Free The Runner by Cynthia Voigt Page A

what had attracted so much attention.
    A big Negro stood at the cash register, his eyes scanning the room. As he moved toward the tables of Negroes, low conversations started up again.
    â€œThat guy—,” Jim muttered.
    â€œIf there’s one thing I can’t tolerate,” Pete agreed, “it’s an uppity nigger. He thought”—Pete grinned at Bullet—“he’d play football.”
    â€œHe’s big enough,” Bullet said.
    â€œMaybe,” Jim agreed. “But he’s not quite white enough. We had a little talk with him. Have they integrated you guys?”
    â€œYeah.”
    They digested this fact.
    â€œDon’t you care?”
    â€œIt’s got nothing to do with me.”
    â€œJust because nobody keeps up with you personally,” Jim argued, “you’ve still got to think about the principle of the thing. Whose side are you on, anyway?”
    Bullet just looked at him.
    â€œOn his own, Dumbo,” Pete answered for Bullet.
    Bullet didn’t much care to have anyone answer for him.
    â€œYou know, man, sometimes,” Jim told Bullet, “that’s not good enough. Times like these. Where’s he come from, anyway, this guy? Anybody know? He’s not one of ours, ours know better. This nigger is trouble, capital T, trouble. You can smell it on him,” he told the listening table. “What’s his name? Tamer? The names they give their kids, it’s a joke. But you watch, he’ll turn out to be some organizer from up North. Five’ll get you ten he’ll be walking into the student lounge one day. Black as the ace of spades and cool as a cucumber.”
    â€œLet him try it,” they growled. “Can’t be too soon for me.”
    Bullet crumpled up the wax paper and brown bag.
    â€œHas anybody seen that trig test yet?” Pete asked.
    â€œIt’s not a test, it’s a quiz.”
    â€œAnything that takes a whole period is a test. I need to get the answers. If I don’t pass that course with a C the University won’t look twice at me. On account of me not being an Olympic contender.”
    â€œSo what?”
    â€œSo I’d rather not be drafted next summer.”
    â€œOh, I dunno,” Jim said. “It’d get you out of Crisfield. You know, see the world. Kill off a few of the little yellow guys.”
    â€œEven I know how dumb that is,” Pete answered.
    â€œWhy freak yourself out about it, it’s not even October yet.”
    â€œWe got bigger problems right here. Bigger, browner ones.”
    â€œYeah, well, I still want to see that test. Quiz. Whatever you wanna call it. Pass the word around, okay?”
    â€œWhat is it, you scared of the army? You chicken?” Jim asked.
    â€œYou looking to get your face messed up? Then I wouldn’t say that, buddy. I wouldn’t even think it, if I was you.”
    Bullet rose, tossed his garbage into the overflowing trash can and moved away. “See you,” they called after him.
    He drifted through the corridors, not even wondering anymore about their inability to face up to facts, just because, when they were together they made themselves feel that they were okay, because they all didn’t face facts together. He went past the student lounge, a big room down by the principal’s office. It had been a classroom until two years ago, when a bunch of seniors had gotten up a petition to have a student center. Nothing happened until the parents got into it, and then things happened fast. The principal always folded under parent pressure. He gave the students the room. They filled it with any furniture they could find—old sofas, chairs, tables nobody else could use and ashtrays. The place was a mess, always smoky, papers all over the floor and chairs, people sitting around. Bullet looked in the open door and walked past, through a cloud of cigarette smoke and loud voices. By unspoken agreement it was whites