Make Way for Dyamonde Daniel (3 page)

Outside of homeroom, Free was harder to ignore. He stomped everywhere, growled at anyone who spoke to him, and kept bumping into kids because he didn’t look where he was going.

Two days in school, and he had almost everybody scared of him already. And he didn’t even have to try hard. He was the tallest kid in the third grade, almost as tall as a sixth-grader. When you’re that big, all you have to do to scare somebody is show up and say boo!

Free never said boo, but he
looked mad all the time, and that was enough to scare most of the kids. Dyamonde wouldn’t have cared except Free was being mean to kids who were too little to speak up for themselves.

Dyamonde wanted to do something about it, but she didn’t know what.

Maybe Mrs. Cordell can help
, thought Dyamonde.

One afternoon, she hung around after the last bell so she could talk to her teacher in private.

“Mrs. Cordell,” said Dyamonde.

“Yes, dear?”

“What’s the matter with the new boy? With Free?”

“What do you mean, sweetie?” Mrs. Cordell called everybody “sweetie.”

“How come he’s mad all the time?”

“I don’t know, Dyamonde. Why don’t you ask him?”

Dyamonde practically choked at the very thought.

“Never mind,” muttered Dyamonde.

I like Mrs. Cordell and all
, thought
Dyamonde,
but that’s crazy. No way am I asking Rude Boy anything
.

Dyamonde knew there was something wrong with him, though, and she figured one of these days she’d find out what.

That day came sooner than she expected.

One Tuesday
—it was chicken nugget day, to be exact—Dyamonde was sitting with the three T’s when Free stomped into the lunchroom, fists clenched, not looking where he was going—again. He bumped into Jordan, this tiny third-grader, and mumbled, “Out of my way, squirt.” Poor Jordan shook so
hard, he dropped his tray. Free just kept going, got his own lunch and slammed the tray down on a nearby table.

That’s it
, thought Dyamonde.
I’m tired of seeing that boy scare the living daylights out of everybody in sight. Time somebody stood up to him
.

Dyamonde walked straight up to Free and said, “What is your problem?”

Free looked up from his plate, startled.

“Who says I got a problem?”

“You have
got
to be kidding!” said Dyamonde, with one hand
on her hip. “See that little kid over there?” With her chin she pointed to Jordan, who was still on his hands and knees, chasing his spilled chicken nuggets after dropping his tray.

“
You
did that!” said Dyamonde.

Free, suddenly looking sheepish, mumbled, “Sorry.”

“Humph!” said Dyamonde. “You should be. Now, tell
him
.”

Free thought she was kidding, but Dyamonde glared at him, hand still on her hip. He could tell she wasn’t going to go away anytime soon.

“Sorry, kid,” Free yelled, loud enough for Jordan to hear. Only then did Dyamonde return to her own table.

Dyamonde kept her eye on Free after that. Whenever she caught him growling at someone, she’d scowl at him. If she heard him yell at little kids, she’d step in front of them, cross her bony arms and stare Free down until he said he was sorry. After a few days of this, Free did his best to stay out of everybody’s way, especially Dyamonde’s. For some reason he
couldn’t quite figure out, he didn’t want her mad at him.

Later that week, Dyamonde’s mother sent her across the avenue for some Chinese takeout. On the way back, Dyamonde found Free sitting alone on the stoop of the building on her corner. She had heard he lived nearby, but this was the first time she’d seen him.

“Hey,” she said as she passed.

As always, Free just grunted.

Dyamonde shook her head. “Now, if you were smart,” said Dyamonde, “you could have said,
‘Hay is for horses.’ If you were
smart
.”

“What’s so smart about that?” he shot back.

Dyamonde turned around and walked back to his stoop. There was something bugging this kid, and Dyamonde was going to find out what. Nobody could be that mean, all the time, for no reason, could he?

“Who are you so mad at?”
asked Dyamonde.

The question caught Free off guard.

“What?”

“Who are you so mad at?”

“Who said I was mad?”

