Insurrections (16 page)

Kelli's breasts. What was it about them that caused such derangement? Commonplace, pedestrian, ordinary things, even when beautiful. Utilitarian chunks of flesh. How we diminished her and in turn ourselves. Turned parts of her body into heavy burdens to carry. Watching. Tittering (we no longer laughed, from then on it was just tittering). Commenting. Losing our composure. Falling in love, developing obsessions, and growing resentful when our shallow affections were ignored. Zeke was the only one who treated Kelli like a real person, and even that was a put-on. Whenever she wasn't around, he'd remake his favorite Dem Freak Boyz song, chanting,
Bounce them big things, Kelli
. And we'd titter and we'd titter and we'd titter . . .

She was usually wrapped in her own solitude. Arms folded as she walked, elbows pointed outward like spears. A trail of whispers followed her always. She had done this and that with so and so. She was removed from her last school for so on and so forth. She carried something inside her womb and a flood of milk had swelled her breasts. No, she had killed the thing inside her womb and the milk wouldn't go away and every
day during sixth period she disappeared deep into the guts of the girls' locker room to spill her milk down the shower drain. The most coveted girls clutched more tightly to the most coveted guys, and the most coveted guys all pulled close to Kelli in the moments when their girlfriends looked away.

Only Jana offered Kelli friendship, and only in the art room. Sometimes they'd spend lunch in Mr. Coles's room and I'd swing by and watch Kelli and leave wondering why neither she nor Jana had ever fallen for me.

I pretended to work on my papier-mâché Ezekiel Marcus in a back corner of the class while I watched Kelli's clay-covered hands as she kneaded the material, searching for little pockets of air.

Why are people at this school so strange, Mr. Coles? Kelli asked, not looking up from her artwork.

What do you mean? he replied.

I mean, some of these bitches act so funny. They won't even talk to me, but they decided already that I'm the devil. Like I'm pressed to talk to them.

Some of them act so immature, Jana chimed in. I don't like this school either. I'm about to go to private school next year. Watch. My dad said give it one more year and then I can go to St. Joseph's over in Port Yooga.

I'm gonna try to go with you, Jana. I'ma talk to my dad about it.

Give it some time, girls, Mr. Coles said. Especially you, Kelli. People don't like change. They see something new and it challenges them. You are going to go through all kinds of things, and then it'll get much better. You'll probably even forget that the first few months here were rocky. Trust me.

I hope so, Kelli said. The only class I like is art. You're the only teacher who doesn't treat me like I'm some alien. Mr. Drayton'll go down the line asking people questions and skip over me. I don't even think he's ever made eye contact with me. I swear, Mr. Coles, it's like even the teachers are immature here. Can I use the wheel?

I haven't taught that yet, Mr. Coles said. No one's allowed to use it until I show you how.

I learned at my old school, Kelli said. It's not hard. Please.

Yeah, please, Jana said.

It didn't take much begging for Mr. Coles to start the motor and get the wheel to spinning. As Kelli sat there sculpting, flecks of clay flew up
onto her clothes and onto her face and into her hair. Wearing an apron so dirty it appeared to be made of dried clay, she looked happy for once, no longer out of place. Outside the art room, though, a storm brewed all around us, and I was too busy staring at Kelli's breasts to even take notice.

These bitches gon' riot, Zeke told me one day during gym class.

Huh?

You ain't notice some of them Hatefield hoes ready to fuck Kelli up? And not in the way we want to fuck Kelli up. Vanessa, Carol, Isis, all of them say Kelli trying to fuck with their dudes. Ain't nothing else but to take it to the fists. Say they gonna rip her weave out, boy.

Zeke delivered the news with the excitement of a sports announcer, waving his fists as if the girlmob was advancing on him. And I have to admit, my veins throbbed with excitement. The last fight I saw was two sixth-grade boys smacking each other and then wrestling to the ground where they held the same position for five minutes until security came to cart them away.

When Kelli walked the halls, arms wrapped around her torso, girls cursed at her. Sometimes they threw things that missed. They drew nasty pictures and posted them around the school. The drawings didn't feature Kelli's name—just big cartoonish circles in front of a stick figure. We all knew what was up, but the teachers seemed oblivious.

