The Moves Make the Man (9 page)

½ cup milk

½ cup water (warm)

2 teaspoons cinnamon

1 cup sugar

2½ cups crushed Ritz crackers

1 pie crust

There you go. That's the ticket. Mix it all together, stick it in the oven, and you get yourself one official yummy Home Economic style Mock-Apple Pie. Dig it.

Mocking apples, man. Where did somebody get the idea that this was a good way to spend the day? Miss P thought it was pure genius. So did the girls. Imagine! Making something that looked and tasted a little bit like apple pie, only it was all completely fake! Hooray! How smart everybody in this world is!

I was groaning after it hit me that Miss Pimton was truly serious, but I was drowned out. Oh boy I bet that dumb old Buck Taylor will eat this up and never tell in a million years, or Sakes alive that high and mighty old Skeeter Darby won't
he be fooled but good? All the girls clapped and begged could they take some to their boyfriends, PLEASE? Miss Pimton loved it. She smiled like she was the queen giving the secrets of high life to all the people on feast day. Yes, she said, every team would prepare a pie, and they would get baked and we could take them to whomever we wanted. She looked at Bix and me when she said this with her eyes full of important meaning. I realized she was thinking we would actually take this tricky glop home and feed it to our poor starving families, bless our poor undernourished little hearts.

I couldn't stand that look, so I spoke up. What do I want to go fooling my brothers with a bunch of yellow crackers in water for? I said.

She looked startled. This food—

This is not food, I said. It's a costume. The only reason anybody even thinks about apple pie when they eat this is the cinnamon, I bet, because they are used to tasting cinnamon in real apple pie, and you are counting on fooling them on this little decoration taste alone. You're probably right, most of these dopes (I almost said Most of these white dopes but I held back but I think Miss Pimton knew, for she blushed something awful) will go no further than tasting the spice and saying Ah, this must be apple pie, because most dopey people judge too fast from the first thing they see anyway. So you put some little thing in to trick them, and it's enough. But you can't fool the body needing vitamins can you?

Miss Pimton blushed hard and cleared her throat very high several times. The girls were hanging open at the mouth and not yet recovered enough to look hateful at me, which they did soon enough. I was showing my true colors at last, what
they knew I must be like all along, uppity and loud and rude.

Miss Pimton finally said, trying to be dignified and patient but sounding only quivery, Mock-Apple Pie, Jerome, is actually delicious in its own way.

More delicious than apple pie? snapped a voice beside me and I jumped and looked around and, whew, there he was! The shortstop was back! I mean, Bix had perked up his spine and stuck out his chin a bit and his cheeks were red and eyes flashing. He looked about ready to take a nasty one-hopper to his right backhand and whip it to first off the back foot beating the runner by six steps and killing the rally cold. I said, My man! very soft, and maybe he heard me but did not show it, looking very hard at Miss Pimton, not letting her off, almost that look that comes before a smile on his face. He knew he had her. So did she. She was bad surprised that he had waked up from being the puppy.

Well, I—

Come on. Is it tastier, more delicious, more scrumptious than old genuine apple pie, old Non-Mock-Apple-Pie?

I checked out the girls. They were gaping again, this time at Bix.

Well, Braxton, said Miss Pimton, fidgeting with her glasses on her nose, I suppose, no, that Mock-Apple Pie has not quite the richness of apple pie, but…for beginners—

Why make it, then?

Well…some people find that—

Are Ritz crackers more nourishing than apples?

Well, I don't believe, no, I could not think they are—

Are they less expensive? Do they save on the family grocery bill in these difficult times?

She mumbled. Man, he was pressing. He walked over and snatched the cracker box and brought it back to our table.

Seventy-six cents for ten ounces, he read. I think apples go for about twenty cents a pound. So Ritz crackers are not more economical for the home, are they?

I could not believe this was the same slouchy dude. Do it, baby, I said. The girls glared.

It appears that the crackers are a bit more costly, Miss Pimton admitted, all defeated.

So, he said. Not more scrumptious, not more nourishing, not cheaper. So why in the blue do we have to make this junk?

Everybody just sat there looking their own bad looks. Bix watched Miss Pimton. The girls did too. Miss Pimton sort of cringed and frowned and glanced back at Bix from time to time. Nobody said anything. Finally, I said, I'll tell you why we have to make it.

Bix turned around, surprised but interested. Miss Pimton looked relieved and actually said Why? like she really wanted to know too. Then she blushed and tried to look like she just wanted to hear how silly my reason was. The girls were ready for more nonsense to scoff at.

