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Authors: Sundee T. Frazier
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did,
I thought, seeing the pick in the boy’s hand. “One of them said something about black people having purple blood. Why would he say that?”
“Because he’s an idiot,” Gladys snapped.
“Just another way to say there’s something wrong with us because our skin’s a different color,” Dad said.
“And one of the boys made monkey sounds at me,” I said.
Dad sat back with his fist on his hip. His jaw bulged on one side. “Some white people like to think we’re more closely related to monkeys and gorillas than they are.”
“Humph.”
Gladys crossed her arms. “Last time I saw an ape, it had thin lips and straight hair. Looked more like a Caucasian to me.” She looked at Mom. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Mom said.
My most recent Big Question came into my mind. “Why are white people so mean to black people?”
“Some white people, honey,” Mom said.
Dad spoke up. “It starts with the parents. They pass on their attitudes to their kids—”
Mom’s head snapped to the side. “Not all kids,” she said.
“I know, I know. You turned out all right.” He smiled, but Mom had gotten as straight and stiff as the toothbrush I didn’t use for a week when I wanted to see if I could grow algae on my teeth.
She patted my back. “Let’s go, Bren. To the bathroom.”
I held my arm over the sink while she poured hydrogen peroxide on the cut. I was so interested in how it foamed and bubbled that I barely noticed the sting.
Why had Mom ended the conversation like that? Was Dad saying that Grandma and Grandpa DeBose didn’t like black people? Ed had been all right to Khalfani and me, so that wouldn’t really make sense. Would it? Unless he’d changed.
Later, at dinner, Dad said, “You know who you are, right?”
“Brendan Buckley,” I said.
“Brendan Samuel Buckley, grandson of Samuel Clemons Buckley. And you know what he would have told you?”
I shook my head.
“Don’t let anyone tell you who you are, or what you can or can’t be.”
Gladys hummed in agreement. “And you ain’t no monkey.”
As I ate my chicken stir-fry, I wondered what my other grandpa would have told me if he’d been here.
CHAPTER 10
I lined up my growing collection on my windowsill—basalt, slate and sandstone, the piece I’d chipped off near the riverbank. I’d learned that sandstone was formed from hardened layers of sand and other small particles. Now I had one of each type of rock: igneous, metamorphic and sedimentary.
The only one I didn’t put out was the calcite, my mineral from Ed. I kept that one in its box in the back of my desk. When I wanted to study it, I hung my EXPERIMENT IN PROGRESS sign on my door. Mom never bothered me when I had an experiment in progress.
On Wednesday and Thursday, I went over to Khal’s, but by Friday I was itching to stay home and look at my rocks under the microscope.
I also wanted to work on some of the Big Questions I’d come up with since learning more about rocks and minerals. Like why was malachite always green? And how could a rock—pumice—float? And was there any way I could get a real moon rock for my collection?
The answer to that question, I learned quickly, was a big fat
no.
Not without a billion dollars, and probably not even then. I couldn’t find any for sale, not even on eBay. If I wanted to study moon rocks, I’d have to become a real geologist and get a job in an aerospace lab or a museum.
Sometime after breakfast and before I got hungry for the peanut butter and banana sandwich Mom had left me in the fridge, the phone rang. I ran to my parents’ bedroom.
“Hello?”
Silence. “Uh, it’s Ed DeBose here.” He sounded like he had gravel in his throat.
Now it was my turn to be silent.
“Is your mom there?”
He wanted to speak to Mom? “She’s at work.”
“Good. I thought you said she worked Fridays.”
“How’d you know our number?” I asked.
“There’s this old-fangled thing called a phone book. I know it’s
I thought, seeing the pick in the boy’s hand. “One of them said something about black people having purple blood. Why would he say that?”
“Because he’s an idiot,” Gladys snapped.
“Just another way to say there’s something wrong with us because our skin’s a different color,” Dad said.
“And one of the boys made monkey sounds at me,” I said.
Dad sat back with his fist on his hip. His jaw bulged on one side. “Some white people like to think we’re more closely related to monkeys and gorillas than they are.”
“Humph.”
Gladys crossed her arms. “Last time I saw an ape, it had thin lips and straight hair. Looked more like a Caucasian to me.” She looked at Mom. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Mom said.
My most recent Big Question came into my mind. “Why are white people so mean to black people?”
“Some white people, honey,” Mom said.
Dad spoke up. “It starts with the parents. They pass on their attitudes to their kids—”
Mom’s head snapped to the side. “Not all kids,” she said.
“I know, I know. You turned out all right.” He smiled, but Mom had gotten as straight and stiff as the toothbrush I didn’t use for a week when I wanted to see if I could grow algae on my teeth.
She patted my back. “Let’s go, Bren. To the bathroom.”
I held my arm over the sink while she poured hydrogen peroxide on the cut. I was so interested in how it foamed and bubbled that I barely noticed the sting.
Why had Mom ended the conversation like that? Was Dad saying that Grandma and Grandpa DeBose didn’t like black people? Ed had been all right to Khalfani and me, so that wouldn’t really make sense. Would it? Unless he’d changed.
Later, at dinner, Dad said, “You know who you are, right?”
“Brendan Buckley,” I said.
“Brendan Samuel Buckley, grandson of Samuel Clemons Buckley. And you know what he would have told you?”
I shook my head.
“Don’t let anyone tell you who you are, or what you can or can’t be.”
Gladys hummed in agreement. “And you ain’t no monkey.”
As I ate my chicken stir-fry, I wondered what my other grandpa would have told me if he’d been here.
CHAPTER 10
I lined up my growing collection on my windowsill—basalt, slate and sandstone, the piece I’d chipped off near the riverbank. I’d learned that sandstone was formed from hardened layers of sand and other small particles. Now I had one of each type of rock: igneous, metamorphic and sedimentary.
The only one I didn’t put out was the calcite, my mineral from Ed. I kept that one in its box in the back of my desk. When I wanted to study it, I hung my EXPERIMENT IN PROGRESS sign on my door. Mom never bothered me when I had an experiment in progress.
On Wednesday and Thursday, I went over to Khal’s, but by Friday I was itching to stay home and look at my rocks under the microscope.
I also wanted to work on some of the Big Questions I’d come up with since learning more about rocks and minerals. Like why was malachite always green? And how could a rock—pumice—float? And was there any way I could get a real moon rock for my collection?
The answer to that question, I learned quickly, was a big fat
no.
Not without a billion dollars, and probably not even then. I couldn’t find any for sale, not even on eBay. If I wanted to study moon rocks, I’d have to become a real geologist and get a job in an aerospace lab or a museum.
Sometime after breakfast and before I got hungry for the peanut butter and banana sandwich Mom had left me in the fridge, the phone rang. I ran to my parents’ bedroom.
“Hello?”
Silence. “Uh, it’s Ed DeBose here.” He sounded like he had gravel in his throat.
Now it was my turn to be silent.
“Is your mom there?”
He wanted to speak to Mom? “She’s at work.”
“Good. I thought you said she worked Fridays.”
“How’d you know our number?” I asked.
“There’s this old-fangled thing called a phone book. I know it’s
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