Free Response by Paul Volponi Page A

heading in my direction. She pressed her books tight to her chest, almost completely covering up the words on that shirt. And she was staring straight down, with tears streaming from her eyes.
    The hallways were packed and nearly every black face she passed roared out, “Guilty!” too.
    Then a sister ran up to her and said, “Take off that damn shirt. He already admitted what he done.”
    I didn’t say anything to that girl with the shirt.
    I didn’t have to. That bastard Spenelli said it all when he copped to those charges. For those few seconds it didn’t matter to me that he only got two years. It only mattered that he’d confessed to what he was.
    I just listened to that chant of “Guilty!”echoing through the hall.
    Not a single white kid opened their mouth to stick up for Spenelli, or for her wearing that shirt. And after that, I never saw one of those shirts around school again.
    Parent/teacher conferences were that same night. Dad had to work late, but I went along with Mom and Grandma, ready to catch some real praise for my grades. I’d taken enough hits in the past over low marks that I really wanted to be there this time.
    â€œForget physical education,” I told them. “All that racist from Hillsboro—Hendricks—can tell you about me is that I come prepared every day now.”
    â€œWell, I don’t need to hear that from him ,” said Mom.
    â€œ I’m the one who washes out your gym clothes every night.”
    So I took them straight upstairs to the second floor to see Mr. Dowling.
    We had to wait fifteen minutes while Dowling finished his conference with another family. He was ripping into some kid who wasn’t even there, calling him “unmotivated” and “lazy.” And I knew that would build me up even more.
    Grandma walked around the classroom reading the posters on every wall.
    â€œNoah Jackson, introduce me to your family,” Dowling finally said, reaching out to shake Mom’s hand.
    â€œMr. Dowling, this is my mother, Mrs. Jackson, and that’s my grandmother,” I said, loud and proper.
    â€œI’m also Mrs. Jackson,” announced Grandma. “I’ve been looking at your poster of Harriet Tubman and the Underground Railroad. It’s so moving. I want you to know that I’m only three generations removed from slavery. My great-grandfather was—”
    That’s when her voice faded to almost nothing.
    â€œAre you all right?” Mom asked her.
    â€œHere, sit down, Mrs. Jackson,” said Dowling.
    But before anybody could get Grandma into a chair, she collapsed to the floor.
    â€œLord Jesus, help her!” screamed Mom.
    Mr. Dowling got on the intercom, calling the main office. Then he whipped out a cell phone and dialed 911.
    Grandma started breathing hard, like she was in a race.
    She was gasping for air— Huh, huh, huh.
    Then she stopped cold and I thought she’d quit breathing for good.
    Every emotion inside me was spinning out of control, running wild with nowhere to go. It all built up super-fast with Mom’s hysterical screams echoing through my skull.
    I looked into Grandma’s face.
    Her brown eyes were open wide.
    And I nearly sprinted out of my shoes, flying through the hallway.
    I didn’t know where I was headed or if I was running out of pure fear.
    I shot down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Then I hit the first floor and found my voice.
    â€œHelp us!” I hollered. “We need a doctor! Help!”
    People were pouring out of every room, but I streaked past them all towards the gym. I guess I’d gone there on instinct.
    â€œDowling’s class! Hurry!” I yelled, running into the gym office.
    But Hendricks was the only PE teacher inside.
    He looked me straight in the eye, and for a second I swore there wasn’t anyone else in the whole world except him and me.
    I ran back to Dowling’s class, exhausted,