I KNOW FRITA WAS TRYING TO HELP, BUT REALLY SHE’D MADE THINGS ten times worse. I’d be a dead man if I went to the fifth grade now. Might as well call me a walking corpse.
Frita stared after Mr. Evans and I’d never seen such a strange expression on her face. Looked like she’d seen a ghost.
Pop dusted off her dress. “You okay?” he asked.
Frita looked back one more time, then she shrugged and looked real tough again. “I could have taken them if you adults hadn’t interfered,” she said.
Pop chuckled. “I suspect you could have.”
“No suspect about it,” Frita muttered, but she said it low, so maybe just I heard.
Pop reached down and picked up Frita’s certificate and class picture from the dust. They were all trampled, and you could see where there was a hole right in the center of the picture.
He handed it back to Frita and she tried to look like it was no big deal, but her tough look faded again and her lower lip quivered just a little bit. I was going to say she could have mine soon as I got it, but that’s when our teacher came over.
“I need to speak to your parents about you fighting, Frita Wilson,” Ms. Murray said. “Is your father here this morning?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Frita said, brushing a line of dirt off her certificate. “He’s probably around by the stage, talking to people.”
Frita’s daddy was always talking to people—partly because he was a preacher, so folks felt inclined to tell him their troubles, and partly because he was involved in politics, so folks felt inclined to tell him the answers to other people’s troubles. Least that’s what Frita’s momma said.
Ms. Murray shook her head. “Guess we’ll have to go find him then, won’t we?” She tried to look mad, but it was no secret Ms. Murray liked Frita a whole lot, so really she just sighed.
“Yes, ma’am,” Frita said, kicking at a pebble. She turned to me. “Guess I better go.”
“Yup,” I said. “Guess so.”
I wanted to say thanks for the liberatin’ and all, even if she had made things worse, but Frita took off behind Ms. Murray and that left me and Pop.
“You want to tell me what happened?” Pop asked.
I looked down at my feet, but I didn’t say anything. How do you explain to your pop that you got tied up under a picnic table?
“Your momma is not very happy about you missing the ceremony, and I don’t blame her.”
I shrugged. “Don’t matter,” I said, “because I’m not going to the fifth grade anyway.”
Pop gave me that look that said I better not be a smart aleck, but I wasn’t being smart, I was dead serious.
“And don’t try to talk me out of it, because I’ve made up my mind.”
Pop looked like he might try to talk me out of it anyway, but he didn’t have a chance because that’s when Momma caught up to us and it was like getting caught up to by a tornado. Her hands were on her hips, her blond hair was flying out of its ponytail, and she was coming up fast.
“Made up your mind about what?” she said.
“Fifth grade,” I said. “I ain’t going.”
“Oh, is that what you think?” Momma asked, only she wasn’t really asking because she didn’t wait for an answer. Her hands shot up to her mouth. “What happened to your pants?”
I looked behind me and sure enough, there was red clay all over my butt. Probably from being pushed onto the ground by Duke.
“Did Frita Wilson put you up to this?” Momma asked. “Was she the one who was fighting?”
“No,” I said, super quick. Then I said, “Well, yes,” but Momma didn’t seem to be listening.
“Your father took overtime down at the peanut mill so I could buy you those pants, and no one even got to see you wear them. When the principal called your name I’d never been so proud in my entire life, and then…”
Tears started to leak out of Momma’s eyes. My eyes were starting to leak now too, on account of how the day had turned into such a mess. Pop looked at both of us and took a deep breath.
“Let’s talk about this at home,” he said.
* * *
Momma didn’t say a word the whole ride back to the trailer park where we live, but when we got inside, she said, “Take off those pants right now so I can wash them.”
She said it real cold, so I said, “Fine.”
Pop set his truck keys on the counter and shook his head.
“I suspect Gabe feels bad, darlin’,” Pop said, and he was right. Bad didn’t begin to cover it.
“Well, good,” said Momma. “He can feel bad straight through until next year. Straight through until he goes to the fifth grade and that’s that.”
She was half crying and half mad, and that made me feel just about the same.
“I won’t do it!” I said, and then I burst into tears. Frita says I’m a crybaby, but I can’t help it. Soon as I get upset, the waterworks turn on and there’s no shutting them off.
“You will!” said Momma.
“Enough,” said Pop, standing between us. “Gabe, go to your room so your momma and I can talk.”
I knew they were going to talk about me, and that felt like being caught red-handed. “Fine,” I said. “I won’t ever come out. Especially not for the fifth grade.”
Pop gave me that look that said, Not another word, so I stomped through the kitchen to my bedroom. I slammed the door shut and tore off my pants, then I pulled on my oldest, dirtiest overalls. I flung myself facedown on the bed and gave it up for good.
Terrance called me a wimp once because he says boys aren’t supposed to cry, but Frita doesn’t mind and Momma doesn’t mind and usually Pop doesn’t say nothing either. I heaved and coughed until my pillow got all wet and all the bad stuff came out through my nose.
I thought about Momma and Frita and how I’d disappointed them. Then I thought about Duke and Frankie and how it was all their fault. Part of me wanted to go back out and tell Momma and Pop what had really happened, but if I told Momma, she was sure to call Mr. Evans and Mr. Carmen and then Duke and Frankie would have even more reason to kill me. What was a man to do?
Life was grim. The future did not look good, and let me tell you, it was pressing in.