Free Bad Boy by Walter Dean Myers Page A

have the same chances as whites, and I did not want to do something that was commendable only as a Negro accomplishment. I wanted whatever I managed to do in my life to reflect the core values I was learning in school, in my church, and in my community. What I was doing, without knowing it, was accepting the ideathat whites were more valuable than blacks. I knew I would never be white, and therefore I wanted to be without a race.
    My role models for writing were the ones we learned about in school. If an Englishman could appreciate beauty, why couldn’t I? If Shakespeare could write about love and jealousy and hatreds, why couldn’t I? At thirteen I had never read a book by a Negro writer. Perhaps they had some at the George Bruce Branch, but I didn’t want to identify myself as a Negro by asking.
    After my frustrating time of trying to write about my neighborhood the way I had seen other published authors write about theirs, I stopped writing for a while. I had never thought much about just being a Negro, or what that meant. I began to suspect that, if I were not careful, in all likelihood I would one day be relegated to taking the A train downtown, as my father did and as occasionally Mama did, to clean up for some white person.
    In school the boys in my class started a club. The idea of the club was to be as macho as possible and to establish once and for all that we were something special. Across the street from the school was a bus terminal. They printed transfer pads at the terminal, and it was no problem for us to sneak into the terminal pastthe old man whose job it was to keep us out, and get a few transfers, or even a whole pad of them, from the printing-room floor. Then we would wait for the bus that stopped in front of the school, present the transfers, and ride the few blocks to the subway. It was a very small but very gratifying triumph. One afternoon at lunchtime five of us made our way into the terminal and up to the roof garage. For some reason, instead of looking for transfers, we were going to sit in a bus. Then it was decided, I think by James Williams, that we would see if we could start the bus. Getting the bus started was easy, and we decided to take it for a spin around the garage roof. James, our designated driver, got the bus out of its space and a quarter of the way past the rows of parked vehicles when we heard the police whistle.
    James stopped the bus, and the guys bolted toward an exit. I was sitting in the back of the bus, feet up and over the back of the seat in front of me, and so I was the last one out. I saw my classmates run through the exit and make a sharp right. Knowing that if the police did chase us, they would probably chase the largest segment, I broke off and turned left, right into the arms of the first police officer.
    We were all rounded up and put against the wall. The old man who had called the police was the sameone whom we had constantly bedeviled as we snatched transfer pads earlier that week.
    â€œYes, that’s them!” he shouted gleefully, “Where’s the big white one?”
    He was looking for Eric, who had gone home for lunch. The police took our names and classroom number and said they would pick us up that afternoon.
    Back in class we were obviously upset and told the girls what had happened. Every time the door opened, five hearts nearly stopped beating. Stephanie Bena, the smartest person I had ever met in my entire life, asked to go to the bathroom. Ten minutes later she returned, opened the door, and shook her head sadly.
    â€œHere they are, officer,” she announced in a loud voice as she looked down the hallway.
    If Jonathan Willingham hadn’t started crying on the spot, I would have. Our teacher, Mr. Siegfried, turned to see what was going on, and Stephanie, having properly scared every one of the guilty five to death, smiled, closed the door, and took her seat.
    At the end of the year there was another incident, this time