Leaving Atlanta Page 8

  Mother frets over a sequined shoe box in the center of the sturdy oak kitchen table. It is a diorama, Sister’s fall project. Mr. Harrell ordered you fifth-graders to create festive posters illustrating the theme, “Reaching as we climb.” The purple mimeographed sheet with the instructions is crumpled in the sticky bottom of your book bag.

  Sister’s pretty little brow is creased as she carefully prints her name on the pencil line beside the word by. “Right here, honey,” Mother says. Sister is six years old and very obedient.

  “Your poster is in the living room,” Mother tells you as she carefully encloses the diorama in bubble wrap.

  You are surprised, but you shouldn’t be. This is hardly the first time that your mother’s industry has thwarted your strides toward underachievement. But what else has she found rifling through your bag? Has she seen the candy wrappers? Maybe, but that doesn’t prove anything. Furthermore, Mother is not predisposed to think ill of either of her children by virtue of love liberally mingled with instability. You walk to the living room and retrieve the poster without comment.

  “I’m hungry,” says Sister, not unpleasantly.

  The kitchen is covered with putty, spangles, twine, and toxic solvents. Mother glances at the daisy-shaped clock over the stove. “I have a hair appointment at eight. You’ll have to get breakfast at school.”

  “What?” you sputter although you hadn’t intended to say anything. Since your words are almost invariably misinterpreted, you avoid speech in general and abstain entirely from rhetorical questions.

  “We’re going to eat at school!” Sister is happy, partly because she is a naturally effervescent little girl, but also because the cafeteria ladies love her and give her extra cartons of chocolate milk. You have not made such a good impression on the heavy women whose round faces are framed by hair nets. They actually dislike you, demonstrating this antipathy by a subtle twist of the wrist, ensuring that your serving of casserole never has cheese on top.

  And besides, school breakfast is eaten nearly exclusively by kids whose families are so poor that they don’t have anything to eat at home. They carry meal cards, given out at the first of the week, marked FREE so they receive their trays without paying. You’d rather not be associated with this group, but you don’t mention this to your mother. She would accuse you of pretension. Never mind that the shoe box she chose to make your sister’s diorama conspicuously bears the label of her only Italian pumps.

  Arriving at school, you head toward the cafeteria, but pause in the hallway in front of a huge cardboard tree. Dangling from the branches are construction-paper apples bearing the names of the Students of the Month. No apple reads RODNEY GREEN. Mother once demanded a conference with the principal to discuss this oversight. She arrived for the meeting smartly dressed, clutching a copy of your standardized test scores in a gloved hand.

  “We tend to reward achievement rather than aptitude,” the principal explained, ushering her out.

  You are starving. Why not push the cafeteria doors, walk in casually, and get yourself a tray? Every student is allowed to eat. Hadn’t Mother said that you should be the most welcome because your family pays the taxes that make the breakfast possible? But sponsoring the meal does not erase the stigma of actually eating it, so you stay hungrily in the hall.

  When the project kids file out of the cafeteria, you offer them the courtesy of not looking into their faces. For some reason, they hesitate a moment when they see you. Are they looking at your clothes? Can they tell that your socks, though similar, are not an exact match? Or is it your howling stomach that attracts such attention? Finally, you realize that in the hallway’s fluorescent light, your poster—Mother’s masterpiece—is magnificently luminous like the pulsing lights of a parking lot carnival.

  You ignore the spectacle in your hands, and look at the toes of your shoes. They still look new although you have walked countless laps around your living room to rid them of that Stride Rite shine. As you meditate on the condition of your penny loafers, one of the breakfast eaters says, “Hi, Rodney.” You are so startled that you swallow whole a double wad of bubble gum, still cinnamon sweet.

  It is Octavia, who has always occupied the desk in front of yours. (Teachers are certain that alphabetic seating accelerates the learning process.) You are not surprised to discover that she is a breakfast eater. Having sat behind her for five going on six years of education, you know that her lunch card is stamped REDUCED so that she pays for her meal with a dime while you pay forty cents. She sometimes comes to school very early, even before breakfast; Mrs. Willingham or one of the other teachers gives her soap to wash with. Since you are one of the nicer boys in class, you never speak to her.

