Secret Saturdays

Table of Contents

 

 

 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group. Published by The Penguin Group.
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Copyright © 2010 by Torrey Maldonado.

Chapter opener photo ©
iStockphoto.com/Frances
Photography.
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Published simultaneously in Canada.
Text set in Chaparral Pro Regular.

 

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Maldonado, Torrey.
Secret Saturdays / Torrey Maldonado.
p. cm.
Summary: Twelve-year-old boys living in a rough part of New York confront questions
about what it means to be a friend, a father, and a man. 1. Inner cities—Fiction. 2. Single-parent
families—Fiction. 3. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 4. Racially mixed people—Fiction. 5. African
Americans—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction. 7. Brooklyn (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M2927Se 2010
[Fic]—dc22
2009010361

eISBN : 978-1-101-17176-9

Manny was a known troublemaker but I still couldn't believe he was trying to clown Sean.

Out here the rule was “Dis or get dissed on.” The best disser was king of the hill. That was Sean. You became the new king by knocking down the old king. I guess that's why out of all the tables in our school cafeteria, Manny came to ours.

Manny was a husky Dominican kid who looked white. Italian or something. He had green crossed eyes, a thick neck, and he always kept the same pissed face on. He had no sense and messed with anybody.

“You speaking to me?” Sean said.

“Yeah, you, elephant ears.” Manny laughed. He probably thought he was hard because he had two seventh graders with him. He looked like he was trying to dress hard too. The end of September is chilly, even in our lunchroom. But Manny kept his button-up shirt wide open. His white tank top showed.

Sean eyed him up and down. “You rocking clothes from a ninety-nine-cents store and you trying to dis me?”

The two seventh graders who had come over with Manny laughed, then gave Sean a pound.

“What up, Panchi,” Sean said. “What up, Rob.” He made room for them to sit.

Manny's eyes bugged out. He probably thought they just sort of knew Sean, not that they were so cool. Manny was standing all alone now.

If someone clowned Sean, he didn't just dis back enough to shut the kid up. He took it to a whole other level. So I knew Sean wasn't about to let Manny off the hook so easy.

Sean winked at me, Kyle, and Vanessa, and we understood what his wink meant. We had known Sean since fourth grade, and his favorite boxer—a Heavyweight Champion of the World—winked that way before he threw his one-two knockout combo.

“Everybody here knows your family lives in a homeless shelter,” Sean told Manny. He waved at his sandwich in front of him. “Here. I only took two bites from my hero. Take my leftovers to your family.” Sean pulled a dollar out of his pocket. “And this is so you don't have to beg on the train later.”

Kids at the table busted out laughing. Me, Kyle, and Vanessa did too.

Manny opened his mouth to say something back to Sean, then closed it. His eyes were hurt looking and his face turned red.

“Yoo-hoo,” Sean said, waving at Manny. “Hello? You too hurt to say something?” Sean tapped Panchi's forearm. “Get your man Manny a Kleenex.”

“He's not my man anymore,” Panchi said, and sucked his teeth at Manny. “Punk.”

Manny got mad, tightened his hands into fists, and took a step toward Sean but stopped when he saw Ms. Feeney, our Advisory teacher, coming over.

“Everything okay over here?” she asked.

Everyone nodded yes at the same time, except Manny.

Manny looked at Ms. Feeney, at us, and then he bounced. After Ms. Feeney watched Manny leave, she nodded at Sean the way police who patrolled my neighborhood said hi to teenage guys who chilled on benches. There was something mean about it. Another teacher called Ms. Feeney away before she could say something to us.

Dissing is like boxing. There's a winner and a loser. Winners leave smiling. Losers end up sorry looking and deflated like a popped balloon.

To dis someone, you need to find something wrong with them. Nothing was wrong with Sean, except his ears poked out a little.

Almost nobody had nicer gear than him. He always had brand-new kicks, a hot cell phone, and iPods.

His schoolwork was like his clothes. He was competitive. His assignments were super-neat, on time, all the time, and he got good grades.

He had a nice father and mother. They loved him.

And he was mad popular. Girls stayed stalking him. Sean was half Black and half Puerto Rican, like me, and girls thought he was cute because he looked like the rapper T.I. but in the sixth grade. He had T.I.'s same shape face, light brown skin, eyes, and haircut. In fifth grade, some girls even called Sean “Little T.I.” for months. Back when they did that, me and Kyle teased Sean in girly voices and said, “Hey, Little T.I.” He'd snap back, “Justin, that's why you a mini Nas and Kyle you a Souljah Boy with glasses.”

Right now, Sean put his fist out to Kyle for a pound. “I got that one.”

Kyle gave Sean his props. “You got it.”

Sean reached over to Vanessa. “Gimme mine.”

She said flirty, “You got it,” and gave him a pound.

Sean stretched his arm over to me and held his fist up for a pound. Sean was The Man.

“You got that one,” I said, punching my fist against his.

“WHO THIS BIGHEAD?”
Sean nodded at the Latino guy standing next to Ms. Feeney.

“Probably Ms. Feeney's boyfriend,” I joked. I was used to Sean saying some things, but him calling people “bigheads” was new. I wondered where he got it from.

Ms. Feeney was our only Black teacher. She had dreadlocks to her shoulders and almost a white girl's accent. We had her Advisory class only once a week. Fridays, eighth period. Our last class of the day.

“Everyone,” Ms. Feeney began, “this is Juan Jones. He is a former gang member. He'll explain how his neighborhood and school pushed him to join a gang. I want you to listen.”

“You can call me Jay,” the gang guy said. He folded his arms and stepped into the middle of the circle. He dressed like he was going to work or church. Crisp white collared shirt. Slacks. Nice shoes. His small Afro was shaped up neat. He was maybe Puerto Rican or Dominican. Only one thing about him said he once was in a gang. His tats. He had a tear-shaped tattoo under his left eye. His right hand had tattooed letters on the back between his thumb and index finger. Everyone was listening.

“Family,” Jay said. “It starts with family. Where I'm from, a normal family ain't normal. I grew up without a pops. That was normal because most kids in my projects didn't have dads. Raise your hand if you grew up without a father.”

I looked around to see who would raise their hand.

Shaquan sat two seats from me. His dad was a drug dealer who had gotten shot and killed. Shaquan didn't have a father. He didn't raise his hand.