Freedom Train Read online

  Miss Fowler said, “Mr. Little, Clyde Thomason deserves a whipping for his disruptive and disrespectful behavior.” Then she stormed off in the opposite direction.

  Mr. Little looked right at me and said, “Come with me, son,” in a very nice voice.

  I dragged behind him a few steps, my stomach all knotted up. If only Mr. Little would disappear, then I could run on home. I was thinking what would happen if Mr. Little disappeared when I noticed his dark brown hair almost touched the back of his neck. No wonder some of the teachers said Mr. Little needed a good haircut. I’d also heard Mr. Little wasn’t as mean as the teachers thought he oughtta be. I wasn’t sure about that, but I figured even if he didn’t whup me, my pa would whup me for getting in trouble to start with.

  Mr. Little stopped and turned around. “Why are you walking behind me, son? Come on.”

  I walked next to him. The old principal, Mr. Sampson, didn’t want students to get near him, and he sure wouldn’ta let them walk beside him. Mr. Sampson led and you followed.

  Once we got to the door of his office, Mr. Little said, “Miss Fowler says she’s so upset she has to visit the nurse to get her blood pressure taken. She wants me to tell your parents about this.”

  “P-p-please d-d-don’t tell them, sir,” I begged.

  “I won’t, this time,” Mr. Little said. “But I hope you have learned why you shouldn’t bring frogs to school?”

  “I tried to keep him quiet, honest. I didn’t mean for him to get out of my pocket. He’s ornery like that sometimes.”

  “You’re right, barking tree frogs can be ornery,” Mr. Little said. “Since you’re aware of that, you know better than to bring him to school.”

  “How’d you know Chester’s a barking tree frog?” I asked, surprised.

  “Miss Fowler said the frog sounded like a little dog. I’m somewhat of a herpetoculturist myself.”

  “A what?” I asked.

  “A person who keeps and breeds amphibians or reptiles is called a herpetoculturist because they’re part of a larger group called herps. ‘Herp’ comes from the Greek word herpeton, which means basically ‘creepy, crawly things that move around on their bellies.’”

  “Wow. I never knew that. So you’re like a scientist, too?”

  “No, the person who studies amphibians and reptiles is a herpetologist. People like us, we just like frogs and keep them around.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling a little less scared. I didn’t know an adult other than Joseph who paid any mind to creepy, crawly things. Mr. Little had to be a nice man if he liked frogs. I said, “I just brung Chester to school today because he was feeling sorta lonely.”

  Mr. Little said, “‘I just brought Chester to school.’ Now, come on into my office, Clyde.”

  I sat down in the big wooden chair. The chair had wide, open slats in the back, kinda like jail bars. I figured that’s the point. That’s why you have to sit in it when you’re in the principal’s office for being in trouble—it’s the school’s notion of prison. I had lots of experience sitting in this chair when Mr. Sampson was principal. But this was my first time with Mr. Little.

  “A lonely tree frog, huh,” Mr. Little said. “I see. Son, how are you doing in your studies?”

  I shrugged. “All right, I reckon.” I didn’t say nothin’ to him ’bout me being lonely. That nobody paid attention to me no more. That Ma was always working. And Pa, since he got put to part-time work at the train, was moping around, and everybody kept on bragging on Joseph and saying nothin’ good ’bout me, like I was invisible or something.

  “You mean ‘All right, I think.’ Are you excited about the Freedom Train?”

  I nodded.

  “Why don’t you tell me something about it? I understand your brother keeps you informed in his letters home. For instance, how many guards does the train have?”

  I sighed. I’d answered these questions a million, zillion, gatrillion times. “There are twenty-seven guards. There’s a hundred twenty-seven documents, including the Declaration of Independence. And . . . the train is taking them to more than three hundred cities in these forty-eight states. Joseph was chosen because he was a hero in World War Two. He saved the life of one m—”

  “That’s fine, son. I’ve heard good things about your brother. Now let’s talk about you, and your reciting the Freedom Pledge when your brother and the train come to town.”

  I sat up.

  About that time a teacher came to the door. “Mr. Little, sorry to interrupt you, but we need you,” she said.

  Mr. Little looked at her. “Can it wait?”

  She shook her head.

  Mr. Little said, “I’ll be right back. Stay where you are, son.”

  While he was gone, I thought about what I’d got myself into. Why couldn’t I just do it? No matter how bad I wanted to get up on that stage in Atlanta and recite them words, I just couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

  Mr. Little and the other teachers had decided that since my brother, Joseph, had gone to the school, then fought in the war, and was now guarding the Freedom Train, it was only fitting for me to say the Freedom Pledge and receive the fifty-dollar prize from the mayor. I gotta admit, that prize looked real good to me. I could help Pa by paying for my American Flyer train with it. But every time I got up in front of people to speak, I got so scared I wanted to throw up on my shoes. After the second practice, I’d made my decision not to do it.

