Tangerine

  I followed Mom down the two flights of stairs, keeping my head lowered so that I wouldn't have to look at anybody. When we got to the front door, I could hear the sounds of the mob of kids outside.

  The karate kickers had arrived. So had the gangstas. They were all doing what they did every morning. Being wild. Being loud. Until they saw me. Then, in a heartbeat, it all stopped. They all stopped what they were doing to stare at me.

  Mom and I stood at the top step and stared back at them. She said, "Paul? What do they want?"

  I could hear mumbling from different areas in the crowd. They were saying stuff like, "That's him," and "That's Fisher."

  One of the biggest and baddest eighth-grade gangstas moved toward us with his boys right behind him. Mom let out a frightened noise and whispered, "What are they doing?"

  I turned toward her and said, out of the corner of my mouth, "No fear, Mom. Show them no fear."

  I walked slowly down the steps. Mom stayed where she was. The mob parted slightly, just enough to swallow me up. That big eighth grader held his fist out, and I put mine down on top of it. He said, "All right, Fisher!"

  Suddenly they were all on top of me, all these guys I didn't really know. Guys who didn't really know me. They started pounding me on the back, rubbing my hair, shaking both of my hands at once. They were all saying stuff like, "Way to be, Fisher." "Hang tough." "Keep your head up, man." It was a strange moment for me, among these big, bad strangers. Their words surrounded me, and picked me up, and moved me along toward the car.

  I could hear Mom yelling over the top of them, "Paul! Are you all right in there?"

  Mom had worked her way around to the driver's-side door and was fumbling with the keys. I opened my door and turned back to the mob. I couldn't think of a thing to say, so I just stuck my thumb up in the air, awkwardly, and slipped into my seat. They all turned and headed back to their usual places.

  Mom quickly locked the doors, and we peeled out. By now she was more puzzled than scared. She waited until we were safely away to ask, "What was that? What was that all about?"

  I curled up my lip. "They know a bad dude when they see one."

  "Paul! You are not a bad dude."

  "Oh no?" I jerked my thumb back toward the mob. "Do you see any of those wusses getting expelled? From every public school in Tangerine County?"

  Mom breathed a loud sigh. "You'd think those would be the worst words a mother could hear." She shook her head back and forth. I didn't know if she was going to laugh or cry. She laughed. "Not in this family!"

  We drove through downtown Tangerine. Mom said, "Well, I'll tell you, I for one am glad you're out of that place."

  She wasn't glad for very long. I informed her, "I'm going back, Mom. Next year. I already talked to the coach about it. And I'm going to make the All-County Team."

  Mom said with certainty, "You can't do that." And then with less certainty, "I don't think you can do that."

  I quoted Gino's words. "They make exceptions for lots of guys. They're gonna make one for me."

  "We'll have to see about that."

  "There's nothing to see about. I've made up my mind."

  Mom shook her head some more, but she didn't seem to be upset. She certainly wasn't crying. Maybe she had gone over the edge. Maybe we both had. For whatever reason, a strange feeling of calm had come over us. We reached Route 89 and turned south. I said, "Wrong way, Mom."

  "Depends on where you're going."

  "Where are we going?"

  "The mall. We're going to buy you some clothes that fit."

  "OK."

  "And some uniforms."

  "Some what?"

  "Blue pants. White shirts. Blue ties."

  "You're kidding."

  "Nope. This is your option."

  "You're sending me to St. Anthony's?"

  "That's right. Dr. Johnson called the principal for me, Sister Mary Margaret. She agreed that you could start there on Wednesday, in the seventh grade, on a trial basis."

  "A trial basis? You mean she wants to find out if I'm too bad a dude to keep there?"

  "Yes. I guess that's what she means."

  "You mean that I'll be walking in there with a bad reputation? That kids will fear me?"

  "I wouldn't go that far."

  "Well, I would. I know all about fear." I thought about other new schools that I had entered. "Do you realize, Mom, that I've never been anything but a nerd? And now I'm going to enter this nerd school, not as a fellow nerd, but as a feared and notorious outlaw?"

