Black Boy White School by Brian F. Walker Page A

won’t just stand there if he comes at me.”
    â€œYou don’t need to worry about Seth McCarthy,” Mr. Hawley said, laughing. “I don’t think that kid has ever been more afraid in his life.”
    Anthony suppressed a smile. “What about Zach? I don’t know how you expect me to listen to him anymore.”
    â€œYou’re right,” Hawley said, and ran a hand through his hair. “Guess I’m going to have a talk with him, too.” He opened the door, and Anthony stepped out into the hall. Before he walked away, Hawley called him back.
    â€œHey. How would you feel about being my proctor next year?” Hawley asked. “I could show you how to apply for it, if you want.”
    â€œWhy? So I can be like Zach?”
    â€œNo,” Hawley said. “So you can be the opposite of him. Zach got teased a lot last year, and I guess the power is getting to him. It happens to people sometimes. Even good ones.” He put a hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “Not you, though. I can tell. You have a strong sense of justice.” Hawley grinned. “So what do you say?”
    â€œMaybe,” Anthony answered. “Let me think about it.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    â€œI don’t get it, man,” Anthony said sincerely, and not for the first time that afternoon. A couple of weeks had passed since his run-in with McCarthy, and some people still treated him like a terrorist. Even fellow freshmen gave him a wide berth or apologized if they accidentally touched him. If it hadn’t been for Brody and a couple of others, Anthony wouldn’t have had any friends at all. “Seriously, man,” he said again. “I don’t get it.”
    George looked up from his Spanish book and sighed. He had let Anthony hang out in his room a lot since the incident, but it was clear that George was getting tired of the company. “What don’t you get this time?”
    â€œEverything,” Anthony said. “I mean, why is every­body tripping so hard, like I carry an ax or something?”
    â€œBecause in their eyes, you do. How many times do I have to tell you, son? Twenty-five-twenty is a bitch.”
    Anthony looked around the living space. George had his own bathroom and an oversized bed, hidden microwave in the closet, unseen television and fridge. Everyone knew that he had the contraband, even his proctor and dorm parent. But Mr. Rockwell was also his basketball coach, which allowed George a lot of latitude. “I’m talking about the other freshmen,” Anthony continued. “Not a single one of them has been in the brook since it happened, and do they thank me for it? No. They treat me like I’m some kind of psycho. . . . Forget these people, man. My friends back at home wouldn’t do me like that.”
    â€œBut you’re not at home anymore,” George said. “You’re in Maine, son. Belton Academy, established in 1844. I told you what would happen, but did you listen?” He closed his book, stood up, and grabbed the empty laundry basket from the floor. “Last load. Hold it down.”
    Anthony stretched out on the bed and thought about the last month and a half. Plane rides and canoe trips; midnight study sessions with ramen noodles and gallons of Coke. He had come to know some of the Belton kids as well as his friends at home, from how their shit smelled in the morning to what kept them awake at night. But now there was a strain on everything because he had crossed an invisible line.
    George returned and shooed Anthony off the bed, dumping the basket of clothes in his place. He started folding. “Gotta do it now, before they get wrinkled.”
    Anthony looked around the room that was more like an apartment, at the books and the trophies and all the photographs of George, smiling with friends of all colors. “I need to know how you do it,” he said.
    â€œDo what? Fold shirts?”
    â€œNaw,