Robin Farmer - Malcolm and Me: A Novel

MALCOLM
AND ME

Copyright 2020, Robin Farmer

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

Published by SparkPress, a BookSparks imprint,

A division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC

Phoenix, Arizona, USA, 85007

www.gosparkpress.com

Published 2020

Printed in the United States of America

Print ISBN: 978-1-68463-083-7

E-ISBN: 978-1-68463-084-4

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020944806

Interior design by Tabitha Lahr

All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To my family

Im for truth, no matter who tells it.

MALCOLM X

T he penguin is in a wicked mood today, Geoffrey whispers, as he passes my desk in eighth-grade history class on the way to the pencil sharpener.

I sit in the back because its mission impossible to see the blackboard from behind my hair, which has been inspired by social justice activist Angela Davis, my idol.

Im in the last seat in the last row next to a bank of windows overlooking the schoolyard. Far from Sister Elizabeths desk, it is the best seat in class. Big hair has its perks.

Mr. Mulligan, share with the class what you just told Roberta! Sister Elizabeth says, rising from her huge wooden desk at the head of the classroom.

Tall and ruler straight, she has unfriendly blue eyes under her horn-rimmed glassesand zero patience. As with all nuns, her age is a mystery. We cant tell if her hair is gray or if shes bald under her habit. Unlike most nuns, she still wears the corny old-fashioned kind of habit even though its 1973.

On the flip side of being scary, she loves to sing and has a butter-smooth voice and a laugh I rarely hear, but dig because it is so free and loose. So unlike her.

Nothing, Sister. I just asked her to move her foot so I wouldnt trip, he says, the red splotches on his pale cheeks deepening. He shuffles to his seat up front by her.

Unlike you, I am not uneducable. I told you earlier to keep your trap shut. I am in no mood for shenanigans today. Sisters voice sounds scratchy, like shes fighting a cold. She makes her what-smells-bad expression, snatches up an eraser, and wipes the board clean. Lets return our attention to Chapter 6 in your history books. Review the five rights proposed in the Declaration of Independence, and then well have a discussion.

Scanning the room, her disapproving eyes linger on my gigantic halo of hair, which she called distracting. My Afro is even bigger and bolder than it was when she made me move my desk out of alphabetical order and plunk it behind Mary Zito. Guess thats punishment for both my fast-growing hair and increasing Black pride.

Sister Elizabeth nods at my closed textbook, shorthand to start reading. Now. I had already jumped ahead and completed the review assignment yesterday, but I chill out. No need to wind her up. Two more classes and Im heading home, where special birthday gifts await the new teen me.

Opening my textbook, I watch to see if shell doze off like shes been doing lately during reading assignments. We wait for her habit to droop and jerk up before turning our attention to each other. After about ten nods, I receive a handful of birthday cards from around the room along with a pack of apple Now and Later candies, my absolute favorite sugar rush.

The candy is a gift from Donna Rapinesi, a Cher wannabe and eye-shadow junkie, who flirts with dimpled-faced Gary as Sister Elizabeth cat naps. His pearly teeth and green eyes framed by lush lashes make every girl in eighth grade, Black and white, agree that Gary is so fine.

Mouth watering, I scratch off the wrapper glued to the candy and gaze out the window just as a streak of lightning, odd for this time of the year, zigzags across the sky. I wait for a thunderclap that never comes. Rain falls in thick sheets from a sky covered by a gray veil, but not even this bizarre storm can spoil my birthday.

Besides, my English teacher Mr. Harvey has an announcement this afternoon about the annual writing contest. Ive come close to winning it the two years prior. I softly tap my knuckles on my desk for luck that hell say the contest will be another essay competition. Id consider that news another birthday gift.

After a few minutes, our big mouths wake up Sister Elizabeth. She goes to the middle of the blackboard and writes with perfect penmanship: Among its list of self-evident truths, the Declaration asserts that all men are created equal.

I perk up. History is one of my favorite subjects, so I slip the neon-green candy into my pocket.

Sleepy-eyed Sister Elizabeth turns from the blackboard and addresses us. Who can tell me why Thomas Jefferson signed the Declaration of Independence when at the time he owned slaves? She sits.

Geoffreys hand shoots in the air. Sister ignores him and calls on her pet, Eileen, a wavy-haired brainiac with crooked eyeglasses whose dull essays somehow beat mine every year.

He probably didnt have a chance to free them yet.

I mentally groan. For starters, thats incorrect, and two, Sister doesnt correct her.

Sister looks around the room and rests her eyes on me. What do you think, Roberta?

Because he was a hypocrite.

Sister Elizabeth stiffens and blinks until her eyes become blue blazes. What did you say? Glaring, she rises from her seat, breathing as if she had just run up the three flights to our class. She peers out the window at the wind-whipped Old Glory on the flagpole in the middle of the schoolyard. Then she eyeballs me, fury curling her lips.

I swallow hard.

Without warning, she snatches her beloved yardstick and slams it against her desk with such power that it snaps. That seems to enrage her more. She pounds her desk with her fist, and points to the closed classroom door.

Who do you think you are, Roberta Forest? Get out! Get out of my classroom! she thunders, rocking in her stumpy black heels. How dare you speak poorly about one of our forefathers who built this great nation. Eyes and mouth tight with rage, she wags her finger at me. Get back in the boat. Go back to Africa. We never needed you people in the first place!

My mouth drops open. All eyes shift from Sister to me. I glance at Stephanie, the only other Black student.

I cannot believe my ears or eyes. I know in my gut that something bad is about to happen. She is out of control. Maybe I am, too. I am so mad everything turns gray like TV static. My body feels rubbed raw. Gripping the edges of my desk, I am way more angry than afraid.

I dont have forefathers, I have just one, I say, rising out of my seat. I wasnt born in Africa, but my ancestors were, before they were enslaved by your people.

Shes quicker than the Flying Nun. Sister Elizabeths habit flows out like a cape, and her rosary beads clack as she rushes down the aisle. She towers above me.

You get out of my room now! she hollers, her warm spittle flying all around me.

Scowling, I wipe my face. I turn to leave when she swings her hefty arm with Muhammad Ali force and delivers a mind-blowing slap that rocks my cheekbone. I didnt see it coming and instinctively, I throw up my hands to protect myself. Pushing outward, I accidently strike the top of her armpit. The chain of her glistening crucifix scratches the knuckles of my retreating fist.