any questions.
She turns on the radio instead.
It’s reporting about all the fights
that broke out in school hallways today,
and the determination of white parents
to start their own segregated school district,
about the spirit of protest
that has taken Houston by storm
ever since black students
at a local university
pelted police officers
with bottles and rocks
for forcefully breaking up
a student demonstration
in Emancipation Park.
My God, Aunt Bee says.
The whole world’s
lost its marbles.
I listen and watch the green fields
outside the window. That’s when
I see something I didn’t notice
this morning when the world
was still mostly dark.
In the middle of a field
there is a tree, tall and wide and full;
the wind is twisting its branches
and tearing its leaves and
bending it near in two,
and the tree can’t do
anything about it.
It just moves where
the wind takes it.
We are all like that tree, I think.
Bent near in two
by the world.
NEXT
A whole week of school
and it’s more of the same.
Sit alone. Walk alone.
Don’t speak.
I hate this place.
I see the boy I pushed down
twice every day, at lunch
and in the hallway, going
back to class. He must be
a fifth grader, too, just a
really small one, seeing as
we have the same lunch period.
He carries his food in a brown bag
and sits at a table
with boys and girls
who look like him.
He’s always watching me.
He’s either scared or curious.
I don’t know which it is,
since I can’t ever find the
nerve to look in his eyes.
It’s not for the reasons
you might think, either.
Something must be wrong with me.
Charlie would say I’m
being dramatic.
But I don’t feel bad for what I did,
pushing him down. I feel
like I could do it again.
And what makes it worse
is that he is one of the kids
the people protesting out front
say shouldn’t be here.
Do I believe them, deep down?
I didn’t think I did,
but what about my actions?
I’m afraid of what comes next.
DESK
Mr. Langley remembers me when
I walk through the door,
but he only talks for a minute.
There are other kids coming in, too,
and they all want to talk to him.
Small easels sit on all the desks
in the room, along with
watercolor rectangles, a cup of water,
and four paintbrushes.
Paper is clipped onto the easels.
I walk to a desk
in the back corner.
It’s not until class has started
and Mr. Langley holds up a
vase of flowers and says
we need to paint what we see
that I notice who is closest
to me. It’s Greg, the boy
I pushed down.
PAINT
I try to focus on my painting,
but it’s hard. Greg keeps
looking over and
whispering, Wow,
loud enough for me
to hear it.
I steal a few glances
at his painting,
but it’s not good.
Not even a little bit.
I paint different colors
than the ones on the vase
Mr. Langley put on his desk.
Blues and blacks and reds
that don’t look as dark as
I’d like them to, since
we’re using watercolors.
When Mr. Langley walks by,
he stops and stares. Interesting
color choice, Paulie, he says
before he moves away.
I keep dipping and swirling
until the bell rings,
until most of the kids
leave the room, until it’s just
me and Greg and Mr. Langley.
MOTHER
Greg puts his brushes and watercolors away
before I do and walks toward
Mr. Langley. He points behind him.
He’s really good, he says.
Mr. Langley nods.
I know, he says.
A hot wind climbs up my neck.
These are nice words
from a boy I hurt, and they burn.
I don’t deserve them.
How are you holding up?
Mr. Langley says.
Greg shrugs.
The signs out front
are ugly, he says.
It’ll die down, Mr. Langley says.
Eventually they’ll get
used to integration.
He clears his throat and
tilts his head. No one’s
hurt you, have they?
That’s what I’m concerned
about—the violence.
I hold my breath,
but Greg shakes his head.
They mostly act like
I’m not even here.
Well. Mr. Langley puts a hand
on Greg’s shoulder and walks him
toward the door.
He says something real quiet,
like maybe he doesn’t
want me to hear.
At the door, he says,
How’s your mother?
I don’t even hear Greg’s answer,
being as my blood starts shouting
in my ears. My hands clench,
and I have to concentrate real hard
to keep them from ripping
the paper in front of me.
Why do some get to have mothers
and others don’t?
FRIEND
Paulie. I jump.
Mr. Langley is right
beside me, pointing
at the flowers on my paper.
Why did you change
them? he says.
I look at the picture.
I guess I wasn’t paying attention.
Instead of the lilies
Mr. Langley has in his vase,
I painted tulips.
Mama’s favorite.
I shrug and look away.
I can feel Mr. Langley’s
eyes on me, like he knows
why I did it and he didn’t really
need to ask me
at all.
But how could
he know?
Would you like to help me
with something after school? he says.
He waves his hand at some
crates beside me. In them
are cans of spray paint
in all different colors.
What is it? I say.
It’s the first time I’ve spoken
in a class since the
school year began.
You’ll see, he says,
smiling so the skin around his eyes
wrinkles like crumpled paper.
Okay, I say.
I’ll just have to let
Aunt Bee know.
Come as soon as the
bell rings, he says,
like he
already knows
what Aunt Bee will say.
I walk down the hall,
counting the hours
until the school day ends.
BUILDING
When the bell finally rings
and Aunt Bee waves me
out her office door, I meet Mr. Langley
outside the art room.
He’s holding the crate
of spray paint.
Follow me, he says.
He takes me to a building
behind the school,
an old one that might have
once been red, but I can’t
tell for sure.
It’s mostly brown now.
Mr. Langley walks around
to the side that faces the street.
The sun is hot and bright.
We’ll paint the whole thing, he says.
But we’ll save this side for last.
Today? I say, being as it’s a
really big building for
painting in a day.
Mr. Langley laughs.
It’s a nice laugh, not too loud,
one that comes from down
deep in his belly. No, he says.
It will take us lots of days.
We’re supposed to paint
a mural on each side.
I wonder why he wants me
to help him with something
like this. Something that will
be here forever. Something
the whole school will see.
