Fire from the Rock (6 page)

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Authors: Sharon Draper

BOOK: Fire from the Rock
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It came with a thud and a curse. Mrs. Patterson stifled a scream when they heard an object hit their front porch. Sylvia thought it sounded soft, but heavy, like a large bag of fruit. The curse came as they ran to the door—three white boys ran down their driveway, cackling and shouting as they jumped into a black ‘56 Ford and sped away.
When Sylvia's father opened the front door, there lay Gary, curled like a bruised animal. Both his eyes were swollen and puffy, his nose was bleeding, and Sylvia saw cuts and bruises all over his head and arms. He held his arms tightly around his chest. Mrs. Patterson, once again calm in the face of calamity, didn't lose her composure.
“Sylvia, take Donna Jean upstairs, then get me some hot water and bandages. Hurry.” Donna Jean, her eyes wide with fear, didn't object.
Mr. Patterson, his face a mask of pain and anger, lifted Gary up as if he were a baby and brought him inside.
“Should I call the doctor?” Sylvia asked as she hurried back down the stairs.
“Not yet,” her mother said. “Let me see how bad it is.”
“What about the police?” Sylvia asked.
“Absolutely not,” her father replied strongly.
“But, Daddy, you can't let them get away with this! We have a colored policeman now. Can't we call him?” Sylvia's eyes flashed in anger. She remembered a unit her class had covered in second grade called, “The Policeman Is Our Friend,” where a smiling and very white police officer directed traffic and helped little old white ladies across the street.
“He can't even issue tickets, and for sure he's not allowed to arrest a white person. Forget it!” her father said harshly.
While her mother washed Gary's wounds with warm water, Sylvia shook her head in disbelief. They had just endured this scene with Donna Jean a few days ago. It was like seeing a bad movie repeated in their living room. Sylvia shuddered, wondering if next it would be her bloody body that her mother would be soothing on the sofa, trying in vain to bandage up the hatred that caused it.
Gary looked up and said through puffy lips, “I'm sorry, Mama.”
“What happened, son?” his father asked. Sylvia hovered nearby, hoping she wouldn't be sent out of the room like Donna Jean.
“I made a couple of stops on my way home. I needed to talk to people who really know what's going on.”
“Why didn't you just come straight home?” his mother asked.
“I should be safe in my own town, Mama,” Gary said gently. “I shouldn't have to be scared to go anyplace I want to.”
“Such a hardheaded child you are,” his mother said, weeping. “You've always been my headstrong, bold baby. But it's going to get you killed, Gary.”
“Don't cry, Mama. I'll be fine. I promise I'll be more careful.” Gary reached up to touch his mother's face.
“So where did you go?” his father asked. He was pacing the floor again.
“I stopped by the NAACP office to see if there was any news about the school integration stuff.”
“No wonder they targeted you!” his father roared. “Why do you hang around those people?”
“Because when they choose students to go, I intend to be one of them!” Gary replied with as much vigor as his injuries would allow.
“Well, this certainly isn't going to help your chances!” Mr. Patterson retorted angrily. “Even if we decided to let you try!”
“It wasn't my fault!” Gary protested. “I was almost home-walking down the street, minding my own business, when those three boys started calling me ‘Nigger' and ‘Coon.' One of them was Johnny Crandall. The other two were Sonny and Bubba Smith. They were in a car, but they followed me real slow, yelling and cursing the whole time.”
Everybody knew not to tangle with the Smith brothers. They called themselves the “Wild Cherry Cough Drops,” and had been known to vandalize cars and steal from the Zuckers' market. They took great pleasure in driving their ‘56 Ford up and down the streets of the Negro neighborhood all night long. The car had no muffler, so it sounded like a mechanical animal in distress, and a very loud, specially installed horn blared the song “Dixie” so loudly it could be heard blocks away.
“Couldn't you just have ignored them, son?” his mother asked tearfully as she bandaged the cuts on his head. “Doesn't the Good Book tell us to turn the other cheek?”
“I tried, Mama, but then they started throwing beer cans at me, so I picked up one of the cans and threw it back. It hit Bubba Smith in his eye.” It looked to Sylvia like Gary was trying to smile, but his lip was pretty swollen by this time. “They stopped the car, jumped out, and even though I got in a couple of good punches, I couldn't stop all three of them.”
