IT WAS ON ACCOUNT OF TERRANCE THAT I CAME UP WITH MY IDEA about Mr. Evans. Me and Frita were on our way back from town the next afternoon when Frita brought him up. We were walking along the old dirt road through clouds of hot, dry dust, and I could barely see Frita through the haze, but she was talking real steady, so it didn’t matter.
“You think Mr. Evans is mean as he seems?” she asked. “Because I saw him in town the other day and he was talking to Mr. Al and he didn’t seem so bad, but I don’t know….”
Usually I let Frita ramble on, but I was feeling pretty good about me and Terrance, so I started thinking.
“You’re pretty scared of him. He’s on your list, isn’t he?” I said.
If I wasn’t Frita’s best friend, she might have socked me in the jaw. A body didn’t accuse Frita Wilson of being scared without a dang good reason.
“You’re scared of him too,” Frita pointed out. “And besides, my daddy told me to be scared of him. I’m supposed to be.”
“Thought you said this was serious business,” I said, “and that serious business meant we couldn’t always listen to our pops.”
Frita frowned, but I kept right on going.
“Maybe you should try and talk to him like I talked to Terrance. See how great that turned out?”
“That’s not the same thing,” Frita said, but she didn’t look so sure.
“How come?”
“Because Terrance is my brother, and Mr. Evans is…”
“Well, he’s an adult, ain’t he? How bad can he be?”
Frita didn’t say anything. I knew she was thinking about him calling her that name on Moving-Up Day. I’d thought of that too, a whole bunch of times, and I sure wished he could take it back. Maybe Mr. Evans wished the same thing.
“Maybe he’s sorry for calling you that name,” I said. “He was probably just mad about you and Duke fighting, like you were mad at me for killing Gilligan. That’s what you could talk to him about. You could tell him you’re sorry, and that you were just sticking up for me, and then you could ask if he’d talk to Duke so he wouldn’t be so mean next year. I bet he’d do it too, because that’s what pops do.”
Suddenly I felt like a real Peace Warrior. I was going to make peace between Frita, Mr. Evans, me, and Duke all at once and then we really would cross everything off our lists by the Bicentennial.
But this time it was Frita who didn’t look so sure.
“When would I talk to him?” she asked. “I can’t just knock on the trailer door or else Duke and Mrs. Evans will be there.”
This was a good point, but my plan was growing bigger in my mind.
“You can talk to him at the fireworks. He’ll be there for certain. It’ll be the perfect time because there will be all sorts of other people around, so if he’s mean, he can’t do anything. But if he’s not, you’ll find out and you can cross him off your list. Then we’ll be completely brave, just like you said.”
“I guess it’s an okay plan,” Frita said.
“It’s the best plan ever,” I told her. “Just wait and see.”
* * *
When you’re waiting for something special, time slows down to a crawl. I could hardly wait for the fireworks.
Frita’s daddy was holding a special prayer service that night to pray for our country, so he agreed to let Frita stay over at my house. Pop set up the tent and laid out our sleeping bags, and Frita came over extra early for dinner. We sat in the living room to watch TV and Pop didn’t even get riled up because the news was all about the celebrations going on around the country. They showed the tall ships lining up in New York Harbor and a place called George in the state of Washington where they’d made a sixty-foot cherry pie. I was hard-pressed to say where I’d have rather been.
When dinner was ready, Momma called us in to eat. Usually Frita was the first one to the table because Momma made stuff Frita never got at her house, like macaroni and cheese from a box, and hot dogs boiled on the stove.
Tonight we were having spaghetti with salad and Wonder Bread. Momma even made blueberry pie for dessert so we’d have something red, something white, and something blue. But Frita didn’t hardly seem to notice.
I wondered if she was thinking about Mr. Evans. I was real excited for her to cross him off her list, but when I asked if she was ready, Frita just shrugged. Then Momma had to ask her three times to pass the spaghetti. She was so un-Frita-Wilson-like it made me downright uncomfortable.
By the time we walked into town, I was getting a nervous feeling in my gut. Things were pressing in again.
When we arrived, the lawn in front of the town hall was full. There was a podium set up in the front all decorated with paper-bag lanterns and American flags, and the mayor was making a speech about the history of our country and the history of Hollowell. He kept talking about progress and how we’d made so much of it. I didn’t pay attention. I was watching the people selling peanuts and flags.
