Long Division Part 7

"Why?"

"We don't want to know."

"Girl, please. Who are you supposed to be? We don't want to know what?

"You hear something?" she asked me. I listened harder. We heard some cracked ba.s.s and a synthesizer blasting from some tinny speakers.

MyMy s.n.a.t.c.hed my arm and we took off out of the woods and ran back onto Old Morton Road. Coach Stroud was driving the ice cream and watermelon truck our way. No matter where you saw Coach Stroud, he always wore a t.i.tans hat turned to the back.

Coach stopped his truck in front of us.

"Hey, Coach!" I said.

"Hey Wide Load," Coach said while stretching his neck. "How you making it these days? I heard how you lost your mind on TV but I ain't been able to watch it on DVR."

Coach had this lisp that was deep and ringing, more like Biggie's lisp than Mike Tyson's. When I was ten, Mama gave me this slightly illiterate book about how all humans come from Africa. The book had pictures in there of the first man and first woman. The first woman didn't look like anyone I'd ever seen except maybe Michael Jackson, but the first man had a mouth just like Coach Stroud. I'm not saying that I didn't look lightweight ape around the mouth area, but Coach looked pretty much full ape. That was really one of the best things about him.

"That's the little white gal you been running 'round with since you got on TV?" Coach asked and stared at MyMy. MyMy walked up looking all hungry and crazy at the pictures of ice cream on the truck.

"I ain't running around with no white girl. I just got here. People spreading rumors about me running around with white girls?"

"You know how y'all do," Coach said.

I had no idea what he was talking about. "You still suing the city, Coach?"

"Well, we working on it," Coach said. He was one of those dudes who always talked about suing somebody and taking the money he won to the casino to play blackjack. "Always doing something to keep a hardworking black man down. So I gotta handle my business."

Coach Stroud smiled as he scratched the sack part of his tight red coach pants. Everyone in Melahatchie said that Coach Stroud was busting booties with my friend Gunn, and when you hear that a grown coach and one of your friends are busting booties, it makes you want to run your big a.s.s back into the woods when you see him scratch his sack.

I figured that one of the worst things in the world was to have folks think you bust teenagers' booties. n.o.body would ever look at you the same after that. Even when you're just doing stuff that everybody else does, like scratching your sack, no one would look at you the same. Coach was a walking "Kindly pause," and that was fine with me. I just hated that I ever even thought I loved LaVander Peeler. No part of me really wanted to touch his sack, but I knew you couldn't tell people that you loved another boy, because as soon as folks heard the word "love" they would look at me the same way I looked at Coach when he had that sack itch. I wondered, for the first time, what busting booties had to do with love. Once I thought I loved Toni Whitaker and Octavia Whittington, but that was because those girls were the only two real people I thought about when I got nice. They were the people who made my privacy the hardest. As much as I thought I loved LaVander Peeler, I can't even say that anything about him made my privacy hard. So if it wasn't love, I just wondered what it really was, and why I felt so much of it when I saw him up on that stage.

Anyway, I was allergic to watermelon, but Grandma seemed so happy when she ate them, so I decided to use the ten dollars Mama gave me for the trip to buy Grandma a gift.

"Coach, lemme get one of them baby watermelons." Coach just looked at me and started rolling his tongue underneath the inside of his top lip. "Gimme one of them baby watermelons, Coach! Why you looking at me crazy?" He still just looked, steady rolling his eyes like he would look if you fumbled in practice or acted scared to hit someone or didn't run a play right.

"Come back here with me, Wide Load." He walked through his truck. I looked at MyMy and walked back with him. "What you doing, man?" he asked me.

"What you mean, Coach?"

"What I mean!? Wide Load, you worse than them ignorant-a.s.s rappers grabbing hard on them d.i.c.ks, selling that poison, and calling everybody 'n.i.g.g.as.' You don't eat no watermelon in front of no white folks," he told me. "I know them folks in Jackson taught you better. Don't look at me like that, boy. I don't care of she is just a little white gal. Like I told y'all during the season. Practice makes perfect. You play the game the way you live your life."

"White folks don't like watermelon, Coach?"

"Naw, Wide Load. That ain't it. It just some things you just don't do. I swear before G.o.d that I don't know what's wrong with y'all little young boys in this generation. Black men like me fought so-"

"Oh Jesus," I said.

