The Liberation of Gabriel King
Page 11
“I said not to get your hopes up,” Pop reminded me, but it wasn’t Jimmy Carter I couldn’t wait to see. It was Frita Wilson.
Me, Momma, and Pop took the truck to the elementary school where they were setting up, and was it ever crowded. Looked like the crowd at the Bicentennial, only this time we’d be making our own fireworks.
“Come on,” Momma said, taking my hand and Pop’s hand in hers. “Let’s find the Wilsons.”
We went out back to the school yard. At first I couldn’t see Frita in the crowd, but then I spotted her. She was standing up front with her daddy and she sure looked pretty. Her hair was done up with bows and she was smiling huge at all the adults. Her momma motioned us over.
“This is Mr. and Mrs. King,” Mrs. Wilson said to the others when we got close. “They’re Gabriel’s parents.”
Then Momma and Pop were shaking hands and saying hello and it didn’t matter that we lived in the smallest trailer in the Hollowell Trailer Park. They looked just like real politicians.
Huh, I thought. Guess that’s how a peanut farmer got to run for president of the United States.
I tugged on Frita’s sleeve.
“Hey,” I said, “I got to tell you something.”
Frita’s eyes looked hopeful. “What is it?” she asked, but I didn’t want to tell her with all the adults around.
“Want to sit under the picnic table?”
Frita thought it over.
“I guess so,” she said. “For a minute.”
We wove in and out of the crowd until we found our table, but this time we didn’t crawl underneath like we usually did. We sat on top and swung our legs down.
“Frita,” I said at last, “I changed my mind.”
“About what?” she asked, even though I suspected she knew.
“The fifth grade,” I said. “I’m going.”
Frita’s face split into a grin.
“For real?”
“Pinky sw…” I stopped. “Cross my heart and spit on the ground.”
Then I did it so Frita would know I meant it for real. She swung her feet and studied me real good.
“Gabe,” she asked, “what finally made you brave?”
I knew the answer, but I wasn’t sure how to explain it, so I just shrugged. “You did.”
“’Cause of the liberating?”
“Sort of.”
Frita grinned again, and we sat quiet, just me and her, and I thought how this really was the best summer ever.
“Frita Wilson,” I said, “you’re my best friend.”
Frita looked at me and I knew she meant it back, but she didn’t get a chance to say it because the microphones screeched in the distance. Mr. Wilson was asking everyone to sit down.
Frita hopped off the picnic table.
“Come on,” she said. “Terrance is saving me a seat on the bleachers. Top row. Want to come?”
There was a time when the top row of the bleachers would’ve been on my list if I’d thought of it, but I hopped down. “Yup,” I said.
We could hear Mr. Wilson introducing all the people who would be speaking at the rally.
“Mayor Roberts, Reverend Jordan, Allen King…”
I listened to the crowd clapping for Pop and I was real proud. I bet he was nervous up there on the stage, but he was doing it anyway, just like me and the fifth grade. I let loose one of my super-duper whistles. Then me and Frita got ready to make a beeline for the bleachers, only that’s when we got waylaid one last time.
I don’t know what made me turn around and look under the farthest picnic table at the edge of the school yard. Maybe it was because I suspected me and Frita wouldn’t come here to hide out anymore after this, not when we’d be West Wing fifth-graders. I wanted to take one last look at what had been our spot. Only this time I saw something I hadn’t counted on.
Way in the back, under the picnic table closest to the school building, there were two people hiding out. I could see them clearly even though they were far away.
I poked Frita in the ribs. “Look,” I said.
There were Duke and Frankie. For a minute, my heart beat fast, just like it always did. But then I realized which of us was hiding out and which of us had most of Rockford and Hollowell behind them. I remembered what Mrs. Wilson had said about people coming to the rally to report back. I don’t know how I knew it, but right then I was one hundred percent certain that Mr. Evans and Mr. Carmen were nowhere nearby. They’d put Duke and Frankie up to coming here instead, and that struck me as extra chicken.
