The Liberation of Gabriel King (2 page)

“
Lisa Lawrence, Ann Marie Kudrow, Gabriel King
…”

In the distance I heard Ms. Murray calling my name so I tried to crawl out, but I didn’t get very far.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Nowhere,” I said, but my voice cracked.

“Did we tell you to talk?”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean…I got to line up. Maybe we better get back.”

“Did you just tell us what to do?” Duke snarled.

I answered so quick, I choked on my spit. “No. Nope.”

“Seems to me,” Duke said, “you used to carry our lunch trays…”

“And clean up our stuff after gym class…”

“And don’t forget how much you loved giving us those snacks your momma packed for you. In fact, I think you want to give me that snack right there.”

Duke grabbed the sprinkly cookie from my hand. I’d forgotten I was holding it, and it was all smooshed up from me clutching it so tight, but Duke chomped it down quicker than a hungry mutt with a steak. Duke was
always
hungry.

“You can have all my snacks,” I said, real quick. “I’ll get you more after the ceremony too. Promise. Only I better go because they’re playing the starting music and my momma and pop will be waiting. I’ve got to clap for Frita, and…”

Soon as those words were out of my mouth, I wished I
could stuff ’em back in. Right away Duke got that look in his eye. He stuck one finger into my chest real hard.

“You can go when I say so,” he growled. “And I don’t say so, because no one’s going to clap for Frita Wilson if I can help it.”

If Frita were here, Duke wouldn’t have had the guts to say that. I should have made a run for it only I was too scared, and before I knew it, Frankie grabbed my arms and Duke grabbed my feet. Then Frankie pulled my arms out of my shirtsleeves, yanked the sleeves behind me, and tied them in a knot so tight I couldn’t move a muscle.

“Let’s see you try to clap for your girlfriend now,” he said, leaning in until his face was right next to mine. He laughed like that was
sooo
funny and shoved me to the ground.

I landed on my butt in a puff of red dust.

“See you next year,” Duke said, syrupy sweet.

I sat there watching their feet get smaller and smaller.

There’s nothing worse than watching someone else’s feet run to where you ought to be.

I pulled hard at my shirtsleeves, but that knot wouldn’t budge. I thought about getting up and running over to the crowd, but the idea of it made my cheeks turn bright red with embarrassment. Plus what if Duke and Frankie were waiting for me?

I could hear the ceremony starting and everyone clapping. The principal was making his speech about what a fine year it had been at Hollowell Elementary. He called out the
names for everyone to get their certificates. First the kindergarteners, then the first-, second-, and third-graders, and then he was calling out the names for my class.

“
Miranda Tuttle, Frita Wilson
…”

The principal called Frita’s name in the distance and I whistled and hollered loud as I could, just like I’d promised, but I knew no one could hear me.

That’s when I gave up and shuffled under the picnic table in shame. I thought of the imaginary list me and Frita had made, and in my mind I crossed off everything. This wasn’t a great day or a momentous occasion. It was the worst day. I’d broken my pinky swear to Frita. I’d never done that before. Not even once.

I thought about Duke and Frankie, and then I thought about my best friend walking across the stage, listening for my extra-loud whistle. That about killed me. If this was what the fifth grade had in store for me, I didn’t think I could stand it. There were some things in life a man could not be forced to endure, and it was looking like fifth grade was going to be one of them.

O
NCE
F
RITA FOUND ME UNDER THE PICNIC TABLE, SHE KNEW EXACTLY
what had happened.

“Did Duke Evans and Frankie Carmen do this to you?” she asked, setting down her certificate and class picture so she could untie my shirtsleeves.

“Yup,” I said.

Frita shook her head. “I knew I should’ve come looking for you as soon as you didn’t line up, but Ms. Murray said, ‘Don’t you move, Frita Wilson,’ and I thought for sure you’d show up…. But don’t worry, Gabe. I’m going to liberate you from this situation and then we’re gonna take care of business. Just you wait.”

Liberate was a word I should have known because Frita’d said it before, but right then I couldn’t think of what exactly it meant. Only from the look on Frita’s face I guessed it meant trouble.