  “Hey, Octavia,” you mumble, noticing that she is also carrying a decorated posterboard.

  It is not as ornate as yours because she made it herself. Her smile fades a little bit as she sees that your design is carefully shaded to create an illusion of depth.

  “You’ll probably win a prize,” she says.

  You feel that you should say something nice about her creation. Reciprocity is the cornerstone of good manners. But fifth-grade social institutions discourage mingling freely. Poor Octavia is drowning in a sea of untouchability and you don’t want to be submerged as she thrashes.

  Leon Simmons is about twenty feet from you; his new shoes look much less new than yours. He cracks his knuckles expressively as you speak to Octavia. His face is turned up on one side. A snicker? Smirk? You doubt he is just admiring your mother’s handiwork. You want to turn all the way around so that your view of Leon is not obstructed by the handle of your glasses. But to look closely is the very same thing as admission, so you continue to examine your shoe.

  You report to your classroom, pausing a moment at the door. Mr. Harrell is writing on the chalkboard. You hate him. In an unusual moment of candor you told this to your mother and were scolded.

  “Hate is a strong word,” she said, as if you didn’t know this already.

  Your distaste for this narrow man began the moment you laid eyes on him. You had been expecting pretty Miss Maddox, whom you met last year when you were sent out into the hallway for some inconsequential social transgression. She walked by with a dainty clattering of high heels and said, “I know that a handsome boy like you hasn’t been causing trouble.” And from that moment, you looked forward to starting fifth grade. But when you walked into your classroom on the first day, bearing several sharpened number-two pencils to impress her, you found out that lovely Miss Maddox had gotten married and moved to Arizona.

  In her place is Mr. Harrell, who insists on addressing the students by Mr. and Miss. You missed your turn the first time he called roll because you are accustomed to being called by your first name.

  “Did you say Rodney Green?” you asked, realizing that you had been passed. “I’m here.”

  “Tardy,” Mr. Harrell pronounced, with a malevolent stroke of his red pen.

  “But I’ve been here since before the first bell.”

  “In body maybe. But apparently, your mind has just arrived.”

  You slumped in your chair mumbling truncated obscenities. Mr. Harrell tapped the corner of your desk with his ruler. “Do you have something to say to me, Mr. Green?”

  “No sir,” you said, over Forsythia Collier’s wind-chime laughter.

  Mr. Harrell turns from the blackboard as you enter. Your eyes travel downward in what looks like humility but is not. His shoes, buffed to a high gloss, are identical to your own.

  “For me?” he says, reaching for the poster as if it were a gift. “Very nice, Mr. Green. I am glad to see that you have decided to take your schoolwork more seriously.”

  It is hard to tell if he is being sarcastic or just stupid, so you say nothing.

  He reaches behind you to Octavia, who is holding her project, with the decorated side toward the floor. Mr. Harrell examines it without enthusiasm. “Not bad, Miss Fuller.”

  You have made it to your seat and
are covertly studying Octavia’s hair when Mr. Harrell bangs his ruler on his desk. The gesture is dramatic, but not unusual, so you do not move your eyes from Octavia’s mesmerizing braids, which travel an intricate winding path along her scalp. He brings the ruler down hard again. You reluctantly leave your scopophilic trance.

  “Our guest today is Officer Brown from the Atlanta Police Department.” Mr. Harrell sounds like Bob Barker. “He is going to talk to us about personal safety.”

  Cautious excitement spreads through the class. No child in this room has felt safe since Jashante disappeared.

  Officer Brown is softer and rounder than you imagine a police officer should be. His wide toothy smile is naggingly familiar. Was he the man inside the clown suit at your sister’s party last year?

  “Hi, kids,” he says. “Let’s talk about safety. I have a feeling that this might be a topic on your mind lately. Am I right?”

