Mom used to tuck me in at night. Now I tuck her in. The bed smells like perfume plus coffee mixed with today’s Los Angeles Times. A headline peeks up from under the covers: “Ford Pardons Nixon.”
“Tomorrow’s the first day of school,” I say.
Mom’s face crinkles up like she forgot.
“Do you have everything you need?”
Good time to ask. Bullock’s closed an hour ago.
“Dad took me shopping. I got new jeans. Went up a size.”
She smiles her rubber-band smile. It stretches, but it doesn’t curl.
There’s nothing worse than losing a child. That’s what all the people said when they crowded into our house for a whole week last May. They came with pink bakery boxes and cold cuts from Art’s Deli. They all had more or less the same thing to say.
We can’t imagine what you’re going through.
A parent’s worst nightmare.
Buzzer words, I call them. If life were a game show, a buzzer would go off every time someone said them.
If there’s anything Eleanor and I can do.
Bzzz.
Thank God you still have Charlie.
Bzzz.
You could sue, you know.
Triple bzzz.
There’s nothing worse than losing a child.
It must be true. She hasn’t said Andy’s name since he died.
“Good night, Mom.”
“Good night, honey.”
She hasn’t said mine, either.
Armstrong
“You ever been to the Hollywood Hills?”
“I’ve been to Hollywood Boulevard. Daddy and I took you and the girls once to the Chinese Theatre.”
“I remember I stepped in somebody’s footprints.”
“Jack Benny’s. And I put my hands in Clark Gable’s handprints. The ladies’ were too small for me.”
“Whose idea was it to send me to a new school?”
“Your daddy came up with it first. But I agreed.”
“Sisters staying put?”
“Not as many spots for junior high and high school.”
“You think those white kids want us to come?”
One thing about Mama, she will never tell me a lie.
“Some maybe do. Some probably don’t.”
“’Cause we’re different?”
“Yeah. But you’re also the same.”
“How are we the same?”
“All starting sixth grade. All turning twelve. Going through the same changes.”
I shrug my shoulder to say I’m not so sure. Also to get the covers off so maybe she’ll remember to scratch my back!
A cool breeze comes as Mama lifts my shirt. Her nails do lazy eights down my spine.
“You know, you’re not the only one getting on that bus. Otis is going. Alma and Dezzy, too.”
“Otis?”
“Yep.”
“He’s always talking about astrology.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s stupid, Mama. Like your birthday’s got something to do with who you are.”
“It’s just a hobby, is all. Some people believe it.”
“Well, I don’t. Keep scratching.”
She does for a few seconds.
“Come on, now. Otis is all right.”
“I guess.”
“You will be too, Armstrong.”
It’s quiet, and I wonder who she’s trying to convince.
“I just hope those white kids keep an open mind,” I say.
“Why, are you going to teach them something?”
“Somebody’s got to.”
Mama’s hand stops. “You know, Armstrong, it’s not just an opportunity to change schools. It’s to change ways, too.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Six fights in fourth grade. Five in fifth. It doesn’t always have to be Armstrong against the world.”
That’s gonna depend, I think, if it’s the world against Armstrong.
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About the Author
Author photo by Sophie Frank
STEVEN B. FRANK is the author of Armstrong & Charlie, which Kirkus Reviews called “deeply moving and laugh-out-loud funny” in a starred review. He is also a beloved middle school teacher at Le Lycée Français de Los Angeles, where his students often intentionally misbehave because he punishes them with fun writing topics.
Learn more at www.stevenbfrank.com
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