"Now you blaspheming his name? We did our best so y'all could have equal opportunities and some of whatever the white man got. We got a black president in that White House fighting to stay alive and here y'all go trying hard to act like n.i.g.g.as in front of the white man's woman." He stopped and looked at me like he'd just asked me a question. "What if Obama acted like that? You don't see how they love seeing us do things like fighting and acting a fool on TV and dancing and eating on watermelons?"

"That's stuff I like to do anyway, Coach," I told him. "Plus, I like to do other stuff, too."

"Shhh. Wide Load. Shut the h.e.l.l up. I'm asking you how you think that makes us feel?"

Coach was waiting for an answer, but you know what's crazy? I'd never thought of Coach Stroud as being any part of the "us" he was talking about. The only time people talked about Coach Stroud was when they talked about Melahatchie's biddy ball team. And the only time folks really talked about Melahatchie's biddy ball team was when they were saying we might not need to be coached by someone who liked to bust booties.

"You ain't answer me, boy."

I opened my mouth, but he interrupted me. "It's like this, Wide Load. I'mo say it to you one more time. White man see you acting a n.i.g.g.a, he liable to think we all still n.i.g.g.as. n.i.g.g.as are less than white folks in they eyes. Look what they did to that young brother, Trayvon. If they think you less than human, you don't deserve no respect. Period. You are a smart young man. I know you understand."

"You done?"

"See, that's your problem, Wide Load. You play too much. White man see your big a.s.s acting a fool on TV, and he gon' have a reason to take away the rights we done worked so hard for. Y'all gotta learn how to manage that freedom we got for y'all. You see what I'm saying. Ain't enough to be free. What you gon' do with the freedom?"

Coach was p.i.s.sing me off even more than Princ.i.p.al Reeves when she gave that wack freedom speech. "Coach, you know something?" I was about to call him a half-ape, half-f.a.ggot in too-tight coach pants.

Instead, I said, "You probably should just give me the watermelon before I say something to hurt your feelings," and went back around to the side of the truck.

He leaned close to me. "You act like a li'l head-buster, but don't never forget, City, that you got a head, too." Coach leaned back, blinked a few times, and swallowed some spit. "Here you go, boy. That'll be six dollars."

He really had a look in his eyes that told me he wanted to elbow me in the jaw. I thought about how since my friend Gunn was known as the best young fighter in Melahatchie, there really was no telling how effective Coach Stroud was with his hands, but still I wanted him to know something.

"Coach Stroud." I looked down at MyMy and thought about not saying this in front of her. "You p.i.s.sed me off in the back of your truck a few minutes ago, but I guess I really don't think you be busting Gunn's booty. I don't. I just think he's too young to have a grown boyfriend or girlfriend. And I thought about calling you a 'f.a.ggot' back there, too, but then I remembered how you were d.a.m.n near a ninja," I told him. "I also kinda remembered that 'f.a.ggot' sounds like some kind of balled-up monster made of ground-up dookie chunks, razor blades, and rotten muscadines. You ain't no monster, Coach. Not to me."

I looked at Coach and I grabbed MyMy's hand and got a little distance from the truck. "I hear what you saying back there, but can I give you some advice? f.u.c.k white folks," I told him. "For real! Their eyes ain't gotta be everywhere you are. Y'all are too old to care about them so much. They can only do as much harm as you let them, and all y'all oldheads are letting them do way too much."

Saying that made me feel like Satan in a way because I knew that Coach Stroud couldn't go up in anyone's house in Melahatchie, including Grandma's, and tell on me. Everybody in Melahatchie would allow Stroud to walk on their porch. And they'd sit down with him and they'd laugh loud and talk louder about the weather, the Saints, white folks, or some trifling heathen who wasn't there to defend himself. But I didn't know of one grown person in Melahatchie who would let him all the way in their house. Not one.

Coach Stroud drove his truck on down the road and MyMy and I were on our way out of the woods when that green truck that was parked in the trailer park drove slowly toward us.

It stopped in front of us. Four men were squeezed into the cab. They were blasting that old Ricky Rozay song, "I'm Not A Star." One of the dudes had crossed eyes, dimples, red hair, and a pot belly that looked far too old for his face. I had a baby watermelon in one hand, my brush under my arm, and Long Division in the other.

"You the boy who was on TV yesterday?" Pot Belly asked. "The one with that brush who done all that talking?"