It's simple, I said. We have to make this crummy pie just because we CAN make it. That's all. That's the reason a lot of fools do a lot of things. Some joker thought of doing this one day, and he did it, and then it was on the books as something that COULD be done and so people have to keep on doing it.

Then I thought to myself, That is white man's disease, thinking you must do whatever you can dream up just because you're so smart. And it is black man's disease to wish they had the same inclination.

Everybody just sat for a few minutes, Miss Pimton looking about to bawl, the girls starting to strut back and forth putting
on their aprons and asking could they start please Miss P? because THEY really WANTED to make this YUMMY pie and couldn't wait to share it with their dearest loved ones, and now wouldn't she show them how to mash up these old crackers just right, please? And could they be daring and maybe use just a little extra cinnamon or sugar because that Mick Hogan just LOVED sweet things.

I looked around at Bix. He was watching the girls and Miss Pimton, frowning. He was not as hot and bright as a few minutes ago, still tough but hurt too, seeing that the girls were actually going to keep business going as usual. Already Miss Pimton was coming back to form, starting to warm up as she took a bowl from Matty Sue who was trying to look all clumsy and needing help, and commenced to show the dear girl a few key tricks probably her momma taught her about mashing crackers just right like they did in colonial times. Bix looked over at me. His eyes were all sunk, like as to say They have beaten us have they not, partner? I looked back at him hard and hot as like to say Not a bit, brother, not us, not with such a measly thing as a pie full of wet crackers. We stared into each other's eyes there for a long time, heat growing and light moving very sure between us, and it was great, grand in the chest and fluttery in the stomach as we forgot everything else and took each other to each. I don't remember feeling the smile start to come on my face or noticing it start on his, but suddenly I felt my cheeks hurt and saw his smile too, and my eyes had those good tears that stay inside, his too, I think. We knew each other could do anything together.

Hey, he said, grinning very crafty.

I get you, I said.

As long as we got to make one of these mock jessies—

We got to make the very mockingest!

The most chock-full of mock!

The mock de la mock! I said, knowing French.

Get a bowl, he said, and keep an eye on my wrist work while I mash.

Only, I said, if you pay the closest attention to my handsome cinnamon technique.

Don't use too much, he said. Johnny Mack Fathead does not love cinnamon and may be offended.

And be watchful of the sugar, I said, for Arnold T. Stomachface is known to be not partial to sweets.

We laughed, and got the junk to make our pie. The girls had already started and were all gritting their teeth at work. They did not hear a word we said.

I was very happy. I had just gotten myself a best bud. I was positive about that, I really thought so.

We flew on the pie. Miss Pimton was popeyed when she cruised past our table once and gave a look, expecting to see probably a bloaty mess of dough but instead there was the cleanest, sharpest mock pie she had ever inspired in any of the long line of Home Ec students who had mashed a cracker for her. She snuck over again a minute later, wrinkling the forehead. It was plain ours was a hundred times the pie any girl had made. Bix and I were putting on a show, laying these little twists on the edge of the crust very fancy, even pricking the letters M-A on the top, like the pies in stores have so you can tell which kind it is, P for peach and C for cherry and such except for French apple which you don't need initials because it has icing and everyone can see that.

The girls had suggested a sort of friendly contest with Miss Pimton picking the best pie and that would be the one we would bake first. What an honor.

Well, it was plain as ike to Miss P that the boys were sitting pretty in the great pie mock-sweepstake. We did not give a hoot but all the same it would be good to show the girls that
you could make the best cracker pie even if you hated the very idea, and surely anything you can do that with cannot mean much. Bix and I did not say anything like this to each other but I think we must have felt the same.

Miss Pimton finally decided the contest was going to be anonymous, with all of the class together picking the best pie from all of them lying on the big table away near the oven, without knowing whose was which. So whenever anyone finished their pie she carted it over away in the corner and shuffled it into the arrangement. The girls were a little disappointed, but this way at least they could each pretend not to recognize their own pie and think theirs was the one picked, and nobody would have to know.

Well, they thought they could pretend that. But when time came to gather round and select the lucky pie, they all knew each to herself she did not make that sharp pie that was picked unanimously. They shot a few suspicious mean eyes around, like they had been betrayed. They never looked at us, though. Until just before the pie was popped into the heat. A few of them suddenly realized who put that gorgeous hunk of crackers together, and gaped. We grinned back, but very cool. The ones who knew said nothing, rathering to die than let on they had been hustled by two negative dudes.