  That’s when Phillip Granger volunteered to say the Freedom Pledge. If it had been anybody else, I don’t think I woulda minded. But thinking on him doing it just ’bout knocked me out. If I’d had a tail, it woulda been down between my hind legs.

  Mr. Little came back into the office. He sat down. “I apologize for that, son. Let’s get back to our talk. Miss Fowler tells me you have trouble speaking in front of the class—that you get nervous and stutter. Is that true?”

  I nodded, but I didn’t look him in the eye. All I could think was, Miss Fowler’s sure got a big ole fat mouth.

  “I also understand that because of this you’ve decided not to speak at the program for the Freedom Train. But don’t you think you should try, since your brother was handpicked as one of the marines to guard the train?”

  I mumbled, “I just can’t do it, sir.”

  “Son, a lot of people right here in Cabbagetown would never get to see those documents if the train didn’t stop here. I wouldn’t want you to regret not speaking later in your life. And I’m sure your parents will be disappointed.”

  I wanted to tell Mr. Little that my folks didn’t even know I was alive. All anybody cared about was how Joseph was making everybody so proud.

  The bell sounded for school to let out. Mr. Little went on like he didn’t hear it. I wondered if he was gonna whup me. I didn’t see no strap where Mr. Sampson used to keep it, just a big empty nail on the wall behind the desk.

  “Maybe you should reconsider, Clyde,” Mr. Little said. “Some of the greatest speakers and singers have had problems with stage fright. That’s what it sounds like you might have . . . but you can overcome that. It just takes a little practice.”

  Miss Fowler appeared at the door with her arms crossed, wearing the meanest look. “I hope you are going to whip this boy, Principal Little.” Then her eyes got wide, and she backed up a few steps, pointing her finger and using her high, squeaky voice. “Why is that hideous creature still in this building?”

  Chester had poked his head up. “He was just trying to get some air, ma’am,” I said. I pushed the top of his head back down into my pocket.

  Mr. Little said, “Well, Miss Fowler, we’ve settled it without corporal punishment, haven’t we, Mr. Thomason?”

  No adult had ever referred to me as Mr. Thomason. And I wasn’t even sure what corporal punishment was, but I was glad Mr. Little thought we was settled up.

  And what happened next wasn’t nothing I coulda guessed.

  Mr. Little stood up and shook my hand. “You’re a fine young man, Clyde Thomason.
And I think it’s good that you understood your frog was lonely. The next time, though, just remember not to bring Chester to school.”

  Miss Fowler said, “What? Is that it? What on earth is his punishment?”

  Mr. Little smiled. “He’s already been punished, Miss Fowler.” Then he looked at his watch. “School’s out, son, go on home.”

  I had to squeeze past Miss Fowler. When I looked back, her mouth was flung open wide enough to catch a bushel of flies.

  I’d never met a grown-up like Mr. Little before. I felt that instead of going to the principal’s office, it was more like Planet Comics #7, “Weird Adventures on Other Worlds.”

  GETTING HOME — ALMOST

  The minute I stepped out of the school door, I spotted Ronnie.

  “What happened? You get a licking?” he asked.

  “Nope,” I said. “Mr. Little ain’t so bad. Not like old man Sampson, that’s for sure. He even done took down that big leather strap.”

  “I been waiting around for ya.”

  “Yeah. Thanks. Let’s go,” I said. I knew why he was waiting. He was scared Phillip and his boys would get after him, ’cause we were best buddies since first grade and all.

  A black cat crossed the street in front of us. “Hold it,” Ronnie said. He took seven steps backward, spun around, and spit on the ground.

  “Whatcha do that for?” I asked, thinking I didn’t really want to know.

  “Black cat’s bad luck. I gotta reverse it. You got any salt?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think that’s gonna help none.”

  “Suit yourself. It’s okay, I got my lucky rabbit’s foot in my left pocket. And it ain’t just any lucky rabbit’s foot neither. It’s the left foot, and it was killed by a cross-eyed man using his left hand.”

  “I know, I know.” I shrugged and shook my head. Ronnie was right proud of that rabbit’s foot, and what did I know? Maybe it could work.

  We walked to his front door. He lived on the far end of Reynoldstown, that’s the next neighborhood over from Cabbagetown. His pa owned a store that sold all kinds of stuff. Sometimes kids made friends with Ronnie just to get candy or sneak peeks at the comic books. But he knew I wasn’t one of ’em, since me and him been friends forever.

  Besides, I wasn’t much into store candy. My favorite was ice cream from the Hunkie cart. Just thinking ’bout that stick of vanilla ice cream covered with thick, hard chocolate made my mouth water.

  “I still think you oughtta be in the celebration for the Freedom Train,” Ronnie said. “You speak good in front of me. Whoever recites the Freedom Pledge is getting fifty whole dollars from the mayor.”

  “I told you, I ain’t gonna do it.”

