Black Boy White School (11 page)

They racked the balls and Nate got ready to break, just as someone at the next table shouted, “Nigger nuts!”

“What the fuck?” Anthony spun around. The one who had yelled was twice his size.

“I missed a shot,” the man said unapologetically. “Don't go civil rights on me.” He had a gold crown and halo tattooed on his arm, the same as all the other men with him. The idea of finding a gang in Maine had never crossed Anthony's mind.

“Let's go,” Anthony said, pushing past his mute friends. “Before somebody gets hurt.”

Walking back, Anthony shared his gang theory. Nate and Venus hadn't noticed the tattoos, but Brody said that he had. “What's up?” Anthony asked. “Is it a gang?”

Brody shrugged. “Not really . . .” He glanced around but not at his friends.

“Not really, but . . . ?” Anthony prodded. “Spit it out.”

“I don't know. My dad knows some guys with the same crap on their arm . . . they're all pretty racist, but not a gang.” He shrugged again and looked at Anthony. “Sorry, dude.”

“For what? You can't pick your father's friends.” Or your father, either, Anthony thought. Brody was white, but he wasn't rich. He was smart, but nowhere near Einstein. And although his dad hung with rednecks and racists, Brody would never be like him.

Belton had made sure of that, by having the two boys live together. It forced them to respect each other. Anthony felt a sudden burst of pride. Not knowing what to do with it, he tripped his roommate and ran.

In the gym a week later, Paul and Khalik played one on one while Anthony sat in the courtside bleachers with Gloria. They'd been talking about movies and other safe topics when Gloria took Anthony's hand. “Why do you let people call you Tony, if that's not your name?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. Guess I got tired of correcting everybody all the time.”

“And how's that going for you?”

Laughter from the court drew their attention. The ball was wedged between the backboard and rim, and Khalik was trying to jump up and get it. “Oh my God, boy!” Gloria yelled. “You look like a fat little penguin, trying to fly!”

Anthony smiled, but her question still stung. How
was
it going for him? After seeing his mentor on stage and for sale, shirtless and baring his teeth, Anthony had deliberately gone the other way whenever he caught sight of him. He didn't feel George was an Uncle Tom, but more like a chameleon. Was that bad? Anthony didn't know. Both George and the lizard were kind of fake, but it was how they survived.

“So what's your next move?” Anthony asked. “You know, with Dr. Dirk and what happened at the auction?”

“Do I have one?” Gloria stabbed a finger at the boys on the court. “As long as they don't have a problem with it, the school won't have one, either.”

Anthony nodded. “That's why I'm trying to be a proctor next year. Get a foot in the door and change things from the inside.”

“Well, good luck with that one,” she said. “I won't be around here to see it, but good luck anyway.”

He watched Paul and Khalik. They would be back at school next year. So would Brody and Venus. So would George. But not Gloria. “You know, you and George are kind of the same,” Anthony said. “He runs away from himself by trying to please everybody and you, you're just running away.”

He left after that and wandered campus, lost track of time and was late for in-dorms. Mr. Voght was on duty and unlocked the front door. But he didn't let Anthony pass. “What is it with you guys? You're late?”

“I know. Sorry.”

Voght looked surprised. “That's it? No jive about being down in the gym? No ‘Come on, Mr. Voght, man, you know how it
ee-is
?'” Voght chuckled and stepped to the side.

“That's racist,” Anthony said, walking by him. “Just thought you might like to know.”

Voght stopped him. “Now, wait a minute,” he said, clearly disturbed by the comment. “I don't have a racist bone in my body. When you were still just a gleam in your daddy's eye, I was halfway around the world, risking my life for yellow people.”

Anthony went downstairs and bumped into Mr. Hawley, doing his rounds. “Hey, Tony,” he asked pleasantly. “How's it hanging?”

Instead of answering, Anthony clenched his teeth.

“Want to talk about it?”

Anthony didn't, but he nodded anyway. Hawley had been an ally at times. Some of it was the job. Anthony understood that. Hawley was paid to hang out with the kids, to praise them and scold them like he was their parent. But Anthony also liked to believe that Mr. Hawley's interest in him was more genuine.