“Oh, puleeze! All you do is stomp around and glare at people,
even teachers, and I have not seen one person do anything bad to you since you got here. Not
one
. So who are you mad at?”

Dyamonde’s words were sharp as needles, and Free felt like a balloon that she had just poked a hole in. All the air came whooshing out, and instead of looking angry, Free just sort of sagged.

“I don’t know,” said Free, in a tired voice. “I’m mad at my folks. At my dad, mostly. He lost his job and made us move here, and I had to leave all my friends behind.”

Dyamonde thought about her
old neighborhood, and her old friends. The face of Alisha came swimming up before her eyes, and Dyamonde had to swallow hard. She wasn’t mad at Mom for making them move, but she understood how Free could be mad at his dad.

“Okay,” said Dyamonde. “You’ve got a right to be mad—but not at people you don’t even know.”

Free sighed. “I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I’m
always
right,” said Dyamonde. The way she said it made Free smile.

“What’s your name again?” he asked.

“Dyamonde, with a
y
instead of an
i
plus an
e
at the end. And yes, I know. I must be a diamond in the rough, ’cause I’m plain as coal, blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard it all,” said Dyamonde, rolling her eyes to the sky.

“Kids tease you about your name all the time?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you stand it? I hate it when kids tease me about mine.”

Dyamonde shrugged. “It used to bug me when I was little. I even changed my name to Diana for a week. But Dyamonde sounds so much more beautiful, and I figured anybody who made fun of it was just plain silly. Besides, there are way worse things in life than being teased about your name. Anyway, who would tease you about Free?”

“Nobody. But my last name is Freeman. And my first name is Reed.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“When’s the last time you met some kid named Reed, especially a black kid? People always say to me,
‘Hey Reed, what are you reading?’ Or ‘There goes Reed, reading again.’”

“Got it.”

“So I just use Free, short for Freeman. Only my family calls me Reed.”

“Well, I like it—Reed.”

“Don’t—”

“Don’t worry,” said Dyamonde, rising from the stoop. “I won’t call you that when other people are around. Well, gotta get this food home before it gets cold. See ya.”

“See ya,” said Free.

Dyamonde took a few steps,
then turned back. “One more thing. Quit being so touchy about your name,” said Dyamonde. “Believe me, I’ve heard way worse!”

With that, Dyamonde ran to her building and disappeared through the door before Free could speak. She liked getting in the last word. And why shouldn’t she? Isn’t that what all smart people do?

The next day
at lunch, Free did his usual thing. He carried his tray to the empty table farthest from the entrance and sat alone. He wasn’t alone for long, though.

“Hey,” said Dyamonde, sliding in across from him.

“Hay is for horses,” said Free.

Dyamonde smiled.

“You sure you want to sit here? You see how everybody’s looking at you like you’re crazy.”

Immediately, Dyamonde stood up and faced everyone who was staring in her direction.

“What?” she asked. “Cat got your tongue?” Each person seemed to be waiting for somebody else to speak. When no one did, they all turned away and went back to eating their lunch.

Dyamonde sat back down.

“Can I have some of your fries?” asked Dyamonde.

“Wow,” said Free. “You’re amazing.”

“What?”

“You really don’t care what people think.”

“About what?”

“About sitting with me. About anything.”

“Why should I?” asked Dyamonde. “I know what I think, and that’s enough.”

Free just shook his head.

“You can’t do things or not do things just ’cause somebody else thinks you should. I mean, what if
they’re dumb as a rock and you’re paying attention to them? That’s silly. Anyways, can I get a couple of fries or not?”

Free pushed the plate of fries toward Dyamonde and was quiet for a long while. She sure gave him a lot to think about.

The next morning,
when Dyamonde came downstairs, she found Free on her stoop, waiting for her. He didn’t growl at her the way he did before, but he was still sour looking.

“How come you’re always so grouchy in the morning?” asked Dyamonde.

“You would be too if you had to share a bunk bed with your baby brother and he was yappin’ all the time. I need earplugs just to get some sleep.”

“Don’t you get used to it?”