The Liberation of Gabriel King (9 page)

Then they saw us.

“Hey, look!”

Duke was pointing up, and my heart sunk. I looked at Frita, real panicky, but she kept her eyes locked on mine.

“You can do it,” she said. “I got faith…”

Down below, the rest of the kids were laughing and pointing too.

“It’s Gabe and Frita up in a tree.”

“K-I-S-S-I-N-G…”

“Too scared to jump? You’ve got to stand up first, you know.”

They were right under us, laughing and whistling and calling out. I closed my eyes because this was
real
trouble.

“You stuck? Want us to call your mommies?”

“Better call Gabe’s pop,” I heard Duke say. “He always calls his pop. My Pop could take all three of them.”

That’s when Frita stood up. She scowled something fierce. “Gabe,” she said, “I’m going.”

For one minute I thought she meant she was going home—like maybe we’d climb down that tree and walk right past those hecklers—but I should have known better. Frita stood up and looked at me one last time, then she leaned out, grabbed that rope, and swung right off the tree branch.

Even though she was my best friend and I knew what she was going to do, for a minute she was like someone I’d never met. Someone incredible.

Frita landed with a huge splash, and that was just about
enough for me. I wanted to climb down right then, and I would have except for Duke.

“You’ll never make it,” he yelled.

I stood up and stared down at the water. Frita waved, and I felt like I was a hundred miles high. I was sure I would break my neck. The water below was brown and murky, and you couldn’t tell how deep it was in the middle. Maybe hundreds of feet. I imagined letting go of that rope and plunging in. Once I splashed down, I’d turn and turn. What if I forgot which way was up and couldn’t keep my breath?

“What’s the matter, Shrimp?” Duke yelled. “Can’t reach the rope?”

My mouth went dry. I hadn’t even thought of that. I forced my eyes away from the water long enough to watch for the rope. It was still swinging from when Frita let go of it, and the next time it came toward me, I reached for it. I missed and my whole body leaned forward, back, forward, back…I waved my arms like a propeller and I heard laughter, but I got my balance. I watched for the rope again and this time I leaned a little farther out.

I caught it just like one of those trapeze guys in the circus and held it tight. I closed my eyes and felt my feet leave the tree branch. After that, all I felt was my heart thump-thumping and the roughness of the rope burning my palms. Then I let go and I was turning and turning in the water. For a minute I didn’t know which way was up, but then I
was
up, breathing in big gulps of sweet air.

I splashed like crazy, but when I stopped and looked back to shore, there were Duke and Frankie staring with their jaws on the ground.

I looked at Frita and she was grinning real huge.

“I knew it,” Frita said. “I knew you could do it.”

And she was right. I had done it. Me and Frita bobbed and grinned in the water, and back on shore Duke and Frankie waved our clothes and Frita’s sandals in the air, then swung them into the trees.

“Hey,” they yelled, “come and get ’em.”

But we didn’t care. They could take our shoes and shorts, but they couldn’t take our courage.

T
HERE’S NOTHING LIKE SUCCESS TO BOOST YOUR CONFIDENCE
. L
EAST
that’s what Frita said after the rope swing. That made sense, only I wondered if confidence was the same thing as courage. We’d jumped off the rope swing five more times after the sixth-graders left, but I still didn’t want to go to the fifth grade. But Frita didn’t seem to notice that part. She was too excited.

“The way things are going,” Frita said, “we’ll be completely liberated by the Bicentennial.”

We were sitting in her bedroom, drawing pictures and listening to her transistor radio. It was shaped like a plastic spaceship and we had to adjust the antenna to get any music to come in. I pushed it all the way over to the side like I was working at fixing it, but really I was thinking.

“You decide which fireworks you’re going to?” I asked.

Frita gave me a look like she hardly knew what I was talking about. “Hollowell,” she said. “Where else?”

I wondered when she’d made up her mind, but I didn’t ask because that was the one I wanted her to pick.

“We gonna stay up all night in the tent afterward?” Frita asked.

I’d been waffling on that decision. Last year we’d tried to stay up all night, but I’d gotten scared on account of what had sounded like a black bear but had turned out to be a raccoon. After that I’d had to go inside and sleep with Momma.

“Maybe,” I said, and Frita put both hands on her hips.

