Free Black Alley by Mauricio Segura

a strange, stunned smile, as if he’s suddenly wondering what he’s doing there. He places one hand on Pato’s shoulder: tell Flaco he wants to talk to him at twelve o’clock, on the soccer field. Pato slips away from his hand and steps back with a shudder: Flaco wants to see him, too. Don’t worry, he’ll pass on the message.
    â€œBut just when CB and I were leaving,” Ketcia explains, “the teacher came in, with the principal and two hall monitors.”
    â€œIf I know CB, I bet he fought like a madman,” says Mixon. “I’ve seen him get away from three monitors!”
    â€œNo,” says Ketcia, “that’s what surprised me. He didn’t resist at all. He just said, I hardly touched him, I don’t see what I did
wrong. And the principal said, that’s enough, we’ll talk about it in my office. Come on, let’s go.”
    â€œWith CB, you never know what to expect,” Mixon points out. “You never know what’s going on in his head. Sometimes, when he looks me in the eyes, it makes me feel weird. What about you?”
    Thoughtful, Ketcia answers yes. It’s true, sometimes, she’s afraid of CB’s unpredictable reactions too, especially when he gets mad. Luckily, it doesn’t happen often.
    They stand there for a moment without saying anything, noticing the commotion going on around them. Finally, they notice CB coming down the stairs in his usual casual way. He stops in front of them.
    â€œSo?” asks Mixon. “What did they say?”
    â€œSo, nothing,” retorts CB, an enigmatic smile on his lips. “Since I didn’t hit him, only threatened him, they gave me a week’s suspension. It’s not so bad.”
    Yeah! They’re happy for him! Then CB claps his hands, “Let’s hurry up and eat and get to the soccer field for noon. Latino Power will be there.”
    â€œWe’ve only got five minutes left to eat,” Ketcia clarifies, looking at her watch. “I don’t want to be late. The Latinos’ll think we’re scared.”
    Â 
    Remember how much hope and apprehension you packed into that one day, Marcelo: getting off the school bus that morning, a good number of you were yawning your heads off and had circles under your eyes from lack of sleep the night before. Woken by a chilly wind, you stood stock still in the middle of the schoolyard and glanced around in astonishment. Unlike your schoolyard, theirs stretched on and on with no uneven spots or holes in the asphalt. The painted lane-markers for the races and the two dodge ball squares were still immaculately white. The silver-coloured fence that bordered the yard had also been recently
repainted and, beyond, on every side, the Outremont duplexes showed off their charming gardens and oak doors of various designs. Yes, it was a sunny autumn day and, though most of the leaves had already fallen from the trees, there weren’t many of them to be seen in the schoolyard: with a rake, a groundskeeper was gathering them all into a pile.
    The big school doors opened with a creak, a stream of students flowed out into the yard and the two teachers greeted each other with a firm handshake. The two clans looked at each other aslant. Unlike you, they were all dressed the same, in mauve shorts and T-shirts that said École Lajoie . As soon as the competitions began, your side started joking with each other and calling out the runners’ nicknames to encourage them, and soon you began to shout. On the other side of the schoolyard, the students of the host school, leaning against the fence, chanted “la-la-la-Lajoie”! Is that when you noticed the police officers for the first time? They casually greeted the Lajoie students as if they’d known them forever. Remember the way the walked, their cautious scrutiny, their moustaches, Marcelo. They made light conversation with the other Phys. Ed. teacher.
    But what a