When it all went down, me and Ernesto and Jana were near the cafeteria talking shit. I was awkwardly trying to get Jana to ride my bus in the afternoon, even though that meant a twenty-minute walk home from my neighborhood to her apartment in McCoy, the neighborhood we all called Hatefield.

I'll walk with you, I said. Besides, you need the exercise.

Go somewhere, Marshall, I don't know why you bothering me. Don't you like Kelli?

Where is everybody? Ernesto asked, and we ignored him to continue our banter while most everyone else had migrated outside and up the hill to the soccer field where, unbeknownst to us, ordinary girls had become gladiators. The Hatefield girls had finally grown tired of Kelli and her tits sauntering around the school as if it belonged to her. That's what I imagined they said before they punched her and kicked her and grabbed at her hair. Tommy and Zeke's accounts clashed on the minor details, but they matched perfectly when it came to the big picture. Four on one.
Kelli never stood a chance. Though to hear Zeke tell it, she put up a fight like a wild animal for a little while. Punching and scratching, keeping the four from getting close. What stopped her momentum was when Isis (or was it Carol? does it matter?) snatched at her shirt, ripping the buttons, releasing all that we dreamed about for the whole world to see. At that point Kelli could only fight with one hand. The other one she dedicated to covering her nakedness.

It all ended when Mr. Coles rushed into the fray to pull the girls off Kelli until security could arrive to take them to the office.

The next day in art class Kelli wasn't there. We did no work; instead we spent the whole time listening to Zeke give us the rundown. He and Tommy performed the fight blow by blow, second by second. When it came time for the big reveal, Zeke snatched at Tommy's shirt and yelled, Wump!

That's the sound they made coming out, Zeke said. They actually made a sound. I'll never forget it.

Damn, I said. I miss every fight. Every damn time.

And then when it was all done, Zeke said, the bitches started to chant, Hatefield, Hatefield is where we're from! Hatefield, Hatefield is where we're from!

Long ago, before even my parents were born, the people of McCoy named themselves Hatfields. Their poverty, it was said, put them in opposition to the very ground they walked upon. More recently, younger Hatfields renamed their neighborhood Hatefield because the hard gravel and weed and trash-scarred empty lots made the name feel truer.

Guys, Mr. Coles said. Stop it. I don't even know why you want to call your neighborhood that. Hate's not a good thing. We shouldn't be glorifying people getting beat up. Let's not be ignorant. Okay?

When Mr. Coles said this he had that smile, that smirk, that grin that destroyed the seriousness of anything he had to say. Zeke howled and pointed.

Come on, Mr. Coles, you know you were entertained, he said. I saw you, boy. This nigga only rushed in after them titties popped out. He was like—at this Zeke grasped at Tommy's chest, groping while pretending to hold him back—
come on now, stop fighting. Ooh, that's so soft
.

Leave Mr. Coles alone, Zeke, Jana said. You always starting stuff. Just ignore him, Mr. Coles.

Mr. Coles's face looked as if it was about to explode in laughter. He rubbed his closely cropped head and chuckled some.

We didn't need music that day. Whenever there was a break in the action we chanted: Hatefield, Hatefield is where we're from!

Man, Mr. Coles, Zeke said. Be for real. You know you was thinking about our song.

Our song? Mr. Coles asked. That Hatefield thing y'all chant?

Naw, you know what I'm talking about, “Shake It Buck Naked, Bitch.” You the main one who be playing it in class. Man, Mr. Coles, you took one look at Kelli and was like,
I'ma make it do something / Twerk for me bitch now / Let me see ya shake something
. You know that's what you were thinking, Mr. Coles. Stop faking. Stop faking.

Mr. Coles shook his head and rubbed the short hair on his cheeks. His smile grew alligator-like. In a soft growl, he said:
Come on and bounce them big things, baby
.

Mr. Coles! Jana screamed, stepping away from her clay pot. Just as swiftly, she stepped back to the table and returned to massaging her artwork. I don't think she looked up for the rest of the class period. Ernesto hollered in delight. Me and Zeke slapped five. Tommy did a dance while Jana shook her head, massaged her clay, and turned up her lips.

And as soon as the words came from him, Mr. Coles's face became sheepish. His eyes darted upward. He passed his hand over his head. When I reached to give him a high five, he backed slowly away shaking his head from side to side.

All right, he said. All right. We had our fun. Let's get back to work.

