Double Dutch (10 page)

They completed their routine with gymnastic twists and elastic leaps. At one point, Yolanda, who was turning, tossed her end of the rope to Charlene, who grabbed it while she was still jumping, and in one turn of the ropes, Charlene moved effortlessly from jumper to turner, the rhythm of the ropes never stopping. Delia then tossed her end and completed the same move, so that each person had changed positions, but the ropes never faltered.

“Beauty in motion,” Randy whispered, shaking his head. Yolanda, Delia, and Charlene completed the routine perfectly, ending with the three of them doing a jumping bow in perfect synchronization before the judges' table. The whole routine got a standing ovation from the crowd. Bomani cheered with approval, even though he was not really supposed to.

When the results were tallied at the end of the very long day, the Queen Bees, the Junior Bees, and the Little Bees all scored well and got selected to go on to the national finals—called “world championships” because the teams from several countries competed as well. Delia and her group had scored exceptionally high, with their singles freestyle taking them over the top.

The following week, the busy schedule showed no signs of slowing. Double Dutch practice was now every day after school, in preparation for the upcoming world championships. Randy and the rest of his group from English class had met at Yolanda's house, where they wrote the script, and they all had gone to Delia's house several times, where they videotaped sections of their skit.

Randy was glad he had so much to do. It made the silent, lonely nights at home easier to bear. His food supply had just about disappeared once more. A little peanut butter. Some cheese. No cat food. He got free lunch at school, there were usually snacks available after Double Dutch practice, and he enjoyed working on the English project with Yolanda and Delia because they ordered pizza or one of their mothers would fix them something to eat.

But by the following Saturday, Randy had come to the end of all his money and all the food he had in the house.
He knew what he had to do. He sighed, looked at the VCR under the television, and unplugged it. The cat looked at him curiously as he wrapped the cord around the VCR and headed slowly for the door. He remembered when they had gotten the VCR. It was the best Christmas they'd ever had.

He opened the door of Clifford's Pawn Shop around the corner and set the VCR on the counter. Mr. Clifford, a skinny, wrinkled man with a cigar stuck in one corner of his mouth and glasses perched on the end of his nose, eyed Randy suspiciously. “This is not stolen,” Randy began as he walked toward the counter. “I shouldn't have to explain myself, but I guess you get all kinds in here. This belongs to me and my father, and I need some money. My dad is . . . uh . . . sick, and we're short on cash. How much can I get for this?”

The old man said nothing at first. He looked at Randy with narrowed eyes, staring intently through the purple-rimmed glasses on his nose, apparently evaluating the situation. “How much you need?” he finally asked.

“Huh?” Randy was a little surprised. “I thought you offered me what you think it's worth.”

“If I did that, I'd give you about fifteen dollars,” replied the owner. “How much you need?” he repeated.

Randy thought for a minute. “Fifty dollars will hold me—I mean us—for a little while. I'll give the folks at the electric company twenty dollars, and I'll keep the rest for food.”

“Your daddy on drugs?” the owner asked.

“What? No, sir! I told you my father is sick. Really sick.” Randy bowed his head and sighed. He felt sick himself at that moment. He was tired of being alone, tired of
making do, tired of pretending that everything was all right when nothing could be further from the truth.

“I know your daddy. Winston Youngblood. You look just like him.” Mr. Clifford kept staring at Randy. “Ain't seen him around here lately.”

Randy's head jerked up. “You know my daddy? How?”

“Seen him around the neighborhood. He don't come in here much, but I know who he is. Is everything okay, son?” Mr. Clifford's eyes softened a bit. His voice seemed to offer understanding.

Randy was about to cry. He missed his dad so much. “Yeah, everything's fine,” he forced himself to say. “Dad's just been sick. He can't work, and I'm trying to help out. That's all.”

Mr. Clifford took the VCR and put it behind the counter. He continued to look at Randy very closely. “Giving the electric company twenty dollars is like spittin' in the ocean. Won't do much good,” he said finally.

