Anthony leaned forward and tapped Curtis on the shoulder. “Yo, run me to the crib, man.”
In his driveway, Ant nodded a quick good-bye to his friends and slid his key into the deadbolt, but didn’t open the door. People upstairs. Andre and Darnell, John Mays and some girls. He could hear them laughing and saw the twin living-room windows glowing red like demon eyes. “Fuck lights” was what Andre called the red bulbs he kept in the drawer along with his rubbers, his weed, and his X-rated movies. He only used them when they had girls over. And he only had girls over when they knew their mother would be gone overnight.
She had a new man, tall and light-skinned, with reddish-brown hair. He carried a briefcase and talked like a white boy, even though he looked a little like Malcolm X. His name was Patrick, and he hardly ever came into the house, opting instead to beep the horn from the safety of his locked Lexus. The man could go ahead and sleep with his mother, as far as Anthony was concerned. But he would never be his daddy.
His daddy.
Leaning against the back of the house now, Anthony briefly entertained thoughts of his parents together, living the TV sitcom life of sit-down meals, neighborly neighbors, help with homework, and warm hugs and kisses before restful nights. Anthony laughed, but nothing about it was funny.
Flakes, floating softly like ash, brushed Anthony’s cheeks and turned to water. It was late and he had school tomorrow, despite the red lights in the windows. He would just have to sleep in his mother’s room, since it was clear that she wouldn’t be coming home.
CHAPTER TWO
Anthony sat in the back row of English class, eyes shut and listening to a recording of “The Cask of Amontillado.” Ms. Kennedy, their teacher, was pretty and young, and she liked to wear low-cut dresses. But she also exposed her students to Poe and to Plath. Sometimes she even showed movies.
Half of the class had gone to sleep right away, while some others cracked jokes or fidgeted. But Ant was caught up, mesmerized and enthralled by the hollow scrape of the spatula, the tombstone grate of brick against brick as Montresor sealed Fortunato in the cellar. “I wouldn’ta never went down there,” he said absently, and opened his eyes.
Next to him, his best friend lifted his head from the desk and shook it. “Hell naw,” Floyd agreed. “Over some wine, nigga? Old dude must be crazy.”
“Or a alcoholic.” They snorted. Ms. Kennedy turned toward them and put a finger to her lips. Floyd stuck up a different finger but held it low, behind the desk.
“I got somethin’ for her mouth,” Floyd said. “Got somethin for that juicy booty, too.”
Ms. Kennedy looked up angrily and shook her head. “Yeah,” Floyd continued, more to himself than to his friend. “Bet she like one of them white teachers in the suburbs. Be boning her favorite students, on the low.”
Ant sniffed and checked her out. She was grading papers, and her breasts rested heavy on the top of the desk. His mouth watered. “You probably right, playa,” he said hopefully. “After school, she might be a freak.”
“That’s what’s up,” Floyd whispered, and the two of them bumped fists.
Just then, the door swung open and in walked Virgil Sheeley: hall monitor, student council president. Punk. He had a note but announced his news anyway. Anthony Jones was wanted in the principal’s office.
“Damn, Ant,” Floyd said as the rest of the class murmured. “Davis be on yo’ back, nigga. Whachoo do this time?”
Ant shrugged, shoved books into his bag, and flung one strap over his shoulder. “Where you gon’ be after school?”
“We be somewhere,” Floyd answered. “Probably the same spot as usual.”
At the front of the room, Ms. Kennedy slapped her desk hard and hooked a thumb toward the door. “Get a move on, Mr. Jones. Right now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
In the office, Mr. Davis was nestled in the broad chair that farted when he moved. It was in front of his desk, a few feet across from the little straight-backed vinyl job he kept for students. The rule was simple: behind his desk and sitting in the swivel, he was Mr. Davis the scowling principal who detained, suspended, or expelled. But in front of the desk he was the princiPAL, the good-natured buddy who liked to talk about sports and use ancient slang.
“Take a load off, brother man,” he said, grinning. “Let’s rap.”
Ant fought the urge to roll his eyes and sat down across from his principal. For a while he watched the spinning ceiling fan. Then he looked at the framed picture of Davis and Mike Tyson on the wall, the shelves filled with statues and knickknacks instead of books, and at Mr. Davis, who was staring patiently at him with eyes doubly magnified by thick glasses. “So,” the man said, and smacked his hands on his meaty neck. “You heard from that school yet?”
“No.”
The principal reached for the phone. “When are they supposed to let you know? You want to call them?”
Anthony tried to protest, but it was too late. Stubby fingers were stabbing buttons. Soon Mr. Davis was talking to Mr. Kraft, the director of admissions at Belton. Their conversation was a verbal roller coaster, big fits of loud laughter followed by murmured words. Judging by his principal’s body language, not only had Anthony been accepted, but he had also been given heavy financial aid.
The news confused and numbed him. He could feel Davis’s big eyes boring in, waiting for him to say something, but what was he supposed to do? His whole life had been in East Cleveland. Did they really expect him to just walk away?
The principal moved to the familiar corner of his desk and grinned. “Looks like a done deal,” he said. “Our loss is Belton’s gain. What’s your mother’s number at work?”
There was a long pause. Anthony let his head roll back and looked at the ceiling. Rising tears blurred his view but didn’t fall. He wouldn’t let them. It was a matter of pride and survival. Kids who cried got beat up all the time. “I’ll tell her.”
Anthony left the principal’s office just before the final bell. Doors opened and lockers slammed as black kids streamed through the exits. He found Floyd and Mookie down the block, leaning on a building across the street from the police station. Then he took his place with them, against the wall.
“What he want?” Floyd asked, not bothering to look at him.
“Nuthin’.” Ant slipped off his coat and wiped his brow with the heel of his hand. It came away slimy. “It’s hot out here. You know, for March.” He watched a group of approaching girls, Shameeka Lewis in front of the pack, talking loud and fast. Ant didn’t like her because she told everybody he couldn’t kiss. He could kiss just fine, though. He just hadn’t liked kissing her.
She bumped him as she passed, deliberately and hard. He could have let it go, but Ant decided not to. “Better watch out, ho.”
The girls stopped at once and spun around. “What you call me?” Shameeka snapped.
Before Ant could say another word, Mookie nudged him aside and raised his hand. “Go on, girl, before you get slapped.”
Shameeka looked at the hand and laughed. Floyd laughed, too, and so did the other girls. Mookie’s face never changed, though, and Ant braced himself. He knew that his friend wouldn’t think twice about hitting Shameeka, a grandmother, or anyone else.