everyone could hear him. âNot in here.â The last thing he wanted to put up with was a riot. That wasnât even clean fighting. There was a way to getyour fighting in, if you wanted to. These people justâdidnât know anything, he thought to himself in disgust.
âWhat theââ
Bullet jerked up, sharp up, on the arm.
âYou hear me?â he asked. The head nodded. Bullet looked around at the rest of themâjust staring at him. He looked across and saw only Tamerâs back, where he faced a bunch of coloreds. Dark eyes glared at the boys among whom Bullet stood.
âSit down,â Tamer said. Ordered. Muttering, they obeyed him.
Bullet let his manâs arm down and spun him around to look into his sweating face. He didnât say anything, just stared into the guyâs eyes until he was sure the message had gotten through, past the anger, and past the fear pain brought. Then he turned and left the room.
âThanks, man,â low voices murmured at his back.
CHAPTER 9
T he sun had risen into a clear sky when the coach stopped for Bullet by his mailbox at six forty-five. They drove on down to the town dock, where the school bus waited. Bullet climbed into the yellow bus and took his usual seat, right front, by the window. The rest of the team trickled in, one after the other, waiting until the last minute before climbing onto the bus. The coach checked them in, calling out names and making marks on his clipboard.
They were down to three Negroes, Bullet noticed; one of them Tamer, of course. The Negroes moved on to the back of the bus, where all three could sit together. The meet was at a school three hours north, up in Queen Anneâs County. Bullet slouched down in his seat, relaxed.
He could hear nerves in the rest of the team, sitting behind him. He could see nerves in the coachâs body, hunched by the opposite window. Bullet wasnât tense. He was going to run, there was nothing to make him tense about that. He didnât remember the course. He never remembered a course from one year to the next. He didnât want to. He wouldnât jog it either, although that was how you prepared for a cross-country runâyou were supposed to jog over the course an hour or more before you ran it and plan your approaches and learn the obstacles. Bullet never tried to study a course. That was no way to train your reflexes, or find out how your quick judgments were. That was the way if what you wanted to do was win.
As time passed, the bus behind him alternated between uneasy silences, quick low conversation, and loud nervous joking. Bullet never turned around, didnât measure the distance by passing towns or intersecting highways, didnât think, didnât look out the window, didnât do anything. When they arrived, the bus pulled into a big parking lot behind a low, modern school building, stretched out along the top of a hill, with windows along most of the walls. The building was locked for the weekend, but the gym was open. The opposing team poured out through the broad doors as the Crisfield Warriors went in to change. This was a private school, The Acorn School. It had a team of coaches, a head of Track and two assistants. All of the competitors looked alike, except for the colors of their shorts. The Warriors wore red, the Acorn team blue. All had on white tank tops with numbers.
Bullet followed the mass of moving bodies to the field, hanging back. The oval track lay in a kind of meadow between two gentle hills. A white board fence surrounded it. From the top of a rise of land, watching people spread out over and around the field, Bullet picked out the brown rectangle that was the long jump pit, the circle from which the javelin would be thrown, the tall pole vault posts and the shorter high jump posts. A pile of white hurdles lay piled up beside the gateway to the track. A couple of long white benches were set out for spectators and equipment.
âWhat theââ
Bullet jerked up, sharp up, on the arm.
âYou hear me?â he asked. The head nodded. Bullet looked around at the rest of themâjust staring at him. He looked across and saw only Tamerâs back, where he faced a bunch of coloreds. Dark eyes glared at the boys among whom Bullet stood.
âSit down,â Tamer said. Ordered. Muttering, they obeyed him.
Bullet let his manâs arm down and spun him around to look into his sweating face. He didnât say anything, just stared into the guyâs eyes until he was sure the message had gotten through, past the anger, and past the fear pain brought. Then he turned and left the room.
âThanks, man,â low voices murmured at his back.
CHAPTER 9
T he sun had risen into a clear sky when the coach stopped for Bullet by his mailbox at six forty-five. They drove on down to the town dock, where the school bus waited. Bullet climbed into the yellow bus and took his usual seat, right front, by the window. The rest of the team trickled in, one after the other, waiting until the last minute before climbing onto the bus. The coach checked them in, calling out names and making marks on his clipboard.
They were down to three Negroes, Bullet noticed; one of them Tamer, of course. The Negroes moved on to the back of the bus, where all three could sit together. The meet was at a school three hours north, up in Queen Anneâs County. Bullet slouched down in his seat, relaxed.
He could hear nerves in the rest of the team, sitting behind him. He could see nerves in the coachâs body, hunched by the opposite window. Bullet wasnât tense. He was going to run, there was nothing to make him tense about that. He didnât remember the course. He never remembered a course from one year to the next. He didnât want to. He wouldnât jog it either, although that was how you prepared for a cross-country runâyou were supposed to jog over the course an hour or more before you ran it and plan your approaches and learn the obstacles. Bullet never tried to study a course. That was no way to train your reflexes, or find out how your quick judgments were. That was the way if what you wanted to do was win.
As time passed, the bus behind him alternated between uneasy silences, quick low conversation, and loud nervous joking. Bullet never turned around, didnât measure the distance by passing towns or intersecting highways, didnât think, didnât look out the window, didnât do anything. When they arrived, the bus pulled into a big parking lot behind a low, modern school building, stretched out along the top of a hill, with windows along most of the walls. The building was locked for the weekend, but the gym was open. The opposing team poured out through the broad doors as the Crisfield Warriors went in to change. This was a private school, The Acorn School. It had a team of coaches, a head of Track and two assistants. All of the competitors looked alike, except for the colors of their shorts. The Warriors wore red, the Acorn team blue. All had on white tank tops with numbers.
Bullet followed the mass of moving bodies to the field, hanging back. The oval track lay in a kind of meadow between two gentle hills. A white board fence surrounded it. From the top of a rise of land, watching people spread out over and around the field, Bullet picked out the brown rectangle that was the long jump pit, the circle from which the javelin would be thrown, the tall pole vault posts and the shorter high jump posts. A pile of white hurdles lay piled up beside the gateway to the track. A couple of long white benches were set out for spectators and equipment.
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