His mother had added, “You’re going to college. You will be the first one in the family.” She patted down a fraying rose.
His mother… Frankie blinked away the memory. Blinked at their house—it was a shack, really. He wanted a better place, with more space for his father to live in, a building they could take pride in. You’re going to college. You will be the first one in the family. His mother had outlined the path for a better life, but she hadn’t told him how that path would change other things. He thought of all the hours he had spent hitting the books while his friends ran around in the woods and went on adventures. She also hadn’t told him that he would begin to see the world differently from them. The more he had learned, the more he had drifted, like his genes had transformed. His education had given him some sort of strength, but it was also a weight, a pressure he had to carry that the others didn’t. Things were expected of him now.
Frankie had just placed a foot on the pedal as Samson walked into the yard, shoulders swaying, chin up, carrying the clippers and a white towel.
“Me won’t cut the sides too short this time.” Samson clicked on the clippers. “We got ten minutes before you need to go to school.”
That was as much of an apology as Frankie would get and he wanted it, he did, but he could feel the push, his pride a dam against the words. Still, he hesitated, lowered his foot. The right thing, the practical thing, spun through his gut, fighting the anger he still felt in his head, in his back. An ant was making its way toward his shoe. Frankie watched it for a moment and thought about stomping it… then simply dug his shoe into the dirt and scared it away. He sat up tall on the bike seat. “Okay, you can cut it.”
Samson stretched out the frayed towel, draping it over Frankie’s shoulders.
He rubbed Frankie’s head; his fingers, warmer than the air, hardened by a life of physical labor, dug into Frankie’s temple. Then he leaned in close and began running the clippers away from Frankie’s forehead toward the back of his skull.
“Remember, always cut your hair backward. You want the grain growing out this way.”
How many times had his father said that?
Samson stepped back and squinted at the side of Frankie’s head. He moved forward. The cold steel of the clippers whizzed at the edges of Frankie’s ears.
Straining his neck, but not quite pulling away, Frankie hoped the clippers wouldn’t cut too close.
Three
frankie swung onto Constant Spring Road, passing a Bank of Jamaica and a bus. A dark charcoal stench seeped from the muffler. Frankie caught his reflection in the window of a sneaker store. His school-issue khaki pants looked okay, but his khaki shirt could have used a bit of ironing. Whenever he took his five-mile bike ride to school, which was always, he felt like there was a sticker on his head that said COUNTRY BOY. And the front wheel of his bike was wobbling again. Damn.
Still, every time he passed under the gold crest on the West Kent school gates, he thought of his mother. She’d flat-out beamed when he’d been selected to go to such a prestigious institution. Our kind of people don’t get many chances like this, boy. Don’t mess it up. He didn’t, but without the scholarship, his mission was incomplete. And at the moment he was feeling down about his chances. Maybe it was the fight with Garnett, or the problems with his father. And what the hell was up with Winston? A gang? He had to talk to him, smack that thought right out of his dumb head.
The guard at the gate nodded as Frankie rode past. Two girls in school-issue white dresses with green belts and loosely fitted neckties also nodded. He didn’t know them, but he waved anyway, not to be a jerk; being a senior had privileges and responsibilities. Still feeling down about the scholarship, he chained his bike at the end of the bike rack. Then he looked up at the two-story admin building. His guidance counselor’s office was in there. She was always so positive—seeing her was like going to a pep rally. He had twenty minutes before his first class, so he decided to go visit.
Scholarship or not, he had to admit he was going to miss this school. He’d worked his butt off and was proud of all he’d achieved. He had to admit that, too. Glancing around quickly to make sure no one was looking, he took hold of the school crest hanging in the foyer and carefully tilted it—it had been carved from thick mahogany several years ago by a group of students who’d also come from less privileged communities. Pulling back, he eyed it, making sure it was straight.
“Hey, Frankie!” It was a guy in his engineering class. “Want to work on the final project this weekend?”
“No, mon, I handed that in like a week ago.”
“But dude, it’s not due for three weeks.”
“Why wait till the last minute?” Frankie grinned. “Likkle later.” As he walked toward Mrs. Gordon’s office, he remembered the crazy number of hours she’d spent with him throughout the entire application process for the scholarship—and she always had something positive to say.
Finally to the end of the corridor, he walked through the large open meeting room and stood outside Mrs. Gordon’s office. She looked up, a big smile spreading across her face as if she was expecting good news. Frankie felt like crap. He couldn’t tell her he was feeling depressed, not now. She was counting on him. He couldn’t let her down by being down. “Not yet, but fingers crossed,” he told her.
She nodded, put down her pen, and crossed fingers on both hands.
Feeling like a total fake, Frankie forced a smile, turned away, and headed toward class.
* * *
Sitting behind the register in Mr. Brown’s store after school, Frankie tried to read the notes he’d taken in statistics class, but his handwriting looked like a fuzz of long straight lines and loopy letters. He gave up and grabbed the issue of Popular Mechanics he’d borrowed from the library the other day. “Tech Wars” was the cover story. He’d read it twice already.
He tossed the magazine on the counter. Man, was he bored. He stood up and stretched, forgetting his back until he felt the sear. Gahhh! He pressed his palms against his eyes until the pain quelled, not wanting to think of that beating. He was forever getting caught up in Winston’s craziness. Then Frankie looked up at the clock—Winston was late. Typical. He said he’d stop by the store to talk. Frankie needed to straighten him out. The thought of Winston in a gang, Winston with a gun, made his gut clench.
And when the heck had Winston even done that? Frankie had pretty much been looking out for him since kindergarten. Two big third-grade girls had been pulling on Winston’s lunch bag, trying to take it from him. If Frankie hadn’t gone over to help, they would have gotten it too. And for a week the girls kept coming back to torment Winston, so Frankie kept coming over to help. It must have been something about the way Winston looked. He was just the type of kid bullies gravitated to.
And if Frankie got the scholarship, he’d be off to America in a matter of months. Who’d keep an eye on Winston, then? Keep Garnett away from him? Garnett. Dude’s face had looked like a hyena’s when he’d pounded on Winston, his lips twisted all nasty. Frankie knew Garnett wouldn’t let it go. Yeah, he had to talk to Winston.
Just beyond the pyramid of yams, dirt still clinging to the roots, Frankie snuck a peek through a partially opened door made of reinforced steel into the storeroom. His boss was hunched over two of the dozens of orange ten-gallon poly bags Frankie had stuffed with marijuana earlier in the week. This was the part of his job he didn’t tell Samson about—the part that made his paycheck more significant than it should have been.