Robinson's Hood Read online

  “It’s a start,” Kaykay responded.

  Mr. Plunkett handed over the money and shook his head sadly. “There’s so many causes and things that need money. The community clinic’s fixin’ to shut down too. The church day care needs swings. There’s men back from Iraq who don’t even have a roof over their heads. Everybody’s sufferin’. And everyone’s stretched so thin.”

  “Clyde Plunkett, you hush!” Mrs. Plunkett interrupted him. “These kids are tryin’ their best.” She smiled at Robin and Sly and lifted her sunglasses. “You keep doin’ what you’re doin’. The good Lord will give you a hand. You have a good day now.”

  “See you, Mrs. Plunkett!” Sly called as they walked away. “Thanks, Mr. Plunkett!” He put the two dollars in his pocket. “Two bucks down, twenty-four thou nine hundred ninety-eight to go.”

  Mr. Plunkett’s words rang in Robin’s head.

  There’s so many causes and things that need money. The community clinic’s fixin’ to shut down too. The church day care needs swings. There’s men back from Iraq who don’t even have a roof over their heads. Everybody’s sufferin’. And everyone’s stretched so thin.

  By the time evening came, they’d made exactly seventeen dollars.

  Robin trudged home carrying his unsold books and Kaykay’s sign. When he got to the Shrimp Shack, his grandmother was starting to close. He taped the sign in the window, told her about the afternoon, and pitched in on cleanup. He could do it with his eyes closed.

  Scrub the grill. Scrub the slicer. Scrub the floor. Scrub the tables. Scrub the grease catcher. Scrub the fridge. Scrub the sink. Scrub this, scrub that.

  Does my gramma dream about shrimp and scrub brushes? Probably.

  He took the trash—shrimp guts that stunk to high heaven—to the dumpster. This was always his last chore.

  When he came back, he expected to find the lights half off and his grandmother ready to roll. Instead, he saw his grandmother face to face with a young man. He was in his early twenties, had a black bandana in his back pocket, and another around his head.

  Ninth Street Ranger. Robin shivered. Those guys were badass.

  “This be a bad block, an’ I don’t want nothin’ to happen to yo’ shop, Miz Paige,” the guy was saying, all fake nice. “That’d be a bad thing, Miz Paige. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  “I know just what you’re sayin’!” Miz Paige exclaimed. “You’re shakin’ me down! Get your scabby ass outta my shop! Get out!”

  “You don’t wan’ to do that,” the guy hissed. “You wanna give us a hundred bucks a week so nothin’ bad happens.”

  His grandmother was furious. “I worked my life buildin’ this business! You are not shakin’ me down!”

  The Ranger must have seen Robin out of the corner of his eye. He whirled. “Who you be? Whatchu want?”

  “That’s my grandson. You stay away from him!” Miz Paige exclaimed.

  The Ranger laughed. “That’s your grandson? I heard ’bout him.” He took two threatening steps toward Robin. “I hear you a little smarty-pants. Tell you what, Smarty Pants. You wanna be smart? Tell your grams to do the right thing an’ gimme the money. Or she gonna be very, very sorry!”

  Chapter Four

  It seemed like a regular late-August morning on Ninth Street as Robin and Miz Paige stepped outside to go to church. Robin took in a Ninth Street scene bathed in bright, warm sunshine. Regular Sunday. The Ninth Street Ranger lookouts were on both corners waiting for the white kids who drove in from the suburbs to buy drugs. Some folks were walking their dogs. The little liquor store that Mr. Burress ran just down from the Shrimp Shack was doing a brisk business in Lotto tickets.

  Like any regular Sunday morning. Robin and Miz Paige were on their way to the ten o’clock service at Ironwood Baptist Church. Miz Paige was big on church, and big on taking Robin to church. She sang in the choir and always wore a long black skirt and a short-sleeve flower-print top. A choir robe went over all this. Robin wore what he called his regular church suit—a black jacket and pants, green collared shirt, and a black tie.

  Robin was hot and cold on church. He liked it because Kaykay was always there. Sometimes, though, after a week with lots of gunshots and sirens? All he wanted to do on Sunday morning was sleep.

  Robin and his grandmother stepped in front of the Shrimp Shack, and the regular morning stopped being regular.

  “Robinson Paige, my word! Is that door ajar?”