We all cleaned up while the pie was baking. Nobody said much. After a while Miss Pimton yanked the pie out, and there it was, fresh jive pie.

Now, said Miss P with a mischief look, now, shall we try a little test and see how good we are?

Oh no! said Bix's voice behind me, very soft but suddenly different and fearful. I was surprised and looked around at him. He was frowning, did not look at me straight, staring up at Miss Pimton. He flicked his eyes at me then, and the look
was like saying What? What is this? I don't like this. He was slipping back fast into the slinker, right while I watched. His eyes kept getting deeper in their holes and looking more confused.

What…no, he said. He watched Miss Pimton hold up a finger to the girls like to say Wait just a sec, and then step out into the hall. No, Bix said, still so soft nobody but me could hear and I think I was even not supposed to. Too far, he said.

What is it, man? I said. He did not look at me or say anything, just frowned deeper when Miss Pimton came back into the room dragging along this man teacher by the arm.

Class, she said, this is Mr. Spearman. He just happened to be walking by, and I invited him in for…a piece of pie!

The girls all squealed under their breath and tried to keep from laughing and nudged each other like Oh boy this is going to be good! The dude was doing his best to look slightly confused but obliging, smiling with his mouth closed and nodding to the class and very casual, just happened to be strolling down the hall in the middle of the period and my yes a piece of pie sounded delightful. You could see with one eye that he was acting, even if you could not figure out the whole setup, which a two-year-old could. But not those girls, man, they wanted to believe. Tee hee, they poked each other.

We just baked this pie, said Miss Pimton, and we wonder would you be so good as to taste it for us?

Certainly, said the man. Then he looked at us and raised his eyebrows and lit up his eyes and said, Yum! He actually said that word, Y-U-M. The girls loved it. I snorted.

Don't, please, said Bix. I turned around. He had slunk back to a chair near the back wall, and he was kind of
drooping there, looking miserable.

Hey, Braxton, I said, what is it, man?

Shh, said the girls. Bix said nothing, staring straight ahead. I looked back up front.

Miss Pimton had cut the pie and laid out a steaming slice on a plate. Mr. Spearman took a fork from her and cut off a bite, and then jabbed it with his fork. He held it up in front of his face and closed his eyes and made a big cartoon sniff, saying MMMM! The girls made all kinds of funky puppy noises keeping from giggling until they almost died from how smart they were, tricking this dude. As for me, I was thinking I had seen many a more believable scene on Crusader Rabbit than all of this weak-headed crapola.

Well, said the mock-sucker, I guess I just have to give in and taste this pie. Can't resist anymore.

He looked like he could still resist a good while longer, for to tell the truth he was beginning to look sorry he had whacked off such a big bite, but he gulped and popped it into his mouth and chewed, wrinkling his forehead and nodding while doing so, to show how hard he was concentrating on the deliciousness of the whole experience. He made little grunty noises, URM! URM! all the while every now and then, nodding and indicating he was really knocked out by the splendor. The girls were stuffing sweater sleeves and pigtail ends into their mouth to keep from howling. Miss Pimton gave us a big wink from behind the poor guy's shoulder.

Finally he swallowed it with a quick huge gulp.

Ah, he said. Boy oh boy.

Please, no, it's too much, too bad, hissed Bix behind me, but nobody paid mind.

Do you like our pie? said Miss Pimton.

Oh yes, certainly yes, he said, nodding like his neck had
just broke and he wanted to make sure. Oh heavens what a pie it is.

Miss Pimton looked out at the girls and smiled. Then she said to the dude, Tell me, what kind of pie IS that?

The dude acted like this was the most natural question in the world for him to be asked, as if maybe the contents of the pie had just slipped our minds twenty minutes after we made it, and he was glad to fill us in. Why, he said, getting ready for his big line, it is the most tasty apple pie I ever—

He did not finish because all of the girls whooped it out on this one, letting go all of their wonderful tricksy stuffed-up pride at how foxy they all were to make such a thing and have this new power and screaming and hugging and clapping. What fun it was going to be as a genuine home economist doing such things all the livelong day for their puzzled families. They whooped up Miss Pimton too, her standing there with her hands clasped in front, her head tilted to one side, beaming in pride and modesty at them, taking their joy in and being the modest mother of all this smart accomplishment. After a minute she nodded and said, or at least her lips moved though you could hear nothing, Girls girls. Then she clapped her hands a few times, looking around, nodding and smiling at each of them, Girls girls.

