New Boy

by Tracy Chevalier

  “So…doesn’t that matter to you?”

  “Why should it matter?”

  “Because he’s different from us. He stands out.” Mimi wasn’t sure why she was saying this; she wasn’t even sure she believed it. She was aware too that she sounded just like Blanca a few minutes before. But she persisted; she wanted to warn her friend of what she sensed lay ahead. “People will make fun of you. Going with a monkey, they’ll say. Not me, of course, but others.”

  Dee stared at her. “Are you kidding me? That’s all you’ve got to say about him? You want to tell me he’s too different to go with?”

  “No, I…Forget I said anything. I’m your best friend, I just want to make sure you don’t get hurt—not by him, but—”

  “His name is Osei, Mimi. Why don’t you call him by his name?”

  “OK, Osei. He seems nice enough. But you’re gonna get a lot of hassle if you go with him. And what would your mom say? She’d have a fit!”

  Dee turned pale at the mention of her mother, then covered it with defiance. “I don’t care what other people think—or my mother. And I like him because he’s different.”

  The boys had split into teams now and started playing kickball. Dee had her eyes on O, out in the field toward the back. “You know,” she added, “I could’ve said things about you going with Ian, but I didn’t.”

  I probably deserved that, Mimi thought. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just trying to help. Don’t be mad at me.”

  “I’m not. I could be, ’cause what you said could be offensive—to Osei as well as to me. But I know you didn’t mean it. Don’t worry, I can take care of myself.” Dee’s string of adult sentiments sounded unconvincing to Mimi, and condescending. But she merely nodded, relieved her friend wasn’t angry. Dee was too smitten to be.

  As she turned to watch Ian roll the ball toward the first kicker, Mimi could feel the tension building in her head and her gut. Eventually it would have to be released.

  Osei was relieved when the bell rang for morning recess. Although a classroom was safer—he had his desk, his place where he was meant to be; and he had his tasks, what he was supposed to do; and best of all he had Dee paying attention to him—after an hour and a half the room had become oppressive and he was ready for fresh air, whatever dangers the playground held.

  The classroom was like the others he had been a student in—though maybe more liberal than the English and Italian schools. There was schoolwork on all the walls: an art project where students drew self-portraits; posters about photosynthesis, pandas, Australia, Martin Luther King Jr. There were pieces of rock on the windowsill: quartz, marble, granite, lava. There was a whole wall about the Apollo space missions, and a reading corner full of cushions and beanbags, where you could go if you’d finished your work. The walls there were covered with posters of peace signs and the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine album cover. Dee whispered that it had been set up by a teaching assistant enthusiastic about an idea called the “open classroom,” but that Mr. Brabant disapproved of the corner, calling her a hippie radical behind her back, and he only let students use it on the afternoons when the assistant was there.

  Mr. Brabant’s desk was at the front of the class, and he sat behind it like a soldier at attention, which made all the students sit straight and still as well. He wore a suit and tie and seemed no-nonsense. Osei preferred that in teachers; you knew where you were when they were strict. It was when they tried to be your friend that misunderstandings arose. On the other hand, Mr. Brabant’s cool gaze was not welcoming, but wary, as if he were waiting for O to do something he could punish him for. Osei was familiar with that drill; he would have to watch himself.

  Once Mr. Brabant had quizzed Osei about his pencil case and he had quietly traded with Dee, the teacher said, “All right, class,” and everyone stood and faced the corner by the door where an American flag hung. Placing their right hands on their left chests over their hearts, they began to recite: “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America…” Dee glanced at him, but visibly relaxed when Osei began to say the words along with the others. He managed to suppress the smile that threatened to undermine the solemnity of the oath. O had never had to perform such a patriotic act in schools outside of the US—though he did once sing “God Save the Queen” at a cricket match at Lord’s in London, which he’d gone to with his father. No one ever questioned reciting the Pledge of Allegiance—except for a faction of students in his school in New York who complained that having to say “one nation, under God” violated their civil rights as atheists. Osei had kept quiet while that argument went on—he didn’t need to bring more negative attention to himself. Besides, his mother would have cried if she’d heard him calling himself an atheist—once he’d found out what it meant. O himself was not sure about God; in church His existence made sense, but when he was being held down and punched just out of sight of his school, he wondered then where God was.

