Robinson's Hood Read online

  Jeff Gottesfeld

  ROBINSON’S HOOD

  THE BANK OF BADNESS

  CHOPPED

  Copyright ©2013 by Saddleback Educational Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher. SADDLEBACK EDUCATIONAL PUBLISHING and any associated logos are trademarks and/ or registered trademarks of Saddleback Educational Publishing.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-62250-000-0

  ISBN-10: 1-62250-000-8

  eBook: 978-1-61247-684-1

  Printed in Guangzhou, China

  0000/00-00-00

  17 16 15 14 13 1 2 3 4 5

  Chapter One

  Robinson “Robin” Paige leaned his skinny self against the wall near the Barbara Jordan Community Center restrooms and rubbed his tired eyes. He was worn out, and not just from “Welcome Day” at Ironwood Central High School where he’d start ninth grade for real on Monday.

  He was more than ready for school. He’d already done his summer reading, an amazing novel called Bud, Not Buddy about an orphan boy searching for family, and written a great five-paragraph essay too. Robin was whipped because he’d barely slept. There’d been a fist fight under his window at midnight that woke him the first time. An hour and a half later, there’d been another fight. This time it wasn’t just gang dudes throwing punches.

  This time, there’d been gunfire.

  Three gunshots at one thirty in the morning can mess up your shut-eye, Robin thought.

  Robin was no stranger to gunfire. He and his grandmother lived on the toughest street in the toughest hood in the tough city of Ironwood. Miz Paige—that’s what everyone, except for Robin, called his grandmother—would have gotten them out of the Second Ward ages ago if she could afford it. She couldn’t. She ran a joint on Ninth Street called the Shrimp Shack that was barely making it. Unless they hit the Powerball, they were stuck with the Ninth Street Rangers gang, the blast of deuce-deuces at one thirty in the morning, the sirens. …

  The men’s room door opened. Old Mr. Smith teetered out. The Center had two kinds of members. You had to be younger than sixteen or older than sixty-five to hang out there. Robin was fourteen, though some folks still took him for twelve. Barely five feet tall, he had coal-colored skin and a buzz cut.

  Mr. Smith was way older than sixty-five. He’d lost part of one foot in the Vietnam War, wore a special shoe on that foot, and sometimes used a cane. He had thick round glasses and smelled of Old Spice. Robin loved him. He used to be a locksmith and could open any lock with just a hairpin. He was great at games. He had taught Robin and his friends pinochle, hearts, spades, rummy. … Robin had never beaten Mr. Smith at cards. Not once. And checkers? Maybe twice.

  “Robin Paige, you waitin’ to walk me back to the rec room?”

  Mr. Smith had on a baggy dress shirt tucked into pants, with his belt way too high. As for Robin, he wore the ICHS school uniform: dark blue pants and a matching short sleeve shirt. His new school had a strict dress code, mostly because so many kids got bussed there from different parts of the city. When the school first started, kids from the same hoods started dressing alike, and there were a lot of fights. That’s when the school board said all Ironwood kids had to wear blue and blue, even the girls. Even the teachers.

  Not that it stopped the fighting, Robin thought. Kids know who’s from their hood. You don’t need a shirt to represent.

  “You got it, Mr. Smith.” Then Robin noticed something. He winced. “Um … XYZ, Mr. Smith.”

  “XY. ’Scuse me, what?”

  “XYZ, Mr. Smith. X-Y-Z.”

  Mr. Smith stared blankly. “Huh? Whatchu talkin’ ’bout, Robin?”

  Robin grinned and pointed. “X-Y-Z means examine your zipper.”

  Mr. Smith laughed. “Oh! Sorry. Don’t want to be showin’ the colors in the rec hall. Too many old ladies askin’ me to marry them already.” He zipped his fly. “Easy to fo’git when you my age.”

  Easy to forget, Robin corrected mentally. His gramma was always on his case about speaking properly, even if she used a lot of street slang herself. Robin could go both ways. It was useful.

  “Okay,” Mr. Smith said. “Sly’s show starts in five minutes. It’ll take me that long to git to the rec hall!”

