Free Every Boy Should Have a Man by Preston L. Allen Page A

bad little brother!”
    Then, with violent possession of the small singing harp, she dove angrily under the bed.
    And he kissed his finger where she had bitten it and left for school, an odd little smile on his face.
     
    * * *
     
    After school the boy went to the mill to work his hours.
    After the mill he came home and ate a meal with his parents while his musical man played—the tinny drums this time. Over the years they had acquired most of the orchestral instruments in the wealthy boy’s father’s house because of his fear. But she had never played the drums at mealtime before.
    She drummed to make you want to shake your hips.
    His father looked up from his bowl. “She’s drumming tonight. It’s nice, though.”
    His mother said, “She’s very talented.”
    The father said to the boy, who now wore no smile on his face, “You and your girl aren’t going out tonight?”
    The boy shook his head.
    “What happened?” his mother asked.
    The boy shook his head. “At school, we had . . . sort of a fight.”
    “Well, that happens. That’s nothing to worry about. That’s nothing at all,” his mother said. “When your father and I were young—”
    “Leave him be. Let him eat,” said his father.
    And his female man drummed to make you want to shake your hips.
    In his bedroom that night, he told his man, “She says her brother, her little brother, has been recently released from incarceration. He is a thief. The authorities have him on their list. But that doesn’t mean you are right. He may be bad, but she is my girl. She wouldn’t do a thing like that to me.”
    “They are hungry in this neighborhood.”
    “But she loves me, I know it.”
    “She is hungry.”
    “No.”
    “The way she looked at me . . . she says I am worth a lot of money. You know if they sold me for meat how much they would get? You know if they sold me to a circus how much they would get? I play every instrument. I can talk. I should be owned by the wealthy who know how to protect their possessions. In this neighborhood, it is only a matter of time.”
    “So you want me to sell you to someone wealthy? For your safety?”
    “No. I want to stay forever and ever with you. But you should never have brought her into our home.”
    “You’re crazy.”
    “I’m crazy. I’m a crazy man.”
    “You’re my favorite girl,” said he to her.
    “You’re not so bad for an oaf,” said she to him.
    She laughed and went under the bed. He laughed and went to bed. He lay in his bed for many minutes, laughing, laughing, laughing, and thinking .
    His laughter died away, and he took in a deep breath and then let it out. He got up and looked under his bed, where she awaited.
    And her lips met his.
    “Oh,” he said, his heart filling with confusion.
    He went back up to his bed. She was under his bed. Beneath him. His pet. His favorite girl.
    Evening turned to night and night turned to morning.
    For the boy, it was a morning that followed a sleepless night—a night of waking dreams.
     
    * * *
     
    In the morning he prepared her favorite meal in her favorite bowl and brought it to her, and she played him a sweet tune on the colored flute, a tune that made him feel as sweet as bright pink melting into light blue.
    “Does it please you?”
    “It pleases me,” he said.
    She did not speak of the kiss, he did not speak of the kiss, but he left for school and he thought of it and nothing else all day.
    After school he worked his part-time hours at the mill.
    When he got home, the authorities were there.
    His mother was weeping. His father was angrier than the boy had ever seen him before. The house was turned upside down. Everything was out of place. All of the larger musical instruments were missing. Most of the smaller musical instruments were damaged, and the small singing harp was completely destroyed.
    “What happened?” the boy asked.
    “Someone burgled us and stole our man,” his father said.
    “I know who did it! If we hurry, we can get