Fire in the Streets (6 page)

I reach for my bottom dresser drawer and pull out
Little Ralphie, my stuffed brown dog. He's gotten kind of ratty, and he lives in the drawer most nights, but I still love him. When I get him out, Raheem usually teases me about being too old for toys, but tonight he doesn't comment. He picks up some laundry we've got strewn about the room and tosses it toward the closet.

We put up a curtain some while ago. My half. His half. It's not an even split; I have no window. No privacy either: He comes through my space because I have the door. I can always hear him breathing in his sleep; I'm grateful he doesn't snore.

Tonight Raheem lies straight on top of his covers. He folds his hands beneath his head and stares at the ceiling.

I roll onto my side, facing Raheem, and hug Little Ralphie. Plenty goes without saying around here, and it's nice when we end up on the same page. Like the way he knows tonight is not a night to draw the curtain.

W
HEN I WAKE UP, MAMA'S SITTING
on the edge of my bed, stroking my hair.

“I didn't mean to wake you.”

“Then why are you poking me in the head?” I mumble.

Mama kisses my face. “Why do you insist on following in your brother's footsteps? I don't like you going to all these protests. What are they having you do there?”

A little flurry of panic in my belly. “It's mostly holding signs and stuff. I'm fine, Mama.”

Her fingers frame my face. “I didn't say I was going to stop you. I know it's important. I just worry about you.”

“Oh.”

She sighs. “We have eggs. Do you want me to make you some?”

I sit up. “No, I'm going down to The Breakfast, like I always do.”

Mama frowns. “What's this breakfast you're always going to?”

“Mama, I
told
you. It's the Panthers' Free Breakfast. They do it for all the schools in the neighborhood.”

“You got another week of summer. Why are you trying to go down to school early?”

I groan. “
Mama.
It's breakfast and it's free.”

She shakes her head. “Free food's never really free.”

“This one is.” I swing my legs out of bed and stand up. “Capital F-R-E-E. Free.” This is a word I know exactly how to spell.

“I didn't raise no charity case,” Mama says. “You don't gotta give them nothing in exchange for all that food?”

“Well, I volunteer at the office,” I say. “That's something.”

“Hmm. I still don't like it.” Mama gets proud sometimes about wanting to take care of us. Raheem is the same way, but at least he's practical about it. We've had low times around here, times when the Panther Breakfast was the only whole meal I got to eat in a day, and I can't forget that, even if Mama wants to pretend.

“Go away now. I have to get dressed,” I tell her.

With a huffy little “Okay, then,” she glides out of the room.

I
GO DOWN TO THE SCHOOLYARD A BIT EARLY.
I want to get there in time for the morning lineup. The Panthers form ranks on the blacktop and Leroy leads them in chants.

There they stand in dark straight rows. In the rising light of morning, taking in the fresh air feels like breathing new life. I linger outside the fence, watching Leroy up on his milk crate, presiding over the ranks. Fist raised, he calls out, “Power to the people!”

The Panther columns answer back, a deep, thunderous roar like a single massive voice: “Power to the people!”

I close my eyes, pretend I'm standing among them. It feels good. Shoulder to shoulder with my brothers and sisters in arms. Feels like we can take on the world, one day at a time. One pig at a time, some days. Build a world where batons don't crush and white doesn't always equal right.

After being in the crowd last night, I see everything
anew. The Panthers are going to change everything. I've known it all along, but now I can feel it all the way through me.

The convention is still going on downtown. I suppose a crew of Panthers will be going again today, but I know I can't go back. My place is here. In the neighborhood. Not up in a whole white riot. One close call is enough for me.

I lace my fingers through the chain link, wishing I was over there with the rest of them. Fourteen isn't old enough to be a full-on Panther, everyone says. We're supposed to be part of the young Panthers for another couple of years. Go to The Breakfast, go to political education class on Wednesdays and the Freedom School on Saturdays with the little kids, looking smart all lined up with berets cocked this way and that. I help take care of the young ones and tell them what I know, but the real Panthers sometimes look at me like I'm also still a baby who needs to learn. But I know plenty. I've been around the block enough times to know the size and shape of things. I'm ready. I know it.