  Sly was Sylvester “Sly” Thomas. He was one of Robin’s two homies, along with Karen Knight, who everyone just called Kaykay. Sly’s daddy was Reverend James “Tex” Thomas of the Ironwood Community Baptist Church that Robin and Miz Paige attended. Sly and Kaykay hung at the Center a lot. Most every Friday afternoon Sly put on a magic show. The old folks loved him. His goal was to have his own stage show in Las Vegas, and Robin thought he just might do it. He was a cold magician and a dope mime.

  Robin and Mr. Smith finally reached the rec room, where a crowd of maybe fifty people waited near the low wooden stage for Sly to appear. Kaykay saw them enter. She rushed over with a full plate in her hands.

  That’s so Kaykay, Robin thought. She never walks if she can run.

  Robin gulped. Kaykay was just so … fine, even in her blue school uniform. An inch taller than him, she had tawny skin, straight hair to her shoulders, and eyes that appeared to change color depending on her mood. Every boy who met her wanted to be with her. Robin did too.

  Not that I’d ever tell her. She’d laugh her ass off.

  “Robin! Mr. Smith! Check out what I made with Mrs. Swett in the kitchen!” Kaykay talked as fast as she moved. “Organic peanut butter cookies. Taste!”

  That was so Kaykay too. She was all about keeping it organic and green. She was the kind of girl who’d yell at a stranger for dropping a McDonald’s cup on the sidewalk.

  Robin and Mr. Smith were about to try Kaykay’s cookies when the room hushed. Robin thought Sly’s show was starting, but it wasn’t. Instead, a man of about forty-five took the stage. He wore black pants and a white shirt and stood ramrod straight. This was Sergeant Bruce Jones, who’d been a real Marine drill sergeant before he ran the Center. Everyone just called him Sarge. When Robin first met Sarge, he’d been afraid of him. Then he figured out that under it all, the ex-Marine was a softie.

  “I’m gonna keep this short,” Sarge declared, “ ’cause it sure ain’t sweet. You know I care ’bout each of you. You also know the shape this place is in. We jus’ got a visit from the city inspectors, and they say we can’t put off the new roof no longer. But it’s gonna cost twenty-five thousand dollars we ain’t got. If we can’t get the money soon, we gots to close.”

  A murmur went through the crowd. Robin felt sick to his stomach. The Center had to close? He loved this place. It had this rec hall, a kitchen, arts and crafts, meeting rooms, even a small library. The place was pretty jacked up, though. The heat was bad, the A/C worse. The walls and floors were a mess, and it did need a new roof in the worst way.

  “When we gots to close?” Mr. Smith called out.

  “Next Wednesday. Wednesday be the last day, ’less someone comes up with some big money. That’s all I gotta say.” Sarge stepped off the stage as everyone talked at once.

  What will these old people do with themselves? Robin thought as a dozen conversations erupted around him. What am I gonna do?

  Mr. Smith went to talk with some of his friends. Sly came over to join Robin and Kaykay. Sly wasn’t tall, but he was wide. A clown by nature, he wasn’t clowning now.

  “Can you believe this bull?” Sly asked. “We can’t let this place close! No way, no how!”

  Kaykay put her hands on her hips. Robin thought that maybe she was about to cry. “Whatchu plannin’ to do then, Sly? Pull a big-ass wad of dead p
residents out your magic hat? If we was in the rich burbs, we’d get fixed right up. But who gonna help us out?”

  “I wish I could,” Sly admitted.

  “We can’t just give up,” Robin told his friends. What they could do, he didn’t know, but they just couldn’t let the Center die.

  Like Sly said: “No way, no how.”

  Chapter Two

  Robin was still with Sly and Kaykay when he got a text from his grandma on his elcheapo cell.

  “heLP ME close shop?”

  He managed a thin smile. His grandmother had fat fingers and never mastered the texting thing. He texted back.

  “C U soon”

  “I gotta help my grams,” he told his friends. “Sly, why don’t you do your magic show anyway? Cheer these folks up. And Kaykay? Pass out those cookies.”

  Robin headed out a moment later. The Center was on Marcus Garvey Boulevard at Nineteenth Street, a fifteen minute walk from his apartment above the Shrimp Shack. Garvey wasn’t just a main shopping street. A lot of white folks used it as a way to get home to the burbs when the highway got jammed. Robin would see them hunched over their steering wheels, safe behind the locked doors of their Audis and Lexuses, and wondered what they thought.