  Miz Paige stood on the sidewalk with hands on her hips and real concern in her voice. His grandmother only called him “Robinson Paige” when something was wrong. He’d been named for the baseball great Jackie Robinson. His grandmother also claimed that the Hall of Fame pitcher Leroy “Satchel” Paige had actually been a distant relative.

  Robin peered at the Shrimp Shack front door, which was behind a pull-down metal gate designed to keep out anyone who might even think about robbing them. Oh no. The door to the place was cracked open behind the gate.

  “I think so, Gramma,” Robin told her. “You locked it last night, right? And the gate?! Did you lock the gate?”

  “Help me, Jesus,” Miz Paige muttered as she opened the now unlocked gate. “Help me, help me, help me.”

  She rolled up the gate; the front door was definitely open. They opened it all the way and stepped inside.

  “Sweet Jesus!” Miz Paige exclaimed. “Robinson Paige, call the police!”

  Robin’s heart beat harshly as he took out his cell and called 911. The Shrimp Shack was trashed. Tables upside down. Chairs broken. Cards and letters that had once been on the wall were now on the floor. Robin winced. Someone had found Miz Paige’s giant jar of tartar sauce and hurled it against the photo of his dead parents. It was now covered in scuzzy, green-specked sauce.

  “Hello?” he said when the 911 operator answered. “This is Robin Paige at the Shrimp Shack on Ninth Street. We got broken into last night. There’s a lot of damage.”

  Miz Paige hustled over to look in her cash register. “They took ’zactly a hundred dollars!” she wailed.

  The operator asked Robin if he and his grandmother were in any danger. When Robin said he didn’t think so, the 911 lady said they’d send a patrol car over as soon as one got free.

  “Call the church and tell Reverend Thomas what’s goin’ on,” Miz Paige instructed when the call was over. Her voice was steadier. “Lemme check out the freezer and make sure there’s no dead bodies.”

  “Why didn’t the alarm go off?” he asked.

  Miz Paige made a face. “Didn’t pay the bill. Tryin’ to save some money for your college.”

  That made Robin mad. “I don’t go to college for four years! We live on a bad street! We got gang guys shakin’ us down!” He was so upset his speech was turning street. “Come on, Gramma. Pay your damn alarm bill!”

  Miz Paige just looked at him, then went to the back. Meanwhile, Robin called the church and told the choir director what had happened.

  “Everything’s still there,” Miz Paige announced when she returned. “Strange.”

  “No it ain’t.” Robin had it figured out. “It’s not strange. The Rangers are sending you a message. They took a hundred dollars. That’s what they wanted you to pay them.”

  Miz Paige bit her lower lip, nodded, and looked up toward the sky. “God, forgive me for what I’m about to do.” Then she stared hard at Robin. “We’re gonna spruce this place up. And we’re not gonna say a word to the police.”

  “What?!”

  “The cops’ll take a report and leave,” his grandmother told him. “Meanwhile, we gots to live here. No, Robin. You do not say a word. Do you understand?”

  Robin understood. He didn’t like it, but he understood. His grandmother was afraid of the Rangers like he was afraid of Tyrone.

  “I understand.”

  Miz Paige managed a little smile. “Good. Now, you start in front, an’ I’ll start in back. This mess ain’t gonna clean itself.”

  Robin couldn’t help himself. He had
to ask. “You gonna pay off the Rangers, Gramma?”

  Her answer was lightning quick. “To keep you safe, Robin? I’ll give them anything.”

  She went to the back. Robin took off his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves, and found the push broom. He’d just finished his first pass when he heard loud knocking on the front door.

  He froze. Too quick to be the cops, he was sure it was the Rangers coming for their money. He steadied his hands as he opened the wooden door.

  It wasn’t the Rangers. It was Reverend Thomas. Right behind him were Sly and Kaykay, and behind them were a bunch of people in their Sunday best.

  “Robin, Robin!” Reverend Thomas was a big man, and he had a booming, friendly voice. “We hear you had a little problem last night. We’re here to help you clean this ungodly mess, and maybe I’ll do a little preachin’ when we’re done. Sometimes the best place to have church is not in a church at all.” He got a twinkle in his eye. “That is, if Miz Paige promises to cook up some of her real fine shrimp!”