  The class stares at him. He looks at Mr. Harrell, who then glares at all of you.

  “Not everyone at once,” the officer says, with a stiff laugh much like a snort. “Okay.” He claps his hands together. “How about you tell me what you already know.”

  No one speaks. What all of you already know is too terrible to trust to unreliable words. Officer Brown tries again. “I am sure that you guys watch the news with your parents. What have you seen that has to do with kids and safety?” He points at Angelite Armstrong; her long braids always attract attention. “I don’t know,” she whispers.

  “Well, who knows?” He aims his finger at Cinque Freeman. “You look like a sharp young man.”

  Cinque is not flattered, but he condescends to reply. “Everybody knows somebody is killing black kids.”

  Officer Brown looks suddenly taken aback as if he only now notices that he is white. You wonder how long it will be before he realizes that he is fat. He looks quickly at Mr. Harrell but gets no reaction. Officer Brown presses his smile, displaying bluish teeth set in pink gums. He looks away from Cinque. “Yes, little lady, you have something to say?”

  LaTasha Baxter says, “It’s too late to talk to us. Somebody from this class is already—” She bites on her lip and looks at the ceiling as if the word for the unknowable is spelled out in the fluorescent lights. She shakes her head at the officer.

  “Jashante,” Cinque says. “My cousin.”

  “He got killed,” someone shouted.

  This is the first time since Jashante was added to the list of Missing and Murdered Children that he is mentioned at school. Now the syllables of his name are everywhere. Octavia’s lips are moving privately, as if in prayer. You hear thirty-two-part harmony.

  Officer Brown extends his hands in front of him as if he were saying, playfully, Don’t shoot. Mr. Harrell bangs his gavel and the class comes to order.

  “I am familiar with the Hamilton case,” says Officer Brown. “But to my knowledge, Jashante is only missing. Lots of missing children are found each day and returned to their parents.”

  Not around here. Not this year. You now know, as undeniably as if you had read it in the World Book Encyclopedia, that Officer Brown has nothing useful to share. As a matter of fact, you are more fearful than ever to know that this man is all that stands between your generation and an early death.

  “My daddy say it’s the police that’s doing it,” Cinque shouts from the back of the room.

  The class is instantly silenced. Of course, you have long since concluded that the police are ineffective at best. After all, twelve children have been abducted. But could the police actually be responsible?

  “How else a white man going to get a kid to get in a car with him?”

  A good point. The class turns its head toward Officer Brown like spectators at a tennis match. The pudgy man does not respond.

  Mr. Harrell intervenes. “Mr. Freeman, out in the hall.”

  “Man,” Cinque complains, slamming his desk shut. “He my cousin. I’m just trying to tell y’all what I know.”

  Officer Brown composes himself. “Wait, young man. Sit back down.”

  The eyes swing to the teacher. Is he going to allow this rotund white man to reverse his command? And what about Cinque? Will he be broken by the iron will of the law?

  “No,” says Cinque. “Man done put me out and I’m gone.”

  Heads turn again to Mr. Harrell. “Take your seat, Mr. Freeman.”

  Cinque obeys, but not without complaint. “Folks need to make up they mind.”

  Officer Brown clears his throat and speaks. “Listen, kids. Don’t rule anyone out. If we don’t know who is responsible, then we don’t know who’s not.” Now his tone becomes deliberately authoritative, not unlike the voice that omnisciently declares that four out of five dentists surveyed recommend sugarless gum for their patients who chew gum. “But we do know that each Atlanta police officer has taken a sacred oath to protect the public, not harm it.” He pauses dramatically and looks toward the American flag flaccid in its perch on top of the file cabinet.

  “There may be some individuals impersonating officers of the law. But the impostor will not have this!” He dips into his pocket and triumphantly produces a glossy piece of metal. “This,” he announces, displaying his shield between his thumb and forefinger, “is the official badge of the Atlanta P.D.” He gives it to Angelite and indicates that she should pass it around. “Take a good look. Run your hands across it and feel the raised letters. I’ve seen a lot of fakes, and not one of them has had the letters raised up so high that you can read it with your fingers.”