“Not out here,” Anthony said as a couple of boys passed between them. He followed Hawley into his apartment, took a seat at the kitchen table, and tried to gather his thoughts. So many things seemed to be turning sour that he wasn't sure where to start.

Mr. Hawley sat down across from him and nodded. “It's okay,” he said. “Take your time.”

Anthony felt the familiar itch in his eyes but wouldn't let any tears fall. Then he swallowed and told his dorm parent what had just happened upstairs. “On top of that, this man in town shouted the N-word last week,” he continued. “Right in front of me and a whole bunch of other people, and nobody said a thing . . . I don't know, Mr. Hawley. I might need to get out of here before I go off on somebody.”

Hawley nodded. “This might be Maine, Tony, but sometimes it can feel like the Deep South. Wish I could tell you something different, but I'd be lying to you.” He paused. “Why do you even care about some stranger's opinion, anyway? A guy like that lives in a trailer park and marries his kid sisters; he doesn't have any kind of power over you or your life.”

“Then what about Mr. Voght?” Anthony said. “Should I care about him?”

Hawley fidgeted. “That's a tough question,” he said, looking down. “Want some coffee? I just made it, less than an hour ago.”

“Sure.” Anthony nodded and checked himself in the microwave. He was wearing a bowling shirt with the name David stitched above the breast pocket. Reflected, it said
, but it still kind of made sense. Almost everything else in Anthony's life was backward, too.

“Are you excited about vacation?” Hawley asked, bringing over the two steaming cups. “Only about three weeks away.”

Anthony solemnly spooned his sugar. “I know. Three weeks.” His mother had called a few nights before, crying that she was too broke to buy a plane ticket. She had wanted him to ask if he could stay at his roommate's house again, but so far Anthony had avoided asking Brody. “I might go somewhere different,” he said. “Other than home.”

Hawley blew on his cup and took a sip. “Someplace warm, I hope.”

“Yeah,” Anthony said. “Maybe.” He stirred his coffee and thought about spending spring break in Lewiston, watching out for Brody's fanatical father and his Somali shack.

“Why did so many people from Africa move up here?” Anthony asked. “I mean, is there something special about this part of Maine that's better than everywhere else in the country?”

“I don't know,” Hawley said. “But they're here, and the town is starting to show its true colors because of it.”

They sipped their coffee, and Anthony thought about the supermarket cashier; the men sitting in the convenience store; even Brody's father. Their hatred seemed to be more focused on culture than skin color. For a brief second, Anthony felt a twisted hope. “So it's just a Somali thing?”

Mr. Hawley nodded. “Yeah, and a black thing, a Muslim thing, an immigrant thing; they have a thing against anyone who isn't white American.”

“Why do so many white people hate us so much, when we haven't done a damn thing to them?” Anthony waited for Mr. Hawley to answer, but he kept on drinking his coffee. Either he didn't know the answer or didn't want to share it.

“I think I know why,” Anthony continued. “I think some of them believe that they're supposed to be superior. They think they're supposed to be smarter and richer, live in better houses and everything. When they fall short of all that, they try to blame it on black people so they don't feel so bad about themselves. . . . It's sad, when you really think about it. Expecting to go out and be the king of the world, but ending up stuck in East Armpit, Maine.”

Mr. Hawley smiled across the table at him and shook his head. “Why can't you put that kind of thought in your writing, Tony?”

Smiling back, Anthony said, “Because you don't ever ask the right kinds of questions.”

Hawley laughed and went to fill his cup again. But when he sat back down, his face was sober. “Does the name Matt Hale mean anything to you?”

Anthony thought for a second and then shook his head. “Is he a senior?”

“He's an asshole,” Hawley said. “And no, he never went to Belton.”

He said Hale was a white supremacist who had come to Lewiston a few years back, to try and lead a protest against the Somalis. There'd been a small march, and someone threw a pig's head into a mosque, but most of the Lewiston residents had ignored him. “He's in jail now,” Hawley continued. “Somewhere out west, I think. But the point is that some of those marchers still live around here. And with the job situation the way that it is, and with more and more Somalis moving into Hoover . . . I don't know, some people are getting fed up.”

