The Jacket Read online

  Walking beside the fence, kicking astone ahead of him, Phil kept on thinking.But Mom giving something to Lucy, that was different, right? Because it’s not like Lucy was begging, and it isn’t like Mom was trying to make herself feel all rich and grand or make Lucy feel small and poor. Because Mom was just trying to be nice, right? And there’s nothing wrong with that. There can’t be anything wrong with being kind, can there?

  A burst of laughter came from the other side of the playground, and Phil turned to look. Six black kids, all fourth and fifth graders, all boys. No one was looking his way, but Phil still had the feeling they had been laughing at him. But was it true, or was it just his imagination?

  A gust of wind made his eyes water, and he zipped his coat up under his chin. And still looking at the black kids, Phil recognized one of them, theone with his hands jammed into his pockets and his shoulders hunched up against the cold.

  He recognized the kid who wasn’t wearing a jacket.

  Part III

  CLOSE TOHOME

  Now that he was in sixth grade, Phil walked home from school after basketball practice. It was only six blocks. Sometimes he walked home with a friend or two, sometimes on his own. And on the days when it wasn’t pouring rain or bitterly cold, he enjoyed it. He liked to take his time getting home, sometimes going a block or two out of his way to walk through the little shopping area near his house. If he hadsome money, he’d stop and buy gum, or maybe a doughnut. And he always liked just looking around, letting his mind wander along with his eyes.But walking home by himself this particular Thursday afternoon, Phil felt like he’d never seen this part of the city before. Everywhere he looked, he saw white people.

  He saw moms driving cars full of kids home from school. White moms and white kids. He saw the neat row houses with tiny front yards where kids had dropped their sleds and little shovels after it snowed last week. Their snowmen and snow forts were half melted now. Phil thought back to spring and summer, when all the little kids had been outside playing. And he tried to remember seeing an African American kid. And he couldn’t.

  There were larger homes too. Homes with real driveways and garages andsmall lawns, some of them surrounded with fancy iron fences. This time of year, in addition to theBEWARE OF DOGsigns and the security system notices, the fences were decorated with red ribbons and Christmas wreaths.

  Phil looked around as he walked, and he tried to think if any black families lived anywhere in his neighborhood. And he couldn’t think of one. Not one family. Not ever.

  Phil turned at the corner of Belden Street so he could walk through the shopping area. The small trees that lined the street were covered with blinking lights, and the storefronts and shop windows were decorated for Christmas. The sidewalks were busier than usual—not crowded, but still there were lots of people. Lots of white people.

  Not everyone was white, of course. Phil saw a few Asian people, womenmostly, dressed nicely, carrying shopping bags. Plus some Asian kids, junior high school girls. And he saw a high school boy who might have been Hispanic. It was hard to tell.

  There were some black people in the shopping area too, but not many. Phil counted as he walked along. He saw four black people—one man and three women. The man was driving a bus, but Phil counted him anyway.

  None of the black women on the sidewalks looked like they had been shopping today, no bags or packages. They weren’t browsing, weren’t looking in the store windows. They all looked like they were going somewhere. Somewhere else. In fact, two of the black women were waiting at a bus stop, waiting to get on a bus—to go somewhere else. Just like the black kids at school. And Phil thought,I can tell those women don’t live close by. Theyjust don’t look like they belong here.

  And Phil heard himself. He heard himself thinking that thought.They just don’t look like they belong here.

  Phil stopped so suddenly that a man behind him on the sidewalk almost knocked him down.

  “Whoa!” the man said. “Sorry there, young fella. You all right?”

  Phil nodded absently and said, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  But it wasn’t true. Phil wasn’t all right. He stood on the sidewalk, staring as the two women got onto their bus. And he thought,This morning, what if Daniel had been a white kid? Would I have grabbed him like that? If he had looked like he belonged in that jacket, would I have said he stole it?

