Chapter 1
January 2, 1975
"You ain't worth killin'."
Clarence wondered if saying something like this in front of the school guidance counselor would get him in trouble. But it slipped out before he had a chance to edit himself. And it was, after all, a direct quote from Rod.
"I'm not sure what you mean," Miss Black said. She wore a thin, braided, leather headband around her hair. It could have been seen as a statement, or maybe she just wanted to look like a hippie. Clarence didn't know which and didn't feel comfortable asking her.
He looked up from staring at a smudge on the toe of his tennis shoes. His right knee bounced as he said, "My stepfather says that sometimes when somethin' happens."
Her training kicked in. "Does your stepfather hit you? Have you ever felt threatened?"
Clarence shook his head. While her words were soft and imploring, Rod's voice was more forceful. Besides, he'd heard his stepfather's words for much longer.
"Have you ever had thoughts of hurting yourself?" She asked.
Of course, he had, but he knew that saying so would start some serious shit he didn't want to fool with. "No, of course not," he lied.
And then the framed diplomas caught his eye. He read the names "Belmont College," "Vanderbilt University," a certificate of membership in "Phi Beta Kappa," and something that wasn't a diploma, "Licensed Clinical Social Worker." Her name was printed somewhere on all the pieces of paper, "Roberta Black."
As you would expect from a therapist who also doubled as the "health" teacher, the school counselor dressed conservatively, except for the headband. Her black knit dress had a high collar, and her mascara and lipstick were understated.
The "health" classes included personal hygiene and sex education, but nothing too specific. The principal wanted to keep those classes under the radar as much as possible. The counselor played her part well, believing teenagers needed information about their bodies to make decisions that could impact the rest of their lives. She didn't use film strips, language, or pictures that would draw an uptight parent's attention.
"Clarence," she continued.
"Skid, please. Everyone calls me Skid."
"All right, Skid."
"It's a nickname my friends gave me." He said with a smile, "Maybe I'll tell you the story someday."
"Oh, okay," the counselor said. "It has nothing to do with gym class and underwear, does it?"
"Surprisingly," Skid said. "No."
She nodded and looked up from the form she'd filled out as they talked. "I'm new here, but I want you to know I've met all the other teachers and most of the students who will need my help," she stopped, and then added, "My help with college applica-"
"I haven't made up my mind about college," he interrupted.
She tried again. "It's just that since you'll be graduating soo- "
"All right, Miss Black. I said I'll think about it," Skid interrupted again, changing his tone so the words sounded more like he was flirting. He couldn't help himself. She looked like a young Ingrid Bergman in his favorite film, [RO1] Casablanca. Of course, she was too old for him now. She looked twenty-five, maybe even twenty-six. "Ancient" in his mind.
"Good," she said. "Thinking is good."
"One thing's for sure, I'm gettin' the hell out of here."
Bookcases lined the north wall of her office, but the shelves were mostly empty. Several framed pictures of whom Skid could only guess might be family members sat on an eye-level shelf. She didn't wear a wedding ring, so he assumed she wasn't married.
"I'll need a hall p-"
She had already removed a small pad and pulled a pen from behind her ear. She wrote with an exaggerated flourish at the end of the sentence as if she were conducting a symphony and had signaled to the musicians the last note.
"Here, just give it to your homeroom teach-"
"Mr. Salman," Skid interrupted.
"Yes, Mr. Salman," she said as she tore off the slip of paper and slid it across the desk.
Skid stood and picked up the note.
"My grandmother was Japanese, and when something bad happened, she always said, 'Nana korobi ya oki.'"
"And what does that mean?"
"Literally: seven falls, eight getting up," she said, smiling.
Skid thought, "So, I am worth killin'." But he knew that was the one thing he couldn't tell her.
The bell signaling it was time to change classrooms rang. Skid glanced up at the clock and nodded in agreement. In life, he'd found, timing was everything.
Skid stepped through the open door. He glanced at the piece of plastic with the former counselor's name still embossed in white on black.
"I hope you get a new nameplate here," he said, pointing to the door.
