Resistance was total. The pant leg refused entry like a body rejects an organ of another blood type. In the process, Sheila sprained her little toe just before crashing into the floor lamp. Mid-flight, she tried to catch herself on the bureau, but she only managed to grab hold of the doily that was under her collection of costume jewelry. The ornaments flew in every direction like a mini Big Bang effect.
There was a knock at the door. Her mom. Sheila covered her eyes with her right hand as if to render herself invisible in case Julia entered the room. If Julia opened the door, she would’ve seen her daughter on the floor, on her back, with her right foot up on the bed, a necklace somehow lassoed around her big toe and her left arm leaning against the bottom half of the bureau, still holding onto the doily. But Julia didn’t come in. Instead she went back to bed and Sheila stayed on the floor a long time, thinking about her brother.
If that stupid Maurice and his friends hadn’t been teasing me so much, all of this wouldn’t have happened. I had only said that my brother would get them for messing with me. I only wanted them to leave me alone. I didn’t want Timmy to get beat-up. Darryl better not have been there! No…I can’t believe that! He knows Tim! I can’t believe it. I mean…he was trying to talk to me the other day at my locker until Maurice showed up. Silly boy! I bet he’s embarrassed to be seen with a fat girl. Oh well…but he really is cute and smart…and with that curly hair hmm…How can he be friends with that silly boy Maurice? Well, if he can’t like me for who I am, then who needs him? Oh, I wish that I wasn’t like this. Tomorrow, I’m going to start working out, like the gym teacher said. But even my silly brother teases me! Yeah right, ‘Mr. Asphalt,’ ha! That was just—just pitiful at dinner. He was so hurt sitting there at the table. I’m not going to tease him anymore about it. I’ve got to figure out how to help him with this reading thing.
Tim lay face up on the rug in his bedroom. He’d collapsed into a sweaty lump after only twenty pushups and thought, Ugh—last day of school tomorrow…finally! Through the Venetian blinds, rays from the street lamp outside of his window stabbed him in the eyes and made his head pound with pain. With a groan he pulled a comic book over his face and thought of his mother’s eyes at dinner and how his sister had pounced on him with the sympathy of an alley cat on a can of tuna fish.
It’s asphalt, SILLY BOY. Tim, when are you actually going to learn to read? You know that the proficiencies happen the first week of school and you’ve got to pass or be held back—AGAIN!
He saw the disappointment on his mother’s face and how she tried to cover it up by shushing his sister. Uncle Gentrale had attempted to soften the blow of his sister’s words by cracking another tired joke, but it fell flat. “Ugh…Unk. Sometimes you don’t know when to shut the fuck up,” he mumbled, climbing into bed.
Tim woke up, bound in his sheets like a mummy. He lay still and listened to the quiet. He played a game with the tick of the clock: five to inhale, five to exhale. A sudden rustling in the trees next to the window sent him back to the park, back to that kick to Maurice’s forehead, back to the truth…that it was a fluke, an accident, that he really hadn’t tried very hard to defend himself. The sneaker business was a pretext, a cover for his fear. Was it because Maurice was older? He didn’t know. Then he saw it: the face of Maurice on the body of his father, dressed in his bus driver uniform. But instead of the sad expression that his dad usually pulled off when he had thrashed him as a kid, this Mau-Dad was gloating as he tried his best to draw blood, demanding respect with every blow. Shivering now, Tim rocked his body side to side, but he wasn’t cold…it was rage that shook him. Motionless again, a single thought loomed into his consciousness as a dark cadence fell upon his lips.
“I’m-gonna-get-that-motherfucker, I’m-gonna-get-that-motherfucker, I’m-gonna-get that—”
FUNKIER THAN A JAMES BROWN RECORD
Like a mountain,
with a handrail.
An-a-logue
For an epic fail.
Six steps up to my door
Just six steps to my door
Very fitting, for this
Dystopian-fairytale.
Now I’m staring in the mirror
Looking at a broken boy,
Who a Dog and his friends
Used as a soccer toy.