  The bus pulled away from the curb, and Phil started walking again. Turning a corner, he looked up and saw his own reflection in a shopwindow.He saw a white kid. A white kid who looked like he belonged here.

  Phil turned away from the window. He began to run, and he didn’t stop until he got home.

  When his mom opened the front door at five fifteen, Phil was waiting for her.“How come you never told me I was prejudiced?”

  His mom set a grocery bag on the floor and looked at him. “What? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m prejudiced. I am, and you never told me.”

  “Who says you’re prejudiced? Somebody call you that?”

  “No, but it’s true. I know what it means because we learned about it on Martin Luther King Day. It means you don’t like black people.”

  “All right,” his mom said, “justhold it right there. Let me get my coat off, then come into the kitchen with me and tell me what this is all about.”

  So as his mom started making dinner Phil sat on a stool at the tall counter and told her what had happened at school. When he got to the part in the principal’s office when Daniel threw the jacket down, she clucked her tongue and said, “Poor dear—he must have felt so embarrassed.”

  Then Phil told about walking home. “No black people live around here, Mom. None. And when I saw these black ladies in front of the bakery, like, waiting for a bus, I said to myself, ‘They don’t belong here’—just like that. LikeIbelong here because I’m white, andtheydon’t because they’re black. So that’s prejudiced, right? I’m prejudiced, and I didn’t even know it.”

  Standing at the stove, his mom said,“But you’re not prejudiced, honey. Stop saying that.”

  Phil shook his head. “But it’s true. I think I am.”

  “Well, take it from me, you’re not. It’s all in your imagination. You’re not prejudiced. You’re just a kid, and you’re a good kid, too. You had this problem with another boy, and the boy happens to be black. That’s all. And we live in a part of town where it’s mostly white people. Tell me this, did you choose to live here?”

  “No.”

  “See? You’ve got nothing to do with it. Did you even choose to be white? Is that your fault?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Exactly. Now, stop worrying about this and set the table. But first go wash your hands, and knock on Juliana’s door and tell her to come help me get the supper on.”

  Phil started to climb off the stool, and then stopped. “How come you gave Lucy that jacket?”

  “Because it’s a perfectly good jacket, and Jimmy didn’t want it, and I knew Lucy had a grandson who might fit it.”

  “You knew Lucy had a grandson?”

  “Sure, I knew.”

  “And you didn’t give it to her because she’s poor and black?”

  “No, of course not. Your old blue blazer from fourth grade? I just gave that to Mickey Colter’s mom, and you know they’re not poor, and they’re not black, either. When you have something nice to share, you share. Besides, Lucy’s my friend.”

  Phil nodded. “Only, not really your friend, right?”

  His mom looked at him sternly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean, if she’s really a friend,then, like, you’d go to the movies with her sometimes, right? Or have her over for dinner with her family, or maybe go bowling, like with you and Mrs. Donato?”

  His mom tilted her head, choosing her words carefully. “Well . . . right. Lucy’s not that kind of a friend, not really a close friend. More like someone you know at work.”

  “So . . . have you ever had a friend
who’s black—I mean, a close friend?”

  “No, not really.”

  “How come?”

  “It just never happened, that’s all.”

  “Maybe it’s because you’re prejudiced too, like . . . like me, and you didn’t know it. Like me.”

  “For the last time, Philip, you arenotprejudiced. Now, just forget about it and go get your sister to come down here. Right now.”

  Phil knew that tone of voice. Itmeant “end of discussion.” He got off the stool and was going out the doorway when his mom said, “And Philip, let’s not talk about this to your dad.”

  He turned around and looked at her. “Why?”

  “Because it’ll just upset him, that’s all.”

  “How come?”

  “Because I know your father, and it just will, that’s all.”

  Phil shrugged, then turned and headed for the stairway.

  He didn’t ask “How come?” again. He didn’t have to.

  He was pretty sure he knew why his dad would get upset. There was only one answer Phil could think of:It has to be because Dad is . . . prejudiced—like me.

