Black Boy White School (9 page)

For the rest of the days until Christmas vacation, Anthony thought more and more about home. He was excited about seeing his family and friends, but he was also afraid. He'd been gone almost four months. What if he had changed too much? What if he didn't fit in anymore? What if he was going home to be murdered, just like Mookie?

The questions stayed with him on the van ride to Portland, and they grew more intense on his flights. But when the plane touched down in Cleveland and he saw his beaming mother, Anthony pushed the questions out of his mind and ran to her. They almost fell down as they crushed each other and rocked from side to side. He couldn't believe how short she was and how small she felt in his arms.

“Look at you!” she said, pushing away and gawking. “You done got so big, boy. What they feeding you?”

“Noodles and cottage cheese.” He laughed, and she slapped his chest. “Seriously, though,” he said, “the food is good. And they feed me a lot of it, too.”

She seemed to wince, but it passed so quickly that Anthony wasn't sure. “Is that the only bag you brought?”

He shook his head and switched the Belton book bag to his other shoulder. He had charged it to his school account without asking her permission. “Brought that brown suitcase, too.”

“Well, hurry up and get it so we can go,” she said, looking around. “These airports be making me nervous.”

They took the Eddy Road exit off the highway, turned away from all of Bratenahl's mansions, and drove toward East Cleveland's check-cashing joints, beverage stores, and bars. There were broken bottles on the sidewalks and shattered safety glass at the curbs, forsaken houses with busted furniture rotting on their weedy lawns. Massive Navigators floated down the roads on chrome rims, while other cars in far worse shape sputtered along. And every few corners, groups of menacing boys laughed like they owned the world.

“Can you speed up?”

His mother checked the dashboard and frowned. “I'm doing the limit right now. You don't wanna get pulled over, do you?”

“Not around here,” he mumbled. “What's with all the empty houses?”

“People cain't make they payments no more, baby. It's a miracle we still got a place to stay.”

They pulled into the driveway, and memory flooded him; the cracked concrete slab that had once been a garage; the little patch of yard that he used to think was big; the railroad tracks rising beyond the back fence; and the hole in the links that was his.

“Welcome home, baby,” his mother said, and opened the door. Anthony's heart sank when no one yelled out, “Surprise!”

“Where is everybody?”

“I don't know,” his mother said. “Somewhere.” She scratched her head and then kissed his, said that she had to get up early for work, went in her room, and closed the door.

Anthony walked from room to room, touching things and trying to get comfortable. It all looked familiar but felt different somehow, like he was in another dimension. He called Floyd, but no one answered at his house and his cell number wasn't working. He tried Reggie, but his brother said he was already drunk and passed out for the night. Anthony hung up and thought of other numbers to call, but he went up the stairs instead.

The next evening, Anthony caught up with his friends. They were down in Reggie's basement, drinking and smoking, playing video games. He had stopped by the beverage store on his way over, picked up a six-pack from the uncaring Arab behind the bulletproof glass. His friends cracked up when they saw the Sam Adams, though. It made him wish he had come empty-handed.

“This nigga done brought white boy brews,” Floyd said, laughing. “Is that what they got you drinking up there?” He stopped the game and reached for the big bottle between his feet. “Here you go, nigga, drink this eight ball.”

Anthony took the malt liquor and unscrewed the top, took a deep swig from the forty-ounce bottle, and wiped his mouth. It was flat and tasted like rusty nails and sugar, but he took another swallow, anyway. “Now that's good brew,” he announced, and passed the bottle on. “I don't know the last time I had some Olde E.”

Floyd started the game up again. Then he promptly shot Reggie's crouching character through the head. “Next!” He put down the controller and waited but no one made a move. “What about you, Ant? Feel like gettin' shot?”

“Not me, son. I don't even know what game that is.”

Floyd frowned and cocked his head to the side just as Reggie sparked a blunt. He hit it and ashed it, then hit it again, blew long clouds from his nostrils, and extended his hand. “Here you go, nigga. Or maybe you don't smoke weed no more, neither?”