“I can’t believe they made you miss Moving-Up Day,” Frita said, her eyes burning like hot coals.

“Don’t matter,” I told her. “I’m not moving up anyway. I decided it.”

It was as if a cloud passed over Frita’s face. She looked at me and her brow scrunched into a V.

“What do you mean you’re not moving up?” she said. “They called your name, so you’ve got to.”

“Nope,” I said. “I made up my mind.”

Frita frowned.

“You can’t stay behind,” she said. “We got to be in the same grade—otherwise, who will you play with? Won’t be anyone to pass notes with, or to pick each other for teams. Who will help you with your math and who’ll eat my brussels sprouts on chicken and biscuits day?”

I thought it over. Frita did have a point. Back before the integrating, life sure had been plain. A teacher had even written on my report card in kindergarten:
Gabe seems lonely and needs to make some friends.
I couldn’t go to school without Frita.

“Why don’t you stay back with me?” I suggested, but Frita wrinkled her nose and pretended like I hadn’t said that.

“You’ll love the fifth grade. Just try it,” she said instead, using her whiniest, most pleading voice.

But I thought about Duke and Frankie and I knew Frita was wrong. I’d broken my pinky swear because of them.

I shook my head. “Nope,” I said. “I’ll just get beat up on every day, so I might as well stay back. I’d rather be alive in the fourth grade than dead in the fifth.”

Frita stomped her foot. “They won’t get you,” she said. “I promise.”

“Oh, yeah?” I asked. “How you going to promise that? You’d have to pay them all the money in the world…”

Frita stuck her stuff under one arm and grabbed my elbow.

“No, I won’t,” she said. “C’mon.”

My stomach twisted into a knot. “What are you going to do? Are you going to tell Ms. Murray? Don’t you think we should find my pop first?”

But Frita wasn’t listening. Sometimes she’s like a locomotive—there’s no stopping her until she wants to be stopped. She dragged me to where the punch and cookies were set up and it didn’t make a lick of difference that I was trying to run the other way.

“I’m going to do what Terrance taught me,” Frita said. “And don’t worry about getting in trouble—this is
justified
on account of what they did to you.”

Justified? I wondered if justified was anything like terrified. Probably was if it was something Frita had learned from her older brother. Terrance was eighteen, and when it came to pounding, he was the expert. He kept five different punching bags in the basement of their house. There were big ones as tall as he was, tiny ones the size of someone’s head, and there was one in the corner that was exactly my size.

One time me and Frita snuck down there when we thought no one was home. Only then we’d heard Terrance’s feet coming down the steps—
clunk, clunk, clunk.
He didn’t see us at first and started punching that little bag a hundred
times a second. I breathed in real sharp by accident and that’s when he turned around and saw us under the stairwell. First I screamed, then Frita screamed. Then Terrance chased us clean out of the house. I hadn’t gone into her basement since.

So if Frita was going to pull something she’d learned from Terrance that could only mean one thing. Trouble.

“You know my momma will be wondering where I am,” I said, right quick. “We better find her before we do anything else…”

I searched the crowd, but right then Frita caught sight of Duke, and that’s when things got crazy.

“Just see if anyone picks on you again after this,” Frita said.

She let go of my arm, marched straight up to Duke, drew back her fist, and before anyone could take a breath she punched him smack in the nose. Duke toppled back, knocking over the punch bowl, and Frita dove after him. She was rearing back to punch him again when Frankie tackled her from the side. All around me people were gathering in, pushing and yelling, but I was frozen solid.

“
Fight! Fight!
”

“
Get her
…”

“
You kids stop that!
”

Everything was happening at once, and before I could blink, there was a slew of adults pulling everyone apart and my pop was one of them. He dragged Frita off Duke, but it
took two other guys to help because she kept swinging her arms like cyclones. Duke got to his feet and stood next to his pop. His nose was dripping blood and his clothes were all soaked in fruit punch and he was sniffling real hard, like he was trying not to cry.

Then his pop yelled, “You got beat up by a nigger girl?”

