Armstrong and Charlie

by Steven B. Frank

  Otis looks at me like he’s reading my face the way he’s been reading that book.

  “You know your zodiac animal?”

  I shake my head no.

  “Crab. They move side to side.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Well … if you need to get out of the way of something, it’s good. But if you need to stand your ground, it’s not.”

  Otis goes back to his book. I hear him say things like “Uh-huh” and “That’s interesting” and “You don’t say?” I don’t want to interrupt him, but I’m curious about something, so when he licks his finger to turn the page, that’s my opening to ask, “What sign is Armstrong?”

  “Taurus. The bull. He barrels straight ahead. Lotta times without thinking.”

  “Is that why he’s so mean?”

  “It’s part of it.”

  “What’s the other part?”

  “Armstrong is also mean because he’s the youngest and not allowed to fight back against his sisters. Armstrong is mean because at our old school he was considered small for his age, so he had to fight his way to the top. One time some kids jumped him. They broke his arm. And Armstrong is mean because of his daddy.”

  “What does his father do to him?”

  Otis looks at me like that’s private. I remember that Armstrong’s father is a kickboxer. Does he practice on his only son?

  “How come he’s so mean to you?”

  “We go way back. Besides, he knows I’m a Libra. We like to keep the peace. And we’re real quick to forgive.”

  By now Otis’s finger is dry, and I can see he really wants to turn that page, but before he licks his finger again I say, “One more thing, Otis.”

  “Yes, Charlie?”

  “Is there anyone at this school who can beat up Armstrong?”

  “Student or a teacher?”

  “Student.”

  “None that I know of. It might be possible for our teacher, Mr. Mitchell, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  Armstrong

  Friday afternoons at my old school, Miss Silverton used to read to us. Books from inside her desk. Books from her purse. Books from her coat. She was a library with feet.

  I liked the one about the boy who wins the chocolate factory. And the Hardy Boys. A little too white for my taste, but they sure can solve a crime.

  Here at Wonderland they’ve got the wrong idea about reading. Instead of reading from a book, Mr. Mitchell thinks we should read from a box.

  He calls it the SRA box. Inside you find shiny plastic cards with a colored band at the top. Green, blue, yellow, orange, red, silver, and gold. Each one’s got a different article or paragraph they want you to read. Comprehension questions waiting on the back of the card. We do the questions, then check ourselves against the key from the back of the box. If we get all the questions right on three cards in a row, we go up a color.

  Here’s something I read on a green card: A grasshopper can camouflage itself on a leaf. Both are the same shade of green. The insect blends in. On the back the questions go like this:

  A grasshopper can blend in on a leaf because …

  a) the sunlight is in its face.

  b) it has the same color as the leaf.

  c) it hides under a rock.

  This is the most insulting type of reading you ever saw. The colors change, but the writing stays the same. Words get a little longer, is all. You never see the author’s name on a card. I wouldn’t put my name on them either.

  Meantime, Mr. Mitchell is studying his Los Angeles Times. Miss Silverton never did her own business at the desk.

  I go up to that box of cards and flip past the yellows and oranges. Pick up a red card. Maybe this is where the stories are.

  Mr. Mitchell looks up from the sports section, where he’s checking the odds for Sunday’s Rams game.

  “What are you doing, Armstrong?”

  “Looking for something good to read.”

  “What color are you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What color reader are you? I see your hands up there at red.”

  “My hand is searching for a story, sir.”

  “Yes, but you have to make progress to read in the advanced section.”

  “Well, I have made progress,” I say. “I read at the same level as, uh, Charlie Ross, for instance.”

  “Is that right?”

  Mr. Mitchell folds up his Los Angeles Times like it’s ready for redelivery. He slides back from his desk and strolls over. “Mr. Ross,” he says, “Mr. Le Rois here thinks he can read at your level. What color are you up to?”

  “I don’t know,” Ross says. “Red, maybe.”

  “Red is just two colors shy of gold.” Then Mr. Mitchell turns to me. “And you think you’re a red reader, is that right?”

  “I am if he is.”

  “Well, if you are, you’ve been keeping it a secret.”