“How did they know where you live?” his father asked.
“They know, Dad. They know. They tossed me back on my own porch to send a message. They know I'll never stop fighting for what's right!”
“Unless they kill you,” Mr. Patterson said angrily.
Sylvia wasn't sure if her father was angry at Gary, or at the boys who attacked him, but at no time that evening did she see him get on his knees and pray. And, for once, her mother had no proverbs to quote.
 
 
Monday, January 7, 1957—Late Evening
I really worry about my big brother.
His wounds will heal, but not the fury that keeps growing inside his heart. Gary is angry all the time these days. When he used to sing in the choir at church, his face would almost glow with happiness. But lately, that's not been very often.
I'm supposed to be asleep now. Donna Jean is snuggled in her bed snoring, and the rest of the house is quiet now. After Daddy helped Gary upstairs, he and my mother talked for a long time. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but their voices were upset. Mama, I'm sure, wants to protect Gary and move someplace safe like Alaska or Arabia—anyplace that's not Arkansas. Her motherly instincts are to put a big blanket around him and make sure nothing hurts him. Only there's no covering large enough to protect him from people like the Smith brothers or the Crandalls. Mama once told Gary to put his anger in a pot and let it simmer. He told her that one day he'd come to a boil. Mama looked a little scared and changed the subject.
I bet Daddy would love to punch one of those kids right in the nose. Pow! Then watch him bleed. I think he'd feel better if he could act on what's inside him. But I don't think he'd ever forgive himself if he did. He's been a preacher too long. Besides, they'd throw him in jail, he'd lose both his jobs, and Mama would die of shame.
But if nobody cries out for change, nothing will happen. I don't want to grow up and have to drive ten miles past the pretty school to take my kids to the ratty old building where the colored kids have to go. I don't want my daughter to look at me with pity while some white shopkeeper insults me.
Mama makes all her own clothes, and most of our clothes, too. She does this because it costs a lot less, but also because it's often embarrassing to go to a store to buy things. I don't think it's fair that Negroes have to keep what they buy, while white folks get to try it on at the store, or at their house, then return it a couple of weeks later if they change their mind. Mama says there was a time when we couldn't shop in the stores at all. I guess that's progress, but it doesn't seem like it to me.
That's it for tonight. I'm going to be a mess in school tomorrow if I don't get some sleep.
TUESDAY, JANUARY 8, 1957
So, have you called Reggie yet?” Lou Ann asked as she stirred the gravy into her potatoes.
Sylvia and Lou Ann Johnson, a skinny girl with a powerful laugh and a large gap between her front teeth, sat together most days at lunch. Lou Ann made low-to-average grades, always had boys following her around, and never seemed to have a bad day. She had been going steady with Otis Herman since the beginning of eighth grade. She wasn't going to be asked to consider Central High, and Sylvia knew she wouldn't have given it a second thought if she had.
Lou Ann's father, Zeke, owned the barbershop where most of the Negro men in town got their hair cut. She always had money in her purse, and never brought her lunch. She'd buy the Salisbury steak with gravy that the cafeteria offered, plus an ice-cream sandwich, which the students made themselves out of two freshly baked sugar cookies with a square of vanilla ice cream stuck between them.
Lou Ann was always cheerful and carefree. Everything Otis said or did made her laugh, and she shared her laughter with her whole class. Sylvia knew Lou Ann was the right one to talk to.
“Oh, I couldn't call him first!” Sylvia said, sounding slightly shocked. “I'm waiting for him to call me. My mother says only bad girls call boys.”
Lou Ann laughed heartily. “Do you always do what your mother says?”
Sylvia didn't want to admit that she usually did, so she changed the subject. “I think Reggie is going to play football at Horace Mann next year. My brother told me.”
“There's nothing more fun than a high school football game,” Lou Ann said wistfully, sipping her milk. “The band, the music, the cheers and the cheerleaders, the roar of the crowd, the boys in their uniforms with those pants tight on their rear ends—simply too cool.” She laughed again.