  Everyone laughed.

  Then a voice rang out from behind Robin. His grandmother’s.

  “Praise the Lord and find yo’selves some paper towels,” Miz Paige announced. “There’s work to do … and then there’ll be shrimp to eat!”

  Just after nightfall, Robin leaned back against his pillows and thought about the strange day. The trashing of the Shrimp Shack. What his grandmother had said about the Rangers. And especially the way two dozen people working together made the place look good as new in a couple of hours. Someone even managed to clean up the pictures of his parents.

  Of course, the police weren’t happy.

  The cops had shown up around noon. They took a report and even asked questions at the liquor store. The owner, Mr. Burress, said he hadn’t heard a thing. Whether that was true, or whether Mr. Burress was also afraid of the Rangers, Robin didn’t know.

  He got up from his bed, went to his single window, and looked out. Ninth Street was deserted except for the usual lookouts. His grandmother had gone to see a sick friend. He was home by himself. Tomorrow was the first real day of school. He had homework to do. Not for himself. For Tyrone.

  Robin’s room wasn’t much. Just a single bed, a desk, a lamp, a chair, and a bookcase. But he had an old computer and printer that Miz Paige used to run her business. He knew he was lucky to have a computer. A lot of kids had to use the ones at the library or the Center. Tonight’s homework, though, couldn’t be done on the computer. It had to be handwritten.

  Robin sighed, then found a binder and tore out some sheets of paper. Writing another essay about Bud, Not Buddy was a snap. It only took about forty-five minutes. He made sure to mess up some of the grammar and spell some words wrong so the teacher would believe it was Tyrone’s. Then he put Tyrone’s name and the date at the top.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this, Robin mused. Actually? After today? I can believe it.

  The thought didn’t make him feel any better. Not at all.

  Chapter Five

  Robin sat in the second row in English, not far from Sly and Kaykay. It was a big class—probably thirty-eight kids—and everyone was listening intently as Tyrone read the very end of his five paragraph essay about Bud, Not Buddy.

  His essay, as in, my essay. As in, the one I wrote for him, Robin thought bitterly.

  “In con-cluse—in conclusion,” Tyrone read, having trouble with the word conclusion, which Robin had spelled the correctly. “Bud, Not Buddy is a fine novel about a boy who is searching for family. He was lucky that Lefty Lewis found him walking by the side of the road. By the end of the book, Bud Caldwell realizes that without a family, a person is not a whole person. We all need family. How we make our family is a big part of what it means to be human. The end.”

  Silence.

  Robin looked around. His classmates stared at Tyrone in shock. Most everyone knew Tyrone, at least by rep. Tyrone always blew off his homework. That Tyrone Davis could write an essay like this was nothing but amazing.

  The whole class broke into wild applause and cheering. Tyrone took an actual bow, and there was even more clapping, hooting, and hollering.

  “You da man! Ty-rone!” Tyrone’s homeboy, Riondo Moore, another football player who everyone just called “Dodo,” shouted at his friend.

  Tyrone encouraged the clapping. “Give it up fo’ me!”

  Aw, man. I have to clap for this?

  Finally, Robin clapped so he wouldn’t be the only kid not clapping. That was part of his school strategy. Stay under the radar. Do good on tests and reports. Go easy on the class participation. Don’t attract too much attention.

  You don’t want to be “It.” Not at Ironwood Central High School. This place is a jungle!

  Robin knew all about being “It.” He’d been “It” many times in grade school and middle school. He didn’t need to be “It” again: to be picked on, beat on, and jacked up.

  Not interested in that. As Sly would say, “No way, no how.”

  Tyrone pointed at Robin and grinned as the applause continued. Even the teacher, Mr. Simesso joined in. Finally, he held a hand up for quiet.

  Robin liked Mr. Simesso a lot. The orientation on Friday had been with him. He’d come to America from Ethiopia for college and stayed to be in the Teach for America program. This was his second year. He had a good rep, and the girls thought he was cute. About five eight, oval face, scruffy beard, glasses, and a cool Ethiopian accent.

  “Nicely done, Tyrone,” Mr. Simesso commented. “I know your teachers from last year. I can see that you’re turning over a new leaf.”

  “Tryin’ to,” Tyrone responded. “Tryin’ to make me some straight As.”