“But I'm not from Somalia,” Anthony said. “I'm American, just like Brody.”

Hawley sipped and smiled sarcastically. “You really think that matters?”

It didn't, and Anthony knew it. African American or African in America, it didn't make any difference to some. He caught his reflection in the microwave again. How many used bowling shirts had Brody handed down to him? It didn't matter if he let people call him Tony, Ant, or Anthony; it didn't matter if his shirts introduced him as David, Chuck, or Steve. Anthony knew that when he turned away, some people would still call him “nigger.”

For spring break, Brody's grandparents surprised their family with a trip to Florida, leaving Anthony with no place to go and a hysterical mom. But Mr. Hawley came to the rescue with Greyhound tickets to Cleveland, insisting that Anthony go home and try to forget about the last couple of weeks.

The trek took twenty hours, but Anthony never lost his excitement. He would spend time with his family and hang out with Floyd and Reggie, maybe go the rec center during open gym and show off his new skills in basketball. It would be different than Christmas, when the gap between his two worlds had caught Anthony off guard. This time, he would settle back in seamlessly because now he knew exactly what to expect.

But when his mother picked him up at the bus station and drove home through their dying city, Anthony locked his door and counted the days until he would go back to Maine.

That week, he stayed inside the house, avoiding his friends and wondering why. It wasn't like he didn't miss them. At night up in Maine, especially lately, they were constantly in his thoughts. But on his second day home, Anthony had seen Curtis at the supermarket and ducked down an aisle to avoid him. At the time, he had tried to tell himself that it was no big deal. Curtis wasn't his real friend, anyway. Anthony just hung out with him sometimes because he was Reggie's brother. Deep inside, though, he knew that there was more to it than that. If it had been Reggie standing there instead of Curtis, Anthony probably still would have done the same thing.

One night Anthony was at the table and going over ideas for his speech when he answered the ringing phone and heard Floyd's voice. They hadn't talked since his first day of spring break, and the guilt hit Anthony like a truck.

“W'sup, playa?” Floyd asked, laughing. “I was starting to think you jetted to Maine already.”

“Naw, man. I'm still here. What's the word?”

“Same old same old, nigga,” Floyd answered. “You know what's up. We over here at Reggie's house right now, getting chewed. You should come on over and crack a brew with niggas.”

“I don't know,” Anthony said, looking at his scribbled notes. “I'm working on something for school.”

“School?” Floyd repeated. “Come on, dawg. I thought you was on vacation?”

“This is a speech, not homework. I'm trying to get this job for next year. It's pretty important.”

Floyd sniffed. “Pretty important, huh? And you don't think this is? You need to stop staying up in the house every day, like you scared or think you better than everybody else. For real, man. I be trying to stick up for you and everything, but to tell the truth, sometimes you be making it hard.”

“I am scared,” Anthony admitted. “Every time I come home, I get more and more shook.”

“Scared of what? Nigga, you from here. Ain't nobody gon' mess with you.”

Anthony thought about Mookie. “Yeah, people never get shot in their own neighborhood. . . .”

“You know what I mean, dawg,” Floyd said. “Don't try and twist shit up.”

“Whatever. I'm not just talking about that, anyway. There're things in this world that scare me more than getting murdered.”

“Like what? I gotta hear this one.”

At first Anthony didn't say another word. He didn't want to come across as soft. But if he didn't answer, Floyd would think he was lying. “I don't know, man,” Anthony said. “Scared of losing my boys. Scared that school is gon' change me too much, to the point where you don't wanna hang out with me.”

Floyd grunted. “You trippin'. If niggas didn't wanna hang out, we wouldn't be on the phone.”

“All right, man. You win.” Anthony put down the pen and closed his notebook. “Save me a brew.”

He went over and had fun with his friends, sometimes feeling like a stranger but never unwelcome. It was a good night, and Anthony went to bed with a fantastic inner peace. Then, in the morning, his mother called him into her room and pulled his guts out.

“You know you cain't go back to that school next year, right?” she said. “We cain't afford it no more.”

Anthony sat down on the edge of her bed and stared. “What?”

“You heard me,” she said, and pressed buttons on the remote. “We broke.”