  Later when he told his sister, Sisi, what the atheists had said, she grunted. “They want to know about civil rights, they shoulda asked you.” At the time she was going through the phase where she tried to sound more black American than African, with a higher tone, looser grammar, and vowels that took their time. Osei had not yet felt ready to follow her there, though he could sound American when he wanted to. Since they had spent their first years in Ghana, as well as every summer, they could turn the accent on and off like a faucet, unlike their parents. It came in handy sometimes.

  O had already decided he would emphasize the African at this Washington school. White people seemed to feel less threatened by Africans. Not always, of course. But he sensed their fear about black Americans—who found ways to take advantage of that fear. It seemed to be the only advantage they had.

  After the Pledge of Allegiance, Mr. Brabant handed Dee a red, white, and blue cloth triangle, and she briefly disappeared with another girl, first whispering, “I have to go put up the American flag. I’ll be right back.” Osei had no idea what she meant, but the moment she was gone he felt much more exposed. Around him he could hear whispers and giggles, which he tried to ignore. Across from him, Patty was peeking out from under her bangs, and turned red when he caught her at it. Next to her, Duncan stared more openly, with a puzzled expression, as if he were trying to work up a good joke about O, and failing because he wasn’t quite smart enough—and knew it.

  O didn’t want to admit it, but it was a relief when Dee slipped back into her seat beside him.

  Though Mr. Brabant was strict, throughout the morning he allowed Dee to explain things to O in a low voice. She was clearly a favorite—a teacher’s pet, they called it in America. O had never been a teacher’s pet, as they never really knew what to make of him. He was conscientious enough: he did his homework, he paid attention in class, he didn’t misbehave. He didn’t raise his hand much either, or write any particularly interesting stories, or paint a good picture, or read books above his ability. Due to moving so much, he often had gaps in his knowledge that regularly tripped him up. He was a solid B student.

  O suspected his teachers were relieved that he didn’t draw attention to himself by acting up or flunking or being a star student. Clearly some of them expected bad behavior. They would have been a little nervous of a black boy giving them a hard time, but others may have wanted him to, so that they could punish him. Sometimes they were taken aback by O scoring 100 percent on a pop quiz in math, or knowing that bronze was made of tin and copper, or that Berlin had a wall dividing it in two. They shot him looks that revealed suspicions he was cheating somehow, though actually he had gained much of his knowledge from overhearing Sisi as she did her homework.

  Other times, though, he got tripped up on the easiest things: not knowing who the two main generals were in the American Civil War, or who had assassinated Abraham Lincoln, or that John Hancock had an elaborate signature. His method of long division was English and looked very different from the American way—though he still got the same answer
. When he made mistakes, Osei sensed the teachers nodding to themselves, secretly pleased. This was what they expected—a black boy messing up.

  After an hour the class suddenly rose collectively to its feet, carrying Osei along with it. A middle-aged woman had appeared in the doorway. She had gray hair cut like a helmet, and was wearing a dark green skirt suit and a strand of chunky fake pearls. Authority emanated from her, and Osei knew she must be the principal, come to have a look at him.

  “Mrs. Duke,” Dee whispered.

  “Good morning, students,” she said.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Duke,” they repeated in an obedient singsong Osei had heard in every school.

  “You may sit down. I’m here to say hello to our new student, Osei Kokote.” She got his last name right but pronounced his first “Oss-I,” with a thick, deliberate emphasis, as if saying such a name required effort. O was not about to correct her.