  Probably they’re wondering how anyone could live here. Probably they’re thinking how they’re better than we are.

  Robin crossed Nineteenth. When he reached the other side, he heard someone shouting his name.

  “Yo, Robin! Yo, Shrimp!”

  He froze. “Shrimp” was the nickname he’d been given in fourth grade by Tyrone Davis because he was short and because his grandmother ran the Shrimp Shack. Tyrone had busted his chops constantly then and had been on his case ever since. These days, Tyrone was six feet tall, had a soul patch, and could kick Robin’s ass from here to Chicago.

  Robin kept it light as Tyrone approached. “Hey, wassup, Tyrone? How you doin’?”

  Tyrone roared with laughter. He wore a black muscle shirt and sagging green shorts. “Ha! Shrimp talkin’ like we be friends!”

  “You all ready for school?” Robin asked, ignoring Tyrone’s sarcasm.

  “Only one thing good ’bout school and thas football, which you will never do, Shrimp. You be too shrimpy!”

  Tyrone laughed again and edged closer to Robin. Robin looked around, hoping maybe someone he knew would come by. He’d been bullied enough to be able to pick up a bad tone in Tyrone’s voice.

  “Football’s all right.” Robin stalled.

  “Damn right it’s all right,” Tyrone growled and got so close that Robin could see the single hairs of his soul patch. “You want us to have a good team. Right, Shrimp?”

  “For sure, Tyrone,” Robin answered quickly.

  “Then you gonna help yo’ boy Tyrone. Because if yo’ boy Tyrone don’ get good grades, he’ll get his ass kicked off the team. Tyrone don’t want that, so you gonna help yo’ boy. And you gonna keep yo’ big yap shut ’bout it. You finish yo’ essay for English? On that Bud-whatevah book?”

  Robin nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  “That good,” Tyrone said, then glared at Robin. “That mean you can write one for yo’ boy Tyrone. Give it to me ’fore English on Monday. And handwrite it. I don’t got no computer. Okay, Shrimp?”

  Robin was silent. Tyrone was asking him to cheat.

  “You not sayin’ no, is you, Shrimp?”

  Robin saw Tyrone’s big hands curl into fists. He knew what his answer had to be if he didn’t want to get dogged.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay be right,” Tyrone confirmed. “Make it good. Not as good as yours, but good enough. You feelin’ me?”

  Crap. Robin didn’t want to help Tyrone cheat, but he really didn’t want to get his ass kicked either. He said what had to be said, even if he hated himself for saying it.

  “Okay.”

  Chapter Three

  Though it was barely nine o’clock on a Saturday morning, Miz Paige set a red plastic beach bucket full of her special fried shrimp in front of Robin, Sly, and Kaykay.

  “Dig in,” she commanded, then wiped her hands on the first of many towels she’d go through in the day. “First batch o’ the day is the best batch o’ the day.”

  Robin smiled at his grandmother. She wore white pants, sensible shoes, a white blouse, and her green apron. It was hard to believe she was turning sixty. Her rounded face had no lines, and her hair was thick under her chef’s hat. But Robin knew his grandma’s body was not her friend. She had diabetes. She had arthritis. She needed pills for her blood pressure. Some weeks, it seemed like she spent more time at the community clinic than in her kitchen.

  “I’d love some!” Sly reached for a shrimp. He popped it in his mouth and chewed with a dreamy expression on his face. “Miz Paige, you make the best shrimp. And I just had me some breakfast.”

  “Why, thank you, Sylvester Thomas, you a gentleman and a scholar.” Miz Paige eyed Kaykay suspiciously. “What about ’chu, girl? You still on that I-don’t-eat-no-animals thang?”

  Kaykay nodded. “Yup. And you should be too. It’s called bein’ kind to animals and bein’ kind to the earth.”

  Miz Paige harrumphed. “Might be kind for the earth, but that don’t make it kind to your stomach. Besides, you ever seen a shrimp brain?” She took a pen from her apron and put a dot on the white paper tablecloth. “Smaller than that. He don’t even know he’s bein’ cooked.” She gave Kaykay another sideways look. “I’ll bring you some old celery sticks, Kaykay. Enjoy ’em.”