The whole crowd went silent soon as he said that. Even Frita stopped swinging and her eyes popped. My breath came out like someone had punched me in the gut, and I looked around to see who would yell at Mr. Evans for saying that, but all the adults were looking at the ground, shuffling their feet.

Then Pop stepped up.

“You best not be using that word,” Pop said. He said it steady and quiet, like he says just about everything, but I could tell he meant business.

“You talking to me?” Mr. Evans asked, looking down. Pop is short like me—he’s shorter than all the other adults—but he didn’t back away.

“Yes, I am.”

Mr. Evans moved like he might put up his fists, but he looked around at all the faces in the crowd and then he spat on the ground instead. It was hot and dry, so that spit sat at Pop’s feet like a challenge. Then Mr. Evans grabbed Duke by the elbow.

“Come on,” he said, real gruff.

He nodded into the crowd to Frankie’s pop and they took
off. Our teacher, Ms. Murray, was trying to say something to them about their boys fighting, but they didn’t even stop to listen. Only Duke stopped long enough to look back over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed into tiny slits, and there was so much hate in them, I could read exactly what his mind was saying.

I’m gonna get you. Just you wait.

I
KNOW
F
RITA WAS TRYING TO HELP, BUT REALLY SHE’D MADE THINGS
ten times worse. I’d be a dead man if I went to the fifth grade now. Might as well call me a walking corpse.

Frita stared after Mr. Evans and I’d never seen such a strange expression on her face. Looked like she’d seen a ghost.

Pop dusted off her dress. “You okay?” he asked.

Frita looked back one more time, then she shrugged and looked real tough again. “I could have taken them if you adults hadn’t interfered,” she said.

Pop chuckled. “I suspect you could have.”

“No suspect about it,” Frita muttered, but she said it low, so maybe just I heard.

Pop reached down and picked up Frita’s certificate and class picture from the dust. They were all trampled, and you could see where there was a hole right in the center of the picture.

He handed it back to Frita and she tried to look like it was no big deal, but her tough look faded again and her lower lip quivered just a little bit. I was going to say she could
have mine soon as I got it, but that’s when our teacher came over.

“I need to speak to your parents about you fighting, Frita Wilson,” Ms. Murray said. “Is your father here this morning?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Frita said, brushing a line of dirt off her certificate. “He’s probably around by the stage, talking to people.”

Frita’s daddy was always talking to people—partly because he was a preacher, so folks felt inclined to tell him their troubles, and partly because he was involved in politics, so folks felt inclined to tell him the answers to other people’s troubles. Least that’s what Frita’s momma said.

Ms. Murray shook her head. “Guess we’ll have to go find him then, won’t we?” She tried to look mad, but it was no secret Ms. Murray liked Frita a whole lot, so really she just sighed.

“Yes, ma’am,” Frita said, kicking at a pebble. She turned to me. “Guess I better go.”

“Yup,” I said. “Guess so.”

I wanted to say thanks for the liberatin’ and all, even if she
had
made things worse, but Frita took off behind Ms. Murray and that left me and Pop.

“You want to tell me what happened?” Pop asked.

I looked down at my feet, but I didn’t say anything. How do you explain to your pop that you got tied up under a picnic table?

“Your momma is not very happy about you missing the ceremony, and I don’t blame her.”

I shrugged. “Don’t matter,” I said, “because I’m not going to the fifth grade anyway.”

Pop gave me that look that said I better not be a smart aleck, but I wasn’t being smart, I was dead serious.

“And don’t try to talk me out of it, because I’ve made up my mind.”

Pop looked like he might try to talk me out of it anyway, but he didn’t have a chance because that’s when Momma caught up to us and it was like getting caught up to by a tornado. Her hands were on her hips, her blond hair was flying out of its ponytail, and she was coming up fast.

“Made up your mind about what?” she said.

“Fifth grade,” I said. “I ain’t going.”

“Oh, is that what you think?” Momma asked, only she wasn’t really asking because she didn’t wait for an answer. Her hands shot up to her mouth. “What happened to your pants?”

I looked behind me and sure enough, there was red clay all over my butt. Probably from being pushed onto the ground by Duke.

“Did Frita Wilson put you up to this?” Momma asked. “Was she the one who was fighting?”