I look through the fence at the most familiar face in the lineup. Sam is the exception, I guess. Probably because of his brother, Steve, who was one of the first Chicago Panthers. Steve died being a Panther too. Or maybe Sam gets an exception because of his dad, who is Roland
Childs. Mr. Childs is well-known around the neighborhood because he's a civil rights movement leader like Dr. King was. He makes speeches and plans big demonstrations that Raheem used to take me to, before the Panthers came along.

From his perch on the milk crate, Leroy Jackson starts leading the ranks in a series of chants. I've seen it many times before. He starts them out simple, then gets them all riled up.

“Who we gonna be?”

“The Black Panther Party.”

“I can't hear you. . . . Who we gonna be?”

“The Black Panther Party.” The echo rings loud throughout the schoolyard. It resonates. Deep. People passing by can't help but turn to look.

So much power radiates from the Panther lineup. All this pent-up energy, so huge and so tight that you can practically see it steaming off them. That runaway feeling just come to a standstill, that terrible, terrible anger. Always in control, always just beneath the surface.

In the white newspapers, they use it against us. They make the Panthers look like we all just want to rip the throats out of some white folks for no good reason. We have good reasons, but we still don't want to do that.

“What's it all about?”

“It's all about the people.”

Fred and Leroy want to open people's minds, is what Raheem always says. They don't want us to kill; they want us to be willing to die.

We're dying anyway,
I can't help but think. Remembering about Steve, and others.

“How we gonna live?” Leroy shouts.

“Gonna live for the people.”

“How we gonna die?”

“Gonna die for the people.”

“Power to the people!”

“Power to the people!”

“Power to the people!”

Patrice slips up beside me, laces her fingers through the chain link, too. “Hey, Maxie.”

To be honest, I'm not that happy to see her. I don't want to do this now. There's a part of me that wishes we were in an actual fight, so I could get away without speaking to her for a day or so.

“Hey.”

“So I guess everything went all right?”

Reluctantly I show her the roll of quarters, which I have in my pocket. In the daylight it looks all mangled and sweaty.

“Oh, no. What happened?”

Not answering seems safest.

Patrice throws her arm around my shoulders. “It's going to be fine,” she says. “I'm sure it's not a big deal.”

It's a very big deal. To me. I've never worried before about not having what it takes to be a Panther. If I can't carry through even the smallest task, am I also going to crumble when something real falls to me?

T
HE BREAKFAST TABLES ARE ALL LINED UP
in the schoolyard, as long as the weather's good. Sam's serving up sausage and gravy, so there's no avoiding him this morning.

“Hey, Maxie,” he says.

“Hey.” I stand there, holding the plate he handed me, until Emmalee nudges me to move along down the line. One of the mamas comes bustling over with a fresh pan of gravy from the kitchen. Piled atop it, a tray of hot biscuits steaming into the muggy August air.

She clucks her tongue at us. “Don't you get out of this line 'fore you have some apple slices on those plates,” she says. “You need fruit.”

We stand obediently until a second mama comes hurrying up to replenish the fruit bowl. She spoons apple slices onto our plates, while another woman comes up behind her with jugs of orange juice. I wonder exactly how many
mamas are back there cooking. My stomach rumbles as I take the cup that she pours for me and follow Patrice toward one of the long tables to sit.

With the edge of her plate in my back, Emmalee steers me to the side of the table where I'll be facing away from Mr. Sam Childs. It's been their mission all summer to get me to leave him alone. Ever since things went bad, which is basically since Steve died, I've been fighting it, but the girls say it's time to give it up.

“You better not get gravy on me,” I threaten.

“Too late,” she squeaks.

I convulse myself trying to look back there. Patrice busts out laughing. Emmalee too. “I'm just messing,” she admits.

