Black Boy White School by Brian F. Walker

or move.
    Paul laughed. “This dude is weak, yo. A little girl with a mustache.”
    â€œFor real,” Anthony said. “He probably gotta squat to take a piss.”
    McCarthy lunged and grabbed Anthony by the arm. “Got you, you little shit!”
    Got you, too, Anthony thought, and then punched him in the eye.
    McCarthy yelped and covered his face, pulled his hands away, and stared down at the palms. The rest of the boys looked on in stunned silence.
    â€œYou hit me,” McCarthy said.
    â€œYou tried to throw me in the brook!”
    McCarthy pressed a hand to his eye again and winced. “Why did you do that? What the hell’s wrong with you?”
    Anthony wanted to finish his plan: throw McCarthy or one of his friends into the brook. But something stopped him from doing anything else, and it was more than McCarthy’s odd reaction. Even the freshmen were looking at Anthony differently, like he had just kicked a puppy off a rooftop.
    All the boys cleared out except for Paul and Khalik, who stood next to Anthony, looking stunned.
    â€œYou see that shit?” Khalik asked, shaking his head in disbelief.
    â€œI saw it,” Paul said. “But I don’t know what I saw.”
    Anthony looked at them and then the empty path. What had just happened? Why hadn’t his classmates carried him off on their shoulders? “He grabbed me first, right?” Anthony asked, just to be sure that his memory was straight. When his friends nodded, he nodded, too. “Good. ’Cause I was just defending myself.”
    They started back, and even though Khalik proclaimed him victorious, Anthony could only think of George’s warning. Yes, he had won, but what had he lost in the process?
    News of the confrontation traveled quickly. By evening, Anthony found judgment everywhere he went. He had an anger problem. He couldn’t take a joke. Some kids weren’t sure if they were safe around him. They wanted the school to do something.
    That evening, Mr. Hawley pulled Anthony from the common room and brought him down to his apartment. Once inside, he grimly closed the door. “I wish you would have listened to me,” Hawley said. “We take fighting very seriously here.”
    Anthony protested. “I was just defending myself, Mr. Hawley. I told him not to touch me, and he went and did it anyway. Ask Paul and Khalik. A whole bunch of people saw it.”
    Hawley was nodding before Anthony finished. “I know. I already checked around . . . talked to the dean of students, too.” He told Anthony to take a seat. “You drink coffee?”
    â€œCoffee’s cool.”
    Mr. Hawley brought two steaming mugs to the table and sat one of them in front of Anthony. Then he went back for a carton of half and half, a bowl of sugar, and a spoon. “Here you go,” Mr. Hawley said and sat down.
    Anthony took a sip and then put the spoon to work. With the right amount of sugar and enough cream to cool it, he could make a cup of coffee taste like candy.
    â€œJeez,” Hawley said. “You’re gonna be bouncing off the walls.”
    â€œI’ll be all right. This is good; still not sweet enough, though.” Anthony dumped in a couple more spoonfuls, stirred, sipped, and sighed. “That’s better.”
    Hawley laughed, and Anthony laughed along with him. But then he remembered the circumstances. “So,” Anthony said, unsure if he wanted to hear what was next. “How much trouble am I in?”
    Mr. Hawley put his cup down. “You’re both on behavioral probation for the rest of the marking period. You’re not to talk to each other or interact in any way, unless it’s to express an apology. . . .” He picked up his mug and sipped. “Like that’s gonna happen.”
    Anthony waited for more, but that was the end of it: a slap on the wrist for a punch in the face. “What about him, though? I