Why? I say, but it must not
come out quite right,
since he doesn’t
give me the whole
answer I want.
Your aunt wants to make
this building pretty again, he says.
It used to be. And then . . .
His face turns darker
and real sad. He turns away,
like whatever’s inside isn’t
something he ever
wants to see again.
GOOD
What’s in there? I say.
He looks at me for a long time.
Maintenance supplies, he says.
He walks to the back
of the building, where we
left the crate. We’ll paint
the front and back together,
he says. But I thought we could
each take a side and
see what happens.
Why me? I say.
Mr. Langley picks up a purple can
and a blue can from the crate.
Because Greg thinks
you’re good, he says.
He grins. And so do I.
I’m so shocked I don’t find
more words before Mr. Langley says,
Pick your colors, and then
disappears to his own side.
START
I stand there staring at the colors
for such a long time, not knowing
what to choose, that Mr. Langley
pokes his head out again.
Need help? he says.
I just don’t know what to do, I say.
I don’t know where to start.
Mr. Langley walks back to the paints,
puts his down into the missing slots.
He squeezes my shoulder.
Sometimes the hardest place
is the starting line, he says.
I think he might be
talking about more
than just the painting.
It’s the way he’s looking at me,
like he knows all the questions
I’ve asked myself since my
daddy left and my mama ran off.
I follow him back to his side,
to see what he’s doing.
A big YOU stands blue
against the brown, and
right beside it, CAN is
written in purple.
He holds the new spray can
up for a minute, and then he
paints over the words
with orange.
I walk back to my side,
stopping to pick up the green.
I paint what my hands want,
and even though I’ve never
done this with a can of spray paint,
something starts to take shape
in front of me. I only get half
the green grass done before
it’s time to go.
But I know I can start now,
seeing as how I already have.
I help Mr. Langley carry the paint
back to his classroom, even though
he doesn’t really need my help.
We walk down
the hall together, toward
Aunt Bee.
TRUTH
Aunt Bee sends me
into her office, where
Charlie is waiting.
She says she needs to talk
with Mr. Langley in private.
Me and Charlie hear them
talking in their low voices,
and we don’t even have to
look at each other to know
it’s time to sit still and listen.
You didn’t tell him,
Aunt Bee says.
No, Mr. Langley says.
I don’t want him to know.
Not yet, Aunt Bee says.
We’ll give it some time.
I know, Mr. Langley says.
For a second, I think
they’re talking about Mama,
and I feel anger blowing
like a hot breath across my face.
Then Aunt Bee says, He’s got
enough to burden his mind
without knowing the truth
about that building, and I feel
like someone knocked me
clean off my feet.
CRY
They’re quiet for a minute
before Mr. Langley says,
Paulie says you paint?
My heart beats hard
against my chest. I didn’t know
I wasn’t supposed to tell.
before she can get mad at me.
Aunt Bee doesn’t answer
before Mr. Langley says,
I don’t know why you
couldn’t tell me, and
something about his voice—
the way it holds all the
disappointment and hurt
and sadness in the world—
makes me and Charlie
look at each other.
Her eyes are wide.
After all— he starts to say,
but Aunt Bee interrupts him.
I don’t paint anymore, she says.
Her voice is weak, like
something is stuck in her throat.
She isn’t telling the truth.
Me and Charlie always sneak
in her room when she’s
gone to the post office.
Those canvas stacks get bigger,
mostly pictures of Mama
and Granddad and
especially my daddy.
They don’t say anything for so long
that me and Charlie get up and
look out the door Aunt Bee
forgot to close behind her.
Mr. Langley is still there,
and his arms wrap all the way
around Aunt Bee. She’s shaking.
I could count on one hand
how many times I’ve seen
Aunt Bee cry.
1. The night those lights
shone red and blue
through the rain.
2. The day she stood up
to talk at my daddy’s funeral
and she choked on
the word brother.
3. Today.
KNOWING
When I can finally move,
I walk bac
k to my chair.
I have so many questions
I don’t even know where to start.
Charlie whispers, He loves her.
And she loves him.
It’s something I never thought about,
but I see now how it explains everything.
That day I told him she could paint,
and he left without talking to her,
like it changed something for him.
The way her eyes watched him
the day she introduced us.
The ghost in his voice today.
I don’t know if I like
knowing this, though,
since knowing just adds
more questions.
WEB
On the way in to school this morning,
I stopped to watch a spider in the grass,
held up by a web, where a thousand
drops of dew made the whole thing
look like a piece of Bubble Wrap
my daddy used to pop with me.
This morning I thought
it was something pretty enough
to stop and see, but now I know
it was a picture of me.
I am a spider stuck in a web,
surrounded by dewdrop questions.
Every move I make
sends answers I don’t like
splashing deep enough
to drown me.
FORGIVENESS
Mr. Langley told me we’d only
be painting on Mondays,
so I have to find something else to do
every other day of the week.
I don’t like waiting for Charlie
to get off the school bus
or sitting in Aunt Bee’s office,
so I’ve taken to exploring the streets
around the school.
I don’t tell Aunt Bee.
She doesn’t do things
like Mama did them.
Daddy told me once
it’s better to ask for
forgiveness than permission.
STREET
The roads are always quiet,
since not too many students
live in these houses near the school.
Most of the people I pass are old,
walking their dogs
in the same bent-over way.
They smile at me and say hello,
even though I don’t know them.
I always stop to pet their dogs.
I don’t usually turn on
any other streets, but today
I take only one right and one left,
so I’ll remember the
way back.
The houses down this street
are chipped and crumbling.
They look like my old house.
A kid shouts from
somewhere up ahead,
so I follow the sound.
When I get closer, I see