Free Black Boy White School by Brian F. Walker Page A

something in a language that Anthony didn’t recognize, next to a phone number with too many digits.
    â€œGo ahead, sir,” the operator said, coming back. “And thank you for using AT&T.”
    The phone clicked, and then Anthony’s mother said, “Hello?”
    â€œHey, Ma. What’s up?”
    â€œI’ve been wondering the same thing,” she said happily. “You forget our number?”
    â€œI know. Sorry. They keep us pretty busy, and like I told you last time, this is the only phone on the floor.”
    â€œWell, we gon’ have to see about getting you a cell phone, ’cause we need to stay in touch.”
    He agreed but didn’t say anything about reception in the valley. “So what’s going on with you?” he asked. “How’s life in Cleve-burg?”
    â€œI’m pretty fair, baby, just going to work every day, like always. You know don’t nothing change around here but the weather. What I wanna know about is those grades.”
    He closed his eyes and thought about all the Cs he’d earned so far, except for algebra, which had dipped down into the D range. He still had time to turn things around before report cards went out, but he would have to work like his life depended on it. “Everything’s fine, Ma,” he said. “No failures and no fights.”
    â€œAnd your roommate, what’s his name, Brodney? How are you two getting along?”
    â€œBetter,” Anthony said, and then thought about it. The morning Kleenex had finally disappeared, and since Brody’s grades had been pretty bad, too, he was spending more time in the library. “Yeah, I guess it’s been a lot better between us,” he continued. “I still spend most of my time with the other black kids, though.”
    He couldn’t see it, but Anthony could hear the frown in her voice. “You got black friends back here,” his mother snapped. “Don’t be wasting time up there with people who cain’t do nuthin’ for you. How many times I gotta tell you that?”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œFor all you know, that Brodney boy could be the key to you getting a job or going to college . . .”
    â€œYou’re right, Ma. Okay.”
    â€œ. . . Shoot, wish I had me that kinda chance. You best believe I wouldn’t blow it.”
    Anthony picked up a discarded marker from the floor. “I won’t blow it, Ma,” he said. “I promise.” He tested the felt on his fingertip, and it left a black dot. “Anybody else home?” He scribbled aimlessly on the wall.
    â€œDarnell was here a few minutes ago,” she said. “You just missed him.”
    â€œOh . . .” He stopped his circles and put the marker down. One of the dancing bears had been disfigured.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, baby?”
    â€œHuh? Nothing.”
    â€œYou sure?”
    â€œYeah. I’m fine, Ma.” There was a twang in her voice. Not quite southern fried but still country, just the same. He supposed it had been there all the time, only he hadn’t noticed it before.
    â€œDon’t worry, baby,” she said. “Thanksgiving’s coming. When was the last time you had some yams and some cornbread? Some black-eyed peas and collard greens?”
    â€œI really couldn’t tell you, Ma. They don’t even have grits up here.”
    She laughed and said, “Poor baby. You must be ’bout as skinny as a stick. Well, we gon’ have to really do it up for you next month.”
    â€œThat long? I wanna come home right now.” He listened to the doors around him opening and closing, watched the passing kids who’d come in for the night. “I miss everybody.”
    â€œWe miss you, too, but don’t go getting all soft. Stay strong and do what you gotta do.”
    â€œI will.”
    He hung up just as Brody stomped past him, soaking wet. “What happened