“Want an American flag?” Pop asked me and Frita. Momma gave him the look that said We ain’t got the money for that, but Pop leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
“This occasion only comes once every two hundred years,” he said, and then he bought two little flags with 1776-1976 stitched on them—one for me and one for Frita. He also bought us each a bag of boiled peanuts.
“Go have some fun,” he said, swatting me on the behind. “But come back for the fireworks. Momma and I will be right here…”
Me and Frita took off. We wove in and out of the crowd and ate our peanuts over by the Revolutionary War reenactment. Only Frita gave most of her peanuts to me.
“Don’t you like ’em?” I asked.
“They’re okay,” she said, but she didn’t sound like it.
We watched the guys dressed up in old uniforms pretending to be Redcoats and farmers. Then, when that was over, we listened to someone else making a speech, but that got boring.
“Think we should go find Mr. Evans?” I asked. We were sitting on the grass near the podium.
“In a bit,” Frita said. She was pretending to be real interested in the speech.
“How ’bout now?” I asked a while later.
“Shush,” Frita said. “Aren’t you listening?”
I picked at some grass.
“It’s getting darker,” I said. “They’re going to start the soon, and then how will you find him?”
Frita sighed. “I know where he is,” she said, and she pointed to some men near the podium. Sure enough, there was Mr. Evans, Mr. Buselby, and Mr. Carmen standing in a clump, just like sixth-graders.
Me and Frita watched them for a while, then Frita stood up. She narrowed her eyes and jutted out her chin.
“Gabe,” she said at last, “I’m going.”
Then it was just like the rope swing. One minute Frita was standing next to me in the twilight, and the next minute she was walking straight toward Mr. Evans. I didn’t know whether I ought to stay put or go with her, but suddenly I wondered if I hadn’t thought things through. Maybe it was the way Mr. Evans and Mr. Carmen looked just like Duke and Frankie, or maybe it was the way Frita’d been acting all night, but I started to wonder if this was such a great idea after all. Except now it was too late.
I got up and walked closer, but I stopped a little ways away while Frita pushed her way in. She slid up next to Mr. Evans.
“Mr. Evans,” I heard her say, and her voice sounded real little. At first no one noticed Frita. She stood there waiting, then she looked at me and shrugged. She had a real funny look on her face, and I got a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach—real sour, like before you get a stomachache. I motioned for her to come back.
“Forget it,” I said, but the words didn’t come out. I thought of my dream and the Mr. Evans spider waiting to pounce.
“Mr. Evans,” Frita said again, and this time he looked down.
It was strange the way everything happened right then. Mr. Evans looked at Frita, and then he said something to Mr. Carmen. Frita looked confused. My stomach was tightening and tightening and I wondered if I ought to run and get Pop, but I couldn’t leave Frita. Then Mr. Evans smiled and leaned in like he was whispering something special to her.
That’s when Frita’s eyes went big as full moons and she took two steps backward real quick. She tripped over Mr. Evans’s foot even though Frita never hardly trips. He laughed like it was funny, and all the other men laughed too. Then she was scrambling up and running toward me so fast, you would have thought there was a ghost on her heels.
“What happened?” I said when she got close, but Frita didn’t stop. She kept right on going.
That’s when the fireworks started—a few at first, then more and more. They were loud, cracking and popping over our heads, but Frita didn’t look up. She went straight to my pop and stood next to him.
I mouthed the words What did he say? a hundred times, but Frita just shook her head. She took Pop’s hand and squeezed it hard. Pop looked down, surprised, but I saw him squeeze back.
“Pretty amazing,” he said, squatting down so he was nearer to us. “Don’t you think?”
I hadn’t even looked up yet.
“Look at that one!” Momma said, pointing up. She laughed and pulled me close. “Isn’t it great to live in America?” she said, kissing the top of my head. “Just imagine—someday you’ll tell your children you were alive for the Bicentennial!”
I looked over at Frita. “Yup,” I said, “sure is great.” But really I was thinking how no one better have said anything mean to my best friend.
Momma held me tight and Pop grinned up at the sky, and right then the biggest starburst of red, white, and blue exploded over our heads. The crowd said, “Oooh!” and “Aaah!” like it was magical, but Frita Wilson didn’t make a sound.