We dig into the food. I can't help thinking how it always used to be Steve who served at The Breakfast, along with Raheem and some other guys, in shifts. I miss Steve. We all do. His big personality and his smile that could light up the room. The Breakfast was most fun on the days when he and Raheem would get up front together and crack jokes on each other till we were all about to choke for laughing. Steve was best friends with Raheem, so it was all in good fun. I knew him longer than Sam, really, because he was over sometimes. Even slept on our bedroom floor a few nights once, when things were rough for him at home.
There's a hole in things now. Sam is different. Raheem is different. Everything's changed.

I look over my shoulder. Some days I resist it, but today isn't one of them. I miss Steve, sure, and that's a forever thing. Not reversible. Nothing I can do. But I miss Sam, too.

I
'M SO EXCITED TO SEE THE NEW PANTHER OFFICE.
We go straight there after breakfast.

“Ooh, look,” Emmalee says, sounding as enthralled as I feel. They've taken the brown paper out of the windows. The clean, clear glass is printed with the words
THE BLACK PANTHER PARTY
in one window and the large black cat logo in the other. The glass door to the right of the windows bears a smaller version of both. Right now it's propped open with a stacked pair of bricks, and the moment we step inside the reason for that is clear.

It smells a lot like fresh paint in here, but other than that it looks great. It's nice and bright, with the big front windows, at least compared to the old second-floor apartment where the Panthers used to be based. The front room alone is bigger than the old Panther apartment, too, maybe by half. It doesn't look as lived-in yet, without the bulletin boards on the walls with clippings and posters and things. The only thing
hanging so far is a large size poster-portrait of Huey Newton. Everyone loves this picture of him, where he's sitting in an arch-backed wicker chair with a rifle in one hand, a traditional African spear in the other, and this look on his face that says “Don't mess with me.” It's become something of a banner for the party, Huey being one of the founders and all.

There are three big desks in the room, arranged in a loose U shape. A row of battered metal file cabinets line the back wall, right up to the door that leads to another room in the back. There's a couch against one wall, near several rickety bookcases chock-full of titles from the Panthers' recommended reading list. A lending library for members. Emmalee goes straight to it.

I think some of the furniture is the exact same, moved down from the old apartment. It just looks smaller with all the space around it. And more used, with the fresh light pouring in on it.

Rocco's sitting on the edge of the front desk, reading the daily newspapers. He's got them all spread out next to him like he's trying to gift wrap the desktop. “Hey, Maxie-girl. You okay? We were afraid you got caught in the thick of it.”

“Oh, I'm okay,” I say quickly. “Where's Leroy?”

“I'm here.” He emerges through the doorway of the rear room. “Maxie, I'm glad you're all right.”

“Yes, fine.” My fingers are trembling as I hold out the mangled roll of quarters. “Here's your ten dollars.”

“Okay.” He takes the roll. Doesn't comment on its condition as he takes a seat at the desk.

“I'm sorry,” I blurt. “I did my best to get back to you, but the crowd . . .” My voice trails off. The telephone rings from across the room, filling my silence.

“I feel bad I even asked you,” Leroy says. “Didn't think it through.”

“I wanted to help,” I declare, needing him to know I can handle another assignment. “I tried, but I couldn't get back to the stage. Everyone was pushing me.”

Leroy frowns. “Did anyone hurt you? Or the other girls?”

“We're fine.” I try to pull myself tall. Don't want to sound like I'm making excuses. “You don't have to worry.”

“Leroy, phone,” Hamlin calls.

Leroy slides out of his chair. “It's my job to worry, Maxie,” he says, tapping my shoulder with his fist as he passes.

T
HE NEWSPAPER HEADLINES TELL THE
story of last night in clear, sharp pictures. Rocco spreads them out so I can see, too. It screams from the pages of the
Chicago Sun-Times
, the
Chicago
Tribune
, and even the
New York Times
:
ANTI-WAR GROUPS CLASH WITH POLICE
.