Later that day, Kevin Walker and Lydell Nelson walked together to one of their classes. Lydell had made a few notes in his journal. Then he stuck the page back into his binder.
“You ever let anybody read your journal, Lydell?” Kevin asked in a matter-of-fact voice.
“Oh no,” Lydell replied. “I’d be ashamed.”
“Like nobody in your family even read it?” Kevin asked.
“Especially not them,” Lydell insisted. “My aunt thinks I’m crazy anyway. She’s always saying I got no friends and I’m weird. Her kids, my cousins, they laugh at me all the time. I’d die of embarrassment if anybody read my journal. That’s why I got so upset when Marko Lane ripped out a page. I sure am grateful you got it back for me.”
“How long you been writing in there, Lydell?” Kevin inquired.
“Since he died,” Lydell said. “It was to him at first. I couldn’t talk to him anymore, so I wrote to him. I wrote down what I was feeling, and it was sorta a way to tell him.”
“Your pa, huh?” Kevin said.
“Yeah,” Lydell answered. “We used to talk and talk. He was a big talker. But then . . .”
“Lydell, if you ever want me to read some of it, I’d be glad to,” Kevin offered. “I swear to you I wouldn’t laugh or anything.”
Lydell looked at his new friend. Kevin was maybe the only friend he’d had in his life, excluding his father, who was his best friend. “You’d think I was nuts like everybody else does if you read my journal,” Lydell objected.
“I’m nuts too, Lydell,” Kevin assured him. “So I don’t believe folks who live in glass houses should throw stones. You get my meaning? Look, I’m no expert on good writing. I’m hanging on in English because I study a lot. But I’ve read a lotta books, mostly paperback mysteries. I like that kind of stuff. I couldn’t tell you what good writing is, but I know what keeps my interest. I won’t make bad comments about your journal, Lydell.”
Lydell fell silent. He had not shown his journal to a living soul in all the years since he began writing it. He never felt safe enough with anybody to share something so personal. It was like ripping a veil off his soul and standing there with all his thoughts exposed to the naked light. But deep in his heart he always wanted somebody to read his journal. He never knew who it would be, but he wanted to share it. And Lydell trusted Kevin more than he had trusted anybody since his father was alive.
“Okay,” Lydell agreed. “You can read my journal. But you got to promise me you won’t tell anybody what’s in there.”
“Man, I’ll protect it with my life,” Kevin pledged. He grinned at Lydell. “I’ll put it in my backpack, Lydell, and I won’t even tell anybody I’m reading it. Okay?”
“Okay, Kevin,” Lydell replied, handing him the journal.
Kevin hadn’t been eating his lunch under the eucalyptus trees with his friends lately. He knew that Carissa was hanging there. He didn’t want to see her or talk to her or listen to her lame excuses. So Kevin found a remote spot on campus near where the track team practiced. He sat on a patch of grass and took his hot dog sandwich out of the bag. He pulled out Lydell’s journal and began to read it.
The journal told the story of life at the Nelson house where Lydell had lived since his father’s death.
The tantalizing aroma of apple pie came from the house when I got home. Aunt Laney makes good pies. I thought about the pie all the time I was changing from my school clothes to my grungy clothes. Most of the time we’d have rice pudding for dessert. It was only big heaps of halfcooked rice and hard little raisins that looked and tasted like pebbles. I hated the rice pudding because there was never enough sugar in it.
But today was going to be special. My mouth was all ready for the apple pie. Me and my father used to go to a little café in town. We’d have a slice of apple pie and coffee on Sunday. Often my pa would pay a little extra, and there would be a dollop of ice cream on the pie crust. That was always amazing.
I wondered if there might be ice cream on the apple pie too. And I thought that was too much to hope for. But I kept it as a secret hope.