  This man is clearly delusional, so you do not point out that a criminal who could steal an official police uniform certainly would not neglect to take an official police badge. Furthermore, it is nearly time for recess.

  The bell rings and everyone files outside. Last year, your classmates would have sprinted to the playground. But that was before last summer’s rains changed the girls. They reported to school on the first day of fifth grade taller than the boys and older, too. They were all fastened into pink training bras that you could see through the thin cotton of their button-up blouses. Their hair was straightened and turned into tight oily curls. When a group of them stands together, the combined scent of Jean Naté and singed hair makes you dizzy.

  This year, all playground activities have become spectator sports. Kick-ballers worry about form as they round the bases. Jump-rope girls are careful not to pant with open mouths. You used to sit by the back fence daydreaming; but the idea of being watched as you think aggravates your sensitive stomach.

  So you stand all alone during the thirty minutes of freedom before lunch. You never have liked to participate in the races since the consensus is that you are slow as dirt. And now, the competition to the finish line is intensified by the metamorphosed girls who whisper behind lotioned hands as the boys demonstrate their speed.

  Octavia sits with her back against the building. She doesn’t glance toward the lower field, where the boys kick up gritty disorderly clouds of red dust as they struggle to win. Her eyes focus on the pages of a worn paperback. From where you are standing, you see the small piece of brown cardboard covering a hole in the bottom of her shoe. You turn away, embarrassed to glimpse something as intimate as poverty. You turn your eyes to her again as she blows on her thin fingers, warming them.

  She looks up from her hands, smiles at you and perhaps waves. Maybe she is just wiggling her fingers to stimulate circulation. No. Her second movement is clearly a wave. You wave back—discreetly, you hope—and look away.

  She stands up, adjusting her shoe, and walks toward you. “Do you think Mr. Harrell is going to tell us who won?”

  “Huh?”

  “The posters. Do you think he’s going to judge them today?”

  You forgot about the fall competition.

  “I thought that mine was good. I stayed up until ten trying to get the border right. But yours is the best.” She smiles, showing a tiny row of crooked teeth. “How long did it take you to make it? I want
ed to work on mine longer, but my mama made me go to bed.”

  You shrug, feeling vaguely dishonest.

  “But he might give something for second place,” she muses.

  Neither of you says anything for several moments as you look out across the playground. The races are over and the girls have disbanded their tight giggly cluster to chat with individual boys.

  Leon Simmons is talking to Candida Winters, a tall, big-boned girl who chews Wild Cherry Bubblicious with her mouth open. She makes fantastic noises with the gooey wad, despite the fact that gum chewing is not only against the rules but also most unladylike. You had a crush on Candida for several days at the start of the school year, even going so far as to carefully pen a note expressing your admiration. You folded your confession carefully around two sticks of Fruit Stripe gum. Ultimately, you ate the note rather than have it fall into the wrong hands. Now, whenever you see pretty Candida, the back of your mouth sours with the remembered taste of blue-lined paper and black erasable ink.

  You sigh as you watch her laugh as Leon whispers.

  “They talking about us,” Octavia says.

  “Huh?” You are taken aback.

  “I can’t stand neither one of them. Always messing with me.”

  If this is the case, why hadn’t Octavia said, “They talking about me.” She had very deliberately said us. You know that unpopularity is dreadfully contagious, but you’d no idea that the incubation period is so brief. You feel unbearably conspicuous and must get away from Octavia as quickly as you can.

  “That policeman today was stupid.” She suddenly changes the subject.

  Her characterization of the experience is so succinct and comprehensive that there is nothing worthwhile to add to the exchange, so you just shrug.

  “Why you so shy?”

  Did she actually want to know why, or did she merely want you to know that she noticed? But you are not shy. You simply have nothing to say. But now you are too shy to tell her this.