  Part IV

  FORGETABOUTIT

  Friday morning was cold, complete with rain and sleet driven by a stiff west wind. It was the kind of day when Phil rode the school bus. He didn’t ride that often, so he was looking forward to it.Climbing the steps, he smiled at the driver. Then he turned and looked for a seat. He saw one near the back, but scanning the bus, he also saw something else.This whole bus is white kids. Only white kids! No, ’causethere’s Julie Chin, and she’s not white. But she’s not black. No black kids on my bus, not one.

  Phil had done pretty well until he got on the bus. Because he’d been trying to forget about everything that had happened on Thursday. That’s what his mom had said he should do. She’d said, “Forget about it.” So he’d tried. Because during dinner and most of Thurday night it was all he could think about, about his being white. And about feeling prejudiced. But he hadn’t said anything more about it, because his mom had said he shouldn’t. Especially not to his dad. “Forget about it.”

  But looking around, Phil tried to imagine what it would be like for Daniel if he were on this bus right now. Would that make Daniel feel weird?Or how about if I was on Daniel’s bus right now? What wouldthatbe like?

  Because Phil knew that Daniel’s bus was practically all black kids. And the part of town where Daniel’s bus was coming from, it had to be almost the opposite from his, right? Like, only black families and no white families. And Phil thought,You can figure out a lot just from looking around a bus.

  Phil would have kept thinking about it, but his friend Lee poked him on the shoulder and said, “Hey, Phil, what’d you get on that social studies test?”

  So for the rest of the short ride to school Phil and Lee talked about how boring social studies was and how stupid it was to have to learn about Ancient Egypt. Except for the Pyramids. Plus mummies and treasure and junk like that. That part was okay.

  Phil was glad to keep talking. For about five minutes it helped him forget about all that other stuff. But aftergetting off the bus, he walked up the front steps and into the school, then turned left to go to his locker. And as he passed the big windows of the office he glanced to his right. And he saw something that made everything come crashing back into his head—the jacket, hanging there on the coatrack outside Mrs. Cormier’s office. Jimmy’s jacket. Then he thought,No, it’s Daniel’s jacket.

  There was no way Phil could avoid going past the office during his day. Hurrying to math for first period, as he came to the big windows he looked down at the floor and counted ten footsteps before he looked up again.On his way back to art class he pretended the office wasn’t there. He turned his head to the left and admired the plaques and posters on the opposite wall.

  Going to the library for third-period reading, he studied the pattern on the shirt of the kid in front of him in line. And after library he cut through the auditorium. He told himself it was so he could say hi to Caroline Swanson, who was up on the stage getting ready for music class, but he knew it wasn’t true. He went that way so he wouldn’t have to walk past the office again.

  Then on his way to lunch Phil couldn’t help himself. He sneaked a look through the office window. The jacket was still there.

  Phil had brought a bag lunch. He’d done it on purpose so he could just walk into the cafeteria and go right to his table and sit down and eat. He didn’t want to stand around in the lunch line, just in case.Because Daniel might be looking for me, like he’ll maybe try to embarrass me again. And maybe Daniel talked to all his friendsabout me. Like maybe they’re gonna gang up on me out on the playground. Or maybe Daniel cut out my picture from the yearbook and put it on the Internet, and now everybody in the world knows I’m prejudiced! Except my mom.

  But of course nothing happened at lunch or at recess. Even though he kept a sharp lookout, Phil didn’t spot Daniel once. That made him curious, so after recess he went to his social studies classroom a few minutes early. He walked to the front of the room, and Mr. Linton looked up from the book he was reading, his face lifting into a smile when he saw Phil. “How’s it going, Phil?”

  “Okay.” Phil smiled and put his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual. Mr. Linton waited a second or two to see if Phil had anything else to say, then nodded and turned back to his book.