  "It's not a nerd school."

  "Oh yes it is. I've been there. October twelfth. Some of them may remember me from that day. I rode up there with the War Eagles. We laid them to waste, 10–0. There was fear in their eyes. And there will be again when I walk in on Wednesday."

  "Paul, please. You need to take this 'option' very seriously. Not everybody gets a second chance."

  I thought, Yeah, tell me about it, Mom.

  We pulled into the mall. Then we went on an enormous shopping spree, unprecedented in my lifetime. Mom was out of control. She let me buy everything that I even thought about wanting. She never said no; she never even hesitated. Bag after bag. Store after store. Sneakers, jeans, jackets, shirts, socks, underwear.

  When we got home, I went upstairs with a pair of lawn-sized garbage bags. I dumped out the old clothes from my dresser. Then I pulled out the old clothes from my closet. I filled both bags and went back for two more. I put everything into those big green bags and then piled them in the garage for the Goodwill pickup.

  Then I started to work on my new stuff—pulling out pins, cutting off tags, throwing away paper. Drawer after drawer, hanger after hanger, I filled up my dresser and my closet with new clothes that fit.

  Tuesday, December 5

  Dad had to take Erik down to the police station this morning to talk to Sergeant Rojas. They were there from seven-thirty until ten-thirty. When they got back, Erik went straight up to his room.

  Dad came into the kitchen and told Mom and me, "Arthur Bauer is trying to blame Erik. He's saying that Erik put him up to it. Erik denies it. He says Arthur misunderstood him. It's a big mess." He poured himself a cup of coffee and added, "The police will sort it out. It's their job, not mine."

  I said, "What do the witnesses say?"

  "I know that Antoine Thomas and Brian Baylor have given statements to the sergeant. They both say that it was Arthur who actually assaulted the guy."

  "The guy's name was Luis."

  Dad nodded and corrected himself, "I'm sorry. Luis."

  I thought about Erik's group of flunkies. I asked, "What about friendly witnesses?"

  "Erik and Arthur don't have any friends. Not since we started rounding up all of that stolen jewelry. No. Nobody but Arthur Bauer, Sr., is saying it was a fair fight."

  Mom had her elbows flat on the tabletop and both hands up under her chin, like she was holding her own severed head. She asked, "So what's going to happen now?"

  Dad answered calmly, almost casually, as if it didn't have anything to do with him. "Now the wheels of justice will turn. Slowly but surely. Each of them will have to answer for whatever it was that he did. I'm not interfering anymore."

  I looked back at Mom. She, at least, seemed worried about her firstborn son. Dad, on the other hand, seemed more like those friends who had abandoned Erik, who now regretted ever getting involved with him in the first place. He turned to me. "Paul, Sergeant Rojas wants a statement from you, too. He wants you to type up a paragraph or two describing exactly what you saw and what you heard. You know, what really happened. You can give it to me, and I'll drop it off at the Sheriff's Department."

  I said, "OK. I can do that."

  The phone rang in the great room. I walked over to the coffee table and picked it up. I heard a familiar voice. "You gotta get yourself a better lawyer, homeboy."

  "Tino? Yeah, I guess you're right."

  "So ... what's up? What are you gonna be doing with yourself?"
br />   "I'm starting up at St. Anthony's on Wednesday."

  Tino snorted with contempt. "St. Anthony's! Those losers? You gotta be kidding me."

  "Hey, I didn't say I was going to play for them. I'm playing for the War Eagles next year."

  "Oh yeah? You don't think you're gonna start, do you?"

  "I know I'm gonna start."

  "Yeah, well, we'll see about that."

  "What about you?" I asked him. "What are you gonna be doing?"

  "Oh, I got lots to do. You know, it's what they call a blessing in disguise. Luis has been advertising the Golden Dawns in all the trade papers. There's a big response, just like he said there would be. He's got orders from growers all over Florida, from Texas, from California, even from down in Mexico. I gotta help our daddy get all those orders filled. I gotta help him with a lot of the other stuff that Luis did, too." Tino paused, then he said awkwardly, "Hey, uh, Fisher Man, anytime you want to come out and work in the groves, you come on out. You're on the crew. You know what I'm sayin'?"