My cousins smelled the apple pie too. When dinner was finished, Aunt Laney brought it, still warm from the oven. Aunt Laney smiled at her children, but she gave me a hard look. “Don’t be getting ideas,” she said to me. She told me I was too fat anyway and I didn’t need any apple pie. The truth was, Aunt Laney and Uncle Anson had three children of their own. That would mean cutting the apple pie in five pieces. That would mean a good slice for each of them. Cutting it in six pieces would be taking from them to give to me. Aunt Laney didn’t want to do that. So I watched her put the hot apple pie slices on the five dishes. Aunt Laney told me there was leftover rice pudding from yesterday if I wanted dessert. Aunt Laney put a dollop of peach ice cream on each of the apple slices. I told her she didn’t need to give me any rice pudding.
I tried not to watch them eat.
Kevin kept reading the journal. He couldn’t put it down. It was funny in places, sad and scary in other places. It was heartbreaking and terrifying. Lydell talked about how his father died. He talked about having dreams about finding the men who killed his father and doing terrible things to them. That part was raw and ugly.
Kevin was shaken by the journal. It was life at a dark edge where most people never go. But Kevin had been to that place himself, and he understood. There was deep overpowering despair in the journal. There were also bright slivers of hope, sticking out in unexpected places. Some time after Lydell’s dad died, an old lady stopped Lydell on the street. He didn’t know who she was. But she said she was an old friend of his father. She gave Lydell a hundred dollar bill. She said, “Bless you, my child” and walked on. And the despair lifted, if only for a little while.
Kevin didn’t see Lydell again until well after school. Kevin wasn’t going to the gym today. He’d promised Coach Curry he’d come to track practice. The meet against arch rival Lincoln was coming up. Marko Lane had been cleared by his doctor to participate, and that made Kevin nauseous. But he’d come anyway and run the best he could. He respected Coach Curry and he loved the team. He wouldn’t let Marko’s presence mess it up for him. He enjoyed being with Trevor and Matson.
Trevor and Matson were running up to their best levels. Kevin was faster than he had been in a while. Marko lagged, blaming it on his recent injury. Coach Curry had a grouchy look on his face, and he told Marko to practice more.
“Lot of our hopes are riding on you Twister,” Coach Curry told Kevin at the end of practice. He clapped Kevin on the shoulder.
During Kevin’s trial run for the coach, he’d made his best time ever. But the run reminded him of the first days he ran at Tubman. Carissa Polson would stand on the sidelines and yell “Go Twister!” She’d jump up and down, her braids flying atop her head. Kevin got a kick out of her. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but he missed her terribly.
Kevin remembered when Carissa would fly into his arms after a race, almost knocking him down. Right now he closed his eyes and remembered how soft and warm she felt in his arms. She was a crazy chick, but she meant a lot to him. He shook his head, as if to dislodge her memory.
Kevin showered back in the gym and came outside in his T-shirt and jeans, ready to jog home. The sun was beginning to go down.
“Hi,” she called, standing in the late afternoon shadows. She must have been standing there a long time. “Hi, Twister.”
Kevin stood there, looking at Carissa. He didn’t say anything.
“I watched you run today,” Carissa told him. “You were just a blur. I wanted to cheer, but I thought you’d resent it. I knew you didn’t want me to be there. But I had to come, ’cause my heart just aches so much . . . Oh, Kevin, I’m so sorry that I hurt you. I understand how you feel. I really do. It’s all my fault and—”
“Carrie!” Kevin commanded. “C’mere, babe.”
Carissa rushed toward him. Kevin pulled her into his arms and hugged her so tightly that she could hardly breathe. Then he pushed her out at arm’s length and said, “You still like frozen green pistachio yogurt, girl?”
Carissa nodded vigorously but did not say the word “yes.” She was fighting off tears.
“Okay, babe,” Kevin said softly to her. “Tell you what. I have something I gotta do right now. I gotta see someone. It’s important to him, and I can’t let him down. Y’hear?”
She nodded again.
“All right!” he said. “I should be back in about ten or fifteen minutes. Can you wait here?”
Again, she nodded—and sniffed.
“I’ll come back, and then we’ll go have ourselves some pistachio yogurt,” Kevin promised. “And we’ll have a long talk, like we always used to.”
