“Opportunity Busing, it’s called. You got the last spot.”
“I see,” I say. “And what time in the morning will my alarm clock have the opportunity to ring?”
“Five thirty. Bus comes at six fifteen.”
All five of my big sisters bust up. Lenai, who hardly ever smiles, is laughing. Cecily the Dreamer, always lost in the drawings she does, looks up from her sketchbook, laughing. Charmaine, boy crazy and bull stubborn, is laughing. Nika and Ebony, identical twins born a year before me, who like to fool the world as to who is who, are laughing. All five of them are laughing. Laughing at me.
Last year I got to sleep till seven. They know I need my beauty rest.
“What’s the name of this school?” I ask.
“Wonderland.”
“Wonderland? You’re sending me to a school called Wonderland?”
“What difference does it make what it’s called?” Daddy says in a tone like a loaded gun.
“It’s the difference,” I say, “between a boy who gets jumped and one who gets left alone. Can you see me stepping off that bus at the end of the day? Kids around here be all, Yo, Armstrong, we hear you’re going to a new school. That’s right. What’s it called? Wonderland. Wonderland? Say, Alice, what’s it like down that hole?”
“That’s exactly why we’re sending you. To get away from ignorance like that.”
“Well, I’m not going,” I say, arms locked across my chest. You got to be firm with people. Especially parents.
Blam! Daddy’s fist comes down hard on the table. That’s my cue to jump up and run. I’ve got the advantage when I’m on my feet ’cause he left the one leg in Korea.
“Armstrong, sit down on this chair!”
Daddy picks up the chair, slams it to the floor. Crack.
“Ain’t no chair now, Daddy. It’s a three-legged stool.”
“Isn’t a chair. And that’s nothing some wood glue and a clamp can’t fix.”
I squat on that three-legged stool like I’m in a public toilet afraid to make contact with the seat. Start praying for this to be a short talk.
“Did Rosa Parks give up her seat on the bus?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why are you so quick to give up yours?”
There he goes again, bringing up some hero of black history. Every time I sass him, he throws back a legend in my face. How am I supposed to grow up brave like Jackie Robinson, wise like Thurgood Marshall, or strong like Mohammad Ali when they’re all looking down at me from Daddy’s high shelf?
My legs wobble and burn. I can only catch every third word.
Courage . . . country . . . pride.
In the shine of the toaster, the future movie star starts to sweat.
Change . . . chance . . . pushups.
Pushups?
“No, sir, no pushups for me. I heard everything you said.”
“Then you’ll go to Wonderland?”
“Yes, sir. I will follow the White Rabbit down the hole.”
“Good. Now hop along and do your chores.”
I should’ve run while I had the chance.
Charlie
The leading cause of death for kids between ten and fourteen is unintentional injuries. Freak accidents like getting hit by a car, riding your bike off a cliff, or sticking a fork in a light socket. With statistics like those, why am I sitting in a tree?
Andy called it our Thinking Tree. Its botanical name is acacia, which is what Dad called its twin that blew over once in a storm.
“Boys,” he said, firing up his chain saw, “I’m going to need a little help bundling up the acacia.” Andy and I had been playing Battleship on his bedroom floor. We looked out the window and saw this massive tree lying in the yard. It had fallen all the way to the front door. “I’ll cut up the branches. You bundle and drag them to the curb.” Dad tossed Andy a ball of twine. “And remember, boys, do a man’s job.”
We were boys and men in one breath. Andy put on his ski mask, goggles, parka, and gloves. I wore shorts and a tennis shirt. By nighttime I was squirting Bactine over my arms and legs, Andy was wheezing from an allergy attack, and Mom was combing tiny green bugs from our hair. Tree bugs, we called them. The next morning I found one up my nose.
From the fifth branch of my Thinking Tree, I can see the streetlight by our house. It hasn’t come on yet, so I’ll sit here and watch until it does. Any time you see the streetlight come on, Andy always said, you’re guaranteed good luck the next day.
I wonder why all my friends are changing schools. Do their parents know something mine don’t, like we’re getting a new principal who’ll double the homework and cut the field trips in half? Have all the good teachers gotten better jobs someplace else? Or is there a toxic substance leaking into the water supply, and all the kids who stay at Wonderland will die from accidental poisoning?
Last year in the United States, more than six hundred kids died from accidental poisoning.
Dad’s Vespa comes rumbling home from the Mulholland Tennis Club. He’s been spending most of his free time up there, playing tennis or gin rummy with his friends. On weekends especially, he’ll finish breakfast and say, “Well, I’m going up to the Club.” And he vanishes on the Vespa.
The garage door wheezes up. He backs the Vespa into its slot, then steps onto the driveway.
Everything about my dad makes a big sound. He’s got Paul Bunyan feet that rattle the walls when he comes downstairs. When he chews a sandwich, you can hear the lettuce crunch. Even his keys sound like heavy chains.
“Hey there, Dad,” I call down from my branch.
“Charlie,” he says, looking up at the tree.
Some kids have dads who are dictionaries. Mine’s all twenty-two volumes of the World Book Encyclopedia in one brain. Whenever there’s something I need to know, I look it up in my dad.
“How come nobody’s going to Wonderland this year?”
“You’re going
