The Jacket (3 page)

Climbing the steps, he smiled at the driver. Then he turned and looked for a seat. He saw one near the back, but scanning the bus, he also saw something else.
This whole bus is white kids. Only white kids! No, 'cause
there's Julie Chin, and she's not white. But she's not black. No black kids on my bus, not one.

Phil had done pretty well until he got on the bus. Because he'd been trying to forget about everything that had happened on Thursday. That's what his mom had said he should do. She'd said, “Forget about it.” So he'd tried. Because during dinner and most of Thurday night it was all he could think about, about his being white. And about feeling prejudiced. But he hadn't said anything more about it, because his mom had said he shouldn't. Especially not to his dad. “Forget about it.”

But looking around, Phil tried to imagine what it would be like for Daniel if he were on this bus right now. Would that make Daniel feel weird?
Or how about if I was on Daniel's bus right now? What would
that
be like?

Because Phil knew that Daniel's bus was practically all black kids. And the part of town where Daniel's bus was coming from, it had to be almost the opposite from his, right? Like, only black families and no white families. And Phil thought,
You can figure out a lot just from looking around a bus.

Phil would have kept thinking about it, but his friend Lee poked him on the shoulder and said, “Hey, Phil, what'd you get on that social studies test?”

So for the rest of the short ride to school Phil and Lee talked about how boring social studies was and how stupid it was to have to learn about Ancient Egypt. Except for the Pyramids. Plus mummies and treasure and junk like that. That part was okay.

Phil was glad to keep talking. For about five minutes it helped him forget about all that other stuff. But after
getting off the bus, he walked up the front steps and into the school, then turned left to go to his locker. And as he passed the big windows of the office he glanced to his right. And he saw something that made everything come crashing back into his head—the jacket, hanging there on the coatrack outside Mrs. Cormier's office. Jimmy's jacket. Then he thought,
No, it's Daniel's jacket.

On his way back to art class he pretended the office wasn't there. He turned his head to the left and admired the plaques and posters on the opposite wall.

Going to the library for third-period reading, he studied the pattern on the shirt of the kid in front of him in line. And after library he cut through the auditorium. He told himself it was so he could say hi to Caroline Swanson, who was up on the stage getting ready for music class, but he knew it wasn't true. He went that way so he wouldn't have to walk past the office again.

Then on his way to lunch Phil couldn't help himself. He sneaked a look through the office window. The jacket was still there.

Phil had brought a bag lunch. He'd done it on purpose so he could just walk into the cafeteria and go right to his table and sit down and eat. He didn't want to stand around in the lunch line, just in case.
Because Daniel might be looking for me, like he'll maybe try to embarrass me again. And maybe Daniel talked to all his friends
about me. Like maybe they're gonna gang up on me out on the playground. Or maybe Daniel cut out my picture from the yearbook and put it on the Internet, and now everybody in the world knows I'm prejudiced! Except my mom.

But of course nothing happened at lunch or at recess. Even though he kept a sharp lookout, Phil didn't spot Daniel once. That made him curious, so after recess he went to his social studies classroom a few minutes early. He walked to the front of the room, and Mr. Linton looked up from the book he was reading, his face lifting into a smile when he saw Phil. “How's it going, Phil?”

“Okay.” Phil smiled and put his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual. Mr. Linton waited a second or two to see if Phil had anything else to say, then nodded and turned back to his book.

Mr. Linton's desk was messy, but Phil knew what he was looking for. And when he saw it, he knew why he hadn't seen Daniel at lunch or recess. Daniel was on the absent list.

Class began, but Phil didn't hear much of what Mr. Linton was saying. He was remembering Daniel out on the playground yesterday, out in the freezing cold—without a jacket.
Jeez! He's probably sick. He's probably got something terrible 'cause it was so cold. Like really, really sick. Or he's at the hospital or something. And if the doctor says “How come you're so sick?” what's he gonna say? He's gonna say it's all because of me! And what if he . . . what if he
dies?
Oh, my God! They're gonna put me in prison! I'm a killer!

Phil knew his imagination was running away with him. But still, he decided he had to do something.

