Secret Saturdays (2 page)

Becky was maybe four seats from me. She came from a crazy family. Her pops smoked crack, lived in the streets, and had no teeth in his mouth. Plus, Becky's sisters and brothers were in foster care. Becky didn't raise her hand.

Sean was right next to me. Even though his dad took care of him and his moms, his dad hadn't lived with him for the past two years. Sean didn't raise his hand.

My father was ghost too.

A few years back, he bounced on me and my mother after she found out he was cheating on her. He moved down south, and we haven't heard from him since. I'm half glad he left. But sometimes when I see other kids with their dads, I feel like, “Why don't I have that?” Plus, since he broke out, we had to go on welfare because of Ma's bad leg. She hurt it the year before my pops left when we picnicked in Sunset Park. She fell while trying to Rollerblade and her leg broke in a few places.

When he lived with us, my father was like a lot of men out here. They posed on every corner and pretended to be all hard and important. All fronts and good for nothing. Some of them even lived off allowances their grown sons and daughters gave them. They were just supersized boys.

I don't blame Shaquan, Becky, or Sean. I wasn't raising my hand to talk about my father either. Why put it on blast that your dad wasn't around? Kids will just make fun of that later.

Jay made a face like he didn't believe all our dads lived with us. “Anyway,” he said, “my pops had parts of him that me and my brothers and sisters didn't know about.”

I leaned over and whispered to Sean, “This guy is corny.”

Sean nodded real slow like he was saying, “Yep!”

“Sean, if you got something to say, say it out loud,” Manny said, starting trouble again like he did in the lunchroom. “Ms. Feeney, Sean's whispering because he's too scared to raise his hand and say he don't have a father.” Manny turned back to Sean. “Raise your hand.”

Some kids laughed at that.

“Manny,” Ms. Feeney said, and shot him a mean look. She stepped into the circle next to the Latino guy. She looked embarrassed. She raised her hand and made her peace sign. That was her way to get us quiet without yelling. “Sorry,” she told Jay.

“It's cool,” Jay said.

As soon as kids stopped laughing, Sean said, “Manny, at least I don't have a lazy eye. One of your eyes looks left and the other stares right. I could stand right in front of your nose and you wouldn't even see me.”

“Sean.” Ms. Feeney frowned at him and shook her head “No.” She did her V sign again, but the class stayed noisy.

“Shut up!” Manny shouted at the kids laughing at him. He stood up like he could make us listen to him, but we laughed harder.

Jay, the gang guy, smiled at Ms. Feeney. “It's okay. Kids will be kids, right?”

She gave the class such a dirty look that one by one we got quiet. When the class got completely silent, she apologized to Jay again and said, “Please continue.” Then she told us, “Sit straight and act mature.”

We fixed ourselves in our seats and Jay started speaking again, but Sean cut him off. “Manny,” Sean said. “At least, I used to live with my father. Before he moved to Puerto Rico. Do you even know who your real father is?”

The whole class exploded. This time, Ms. Feeney tried to get control by staring hard at us, but everyone just laughed louder.

Manny jumped up like he wanted to fight Sean. Ms. Feeney got in front of Manny fast and put her hand on his chest. “Go in the hallway,” she said. She told Sean he had detention, and to the rest of the class she said, “What happened here tells me this class isn't ready for today's guest speaker, so I'm canceling today's Advisory. Take out your independent reading books from your literacy class. Everyone will read quietly for the rest of the period.”

About half the class sucked their teeth, rolled their eyes, and moaned.

“All because of stupid Manny,” a girl's voice said.

“God!” some boy breathed out real heavy.

“I didn't want to hear this man anyway,” another kid went.

Everyone was heated, but we all slowly pulled our books from our backpacks. As I sat up, Ms. Feeney told Jay loud enough for the class to hear, “I apologize. It's unfortunate this class loses its opportunity to hear you speak.”

He smiled. “I'll still speak with them if you want.”

Ms. Feeney said, “No, no. This class doesn't deserve you.” She eyed everyone. I opened my book fast and pretended to read.

 

When Advisory ended, me and Sean grabbed our book bags to bounce, but Ms. Feeney rolled up on us with the quickness and told us to stay in our seats.

“Is this the second time today I saw you make a kid want to fight you?” she asked Sean.

Sean shrugged. “I don't know.”

“Am I in trouble too?” I asked her, wondering why she'd make me stay.

“Justin, you're okay,” she said. “You don't have to wait for Sean if you don't want to.”

“I'll stay,” I said. I did want to see what would happen to Sean. He was my best friend.

Ms. Feeney asked him, “So someone insults you and you turn it into a competition. Put him down harder and tell everybody listening the ugliest truth about him?”

“He talked about my father,” Sean said out the side of his mouth. “So I talked about his. We even.”

“Did that bother you? When he talked about your dad?”

“No. Why would it bother me? I have a father. Right, Justin?”

“Yeah,” I said. “He just lives in Puerto Rico.”

“Exactly,” Sean said.

That was true.

When me, Sean, Kyle, and Vanessa became cool in fourth grade, Sean told us his pops moved to PR to take care of their family's house there and run their parents' farm. Sean's mother and father stayed together and him and his dad kept tight because Sean's dresser drawer always had stuff his pops sent him from PR. Puerto Rican toys, key chains, and stuff. How? His moms was a cashier at IKEA. That money came from his pops.

“I know you have a father,” Ms. Feeney said. “And I also know you really liked hurting Manny just because. Lately, you seem to enjoy being nasty to kids. But why, Sean? It'll only make kids want to fight you, and you're not a fighter.”