Kevin left Carissa and looked for Lydell but didn’t see him right away. Kevin jogged to the east side of the campus and finally spotted Lydell starting his walk home. Lydell rarely went right home after school. Kevin knew he hung around the library for a while, killing time. Lydell’s shoulders were slumping, as usual. And his head was down, as usual. He didn’t look very happy about having to go home.
“Hey, Lydell,” Kevin shouted. “I got something that belongs to you.”
Lydell turned, his eyes wide with tension. Kevin had read his journal. Kevin now knew things about him that nobody else on earth knew. Kevin knew his terrors and his demons—the often pathetic details of his life. Did Kevin now think he was crazy, or a fool, or just a loner? Did reading the journal ruin the friendship that meant so much to Lydell? Lydell was already regretting letting Kevin see it.
“Dude,” Kevin said when he got closer. “This is good stuff. I couldn’t stop reading. It’s gripping. You got a way with words, man. I even lose interest in my murder mysteries sometimes, and I flip them shut. But I read your stuff straight through, and it got me here.” Kevin tapped a couple of fingers over his heart.
Lydell stared at Kevin in amazement and relief. “You don’t think it’s all just the ravings of a lunatic?” he asked.
“No man. It’s good!” Kevin objected. “I think you should let Mr. Myers see it.”
Lydell looked shocked. “Oh no, I couldn’t show it to him. He’s a brilliant, educated man. He’s written a novel, and it’s gonna be published. He’s an important man. I’d never have the courage to show it to him.”
“You should, man,” Kevin urged him. “It’s real. It’s powerful, from the heart. Over the years I’ve had to read a lot of stuff in school. Some of the best books I’ve read were like memoirs. Y’know, people writing about their own experiences. That’s what you’ve written, and I think Myers would like it.”
“Thanks for reading it, Kevin,” Lydell said, a smile trembling on his lips. Kevin’s compliments had moved him deeply. Lydell could hardly contain the strange new sensations sweeping through him. He didn’t know what to make of how he felt. It was almost happiness, something he had not felt in almost eight years.
“No problem, man!” Kevin told him, turning away to get back to Carissa. “Hey! Don’t forget what I told you about showing it to Mr. Myers.” Kevin took off at a jog. Lydell continued walking home. This time, his head was up, and his shoulders were squared.
In class on Monday afternoon, Langston Myers looked crestfallen. It was all over the campus that his book was selfpublished. The glow was off his happiness. Jaris felt really sorry for the man. The truth about the book had spread from Marko and his friends to everybody else. Mr. Myers was sure that his colleagues were snickering behind his back or pitying him. He could imagine the wall of whispers. “Poor old Myers,” they would be saying. “Nobody would buy his book, so he put it out himself.” . . . “Pathetic, eh? Poor guy. Must have been a pretty bad book that it couldn’t be sold. I wonder why he bragged about it so much? Didn’t he think the truth would come out?”
Lydell sat in his usual place in the last row. He was looking up at the teacher as he discussed the role of parody in literature. Lydell had heard about the teacher publishing his own book because nobody else would buy it. But the stories meant little to Lydell. He knew nothing about the publishing business. To Lydell, a book was a book.
Kevin had urged Lydell to show Mr. Myers his journal. Lydell just couldn’t make up his mind. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, he thought, if a mature, educated man like Mr. Myers read Lydell’s journal and pronounced it worth reading? What if Mr. Myers looked at Lydell’s journal and actually found merit in it? Lydell would not have even imagined such a thing possible if Kevin had not been so complimentary.
Surely, Lydell thought, Kevin was just being kind. Nothing so great as a teacher’s approval of his journal could ever happen to Lydell. Nothing good happened in Lydell’s life for a long time. How could he expect something better than good—something marvelous?
When his father died, all the luck seemed to drain out of Lydell’s life. Still, Lydell was tantalized by the slim chance that Kevin was right. Maybe the journal was decent, and Mr. Myers would find it interesting.
