Read Online The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors by Michele Young-Stone - Free Book Online Page A

principal. Principal Clark continued: “This kind of vandalism won’t be tolerated. I’ve told J.J. here to clean up the urine and to let the librarian know if any of your books need replacing. If J.J. can’t read the titles, he’s to ask you or the nurse to write them down.” Buckley rolled his eyes. He knew that Janitor Jackson was a smart man. He’d fought in World War II. He’d been a reporter for a black newspaper somewhere up north. According to Janitor Jackson, he’d fallen on hard times. It was “women and drink.” He told Buckley, “Show me a good-looking woman and I’ll show you a heap of sad men. There’s a big difference between a good woman and a good-looking one. I seem to prefer the latter.” Buckley knew Janitor Jackson fairly well, as Buckley had a tendency to hide in the bathrooms that J.J. cleaned between classes.
    After school, Buckley preferred helping Janitor Jackson lugtrash to the dumpsters to going home to Reverend Whitehouse, who was always picking at him: “Do you think you’re smarter than me? You’ll never be smarter than me, boy.” Hell, his stepfather hated Buckley more than anyone. Maybe Reverend Whitehouse had pissed in his locker.
    Principal Clark continued: “When the piss is gone, J.J. is gonna scrub
bastard
off the locker. If it won’t come off, he’ll paint the locker brown. We’re out of yellow paint.”
    Buckley and Janitor Jackson stood side by side. Principal Clark said, “What’s the problem, Buckley? What do you expect me to do?”
    Buckley didn’t answer.
    Principal Clark looked at Janitor Jackson and back at Buckley. “Don’t worry, son: J.J.’s used to cleaning up piss. He’s good at what he does.”
    Buckley didn’t like Principal Clark. It was no secret that he was in the Ku Klux Klan, annually parading, his white hood starched, down Main Street. Some educated people, Buckley had come to understand, were still ignorant.
    By the sixth grade, Buckley was trying to survive—nothing more. With the reverend living in his house,
sleeping with his mother
, Buckley understood that Reginald Jackson, just like him, was trying to survive. There were those who endured and those who thrived. He and Janitor Jackson would probably never thrive. Some men are born to eke by, and Buckley, having no interest in good-looking women or whiskey, had no one and nothing to blame for his predicament.
    Class was in session. Buckley, a foot shorter than Janitor Jackson, stood outside his locker. Janitor Jackson plunged his mop into a rolling bucket of gray water. Buckley said, “I can clean up my own piss.”
    “Suit yourself.”
    Fortunately, finding solace in cleanliness and organization, Buckley kept things tidy. His books were neatly arranged on thetop shelf, unmarred by the urine, nearly dry, that formed a yellow ring in the bottom of his locker.
    Buckley handed one of the textbooks,
The Earth and You
, to Janitor Jackson. “Sorry,” Buckley said, “that you can’t read the important works of this century.”
    Janitor Jackson said, “Maybe I should take this to Miss Beverly in the infirmary and ask her what it says.”
    Buckley laughed. “I think you ought to.”
    “It’s a shame us black folks can’t read good. It’s why we is always using the whites-only bathrooms and water fountains. You can’t blame us for being dumb.”
    “Of course not.”
    Buckley dunked the mop into the gray water.
    “I’ll spray some bleach in there later,” Janitor Jackson said, “and I’ll get you a new lock—one that James Bond couldn’t bust.”
    When the bell rang, the hall filled with onlookers, girls and boys snickering, concealing their smiles behind books such as
Mathematics Today
and
Grammar for Girls
. Ignoring the jeers, Buckley asked Janitor Jackson, “Anybody ever piss in your locker?”
    “We didn’t have lockers where I went to school. All we had were desks.”
    “And I bet you walked ten miles to school in the snow.”
    Janitor Jackson said, “I like