Randy sighed again. “I know. But last night when she called me for the fourth or fifth time, the lady from the electric company told me if I gave them a small payment she'd keep the lights on for another two weeks. I'm sure my dad will be better by then,” Randy told him.

Mr. Clifford said nothing but turned to the cash register and took out some cash. He gave Randy a pink form. “Fill this out for me. Don't leave nothin' blank.”

Randy obeyed, trembling a little from nervousness and a little from hunger. He had eighty-seven cents in his pocket.

Mr. Clifford took the form, looked at it carefully, and tossed it into a shoe box on the counter. “I have examined
this VCR very closely,” he said, although Randy knew he had only glanced at it, “and I find it to be rather valuable-a collector's item. Since I am a businessman, I cannot give you the full value, but I am willing to give you half of what I think it is worth.”

“Seven dollars and fifty cents?” Randy asked hopelessly.

Mr. Clifford ignored him and said sternly, “You may not be aware of this, but your machine is worth over six hundred dollars!”

“Really?” Randy asked with astonishment. He knew for a fact that his father had bought it on sale at Wal-Mart for eighty dollars.

“Never doubt a man of business,” Mr. Clifford said, softening his tone a bit. He handed Randy three crisp one hundred-dollar bills. “And don't go advertising to the neighborhood that I cheated you out of a valuable piece of merchandise!”

Randy looked at the money in disbelief. He could hold the tears back no longer. “Thank you, Mr. Clifford,” he said softly. “Thank you so much.”

Mr. Clifford peered at Randy once more through those purple spectacles. “Give the folks at the electric company fifty dollars, son, give thirty to the phone company, a hundred toward your rent, then space the rest out as best you can. Come see me if your dad gets better. And come see me if he don't. You hear?”

“Yes, sir,” Randy mumbled.

“And don't be expectin' your TV to be no collector's item in a month or so. If things don't get better, you go get some help. Got that?”

“Yes, sir,” Randy said again. “I really appreciate this.”

“Get outta here now!” Mr. Clifford turned his back to Randy, pretending to sort through some papers on the counter.

Randy walked slowly toward the door of the shop. “Thanks again,” he said quietly. “I'll be back.” As Randy walked into the Saturday morning April sunshine, he sighed with relief, but he knew that he could not keep up this situation much longer. Along with food and other expenses, he knew that even Mr. Clifford's generosity would not last long. He evaluated all his options as he rode the bus downtown to the electric company.

As Mr. Clifford had predicted, the fifty dollars was enough to hold the lights on for another month at most. Randy left there and walked slowly across the busy downtown street to pay the phone bill, at least a small part of it. Finally, he stopped at a market and bought a few groceries, and headed home to feed the cat. He made himself a fat, juicy hamburger and ate it in three huge bites. He burped.

He plopped down on the sofa after eating, and found himself talking to the cat once more.

“Well, Cat, I gotta get help. I guess Dad has deserted me just like Momma did.”

The cat, content and full for a change, dozed near his feet.

Randy mused, trying to figure out his limited options. His dad was an only child. His mother had been an only child. His grandparents were dead. He refused to call the police or a child abuse hotline. But he didn't know who else to call. A teacher? Too complicated. Bomani? He already
had ten kids of his own. He had enough problems. Randy just didn't know what to do.

Randy stared at the phone. “Please call, Dad. I won't be mad. Just come home.”

The phone, as if it had heard him, rang shrilly. Randy lunged to pick it up. “Hello,” he said hopefully.

“Hi, Randy.” Even Delia's cheerful voice didn't cheer Randy.

“Hey, Delia. What's up?”

“Not you. You sound down—like you're livin' in a pit or something.”

“Actually, it's been a pretty good day,” Randy told her. “I was just thinking about getting ready for practice. Starts at five, right?”

“Well, that's one reason why I called. Bomani's wife called, and four of their kids have the chicken pox, so he's canceling practice today.”

“Great. I mean, I'm not glad his kids are sick, but I didn't feel like the noise and funk of practice today. I got a lot on my mind.”

“Me, too,” Delia said with a sigh. “You know that the state test is the week after we do our projects.”

