Read Online Every Time a Rainbow Dies by Rita Williams-Garcia - Free Book Online

didn’t find a part-time job on his own, Truman and Shakira would find work for him.
    He took the bus downtown to scout out possible employers. Most fast food-places welcomed him, but he did not crave hamburgers, and he would be knee-deep in burgers. He thought about the big library at Grand Army Plaza, but this would keep him indoors. He needed to be outside. Perhaps get work as a messenger.That would take him around town without a boss to breathe down on him. He found a place on Flatbush, but it already employed too many foot messengers. Did he own a bike? No? No job.
    After two hours of filling out applications and hearing “Check back in another month,” he gave up. No one wanted to hire part-time help, even if he would soon be seventeen. They wanted either a diploma, a GED, or some experience. Or the jobs just did not appeal to him.
    Maybe he should leave school. Take his GED by the summer. Get full-time work, but not with the Transit. Truman worked long, crazy hours and didn’t laugh anymore. No hospital work either. Nothing near sickness and death.
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    The stores were closing. He took the Flatbush bus and got off a few stops before his house. He had been out all day without so much as a drink of water. But he didn’t want water. He wanted something sweet, quenching, and filling. He imagined the taste of Ysa’s lips. If he could kiss her lips, he would want nothing else.
    â€œEat all the strawberries, all the mangoes, but don’t touch the so-so-plump berries.”
    This is what his mother said when he fished around the fruit bowl not knowing what he wanted. His mother made up fruit that grew only in her homeland onNanny’s trees. The so-so-plump berry was such a fruit. It could be eaten only once in a lifetime, for its sweetness was hard to tolerate. “Make sure you truly want it,” Mommy warned. “Once you suck the fruit, nothing will ever taste sweet again.”
    He walked on, looking in stores, thinking, Wet and sweet, wet and sweet. Then he came upon Yong Moon’s Fresh Fruit Market and headed that way in spite of what Truman had said.
    Nearly three years ago Truman had told him never to buy from Yong Moon, following an incident at the fruit stand. Mr. Moon struck an old man he caught stealing plums. No matter how hard Mr. Moon had struck the old man, the old man held on to the plums, and the dark plum blood oozed between the old man’s fingers. The gathering crowd turned on Mr. Moon, pelting him with grapes, peaches, and limes from the outdoor carts. Mr. Moon’s wife, a tiny woman, then ran into the crowd swinging a baseball bat in every direction. For two weeks after the incident the community picketed Yong Moon and his wife, but the fruit eventually won out. Yong Moon sold the best produce in the neighborhood, if not all of Brooklyn. No one could picket Mr. Moon forever.
    Thulani saw Mr. Moon, himself an old man, struggle to push the melon cart into the store. Halfway up theramp Mr. Moon stopped to massage his shoulder. This was an opportunity. Thulani crossed the street and pushed the melon cart up the ramp and inside the store. It was all too easy for him. He pushed the citrus cart inside as well.
    â€œI need work,” he told Mr. Moon.
    Yong Moon said there was no work.
    Thulani just stood there while Yong Moon stacked empty crates. He followed the man. “I can push these carts in, no problem.”
    Mr. Moon said nothing.
    â€œI can stand right here and watch the store when it gets busy.”
    Mr. Moon was deaf.
    â€œI can wash down the sidewalk,” Thulani said.
    Yong Moon went on stacking the wooden baskets as if he were alone.
    Thulani looked to the back of the store where the register was. Mrs. Moon was not there. She hadn’t been there for a year.
    â€œI can come after school. Three to six.”
    Yong Moon said, “Close at seven.”

NINE
    Thulani wanted to tell someone other than his birds about his job, but there