It had been a long time since Frank had been in the storage shed at the back of the yard, but it wasn’t far enough from the house. He could still hear his mama shouting, “Franklin Delano Woods, don’t you be sassing me. You get on, now—get yourself busy.”
Sissy shouldn’t have told Mama anything.
He had to go find the things he needed to fix his mama’s car.
Where is that creeper?
The shelves were still organized as they had been when his father had died. As he looked around, he saw tightly sealed, partially used cans of paint, a jug of turpentine evaporating from the heat, a tin of car wax, and his father’s favorite chamois, the one he had used for the car’s final shine. Frank picked up the polishing cloth and inhaled the wax left on it. He could feel his father’s presence. Damn, this place smells like him.
The back of the shed had an old motor, stacked tires, two rusty bikes, and a wheelbarrow, all waiting for someone to use or repair them. His father liked to fix things. Frank didn’t.
This is just a bunch of junk. Where’s that creeper?
Frank spotted the flat wooden top with the padded leather headrest behind the wheelbarrow. It was long enough for him to lie on and maneuver with his feet dangling off one end. It stood on its end, so he could read the black-lettered inscription as clearly as the first time he’d seen it: SMASH-PROOF AUTO CREEPER.
Just what I need—smash-proof.
He couldn’t believe Sissy had told his mother that he’d been caught slamming the locker doors left open in the locker room. Head Coach Welborn had wanted to know why he was so angry.
What is he, an idiot?
The old ’53 Ford Victoria was leaking oil badly. His parents had bought the car when it was ten years old from Auntie Penelope, who rarely drove it. But his mother used it every day, and she had been after Frank to see about it, especially since he had time after school now.
Frank was surprised at how heavy the creeper was. It was old, and the solid top looked like oak. The sides were bolted to two-by-twos every nine inches to reinforce the bottom. Its six wheels rolled as if they had just been oiled. He hated being under the car, but at least he wouldn’t be on the ground. As he lay down and pushed himself underneath, he wondered how safe he was.
Maybe I should get under this smash-proof thing.
Frank heard footsteps on the gravel. The feet stopped, and Frank looked over to see polished oxfords peeking out from creased dress pants right next to the rear tire.
“Frank Woods! Is that you under that car?”
As soon as Frank saw the shoes, he knew it was Mr. Peterson; he didn’t need the voice to confirm it. He would rather stay where he was.
“Yes, sir. Do you need me or my mother?”
Frank didn’t like the sound of that. He closed his eyes and squared his jaw. He didn’t move.
“I’ve got to fix this oil leak, Mr. Peterson. My mama’s inside, if you want to wait there. I’ll come right in when I’m done.”
“No, I’m not here for your mother. We already spoke.”
Frank knew if Mr. Peterson had already spoken to his mother, then maybe he also knew about the bloody shirt and about the lockers.
Just then, a drop of oil leaked onto Frank’s head and he remembered that he should be wearing those old goggles he had seen on the shelf. He turned his head so quickly that he slammed the wrench against the underbody, and it went flying. As he tried to catch it with his other hand, he smashed his thumb.
“Hey, Mr. Peterson, can you get that for me?”
Frank rolled over to the side of the car and stuck his hand out for the wrench.
“I guess you didn’t take me seriously. I’m not here to help you fix a car.”
As slowly as possible, Frank rolled himself out and sat up on the creeper.
“Frank, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were hiding under there.”
As he looked up at Mr. Peterson, he noticed how firmly he stood his ground—shoulders back, chest out, ready for action, despite his jacket and tie.
Why is he here? Can’t everyone just leave me alone? But Frank knew he couldn’t avoid this conversation any longer. He had ignored repeated opportunities to talk at school. The other day, when he had seen Mr. Peterson walking toward him in the hallway, he had ducked into the biology lab and gone through the storage room to get out the other side.
“Frank, I’m on my way to a meeting with Reverend Wilford and some others about some of the problems we’ve been seeing and hearing about. I haven’t seen you at football practice. Why aren’t you going?”
’Cause I can’t play, so why practice? “Second string—why should I go?”
“Because you belong there, Frank. Are you going to let them push you out? You’re making it too easy on them.”
“I’m making it too easy on them? They’re pushing and shoving too hard. It doesn’t matter what I do. All the coaches want us to do is give them white boys a team to play against at practice.”
Frank remembered the last tackle he had made. The coach didn’t hear, “Get off me, nigger—I’ll take care of you later.”
Mr. Peterson just looked at him.
What do you know, standing there in your suit? Talk don’t do no good. “We’re as good as them, but they get to play on Saturdays.”
“Boy, there is more to life than football.”
For you, maybe. For my daddy, maybe. But not for me. I want out of this town. “Football and a scholarship are my way out of this place. Now it’s not going to happen. I was counting on that scout coming to the Thanksgiving game to see me play. They won’t let me play. I’ve been robbed.”
Frank grabbed the wrench, lay back down, and rolled himself slowly back under the car. After a few minutes of silence, Mr. Peterson walked away. Frank drew in a deep breath and stayed on the creeper for a long time while he wished this man could help him.