  Miz Paige started back toward the kitchen, but Robin stopped her. “Can we talk now about the Center, Gramma? It’s really important.”

  “Okay. Jus’ hold on a second.”

  Miz Paige turned down the music—she loved to play old soul and Motown—and slid into an empty chair.

  The Shrimp Shack chairs were all mismatched, and the walls were covered in notes and cards from happy customers. Near the cash register were some photos of Robin’s parents, who’d died when he—

  No, Robin told himself. Don’t think on that. You can’t do nothing about that. Think about the Center.

  It was the next morning; a hot and humid day that had everyone in shorts and T-shirts. Robin and his buds had gathered to plan what they might do to save the Center. Actually, they had a plan—they were going to do a sidewalk sale over at Garvey and Thirteenth Street of stuff they didn’t need and give the money to Sarge. What they wanted to do this morning was get Miz Paige to help out too.

  “Okay, shoot,” Miz Paige told the kids. “Make it fast. Got a par-tay this afternoon. Fifty-five pounds of deep fried.”

  “Well,” Robin began. “You know we’re doing that sale thing today.”

  “That’s right. It’s a good idea,” his grandmother agreed.

  Robin shifted uneasily. He hated asking anyone for help. “Well, we were thinking … maybe there’s a way for the Shrimp Shack to help out.”

  Miz Paige narrowed her eyes. “You want me to donate some shrimp?”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Kaykay said.

  “I was actually thinking something else,” Robin told her. “I was thinking maybe you could charge an extra dollar for orders this week. With the extra money to go to the Center.”

  “I love that idea!” Kaykay exclaimed. “I’m an artist. I’ll make a sign. We can hand out flyers at the sidewalk sale, and—”

  “Whoa, whoa!” Miz Paige held up one hand. “I ain’t said yes, yet.”

  Sly put aside a shrimp tail. “Say yes, Miz Paige. Everyone’s gotta do their bit.”

  “Sylvester Thomas, you sound just like your daddy the preacher man,” Miz Paige told him.

  “Is that a yes?” Sly pressed.

  Miz Paige nodded. “I guess. How ’bout if I try it out to’morra after church? You kids make your sign. If it don’t cut into my sales too much, I’ll keep it goin’ till Wednesday. She looked at Robin. “It’s a fine idea, Robin. Your momma and daddy …”

  Robin finished the sentence in hi
s mind. He’d heard it from her so many times.

  Your momma and daddy would be proud of you.

  He had an answer in his mind, but he didn’t dare say it.

  Great, Gramma. But that won’t bring them back.

  It was three hours later. Robin, Sly, and Kaykay were at the plaza at Thirteenth and Garvey—really a small strip of asphalt with some benches and a couple of sickly ash trees. Though people were not really supposed to be selling stuff, the cops never bothered anyone here.

  “Raising money to save the Center!” Kaykay called out as people milled around, looking at what various folks were selling.

  “Come save the Center!” Sly added. “Buy for a good cause!”

  Robin had lugged over about fifty books in plastic bags. Sly, who lived with his family in a frame house on Seventeenth, had brought magic tricks, card decks, and video games he’d quit playing. Kaykay, who lived in the projects east of Garvey, had brought art supplies and some plants. She’d written up a bunch of flyers about the dollar-added thing that Miz Paige was willing to do. “Raising money to save the Center!” she called out again.

  “Come save the Center!” Sly repeated “Buy for a good cause!”

  Maybe it was the brutal heat. Maybe they had the wrong stuff to sell. Whatever the reason, few folks took flyers and no one bought anything. Finally, a couple of middle-aged people stopped by. They looked familiar to Robin, but he couldn’t place them.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Plunkett!” Sly introduced them around. They were from church. “Gonna buy something for a good cause?”

  “The best cause,” Robin added.

  Mr. Plunkett was really short. His wife was even shorter. They didn’t have far to go to bend down and check out a couple of Robin’s old books. One was a novel by Maya Angelou. The other was some Mad Libs that Robin had never filled out.

  “Yeah, we heard the old place needs a new roof. I’ll take these,” Mr. Plunkett said. “How much?”

  “Buck a piece,” Robin told him.

  “That’s not gonna pay for a new roof,” Mrs. Plunkett declared.