m supposed to be grateful or something.

  I’m mad for so many reasons I don’t know how to reply. Things like, “You stole my job taking care of Rochelle,” seem too petty to say out loud. I tell myself I don’t want to argue where Rochelle will overhear and get hurt. Maybe I do feel better for the extra half hour, but this is totally my job. He had no right to take it from me.