“Boy!”
That’s Mr. Watkins calling me out my name. Calling me out on the floor, out to the loading dock, out to the Dumpsters. Always calling me out, period.
“Go meet those trucks coming in out back.”
Mr. Watkins is always saying opposite things too. Coming in out back. Go on off home.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Watkins,” I say.
“Why do you let him talk to you like that?” My coworker, Darnell, asks me. He’s my best friend at work.
I shrug, thinking, He must like how hard I work. I just say, “It don’t matter so long as he pays me.”
“That’s exactly right,” Louis says. He’s my other coworker and another good guy. Working with him is like having a dad help me at work, and I like that.
After I meet the trucks, have the drivers sign the forms, unload the shipments, and sweep up the mess, Mr. Watkins says, “Boy, go on off home now. You get your beauty sleep.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Watkins,” I say.
As I’m walking by the office door, Ms. Delany calls out, “Lil Man, could you step in here for a minute please?”
I don’t mind Ms. Delany calling me Lil Man. It ain’t at all the way Mr. Watkins says Boy.
“Here’s the pay for this week,” she says. “Go on home now and get some rest.”
I say, “Yes, Ma’am,” but inside I want to cry.
I go home, make cheese sandwiches and baked beans for dinner, do my reading, and go to bed. It’s around two in the morning.
▬ ▬ ▬ ▬
“Isaiah.”
That’s Ms. Mosby. She’s always calling on me in class. To answer a question, to demonstrate something, to give the first presentation. Always calling on me, period.
“Could you please read the first three stanzas of `The Raven’ aloud for us today?”
Ms. Mosby is always saying polite things like that too. Please read aloud. Thanks for your participation.
“Yes, ma’am, Ms. Mosby,” I say.
“Why is she calling on you all the time?” Oscar asks me. He’s my best friend at school.
I shrug, thinking, She must like what I have to say. I just say, “It don’t matter so long as she gives me an A.”
“I know that’s right,” says Caleb. He’s my other friend at shcool. Studying with him is like having a dad help with homework, and I like that.
After I find the page, get up from my desk, clear my throat, and read the poem, Ms. Mosby says, “Isaiah, thank you for a lovely reading. You enjoy your next class now.”
“Yes, ma’am, Ms. Mosby,” I say.
As I’m walking by the counselor’s office, Ms. Witosky calls out, “Wise Guy, could you step in here for a minute please?”
I don’t mind when Ms. Witosky calls me Wise Guy. It’s a lot like the way Ms. Mosby says Please.
“Here is that college application for you,” she says. “Go home now and get your dad to sign it.”
I say, “Yes, Ma’am,” but inside I want to cry.
I go home, study my reflection in the mirror, and tell myself, “Lie to me and I’ll try to believe.”
I practice signing my dad’s name and then sign the form, go to where he’s passed out on the couch, press his limp fingers in different spots on the paper, and go to bed. It’s around two in the morning.