She nodded and pulled a notebook from under a pile of papers. "I'm workin' on it."
***
Skid shifted his books and notebook from his left arm to his right. He nodded at friends who passed him in the hallway. The floors were black linoleum tiles, and just the past summer, painters had painted the cinderblock walls above the gray lockers white. A faint smell of drying paint and disinfectant was in the air as he moved from the west end of the two-story building to the east. He smelled dust in the air. As he passed the physical science lab, he got a whiff of ozone from what he could assume was an electrical experiment.
The students dressed in the fashion of the day. It was high-waisted bellbottom jeans with matching, long-sleeved, colorful tops for most girls. The boys wore long-sleeved shirts, some buttoned to the top, and bell bottoms. Jackets and sweaters were deposited in lockers, indicating their rank in different sports teams. Skid didn't play sports, and while he and his mother had conferred on most of his fashion choices, now he was on his own. So matching colors and textures took on a more casual theme.
There were three competing fragrances in the air as the students passed Skid. Many boys wore English Leather or Aramis aftershave, though most were not shaving regularly. And the girl's popular choice was Jean Naté.
Skid stopped in front of his assigned locker, stuck his hand into his jeans pocket, and pulled out a ring with two keys. One was for the house, and the other was for the silver padlock guarding his books and papers.
The swirl of students surrounding him bore evidence of how overcrowded the school had become over the past decade. Battleboro grew, with dozens of new families moving into the city daily. As a result, subdivisions with hundreds of houses were popping up on the outskirts of town like weeds. The school capacity was set at one thousand students twenty years ago. Currently, over twenty-five hundred attended. The city had commissioned two new high schools to serve those subdivisions.
Politicians debated the future use of the current high school, demolishing the decades-old building or finding a new service for it. That decision would happen next semester, and Skid's concern focused on the next few months and not much else. Today. The crowd jostling you like a leaf in the wind was just part of the education experience for the last graduating class at Mid-Town High.
Skid slid his books into the locker and reached for the biology book on the top shelf. It was his favorite subject, followed by English, with Algebra coming in dead last. Nevertheless, his grades were above average, except for a "D" in math. While he managed most of his subjects easily, he was most interested in English. He loved reading and had read most of the classic novels in the library. Mr. Salman led that class, and Skid was one of his most attentive students.
He turned and bumped into Dee Dee's shoulder. She was tall with long hair parted in the middle, bell-bottom jeans, and a knit top that showed her belly when she reached up. The school dress code outlawed this kind of shirt, but Dee Dee figured out how to make it look longer around teachers.
She was in Skid's English class, and he sat one row over. They'd met in first grade and bonded like a brother and sister. Skid swore there were times when they could read each other's minds. She was a lifelong friend, and he needed all the friends he could get.
"Watch it, Skid," she said. She had "ping-ponged" into him by the rush of students passing by them.
"You better watch it," Skid said. He smiled, hoping his joke would land and not be an insult.
Dee Dee giggled. "You're the one who better watch it," she said as she playfully punched his shoulder.
"Goin' to Biology?"
"Yep, let's scoot, Skid."
They peeled off from the flow of students still trying to navigate the crowded hall and ended up next to each other in the biology lab. Frog dissection day was next week. Skid hated the thought of cutting into the tiny carcass, but he had no choice. And the smell, yikes.
Mrs. Jenkins entered the lab in a long, white cotton coat and placed her briefcase on the desk. She was Skid's second Black teacher in his twelve years of education. She stood around five feet tall and sported an upswept hairstyle. She wore little makeup, but her eyes, her best feature, emitted warmth and kindness. She understood when he turned in papers and assignments late and always gave him extra time. "You've got a lot on your plate now, Skid. I want you to know that I'll work with you. I want you to do well."
The lab had ten black marble-topped tables with two students assigned to each one. Mrs. Jenkins glanced around the room, nodded to both the left and right, and picked up a stick of chalk.
"D-N-A," she said as she wrote. "First discovered by Swiss researcher Friedrich Miescher in 1869. Recently described by James Watson and Francis Crick as a double helix. Can anyone tell me what that is?"