• • •

He stopped at his locker first and got his backpack, along with his math book and his social studies homework. He also grabbed his gym bag, but he took out his shoes and shirt and shorts and left them in the locker.

Phil hurried to the office. His timing was perfect. It was that quiet moment right before the end-of-day craziness begins. The principal was already out in front of the school getting ready for the bus loading. It was only Phil and Mrs. Donne in the office. Which was what Phil wanted.

Stepping toward one end of the long counter, he said, “Can I buy a pencil? I really need one for math 'cause Mrs. Kinnon doesn't let us use pens.”

Mrs. Donne sighed and said, “All right. Hang on while I get one out for you.”

She got up slowly from her desk and walked to the storeroom at the rear of the office. Which was just what Phil knew she would do, because that's where the school store supplies were kept. And when she went into the storeroom, Phil took a quick step to the left, grabbed the jacket off the coatrack, bent down below the counter, and stuffed it into his unzipped gym bag. When he straightened up, Mrs. Donne was coming back through the storeroom door. Phil's face was flushed, but he smiled
as best he could, and when she laid the pencil on the counter, he handed her fifteen cents, gulped, and said, “Thanks.”

“You're welcome. Have a good weekend, dear.”

“You too.”

Phil left the office, and as he walked down the stairs and out the door to get on bus number seven, he carefully closed the long zipper on his gym bag.

“Early basketball practice today?”

“Nope. Just couldn't sleep.” Phil gave a big yawn.

“Couple'a eggs sound good?”

“Sure.”

Phil grabbed a clean glass from the dishwasher, got out the orange juice, poured himself a glass, and sat down.

His dad liked to cook, and Phil watched as he cracked both eggs, one-handed, against the side of the frying pan. As they started to sizzle in the butter his dad said, “So, how's the team look this year?”

“Team looks good. First game's next week against Regina.”

“You gonna start?” asked his dad, one eyebrow cocked.

Phil shook his head. “I don't think so. There's another guy who's taller than I am, and he's a really good shooter, too. I'm gonna get to play, but I think the coach'll start him at center instead of me.”

“This other center—black kid?”

Phil heard something in the tone of the question. “Yeah—Dennis Hardy.”

“Figures,” his dad said, flipping first one egg then the other.

Definitely something in that tone. Phil said, “What d'you mean?”

His dad shrugged. “I mean, find me a team anywhere in the whole country that's not mostly blacks, that's all. And now even golf. Prob'ly bowling next. Be nice if some other folks got some game too, that's all.” He slid the cooked eggs onto a plate, dropped on two pieces of toast, put it down in front of Phil, and said, “Breakfast of champions. Eat up.” Then he sat down across the table, picked up his coffee mug, and turned to a fresh page of the sports section.

Phil ate a bite of eggs and then drank some of his juice. “Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“Don't you think it's great to watch a game when guys like Shaq and Hard-away and Ewing play? I mean, they're great players, right? And Jordan? He's
the
best, right?”

His dad shrugged. “Sure. Don't get me wrong. It's fine that those guys are
so great. Great is great. But see what I mean? When you think about great, do you remember Bob Cousy or Larry Bird or Bill Walton? No, you remember Wilt Chamberlain and Magic Johnson. And players like Ainge and Stockton? Forget about it. These days it's all about the black guys. So don't get me started.”

There was a knock at the kitchen door, and Phil looked at the clock. Nine. That was Lucy. He got up and opened the door for her. “Hi, Lucy.”

She smiled and said, “Well, Philip! This is a surprise—you're up bright and early this morning.”

“Uh-huh.”

Then Lucy saw his dad at the table. Phil watched her. Lucy seemed to pause a second, adjusting her face and her voice. Then she said, “Morning, Mr. Morelli.”

Phil watched, and his dad didn't
look up from the newspaper. “Hi,” he said. And again Phil could hear something in the tone of his dad's voice. And Phil knew that Lucy could hear it too.

Walking out of the kitchen, Phil passed Jimmy in the family room, glued to the TV, flipping from cartoon to cartoon. But Phil hardly noticed. He was thinking.