  “I was brought up not to boast, sir.”

  “Were you brought up not to bet?”

  “Betting’s okay.”

  “So you’d be willing to bet that you can read at the same color as Charlie Ross.”

  “Yes, sir. But I’d like to know what it is we’re betting.”

  “Your grade, of course. If you read a red card and get as many questions right as Charlie gets on his red card, I’ll give you an A-plus in reading.”

  “And if he can’t?” Charlie Ross asks.

  “Then he brings home an F to his mother, who I’m sure taught him not to lie, either.”

  Terrific. Now I’m in a reading contest.

  Charlie

  When Mr. Mitchell asks for a volunteer to keep time, the only hands that aren’t practically holding up the ceiling belong to Otis, Alex, and Shelley.

  “Okay, Jason,” he says. Jason Vale, a heavyset kid whose hair grows wild down his shoulders like the ivy on our back slope, gets up from his seat. Mr. Mitchell hands Jason a small stopwatch.

  “Ten minutes,” Mr. Mitchell says.

  “Ready … set … go!”

  I look down at my SRA card. It’s a page from The Boy Scout Handbook on how to construct a raft. At least that’s practical information. I wonder what Armstrong got. I glance at his card: “Parliamentary System of Government in England.”

  How’s that for a fun read? What are we even doing here? It’s like Mr. Mitchell is going out of his way to embarrass Armstrong. For what? Claiming a level, a “color,” above his own?

  When constructing a raft in nature, the first step is to …

  a) seek level ground.

  b) gather wood.

  c) unspool rope.

  The manual said the first step is to seek level ground. I choose c) unspool rope.

  When gathering wood, you should look for logs …

  a) of equal thickness.

  b) of equal length.

  c) of the same kind of tree.

  I glance back at the part about wood gathering. It says the most important factor in selecting wood is length. I choose c) of the same kind of tree.

  I can see that Armstrong’s on the last question when Jason shouts, “STOP! Time’s up!”

  Mr. Mitchell asks us what card numbers we have. We tell him, and he gets the answer keys from the back of the box. He hands me Armstrong’s card and he hands Armstrong mine, telling us to grade each other.

  There’s this underwater silence in the room as I go over Armstrong’s answers. Each time he gets one right I feel relieved, like it’s my own test I’m grading. Each time he gets one wrong, it’s hard to breathe.

  “Well?” Mr. Mitchell says when we both look up.

  “He got three wrong,” I say. Mr. Mitchell looks over Armstrong’s answer sheet. Then he looks at Armstrong. “And how did Mr. Ross do?”

  The room goes quiet again. And then Armstrong announces the verdict. “Two out of ten.”

  “Two wrong out of ten,” Mr. Mitchell says. “He beat you by one.”

  “Two right out of ten. Eight wrong.”

/>   Otis smiles. Mr. Mitchell plucks the card from Armstrong’s hand, thinking there’s got to be some mistake. He compares my answers to the key, then hands the card back to me.

  “It would appear that Mr. Ross needs to work on his reading,” Mr. Mitchell says.

  Armstrong

  In the boys’ bathroom, I don’t even wait for Ross to zip up before I shove him against the wall.

  “Don’t you ever cut yourself down for me again,” I say.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “You put the wrong answers on purpose, didn’t you?”

  Ross tries to look away from me, but I get right up in his face. “Thought you’d do me a favor. Make the bus boy look a little less dumb.”

  “The contest was dumb, Armstrong. Not you.”

  “Bad enough I got that man for a teacher. I don’t need any charity from you.”

  “It wasn’t charity. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Look, Ross, next time we get in a contest, pay attention. Try to win.”

  “Fine,” he says. “I will.”

  “Try as hard as you can.”

  “Fine,” he says again. “I will.”

  “Try like your life depends on it.”

  “FINE!” he shouts. “I WILL!”

  “And before you walk out of here, I think you should know that your fly is open.”

  On my way out, I hear him zipping up.

