Rion Scott - Insurrections

It all ended when Mr. Coles rushed into the fray to pull the girls off Kelli until security could arrive to take them to the office.

The next day in art class Kelli wasn’t there. We did no work; instead we spent the whole time listening to Zeke give us the rundown. He and Tommy performed the fight blow by blow, second by second. When it came time for the big reveal, Zeke snatched at Tommy’s shirt and yelled, Wump!

That’s the sound they made coming out, Zeke said. They actually made a sound. I’ll never forget it.

Damn, I said. I miss every fight. Every damn time.

And then when it was all done, Zeke said, the bitches started to chant, Hatefield, Hatefield is where we’re from! Hatefield, Hatefield is where we’re from!

Long ago, before even my parents were born, the people of McCoy named themselves Hatfields. Their poverty, it was said, put them in opposition to the very ground they walked upon. More recently, younger Hatfields renamed their neighborhood Hatefield because the hard gravel and weed and trash-scarred empty lots made the name feel truer.

Guys, Mr. Coles said. Stop it. I don’t even know why you want to call your neighborhood that. Hate’s not a good thing. We shouldn’t be glorifying people getting beat up. Let’s not be ignorant. Okay?

When Mr. Coles said this he had that smile, that smirk, that grin that destroyed the seriousness of anything he had to say. Zeke howled and pointed.

Come on, Mr. Coles, you know you were entertained, he said. I saw you, boy. This nigga only rushed in after them titties popped out. He was like — at this Zeke grasped at Tommy’s chest, groping while pretending to hold him back— come on now, stop fighting. Ooh, that’s so soft .

Leave Mr. Coles alone, Zeke, Jana said. You always starting stuff. Just ignore him, Mr. Coles.

Mr. Coles’s face looked as if it was about to explode in laughter. He rubbed his closely cropped head and chuckled some.

We didn’t need music that day. Whenever there was a break in the action we chanted: Hatefield, Hatefield is where we’re from!

Man, Mr. Coles, Zeke said. Be for real. You know you was thinking about our song.

Our song? Mr. Coles asked. That Hatefield thing y’all chant?

Naw, you know what I’m talking about, “Shake It Buck Naked, Bitch.” You the main one who be playing it in class. Man, Mr. Coles, you took one look at Kelli and was like, I’ma make it do something / Twerk for me bitch now / Let me see ya shake something . You know that’s what you were thinking, Mr. Coles. Stop faking. Stop faking.

Mr. Coles shook his head and rubbed the short hair on his cheeks. His smile grew alligator-like. In a soft growl, he said: Come on and bounce them big things, baby .

Mr. Coles! Jana screamed, stepping away from her clay pot. Just as swiftly, she stepped back to the table and returned to massaging her artwork. I don’t think she looked up for the rest of the class period. Ernesto hollered in delight. Me and Zeke slapped five. Tommy did a dance while Jana shook her head, massaged her clay, and turned up her lips.

And as soon as the words came from him, Mr. Coles’s face became sheepish. His eyes darted upward. He passed his hand over his head. When I reached to give him a high five, he backed slowly away shaking his head from side to side.

All right, he said. All right. We had our fun. Let’s get back to work.

There was no returning to work. Not that day. Not even in the days after. We never saw Mr. Coles again. No one told us anything. All we knew was that he was gone and a stern old woman with a wrinkled mask face would be our long-term sub. We relied on the trail of whispers for news. Folks said Mr. Coles had lost his mind and ended up in an insane asylum. But he had looked perfectly healthy to me.

Just a man. That’s all. A regular man like anyone else. Years later I heard rumors of him packing his belongings after school while Mrs. Badwell screamed at him. So stupid, she was supposed to have said. What did we learn from all this? Let me answer for you, Dennis: Even if they look like women, they are not women!

Zeke said Jana had snitched on Mr. Coles, and when he accused her in front of everybody, she denied it with a stammer, but it was too late. We all turned on her, and she too became cloaked in a blanket of solitude. She moved on to the high school with us, but I don’t remember even having two conversations with her after we determined she was the snitch. Kelli finished out the year, even navigating the glares and the stares to make a friend or two, but when we started high school, she was gone.

The weeks of turmoil made Zeke volatile, a volcano, and I could feel the rumble of his eruption at hand. He became consumed with the injustice of Mr. Coles’s removal, speaking on it loud enough for adults to hear whenever he could.

He stopped the fight, Zeke said. He’s a hero. This how they treat heroes around here? He ain’t say nothing I wouldn’t have said. Kelli got some big ass titties. Ain’t no secret.

It came to a head one day in science class. Mr. Drayton brought his dog, Iggy, in for a lecture on mammal life. He did it every year, one of the few things he looked forward to. A white and black thing that looked everything like a wolf, except it had a friendly domesticated vibe. Not an ounce of aggression on most days. Still, Mr. Drayton kept Iggy behind a cardboard barrier that the dog could have toppled with his breath.

As Mr. Drayton tried to start his lecture, Zeke kept riding him. Speaking out of turn. You were supposed to be dude’s friend! You sold the nigga out. Y’all always sell niggas out. Selling niggas down the river like you own them. Why is that thing even here? You lost your dog Mr. Cold, so you brought in another dog to replace him with? You foul, Mr. Drayton.

Nothing could settle Zeke. Mr. Drayton stepped from the room to summon security, and Zeke strode to the barrier that separated Iggy from the class and began barking loudly. Iggy stood and barked back, his hackles raised as if about to strike. Mr. Drayton dashed into the room and grabbed at Zeke, shoving him as hard as he could.

Don’t you ever touch my dog, Mr. Drayton screamed. Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare. Don’t you—

Ezekiel swung wildly, punching Mr. Drayton twice in his forehead. His head snapped back with each blow. Mr. Drayton fell fast, and even bounced when he hit the hard classroom floor. There he was, our Mr. Drayton, out cold during fourth-period science.

And after that, no more Ezekiel. No one was sure what happened to Zeke. Yeah, I could have dropped by his house, it was only a half-hour walk from where I lived, but I’m not sure that ever crossed my mind. Those we think of as friends, how easily they can be disposed of when it takes even the slightest effort to see them. I learned that over and over after Zeke, sometimes painfully.

When Mr. Drayton returned several weeks later, he wasn’t the same man. It’s as if the already old man had aged two decades. He walked with a limp that had never been present before. The urine smell now sometimes stung my eyes. We weren’t sure if he had always worn orthopedic shoes. One class he didn’t even bother to talk science. He just told us that he wasn’t mad at Zeke. It’s not his fault, he said. Your people are naturally scared of dogs. It’s because of what they put you through when you were slaves. Making dogs hunt you down. Then with the civil rights movement, how they sicced their dogs on you. Real cruelty. It got into your genes. Evolution, you know. Not Zeke’s fault at all.

Last I heard, Zeke had murdered a pretty big drug dealer and fled the country before the law or the streets could catch up with him. I don’t know if there’s any truth in all that, but I wonder after him a lot. I get on the computer sometimes and search his name, but nothing ever turns up. Once in a while I hear that a member of Dem Freak Boyz N Motion is trying to make a comeback, and I check to see if Zeke is in his entourage. Ridiculous, I know. But wasn’t he destined to become a soccer star? There are days I search through the roster of the European teams. Maybe he’s a benchwarmer, maybe some sort of coach, a towel boy. Anything but a fugitive. What becomes of the children destined to be broken by their saviors?