  I knew what he was saying. I answered, "Yeah. Yeah, thanks. I want to. That's something I really want to do. You just tell me when."

  "You know when. Time and temperature, right? When the sun's goin' down, and the wind's comin' up, and the temperature is thirty-nine, thirty-eight, thirty-seven. You know what's gonna happen next. And you know where we'll be."

  "I'll be there, too."

  "All right."

  "Maybe I'll even stay awake this time."

  Tino snorted again. There was a pause, then he said, "Hey, uh, good luck at that St. Anthony's place. I don't know anything about it, except that we beat their butts every year."

  "They gotta wear uniforms."

  "Is that right?"

  "Yeah. And they got nuns teaching there."

  "No way! Nuns?"

  "Yeah."

  "All right. Well, don't you go gettin' wild like you do. I don't want to hear about you jumpin' out of the bleachers on the Pope or anything like that."

  "No. You won't."

  "You take care of yourself, brother. I'll see you in the groves."

  "Yeah. Bye." I hung up. But I heard that word "brother" echoing long afterward. I looked up at the ceiling, and I heard Erik pacing back and forth, back and forth, in the cage that he had made for himself.

  Tuesday, December 5, later

  I came upstairs after dinner to write out my account of the crime for Sergeant Rojas. I logged on and went back through all my journal entries, from Houston until today. Then I started writing. I didn't finish until after 9:00 P.M.

  I started with the basic facts, a paragraph or two, but I couldn't stop there. I had too much to say. I started writing about Luis, and what he meant to the people around him, and how they depended on him, and why they looked up to him. Then I tried to write the same thing about Erik: What did he mean to the people around him? How did they depend on him? Why did they look up to him?

  I don't suppose the police are interested in all of that. That's not their job. But it's a part of the truth. A big part. And as Antoine Thomas told me, "The truth shall set you free."

  I went downstairs, handed the disk to Mom and Dad, and said, "Here. Here's the whole truth. Here's what really happened."

  I went into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of orange juice. When I walked back through the great room, Mom and Dad had both pulled up chairs in the alcove. They were both staring hard at the computer screen.

  Wednesday, December 6

  The first day of school. Take three.

  I got into my blue pants, white shirt, blue tie, black socks, and black shoes and went down to the kitchen. Neither Mom nor Dad mentioned my disk over breakfast. But I was surprised to hear Mom say, "Paul, we've talked about it, and we've decided that your father will drive you to St. Anthony's today."

  At seven-thirty, Dad and I walked out into the cold Florida morning. A light wind was blowing to the west, carrying the muck fire away from us, toward the Gulf. To the east, the sun was rising behind a long row of gray clouds. I stopped to look at them, jagged and red peaked, looming there like a distant mountain range.

  We pulled out of the development and headed north, past the gates and guardhouses, past the high-tension wires and the osprey nests, toward the Lake Windsor campus. When we stopped at the light at Route 89 and Seagull Way, Dad pointed over to the right. He said, "Do you see that? That's Mike Costello's tree."

  I looked where Dad was pointing and saw it, the big laurel oak. It had been planted on the front lawn of the high school, between the road and the bus lanes. It looked healthy enough, strong enough. But it was bound in a crisscross of wires attached to white metal stakes. Dad added, "Those stakes are just temporary. Until it can stand on its own."

  We drove on to the next light and turned right. We headed east, toward the glowing colors of the mountain range, and toward the glowing colors of the citrus groves. I thought to myself, Mike Costello has his tree, and that's good. But Luis has his tree, too, and he will have many, many more.

  Soon the road narrowed to two lanes and we were surrounded by the groves, surrounded by the beauty of it all. I stared through the window at the endless rows of trees—orange, tangerine, lemon—flying past us on either side. I rolled down the window and let it all in. The air was clear and cold. And the car immediately filled up with that scent, the scent of a golden dawn.

 

 

  Edward Bloor, Tangerine

 

 

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