Free Every Single Second by Tricia Springstubb Page B

Vito, who was a mounted policeman. He’d take the nieces and nephews to the stables and let them feed the horses apples. Molto grande. Huge —those horses were huge. Their hooves were the size of a newborn’s head. Vito and his horse stood guard when the coloreds made that riot down at the bottom of the hill. He was there, on his powerful horse, making sure they didn’t cross the line into this neighborhood. And when they bused their kids into the old school, Vito and the others were there, letting those people know: no one wanted them here. They did not belong here.
    Nonni told these stories when she got really worked up. Nella didn’t know how much was true, how much was old-lady craziness. Once she’d asked Mom, but her mother had told her she didn’t need to worry about things that happened before she was born, things nobody was proud of. The past was the past, Mom said.
    And then grew quiet, as if she knew that wasn’t always true.
    Anthony was frowning now, sliding his notebook back into his pocket.
    “With all due respect, Mrs. S,” he said, “times have changed.”
    Nonni’s look turned uncertain. Anthony dipped his head.
    “It’s all right,” he said. “You’re safe now, okay?”
    Nella followed him out to the sidewalk. Making people feel safe—now it was his official job, but it had always been who he was. Watching over Angela. For years, watching over her, too.
    For the first time she wondered, who was watching over him?
    Anthony hooked a finger in his belt. Was one of those things a gun? Looking at him again, she saw she was wrong. He wasn’t sad and squashed. He was angry. Furious. Beneath those new muscles, deep inside, something was coiled up tight.
    (Later, she would remember that.)
    “She seems kind of shaky,” he said.
    “Who?” Confused, for a moment she thought he meant Angela.
    “Your great-grandmother, that’s who.” Anthony gave her a funny look. Then he ruffled her head like she was a silly puppy, and that was the last she saw of him, till long after it happened.

ANTHONY’S SECRET
    then
    A nthony won a scholarship to take classes at the art school. He kept up his part-time after-school job too, so Nella hardly ever saw him.
    Mr. DeMarco got into a fistfight at Mama Gemma’s. He was banned from there now. Also the social club. About the only place he was welcome these days was church, and he hardly ever showed up.
    That summer, the summer after fourth grade, Anthony fell in love.
    Her name was Janelle Johnson. He met her at the art school, Angela said, swearing Nella to secrecy. Oneafternoon they followed Anthony up the hill, past the university gates, down a street lined with cute shops, to the corner where Janelle waited. Nella and Angela hid behind a tall sidewalk planter and watched him kiss her hello. Janelle’s eyes were dark and shiny, like plums dipped in water.
    Hate was a sin. But Nella hated Janelle.
    “Why do they sneak around?” she hissed. “What’s their problem? It’s stupid. It’s dumb.”
    “You know why,” Angela said.
    Nella pretended not to. “Because she’s black, you mean?”
    Angela looked away. “You can’t tell anyone. We have to protect them.”
    They crossed pinkies and touched all four fingertips together. The Secret Sister Sign.
    Someone else ratted to Mr. DeMarco. Angela suspected Kenny Lombardo, that meathead. Ballistic was too feeble a word for Mr. DeMarco. He took away Anthony’s phone. He threw his drawing supplies in the garbage. He said he’d rather have a son who was a retard or a homo than a liar and a sneak. He went insane, even for him.
    “So did Anthony,” Angela said.
    They sat on the playground swings. The rusty chains left orange powder on their hands.
    “He called Papa names I never even heard of. And I’ve heard plenty. Then he slammed out.” Angela twisted her swing. “Papa locked the doors. He said if I let Anthony in, I’d be sorry.”
    As much as Nella hated Janelle, she hated this story more.
    “After