Sylvia wished she could be more like Lou Ann. She always said exactly what was on her mind, and never seemed to be bothered by the rules and regulations. “Uh, I never noticed,” Sylvia said as she made her ice-cream sandwich. It was her custom to let the ice cream melt a little as she ate her lunch so that it would be soft enough to lick into a perfectly round, perfectly delicious treat.
“Well, if you didn't, you sure will when Reggie is playing!” Lou Ann replied with a laugh. She licked the mashed potatoes off her spoon. “If you don't use him, you'll lose him!”
“How can I lose something I don't even have?” Sylvia said helplessly. “Besides, I think he likes Candy Castle.”
Lou Ann laughed so hard that little streams of milk came out of her nose. “Don't you know that all the boys like Candy? She's hot chocolate, Sylvia. Melted, sweet, soft, and delicious. That's why you have to let him know you like him. Boys go for quality, too—sometimes.” Reggie walked across the cafeteria, carrying a tray and heading for a table where Calvin Cobbs and a couple of other boys sat. “Hey, Reggie!” Lou Ann called as loud as she could. “Come sit with us.”
Sylvia felt herself shrivel as he grinned, changed direction, and headed their way. He wore a blue argyle sweater, blue chino slacks, and those raggedy blue Keds. The rubber of the left shoe flapped a little as he walked. “How could you do that?” she whispered to Lou Ann.
“Aw, quit acting like your little sister. Talk to the boy like you got some sense!” Lou Ann admonished.
“How do you get so many boys to notice you?” Sylvia asked Lou Ann shyly as she glanced with wonderment at Reggie's approach.
“I relax, Sylvia, like you need to do. Boys don't like tense girls. They dig someone who can make them feel good. You're too uptight.”
Sylvia had no idea how to relax like Lou Ann suggested. She wondered if Reggie thought she was boring. There was just so much she couldn't figure out.
“How's it goin'?” Reggie asked, chewing that Juicy Fruit gum as he grinned. He sat down then, his long legs bumping Sylvia's under the table as he got situated. She gasped slightly and her heart thudded, but he didn't seem to be nervous at all.
“I'm fine, Reggie,” Sylvia replied as smoothly as she could. “How's your brother doing on the Mann basketball team this year?”
“Greg thinks he's a superstar,” Reggie said between mouthfuls of meat loaf. “Says he wants to play for the Harlem Globetrotters one day.” Then, looking more serious, he said, “Speaking of brothers, I heard about Gary. How is he doing? Tell him if he ever needs help dealing with the white boys, I got his back!”
Why are boys so ready to fight all the time?
Sylvia thought as she stirred her corn pudding. “He'll be okay—on the outside, at least.” Sylvia frowned. “I think Gary is simply gonna crash and burn one day. Might get messy.”
Reggie smiled. “He'll heal up. Then he'll be ready to fight again—stronger and tougher. But speaking of basketball,” he said smoothly, “there's a game at Mann next week. Would you like to go with me?”
Sylvia almost choked on her cookies. She couldn't believe he was asking her on a date! She sat there for a moment, staring stupidly and saying nothing. Then she felt Lou Ann kick her leg.
“Uh, I'd have to ask my mother, but as long as she thinks there will be at least a million other people there, she might let me go.”
“Cool!” he said. “Tell you what—to avoid the parent trap, why don't I just meet you there? Your folks can drop you off and pick you up, and neither one of us has to go through all those questions that parents think they have to ask.”
“You sound like you've done this before!” Sylvia said, aware she was laughing too loudly.
Reggie, faking the deep bass voice of her father, said, “Now, tell me, son, what are your intentions concerning my darling daughter? And will you ever buy new shoes?”
Sylvia, Lou Ann, and Reggie, laughing hysterically, initially did not see Miss Washington approach. Sylvia looked up in surprise. Miss Washington, unsmiling and determined-looking, strode toward their table. Her sturdy shoes echoed on the linoleum floor. “I need to speak with you, Miss Patterson,” she said brusquely. “Come with me.”
Not now! Not in the middle of the most important conversation
of my
life ! But all she could say was a polite and sorrowful, “Yes, ma'am.”

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