“Mmm,” Sean hummed like he was saying, “Whatever you say.” He rolled his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

But Ms. Feeney was 100 percent right. Sean didn't fight. Not with his fists.

 

“Puerto Ricans are butt,” this Black kid told me in fourth grade.

It was three o'clock on the Monday after the Puerto Rican Day Parade. I was outside my school going home when this kid everybody called Hammerhead started teasing me about the Puerto Rican beads I got at the parade. His real name was Gregg. I should've dissed him back about his head because it really popped out in front and back like a hammer. But I didn't think of it. Maybe because I was a little scared. He was bigger than me.

I tried ignoring him but he got louder. Soon, maybe seven kids were walking with him. His friends and other kids, watching.

“Ayo, ‘Livin' la Vida Loca,'” Hammerhead shouted at me. “I heard you half Black and half Puerto Rican. What're you? Puerto Rican today? Tomorrow you Black?”

Before I knew it, he was right in front of me. I tried walking around him, but he kept moving to block my way. I didn't know why, but he wanted to fight. Nobody ever jumped in my face like that. My stomach felt funny. My legs started shaking.

Then this voice from the crowd yelled, “Yo, Gregg, why don't you leave Justin alone and go hammer some nails with your forehead.”

It was this boy from my building. Sean. We weren't friends. We just passed by and said hi. Probably twice we were on the same volleyball team in gym class. I saw him and his parents around, and then one day his pops was ghost. That was all I knew about Sean until he stepped in between me and Hammerhead.

“Sean,” Hammerhead Gregg said. “Mind your business.”

“I'm half Puerto Rican, so it is my business. Tease me so I can tell everyone you pooped on yourself last year in class.”

“You better be out before I hurt you,” Gregg told him.

“You ain't hurting anybody, you piss drinker,” Sean yelled for everyone to hear. “Remember in first grade when Derrick dared you to drink piss and you did, nasty?”

“Shut up!” Hammerhead shoved Sean.

Sean pushed him back.

Real quick, kids jumped in between them.

“Get off me,” Gregg told his friends.

Sean laughed. “What you gonna do? Becky beat you up last year and she almost put you to sleep with a choke hold. Don't make me go get her right now so she can knock you out again.”

Hammerhead tried shaking free and started crying, but his friends held him tighter. “Let me punch him in his face!”

“Stop!” one of Gregg's friends told him. “The principal just came out the school and is looking over here.”

“Crybaby,” Sean continued with a smile. “You only want to fight because your feelings are hurt. You can't think of a comeback so you want to wrestle me like you're in kindergarten.” Sean tapped my chest. “Let's go. Before the principal comes over.”

At first I wasn't sure what to do, but I followed Sean. Two blocks away, we stopped at the corner and waited for the crossing guard to let some cars pass. Why'd Sean stick up for me? How come he hadn't been scared back there? Why didn't he stay back there and fight? You're not supposed to walk away from fights. It makes you look soft. Maybe this kid, Sean, was a punk. On the other hand, he made Hammerhead look more butt because he was the one who cried.

“Hammerhead was being mad racist,” Sean said after I finally told him what I was thinking. “I hate that. And I did fight Hammerhead. With my mouth. You better learn how to defend yourself. Listen, my moms says there are four things to remember about fighting. First, people fight when their feelings are hurt. Second, you can fight with your hands or your mouth. Third, people who fight with their hands are too dumb to beat up somebody with their words.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But you beat up that kid too much. He cried.”

“That's the fourth thing,” Sean said. “If you beat up a kid with your words, do it so other kids watching get scared of you. If they are, they'll leave you alone. I bet Hammerhead won't say anything to me or you again. Do what my moms said. It works, and that's why I'm not scared of Hammerhead or anybody else.”

That was some of the smartest stuff I'd ever heard. Right there, I realized two things.

First, I wanted to be like Sean. I didn't want to fight with my fists. I wanted to beat up people with my words.

Second, I wanted to be Sean's friend.

From that day, I started speaking to Sean more.

Us both being Black and Puerto Rican gave me and him mad similarities. He was completely into hip-hop and a fiend for rap just like me. Soon we had matching black-and-white Composition notebooks to write our rhymes in. We spent mad hours together, listening to music and making verses. We even freestyle-rapped with each other. By fifth grade, me and Sean were so close that kids called us twins and brothers from different mothers.

AFTER HIS DETENTION
Sean met me and Vanessa around five o'clock at the handball courts in the stadium. Me, Sean, Kyle, and Vanessa all knew how to play handball, but it was really Sean's sport. Baseball was Kyle's and basketball was Vanessa's. Me? I didn't have one. I guess writing rhymes was more my sport.

It was still light out. Later we were doing a sleepover at Sean's, and Kyle had to stay at home and clean his room if he wanted to be part of it. So right now it was just Sean, me, and Vanessa.

“What happened at detention?” I asked Sean.

Sean sucked his teeth. “Ms. Feeney made me write fifty times, ‘I will behave in class.' After that, she gave me a corny speech about how I should know better.”

“Manny got detention too?”

“Nope.” Sean shook his head, then yelled at this Mexican kid smacking his handball against the wall, “You want singles? I'll play you for your ball.”

“Whatever,” the kid said.

Our stadium was maybe the size of four football fields. Besides handball courts, it had a track, bleachers, baseball fields, and benches. Trees, little lawns, and paths to walk on. Everywhere, someone played their sport.

The stadium's track had red turf and was maybe half a block from the courts. The track was red like how the planet Mars looked in movies. About ten high school girls in short shorts raced on that track. A chubby Black woman with a tiny Afro in burgundy sweats shouted and blew a whistle at the girls.