Free Little Boy Blue by Edward Bunker Page A

all alone. A group of
girls in denim dresses emerged, surprising Alex. What could girls do to break
the law?
    The companies met in a paved square outside
the school building and went through the ritual of raising the flag and
pledging allegiance. Only the dozen teachers clustered near the doorway
seemed sincere. Most of the boys watched silently.
    When the ritual was over
the companies splintered to organize in small clusters around each teacher. Five new arrivals remained, Alex and the two Mexicans
he’d fought among them. A skinny old man in a shabby black suit and wire
pince nez, wearing a hearing aid, came over. He knew one of the Mexicans.
    “Back again, Cisneros? What’s it
this time? You’re getting a little old for bicycles.”
    The Chicano, a boy of thirteen with Indian
cheekbones and raven hair that jutted out like porcupine quills—except
for the ducktail—smiled affably, showing good, even teeth. “No, joyriding a car this time.”
    “Glad to see you’re moving up.
Don’t worry. You’ll make the big time yet. Just like your brother.
You said he’s in San Quentin?”
    “He got out last week. He sent you his
regards.”
    “How’d know… I mean, you
just came in last night.”
    “He came down to the precinct
yesterday.”
    “Oh… well, go on to Mrs.
Glantz’s class. You haven’t gotten any smarter in three months,
have you?”
    Cisneros, still smiling, shook his head.
    “You probably didn’t even get
near a school,” the man added, an ironic twang in his voice. The man
didn’t know the second Mexican, who had pale skin and green eyes.
“Bet they call you huero,” he said.
    The boy nodded but didn’t smile. He
wasn’t comfortable.
    “What grade are you in?”
    “B seven.”
    “Spell ‘personal.’”
    The boy’s face, already expressionless,
went completely blank.
    “Go to Mr. Beck’s class.”
He pointed to a group of twelve-year- olds seated around a squat figure in a
tweed jacket with elbow patches, a stubby pipe clenched in his teeth, a man
sartorially the apotheosis of the country pedagogue.
    When Alex claimed to be in the seventh grade,
the black-suited man’s rheumy eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Spell ‘observation,’”
the man said.
    Alex did so. Since he was eight he’d
been a constant winner in spelling bees.
    “What parts of grammar are required for
a complete sentence?”
    “A subject and a
predicate.”
    “I’ll bet you can even
read,” the man said, again with an ironic tone. When Alex didn’t
reply, the man gestured toward where Cisneros was checking in with a
schoolteacher. “You can go to Mrs. Glantz’s, too.”
    A score of boys were loosely gathered in
front of the fortyish woman, who reeked of scent and wore layers of makeup that
nearly, if not completely, subdued acne craters. Her clothes were fluffs and
flounces. She formed them into the inevitable double column, counted heads, and
led them into the building and up the stairs.
    Alex was now directly in front of Cisneros;
he was very conscious of the bigger boy’s proximity, almost as if they
were touching.
    The column stopped as Mrs. Glantz looked for
her key.
    “Hey, Paddy,” the voice behind
him said softly but clearly. A finger patted Alex’s shoulder. He turned,
wary, wondering if they were going to fight. “I’m sorry we fucked
with you, ese . For a Paddy you’ve got lots of
guts. My name’s Lulu.”
    The surge of bodies as the door opened
amputated their conversation, though Alex didn’t know what to say
anyway. He was still suspicious.
    Mrs. Glantz made no attempt to teach. Nearly
all the boys had been raised in slums and disliked school. They didn’t
want to learn. Book learning had no value in their lives. Mrs. Glantz was happy
if they didn’t fight or sabotage the room. Some did jigsaw puzzles, while
others cut photos from a magazine for a collage that would eventually cover one
wall. Some leafed through magazines of all kinds from huge cardboard
boxes—the overflow of