Frank shifted his weight, watching Mr. Peterson approach the glass-walled main office. Perched on the edge of an upholstered chair, his mother faced Frank but gazed past him. Her mouth was snapped shut, and her eyes were puffed.
After his mother had brought him home the night before, he knew she had gone back to finish the ironing she’d brought home from work. And this morning she must have been up at the crack of dawn because his breakfast had been on the table, waiting for him, as usual.
She hadn’t spoken to him since she’d picked him up at the police station, except to say, “Are you ready? We have to meet with Mr. Peterson by eight thirty.”
Teachers walked past Frank, and some hurried out the office door. Frank couldn’t see behind the counter, but he knew that was where the secretary had her desk. He heard a teacher call the secretary Millie.
Frank could see Mr. Peterson through the glass office wall. He kept stopping to speak to groups of students, all the students. Frank imagined the greetings. He’d been on the receiving end often enough.
Good morning. You’re looking fine today, Frank.
How is your mama?
Great game you had last week.
After Mr. Peterson left the last group of white students, they broke into laughter. One of them saluted the retreating principal.
Frank’s heart skipped when Mr. Peterson finally entered the main office. “Good day, Mrs. Woods, Frank. We can meet in here.” He started to open a door to a smaller office.
Millie jumped up and shook her head in disapproval. “Mr. Peterson, may I help you? Mr. Armstrong isn’t in his office.” She stepped in front of Mr. Peterson, blocking his way.
“Yes, I know. I’m going to use his office this morning for some meetings. My next appointment is at nine o’clock.”
Millie put one hand on the doorknob and the other on her hip. “Well, this is quite unusual. Mr. Armstrong didn’t mention that to me.”
Mr. Peterson towered over the secretary, but his height and stature gave her no pause.
“Millie, until I have a full-size office, Joe and I will be sharing his. Didn’t he tell you that he would be meeting with the student council members this morning?”
“Yes, and I was going to do some filing for him. His desk is piled high with reports.”
Peterson held eye contact with Millie.
“When I see Mr. Armstrong later this morning, I’ll tell him that you weren’t able to do that. I won’t disturb the reports.”
Millie moved aside, still shaking her head. Mr. Peterson reached past her to usher his visitors inside.
The mess on Mr. Armstrong’s desk surprised Frank. Atop one pile of files was a half-eaten donut and a mug of coffee. He knew his mother wouldn’t approve of the careless jumble. Mr. Peterson sat them at a small, clean table surrounded by several chairs.
Every time Frank looked at his mother, he felt the blood rush through his veins. She had her light cotton coat with the wide collar buttoned over her maid’s uniform. He wondered which of the white ladies she cleaned for was waiting for her. She wouldn’t get a full day’s pay today.
On the other side of the glass door, Millie held her telephone to her ear. She was gesturing broadly with her free hand, and her face was blazing. Frank clenched his jaw. If Mr. Peterson wasn’t respected in this school, then what hope did any of the black students have?
Mr. Peterson began the meeting: “Well, Frank, I don’t recall ever having you in my office back at West Hill School.”
“No, sir, you never did.”
“Your mama must be upset, and I appreciate her presence here today, but you’re the one I will speak to. Do you understand that when you left school property it amounted to cutting school?”
“Yes, sir.” Frank shifted in his chair and leaned forward, gripping its arms.
“So why did you do it?”
“Mr. Peterson, it’s not fair. If I can’t play football, I lose my chance for a scholarship. I’m just as good as any of those white kids. Maybe better!”
He started to rise from his seat. His mother touched his arm, and he sat back down.
“Frank, your mama and I are on your side. We need to hear your story. Where were you going when you walked off the field?”
“Some of the guys wanted to walk to our old school. We didn’t have much of a plan. I guess we panicked when we saw the police cars blocking the street. We started running.”
“What did your mama say when she came to get you from the police station?”
Frank turned to his mother and saw tears filling her eyes. Guilt soured his stomach.
“She didn’t say anything to me. The cops told her if I caused any more trouble, they would put me in a cell and lose the key.” He leaned back with his head down and his shoulders slumped.
“You know they could do worse,” Peterson said gently.
Frank’s voice rose. “I know what worse is. My daddy learned what worse was. I want to get out of this town. Maybe I should just quit and join the army.”
Neither of them spoke for a while.
Eventually, Mr. Peterson broke the silence. “The army won’t solve everything. It wasn’t easy for me to come home from the Korean War to a country that didn’t respect me. It wasn’t easy then, and it’s not easy now.”
Frank wanted to punch a hole through the wall at the unfairness of it all. “I don’t know if I can be like you or my daddy,” he muttered. “Look how that secretary treated you out there.”
A surprised look crossed Peterson’s face. “And who won that one? Son, your mama needs you to keep a level head now. Reverend Wilford and I will help you and the rest of the students as best we can, but I need your help.”
Frank sat up straighter. “How can I help, Mr. Peterson?”
“You weren’t a leader in this, but you got arrested. The police have dropped the charges, but, like they told you, no more trouble. So, for now, that’s what I’m asking. Can you do that?”
Frank nodded. Tears glistened in his mother’s eyes, and her lips were pursed, as if to keep any words within. He never knew her not to speak her mind. What would she think if she knew he had recognized the officer who had arrested him the day before?
“Don’t want no trouble from you, boy! Don’t you be like your daddy, now!”
Frank rubbed his wrists. They were bruised from the jostling and the handcuffs. The memory of those words sent a chill through him.
That night in his bedroom, he pulled the second drawer out of his bureau, placed it on the bed, and reached into the hiding space he’d used for years. His fingers found something cool and metallic: the lighter he’d discovered at the scene of the fire that had killed his father.
Frank turned over the lighter to study the engraved monogram. He opened and closed the cap. Click, click, click, click, click—it was obsessive. The sound made him remember the clink-clink of the handcuffs each time he had shifted in the jail cell.
A memory bubbled up. He pushed it away.
Could he keep his promise to Peterson? Maybe, but only for his mother. Frank wanted to take care of her just as she took care of him. How was he going to get into college, get a good job, and make enough money to do that someday? Without a scholarship, he wouldn’t be able to. He couldn’t disappoint her like this again.
As he clasped his hands to flex his wrists, imagination collided with memory.
Clink, clink, clink. Metal against metal.
Handcuffs.
Lighter.
He felt his throat close.
That officer who’d arrested him—Frank had seen him years earlier, shortly after the fire, searching in the grass outside his daddy’s gutted shop. Frank had hoped it was part of an investigation, but nothing had come of it. And the cop had hurried to the patrol car when he saw Frank approach.
Frank knew the police didn’t care about his side of town or about the fire. So why had the cop been there? There weren’t any cars to ticket at that point.
Was he looking for this lighter?