"Yeah, that's me," I told him. "My name is City."

"City?" He looked down at me. "What's a boy named City doing out here in the country?"

"I don't know. I'm just visiting my grandma," I told him. "City is just a nickname."

"I see," he said. "Let me ask you this. You fast as you is smart?"

"For my size, I'm alright."

"You faster than this man right here?" he asked and pointed to the only boy in the truck, who wore a V-neck s.h.i.+rt with the arms cut off.

"That's a boy," I told them. "He ain't no man."

"City love to sa.s.s, don't he," Pot Belly said to the other men in the truck. "You had plenty of sa.s.s yesterday on that TV, didn't you?"

Pot Belly whispered something to the round-face white boy. The kid jumped out the back and stood next to me. The truck was right in front of us.

"Now, we gonna say go," Pot Belly said, "and I want y'all to run after the truck 'til we say stop."

"Naw, I'm good," I told the man. "I'm tired of running. I don't even know y'all like that." I put the watermelon down and started brus.h.i.+ng my waves. "Plus, my wind ain't that good 'cause I just raced."

"That's alright, Chucker. We ain't going that far."

"My name is City," I told him and kept brus.h.i.+ng my hair. "You know what? I don't like the feeling of this situation, so we're finna go on about our business."

"Mind if I look at your brush, Situation?"

"Why?"

"Never seen one up close," he said. "Just wanna look at it."

"Naw," I told him. "I'm good."

"You don't wanna race. You don't wanna share your brush. What you wanna do, Situation? Use some sentences. How you practice for something like that?"

"My name is City," I told him again. "Not no Situation."

All the men in the truck were laughing so hard at this point. One of them said, "Situation, you wanna use 'brush' in a sentence?"

"I can do that," I told him and started walking toward them. "The next funky-a.s.s white boy to ask me for my brush is going to get knocked out Deebo-style, and if his friends jump in and try to help, they might get a few licks off, but I'm gonna get my revenge with my Jackson army one way or another. Let's go, MyMy." I grabbed her hand.

"Here," the man said, and threw a comb on the ground. "You are so talented, Situation. I'll let you see mine if you let me see yours."

The comb wasn't like the heavy plastic black combs Mama and them used sometimes. It had smaller edges and a thin handle. I reached down to pick it up and hand it to him, when out of nowhere, I felt a heavy foot in the center of my back. My solar plexus smashed into the ground and my lips kissed the asphalt right as my brush popped out of my hand. Then I felt another kick in my a.s.s.

I looked up. One of the men picked up my brush and threw it to Pot Belly, and they all jumped in the truck. I spit the little rocks, dirt, and blood from my lips and looked at the eyes of the other men in the car. "Use that in a sentence, you n.i.g.g.e.r son of a b.i.t.c.h," Pot Belly yelled. Red dirt started pouring out of the back of that truck and they slowly rolled away. I sat there on the ground swallowing the taste of rocks. It felt like someone was tickling the back of my tongue with one of those square batteries.

I went in my pockets, grabbed those right-heavy rocks, and tried to break out their back windows. MyMy ran with me. She was beside me throwing rocks. Pot Belly's voice was still back there laughing, pointing, teasing, watching me. The young boy that he had called a man was recording it all, too, on a cell phone. "Hey girl, hey," Pot Belly yelled as the boy recorded it all. "You best don't grow to be no n.i.g.g.e.r-lover. Leave Situation alone."

I turned around in the middle of the road, wiped the dirt off my face, and walked back into the woods. "Move, MyMy," I told her, and spit a b.l.o.o.d.y piece of the inside of my bottom lip on some sticker bushes.

My mother had beaten me probably over a hundred times in Jackson, but no man and no white person had ever put their hands on me. Ever. I had lost some battles at school with LaVander Peeler and felt like I had lost on that stage a few days earlier, but in those situations, I always thought I could fight back. Even if I lost, I knew that the other person or other people fighting me knew that they had been in a fight.

This was completely different.

All I could do after getting my chest smashed into the ground and being called a "n.i.g.g.e.r" by those white men was hope it all stopped hurting. That was it.

MyMy started trying to wipe the dirt off my face. "Don't get dirt all on your clothes," I told her and wiped my face again with my own s.h.i.+rt.

"They called me 'n.i.g.g.a' too, City."

