riots. I was there—and this I felt with extraordinary and bitter certainty—as a sort of liberal-minded experiment. And, hey, I did not intend to fail. I remember yawning and yawning, sucking in air with my mouth closed and my face taut.
Finally, I gave up the effort to pull in his faraway voice. Ilet myself drift into silence. I watched the old dust settle in the red- and yellow- and blue-tinted sunlight. Above and around the stained-glass windows thick curls of paint peeled away from the walls. Below the windows gold lettering of memorial plaques shone dimly through the dust. A faded semicircle of ornate print above one window reminded us of boys who played in the streets of Jerusalem. In this close, cool chapel, I could not imagine Jerusalem, its noise or its sun. I could not imagine anything. I knew now what they wanted: “No boy shall leave here unimproved.”
When the doors opened, I pressed through them into a wash of cool orange twilight. I took off my shoes and was surprised by the wet grass and the freedom to run through it. I ran across grass, asphalt, and brick, past the round post office, the art building, over the bridge. It had been selfish of me to ask them to stay. Daddy would have to drive eight hours tonight. Mom would be tired. Carole had had it. I felt a stitch in my side.
They were waiting at the car. My mother looked at me with dramatic maternity. We were back to baby names, to the familiar fury of the separation I had dreamt of. I heard my sister wail, but I could not see her past my mother. I hugged my mother and my father in the moist air. My cheeks were wet from their kisses. I hugged my sister and felt the panic in her small, perfect body. The soles of my feet throbbed from the bricks.
“Don’t stay here in this place,” Carole cried. “Aren’t you going to come home? You can’t stay here!”
My parents got her into the car, and in those days before seat belts, she flailed around in the back seat as I walked my mother to the passenger side. I was sick with my betrayal of Carole and ashamed that I begrudged my parents the thin shreds of devotion I dredged up and flung their way.
I did what I needed to do. I said the things they needed tohear. I told them that I loved them. I told them that I would miss them. It was true, and it was enough, after all.
They drove away slowly. My mother looked back and waved. My sister cried and cried. I watched her face and waved to it, until it was no more than a speck, until they turned the corner and were gone.
Chapter Four
S till barefoot, I ran into my house to cry. Even when I closed the door to my room, however, I could hear girls. They were talking and laughing. Who could cry? I washed my face and wandered upstairs to Fumiko’s room. It was empty. I took the long route back to my room by making a circle down past the common room and peeked in. Two black students, a boy and a girl, smiled back at me.
Jimmy Hill, one of the skinniest boys I had ever seen, had arrived that morning from Brooklyn. He had extravagant brown eyes. His black satin jacket, emblazoned on the back with a red-and-yellow dragon, hung open to reveal a fishnet T-shirt that cast tiny shadows on his chest.
Annette Frazier was a ninth grader (or “Third Former,” as I was learning to say) whose theatrical mannerisms made her seem older than she was. She had an appealing face, rounded, with regular features that she used to great effect. When we met, she pantomimed our wariness with a quick movement of her eyes. She caught precisely our exposure and our collusion.
We shouted with laughter and touched hands. Had anyone told me two hours before that I would be engaging in such high-decibel, bare-naked black bonding, I would have rolled my eyes with scorn. We sat in our small circle until Annette decided that it was time for her to get back to unpacking her things. I wondered if she was as organized and as self-assuredas she looked. Neither Jimmy nor I could face our rooms,
Finally, I gave up the effort to pull in his faraway voice. Ilet myself drift into silence. I watched the old dust settle in the red- and yellow- and blue-tinted sunlight. Above and around the stained-glass windows thick curls of paint peeled away from the walls. Below the windows gold lettering of memorial plaques shone dimly through the dust. A faded semicircle of ornate print above one window reminded us of boys who played in the streets of Jerusalem. In this close, cool chapel, I could not imagine Jerusalem, its noise or its sun. I could not imagine anything. I knew now what they wanted: “No boy shall leave here unimproved.”
When the doors opened, I pressed through them into a wash of cool orange twilight. I took off my shoes and was surprised by the wet grass and the freedom to run through it. I ran across grass, asphalt, and brick, past the round post office, the art building, over the bridge. It had been selfish of me to ask them to stay. Daddy would have to drive eight hours tonight. Mom would be tired. Carole had had it. I felt a stitch in my side.
They were waiting at the car. My mother looked at me with dramatic maternity. We were back to baby names, to the familiar fury of the separation I had dreamt of. I heard my sister wail, but I could not see her past my mother. I hugged my mother and my father in the moist air. My cheeks were wet from their kisses. I hugged my sister and felt the panic in her small, perfect body. The soles of my feet throbbed from the bricks.
“Don’t stay here in this place,” Carole cried. “Aren’t you going to come home? You can’t stay here!”
My parents got her into the car, and in those days before seat belts, she flailed around in the back seat as I walked my mother to the passenger side. I was sick with my betrayal of Carole and ashamed that I begrudged my parents the thin shreds of devotion I dredged up and flung their way.
I did what I needed to do. I said the things they needed tohear. I told them that I loved them. I told them that I would miss them. It was true, and it was enough, after all.
They drove away slowly. My mother looked back and waved. My sister cried and cried. I watched her face and waved to it, until it was no more than a speck, until they turned the corner and were gone.
Chapter Four
S till barefoot, I ran into my house to cry. Even when I closed the door to my room, however, I could hear girls. They were talking and laughing. Who could cry? I washed my face and wandered upstairs to Fumiko’s room. It was empty. I took the long route back to my room by making a circle down past the common room and peeked in. Two black students, a boy and a girl, smiled back at me.
Jimmy Hill, one of the skinniest boys I had ever seen, had arrived that morning from Brooklyn. He had extravagant brown eyes. His black satin jacket, emblazoned on the back with a red-and-yellow dragon, hung open to reveal a fishnet T-shirt that cast tiny shadows on his chest.
Annette Frazier was a ninth grader (or “Third Former,” as I was learning to say) whose theatrical mannerisms made her seem older than she was. She had an appealing face, rounded, with regular features that she used to great effect. When we met, she pantomimed our wariness with a quick movement of her eyes. She caught precisely our exposure and our collusion.
We shouted with laughter and touched hands. Had anyone told me two hours before that I would be engaging in such high-decibel, bare-naked black bonding, I would have rolled my eyes with scorn. We sat in our small circle until Annette decided that it was time for her to get back to unpacking her things. I wondered if she was as organized and as self-assuredas she looked. Neither Jimmy nor I could face our rooms,
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