All Good Children - Catherine Austen [33]
Saffron cartwheels after a touchdown. Eighth graders pound her shoulder in joy. Seventh graders clap like they’re at an assembly.
“Did you see that drawing on the conservatory wall last week?” Mr. Hendricks asks. “There’ll be no more of that. We don’t have resources to waste cleaning up after troublemakers.”
“I didn’t do it,” I say.
“I know you didn’t do it. But whoever did won’t be doing it again. We’ve gone too far treating children like they’re precious when actually there are billions of them in the world and most of them are good for nothing. We need to educate them to work harder at whatever work is available.”
“Hey, Max, why don’t you do some coaching today?” Dallas shouts. He’s across the field, setting up lawn chairs with Austin. They wear leather coats and cowboy boots that make them look even taller. “Xavier told me he met some girls here. I’m hoping they come back.”
“Pick it up, defense!” Austin shouts.
The older kids give him the finger. The younger ones don’t give him a glance.
Mr. Hendricks squints. “Is that Arlington Richmond’s oldest?” He heads over to shake Austin’s hand.
“What about the practice?” I yell.
Dallas helps me divide the team in two for a practice game. “Who would you rather fight?” he asks. “The big guard or that girl?”
I watch Chicago clap for Saffron’s touchdown. He keeps a beat with all the other youngsters, Clap-clap-clap, pause, clap-clap-clap. “Neither,” I say. “I wouldn’t go near any of them.”
On Monday morning, Mom leaves a note for Ally on the kitchen screen: Have fun at your new school. We love you. There’s a picture of us waving, with Peanut pasted in.
Ally spills her cereal and juice in her excitement. “I have to get out all my giggles,” she says. “They’re not allowed in school.” I tickle her to get them out, but they just keep coming, slipping through the gap of her missing tooth.
Lucas arrives at the door with another white boy my age. They wear gray polyester uniforms, paler and less stylish than mine—shapeless pants that bag at the knee, jackets with round metal buttons fastened to the neck. I feel like they should lead me on a tour of some museum.
“Hello, Maxwell,” Lucas says. “We’re here to take Alexandra to school.” His voice is young and sincere, with no trace of a grudge.
“Thanks, Lucas. Get your bag, Ally.”
Ally squares her shoulders. “I hope I like it there.”
“You will if you take an interest,” Lucas says.
She smiles. “I’m interested in animals.”
“Good,” Lucas says. “The school trains for trades in pest control.”
“She likes animals,” I say. “She couldn’t stomach pest control.”
He blinks repeatedly, disapproving. “There are detentions for being late. You should meet us in the lobby from now on.”
I kiss Ally’s cheek. She wraps her arms around my neck and says, “I’m going to like my new school.”
“Yes, you will,” Lucas says, butting into our goodbye. “Children who have trouble at academic school belong in trade school. You’ll graduate earlier, ready to work in your field.”
“I’m going to miss you so much,” I whisper.
“Shh,” Ally whispers back.
She steps lightly out the door and walks toward the stairwell. She looks tiny in the greasy hallway, with her red rubber boots and backpack, her hair a mess of short braids all around her head. She’s six years old and already a throwaway. I just want to cry.
Lucas reaches out to shake my hand. I pull back instinctively. “We are not throwaways,” he says as if he read my mind. “Our school has a higher job placement rate than yours. We’re lucky to be there.”
“Hear that, Ally?” I shout. “You’re lucky to go to your new school.”
“Alexandra!” Lucas yells. “Answer your brother!”
“Don’t tell her what to do,” I snarl. I step into the hallway, into his vacant face.
He looks over his shoulder at the surveillance camera, then back to me. The kid behind him does the same. I expect them to shout, “Help! You don’t belong here!”