  · 5 ·

  Flashes of Silver

  Armstrong

  LAST YEAR DURING LUNCHTIME, I always knew where to sit. If I sat at Caldwell’s table, I would have my ass kicked. But I could have a space over by Jerome and eat in peace. Around here, my ass is not likely to get kicked, but at the same time, I’m not sure where it should land. There’s room at Alex Levinson’s table, but Otis’s lunch box is already there.

  There’s Alma and Dezzy over by that tree, but why take the opportunity to come to a white school if you’re going to sit at the black table? Might as well sleep in. I could eat with the fifth-graders, but I think they’re scared of me.

  I might try to sit beside Charlie Ross, but ever since he told me about his dead brother, I don’t feel right around him. Plus, he didn’t respect me in the reading contest.

  So most days I eat alone.

  About halfway through lunch, flashes of silver start coming out of everybody else’s bag. Charlie Ross is always pulling out the silver. And the minute he unwraps it, I smell chocolate. Ding Dongs most days, but lately he’s got these smaller treats he calls Ho Hos. Sounds like Santa’s food.

  A Ho Ho starts with flat chocolate cake. Then comes a layer of smooth white frosting. The two are rolled up together in a black ’n’ white wheel. And if that’s not tempting enough, the whole scrumdiddlyumptious thing is dipped in more chocolate! Man, what I wouldn’t do to try one!

  At the market the other day I told my daddy, “Hey, Daddy, I’d like to try Ho Hos in my lunch.”

  “Ho Hos cost seventy-five cents a box. When’s the last time you earned seventy-five cents?”

  Maybe I’ll make friends with Charlie Ross and we’ll do a trade. I can guess how that’s going to go.

  Say, Ross, you got Ho Hos in your lunch. Trade you for some celery?

  Or Hey, Ross, you want me to help you with your math homework? Two Ho Hos for twenty problems.

  Or You know, Ross, I was talking to Leslie Maduros about you.

  You were?

  She says she likes you a lot.

  She does?

  Only trouble is, she’s worried you’re getting a little chunky.

  Well, I have been lifting weights.

  Been lifting Ho Hos, too. Tell you what. I think you could get some action with that girl. I will put you on a diet first. Let me hold your Ho Hos, and soon you’ll be holding her hand.

  Okey-dokey. Here you go.

  He’ll see right through that scheme.

  I could just flat-out ask him.

  Say, Ross, what are you having for your dessert today?

  A Ho Ho.

  Never had one of those. Looks pretty good.

  Mmmm hmmm, he’ll say. Sure is. Then he’ll lick the last bit of chocolate off that foil.

  It says in the Bible “Thou shalt not steal.” But the Bible is the word of God, right? Whoever wrote it down was stealing from the Lord. Making good money off Him too. That’s the best-selling book of all time. Don’t you think it’s worse to be stealing from the Almighty than from chunky Charlie Ross?

  On the other hand, if I take what’s not mine, Mr. Khalil will kill me with silence. And my daddy will kill me with words.

  On the other other hand, I really want to try a Ho Ho.

  Charlie

  The first time there’s no Ho Ho in my lunch, I don’t give it much thought. Lily probably forgot, is all. The second and third times I’m a little annoyed. I figure we ran out.

  The fourth time I curse her. I’ve eaten half my tuna sandwich, my barbecue chips, the celery and carrot sticks. I’ve taken the required three bites of my apple. I’m ready for dessert.

  But when I reach into the brown paper bag with my name on it, I feel no silver foil. No palm-sized cylinder of joy. What I feel instead is the bottom of the bag, as empty and low as my heart.

  That night after dinner, I stand in the kitchen watching Lily make my lunch, like she’s a factory worker and I’m her boss. When she drops a Ho Ho in my bag, I peer a little closer into the sack. She looks at me and says, “Qué pasa, Charlie?”

  “You forgot my Ho Ho yesterday.”

  “No.”

  “Sí. And the day before.”

  “No.”

  “Sí. You forgot all week.”

  She looks at me like she thinks I’m making this up.

  “Había una caja entera el domingo. Deberian quedar cinco.”

  Lily tips over the box, and sure enough, five Ho Hos tumble out. She thinks for a second.

  “Tal vez alguien esta robando.”