  “Oss-I is from Ghana, is that right, Oss-I?” Her eyes landed just above his head.

  “Yes, madam,” he replied automatically.

  “Mrs. Duke,” Dee whispered again.

  “Well, Oss-I, would you like to stand and tell us something about Ghana?” Though her voice rose at the end, this was clearly a command rather than a question.

  “Yes, Mrs. Duke.” Osei stood. He wasn’t as worried as he might be; he’d had to do this before.

  “Ghana is a country in West Africa,” he began, “situated between Togo and the Ivory Coast, with a coastline on the Atlantic Ocean. It has a population of nine million people. Its capital is Accra, which is where I was born. It was a colony of Great Britain until 1957, when it declared independence—the way America did in 1776,” he added, because he could see the other students looking baffled. “General Acheampong led a military coup d’état in 1972 and became leader.” Osei remembered the tension that summer when they returned to Ghana—tanks and soldiers with machine guns at the airport. They did not stay in Accra but went straight to his grandfather’s village, where things were as they had always been.

  More bafflement. The US had never had a coup d’état, so how could they know? O returned to more familiar topics. “Ghana has a tropical climate: it is warm all year around, and there is a rainy season in the spring and summer. Its main products are cocoa, gold, and oil.”

  He stopped, looking at Mrs. Duke to gauge whether she expected him to continue. He hated reducing his vibrant, complicated country to a few bland sentences. But he knew that was what she wanted.

  The class was silent. Mr. Brabant was looking out the window and frowning. But Mrs. Duke nodded, satisfied. “Very good, Oss-I. That was very articulate. I always welcome the opportunity for a new student in this school to teach something to others about the world.” She turned to the class. “I hope you will welcome Oss-I so that he will feel at home for the month he is here.”

  If only she had stopped there.

  “He may not have had the opportunities that you all enjoy at our school, so I hope you will give him every chance to take part in all we have to offer to less fortunate students.”

  The last three words made Osei grit his teeth. Mrs. Duke’s comment reminded him of a short story by Shirley Jackson called “After You, My Dear Alphonse,” where a mother reveals her prejudice to the black friend her son brings home. Earlier that year, a well-meaning teacher in New York had had Osei’s class read and discuss it, thinking they were old enough to handle the topic and that it might help with “interpersonal relations,” as she’d put it. Instead his classmates had been awkward around him for weeks afterward.

  The principal nodded at Mr. Brabant. “Thank you, class. You may continue your lesson.” After she’d gone, her perfume—floral, too sweet—lingered.

  When the bell rang and Dee whispered, “Morning recess,” O let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. Still, he took his time going outside, heading first to the bathroom—led there by Dee, who seemed reluctant to leave him even when he insisted he knew his way to the playground. “Your friends will be waiting for you,” he said.

  She shrugged. “They can wait.”

  “They will talk about you.”

  She laughed.

  “Really,” he said finally. “I will be fine. Please go.”

  Then she blushed, but she went. The moment she was gone, O wished she were back again. It was flattering to have someone be so intent.

  To his relief the bathroom was empty, but he still used a stall rather than the urinal so that if anyone came in he wouldn’t have to endure the pointed glances to see how big and what color his equipment was.

  Stepping onto a playground as a new boy for the second time was harder than the first, where an element of surprise usually carried him through to the safe harbor of a desk. Now, as he passed out of the building and onto the playground, Osei knew people would be waiting for him, watching to see what he did, making as clear as possible that he was not like them.

  It was a very different feeling from that which he had each summer as he arrived with his family at the airport in Accra, stepping outside into an intense heat that made sweat break out on his scalp. Apart from the chaos of people and cars, the honking of ubiquitous horns, the taxi drivers hissing to get their attention, the highs and lows of the surrounding voices, the shrieks and cries of a society that did not muffle how it felt, Osei always sensed something much more profound: the ease of being among people who looked like him. His people, who did not stare at him or pass judgment on his skin color. Of course, they might soon judge him on other things—humans could not help but compare—clothes, money, what you studied in school, what your father did and how you spoke and where you went on vacation and how you wore your hair. But that first immediate sense of belonging—and of being anonymous among similar skin tones—was one that Osei welcomed every summer and missed for the rest of the year.