Dee Dee didn't raise her hand, and neither did Skid. He'd failed to read the assignment. It was one of those nights, but I didn't know why she would shy away from answering. Dee Dee was the smartest kid in the class.
Jacob French, thin and Black with a puff of an Afro, answered without Mrs. Jenkins calling on him. "Deoxyribonucleic acid presents itself as a spiral of information that determines living beings' character and physical traits."
"That sounds like the definition in the book, Jacob," Mrs. Jenkins said, "break it down for me a bit more."
"Well," Jacob began, "all molecules have different information, and that's what makes my eyes brown and your eyes green."
"True. What else does D-N-A determine? Skid?"
His mind had wandered a bit during the discussion. He finally put together the scientific fact that people's skin color was determined by their genetic makeup. "I'm not sure what you're going after."
"Can D-N-A determine more than just physical traits?" The teacher asked.
Skid paused and said, "I think it can be seen in physical and mental traits."
"And what makes you say that?" Mrs. Jenkins asked.
Because, he thought for a moment, my mother had green eyes, and so do I. Also, my mother was right-handed, and I am too. Before he had a chance to speak.
"Can you roll your tongue?" The teacher asked. She stuck out her tongue and rolled it into a red tube.
Skid stuck out his tongue and mimicked the teacher. "Yep, sure can," came out weird and juicy.
"That ability is just one kind of character trait passed down from generation to generation."
Skid nodded and said, "I get it."
Mrs. Jenkins turned back to the chalkboard and drew the DNA double helix.
Skid glanced at Jacob as he took notes. He'd never noticed just how pale his hands' palms were compared to his dark arms and face.
DChapter 1
January 2, 1975
"You ain't worth killin'."
Clarence wondered if saying something like this in front of the school guidance counselor would get him in trouble. But it slipped out before he had a chance to edit himself. And it was, after all, a direct quote from Rod.
"I'm not sure what you mean," Miss Black said. She wore a thin, braided, leather headband around her hair. It could have been seen as a statement, or maybe she just wanted to look like a hippie. Clarence didn't know which and didn't feel comfortable asking her.
He looked up from staring at a smudge on the toe of his tennis shoes. His right knee bounced as he said, "My stepfather says that sometimes when somethin' happens."
Her training kicked in. "Does your stepfather hit you? Have you ever felt threatened?"
Clarence shook his head. While her words were soft and imploring, Rod's voice was more forceful. Besides, he'd heard his stepfather's words for much longer.
"Have you ever had thoughts of hurting yourself?" She asked.
Of course, he had, but he knew that saying so would start some serious shit he didn't want to fool with. "No, of course not," he lied.
And then the framed diplomas caught his eye. He read the names "Belmont College," "Vanderbilt University," a certificate of membership in "Phi Beta Kappa," and something that wasn't a diploma, "Licensed Clinical Social Worker." Her name was printed somewhere on all the pieces of paper, "Roberta Black."
As you would expect from a therapist who also doubled as the "health" teacher, the school counselor dressed conservatively, except for the headband. Her black knit dress had a high collar, and her mascara and lipstick were understated.
The "health" classes included personal hygiene and sex education, but nothing too specific. The principal wanted to keep those classes under the radar as much as possible. The counselor played her part well, believing teenagers needed information about their bodies to make decisions that could impact the rest of their lives. She didn't use film strips, language, or pictures that would draw an uptight parent's attention.
"Clarence," she continued.
"Skid, please. Everyone calls me Skid."
"All right, Skid."
"It's a nickname my friends gave me." He said with a smile, "Maybe I'll tell you the story someday."
"Oh, okay," the counselor said. "It has nothing to do with gym class and underwear, does it?"
"Surprisingly," Skid said. "No."
She nodded and looked up from the form she'd filled out as they talked. "I'm new here, but I want you to know I've met all the other teachers and most of the students who will need my help," she stopped, and then added, "My help with college applica-"
"I haven't made up my mind about college," he interrupted.