“Gabriel King,” she said, “you got to get you some perseverance.”

I wasn’t so sure what perseverance was all about, so Frita tried to explain.

“It’s pushing on,” she said. “Toward the high mark.”

That was part of a hymn we sang in church, and I wondered if Frita really knew what perseverance meant or if she was just making it up. Then I thought about all the things I needed and how there were so many of them. Courage, integrity, faith, confidence, perseverance…Sure would be easier to sit back with my feet up and maybe eat a snack.

Frita got up and put her drawing away.

“What have you got left on your list?” she said, pulling out the special shoe box from under the bed where we kept it. I took out my list and read over everything real careful. There were a bunch of fears we hadn’t crossed off yet, but I wanted to pick the easiest one. Only this time Frita didn’t wait. She plucked the list right out of my hands.

“Let me read it,” she said, climbing onto her bed. “It’s almost done anyway.”

Then, before I could stop her, she started reading it out loud.

“Number one, fifth grade. Number two, Duke Evans. Number three, Frankie Carmen. Number four, spiders. Number five, alligators. Number six, Terrance…”

Frita stopped reading.

“Terrance?!”

I sure wished I hadn’t written that one down.

“You’re scared of Terrance?!”

“No,” I said, even though I was lying.

“You wrote it down,” she said. “Once you write something down, it’s true.”

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

“Not.”

“Too.”

“Not.”

That’s when Mrs. Wilson came in. “You kids getting along?” she asked.

I glared at Frita so she’d know she better not breathe a word of this to her momma. She paused and handed me back my list, but then she said, “Can Gabe stay for dinner?”

Mrs. Wilson nodded. She never said no when it came to feeding me because she had the idea Momma didn’t feed me enough. And Mrs. Wilson did serve more food than Momma. When Momma served dinner, there were always three things. Sometimes, it was pork chops, green beans, and applesauce, or else it was mac-n-cheese, peas, and bread, but it was always three, and one of those was always a vegetable,
so that meant there were only two that counted. When Mrs. Wilson made dinner, she made about ten things. There’d be some sort of meat, and then a couple vegetables so a body could choose what was most tolerable, and then there’d be corn bread, mashed potatoes, rice and beans…
Mmm, mmm
, Mrs. Wilson was a good cook.

“You can stay if your mother says it’s okay,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Why don’t you go call her?”

I jumped off the bed, real excited, but then I stopped. It occurred to me there was probably a reason Frita was inviting me to dinner and it probably had to do with Terrance.

I had to weigh everything real careful.

“What are you making for dinner?” I asked. Mrs. Wilson was hanging up some of Frita’s clothes in the closet, but she stopped and turned around, surprised. I’d never asked what she was making before.

“Corned beef, some collard greens, a bit of okra, corn bread, little bit of brown rice, applesauce…oh, and I’ve made bread pudding with sweet brandy sauce for dessert. That all right with you, Gabe?” She was smiling like something was kind of funny, but she didn’t laugh.

I never could resist bread pudding.

“All right,” I said at last.

Mrs. Wilson turned back around.

“Oh, good,” she said.

“Is Terrance coming to dinner tonight?” Frita asked, real sweet.

Mrs. Wilson turned around again and put one hand on her hip. As Frita would say, it was common knowledge that everyone at the Wilson household came to dinner every night, no matter what.

“What are you two up to?” Mrs. Wilson asked, real suspicious.

“Nothing,” Frita said. Then she grabbed my arm. “Come on, Gabe. Let’s call your momma so we can go outside before dinner.”

*   *   *

“What are you going to do?” I asked Frita when we were outside knocking moss off the trees with two big sticks. I was nervous, so I kept missing.

“Nothing,” Frita said. “I’m just going to make sure you and Terrance get to talk. Momma always says things would be all right if black people and white people could just sit down and talk over a fine dinner.”

I stopped swiping at the moss.
Huh
. I sure hadn’t thought about me and Terrance as black people and white people. I’d thought about us as a big, pounding, scary person and a little wimpy person who doesn’t want to get pounded. The way Frita put it made it seem like a big deal, and that couldn’t be good.

By the time Mrs. Wilson called us in to dinner, I was wishing I’d said no, even if we were having bread pudding. Then, when we went inside to wash our hands, Terrance was already at the sink, only he wasn’t standing right next to it, so
when me and Frita ran in full blast, we took his spot. Terrance narrowed his eyes.