  He stood on the playground and watched as blue eyes turned toward him, as conversations died down, as the air thinned so that everything came into too sharp a focus on him.

  Not for long, though. As was often the case, sports saved him. Osei was much more confident with balls and bases and goals and teams than with times tables, pop quizzes, and timelines of American history. Sports was a language he was fluent in, because it didn’t require learning new things each time he moved. Cricket and softball had their differences, but swinging a bat or catching a ball or running—these movements transferred easily.

  The sixth grade boys were gathering at one end of the playground to play kickball. Osei knew it would be best to join them; taking part was a safer option than remaining alone. He had learned to play soccer in Ghana and Rome, cricket in London, softball and basketball in New York. Kickball was like softball, or English rounders, with bases and runs and outfielders and a pitcher who rolled a red rubber ball the size of a basketball at you, and you kicked it and ran. It was hard to take a bouncy ball seriously, and the kicks made everyone look a little foolish. But it was fun to play, and you didn’t have to be really good to kick the ball, or catch it. Everyone stood a chance of playing well. Even American girls played kickball, whereas O had never seen Italian or English girls playing soccer.

  He was not worried about the game itself, but the choosing of teams was like the cold shower he had to run through to get to the warm swimming pool. As the new boy, he was likely to be chosen last, since he was an unknown quantity and had no alliances to count on. It was always humiliating to stand there as boys were chosen, bodies thinned from either side of him till he stood with just one or two others—the weak, the sick, the friendless. The black. Usually he fixed his eyes on something in the distance so he would not have to see the grins and—worse—the looks of pity. If the captains were merciful they didn’t linger, but divided up the rejects swiftly. Sometimes, though, a captain would take his time to study who was left, and would laugh and say something derogatory to his teammates, and O would have to stand there and clench his fists and imagine his mother saying, “No violence
, Osei. Fighting is not the way.” He did not always obey her.

  Today he stood to one side, resigned to waiting for the endgame with the other losers. At least he had something to look at in the distance: Dee was sitting with her friends on the playground pirate ship, smiling at him.

  He was smiling back when he felt a nudge. “Hey,” said a heavy boy next to him. “Ian wants you.”

  O looked up, surprised. The two captains, Casper and Ian, had each picked a teammate and were starting the second round. Ian was the boy who had told O where to stand before school. His eyes were gray like slate, with a guardedness that made it hard to read him. Osei understood that shuttering of the eyes; he had done the same himself, for protection. He was doing it now.

  “You—what’s your name?” Ian asked.

  Osei hesitated. I am named after Asante kings, he wanted to say. My name means “noble.” But he said neither of these things, though he was proud of his name. It was because he was proud of it that he wanted to keep it safe from bullies and jokers. “Call me O,” he said.

  “O, have you played kickball before?”

  “Yes—in New York.”

  There was a silence. He’d noticed that the mention of New York often inspired awe from residents of other cities, who thought it was huge and dangerous. He wasn’t going to tell them that he’d gone to a sedate private school—also all white—rather than a much tougher public school. Casper, the other captain, nodded in a show of respect. Osei recognized his type. He looked a little like a blond David Cassidy from The Partridge Family; Sisi had kept a poster of him on her wall for a few years, before replacing it with one of Malcolm X.

  “All right,” Ian said then, and gestured with his head for O to join him.

  “What’s he up to?” the heavy boy muttered to his neighbor as Osei walked awkwardly over to Ian’s team, feeling the pressure of fifteen pairs of eyes on him.

  It was only when he had joined them that Ian said, “Black people are good at sports, right?”