She tried again. "It's just that since you'll be graduating soo- "
"All right, Miss Black. I said I'll think about it," Skid interrupted again, changing his tone so the words sounded more like he was flirting. He couldn't help himself. She looked like a young Ingrid Bergman in his favorite film, [RO1] Casablanca. Of course, she was too old for him now. She looked twenty-five, maybe even twenty-six. "Ancient" in his mind.
"Good," she said. "Thinking is good."
"One thing's for sure, I'm gettin' the hell out of here."
Bookcases lined the north wall of her office, but the shelves were mostly empty. Several framed pictures of whom Skid could only guess might be family members sat on an eye-level shelf. She didn't wear a wedding ring, so he assumed she wasn't married.
"I'll need a hall p-"
She had already removed a small pad and pulled a pen from behind her ear. She wrote with an exaggerated flourish at the end of the sentence as if she were conducting a symphony and had signaled to the musicians the last note.
"Here, just give it to your homeroom teach-"
"Mr. Salman," Skid interrupted.
"Yes, Mr. Salman," she said as she tore off the slip of paper and slid it across the desk.
Skid stood and picked up the note.
"My grandmother was Japanese, and when something bad happened, she always said, 'Nana korobi ya oki.'"
"And what does that mean?"
"Literally: seven falls, eight getting up," she said, smiling.
Skid thought, "So, I am worth killin'." But he knew that was the one thing he couldn't tell her.
The bell signaling it was time to change classrooms rang. Skid glanced up at the clock and nodded in agreement. In life, he'd found, timing was everything.
Skid stepped through the open door. He glanced at the piece of plastic with the former counselor's name still embossed in white on black.
"I hope you get a new nameplate here," he said, pointing to the door.
She nodded and pulled a notebook from under a pile of papers. "I'm workin' on it."
***
Skid shifted his books and notebook from his left arm to his right. He nodded at friends who passed him in the hallway. The floors were black linoleum tiles, and just the past summer, painters had painted the cinderblock walls above the gray lockers white. A faint smell of drying paint and disinfectant was in the air as he moved from the west end of the two-story building to the east. He smelled dust in the air. As he passed the physical science lab, he got a whiff of ozone from what he could assume was an electrical experiment.
The students dressed in the fashion of the day. It was high-waisted bellbottom jeans with matching, long-sleeved, colorful tops for most girls. The boys wore long-sleeved shirts, some buttoned to the top, and bell bottoms. Jackets and sweaters were deposited in lockers, indicating their rank in different sports teams. Skid didn't play sports, and while he and his mother had conferred on most of his fashion choices, now he was on his own. So matching colors and textures took on a more casual theme.
There were three competing fragrances in the air as the students passed Skid. Many boys wore English Leather or Aramis aftershave, though most were not shaving regularly. And the girl's popular choice was Jean Naté.
Skid stopped in front of his assigned locker, stuck his hand into his jeans pocket, and pulled out a ring with two keys. One was for the house, and the other was for the silver padlock guarding his books and papers.
The swirl of students surrounding him bore evidence of how overcrowded the school had become over the past decade. Battleboro grew, with dozens of new families moving into the city daily. As a result, subdivisions with hundreds of houses were popping up on the outskirts of town like weeds. The school capacity was set at one thousand students twenty years ago. Currently, over twenty-five hundred attended. The city had commissioned two new high schools to serve those subdivisions.
Politicians debated the future use of the current high school, demolishing the decades-old building or finding a new service for it. That decision would happen next semester, and Skid's concern focused on the next few months and not much else. Today. The crowd jostling you like a leaf in the wind was just part of the education experience for the last graduating class at Mid-Town High.
Skid slid his books into the locker and reached for the biology book on the top shelf. It was his favorite subject, followed by English, with Algebra coming in dead last. Nevertheless, his grades were above average, except for a "D" in math. While he managed most of his subjects easily, he was most interested in English. He loved reading and had read most of the classic novels in the library. Mr. Salman led that class, and Skid was one of his most attentive students.