Uncle Gentrale sits there sporting a big crazy grin.
It’s not compassion—he wants to get his licks in.
So he waits.
I just want to get by him, but my legs won’t let me go
So I limp on like a wounded animal across the floor.
Don’t know what inspired it, I don’t even give a shit
Probably the look on my face would give Lil Wayne a fit.
My mom is banging on the door—I have nothing to say
Where would I start?
She won’t believe me anyway.
My sister be looking at me like I’m cray-cray
Speaking of my sister with her big-ol-big-ol mouth
She’s the major reason for things—goin’ south.
She looks at me with pity in her eyes
What were you thinking fucking with Maurice and his guys?
The twinkle in his eye
told me the moment had arrived,
Gentrale couldn’t sit there
Not for a minute five
Not for a minute more.
Staying silent, he could not abide—
So he let it fly…
Boy, you be funkier than a James Brown record!
BRINGS THE WORD WITH HIM
Early the next morning, Tim sat alone on the steps of the school.
The light had shifted and the building, scrubbed clean of graffiti, was different—as if it couldn’t wait for the summer to wipe away signs of the school year. It was going to be a hot one—a breeze carrying the scent of lilacs his way held the first hint of humidity. But the beginning of summer made him think of the fall when he would have to pass the English proficiency or else. He scoffed at the thought of his teacher Jones who seemed so interested in him. Could it be the guy really thought he was dumb or something? Nah. The dude liked his raps and always said that he had a talent with words. But then a part of Tim didn’t care what the hell Jones or anybody else thought. Leaning back onto the concrete steps, he was grateful for the time that remained before the doors opened. He had other things on his mind and needed some quiet time anyway.
The peace didn’t last long. The sound of a bouncing ball made him look up. One of the twins approached in a zig-zagged line, weaving through whatever objects or debris lay in his path.
Tim stood up to check out the moves but couldn’t tell which of the twins it was. He took a guess.
“What up, Squid?”
“I’m Lucy, fool. Ha! You still can’t tell the difference between us? Yo, gimme some,” she said holding out a fist. “Considering yesterday, it’s pretty early for you. What up with that?”
Tim had to laugh at that one. “Speak for yourself, girl. Anyway I was just thinking about the break and whatnot. Like, what y’all planning to do this summer?”
Lucy smiled, passed the ball between her legs and came up with it spinning on an index finger. “Not too much. Mostly just hangin’ out around here. You?”
“Well, after I finish up with summer school, we’re talking about spending some time up at our summer house,” he said with a chuckle.
Lucy sighed with what she thought an air of affluence. “Yeah, I feel you, brother, do some water skiin’ on the lake. Catch some rays. Yeah, right!” Then she shook her head as if she’d just heard what Tim said. “Shit! You going to summer school—for real? For what?”
“English mainly,” he said, avoiding her gaze.
Lucy jumped up on the stairs and crouched to take a closer look at him. “English? Shit, Tim. You the man who brings the word with him!”
“Maybe…I-I don’t know, but you gotta do the time if you don’t wanna pay the fine…so to speak, yo!” he said, standing up.
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Lucy stood as well, turned around and grinned big. “Oh-oh-oh, look who else is here early on the last day of school! What up, Les? Hey, Spank-a-Lank. What y’all doin’ this summer? Les, you’ll be working out as usual, I guess?”
“Hey,” Les said, doling out hugs to all. “Word—I’ll be working it hard this season. I wanna be in shape for the boxing team in the fall. You still pumping, Spank?”
Spank appeared to be in a dream world of his own. “I hear that…huh? Who me? Workin’ out? Damn, Les! You know I quit a long time ago. I got other—”
Les took the words out of Tim’s mouth. “Yeah, like, other what? Other porn to check out?”
Spank doubled over laughing. “Awwww man! That was cold! Haaa. And ya’ll can stop laughin’ now, cause that shit ain’t funny…yo! Tim, talk to your boy.”
