Free Christopher Paul Curtis by Bucking the Sarge Page A

again.
    Sparky said, “All right then, how about instead of cracking on your momma I talk to you the way she does? Seems to me like that's the only thing that ever gets you mad. Think that might make you smack me with that tile?”
    Sparky's left eyebrow arched and he began swiveling his head on his neck the same way the Sarge does when she's about to go off on me. He dropped his voice an octave. “Well, Mr. Luther”—it was scary, he had her down pat—“I know you're so much smarter than everybody else around here, even though it's me that owns two thousand housesaround Flint, even though it's me that's got two million dollars cash money in the bank.”
    He switched from the Sarge's arched eyebrow to the soulfully deep stare. “And I know you're the one that's got all these high-and-mighty plans to be a fool-losopher one day, but the truth is that the best thing that's going to happen to you is that you're gonna be running these houses for me for the rest of your life.
    “I know all that, but I still got to insist you get your highly educated, highly motivated self in there and scrape out Mr. Baker's funky drawers again, I can smell the man from outside, or is that too much to ask of a genius-in-training?”
    A great philosopher, whose name escapes me at the moment, once said, “The greatest of truths are often said in jest.” And even though Sparky was fronting that he was being funny I knew he meant everything he said. There are some things that don't need to be exchanged between friends.
    Sparky had crossed the line and he was about to get his wish. I wasn't going to hit him for talking about my momma or for teasing me, but oh yeah, I was going to hit him. I was going to hit him 'cause this felt like a flagrant foul. This felt totally unnecessary. There are things I wouldn't throw in his face, things I wouldn't remind him of, but I guess he didn't feel the same way, so now it was lesson time. Why would someone who was supposed to be your boy try to go off on you where they thought they could hurt you? Besides, I didn't come out of my house on a night like this to be disrespected by my so-called best friend.
    Everything moved in slow motion, the way it does when you're about to get in a fight or a car wreck. I raised the tile over my head and this time Sparky's eyes got big instead of shutting. He started to raise his left hand but wasn't quick enough. I snatched my arm down and the tile caught him right above his left ear. This time when it hit, my arm didn't shimmy, it shook. All the way back to my shoulder.
    A gusher of thick red blood exploded from a gash on the top of his head and the tile broke clean in half. It seemed like things were going so slow that I even saw a little cloud of reddish-brown dust raise up from where the tile popped him.
    Sparky took three steps back, then fell in a pile limp as a towel you just dried off with after a shower. It seemed like all of his bones had been Jell-O-fied.
    He moaned, “Oh, no …, oh, no …,” and propped himself on his left elbow, trying to get back up.
    I dropped the half tile I was holding and started over to help him.
    A woman's voice came loud and strong, even with the wind pounding on everything around. “Hey,” she yelled, “you better leave him alone! We saw you hit him! The cops are on the way!”
    I looked over toward the Taco Bell. The manager and two of the kids who worked there were standing in the doorway. She waved a cell phone at me, she'd really called 911!
    “Uh-oh, Sparky, quick man, get up! They saw what happened, come on, we gotta get outta here!”
    I pulled Sparky to his feet. Blood was running down the left side of his face.
    He still hadn't figured out what was going on. “Luther? Bruh?” He kept bringing his hand from the cut down so he could see the blood. “Why'd you hit me like that, man? What'd I ever do to you?”
    “Sparky, the Taco Bell folks saw what happened, it's over, we got to move. Besides, you might need to get to