Jewell Parker Rhodes - Black Brother, Black Brother

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

Copyright 2020 by Jewell Parker Rhodes

Illustrations copyright 2020 by Jeff stberg

Excerpt from Ghost Boys copyright 2018 by Jewell Parker Rhodes

Discussion Guide copyright 2021 by Little, Brown and Company

Cover art copyright 2020 by Jeff stberg. Cover design by Jenny Kimura. Cover copyright 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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Originally published in hardcover and ebook by Little, Brown and Company in March 2020

First Trade Paperback Edition: March 2021

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The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Names: Rhodes, Jewell Parker, author.

Title: Black brother, black brother / by Jewell Parker Rhodes.

Description: New York : Little, Brown and Company, [2020] | Audience: Ages 812. | Summary: Suspended unjustly from elite Middlefield Prep, Donte Ellison studies fencing with a former champion, hoping to put the racist fencing team captain in his place.

Identifiers: LCCN 2019034929 | ISBN 9780316493802 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316493819 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316428934

Subjects: CYAC: FencingFiction. | African AmericansFiction. | RacismFiction. | Preparatory schoolsFiction. | SchoolsFiction. | Family lifeMassachusettsFiction. | MassachusettsFiction.

Classification: LCC PZ7.R3476235 Bl 2020 | DDC [Fic]dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019034929

ISBNs: 978-0-316-49379-6 (pbk.), 978-0-316-49381-9 (ebook)

E3-20210221-JV-PC-REV

Dedicated to Phillip Mackert a special reader

Iwish I were invisible. Wearing Harry Potters Invisibility Cloak or Frodo Bagginss Elvish ring. Whether shrouded in fabric or slipping on gold, it wouldnt matter to me. Id be gone. Disappeared.

I stare at my hands. Nighttime dark. They have a life of their own. Clenching, unclenching. Fist then no fist. I keep my shoulders relaxed; my face, bland. My hands wont behave.

No science fiction or fantasy is going to help me. I live in a too-real world.

Sitting, I stare at the black specks on the white linoleum. A metaphor? Thats what theyre teaching me in English. Metaphor. Except I wont believe Im just a black speck. Im bigger, more than that. Though sometimes I feel like Im swimming in whiteness.

Most of the students at Middlefield Prep dont look like me.

They dont like me either.

I look up. The secretary, Mrs. Kay, even the assistant headmaster, Mr. Waters, with his tartan tie, avert their eyes. Theyve been staring, wondering:

How come he gets in so much trouble? Why cant he be good like his brother? Helpful? Obedient.

Under my breath, I curse. My stomach twists.

Be invisible.

My insides burn. Anger builds. This has nothing to do with me.

Im not here. Donte is not here.

My right foot taps uncontrollably. If I sit any longer, Ill explode.

Donte, Headmaster McGeary says warily.

I stand. Sir. (Be cool, I tell myself.)

Its 2:46 PM . Couldnt you have finished the day without getting in trouble?

This isnt the way its supposed to go down. Hes supposed to call me into his office. Shut the door, talk privately with me.

Now hes scolding me in public.

The headmasters eyelids are heavy, puffy. Hes tired, but Im tired, too. Every week, Im punished for something I didnt do.

I clutch my left fist with my hand. Its still trying to move, open and shut. My right leg trembles.

Mr. Waters smirks; the secretarys eyes show pity. Pity pushes me over the edge.

I didnt do anything, I blurt. Like the time before, and the time before that. And the time before that. I didnt do anything.

The two men grow taller, rigid. Bracing, readying to take me down. They dont like me too loud.

I exhale. My dads been to war. Two tours. No matter what I do, Im outflanked.

I quiet my voice, try to speak reasonably.

In my head, I hear: Speak truth to power. Moms favorite phrase. Then, Dad adding, Respectfully.

I try to still my body. But I feel a trembling in my hands, up my spine.

The wall clocks minute hand clicks. 2:48 PM .

I hate this school, I say softly, slowly, trying to make them understand.

Hate no matter what goes wrong, Im at fault. Some guy overturns a chair; its my fault. My lockers broken into; my supplies scattered, dumped in the trash. My books ripped. I get detention. And a library fine.

My voice races, rises.

In gym, playing ball, I get called for fouls all the time. But nobody is called when Im fouled.

My hands clench, unclench.

Everybody here bullies me. Teachers. Students. Whispers, sometimes outright shouts follow me. Seems like everybody has something bad to say: You dress thug. Your dreads are dreadful. Girls laugh and point at me. Why cant you be like your brother? Can your brother find you in the dark? I breathe. It hurts. All of it.

I stop. My stomach churns.

Three faces. Mr. Waters is grim. Mrs. Kay, embarrassed by my outburst, looks down, pulling her ear.

The headmasters cheeks flush, his eyes glare.

Ive lit the fire. I need Harrys Invisibility Cloak. Need to disappear, escape this bright office with its stacked trophy case and laminated Massachusetts map with a stenciled #1 above two crossed swords.

Headmaster McGeary steps forward. You dont get to bring your New York behavior here. You dont get to yell at me or anyone else.

I didnt yell at you.

Are you contradicting me?

No. Frustrated, I say, exasperated. You didnt even ask me how I got here. I dont want to be here. I dont want to be in trouble.

You are in trouble.

Ask me what I did.

He frowns.

Ask me what I did, I insist.

Nothing.

The clock clicks another minute. The office door opens. Dylan, a classmate, stops, looks, walks backward, then shuts the door. (Come back, I want to call.)

Nine minutes until school ends.

I didnt do anything. Not ever. Not today.

Seventh grade. Six more years at Middlefield. I suggest you learn to get along.

I try to get along. Everyones been against me since I started. Especially Alan. Today, he throws a pencil. It hits Samantha. I didnt throw it. Sam screams. Ms. Wilson turns from the whiteboard and looks at me.