Finally, Mr. Myers finished his lecture, and the class began filing out. Lydell pulled his journal from the binder. In this part of the journal were Lydell’s most painful feelings. He spoke about his father’s death, about witnessing it, about his intense desire to die and go to wherever his beloved father had gone. Here were his vengeful thoughts. Kevin found it all touching and powerful.
Lydell’s hand was shaking as he held the journal. He glanced at the teacher who looked older and more weary than usual. He had looked so happy yesterday. Approaching him would have been easier yesterday. The embarrassing flap over his self-published book had taken its toll. He had been buoyant and happy. Now he looked crushed. Lydell thought, “How dare I bother the poor man with my stupid journal? He looks so defeated right now.” Lydell even imagined Mr. Myers flying into a rage and screaming at Lydell. “Idiot! Why are you thrusting that immature trash at me? What makes you think some teenage babbling holds any fascination for me?”
Mr. Myers noticed the classroom was empty except for Lydell. He glanced at the boy and asked, “Is there something I can do for you?” It was all the encouragement that Lydell needed.
Lydell almost fell on his face hurrying to the teacher’s desk. “Mr. Myers,” Lydell stammered, “I keep a journal . . .”
“Oh? That’s very good,” Mr. Myers replied. “I kept one myself when I was a boy. It’s an excellent way of developing one’s writing skills.” Mr. Myers was speaking in a profoundly disinterested voice.
“I got several of them,” Lydell persisted.
“Hmmm,” Mr. Myers hummed as he put away the last of his lecture notes in his briefcase. He glanced at his watch. He had no desire to be bantering with a student. He needed to be somewhere else.
“My friend, Kevin Walker, he read one of my journals,” Lydell explained. “He said maybe you’d be interested in just looking at it sometime if you didn’t have anything else to do.”
“Me? What for?” Mr. Myers asked, now seeming more annoyed than disinterested.
“Uh . . . he just said you might, you know . . . like to look at it,” Lydell was stammering again, holding his journal before him, offering an unwanted gift.
“All right,” Mr. Myers acceded, mainly as a way of getting rid of the odd young man. “I’ll look at it. I can’t guarantee I’ll get to it right away. I have a lot of work for my classes. But I’ll get to it.” He took the journal and stuffed it into his briefcase with the other materials.
“Thank you, Mr. Myers,” Lydell said, fleeing the classroom. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. He’d handed his precious, personal journal over to a man who obviously didn’t want it. He figured Mr. Myers would probably spend five minutes glancing at it before deciding it was junk.
“Our flight leaves early Friday morning,” Mom told Pop as Jaris and Chelsea got home from school. “Greg is going to pick me up around five thirty. We’ll go directly to the airport.”
“Whoa!” Pop insisted. “Hold it right there, babe. That little fat man in his bumper car from the kiddie park? He’s not takin’ my wife to the airport. We are taking you, lady. Your family is taking you in a nice safe car. Jaris’s car.”
“Lorenzo, that would be silly,” Mom protested. “You and the kids getting out of bed so early tomorrow morning. Greg is going to the airport anyway and—”
“No way,” Pop commanded. “End of story.” He stood there looking at Jaris and Chelsea. “What about it, you guys? You want us all to take your mom to the airport tomorrow morning for her big time in New Orleans. Or do you want her to ride in a tiny little bumper car. You know, the one the little fat man borrowed from the fair. Can you imagine that little toy car going down the freeway next to the big rigs and stuff. What do you say?”
“Yeah, Mom,” Jaris agreed. “I’d like to go.”
Chelsea nodded vigorously. “I want to see you off, Mom,” she said. “I don’t mind getting up early.”
Pop smiled. “See? It’s all settled. We all go down there as a family, babe. Lissen up. Who knows what might happen in four days? I could be working at the garage, and the lift could let go and crush me to death. One of the beaters could run wild and run me over. It’s very important that we have this nice good-bye at the airport. We might never see each other again on this earth. Y’hear what I’m sayin’?” Pop stood there with his hands swung out from his hips, palms up. A smile danced on his lips. No one could lay it on like Pop could.
