Black Boy White School Read Online Free PDF Page B

moving his lips. He was the kind of white man that Anthony had seen a hundred times: in the hardscrabble neighborhoods on the near west side; pissed off and full of beer after Browns games, looking for a fight. They were dangerous and always seemed to hate black people. Anthony wondered if he had made a big mistake.
    The man looked up and smiled at him. Then he folded his newspaper and started across the road.
    â€œAnthony Jones?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œHey, Tony. John Dunlap. I work maintenance over at the academy.”
    â€œCall me Ant.”
    They shook hands, and Anthony followed him to the back of the van, where John swung the doors open. Someone else was inside. Anthony could see skinny legs.
    â€œAnt, huh?” John continued as he loaded the first bag. “Like the bug? Ever go by Tony? You know, like Tony Soprano?”
    â€œNaw.”
    The man grabbed the other piece of luggage and sized him up. “That’s okay,” he said with a laugh. “I guess nobody’s gonna take you for Italian, anyway.”
    Anthony climbed into the van and saw the other passenger; a pale white girl with braces and dark hair. “Hi,” she said, smiling desperately. “My name’s Alison, what’s yours?”
    â€œAnthony Jones.”
    The girl giggled and extended her hand. “Hello, Mr. Jones.”
    They left the airport and drove onto a modest highway, Alison leaning on the back of Anthony’s seat and talking nonstop. She was in the ninth grade, just like him, and from a town in Connecticut, not far from New York. Before Belton, she had been in a private middle school, and her biggest hope was to make the varsity ski team.
    â€œWhat about you?” she asked. “Do you ski?”
    He shook his head. “Never even seen a ski before.”
    â€œOh.”
    They came up on a hitchhiker but blew right by her. The lonely scene made Anthony think of horror stories. He leaned forward and tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Stephen King live around here?”
    â€œNot here,” John answered. “Up in Bangor. I hear he’s one crazy bastard.”
    They turned onto another road, where trees pressed in like an advancing army. The lane wound past dilapidated farms and occasional houses.
    â€œHow much longer?”
    John eyed him in the rearview. “Depends on the traffic. We may not have it like you New York boys, but you get caught behind some logging truck or some old fart and it’ll feel like it.”
    â€œI ain’t from New York,” Anthony said. “I’m from East Cleveland.”
    â€œCleveland,” Alison said dreamily. “Did you ever meet LeBron James? You know, before he left?”
    â€œNaw. He can eat a dick.”
    Color came to her cheeks, and her mouth flashed metal. “Wow. I really like the way you talk. Where I’m from, everyone sounds the same.”
    â€œSurprise, surprise.” He saw Alison’s wounded eyes and then looked out the window. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but at least she wasn’t talking anymore.
    They drove on, and Anthony didn’t know he’d been sleeping, but John woke him with the horn. “Wakey-wake now, kiddies,” the man announced. “You don’t want to miss it.”
    Downtown Hoover was four blocks of stores and little restaurants, a firehouse, and a bank near the end of Main Street. There weren’t any stoplights or bus shelters. There weren’t any billboards or liquor stores. They drove up a hill and around a bend, past a neatly cut field, and then onto the divided campus, with buildings on both sides of the road. They parked in front of a brick building with white windows and green shutters. The sign above the entrance said KASTER HALL.
    An acid bubble rose in Anthony’s throat.
    â€œSomething else, ain’t it?” John said from behind him. “Not a care in the friggin’ world.”
    Anthony nodded but felt uneasy.