All his life Lucy had called him Philip, and she had called his brother Jimmy, and his sister Juliana. And for as long as he could remember, Lucy had called his mom June, because that was her name—June. Because, like his mom had said, Lucy was a friend.

But Phil couldn't remember Lucy ever using his dad's first name. She always called him Mr. Morelli. Never Nick. Always Mr. Morelli. And for the first time in his life Phil understood why.

• • •

Phil pushed the door closed with his shoulder and flopped onto his bed to listen to a song. Three minutes later there was a loud knock on his door.

“Come in!” He had to yell to be heard above the music. As Lucy stuck her head into the room Phil hit the stop button on his CD player.

“I've got to work in here, and then
I'm going to run the vacuum. You in or out?”

“I'll leave in a minute.” Phil plugged in his earphones and put them over his ears, but he didn't start the music. He started reading some song lyrics, but he was actually watching Lucy.

She began at his dresser, lifting up each picture, each of his basketball trophies, dusting underneath, and then putting things back. As she worked she hummed a little tune, her hands busy.

Phil pulled off the earphones, cleared his throat, and said, “You know, your grandson goes to my school.”

Lucy nodded. “I guess I knew that. It's the Curwin School, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

Lucy kept working, now dusting the bookshelves above his desk. Phil said, “Did Daniel tell you about what happened on Thursday?”

“Something about his jacket, right? I heard about it, but not from him. I don't think he wants to talk about it.”

“Well, it was kind of my fault. I didn't know it was his, so I thought he stole it or something. He got pretty mad about it.”

Lucy smiled, nodding again. “He does have a temper, that boy. But he gets over things. You didn't mean him any harm. Any fool knows that, and he's no fool. Straight A's in all his classes. Smart as a whip.”

Lucy had finished dusting, and she stepped into the hallway and pulled the old Electrolux through the doorway.

Phil jumped off his bed. “Here, I'll plug it in.”

“Thank you.”

Lucy was ready to switch on the vacuum cleaner, but Phil said, “I think I'd like to call him—Daniel. Can you tell me his phone number?”

“Sure can.”

And Phil grabbed a pen and a note card off his desk and wrote down the number.

“Thanks, Lucy.”

She smiled at him. “You're a good boy, Philip, a nice young man. And so's my Daniel. Now, you scat out of here and let me get my work done.”

Phil stuffed the note card into his back pocket. He went straight downstairs and into the family room.

As he turned on the computer at the desk against the wall, he felt bad. What he'd just said to Lucy was like what he'd said to his English teacher on Friday, about how there might be a note in the office from his mom. It was almost a lie. Because Phil didn't really intend to give Daniel a call, at least not today. Today Phil had a very different plan.

With a few clicks he activated the
modem, and it began to chirp and whine. Phil knew exactly what he was doing, because he'd been thinking about it all morning. He went to a search engine, clicked on
FIND PEOPLE,
then clicked on
REVERSE LOOKUP.
He typed in Daniel's phone number, and in two seconds there it was on the screen: 2518 Randall Street. And once he had Daniel's address, after only a few more mouse clicks and a few more key taps, Phil printed out a detailed map that showed exactly how to get from his door to Daniel's.

Studying the map, Phil was surprised. Daniel didn't live that far away, just a little more than two miles. And Phil thought,
Two miles? That's not far at all. I run farther than that during one basketball practice.

After he shut down the computer, Phil went to the front-hall closet and pulled on a stocking cap, his
cross-trainer
Nikes, and a hooded sweatshirt. He stuffed a pair of lightweight gloves into the front pocket of the sweatshirt. Then he leaned down and picked up his gym bag.

In the kitchen Phil peeled a piece of paper from the memo pad by the phone. In large letters he wrote, “Going to run over to Lee's house, maybe play some B-ball. Be back later.”

As Phil signed his name and put the note under the saltshaker on the kitchen table, he knew he was letting himself get away with another half-truth. Yes, he was actually going to run over to Lee's house. That was the true part. But when he got there, Phil knew he wouldn't stop. He was going to keep on running.

He was going to take a nice long run—all the way to 2518 Randall Street.