“Oh Lorenzo,” Mom groaned, “don’t say that.”
“Hey!” Pop declared. “We walk out the door in the morning, we don’t know what’s gonna happen that day. Who knows what’s gonna happen? We need to say a proper good-bye. No snoozing for the kids and me while the little fat man comes in the dark and takes you off in the kiddie car.”
“Everything will be fine,” Mom asserted grimly. “Nothing is going to happen. On Tuesday morning, we’ll all be together again.”
“So okay. So call the little fat man and tell him not to bother comin’ over here tomorrow morning,” Pop said. He paid no attention to what Mom was saying.
When Pop went to take his shower, Mom looked at Jaris and Chelsea. “Your father is something else. He’s making such a big deal out of this little four-day trip to New Orleans. You’d think I was in the space program being blasted off to Mars or something. You guys don’t really want to get up before five tomorrow morning to ride down to the airport with me, do you? I mean, you don’t usually get up until it’s almost seven. You’ll be blearyeyed getting dressed. Then you have to come home and get to school. It’s all so unnecessary!”
“No, Mom,” Jaris insisted. “I really do want to take you to the airport in my car. It’s nice when the family sees the plane off.”
“Yeah,” Chelsea added. “I don’t even like Mr. Maynard. I bet he’s a bad driver too.”
Mom looked at her children and shook her head. “He has you brainwashed. It’s astonishing to me how he pulls that off. You’re thinking just like him now. Your father has his flaws. But I stand in awe of his ability to completely get you guys on his side—no matter,” she sighed.
Jaris set his alarm for four thirty in the morning. When it rang, he couldn’t believe the night had gone already. Jaris stared at the illuminated face of his clock. He thought about the day ahead, and he felt sick. Jaris hated how this was hurting Pop. It didn’t matter that his concerns were foolish. He was going to be hurt. The only other time his mother had been away for more than a day was when Grandma Jessie had minor surgery. Mom stayed with her in the condo for two days. This was worse, far worse. Back then, Mom was right in town, about eight miles away, and she wasn’t with Greg Maynard.
Chelsea was already up, heading for the shower.
Pop’s voice rang through the house like thunder, shattering the dawn stillness.
“Off to New Orleans!” Pop bellowed. “Time for the big shot educators to swarm into that town and cause traffic jams. And I say there goes nothin’. A big waste of time. A bunch of pompous half-baked fools trying to mess up the poor kids even more.”
As Pop drove Jaris’s car onto the freeway, he started lecturing. “You goin’ to New Orleans, Monie. Not too many years ago, they had this Katrina thing. Big hurricane! People dyin’, people losin’ their homes, people losin’ family. I know, I know, it seems like ages ago. But those folks probably still sufferin’ from it. Like men on a battlefield. You never get over it.”
Pop glanced over at his wife to make sure she was listening. “So the folks you meet in the restaurants,” he went on. “Or maybe the taxi jockeys, well, they ain’t gonna be as efficient as you big shot teachers think they oughta be. Cut ’em some slack, babe. I know educators like Greg Maynard think they’re big stuff and oughta be treated like royalty. But some of these poor devils in New Orleans, they been to hell and back.”
“Good grief!” Mom moaned.
Sometimes, Jaris thought, it was hard to tell when Pop was being serious.
At the airport, Pop pulled Mom’s suitcase, and Jaris carried her briefcase. Jaris glanced nervously at his father’s face. Pop looked sad. He didn’t look mad anymore. He just looked sad. He put his arms around Mom and gave her the longest hug Jaris had ever seen him give her. “Love you, babe,” Pop whispered to her. Jaris was sure there was a catch in his voice.
“Love you back,” Mom answered in a shaky voice. Both Jaris and Chelsea hugged their mother. Then she was gone in the large crowd of passengers heading through security and for the jet that would take her to New Orleans.