Armstrong and Charlie

by Steven B. Frank

  “And my boy can do anything a girl can, right?”

  “Most anything,” I say, hoping he won’t ask for the exceptions.

  “Including,” Daddy goes on, “wear a pink shirt. Now, this one cost three ninety-nine. When’s the last time you earned three ninety-nine?”

  But Charmaine’s not ready to hand down the tank top. She plucks it off my pile and puts it back on hers.

  “I like the way it fits,” she says.

  “So will the eighth grade boys,” says Daddy, putting the tank top back on my pile. Then he reaches over to Cecily’s, nabs a top two sizes up, and drops it onto Charmaine’s.

  “That’s my lucky shirt!” Cecily says.

  Daddy takes another shirt—​this time off Lenai’s stack—​and puts it on Cecily’s.

  “What am I supposed to have,” Lenai says, “one of Mama’s? One of yours?”

  “You can have a new one. That’s how hand-me-downs work. The oldest gets a new shirt.”

  And the youngest gets a pink one.

  Charlie

  Mom has spent the last hundred days mostly in bed. She gets up for important things, like the bathroom or morning coffee. Some days she gets up to shower, and some nights she comes down for dinner, which Lily cooks. Once a week, Lily drags her to the market.

  Lily is our housekeeper. She came to America in the trunk of a car and had to pay a coyote, or smuggler, to get her here. Her room smells like Olvera Street, where she goes on her days off because Olvera Street reminds her of home. Dad’s the only one who really talks to Lily—​he took Spanish in high school. Sometimes I listen in when she’s on the phone with her family in Guatemala or watching TV. But to me, Spanish sounds like Jiffy Pop.

  Mom used to tuck me in at night. Now I tuck her in. The bed smells like perfume plus coffee mixed with today’s Los Angeles Times. A headline peeks up from under the covers: “Ford Pardons Nixon.”

  “Tomorrow’s the first day of school,” I say.

  Mom’s face crinkles up like she forgot.

  “Do you have everything you need?”

  Good time to ask. Bullock’s closed an hour ago.

  “Dad took me shopping. I got new jeans. Went up a size.”

  She smiles her rubber-band smile. It stretches, but it doesn’t curl.

  There’s nothing worse than losing a child. That’s what all the people said when they crowded into our house for a whole week last May. They came with pink bakery boxes and cold cuts from Art’s Deli. They all had more or less the same thing to say.

  We can’t imagine what you’re going through.

  A parent’s worst nightmare.

  Buzzer words, I call them. If life were a game show, a buzzer would go off every time someone said them.

  If there’s anything Eleanor and I can do.

  Bzzz.

  Thank God you still have Charlie.

  Bzzz.

  You could sue, you know.

  Triple bzzz.

  There’s nothing worse than losing a child.

  It must be true. She hasn’t said Andy’s name since he died.

  “Good night, Mom.”

  “Good night, honey.”

  She hasn’t said mine, either.

  Armstrong

  “You ever been to the Hollywood Hills?”

  “I’ve been to Hollywood Boulevard. Daddy and I took you and the girls once to the Chinese Theatre.”

  “I remember I stepped in somebody’s footprints.”

  “Jack Benny’s. And I put my hands in Clark Gable’s handprints. The ladies’ were too small for me.”

  “Whose idea was it to send me to a new school?”

  “Your daddy came up with it first. But I agreed.”

  “Sisters staying put?”

  “Not as many spots for junior high and high school.”

  “You think those white kids want us to come?”

  One thing about Mama, she will never tell me a lie.

  “Some maybe do. Some probably don’t.”

  “’Cause we’re different?”

  “Yeah. But you’re also the same.”

  “How are we the same?”

  “All starting sixth grade. All turning twelve. Going through the same changes.”

  I shrug my shoulder to say I’m not so sure. Also to get the covers off so maybe she’ll remember to scratch my back!

  A cool breeze comes as Mama lifts my shirt. Her nails do lazy eights down my spine.

  “You know, you’re not the only one getting on that bus. Otis is going. Alma and Dezzy, too.”