“But I got a full scholarship,” he said, standing up. “My work-study should be covering the books, and I gave you money last summer from the barbershop.”

She turned the TV off and looked at him. “That little piece of change you gave me wasn't enough to pay no bills. I still owe that school damn near three thousand dollars.”

He was stunned and pissed and didn't try to hide it. “Wait a minute. I thought that—”

“Wait a minute?” she said, cutting him off. Then she kicked the pillows away from her and shot up out of bed. “
Wait a minute?
Boy, who you think you talkin' to? I'm your momma. Don't you ever tell me to wait for anything, you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“I said yes, ma'am . . .”

She glared, and for a second he thought that she might smack him. If she did, he would leave and never come back again. “Look at you!” she said. “You done gone up there with all them white folks and lost your mind. They got extra charges and fees for every little thing that you do. Maybe if you stop buying those silly-ass shirts we would have some more money to work with.”

“I got these from my roommate, Ma. For free.”

“There you go with that smart mouth again. That's why you need to bring your black ass back home, anyway. Learn some manners.” She waited and then Anthony apologized. After that, she rolled her eyes. “If you wanna blame somebody, blame your daddy,” she said. “He supposed to be paying your child support, but I ain't seen a damn dime.”

Anthony closed his mouth and held it that way, keeping his face blank. It wasn't just his father's fault that they didn't have any money. What about her cigarettes and VSQ? What about her trips to the beauty parlor and all of her fucking scratch tickets?

“Don't look at me like that,” she said. “You got a good year from that school. Coming back to Shaw ain't gon' kill you.”

“How do you know that?” he snapped. “When was the last time you went up there, 1980? It's not even the same building anymore, Ma. You don't even know what you're talking about.”

She said something to him then, but he wasn't listening anymore. The wheels were already spinning in his head. He couldn't go to Shaw. Not now. Not after a year in a prep school, living with people like Brody. He would call Mr. Kraft and ask for more financial aid. He would get a job at one of the shops in Hoover. One way or another, he would come up with the cash to finish what he'd started. He was already too far gone to turn around and come back.

An hour later, Anthony was stomping down the sidewalk, trying to look menacing but secretly afraid. His mother didn't have the money but that didn't mean that he couldn't get it, just as long as he didn't mind breaking the law.

He met Floyd in front of the building and followed him up the narrow staircase to the apartment that he now shared with his cousin. No one else was home at the time, but they kept their voices low. “That's messed up,” Floyd said after he heard about the tuition trouble. “Ain't no way they can let you slide for a while?”

Anthony shook his head. “It's time to pay up or pack my shit in a couple of months.” He thought about his reason for coming to see Floyd. It still wasn't too late to change his mind, but he couldn't think of an alternative. “So like, if you put me down with your man,” Anthony said. “How long would it take for me to make what I need?”

Floyd scowled, but then he chuckled. “You gon' sell dope, Ant?”

“I'm serious.”

“Yeah, right. You serious as cancer.” He laughed again, and it made Anthony want to run away or take a swing.

“Look,” Anthony said. “If you don't wanna help me, I can go holler at Shane myself.”

“Shane?” The bigger boy smiled sadly and shook his head. “Shane been in Lakeview damn near four months, nigga. Only way you gon' talk to him is through a Ouija board.”

Anthony closed his eyes. When he opened them, nothing had changed. “Shane is dead? How?”

“Two to the dome. No witnesses.” Floyd looked Anthony up and down. “Man, what the hell is you wearing?”

Anthony checked his reflection in the mirror and almost dropped. He had rushed over there in a bowling shirt and Birkenstocks.

“No offense, bruh,” Floyd continued. “But how you gon' be on these streets, wearing this bullshit?”

His friend was right, and for so many different reasons. Anthony suddenly wanted to peel off his sandals and throw them through the window. Who the hell was Tony Ohio when it came to East Cleveland? Maybe Floyd would lend him different clothes to wear on the walk back home. “Well, I guess it's back to E.C. and Shaw,” he said despondently. “You can show me around, right?”

