and a little more connected to the larger world.”
There was a uniform glaze out there, and, worried about boring them, Ray picked up the pace.
“OK. So what we have here is James Baldwin,
Go Tell It on the Mountain.
Harlem poor churchy hellfire kind of adolescence. Richard Wright,
Uncle Tom’s Children.
Southern poor cracker-country racism, 1920s, ’30s. John Steinbeck,
Of Mice and Men.
Great story, great writer, but mainly in there because us white guys got to represent. Sandra Cisneros,
The House on Mango Street.
Growing up Hispanic in Chicago. Poets. Lucille Clifton, Etheridge Knight. Afro-American.
El Bronx Remembered.
Growing up Hispanic in some outer borough of New York, I can’t remember which, and last but not least,
Best Loved Horror Stories,
in there for whatever, OK? When I say three, everybody take a book. One, two . . .”
And on “three,” six students lunged for
Best Loved Horror Stories.
“Whoa.” He removed it from circulation. “Again. One, two . . .”
And six books were gone, both Hispanic books taken by black kids, the girl Altagracia holding the copy of
Uncle Tom’s Children
by the corner and glaring at Ray as if she had been unfairly bumped in the first round of musical chairs.
What was he supposed to do? Shrugging, he slid her the collection of horror stories.
Myra, the girl with the big glasses, was the only kid not to take a book.
“Aren’t you going to take any?”
“No thank you,” she said almost inaudibly, holding up a paperback copy of
Spoon River Anthology.
“I’m already reading something.”
“Good for you,” Ray said mildly, this kid most definitely The One.
Out in the hallway, Ray walked with Mrs. Bondo, her heavy purse and armload of manila folders.
“I hope you didn’t mind the Bondo-Bello crack. I just wanted to loosen everybody up.”
“No problem,” she said, looking straight ahead, navigating the hyped-up foot traffic coming in both directions.
“I’m sorry about that story with my cousin. I kind of got carried away.”
“It’s life.”
“So . . . Was that OK?” Ray going fishing.
“Was what OK.” She grabbed the back of some kid’s shirt who tried sprinting past them. “Slow down, Malik.”
“The class. Was the class OK . . .”
Mrs. Bondo took a long time answering. “So why was this Prince kid running up the hill?”
“God, I thought
no
body’d ask,” Ray said. “Terrance, Prince, he’d just gotten accepted to Dartmouth but they hadn’t offered him a scholarship and his father was telling him that he couldn’t afford the tuition, and that the poor kid would have to go to Rutgers-Dempsy and commute from home.”
“That’s where I went,” Mrs. Bondo said. “Rutgers-Dempsy.”
“Oh yeah?” Ray said brightly, his cheeks burning.
But then she added, “That has got to be one of the saddest stories I’ve heard all week.”
“So was the class OK?” Ray asked again, and again she was a long time in answering.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” she began, then looked directly at him. “It might be helpful for you to understand that the kids are actually more afraid of you than you are of them.”
Chapter 5
In the Field—February 11
Ever the gent, short and stocky Bobby Sugar emerged from the bathroom still knotting the drawstring of his sweatpants, a rolled Newark
Star-Ledger
between elbow and ribs.
“Let’s get down to it,” addressing Nerese waiting for him at the dining room table in his cheaply but newly built townhouse apartment. “Let’s do it.”
Although Nerese still thought that the fastest way to make some headway on finding out what had happened to Ray was to work on his daughter, before she committed herself on this one she just needed to make sure that his noncooperation wasn’t masking something best left in the dark, that she wasn’t about to go to bat for a drug dealer or a pedophile or someone with any number of other disqualifying occupations or enthusiasms.
And although she
There was a uniform glaze out there, and, worried about boring them, Ray picked up the pace.
“OK. So what we have here is James Baldwin,
Go Tell It on the Mountain.
Harlem poor churchy hellfire kind of adolescence. Richard Wright,
Uncle Tom’s Children.
Southern poor cracker-country racism, 1920s, ’30s. John Steinbeck,
Of Mice and Men.
Great story, great writer, but mainly in there because us white guys got to represent. Sandra Cisneros,
The House on Mango Street.
Growing up Hispanic in Chicago. Poets. Lucille Clifton, Etheridge Knight. Afro-American.
El Bronx Remembered.
Growing up Hispanic in some outer borough of New York, I can’t remember which, and last but not least,
Best Loved Horror Stories,
in there for whatever, OK? When I say three, everybody take a book. One, two . . .”
And on “three,” six students lunged for
Best Loved Horror Stories.
“Whoa.” He removed it from circulation. “Again. One, two . . .”
And six books were gone, both Hispanic books taken by black kids, the girl Altagracia holding the copy of
Uncle Tom’s Children
by the corner and glaring at Ray as if she had been unfairly bumped in the first round of musical chairs.
What was he supposed to do? Shrugging, he slid her the collection of horror stories.
Myra, the girl with the big glasses, was the only kid not to take a book.
“Aren’t you going to take any?”
“No thank you,” she said almost inaudibly, holding up a paperback copy of
Spoon River Anthology.
“I’m already reading something.”
“Good for you,” Ray said mildly, this kid most definitely The One.
Out in the hallway, Ray walked with Mrs. Bondo, her heavy purse and armload of manila folders.
“I hope you didn’t mind the Bondo-Bello crack. I just wanted to loosen everybody up.”
“No problem,” she said, looking straight ahead, navigating the hyped-up foot traffic coming in both directions.
“I’m sorry about that story with my cousin. I kind of got carried away.”
“It’s life.”
“So . . . Was that OK?” Ray going fishing.
“Was what OK.” She grabbed the back of some kid’s shirt who tried sprinting past them. “Slow down, Malik.”
“The class. Was the class OK . . .”
Mrs. Bondo took a long time answering. “So why was this Prince kid running up the hill?”
“God, I thought
no
body’d ask,” Ray said. “Terrance, Prince, he’d just gotten accepted to Dartmouth but they hadn’t offered him a scholarship and his father was telling him that he couldn’t afford the tuition, and that the poor kid would have to go to Rutgers-Dempsy and commute from home.”
“That’s where I went,” Mrs. Bondo said. “Rutgers-Dempsy.”
“Oh yeah?” Ray said brightly, his cheeks burning.
But then she added, “That has got to be one of the saddest stories I’ve heard all week.”
“So was the class OK?” Ray asked again, and again she was a long time in answering.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” she began, then looked directly at him. “It might be helpful for you to understand that the kids are actually more afraid of you than you are of them.”
Chapter 5
In the Field—February 11
Ever the gent, short and stocky Bobby Sugar emerged from the bathroom still knotting the drawstring of his sweatpants, a rolled Newark
Star-Ledger
between elbow and ribs.
“Let’s get down to it,” addressing Nerese waiting for him at the dining room table in his cheaply but newly built townhouse apartment. “Let’s do it.”
Although Nerese still thought that the fastest way to make some headway on finding out what had happened to Ray was to work on his daughter, before she committed herself on this one she just needed to make sure that his noncooperation wasn’t masking something best left in the dark, that she wasn’t about to go to bat for a drug dealer or a pedophile or someone with any number of other disqualifying occupations or enthusiasms.
And although she
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