  “Otis?”

  “Yep.”

  “He’s always talking about astrology.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “It’s stupid, Mama. Like your birthday’s got something to do with who you are.”

  “It’s just a hobby, is all. Some people believe it.”

  “Well, I don’t. Keep scratching.”

  She does for a few seconds.

  “Come on, now. Otis is all right.”

  “I guess.”

  “You will be too, Armstrong.”

  It’s quiet, and I wonder who she’s trying to convince.

  “I just hope those white kids keep an open mind,” I say.

  “Why, are you going to teach them something?”

  “Somebody’s got to.”

  Mama’s hand stops. “You know, Armstrong, it’s not just an opportunity to change schools. It’s to change ways, too.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Six fights in fourth grade. Five in fifth. It doesn’t always have to be Armstrong against the world.”

  That’s gonna depend, I think, if it’s the world against Armstrong.

  · 2 ·

  Father’s Occupation

  Charlie

  THEY COME ON A LONG Crown bus with a round back and hissing brakes, the kind of enormous magical vessel we only get to ride when there’s a field trip. There are just ten students by the time the bus pulls into the upper yard. Nine black faces pressed to the windows near the driver, and one more sitting in the way way back, alone.

  The door flaps open. The up-front kids all come off one at a time.

  “Welcome to Wonderland Avenue School,” says Mrs. Wilson, our no-nonsense principal. She’s tall but looks even taller in a turtleneck, pearls, and hair spray.

  The kids all mumble good mornings to her. Then one of the older kids, who has lighter skin than all the rest, turns back and calls down the aisle of the bus.

  “Come on, Armstrong.”

  The boy in the way way back doesn’t budge.

  “Armstrong, wake up!”

  The boy finally stands, stretches, and moves up the aisle. He comes off the bus like a slow-motion Slinky.

  “And good morning to you,” Mrs. Wilson says.

  “Morning, ma’am,” he says. But he might as well be talking to his shoes. They’re black and white Keds like mine, only not brand new. The flaps of his bell-bottoms scrape the ground. He’s not so tall, but he sure looks solid.

  Mrs. Wilson stops in front of the easels on the upper yard. To a Wonderland kid on the first day of school, the easels are like holy tablets. They show the class lists for the year. The name of your worst enemy might be on your list. The name of your best friend might not.

  The classes are smaller this year—​only forty-two kids in sixth grade instead of the usual sixty. Half will get Mr. Mitchell, half Mrs. Valentine. Mrs. Valentine reminds me of my Grandma Sadie, who died when I was eight. She wears the same blue-and-white dotted dress that Sadie’s wearing in a picture on our wall. She wears her hair in a bun, too, just like Sadie did. Mrs. Valentine thinks that kids should laugh while they learn. Her classroom is never silent except during reading time or a test. She bakes pumpkin cupcakes on Halloween and gingerbread hearts for the holiday in her last name. And on the Friday before winter break, she gets so many gifts that she needs help walking to her car.

  Mr. Mitchell is Medusa with a beard. O
ne look can turn a kid to stone.

  If you remember what I said about the streetlight, you’ll know which teacher I’ve got for sixth grade.

  Melanie Bates … Shelley Berman … Susan Campbell … Curtis Earl … They stare at their names on Mr. Mitchell’s list. Otis Greene … Alex Levinson … Leslie Maduros … Yan Park … Armstrong Le Rois. And me. We stand in a quiet, straight line in front of Mr. Mitchell, while Mrs. Valentine’s class forms a circle around her, telling stories and making her laugh.

  “We’re in the same class,” I hear a quiet voice say to the kid in black and white Keds.

  “I’m not sitting beside you, Otis. You’ll copy off me like you did last year.”

  “I didn’t copy off you, Armstrong.”

  “How come you got a B, then?”

  Otis sighs. The boy called Armstrong looks at me before my eyes can jump away.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “You’re looking at something if you’re looking at me.”

  My shoes. That’s what I’m looking at now.