"MyMy, you ain't no n.i.g.g.a," I told her. "And don't say it again."

"How come?"

"Because it hurts when you say that word." I turned back toward the road behind us. "And I know it doesn't really hurt you when you hear the word. You feel me? It's because no one can treat you like a n.i.g.g.a."

"It does hurt me," she said and kept trying to look me in the face. "I didn't like it when they said it."

"It didn't really hurt you, though. It's like the word 'b.i.t.c.h.' My princ.i.p.al said boys shouldn't ever say that word because we never have to deal with being treated like a b.i.t.c.h. She's right, too. Or..." I started thinking about how I treated that Mexican girl at the contest. The only bad word I knew to call Mexicans was "spic." Really, I should have just called Stephanie a "spic b.i.t.c.h" because that's how I treated her and that's how I wanted her to feel.

"But you just said it," MyMy interrupted my thought. "You said 'b.i.t.c.h.'"

"I was making a point," I told her. "Don't say that word either. You too young to say words like that."

"City," MyMy tugged on my s.h.i.+rt. "What does that word really mean?"

"Which word?"

"'n.i.g.g.a.'"

"d.a.m.n, girl. Didn't I just tell you not to say that word? Look. I know that I'm a n.i.g.g.a. I mean...I know I'm black and-" I thought for a few seconds of what Mama told me the word meant when I was in Jackson- "but 'n.i.g.g.a' means below human to some folks and it means superhuman to some other folks. Do you even know what I'm saying? And sometimes it means both to the same person at different times. And, I don't know. I think 'n.i.g.g.a' can be like the word 'bad.' You know how bad mean a lot of things? And sometimes, 'bad' means 'super good.' Well, sometimes being called a 'n.i.g.g.a' by another person who gets treated like a 'n.i.g.g.a' is one of the top seven or eight feelings in the world. And other times, it's in the top two or three worst feelings. Or, maybe...shoot. I don't know. I couldn't even use the word in a sentence, MyMy. Ask someone else. Shoot. I don't even know."

"City," MyMy interrupted me. She kept moving side to side, tearing leaves off of little lilac clovers. "I think we can kill them. They made you sound crazy on TV."

"Naw, girl. We could try to kill a few, but they had rifles in the back of their truck and they were taller than us and they could kill us a lot quicker than we could kill them. Plus, if I kill a white person, they would throw everyone in my family under the jail," I told her. "Me and you can do bad things, hood-rat things, but we can't ever kill white folks. How do you not know that?"

We started walking out of the woods when MyMy stopped and looked at me with those crazy eyes. "City, I have a brown thing on my hand. See?" MyMy held out her left hand and showed me a little brown dot in the middle of her palm. Looked like a big freckle. "I wish this thing was white and the rest of me was the color of my birthmark."

"Don't be dumb. Just be happy that you are whatever you are," I told her. "At least the way you are, ain't n.o.body kicking you in the back and making you use 'n.i.g.g.ardly' in a sentence. It's not that you're dumb, MyMy, but you're kinda dumb compared to me. You feel me?"

"City?" MyMy said.

"What?" I could tell she was flipping subjects again.

"I don't know what n-i-g-g-a is," MyMy was talking her a.s.s off now. "And you do not know what n-i-g-g-a is, but we can say I'm not n-i-g-g-a and you're not n-i-g-g-a and Baize is not n-i-g-g-a."

"MyMy, we can say that if you really want us to, but I'm pretty sure I'm a n.i.g.g.a for life," I told her. "And you might wanna stop talking about Baize since you didn't even know her. Because I'm almost positive Baize would tell you that she was a n.i.g.g.a for life, too." We started walking again. "I swear that white folks need to just shut the h.e.l.l up sometimes. Y'all make it hard for everybody."

We started walking out of the woods. "MyMy, watch out for them sticker bushes," I said.

I had Long Division in my lap when Grandma came out on the porch and asked me what was wrong. I told her that I was sad because I didn't want to get baptized and I wished she had internet so I could see what people were saying about me.

"What happened to your lip, baby?" she asked me.

"I just fell in the woods. Why?"

Grandma went in the house and came back out on the porch with some peroxide and a washcloth. "Don't ask me why," she said. "Tell me what happened to your lip, City."

"Grandma, do white folks like watermelon?"

"I reckon they do."

"More than black folks?"