One Crazy Summer Read Online Free PDF Page B

Cecile ended all of that when she broke the sticks joined at the top, rubbed them against each other like she was kindling twigs for a campfire, then wrapped noodles around them and shoved the noodles, shrimp, and sticks into her mouth.
    We were all staring. We’d never seen anyone eating with chopsticks other than on TV. We’d never seen colored people eating with them, and here was our mother eating with chopsticks like the Chinese men that I had read about who worked on the railroads. She ate hungrily, setting no type of table-manner examples for us, her daughters.
    Cecile knew our eyes were on her. With a mouthful of food she said, “Thought y’all were hungry.”
    We picked up our forks and ate.
    When we were done, Cecile grabbed everything that hadn’t been used—soy sauce, spicy mustard, her fork, an extra cup that Mean Lady Ming had thrown in. She told us to stay right there while she brought everything into the kitchen. So we stayed put.
    I thought she might want to talk to us. Find out howwe were doing in school. What we liked and didn’t like. If we ever had chicken pox or our tonsils taken out. While I thought about what I’d tell her, we heard a knock on the door. Then another loud knock. We jumped up to look through the curtains, but Cecile came out of the kitchen.
    “Get back in the room. Get.”
    And we did. But I had caught a glimpse through the curtain. I had already seen three people in dark clothes with Afros.

For the People
    We were trained spies back in Brooklyn. Scrunched together, pressing our ears to the door, wall, or air, we used hand signals and mouthed words instead of whispered. If necessary I could shush my sisters with a glare to bottle up their loose giggling. You can’t giggle and be a spy.
    It was by pressing our ears to the air that we had heard Pa say, “No, Ma. They need to know her, and she needs to know them. They’re flying to Oakland. That’s final.” It had been all we could do not to let on when Pa sat us down the next morning.
    The knock on the door, Cecile ordering us to hide in our room, and her clearing away all evidence of us were not actions of a mother. These were actions of a secretagent. Or a fugitive from justice. Someone who doesn’t open her door wide and welcoming like Big Ma does when the doorbell rings. Hers were the actions of someone who wears hats, scarves, and shades to keep from being recognized. Kind of like the guy in the phone booth. Someone obviously hiding out.
    Once again, we fell into our spying positions, angling ourselves at the cracked door to see, while pressing our ears against the air. From there we could see pieces of the three figures who entered Cecile’s house. All wore dark colors. One had on a black jacket and a black beret. The other two, black T-shirts and black berets over Afros. We steadied our heavy, excited breathing to hear what we could.
    It wasn’t long after greeting one another that their talking turned to arguing. It was their voices, all three of them against hers. It sounded like:
    “Seize the time.”
    “For the people.”
    “The time is now.”
    Versus her:
    “Me…”
    “My…”
    “No…”
    “No…”
    Then each one of them firing off:
    “The people…”
    “The people…”
    “The people…”
    Against her:
    “My art.”
    “My work.”
    “My time. My materials. My printing press.”
    “Me. My. No. No.”
    I was sure they were Black Panthers. They were on the news a lot lately. The Panthers on TV said they were in communities to protect poor black people from the powerful; to provide things like food, clothing, and medical help; and to fight racism. Even so, most people were afraid of Black Panthers because they carried rifles and shouted “Black Power.” From what I could see, these three didn’t have rifles, and Cecile didn’t seem afraid. Just annoyed because they wanted her things but she didn’t want to give them. Big Ma said God could not have made a being more selfish than Cecile. At