  Armstrong

  I got the nasty man with a beard instead of the friendly old lady. And the white kids keep staring at us like they’re from Sweden and never seen dark skin. That’s all right, though. I’ve got to remind myself why we’re here. To educate these people.

  First thing we do in class is find our name cards on the tables. Then we fill out forms. Last Name, First, Middle Initial. Date of Birth. Place of Birth. Race.

  Really?

  I’m next to the white boy who was staring at me earlier. Charlie Ross, it says on his name card. Man, the secretary at this school must still be trying to graduate from it. She doesn’t even know how to alphabetize. My last name is Le Rois.

  What’s that start with?

  His last name is Ross.

  What’s that start with?

  So how come we’re side by side?

  “Mr. Mitchell,” I say, raising my hand.

  “Yes?”

  “Are we supposed to be alphabetized in our seats?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m in the wrong chair. His last name, according to the card, is Ross. Mine’s Le Rois.”

  “You’re right, young man. You should be sitting next to Mr. Levinson … over there.”

  Mr. Mitchell points to a table with so many school supplies laid out, you can’t hardly see the boy who brought ’em. There’s a Dixie Cup full of pencils, a stack of Pee Chee folders, a pile of pink erasers, and not much room for me. But here at our table, Charlie Ross is hunched up way over on his side, respecting my space. So I say I’m fine where I am.

  “Get back to your forms, then. Raise your hand when you’re finished.”

  I raise my hand.

  “Already?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Mitchell comes over to inspect my form. Man smells like tobacco from the corner store.

  “You forgot box number seven,” he says. “If he’s out of work, put unemployed.”

  “Didn’t forget,” I say. “Just don’t like to boast.”

  “Well, you can’t leave it blank.”

  So while I’m writing down my daddy’s occupation, I hear Mr. Mitchell say to young Mr. Ross next door, “That’s a big word for a sixth-grader. If you’re going to use it, you ought to spell it right. There’s another r after the p.”

  I’m curious what the big word is, so I look over and, sure enough, it’s one I don’t know.

  “Entre … pre … neur,” I sound out. “What’s that mean?”

  “Businessman.”

  “What kind?” I’m thinking maybe the real opportunity of riding the bus up here is I can get one of my sisters a summer job.

  Charlie Ross sits up tall now, like he’s about to announce the coming of the Lord.

  “Medical equipment,” he says. “My father rents and sells hospital beds, oxygen tanks, wheelchairs, and commodes.”

  “Commodes?”

  “Portable toilets. For patients who can’t make it to the bathroom.”

  Now, here I am at a place called Wonderland, sharing a desk with a boy whose daddy rents porta-potties to folks who do their business in the bedroom. And I’m starting to wonder what side of that Supreme Court decision Mister Thurgood Marshall was on.

  My upper lip starts to twitch, which it always does when I’m about to bust up. Then I pretend I’ve got a cough and bury that laugh in my hand.

  “Are you okay?” the white boy asks, real sincere. He’s probably going to try to rent me some equipment.

  “Allergies,” I tell him. “Must be all the trees around here.”

  Then Mr. Mitchell asks Charlie Ross to take the school forms to the office.

  Charlie

  Okay, so I didn’t go straight to the office. I ducked into the boys’ bathroom for a peek at the forms. Armstrong—​whose handwriting is small and easy to read—​was born in Los Angeles on May 10, 1963. He has five sisters and no brothers, and they live in a place called the Pueblo del Rio projects. His mom, Gracie, was born in San Diego and works as a nurse at White Memorial Hospital. The nearest relative not living with him is an aunt in Oakland.

  But the scariest thing about Armstrong is his dad. Because from box number seven, I just found out that Theodore Le Rois, born in Opelika, Alabama, on June 10, 1931, is a professional kickboxer!

  At recess there’s a mad dash for the handball court. I get there last and line up behind Armstrong. He’s got this comb that looks like a pitchfork sticking up from his back pocket. His T-shirt is tight on him, and his hands look heavy on his arms, like the paws on a rottweiler puppy.