He turned and bumped into Dee Dee's shoulder. She was tall with long hair parted in the middle, bell-bottom jeans, and a knit top that showed her belly when she reached up. The school dress code outlawed this kind of shirt, but Dee Dee figured out how to make it look longer around teachers.
She was in Skid's English class, and he sat one row over. They'd met in first grade and bonded like a brother and sister. Skid swore there were times when they could read each other's minds. She was a lifelong friend, and he needed all the friends he could get.
"Watch it, Skid," she said. She had "ping-ponged" into him by the rush of students passing by them.
"You better watch it," Skid said. He smiled, hoping his joke would land and not be an insult.
Dee Dee giggled. "You're the one who better watch it," she said as she playfully punched his shoulder.
"Goin' to Biology?"
"Yep, let's scoot, Skid."
They peeled off from the flow of students still trying to navigate the crowded hall and ended up next to each other in the biology lab. Frog dissection day was next week. Skid hated the thought of cutting into the tiny carcass, but he had no choice. And the smell, yikes.
Mrs. Jenkins entered the lab in a long, white cotton coat and placed her briefcase on the desk. She was Skid's second Black teacher in his twelve years of education. She stood around five feet tall and sported an upswept hairstyle. She wore little makeup, but her eyes, her best feature, emitted warmth and kindness. She understood when he turned in papers and assignments late and always gave him extra time. "You've got a lot on your plate now, Skid. I want you to know that I'll work with you. I want you to do well."
The lab had ten black marble-topped tables with two students assigned to each one. Mrs. Jenkins glanced around the room, nodded to both the left and right, and picked up a stick of chalk.
"D-N-A," she said as she wrote. "First discovered by Swiss researcher Friedrich Miescher in 1869. Recently described by James Watson and Francis Crick as a double helix. Can anyone tell me what that is?"
Dee Dee didn't raise her hand, and neither did Skid. He'd failed to read the assignment. It was one of those nights, but I didn't know why she would shy away from answering. Dee Dee was the smartest kid in the class.
Jacob French, thin and Black with a puff of an Afro, answered without Mrs. Jenkins calling on him. "Deoxyribonucleic acid presents itself as a spiral of information that determines living beings' character and physical traits."
"That sounds like the definition in the book, Jacob," Mrs. Jenkins said, "break it down for me a bit more."
"Well," Jacob began, "all molecules have different information, and that's what makes my eyes brown and your eyes green."
"True. What else does D-N-A determine? Skid?"
His mind had wandered a bit during the discussion. He finally put together the scientific fact that people's skin color was determined by their genetic makeup. "I'm not sure what you're going after."
"Can D-N-A determine more than just physical traits?" The teacher asked.
Skid paused and said, "I think it can be seen in physical and mental traits."
"And what makes you say that?" Mrs. Jenkins asked.
Because, he thought for a moment, my mother had green eyes, and so do I. Also, my mother was right-handed, and I am too. Before he had a chance to speak.
"Can you roll your tongue?" The teacher asked. She stuck out her tongue and rolled it into a red tube.
Skid stuck out his tongue and mimicked the teacher. "Yep, sure can," came out weird and juicy.
"That ability is just one kind of character trait passed down from generation to generation."
Skid nodded and said, "I get it."
Mrs. Jenkins turned back to the chalkboard and drew the DNA double helix.
Skid glanced at Jacob as he took notes. He'd never noticed just how pale his hands' palms were compared to his dark arms and face.
Dee Dee put her pencil behind her ear and whispered, "Hey, do you think the frog we're going to cut up could roll his tongue?"
Skid took a deep breath and looked down at his notebook to avoid laughing. He considered thinking about something sad, like his mother's death. But instead, he just scraped his thumb's cuticle with his forefinger.
Dee Dee put her pencil behind her ear and whispered, "Hey, do you think the frog we're going to cut up could roll his tongue?"
Skid took a deep breath and looked down at his notebook to avoid laughing. He considered thinking about something sad, like his mother's death. But instead, he just scraped his thumb's cuticle with his forefinger.