Forged by Fire (9 page)

“When is Mama comin' home?”

“It's always hard to tell. If she got that new job, she might be real late.”

“Do you think she'll let me take that dance class?”

“If she got the job, she'll be in a good mood. Ask her then.”

“Gerald, you got basketball and sports and stuff. I got nothin' but the music inside of me. I want to dance!”

“Hey, the man at the chicken place around the corner said he'd let me wash dishes after school. I could get paid for what I'm doin' here!” he said, laughing. “Then you could take the dance class.”

“Naw, Gerald, you stay on the team. You can't quit basketball. I think you like runnin' around in your underwear!” she replied. Gerald grinned and flicked soapy water at her. She squealed and giggled, dipped her hands in the sink, and shook her drippy fingers at his face. Gerald laughed, ducked, and just as he was chasing Angel around the kitchen with a full glass of water, Monique breezed inside with a burst of winter air.

“Ooh!” she exclaimed. “It's a freezer out there! How's my babies? And what's this water doin' all over the floor?”

Monique had not changed much in the past few years. She was still very pretty, with a tiny waist that looked good in the gold belts and shiny sashes she liked to wear. She took great pride in her hair, changing its style and color to fit her mood. Today it was a rusty blond, with a matching ponytail woven into it. Accented by bright gold earrings, her black dress and two-tone fingernails made her look much younger than she was. She looked great today—and she was smiling.

Gerald looked up at her, but his good mood was gone. He didn't like it when Monique came in smiling. He knew that Monique had probably gotten the job, which meant that she would go out tonight to “celebrate.” He was proud of her that she had not returned to the drugs, but she had developed a taste for whiskey and was finding more and more excuses to go out and drink with her friends.

“Did you get the job, Mama?” asked Angel.

“Yes, baby, I did!” Monique glowed with pleasure. “I'll be answering telephones at the YMCA every day from nine to five. Aren't you proud of your mama? I gotta go celebrate!”

“That's great, Mama,” Angel said, hugging her. “Uh, Mama, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, baby, what you need?”

“A lady came to my school today and she told me about this dance class that I can be in. She said I was really good. Can I be in it? Please?”

“Dancing? Probably a waste of time. How much is it gonna cost me?”

“Fifty dollars,” whispered Angel, not daring to look at her mother.

“Fifty dollars! Good Lord! Hey, Gerald—has the rent been paid this month?”

“Yeah, Monique. It's been paid. Let her try it, okay?”

“Okay, baby. Go dance your little heart out! As a matter of fact, I may do a little dancin' myself tonight! I gotta go change!”

Angel grinned at Gerald. She was going to dance! A group from the Dance Theatre of Harlem was spending six weeks at her school, working with talented young people. She didn't tell Gerald that only forty children had been selected for the class from over two hundred who tried out—and that only twenty of those would dance in the show at the end of the program. She had been afraid to hope.

Monique left, humming the latest song. The click of her high heels reminded Gerald of that day long ago, and he suddenly felt a little dizzy. The dishes finished, Angel took Tiger into her room and turned on the radio. She danced with her cat and danced with her dreams while Gerald wrestled with memories of pain.

“Y
O
! G
ERALD
! Y
OU
need a ride to the game tomorrow?” Andy yelled across the gym.

“Naw, man, I got it covered,” Gerald yelled back. Andy was one of the few boys on the team with his own car. Everybody depended on him for rides, and he loved being the center of that attention. Gerald took the bus to the games. He preferred that to the noise and crowd of Andy's car. He liked the silence of the bus ride to relax him and prepare him for a really good game.

Gerald stayed every day after school for basketball practice. It was there that he felt whole and powerful. Rob, who had unanimously been named captain by the team, was tall, skinny, smart, and had the best line with girls that Gerald had ever heard. Andy was Rob's best friend. He wasn't a natural at basketball like Rob, but he tried hard and hated for Rob to outscore him. They had known each other since seventh grade and spent weekends at each other's homes. Both of them lived near the edge of the school district, where houses had neat lawns with trees in the backyard and a fresh coat of paint every other year.