I looked at Frita and Frita looked at me, and I knew we were thinking the exact same thing. We could get Duke and Frankie in some trouble if we wanted to. All we’d have to do was tell Terrance they were here, or maybe scream or yell for an adult. Frita could even whup them herself if she wanted to, but that’s not what we did.
“Ready to go?” Frita asked.
“Yup,” I said. “You think Jimmy Carter will show up today?”
“Maybe,” said Frita. “But either way, it sure is a good crowd. I think just about everyone in Hollowell and Rockford showed up.” She grinned and looked back at Duke and Frankie. “That’ll show any Evans to call me a nigger,” she said, and I thought, Yup, that was some true. You did not mess with Frita Wilson.
Frita got set to run. “Race ya.”
Then me and her took off in a cloud of dust and I imagined what our feet must look like to Duke and Frankie watching us from way back under the picnic table. For a minute I almost felt sorry for them stuck under there, hiding out.
Then I was running fast, climbing the bleachers, and Terrance was making his friends squish over so me and Frita could squeeze in. Then Mr. Wilson was introducing my pop for real and he was standing up there in his brand-new tie with the shiny tie clip, and I was standing up to wave at him so he would remember that there ain’t nothing so scary when you’ve got someone you love.
That’s when I thought about Duke and Frankie one last time, and this time I didn’t feel scared or mad or sorry for them. I hoped that maybe someday someone would liberate them too. Then maybe they’d figure out what love and courage were all about, and life would spring open like a lock that found its key.
What I’m Afraid Of
By Gabriel King
1. fifth grade
2. Duke Evans
3. Frankie Carmen
4. spiders
5. aligators
6. Terrance
7. loosing Momma or Pop
8. Fritas basement
9. earwig pinchers
10. loose cows
11. getting lost in the swamp
12. swinging off the rope swing
13. mising the school bus
14. big trucks and mean truck drivers
15. falling into the toilet
16. robbers
17. teachers who yell a lot
18. sentipedes
19. the old dirt road
20. getting eaten by buzards
21. the Evans trailer
22. ghosts
23. Frita being mad at me
24. clumps of sixth graders
25. getting my hand chopped off in momma’s new blender
26. being pounded
27. roller skating on the hiway like on that TV show
28. calling a teacher momma by axident
29. never getting any taller
30. finding a worm in my sanwich
31. being locked in the bathroom at school
32. not being picked for gym teams
33. killer robots
34. falling off a high branch of a pecan tree
35. corpses
36. tornados
37. wars like Vietnam
38. raccoons, especially when they sound like bears outside your tent
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So many people lent their time and talents to this book. First and foremost, I’d like to thank my editor, Kathy Dawson, for her hard work and vision. Her insight has been invalua
ble. I’d also like to thank my agent, Ginger Knowlton, who is the friend and advocate every writer dreams of.
My parents, William and Linda Going, are my best readers. My dad provided his expertise on spiders, catfish, and all things biological. He also accompanied me on a trip to Plains, Georgia, and read every draft of this book, even when I told him not to. Thanks to my mom for sharing her understanding of the children’s book market, and for her instincts about what makes a great read.
Thank you to Dustin Adams for his unwavering support and for lending me his considerable writing talents as he critiqued draft after draft with patience and skill. Brenda Zook Friesen and Tobin Miller Shearer provided valuable anti-racist feedback. I’m also indebted to the St. Thomas community and The People’s Institute for Survival and Beyond for prior anti-racist training. Thanks to Bob Strangfeld for sharing his historical knowledge and documents relating to 1976. I am grateful to Laura Blake Peterson, Elizabeth Gold, Susie and Laura Haldeman, Sara Sheiner, Zachary Miller Shearer, Tasha Toney-Thomas, and all those who read and commented on early drafts of this book. Thanks to Nicole Kasprzak and Nathan Bransford for their work behind the scenes.
Last but not least, thank you to Carol Daley for her work on the website and to April and Ben’s Simple Things Bake Stand for providing the nourishment necessary to complete a novel (i.e.: fabulous cookies and baked goods).