Les’ smile disappeared. “Hey, I ain’t nobody’s…”
Lucy cut in, “Hey y’all, Tim’s goin’ to summer school. For English! Can you believe that shit?”
Les took off his baseball cap and slapped Tim on the top of the head with it. “I told you, told you, man—don’t fuck around—that dude would fail your ass,” he chided.
“I don’t believe it,” Spank said. “The way you can work with the word?” Spank looked at the group. They all nodded in the affirmative.
“Come on, Tim,” Spank said. “I know you got a new one for us. Here’s a beat—uh, uh…”
“Nah, man, I’m not feeling it, yo!” Tim said, sitting down again on the steps.
“Don’t be holdin’ out, boy. Give it up,” Les said, hitting him again with his cap.
Tim gave him a look that said cut it out. “Alright-alright. This here is something I been thinking about lately. It’s not finished. I’ll do it but then I have to go. Little slower with that beat, Spank-a-Lank yeah…yeah, yeah, that’s cool, just like that, keep it going.”
Life is nothin’ if not a dance
Unpredictability at every chance.
At every turn, wiggle glide or jig,
duck–dip–drop-or bop.
Before the first leap lunge bow or stoop,
bend bound bob or swoop.
After any slide slither jump
or jounce,
While thinkin’ about the odd swoop skate
or pounce.
So, you don’t know what will happen next?
Keep on dancing’, kid.
After all, you never did!
Just as he gave the last line, the school doors clicked open and Tim ran into the building leaving his homies chanting in his wake, Keep on dancin’, kid. After all, you never did. As he turned the corner someone yelled out, “Aw man…I think right about now, Tim is thinking about some horizontal dancin’.”
The crowds in the halls made him late. Before he could enter the cafeteria, Rene pushed into the hallway through the swinging doors. Large earrings dominated her petite features and short haircut. Watching her walk away, he heard his own voice come out in a squeak. “I’m sorry, Rene. Boo. I-I was locked out.”
She didn’t turn around, just spoke over her shoulder, “Tim, you’ll never grow up. I don’t know why I even agreed to meet with you.”
In spite of the warning bell, students moved slowly through the halls, taking every opportunity to pull pranks on one another, scream insults, tell jokes—anything to hold off the beginning of the day. A couple goofy gangbangers snickered loudly as Tim passed by. The word had gotten around. Everybody knew what had happened in the park with Maurice.
It wasn’t going to be a good day.
THIS IS THE TIME FOR US
It’s unkind
How fate strings our lives
without our say.
Brings to mind,
I may lose your love this way.
But I’m not the kind,
To let the chips fall,
As they may.
I believe,
I’ll get you back someday.
You don’t have to take me back just now,
Just open up your heart, somehow.
I know it’s been
A very long time, since
I met you.
Have you forgot,
the feeling we shared that day?
I know you think that
I’m just a
Cray-crazy boy.
Who will never grow up,
and forget about his toys.
You don’t have to take me back just now,
Just open up your heart, somehow.
This is the,
time for us.
This ain’t no sappy bullshit deal.
Yo baby, you know what we had
is real.
You’re one of the few
I can trust.
I’m not giving up on us.
Yeah. This is the time for both of us—
The time for us.
I’ve gone around, with
this love so long,
so embarrassing…so strong.
I’m watching you walk away. Is it
forever, or just for today?
Listen to your heart, yeah
I know, you done yo part. But
somewhere inside,
you’ve got to feel, that we’ll get together
again.
For real.
You don’t have to fall in love just now,
Just open up your heart, somehow.
This is the,
Time for us.
This ain’t no sappy bullshit deal.
Yo baby, you know what we had,
is real.
You’re one of the few
I can trust.
I’m not giving up on us.
Yeah. This is the time for both of us—
The time for us.