Gerald no longer felt uncomfortable around them, even though he lived in an apartment building downtown that had a broken elevator, graffiti on the walls, and very little grass anywhere. Andy and Rob breezed through life, collecting friends—and never making judgments about them—with seemingly no problems at all.

Last month, after a movie one Saturday night, Andy, Rob, Tyrone, B. J., and Gerald had decided they were hungry—maybe even starving.

“What you want to eat, man? Fast food?”

“How much money you got?”

“Four dollars and eleven cents. What about you, B. J.?”

“Sixty-nine cents. Hey, Gerald, what about you?”

“I got about eight dollars.”

“We rich, man. I got an idea. Let's try that new all-you-can-eat place.”

“Do they really mean
all?”

“Let's see, man!” chuckled Andy as they headed for the restaurant.

They paid for two meals, then went through the line slowly. Andy got six kinds of meat, ten dinner rolls, and four pieces of apple pie. Rob piled eight pieces of corn on the cob, a mountain of mashed potatoes, eighteen chicken wings, and three pieces of cheesecake on his plate. Tyrone picked up a stack of napkins and a bunch of silverware. They were laughing hysterically, but quietly.

“They watchin' us, man!” Gerald said fearfully.

“That's 'cause you put jelly on your potatoes, man,” B. J. explained, laughing.

“We ain't done nothing wrong,” Robbie said with casual confidence. “Let's just eat.”

They laughed and gobbled up every bit of that food, smiling at the customers and making even the restaurant workers laugh along with them. When they finished, they cleared their plates, stood on the tables, and sang, in perfect five-part harmony, a doo-wop version of the old Drifters song “Under the Boardwalk.” Everyone in the restaurant applauded and cheered as they took their bows.

An old man with dark brown skin, piercing eyes, and slick gray hair had been watching them from the back of the room. He limped over to them, gave them each a ten-dollar bill, and said seriously, “Enjoy your youth, my young friends. Tomorrow it may be gone.”

Robbie thanked him, then gave his ten dollars to the busboy as a tip, and the five of them left the place, humming and happy. They ended up with a great meal, a satisfied audience, and more money than they started with. They forgot about the old man and his strange words.

B. J. Carson, as the team's manager, went to every practice and game. He was short—only about five feet tall—but he was tough and strong. He tried out for the team every year, and although he never made it, the coaches admired his courage and spirit. He loved basketball, and his sense of humor and knowledge of the game made him a natural to hang with Andy, Rob, Gerald, and Tyrone.

Sometimes taller, older kids who didn't know B. J. tried to take advantage of him. They only made that mistake once. Last year, B. J. had accidentally bumped a senior with his book bag as he walked down the hall. The senior, a six-foot six-inch, three-hundred-pound football player named Danté, had not been amused.

“Who you bumpin', punk?”

“Who you callin' punk?” B. J. had asserted without fear.

“I'm callin you a punk, yo mama a punk, and yo greasy granny a punk too!” Danté was big and grinned cheerfully. He was used to getting his way.

B. J. put down his book bag, slowly turned around, and tensed his short, wiry frame to face the much larger boy. Danté started to laugh as B. J. crouched in a karate attack position, but his laughter stopped short as he found himself sitting on the floor in the main hallway, a calm and smiling B. J. offering his hand to help him up.

“How'd you do that, man?” asked Danté, who was more amazed than angry.

“Black belt. Master Kim. Tae kwon do. Paid for by my mama and my greasy granny,” he added. “Ever need me to watch your back, call me.” B. J. disappeared into the crowd. Danté just shook his head and chuckled at the nerve of the tough little guy with the powerful whip kick. He never bothered B. J. again.

The five friends had several classes together at Hazelwood High School. Rob, the smartest of them, made good grades with ease. He already had several academic and athletic scholarships lined up as possibilities.
Tyrone was more interested in girls than grades, especially Rhonda, who was best friends with Andy's girlfriend, Keisha. Andy didn't make very good grades, but it seemed to Gerald that he just wanted attention at home, even attention for bad grades. Andy's parents rarely came to their games, while Rob's parents never missed one.

