while.”
But we don’t do nothing different. We keep walking along the road. We throw rocks and figure we’ll be home by the time it’s dark. When it’s time to rest, we sit by a creek filled with pebbles and just enough water to cover our hot feet. It runs along the side of the road. Dry weeds and hundreds of purple flowers make it so you can’t hardly see it. We wet ourselves down, fill our water bottles, and sit for a while.
We on our way again, sweating like usual, throwing stones at each other. Eating warm jelly sandwiches and licking the last of the melted chocolate M&M’s from the bags. Then a blond-haired girl in a red convertible stops and asks if we’re okay. She’s driving a Mercedes-Benz sports coupe, wearing diamond earrings and a thick gold necklace.
“We all right,” I say, still walking.
“No we ain’t.”
The girl’s name is Amy. She’s a college student at Brown and her dad runs the bank in town. “I don’t live that far from here. You can get a bite to eat and call your folks.”
Kee-lee’s in the car already, messing up her white rugs with his dirty sneakers.
“No thanks, ma’am,” I say again. “But you got a cell phone we can use?”
She pulls to the side of the road and hands me a phone. Kee-lee asks if she got a spare bedroom where we can sleep tonight. My father answers the phone. He says that Kee-lee and me ain’t that far from home. That we can make it back on foot in a couple of weeks. I hold out the phone and stare at it like it’s his face I’m seeing. “What?” I put it to my ear. “Y’all come and get us!”
“Boy,” he says, “you’re all right. Kee-lee too.” He ain’t asking me if I’m okay, he’s telling me.
“It’s steaming hot and we’re hungry. And it’s gonna be dark soon.”
I tell my father to put my mother on the phone. He won’t. Can’t. “She’s gone, remember? To Kentucky.” He had it planned all along. He was gonna take us to the campground and leave us. Then we’d have to find our way back. “Like African boys do.”
“Like Africans? We ain’t no Africans!”
“Who African?” Kee-lee’s drinking Perrier water and rubbing suntan lotion on his arms.
My father says he got the idea from a television show he saw on African boys. That’s when he asked Cousin to bring him books on the subject. “In some African villages, they leave boys alone in the forest for months so they will learn to be men.”
“Months?”
“Months. Years. Whatever it takes.”
“You ain’t coming to get us? Never?”
“Never?” Kee-lee says, jumping outta the car and snatching the phone from me. “My mother’s gonna kill you.”
Kee-lee puts my dad on speaker phone. My father says that his mother knows all about it. That him and her agreed that if we stayed in the neighborhood, we’d get shot dead.
“But we gonna get killed out here too,” Kee-lee says, pointing up the road. “A truck almost done us in. Lightning almost hit me in the head,” he lies.
Amy keeps asking what the problem is and how come our parents won’t come and get us. I don’t answer because I’m listening to my dad. “I put a cell phone in the brown bag. You can use that when you need to get in touch.”
“We ain’t got the brown bag. I left it,” I say, walking a few steps, then back, then up again. I whisper. “There was a gun in that bag.”
My dad tells me that his grandfather was sixteen when he took an eighteen-hour train ride from Georgia up north all by hisself. I tell him that this ain’t the olden days.
“He didn’t have enough money for the trip at first, so he had to earn it. Pick cotton. Slop hogs. Husk corn.”
“Come and get me!”
“Yeah,” Kee-lee says into the phone.
My dad says if I do this, I’ll never be scared again. I’m quiet. Thinking. “You scared . . . all the time now.
“You walk a hard enough road, and it’ll make you a bitter man—I mean, a better man,” my dad says.
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Just
But we don’t do nothing different. We keep walking along the road. We throw rocks and figure we’ll be home by the time it’s dark. When it’s time to rest, we sit by a creek filled with pebbles and just enough water to cover our hot feet. It runs along the side of the road. Dry weeds and hundreds of purple flowers make it so you can’t hardly see it. We wet ourselves down, fill our water bottles, and sit for a while.
We on our way again, sweating like usual, throwing stones at each other. Eating warm jelly sandwiches and licking the last of the melted chocolate M&M’s from the bags. Then a blond-haired girl in a red convertible stops and asks if we’re okay. She’s driving a Mercedes-Benz sports coupe, wearing diamond earrings and a thick gold necklace.
“We all right,” I say, still walking.
“No we ain’t.”
The girl’s name is Amy. She’s a college student at Brown and her dad runs the bank in town. “I don’t live that far from here. You can get a bite to eat and call your folks.”
Kee-lee’s in the car already, messing up her white rugs with his dirty sneakers.
“No thanks, ma’am,” I say again. “But you got a cell phone we can use?”
She pulls to the side of the road and hands me a phone. Kee-lee asks if she got a spare bedroom where we can sleep tonight. My father answers the phone. He says that Kee-lee and me ain’t that far from home. That we can make it back on foot in a couple of weeks. I hold out the phone and stare at it like it’s his face I’m seeing. “What?” I put it to my ear. “Y’all come and get us!”
“Boy,” he says, “you’re all right. Kee-lee too.” He ain’t asking me if I’m okay, he’s telling me.
“It’s steaming hot and we’re hungry. And it’s gonna be dark soon.”
I tell my father to put my mother on the phone. He won’t. Can’t. “She’s gone, remember? To Kentucky.” He had it planned all along. He was gonna take us to the campground and leave us. Then we’d have to find our way back. “Like African boys do.”
“Like Africans? We ain’t no Africans!”
“Who African?” Kee-lee’s drinking Perrier water and rubbing suntan lotion on his arms.
My father says he got the idea from a television show he saw on African boys. That’s when he asked Cousin to bring him books on the subject. “In some African villages, they leave boys alone in the forest for months so they will learn to be men.”
“Months?”
“Months. Years. Whatever it takes.”
“You ain’t coming to get us? Never?”
“Never?” Kee-lee says, jumping outta the car and snatching the phone from me. “My mother’s gonna kill you.”
Kee-lee puts my dad on speaker phone. My father says that his mother knows all about it. That him and her agreed that if we stayed in the neighborhood, we’d get shot dead.
“But we gonna get killed out here too,” Kee-lee says, pointing up the road. “A truck almost done us in. Lightning almost hit me in the head,” he lies.
Amy keeps asking what the problem is and how come our parents won’t come and get us. I don’t answer because I’m listening to my dad. “I put a cell phone in the brown bag. You can use that when you need to get in touch.”
“We ain’t got the brown bag. I left it,” I say, walking a few steps, then back, then up again. I whisper. “There was a gun in that bag.”
My dad tells me that his grandfather was sixteen when he took an eighteen-hour train ride from Georgia up north all by hisself. I tell him that this ain’t the olden days.
“He didn’t have enough money for the trip at first, so he had to earn it. Pick cotton. Slop hogs. Husk corn.”
“Come and get me!”
“Yeah,” Kee-lee says into the phone.
My dad says if I do this, I’ll never be scared again. I’m quiet. Thinking. “You scared . . . all the time now.
“You walk a hard enough road, and it’ll make you a bitter man—I mean, a better man,” my dad says.
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Just
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