But then all of a sudden she stopped dead. Her face went white and her mouth drooped and her eyes got wide and scary. Her hands stopped in the middle of a clap forgotten in front of her, held together like she had caught a bee and it was stinging her hands like fury but she was too frozen in pain to let go. All the girls suddenly shut up, seeing her. The dude could not see, and continued to nod and blush, still trying to look not in on the joke. Finally he got curious at the silence and turned to look at Miss Pimton, then got
very serious and shot his eyes back where she was looking. With that, we all turned and looked, for she was staring at the back of the room.

It was Bix. He was standing on a chair in the back corner. He was slunk against the walls and he kept nudging them with his elbows, like to make sure he was still there, keeping touch, while he stared out at the room. His breath was fast and almost like crying, but no tears ran out of those eyes. They looked too hard for tears. They were mad and fast, flicking around the faces, open wide, white and red like marshmallows on fire. He was upset, you would almost think out of control, but there was anger in there and nobody is ever out of control as long as they are mad about something, you can tell that from watching kids throw tantrums, they only go over the edge when they forget what they want. Bix looked like he wasn't forgetting. Lies, he said.

Like everybody I had taken a step back when I turned and saw him fierce back there, but now I stepped up and then took another couple closer to him.

Hey man, I said.

Braxton, said Miss Pimton, but then she just stood there and shivered.

Come on, man, I said, it's okay, knowing that whatever it was was not okay at all.

Bunch of liars, said Bix, very clear, not like a quivery mess at all but someone very sure of himself.

Young man, said Mr. Spearman, listen young man—

SHUT UP! yelled Bix. NOBODY IS TELLING THE TRUTH! The man started to say something again and Bix laughed and shouted APPLE PIE MY ASS! He grabbed one hand with the other and started scratching it with his nails, very hard. You should not lie, he said.

Baxter, now, said Mr. Spearman, looking quick at Miss Pimton to see if he had the name right, but she wasn't paying him any heed. Now listen, Baxter—

You won't get away with lies, Bix said, very clear. He was scratching his hand but not noticing and he had started to bleed from a picked place. A couple of the girls had started to make little whimpers staring at him, they were so scared and did not expect such a thing because of a little fake pie trick and had no idea what was happening to this boy. I did not either but I knew nobody else would help him out of it so I took a couple more steps and said Hey, Bix, which I called him for the first time, having not been told it by him but picked it up only from his momma at that game, not really having the right to use it but that was how I had thought of him all that time.

It turned out to be the right thing, because he looked at me when I said it and watched me come. His face was slowly untwisting but still angry but not at me. Bix, man, I said, it is all right, absolutely we are going to be okay now.

I'm not crazy, he said, like he was disgusted with me talking down to him. But they are lying lying lying.

I agree, I said. He was still scratching at that hand and shaking now and then, and while I stepped closer a drop of blood slung off and caught me smack on the lip and before I knew I reflex licked the wet on my lip. It tasted so strange I shuddered but was not like to be sick or anything.

I took the last couple of steps over, his eyes on me all the time, and then I put out my hands and took his apart. He relaxed them as soon as I touched them, and looked down like he had not realized what he was doing. His blood on the one hand was warm. It did not exactly give me the creeps or anything but all the same I did not like that it was on the
outside and not back in where it belonged.

He looked at me, mad still but sinking, and said You got to tell them, man, because you know it's wrong. They can't get away with this lying shit. Tell them it's crackers and water.

They know, I said.

They can't get away with it, he said, pulling back a little at first when I tried to help him down off the chair but then giving up.

It's just a trick, I said.

It's two tricks, he said, it's a million lies and they can't make me a part of it. It's us tricking him and him tricking us back and tricks and lies, and soon it's gone and nobody knows the truth and you can go crazy in there.

Don't go crazy in there, Bix, I said.

There are…they…some people, they—But he didn't finish the sentence, frowning hard and really dropping into the slink now as he got tired fast, but stopping and looking out at all of them staring at us, the girls white and deadfaced and never thinking this could go with dotted aprons and oven heat and the nice crispy sound of crackers mashing in the home. Bix stared back for a second and held it. They dropped their eyes, and then he leaned on me and I led him to the door.

Oh man, he said, I don't know.

I didn't know too. I walked him down to the nurse's office. He was back to himself pretty much by the time we got there and went straight to a cot and fell asleep and I sat on the edge while he slept. Nobody bothered us. We smelled like cinnamon and blood. Cinnamon blood brothers.