  Mr. Linton’s desk was messy, but Phil knew what he was looking for. And when he saw it, he knew why he hadn’t seen Daniel at lunch or recess. Daniel was on the absent list.

  Class began, but Phil didn’t hear much of what Mr. Linton was saying. He was remembering Daniel out on the playground yesterday, out in the freezing cold—without a jacket.Jeez! He’s probably sick. He’s probably got something terrible ’cause it was so cold. Like really, really sick. Or he’s at the hospital or something. And if the doctor says “How come you’re so sick?” what’s he gonna say? He’s gonna say it’s all because of me! And what if he . . . what if hedies?Oh, my God! They’re gonna put me in prison! I’m a killer!

  Phil knew his imagination was running away with him. But still, he decided he had to do something.

  • • •

  About ten minutes before the last bell of the day Phil got permission from his English teacher to go to the office. He said there might be a message there from his mom. Which was true. Because theremightbe one. Except Phil knew there wasn’t.He stopped at his locker first and got his backpack, along with his math book and his social studies homework. He also grabbed his gym bag, but he took out his shoes and shirt and shorts and left them in the locker.

  Phil hurried to the office. His timing was perfect. It was that quiet moment right before the end-of-day craziness begins. The principal was already out in front of the school getting ready for the bus loading. It was only Phil and Mrs. Donne in the office. Which was what Phil wanted.

  Stepping toward one end of the long counter, he said, “Can I buy a pencil? I really need one for math ’cause Mrs. Kinnon doesn’t let us use pens.”

  Mrs. Donne sighed and said, “All right. Hang on while I get one out for you.”

  She got up slowly from her desk and walked to the storeroom at the rear of the office. Which was just what Phil knew she would do, because that’s where the school store supplies were kept. And when she went into the storeroom, Phil took a quick step to the left, grabbed the jacket off the coatrack, bent down below the counter, and stuffed it into his unzipped gym bag. When he straightened up, Mrs. Donne was coming back through the storeroom door. Phil’s face was flushed, but he smiledas best he could, and when she laid the pencil on the counter, he handed her fifteen cents, gulped, and said, “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Have a good weekend, dear.”

  “You too.”

  Phil left the office, and as he walked down the stairs and out the door to get on bus number seven, he carefully closed the long zipper on his gym bag.

  Part V

  SO
METHING IN THETONE

  Phil usually slept in on Saturday morning, so his dad was surprised to see him in the kitchen a little before nine.“Early basketball practice today?”

  “Nope. Just couldn’t sleep.” Phil gave a big yawn.

  “Couple’a eggs sound good?”

  “Sure.”

  Phil grabbed a clean glass from the dishwasher, got out the orange juice, poured himself a glass, and sat down.

  His dad liked to cook, and Phil watched as he cracked both eggs, one-handed, against the side of the frying pan. As they started to sizzle in the butter his dad said, “So, how’s the team look this year?”

  “Team looks good. First game’s next week against Regina.”

  “You gonna start?” asked his dad, one eyebrow cocked.

  Phil shook his head. “I don’t think so. There’s another guy who’s taller than I am, and he’s a really good shooter, too. I’m gonna get to play, but I think the coach’ll start him at center instead of me.”

  “This other center—black kid?”

  Phil heard something in the tone of the question. “Yeah—Dennis Hardy.”

  “Figures,” his dad said, flipping first one egg then the other.

  Definitely something in that tone. Phil said, “What d’you mean?”

  His dad shrugged. “I mean, find me a team anywhere in the whole country that’s not mostly blacks, that’s all. And now even golf. Prob’ly bowling next. Be nice if some other folks got some game too, that’s all.” He slid the cooked eggs onto a plate, dropped on two pieces of toast, put it down in front of Phil, and said, “Breakfast of champions. Eat up.” Then he sat down across the table, picked up his coffee mug, and turned to a fresh page of the sports section.

  Phil ate a bite of eggs and then drank some of his juice. “Dad?”

  “Hmm?”