“Don't look at me, nigga. I ain't been inside that school in a
minute
.” Floyd laughed, but he didn't sound happy. “Been too busy chasing that paper.”

Anthony looked at the street below. It was sunny and warm, but no one was outside. “Yeah? How soon before you can chase it to a different city?”

Floyd grimaced. “Not for a while. My momma still got another two months in jail, and she gon' have to see a parole officer for a while after that. . . .” He sighed. For a second he seemed much older. “I ain't never told nobody this before, man,” Floyd said. “But you the only dude I know who done actually been somewhere.”

“You cain't really count Maine as somewhere,” he said. “The whole state is just one big, boring forest.”

“Yeah, but you
seen
all them trees, man. And you seen New York and Boston, too. You done climbed mountains, drove snowmobiles, stayed in rich people's mansions, with waiters and butlers and shit. How many niggas around here can say that? How many niggas around here can even say they
know
somebody like that?” Floyd clapped Anthony on the back. “Don't take this the wrong way, nigga, but you kinda like a hero to me. Straight up.”

Anthony fought a strong urge to hug his best friend hard. Floyd may have teased him about Maine over the months, but it was clear that he'd also been listening. “Stop tripping,” Anthony said. “I ain't no hero, man. You are. You already got your own apartment and pay your own bills. . . . Shit, I've been up there wasting time while you've already started living.”

Floyd waved his hand. “If you wanna call it that. But I'm just grinding the same way my daddy did, the same way a whole buncha other dudes been doing for the longest. I could die tomorrow or live to be a hundred and never be nobody different than who you looking at, right now. I ain't never gon' make a name for myself except for around here, where a nigga with a name don't last long.” He pinched Anthony's bowling shirt between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the polyester like it was expensive silk. “But you done already made something new outta yourself. David.”

“Yeah,” Anthony said, looking at his sandals. “And every time I come home, it gives y'all something new to crack on me about.”

Floyd chuckled. “Come on, dawg. You gotta admit that some of that junk be funny. Like how you be calling pop ‘soda' now, and that bullshit about twenny-five-twenny.” He laughed again but then straightened his face when he saw that he was laughing alone. “But niggas still got love for you, dawg. Even Reggie. He be the main one bragging 'bout how his boy fi'n to be a big-time writer.”

Anthony made a face, but his friend ignored him. “For real, playa,” Floyd continued. “We all be talking about you. When you blow up like Tyler Perry or some shit, everybody in E.C. gon' be like, ‘We know him!' But we gon' be like, ‘Yeah, but that's our
boy
!'”

Anthony smiled, amazed by the picture Floyd had just painted because it reflected his dreams. “That's what's up,” Anthony said, and then panicked a little. He wasn't even the best writer in his English class. “I'm gonna give it a shot, but I don't know if I'm really good enough.”

“You good enough,” Floyd said. “Ever listen to yourself tell a story, man? Swear to God, it be just like watching a movie.”

“Thanks, man. I needed to hear that.”

“Then keep listening 'cause I'm telling you what I feel in my bones.” He put a hand on Anthony's shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “Look, I know we don't hardly be hanging out no more. You got your thing up at that school and I got my thing, right here. Both of us done changed a lot, but that don't mean we ain't still boys. I can go five years without even seeing you and still call you my best friend. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Anthony said. “I know.”

“Good. Then that's why you gon' let me help. Come and see me in a few days, and I should have some cash for you.”

Anthony shook his head. “Don't do that, man. You don't have to do that.”

“I know I don't have to, playa. I want to. Believe me, it won't be a whole lot, anyway. My cousin's rent is due.”

Anthony went home and sat on his porch. Cars rolled by, blasting music. Kids pedaled bikes across lawns and off curbs. Girls walked in groups, trailing perfume behind them; boys walked in packs, spreading fear. He had two more months at Belton, and then it would be over. Two months before he came back to East Cleveland for good.

Floyd came by a few days later with four hundred dollars in a brown paper bag. Anthony thanked him but wouldn't accept it, saying that his mother had hit the lottery. He spent the last night of the long vacation on the couch and mostly alone. On the news, there were more stories about murders and robberies. Some of them had happened in his neighborhood, but Anthony didn't recognize the victims.