There was no returning to work. Not that day. Not even in the days after. We never saw Mr. Coles again. No one told us anything. All we knew was that he was gone and a stern old woman with a wrinkled mask face would be our long-term sub. We relied on the trail of whispers for news. Folks said Mr. Coles had lost his mind and ended up in an insane asylum. But he had looked perfectly healthy to me.

Just a man. That's all. A regular man like anyone else. Years later I heard rumors of him packing his belongings after school while Mrs. Badwell screamed at him. So stupid, she was supposed to have said. What did we learn from all this? Let me answer for you, Dennis: Even if they look like women, they are not women!

Zeke said Jana had snitched on Mr. Coles, and when he accused her in
front of everybody, she denied it with a stammer, but it was too late. We all turned on her, and she too became cloaked in a blanket of solitude. She moved on to the high school with us, but I don't remember even having two conversations with her after we determined she was the snitch. Kelli finished out the year, even navigating the glares and the stares to make a friend or two, but when we started high school, she was gone.

The weeks of turmoil made Zeke volatile, a volcano, and I could feel the rumble of his eruption at hand. He became consumed with the injustice of Mr. Coles's removal, speaking on it loud enough for adults to hear whenever he could.

He stopped the fight, Zeke said. He's a hero. This how they treat heroes around here? He ain't say nothing I wouldn't have said. Kelli got some big ass titties. Ain't no secret.

It came to a head one day in science class. Mr. Drayton brought his dog, Iggy, in for a lecture on mammal life. He did it every year, one of the few things he looked forward to. A white and black thing that looked everything like a wolf, except it had a friendly domesticated vibe. Not an ounce of aggression on most days. Still, Mr. Drayton kept Iggy behind a cardboard barrier that the dog could have toppled with his breath.

As Mr. Drayton tried to start his lecture, Zeke kept riding him. Speaking out of turn. You were supposed to be dude's friend! You sold the nigga out. Y'all always sell niggas out. Selling niggas down the river like you own them. Why is that thing even here? You lost your dog Mr. Cold, so you brought in another dog to replace him with? You foul, Mr. Drayton.

Nothing could settle Zeke. Mr. Drayton stepped from the room to summon security, and Zeke strode to the barrier that separated Iggy from the class and began barking loudly. Iggy stood and barked back, his hackles raised as if about to strike. Mr. Drayton dashed into the room and grabbed at Zeke, shoving him as hard as he could.

Don't you ever touch my dog, Mr. Drayton screamed. Don't you dare. Don't you dare. Don't you—

Ezekiel swung wildly, punching Mr. Drayton twice in his forehead. His head snapped back with each blow. Mr. Drayton fell fast, and even bounced when he hit the hard classroom floor. There he was, our Mr. Drayton, out cold during fourth-period science.

And after that, no more Ezekiel. No one was sure what happened to
Zeke. Yeah, I could have dropped by his house, it was only a half-hour walk from where I lived, but I'm not sure that ever crossed my mind. Those we think of as friends, how easily they can be disposed of when it takes even the slightest effort to see them. I learned that over and over after Zeke, sometimes painfully.

When Mr. Drayton returned several weeks later, he wasn't the same man. It's as if the already old man had aged two decades. He walked with a limp that had never been present before. The urine smell now sometimes stung my eyes. We weren't sure if he had always worn orthopedic shoes. One class he didn't even bother to talk science. He just told us that he wasn't mad at Zeke. It's not his fault, he said. Your people are naturally scared of dogs. It's because of what they put you through when you were slaves. Making dogs hunt you down. Then with the civil rights movement, how they sicced their dogs on you. Real cruelty. It got into your genes. Evolution, you know. Not Zeke's fault at all.

Last I heard, Zeke had murdered a pretty big drug dealer and fled the country before the law or the streets could catch up with him. I don't know if there's any truth in all that, but I wonder after him a lot. I get on the computer sometimes and search his name, but nothing ever turns up. Once in a while I hear that a member of Dem Freak Boyz N Motion is trying to make a comeback, and I check to see if Zeke is in his entourage. Ridiculous, I know. But wasn't he destined to become a soccer star? There are days I search through the roster of the European teams. Maybe he's a benchwarmer, maybe some sort of coach, a towel boy. Anything but a fugitive. What becomes of the children destined to be broken by their saviors?