“Ant stopped blazing?” Curtis shouted from the other side of the room. “What's wrong? They be testing your piss up there?”

“Hell yeah, they be doing that,” Reggie answered. “White people be using that technology.” Everyone agreed. There were cameras on RTA trains and buses, plus more posted high up on telephone poles. “Everywhere a nigga go nowadays, it be somebody shooting video.”

They all nodded again and moved a little closer to Anthony, either to watch him hit the weed or to take it away. He put it to his lips and took in the ragged smoke, felt like coughing but willed himself not to. Smoking with Brody, there hadn't been any tobacco to deal with.

“Satisfied?”

“For now, nigga,” Floyd said, reaching for the blunt. “But the night is young, ain't no school tomorrow, and the weed man is sitting right here.” He pulled a pouch from under his seat and dumped out dozens of little Ziploc bags. Each one had a skull and crossbones stamped on the side and was stuffed with green buds of marijuana. “You like them sacks, right?”

As if to answer, Curtis came over and handed him four fives. Floyd added the cash to a wad in his sock and then gave him the fattest bag. “So tell niggas about Maine,” he said, leaning in toward Anthony. “I know it gotta be wild.”

“Like college,” Reggie answered before Anthony could. “They be having keg parties and the whole nine.”

“No, they don't, son,” Anthony said. “Stop frontin' like you know how it is.”

“Yeah,
son
,” Floyd said, laughing. “Stop
fronting
.” He pulled a bottle from Anthony's six-pack and opened it. “Is that how they got you talking up there?” He laughed again and took a sip, looked surprised, and nodded at the bottle. “This white-boy brew ain't that bad. . . . You won't never catch me buying this shit. But I can drink it.”

“That's what's up,” Reggie agreed, and opened one for himself. His brother did the same and then Anthony followed.

“So what's the deal, dawg?” Floyd continued while he rolled another blunt. “You gon' tell us about that school or what?”

“I can tell yaw,” Anthony said, measuring his words. He had worried so much about not sounding white that he had talked like the Brooklyn kids instead. “But like I already told you on the phone, it's boring.”

Reggie laughed and said, “So what,
son
? I wanna know what other words you done learned up there.”

“And the bitches, too,” Curtis interrupted. “I heard them white girls is freaks.”

They waited, and then Anthony told them about his roommate, the other students, and the campus. He told them what happened at Freshman Brook, about his trip to Lewiston and all the Africans he saw. He spun everything in a way that made the experience seem horrible, even though he really was starting to like Belton a lot.

“Damn, nigga,” Reggie said, and handed Ant the blunt. “Glad I ain't had to go up there to that bullshit school.”

The night wore on, and Anthony slowly faded from the dialogue. There were stories with people's names that he barely recognized, references to things and places that sounded foreign. Just four months away, and his memory was already fuzzy. What would it be like for him after four years?

Anthony needed a present for Gloria, so on Christmas Eve, he took the train downtown to Tower City. It felt good to be in a crowd of mixed people, and Anthony slowed his pace while everyone else rushed around. Some of the shoppers looked like teachers at Belton or like some of the old codgers in Hoover. They walked alone or together, carrying boxes and bags, talking into cell phones or to each other. Packs of teenagers moved in and out of the stores, too. Some groups were as black as Anthony and others as white as Brody. Although they sometimes passed very close to one another, they never talked or touched. How many times had he come down there before and done the same thing? How many times had he snubbed potential friends?

Anthony smiled at a blond girl. She didn't see him, though, and kept talking to her buddy. A group of girls at another table only glared when he spoke to them, and a boy who looked like Nate stared straight ahead. At first Anthony got mad. Then he noticed his hooded sweatshirt, baggy jeans, and untied Timberlands. If he'd been wearing his acceptable academy clothes, they probably would have treated him differently.

He bought Gloria a necklace and a box of Godiva chocolates. Then he hurried down the stairs and jumped into a waiting Rapid. The last handful of white people got out of the train at University Circle, including the driver, who was replaced by a black woman.