B. J.'s mom came to games on nights when she didn't have stuff to do at her church. Even Monique came to the big home games. Gerald never told her, but it made him feel proud.

It was Friday after the last class of the day, halfway through tenth grade, halfway through basketball season. It was raining. Gerald headed for his locker.

“Whatcha get on that math test?” Andy asked Gerald.

“Another C minus. If I study all night or don't study at all, seems like I get the same grade. I ain't seen a B in a long time.”

“Don't sweat it, man. I got the lowest grade in the class—again. Coach is gonna kill me if I don't get my grades up. And my dad—he'll give me lecture number fifty-seven. You know, the one about how he always made straight A's and why can't I.”

“Yeah, man,” said Gerald, but he laughed to himself as he imagined Monique giving him a lecture on good grades. She never even knew when report cards came out unless he told her.

Rob and B. J. chased each other down the hall, racing to their lockers.

“And another B for B. J.!” roared B. J. as he tossed his books into his locker. Gerald threw a shoe at him, but B. J. ducked. “Too smooth for you, dude!” He grinned.

“Who we play tonight, B. J.?”

“Centerville. Easy win. Your dad comin', Rob?”

“Yeah, he'll be here.”

“Can I get a ride home after the game, man?”

“Got room for me?” added Gerald.

“No sweat. What about you, Tyrone? You need a ride?”

“Naw, man. I'm gonna hang with Rhonda after the game.” He grinned.

“You need a ride too, Andy? Your car still not workin'?”

“My dad said he was comin', but yeah, I'm gonna need a ride. He won't show. He's ... Hey, Rob, that math test beat you down too?”

“Yeah, it was rough. But I got an A. Let's go to Mickey D's and get something to eat before the game.” Gerald and Andy looked at each other and shook their heads. “What you gonna do, man? A man's gotta eat. Let's jet.”

Every day when Gerald left practice he went by Angel's school to pick her up from dance practice. She was thriving on the hard work and sweat and hours of practice. Her face would be glowing when he picked her up, and she came home hungry and happy each day. He had watched her dance once when he got there early, and it gave him goose bumps. She was so naturally fluid and rhythmic that all she needed was the music and her body
did the rest. He noticed that the instructors pointed to her with smiles of admiration.

On Friday, she was so bubbly that Gerald thought she'd explode. Her eyes were bright with excitement.

“Guess what!” She jiggled with joy.

“You won the lottery,” said Gerald, smiling.

“No, silly! Better than that! I got picked to be the lead in our show next month! I get to wear a costume! Can Mama sew? How will I fix my hair? Do you think I look okay in yellow? That's what color my costume is. Do you think I'll look fat? Where am I gonna find yellow tights? The show is in only two weeks! Suppose I break my leg the night before! What is the—?”

“Hold on there, sister! You gonna run over me with all them questions at once! Calm down a little! I'm so proud of you! I knew you were the best!” Gerald hugged her then, tight enough to let her know how proud he was and how much he adored her.

Angel half-skipped, half-bounced the rest of the way home. She was chattering about costumes and rehearsals and the crown she would wear on her hair. Gerald only smiled and let her rattle on. He was so very proud of her, and it made him feel warm inside to know that she was truly happy at last.

Her long brown hair blew behind her in the breeze, fuzzy and never quite cooperating with brush and comb. Her eyes were sparkling and full of hope. Something in that breeze made him think of Aunt Queen, and for the first time in a very long time, he, too, felt at peace.

They climbed the six flights of stairs easily—laughing and planning for the dance recital. Angel ran through the door, calling with excitement, “Mama! I'm a star! I'm a sta—!”

Her words died. She felt as if she were choking, drowning. Sitting on the sofa, cowboy boots and all, was Jordan Sparks.

J
ORDAN LOOKED OLDER,
harder, and angrier. He smiled, but his eyes stayed cold and unfeeling. Monique was beside herself with excitement. She had fixed Jordan a steak dinner and an apple pie, and Monique was not known for her good cooking.

Angel screamed, ran to her room, and locked the door. Gerald, no longer an eleven-year-old kid, but a strong, muscular seventeen-year-old, looked him squarely in the face. “You ain't stayin' here! Now get out!”