The Castle Cross the Magnet Carter by Kia Corthron Page B

my books for free if you want.”
    He shrugs. “I’m already doin it with this boy now. Plus he likes to study all summer. I like to study all summer. Hit me.” B.J. suddenly guffaws.
    â€œGuess he got a good hand.”
    â€œHe just does that sometimes.” B.J. looks at me. His smile is sweet. He signs: Sally Roger nigers. Deb Ellen definitely increased his lexicon. She never could spell.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Roger asks. “Hit me.”
    â€œHe says he likes you and your mom,” which is true.
    The next day I don’t go to Henry Lee’s after Sunday school, and in the afternoon he and his mother come a-knocking. Just the mystery of her, being around so rare, made her scary. What the train needs is an eighty-five-cent part, which I’m sure Henry Lee’s folks can easily afford but it’s the principle. My mother is confused and worried, my father glowering at them, and to a lesser degree at me. B.J. nearby, fascinated by it all. My voice trembles, and I tell the truth. When Mrs. Taylor finds out about Henry Lee’s “accidents” with all his new cars she bought, also risking the train, she tries to contain her fury, apologizing for having bothered us and making it clear both that she will take care of any repairs herself and that Henry Lee will be dealt with properly when she gets him home. He shoots me deadly glares on his way out. My father asks why I spend time with that “pansy” anyway, the second time in two days I’d heard the term with respect to my playmate, then he goes upstairs without waiting for an answer. I wonder if this is the end for Henry Lee and me. Hardly an ideal friendship, but it was the one and only I had.
    That night I realize now that B.J. can read, I better stop just leaving anything open for him to see. I’m flipping through his sign language book and on the inside back cover, a blank page, I see what he’d written in brown crayon. My “dummy” brother is a damn sure rapid learner, having translated my cursive, even as he and I’d only been working in print.
    autobiography
    chiken make bj deaf ma love bj benja love bj randall love bj carry baby tricycle fall baby cry pa no love sally roger debellen bj want milk bottle pa drink all bj milk drink all
baby bj milk bottle bj no milk hungry baby hungry firework bad henrylee bad pa no love i love brother randall randall

 
    10
    Though the jury’s still out on whether my education will continue past this June, I join about half the eighth graders who sign up for High School Visitation Day, a preview for the fall. Lefferd County High is the only public secondary in the county (not counting the colored school and private St. Mary’s) and therefore large, nearly eight hundred students, the freshman class graduates of the six county grammar schools. It’s only four blocks from my home but I leave early, nervous I may have trouble finding the auditorium. No worry: there are plenty of well-marked signs. In the lobby are four tables: A–E, F–K, L–R, and S–Z.
    â€œLast name?” a woman asks. I am given a handwritten index card.
    EVANS, RANDALL
    9:00ChemistryMrs. FeldmanRm 203
    10:00Euclidean GeometryMr. ThomsRm 104
    11:00PELionel/FranksGym
    12:00LUNCHCafeteria
    12:30Latin IMiss CollinsRm 230
    1:30English 9Mr. SchneiderRm 210
    2:30U.S. HistoryMr. PorterRm 111
    There are only a handful of us early birds, our number by degrees swelling as the time ticks closer to the 8:30 bell. I sit quietly in my Sunday suit, my hair slicked back like on debate day, my mother seeming just as excited by this new academic adventure. And gradually I become aware of something amiss. No one is poking fun at me. The kids from the other schools don’t know me and anyway everyone is too frightened, no longer on sure footing. I see Margaret Laherty two rows ahead. She’s flanked by best friend Suzanne Willetts and second best friend Doris Nivens,