THE LAST STRAW
Mr. Jones stood in the corridor in front of his 2:30 study hall. He had time to notice again how the blue-white rays of the fluorescent lighting bouncing off dull beige surfaces gave the students a jaundiced hue, kind of like in an insane asylum. It was the final period of the last day of the term and, for the most part, the expressions on the faces of his colleagues could be described as a mixture of exhaustion and anticipation. On the other hand, there was an intense energy among the students as they walked, ran and skipped through the noisy corridor—yelling, laughing and even singing at the top of their lungs.
But youthful frenetic energy hadn’t been the only indication of finality in the air.
That morning before his first duty of the day, he took a circuitous route through the building and saw that in the art wing, drawings and paintings had been taken down. All paints, brushes and easels had been stowed out of sight—perhaps smug and satisfied to have weathered the year well enough to be considered still useful. In the shop wing, not a speck of sawdust or shavings of any kind were visible on the well-swept floors. Foreign language texts, sorted, wiped, neatly stacked upon strong shelves, missing the caresses of their former owners, stared out longingly from behind glass doors, listening and translating for each other. While the math books, having never enjoyed such intimacy with humans, waited patiently in their storage places, calculating their next move. Passing the science labs, except for the odd shared vibration, a conspicuous silence enveloped the large collection of test tubes and vials while the Bunsen burner sat patiently in its designated station, ready for action. Only the computer stations on the far side of the room could match its level of dogged stoicism—except for laptop number five, that had been mistakenly left on, its LED flickering like a dying flame.
With all windows closed and secured, the air in the gymnasium sat like a big funky sponge. Forlorn lockers seemed to hold their breath as they stood erect, shoulder-to-shoulder in silence. Outside on the basketball courts, a residue of energy emanated from the backboards, giving testimony to the countless three-pointers and spectacular lay-ups executed over the school year.
It was the final period of the last day of the term.
Jones
barely heard the familiar petulant whine of Maria, the current object of Tim’s adoration. And of course he knew Tim, his daily headache on two legs, had most probably been the source of her distress. “Leave her alone!” he grunted with unconvincing authority, dragging his bulky frame into the room. Feeling the effects of the previous night’s gig, he had hoped for a few quiet minutes during this last period of the day.
A tall man, Jones always felt uncomfortable at his desk. It was one of those old metal constructed relics from the eighties with plastic wood-grain laminate on top. His knees couldn’t slide under it so he could never sit properly upright. He had to lean at a forty-five degree angle just to rest his elbows.
He was thinking about Tim. His heart sank at the thought that the boy had probably taken the proverbial ‘wrong turn’ in life in spite of the fact that he had talent and plenty of help from various teachers and counselors. His parents were a mystery. Jones could never get him to say much about either his mom or dad. He had his theories, however, and they weren’t good.
His weekly sessions with the seventeen-year-old sophomore had begun after the Christmas break but the boy stopped showing up weeks ago. It was clear to Jones that Tim was very intelligent and perfectly able to improve his reading. He guessed that peer pressure was getting in the way.
Maybe a classmate had heard about Jones’ tutoring sessions and Tim was embarrassed to continue, afraid to give the impression that he cared about his education. During his own high school days, Jones remembered there existed a perverted meme that you were acting white if you were seen as concerned with your studies. Even though his own parents insisted that studying was his only out from the ghetto, he had worked hard to maintain a certain kind of conformity with the cool dudes at the school. Not to be seen carrying too many books around was as important as having the right haircut or latest sneakers.
Maybe Tim wanted to reserve a psychological out for himself in case he failed the reading proficiency again—the out being that he hadn’t really tried. Jones’ own parents were not formally educated people. They had absolutely no money to speak of, but he thought of them among the smartest people he’d known in his life. Aware of the deleterious effect of centuries of racism on the psychology of African Americans, his mom and dad consistently used language and clear age-appropriate limitations to stoke up his and his sibling’s confidence. The kids of the house knew in no uncertain terms who were the children, the pre-teens and teenagers in the home. They were not confused as to who was in charge and who was responsible. They knew they were loved and—perhaps deepest of all—they knew that their parents were quite different from their buddies, that there existed an entirely different level of respect specifically for them.
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