“Twerps,” he growled. He stormed out of the bathroom. I gulped, and Frita looked over at me.

“He don’t mean anything.”

Maybe, I thought, or maybe
not
.

Frita went into the dining room and sat down next to her daddy, who was just taking off his tie and stretching his long legs under the table.

“Hello there, beautiful,” he said to Frita. Then he turned to me. “Gabriel,” he said, nodding as I pulled out my chair.

“
Helllooo
, Mrs. Wilson,” he said when Mrs. Wilson brought out the corned beef. She leaned over to put the tray down and he kissed her cheek.

She smiled and said, “Hello, Mr. Wilson,” like it was some inside joke between the two of them. Me and Frita reached for the corn bread and collard greens and started passing stuff around. We had everything all passed before Terrance even came to the table. Mrs. Wilson scowled because he was late, but she didn’t say anything.

I took a deep breath before launching into my meal and it was a good thing I did, because I forgot about the prayer. When you ate dinner at the Wilsons’, there was always a prayer and it was always a long one. Mr. Wilson started in slow at first, but then he’d get into it and his voice would start sounding like a song. Mrs. Wilson would say
mmm-hmm
while Mr. Wilson prayed, and the whole time we’d be
holding hands round the table. I sure was glad I didn’t have to hold Terrance’s hand.

By the time the prayer was over, my mouth was watering something fierce. I took a huge bite of corned beef immediately after Mr. Wilson said “Amen.” Frita scraped her collard greens into a pile under her corn bread so it would look like she’d eaten them.

“Terrance, Gabe wants to know what your favorite color is,” Frita asked out of nowhere after we’d all been eating a bit. I nearly choked on my okra, and Terrance made a face.

“What business is it of his?”

Mr. Wilson scowled. “Terrance, tell the boy your favorite color,” he said. “Won’t hurt you to be civil.” Mrs. Wilson was shaking her head like she was some fed up.

Terrance paused, sarcastic-like, then he said, “Black. What’s yours? White?”

I paused too. “No,” I said, “it’s blue mostly, but sometimes green when I can’t make up my mind.”

Terrance laughed like I’d said something stupid, and Frita picked at her corned beef. We all went back to eating again, but not for long.

“Gabe wants to know what your hobbies are,” Frita said, as if the last question hadn’t been enough.

This time Terrance’s face twisted up like squash vine.

“Why doesn’t the twerp ask me himself?”

Mrs. Wilson glared. “Don’t you speak about our guest that way,” she said. I just sat there looking from Frita to Terrance
to Mrs. Wilson. I was sinking lower and lower into my chair, and that was hard to do because the Wilsons’ chairs were the wooden kind with the straight backs. Mostly I ended up hunched over the table. I kicked Frita underneath it.

“Ouch.”

Mrs. Wilson gave the two of us the evil eye, and I knew I better hurry up and ask something quick before everyone got mad.

“Umm. Do you have your driver’s license?” I asked. I already knew the answer, but it was the only thing I could think of.

Terrance sat back in his chair. He put one arm over the empty chair next to him and eyed me real cold. He’d hardly eaten a thing.

“You want to know what I do for fun?” he asked, ignoring the question about the driver’s license. I nodded even though I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know.

“I fight oppression,” Terrance said. “You know what that is, Twerp?”

The funny thing was, this time Terrance didn’t say it mean. He said it like maybe he really wanted to know if I knew what oppression was. I thought maybe I did.

“I know,” I said, nodding. “Once I found a stray dog and Pop wouldn’t let me keep him. I was real oppressed about it because I thought Pop might say yes.”

Mrs. Wilson laughed into her napkin. She was trying not
to, but I could tell what she was doing. Mr. Wilson smiled too, but Terrance got real mad.

“What?” Terrance said. “What kind of a stupid answer is that?”

Mr. Wilson looked at Terrance like he was saying something serious with his eyes. Then he turned to me. “Gabe,” he said, “it’s not your fault you don’t know what oppression is. White people don’t always teach their kids about oppression, because they don’t think they have to know about it. But that’s not the case, is it? We all need to know what oppression is or else how will we fight it?”