“I will,” he said, and let her go. “I promise.”
The plane touched down in Portland, and Anthony took a deep breath. The whole day he’d been afraid of a crash, but now he was afraid that he’d made it. He was in Maine, impossibly far from everyone that he knew. If there was trouble, he would have to handle it alone.
He followed the crowd off the plane and to the baggage claim area. They talked to one another or into cell phones as they waited for their luggage. Anthony wished that he had a phone, but his mother wouldn’t buy him one. And every penny he’d made that summer had gone toward school.
He found his bags and went outside, looked around for a limousine but found a big van instead. It was dark blue, with BELTON ACADEMY printed on the sides. A bearded man in a flannel shirt and blue jeans leaned against it, reading a newspaper and moving his lips. He was the kind of white man that Anthony had seen a hundred times: in the hardscrabble neighborhoods on the near west side; pissed off and full of beer after Browns games, looking for a fight. They were dangerous and always seemed to hate black people. Anthony wondered if he had made a big mistake.
The man looked up and smiled at him. Then he folded his newspaper and started across the road.
“Anthony Jones?”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, Tony. John Dunlap. I work maintenance over at the academy.”
“Call me Ant.”
They shook hands, and Anthony followed him to the back of the van, where John swung the doors open. Someone else was inside. Anthony could see skinny legs.
“Ant, huh?” John continued as he loaded the first bag. “Like the bug? Ever go by Tony? You know, like Tony Soprano?”
“Naw.”
The man grabbed the other piece of luggage and sized him up. “That’s okay,” he said with a laugh. “I guess nobody’s gonna take you for Italian, anyway.”
Anthony climbed into the van and saw the other passenger; a pale white girl with braces and dark hair. “Hi,” she said, smiling desperately. “My name’s Alison, what’s yours?”
“Anthony Jones.”
The girl giggled and extended her hand. “Hello, Mr. Jones.”
They left the airport and drove onto a modest highway, Alison leaning on the back of Anthony’s seat and talking nonstop. She was in the ninth grade, just like him, and from a town in Connecticut, not far from New York. Before Belton, she had been in a private middle school, and her biggest hope was to make the varsity ski team.
“What about you?” she asked. “Do you ski?”
He shook his head. “Never even seen a ski before.”
“Oh.”
They came up on a hitchhiker but blew right by her. The lonely scene made Anthony think of horror stories. He leaned forward and tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Stephen King live around here?”
“Not here,” John answered. “Up in Bangor. I hear he’s one crazy bastard.”
They turned onto another road, where trees pressed in like an advancing army. The lane wound past dilapidated farms and occasional houses.
“How much longer?”
John eyed him in the rearview. “Depends on the traffic. We may not have it like you New York boys, but you get caught behind some logging truck or some old fart and it’ll feel like it.”
“I ain’t from New York,” Anthony said. “I’m from East Cleveland.”
“Cleveland,” Alison said dreamily. “Did you ever meet LeBron James? You know, before he left?”
“Naw. He can eat a dick.”
Color came to her cheeks, and her mouth flashed metal. “Wow. I really like the way you talk. Where I’m from, everyone sounds the same.”
“Surprise, surprise.” He saw Alison’s wounded eyes and then looked out the window. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but at least she wasn’t talking anymore.
They drove on, and Anthony didn’t know he’d been sleeping, but John woke him with the horn. “Wakey-wake now, kiddies,” the man announced. “You don’t want to miss it.”
Downtown Hoover was four blocks of stores and little restaurants, a firehouse, and a bank near the end of Main Street. There weren’t any stoplights or bus shelters. There weren’t any billboards or liquor stores. They drove up a hill and around a bend, past a neatly cut field, and then onto the divided campus, with buildings on both sides of the road. They parked in front of a brick building with white windows and green shutters. The sign above the entrance said KASTER HALL.
An acid bubble rose in Anthony’s throat.
“Something else, ain’t it?” John said from behind him. “Not a care in the friggin’ world.”
Anthony nodded but felt uneasy. Wasn’t John part of that world, too? “Is this where I’m staying?”
“More than likely,” John said. “Freshmen and sophomore boys in Kaster, juniors and seniors over there, in Welch.” He chuckled and pointed to another dorm, across the street. “Try not to go in there by yourself.”
“Why not?”
“Aww, you know upperclassmen,” John said, still grinning. “Sometimes they like to horse around.”
“Thanks.” Anthony grabbed for his bags, but the man blocked him.
“Can’t go in yet,” John said, and pointed to a big building with white pillars. “You need to register first.”
“Oh.” He reached for his luggage, but John stopped him again.
“No need to lug everything up there.”
Anthony hesitated. “Man, this is all I got.”
John smiled patiently. “What part of the city you from? Brooklyn?”
“East Cleveland. Remember?”
“No fooling?” John scratched his head and looked him up and down again. “Well, this isn’t Ohio, kid. Your stuff is safe.”
Anthony went to the main building and registered. They gave him a lot of things to read plus his room key. John had been right: He was staying in Kaster Hall, on the freshman floor. He left the desk and moved through the crowded lobby, making sure not to bump anyone or even make eye contact. Most of the kids were with their parents, and all of them were white. Self-conscious, Anthony walked quickly toward the door. A man in a bow tie stopped him, though, before he could leave.
“Anthony Jones?”
Ant nodded but didn’t say anything.
“Fantastic!” The man grabbed Anthony’s hand and shook it. “Good to meet you, Tony,” he continued. “I’m Mr. Kraft, director of admissions.”
“Nice to meet you, sir,” Anthony said. “Thanks for letting me in.”
“Nonsense. We should thank you for coming.” Mr. Kraft clapped him on the shoulder and squeezed. Then he waved to a passing man in the crowd. He was big and had bushy eyebrows. “Tony, this is Mr. Rockwell. Coach, meet Tony Jones.”
The tall man shook Anthony’s hand and nearly broke it. “Welcome to Belton, Tony. Where you from?”
“Cleveland.”
“Cleveland?” He made a face, and both of the men smiled. Anthony smiled, too, although he didn’t know what was funny. “Had a kid here from Cleveland once, he could jump out the gym.” The coach looked Anthony up and down. “What about you, Tony? You play any hoops?”