They reached the end of the line in East Cleveland. Anthony walked away from the station, boxed necklace stuffed in his waistband, candy in a bag and swinging at his side. He had probably gone overboard with the gifts for Gloria. They had kissed and hugged a few more times, but she still didn't consider them a couple. Maybe he would keep the cheap chain to himself. It would probably turn her neck green, anyway.

By the time he reached Hayden Avenue, all of the streetlights were on. Traffic passed by slowly, and Anthony waited for the light to change. Then a dented car suddenly accelerated and yanked up on the sidewalk in front of him. Four doors opened up and five boys hustled out, all of them wearing red baseball caps. “W'sup, nigga?” the biggest one barked. “Ready to pop some more shit?”

Anthony looked at him and then at all the other boys. He had never seen any of them before. “No disrespect, man,” Anthony said carefully. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Yeah, he do!” one of the other ones shouted. “Go 'head and fuck that nigga up, Chop!”

The big one balled his fists, and Anthony dropped the bag. If he ran, they would chase him down. If he stayed and fought, they would all jump on him, anyway. The most that he could hope for was that none of them had a gun. If that was the case, then everything was over. “I'm telling you, dawg,” Anthony said, backing up. “You got me confused.”

“Hold up, Chop,” one of the boys said, moving closer. “This ain't him. The nigga we lookin' for is way taller.”

“Yeah,” someone else said from the back. “The other nigga wasn't that black, neither,”

They piled into the car and peeled off. Anthony took a deep breath and picked up his bag. People around him either drove or walked the street, oblivious to what had just almost happened.

He found his mother in the kitchen, cooking. Christmas Day meant a Thanksgiving-sized meal but rarely a tree or presents. Santa Claus was for children, his mother had explained, and she considered Anthony a young man.

She looked up from the stove and at the bag in his hand, raised her eyebrows, and asked, “Who is that for?” Instead of telling the truth, Anthony smiled and extended it. Gloria wasn't his girlfriend, anyway. “Thank you, baby,” she said, and set the candy aside. “But you know I didn't get you anything.”

“That's okay. I just wanted you to have it. Sweets for the sweetest mother in the world.” She smiled, but it didn't last very long. Disappointed, Anthony searched for something else to say. “Up at school, we did this Secret Santa thing. Everybody in the dorm picked each other's name out of a hat and then we had to buy that person a present.” He paused as she went and got something out of the refrigerator. When she returned, he started up again. “Anyway, there was a ten-dollar limit on everything. That way nobody went broke.”

“That's nice, baby,” she said, stuffing the turkey. “What did you get?”

“A Nerf basketball hoop. I put it on top of my garbage can. Anyway, what I'm saying is that we could probably do it here, in the house, if we wanted to. We wouldn't even have to say it came from Santa Claus.” He waited, but his mother didn't look up or say a word. “Why not?”

“'Cause I ain't got money for no bullshit holiday,” she snapped. “That's why.”

“But ten dollars, Ma? Come on. You spend two or three times that every week, burning gas to go see your boy.”

She pulled her hand out from the turkey's ass and wiped it with a rag. “My what?”

“I'm sorry. Your boy
friend
. How is old Patrick, anyway? I haven't seen him around.”

She pointed a stiff finger. Lumpy stuffing clung to the nail and knuckles. “Watch yourself, hear? Who I spend my time with ain't none of your business. And since you wanna talk about where my money be going, let's start off with you. How much you think that plane ticket cost? And what about that fancy book bag? You get that for free?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, ma'am.”

“That's better,” she said. “I don't know what they done did to you up there, but I don't like it. You got a smart-ass mouth, all the sudden.”

He drew a breath but held it. There was no use in arguing. He did have a smart-ass mouth now, and smart eyes and everything else. “I'm sorry.”

“You should be.” She jammed in another handful of stuffing. “If all you gon' learn up there is how to act disrespectful, then I'm gon' make your black ass stay here.” She sniffed, and then the bird got a final violent treatment. After that, she slid it into the oven.