  Across the yard Leslie Maduros is shooting carroms with Denise Wynn. Leslie was my last crush in fifth grade, and right now, leaning over the wooden board with that long stick in her hand and her brown hair tucked into her overalls, she’s officially my first one in sixth. Denise catches me looking and tells Leslie. I blush and look away.

  That’s when I notice something’s wrong. Instead of Armstrong ahead of me in line, it’s the boy named Otis, hands plunged deep in his pockets, head hanging so low it might fall off. Ahead of Otis there’s Shelley Berman, her arms crossed in frustration. In front of her are about six other kids waiting to play. And in front of them, his chest puffed out like he’s already full grown, there’s Armstrong first in line.

  If there’s one thing Dad taught Andy and me, it’s to be fair in business, friendship, and games. And when you see an injustice, you don’t look the other way.

  It’s just as wrong to ignore an injustice, Charlie, as it is to inflict one.

  So I step out of line and walk up to Armstrong.

  “Excuse me,” I say, “but we don’t take cuts here.”

  He looks at me for a second.

  “Here?” he says.

  “That’s right. At this school we respect each other’s place in line.”

  “As opposed to the ghetto schools where we don’t even have lines? It’s just a free-for-all?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “But it’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That we got up at five thirty and rode the bus up here so you could teach us how to stand in line? But the thing is, Charlie Ross—​that your name?”

  I nod.

  “We already know how to do that. It’s what we learned in kindergarten, even in the ghetto.”

  “Okay, I wasn’t implying—”

  “But while we’re on the subject, I feel you should know that I didn’t take cuts. He gave ’em to me.”

  Armstrong points to the front of the line, where Alex Levinson stands with his shoulders all hunched over.

  “Alex,” I say, “did you give Armstrong cuts?”

  He shrugs. “I’m not so good at handball.”

  “But you’re in next. You won’t get better if you don’t play.”

  “Is it wrong to give him cuts? His first day and all.”

  “It makes everyone else wait longer.”


  Alex sighs. “I’ll go to the back of the line, then,” he says. “I learn better by watching.”

  Armstrong

  The rules, according to Charlie Ross, are no slicies on serves; pops are a do-over; Americans and self-inners are out; winner serves; waterfalls and dead killers count. Well, I just served six games in a row, and here comes this bird of a girl. Looks like she won’t be going through her physical change any time this decade. She’s so little, so brittle, I can’t help but give her the advantage.

  So I hand her the ball. “What’s your name, sweet stuff?”

  “Shelley.”

  “I’m Armstrong. Why don’t you serve? I’ll go easy on you.”

  She pushes her glasses up on her nose, bounces the ball twice for luck, and serves. I give her a nice high-bouncing return that sets her up for a slicey or a slammer. Next thing I know, her twig of an arm starts spinning around like a rock in a sock. Goes right past the ball and—​blam!—​slaps her upside her own head. Glasses halfway down her cheek now. Skinny butt on the ground.

  “You okay?” I say.

  “I’m not very good at sports.”

  “You just haven’t found the right one yet.”

  I help her up, walk her back to the line.

  Next in … Otis.

  The thing about Otis is, he’s a pasty-skinned brother. I bet he put black and white on his school form. He’s quiet most of the time, too. Busy with his astrology books. We get along okay. But sometimes when you start something new, you don’t want something old hanging on. That’s how I feel about Otis, like he’s an old coat I’m fixing to outgrow.

  “You want to serve, Otis?”

  “That’s okay, Armstrong. I’ll receive.”

  Receive. Already he’s using some extra syllables around here.

  I’ll just get him out real fast. That’s what Otis needs. I start off with a slammer. He’s quick to run it down. I do a slicey. He knows how to return that, too. Pretty soon all the white faces in line are swinging back and forth between slicies and slammers, waterfalls and cross-countries, dribbles and dinks. Then Otis catches the ball and says, “You win, Armstrong.” It’s like he knows he’ll never beat me. Knows he’ll never lose, either. And he’s so polite, he wants to give the other kids a turn.

  Here comes Charlie Ross. I can tell he wants to beat me real bad.

  “You wanna serve?” I say.

  “Winner serves,” he says, handing over the ball.