  Some of his boys in the back of the room cracked up, especially Dodo.

  They must know he didn’t write that paper.

  “Whatever you did, Tyrone? Keep it up,” Mr. Simesso advised. “Next assignment, class? Pick ten words you don’t know from Bud, Not Buddy. Write out the word, the definition, and use the word in a sentence. Don’t forget to note what page the word is on. Due Wednesday. Tyrone, you can sit down.”

  As Tyrone strutted back to his seat, Mr. Simesso turned to Robin. “Robin Paige, do you have anything to add to our discussion of Bud, Not Buddy?”

  Robin hated to be called on. Too much attention.

  He shook his head.

  “Is that a no?” Mr. Simesso asked.

  Robin nodded.

  “Because you have an excellent academic reputation, Robin,” Mr. Simesso went on.

  Some guy in the back of the room called out, “Shrimp!”

  Mr. Simesso whirled. “Who said that?”

  Whoever it was, he was saved by the bell. The class streamed out. Robin’s friends were waiting for him outside in the hall. On Monday, English was right before lunch, and they always ate lunch together. That is, if you could call what got served in the ICHS cafeteria “lunch.” Robin had tried the food on orientation day. The fish sticks tasted like month-old shrimp guts.

  “Okay,” Kaykay declared as soon as Robin joined them. “No way Tyrone wrote that. He doesn’t know any verbs other than ‘to be.’ If it’s over two syllables, forget it.”

  “I was thinkin’ the same thing,” Sly agreed. “He be boastin’ how he gonna make all As? No way, no how.”

  “Last A Tyrone made was in preschool,” Kaykay sniffed. “And that was with the teacher’s help!”

  These are my friends, Robin mused. I can’t lie to them. If I don’t tell the truth, that’s the same as lying.

  “Umm … that essay? He didn’t write it.” Robin said.

  “How you know that?” Sly demanded. “You got the four-one-one?”

  Robin edged closer to the wall as the tide of students heading to the cafeteria got thick. To save money, the city had closed a bunch of the other high schools, which meant that Ironwood Central was jammed.

  “Yes, I got straight dope. Tyrone didn’t write that essay.” Robin’s mouth felt dry. “I did.”<
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  “You did what?” Kaykay was shocked.

  “I wrote Tyrone’s essay. ’Cause I didn’t want to get my ass kicked!”

  “What happened, Robin? I got to know.” Sly was as upset as Kaykay.

  Robin sighed. “Let’s eat. I’ll tell you everything.”

  In the crowded, noisy cafeteria, the kids sat at the end near the teachers’ lounge, far away from the jock table where Tyrone and his football buddies were hanging out. Robin and Sly got baloney sandwiches, milk, and bananas. Sly added a brownie. Kaykay always brought her lunch from home in a reusable “green” container. Today, it was bean spout salad, a small apple, and a few organic crackers.

  “You eatin’ hamster food,” Sly told her after his first big bite of the sandwich.

  “Not like two people I know,” Kaykay retorted as she opened her salad. She looked at Robin. “You. Tyrone. Spill!”

  Robin did. He told them everything, from what happened with Tyrone after leaving the Center on Friday to writing the essay for him last night.

  When he was done, Sly drained his milk and shook his head. “You know when it start with a boy like Tyrone, it don’t stop. You in for a bad year, Robin.”

  “Well, what do you want him to do?” Kaykay demanded. “You want him to get his butt whipped? Know what, Sly? Why don’t you go over to Tyrone right now and tell him you gonna be his homework boy?”

  Sly pursed his lips. “Kaykay, back yo’ ass off. I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.”

  Kaykay nodded. “Damn straight you get it.”

  The kids ate silently for a few minutes. Not that it was ever quiet in the cafeteria. Lunch was in two shifts, six hundred kids each. ICHS was an old school, built decades ago, with six hundred kids eating in a cafeteria built for half that many. The mix of talking, laughing, and yelling was anything but quiet. Robin was so upset about how he’d helped Tyrone cheat that the noise felt like punches against his eardrums.

  “I’ll figure out something to do with Tyrone,” he finally told his friends, hoping his voice had more courage than he felt. “Meanwhile, what are we going to do about the Center? My grandmother made about a hundred extra dollars on shrimp yesterday afternoon. That ain’t gonna be enough.”