Home > Black Boy White School(6)

Black Boy White School(6)
Author: Brian F. Walker

She opened her arms and pulled him in. “I know,” she said. “I know, baby. He loved you. You know that, don’t you? He loved all of you boys just like you was his brothers.”

“We loved him, too.” They held each other a while longer, and then, without a word, Anthony turned around and walked home.

It took a lot of banging, but Andre finally answered the door. He laughed when he saw his little brother. “Momma gon’ beat that ass for messing up your school clothes,” he said. “And she gon’ beat it again for losing your key.”

“Mookie got shot.” Anthony said plainly. “He dead.” He pushed past his gawking brother and stopped, could hear Darnell and other people upstairs, could smell the weed smoke and wine. He wanted to go and yell in their faces, he wanted respect for the dead. But Anthony was tired and his feet wouldn’t move, so he stabbed the button on the remote and let Letterman into the living room.

“You for real?”

“Wish I wasn’t.” His eyes were locked on the screen. They burned, but he didn’t blink.

Andre nudged him. “What happened?”

Anthony stoically recounted the story. When he finished, his brother left the room and came back with a bottle, “Sorry, man,” Andre said. “That’s some messed-up shit for a little kid to be dealing with.”

Anthony shrugged and twisted the beer cap. “I ain’t no little kid,” he said, and took a long drink. Then he thought about Maine and endless winter. White world or not, it had to be better than East Cleveland. It had to be better than what happened to Mookie. “I ain’t no little kid,” Anthony repeated, more for himself than his brother. “And I ain’t staying here no more.”

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

That summer, Anthony still hung out with his friends, but almost never at night. They talked about Mookie but less and less, until his name hardly came up at all. They still got quiet when they passed his house, or when they saw any of his family on the street. It wasn’t that they had forgotten about their friend. It just hurt too much to talk about him.

Floyd was busy anyway, selling weed for Shane. And Anthony got an unofficial job in Shaker Heights, sweeping hair at a barbershop. He rode his bike up the hill every day, past the wide lawns and white people. All his life they had been foreign to him, living close by but in a different world. That would change, though, once he got to Maine. More than likely, his roommate would be some billionaire from Beverly Hills.

He was excited but scared, too. And on the morning that he was supposed to leave, Anthony lay awake in the predawn darkness, fighting panic. What if his first plane ride turned out to be his last? There were terrorists and sometimes the engines fell off. What if he got to school and couldn’t handle the work? Would they put him in special ed or just send him back home? Maybe he should have listened to Floyd and refused to go.

He looked at his sleeping brothers and felt jealous. They pretty much knew what their day would bring. But for Anthony, it would be a plane ride to Boston and then another to Portland, Maine. After that, Belton Academy and the unknown.

An hour later, at a rare breakfast together, Anthony joked with his brothers and mother about Maine. Andre made a crack about igloos and Eskimos, but Darnell corrected his geography. Their mother seemed happy and, simultaneously, sad. She laughed out loud sometimes but never for very long.

“I want you to be good when you go up there,” she said. “Ain’t nobody in this family never had a chance like this. Maybe you can even go to a four-year university.” She beamed at the thought of it, and Anthony cringed. Not a single male branch of their family tree had even applied to college.

“I’ll be good,” he said while his big brothers grinned. “Just hope I can make some friends.”

“Don’t even worry about that,” Darnell added confidently. “Do like I told you and everything gon’ be straight.”

“I will.”

“And don’t go up there and get none of them white girls pregnant, neither.”

“Andre!”

“You don’t have to worry about that, Ma,” Anthony said. “I’m gon’ go up there and keep to myself. Make no trouble, make no waves.” He looked at his oldest brother, who was nodding appreciatively. “I ain’t even gon’ speak to nobody unless they speak to me first.”

“Don’t you go up there with no attitude. You need to leave all that nonsense right out there in those streets. . . .”

“I know, Ma.”

“. . . All your little ghetto friends and their ghetto ways, you know how easy it could have been you and not that Mookie boy?”

“I know, Ma. . . . I know.”

The fierceness drained from her eyes and was replaced by relief. “Well, hurry up and get your things together,” she said. “You don’t wanna miss your flight.” She stood stiffly and started collecting dishes. Anthony moved his bags to the front door and then picked up the phone. It was early, but he had promised to call before he left.

“Wake up, man,” Anthony joked when his best friend answered. “Still got time to catch that flight.”

“Go on with that garbage,” Floyd said sleepily. “So, is you ready?”

“I guess so.”

Floyd sniffed. “Don’t guess, nigga. Either you ready or you ain’t.”

“I know, man. It’s just . . . I don’t know.” Silence, except for the sound of his best friend’s breathing. Anthony wanted to say more but didn’t know how. “I’ll be back home in like two months, anyway. You know, for Thanksgiving.”

“That’s what’s up. . . . Ain’t that where your boy from, anyway? Stephen King?”

Anthony thought before saying anything. As far as he could remember, they had never talked about his favorite author. “How did you know that?”

“Because I pay attention, nigga,” Floyd said. “Just like I know you be writing your own stories sometimes. You ain’t never showed me one, but I know, anyway.”

“Damn. You like a teenage detective.”

Floyd laughed. “Wrong side, playa. If you ever write about me, make me a criminal who don’t never get caught.”

Someone tapped Anthony’s shoulder. It was his oldest brother, and he was holding the biggest bag. “Hurry up, fool,” Darnell said, heading toward the front door. “Momma already waiting.”

“I gotta go,” Anthony said.

“Awright, man. I’ll holler. And rep E.C., nigga!” Floyd blurted. “Don’t forget where you from.”

“I won’t.”

He hung up, took a last look around the house, and then went down the front stairs. His brothers stood quietly outside of the car, both of them looking stunned. Anthony understood. But just like it had been on the phone with Floyd, his mouth couldn’t find the words.

At the airport, his mother cried, but Anthony wouldn’t. He had to show that he could be a man. She made him promise to be good and study hard, made him swear that he wouldn’t do anything stupid. “Do it right,” she said earnestly, and squeezed him one last time. “Show those people that you belong.”

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