“Why do you care about that? I hear it's pretty easy.”

“I don't like any kind of test. And I don't do good on standardized tests—all those little blue bubbles to fill in and somebody walking down the aisles looking over your shoulder, holding on to a stopwatch—freaks me out.”

“Yeah, I feel ya. But you'll do fine. You're smart, Delia. Look what a good job you did filming us for Miss Benson's project.”

“That was no test-that was fun! I bet we get an A on it.”

“You got that right. Hey, Delia, what do you think the Tollivers are going to do for their project?”

“I have no idea. Miss Benson tried to get them to tell her, but they just told her wait and see.”

“I think Miss Benson gave the assignment before she had it all figured out. An older teacher would have made us write down what we were going to do, then approved it. Miss Benson is fun, but she's kinda dumb as a teacher,” Randy said.

“I don't think she's dumb—she just doesn't know all the teacher secrets yet.”

Randy thought about his own secret that everyone was unaware of.

“When do the Tollivers give their presentation?” Delia asked.

“Let's see. We do ours on Tuesday. If we finish it in time, the Tollivers would do their presentation right after us. Ought to be an interesting day.”

“Yeah, I don't know whether to be scared or worried,” Delia said.

“Probably both.” Randy laughed nervously.

“How's your dad?” Delia asked.

“Uh, he's good. Just left last night on another trip.” Randy just couldn't bring himself to admit that his father had deserted him.

“How do you manage, Randy? Being by yourself all the time. Don't you get scared? Or lonely?”

“Naw, I like being alone. No one to mess with me. No one to beat me to the bathroom. I feel like I'm grown—livin' large—all on my own. It's great.”

“Well, you got the large part down,” Delia said with a laugh. “The rest is scary to me.”

“I ain't never been scared,” Randy lied as he imagined his father lying bleeding and dead on the side of the road, or, even worse, happily cooking spaghetti in a city hundreds of miles away, with no thoughts of Randy on his mind.

“Well, I have been, lots of times. The Tollivers scare me. Tests scare me. Thunderstorms freak me out. And being alone terrifies me. I'll catch you Monday. If you need to call me before then, I'll be at my dad's house. Later.”

Delia hung up, and Randy stared at the phone, thinking about the day, about Delia, and about his dad. He thought about real fear and how it was slipping like smoke under his door, into his space, and throughout his body. He listened to the phone click, echo, then finally beep that annoying sound to let him know he needed to hang it up. He did so slowly, and the silence of the small apartment was somehow suddenly loud and stifling. Randy ran to his room, turned his radio up loud, and fell across his bed. The music bounced off his back as he buried his head in his pillow. He fell asleep with the music echoing through the empty rooms.

D
OUBLE
D
UTCH PRACTICE ON
M
ONDAY WAS HOT AND
horrible. Delia tripped over the ropes like they were made of tree branches. She couldn't get past 50 on her speed jumps, when her average was usually closer to 350.

Randy yelled at her from across the floor, “Get it together, Delia. You jumpin' like a kindergartner—a clumsy one at that!”

“You're not the coach!” Delia yelled back at him. “Don't mess with me! At least I'm not sweatin' like a pig!”

Randy grabbed a towel and wiped his face. It had been unusually hot all day—more like July than April. Randy was hot and hungry and angry. “Well, you're jumpin' like a pig! We ain't gonna win nothin' if you jump like that at the finals next week!”

“I don't believe you're dissin' me like that!” she retorted angrily. “If you don't like it, you can just—”

“That's enough!” yelled Bomani from the other side of the gym. He was physically restraining two screaming, sweating ten-year-olds who were angry enough to fight. One swore she had been tripped. The other claimed she couldn't turn for somebody who was stupid and ugly. “Teammates do NOT fight each other,” he told the girls sternly. “Go sit on the sidelines and make up, or I'm calling your parents to take
you home. It is too hot to be dealin' with this kind of foolishness tonight.” Both of them scowled, but they quieted down and obeyed. “And Delia,” Bomani yelled, “Randy's right. Go get some water, rest a little, then try again. You're off your game tonight.”