  “Robando?”

  She grabs a Ho Ho and sneaks it under her arm.

  “Who would steal a Ho Ho?”

  “Quién sabe?”

  That’s Spanish for “Who knows?” Well … there’s one way to find out.

  My plan wouldn’t be possible without Lily. She has weekends off, and when she comes back from Olvera Street on Sunday night, it’s usually with a bag of foods she doesn’t even try to translate for the shopping list. Dried chili peppers, powdered spices, and sauces with dancing flames on their labels. She keeps them in her room on top of her TV so there’s no chance our gringo tongues’ll get burned.

  And my plan wouldn’t be possible without Andy. When the allergy doctor wanted to put him on weekly shots and charge five dollars a poke in the office, my dad thought that was an “excessive” fee. He ordered a year’s supply of syringes from a pharmaceutical catalog, and Mom gave Andy the shots at home. I used to watch as she’d take a syringe, poke its needle into the jar with the medicine, and pull back the plunger, filling the syringe halfway with a clear liquid. Then I’d watch Mom give Andy the shot.

  The bad thing about ordering a year’s supply of something is, if the person you ordered it for dies, you’re stuck with a lot of leftovers.

  The good thing is, leftover syringes can come in handy.

  Friday morning I’m up and out of bed before my clock radio goes off. I’ve got this nervous, giddy feeling, like revenge is just a few bites away. In class five minutes before the bell, I take the brown bag with my name on it and set it on the shelf inside our coat closet. As I turn away, I can feel Armstrong’s Ho Ho–hungry eyes on me, but I don’t return the look. I wouldn’t want to make him suspicious.

  To look at it—​to touch it, even—​you won’t notice anything different about the Ho Ho in my bag. It’s the familiar foil-wrapped chocolate cake and white frosting rolled up into one treat. You might even unwrap it and sniff around. You’ll smell chocolate and sweet cream and nothing more.

  But take a bite,
and your mouth is in for a surprise.

  INCIDENT REPORT

  Submitted by: Edwina Gaines, Yard Supervisor at Wonderland Avenue School

  Date of Incident: Friday, November 1, 1974

  Time: 12:25 p.m.

  Location: the upper yard

  I was on yard duty at lunchtime today, and the children seemed to be eating their lunch just fine with no incidents to report. But all of a sudden I heard a cry rise up from the crowd, and it sounded like “HOT, HOT! THPITHEY! HELP! WATUH!” I looked over and saw that a crowd of people had formed around a boy whose mouth evidently had made contact with some spicy food. Now, I know there’s a packet of hot sauce served with the burritos in the lunch program, but I have had that sauce and there’s nothing to it. So clearly this was something that had arrived in a bag or box of one of the students. I could not see who that boy was on account of the crowd, but I could hear his desperate cry. And pretty soon I saw what I can only describe as a fire brigade of students in a line between the boy whose mouth seemed afire and the water fountain, where all three spigots were filling Dixie Cups that were then being passed up the line to the boy. I debated whether or not to blow my whistle and decided to leave it hanging because I did not want to interrupt the relief that was under way. I did, however, make my way along that brigade to the front, where I discovered a boy with one hand flapping like a wing in front of his mouth and the other gratefully receiving cups of water from the line.

  That boy was Alex Levinson.

  I asked him what happened. His speech was hindered by the swelling of his tongue.

  “Thpithey. Thometing thpithey,” he said.

  “What did you eat today, Alex?”

  He answered in two brief grunts of equal duration. I did not understand the words. Then he held up a foil wrapper that anyone here will recognize as the mark of a Hostess product, either Ding Dong or Ho Ho. Judging by the size and shape of the wrapper, I determined it was a Ho Ho.“Was there something wrong with the Ho Ho in your lunch?” I asked.

  “Thometing wong, yeth,” he said, “but not my lunth.”

  “Well, then, how did you get this Ho Ho?”

  “I … I tayded for it.”

  “Traded whom?”

  “Armthong.”

  “Armstrong,” I said, “did you give this boy a Ho Ho?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Gaines, I did. But I don’t know how come it lit his tongue on fire.”