  “Aw, go on, it’d make your ma and pa proud. You can talk in front of people when you try. I wish we’d entered the national Freedom Train essay contest like your brother said we should. We could’ve won in place of that girl from California. I would’ve wrote one called ‘What the Marines Guarding the Freedom Train Do All Night Long.’”

  “How was you gonna write that? You don’t even know what they do.”

  “Sure I do, you read me Joseph’s letters enough times. They sleep and guard, guard and sleep,” Ronnie said, cackling like a hen. “You could’ve done it too. You could’ve wrote ’bout how the train is powered by a two-thousand-horsepower diesel locomotive named the Spirit of 1776. Shoot, that’s like writing history down. On account of Joseph, you know more ’bout that train than any of us do.”

  “Only thing I can do is stutter and almost pass out in front of people,” I said. “Remember the Sunday-school play?”

  “So? You didn’t hurt yourself none when you passed out. And the Salvation Army lady said that till you started sweating like it was raining, and stuttering and shaking like you was in a earthquake, you was doing all right.”

  “It don’t matter. I ain’t doing it.”

  “What about Joseph? You know he thinks you gonna be on that stage. Your ma said he’s excited about you being up speaking and all.”

  “Yeah, well, I ain’t never said I was gonna recite no Freedom Pledge. Besides, I don’t care nothing ’bout no train, ’cept the American Flyer.”

  “You know that ain’t so. You carry on about Joseph and that train every single day. Anyways, you think your folks gonna get your Flyer for you for Christmas? Let me see that ad again.”

  “I hope so,” I said, pulling the American Flyer ad out of my pocket and handing it to Ronnie. “Be careful, I done looked at it so much it’s coming apart.”

  “I’m gonna be careful,” Ronnie said, looking at it.

  “She’s a beaut, ain’t she? Pa’s been saving up some money. He knows all I want is that train. I sure don’t want no roller skates like I been getting every year.”

  “Ronnieee,” Mrs. Shumate called. She had a really loud voice for a tiny woman. She stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. “What you boys out here doing?”

  “Gotta go,” Ronnie said. “You gonna be okay getting home? I’ll walk you real quick.”

  “Heck, I just walked you,” I said. When we was younger, I’d walk him home, then he’d turn around and walk me home. Sometimes it went on for hours, till it got dark. Finally one of our folks would make us quit.

  Mrs. Shumate said, “You ain’t walking nowhere but in here to help me with the store.” She walked back in the store singing a song real loud.

  Ronnie said, “I guess I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

  “Ronnieee, get in here now.”

  I nodded. Ronnie’s ma could be crazy as a bedbug sometimes. No need to get her all riled up. “Yeah, tomorrow,” I said.

  He waved and walked inside the store.

  I headed home. I slowed up when I got near the roundhouse. That’s where the colored men worked for the railroad, repairing rails, fixing engines, wheels, and all kinds of stuff. Sometimes I could hear them shouting out to each other.

  I heard somebody calling after me. I felt butterflies in my stomach. It was gettin’ on dark. Chester was squirming again. I took him out of my shirt pocket and held him.

  I saw three of ’em, on bikes. I knew who it was.

  I was sweating so much it was hard to even hold Chester in my hands. It felt like somebody done poured a bucket of water on me.

  “You better start running, Clyyyyde,” Phillip Granger shouted.

  Believe you me, I wanted to run something fierce, but I was froze to the spot.

  Phillip threw his bike down—hard. I reckoned he didn’t care if it got busted up, ’cause his pa would just get him a new one. He picked something up, but I couldn’t make out what it was. He walked toward me, slowly.

  “I’m gonna whup you to a pulp, chicken liver,” Phillip shouted.

  Beecher Stokes—we called him BB ’cause he used to walk around with a broken BB gun slung over his shoulder—wasn’t saying nothing. Him and Jimmy Ray was Phillip’s slaves. They did whatever he told ’em to. I couldn’t make it out, how they come to be this way even though I’d known ’em all my life. They lived two streets over from me in the village. Until Phillip came, they never gave nobody no trouble. BB cheated playing steelies, and Jimmy Ray might lie on you, but that was ’bout as mean as they got before Phillip. Now they just followed him around like they’s horses with bridles. They both laid their bikes down and walked over near Phillip.

  “I-I . . . ain’t wa-wa-wanting no . . . no . . . trouble Phi-Phi-Phillip,” I said, feeling mad that I didn’t just take off running. When Joseph come back from World War II, he told me he was done with fighting. He said a brave man knows how to stay out of a fight, not get in one.

  BB said, “Come on, Phillip. Let’s get outta here. Somebody might see us.”

  Phillip grinned; he was holding something behind his back. “We down here at the roundhouse, ain’t nobody to see us.”

  I stuck Chester back in my shirt pocket and got in a fighting stance, like Joseph done taught me before he was in the war. Left fist up higher than
right fist, fool my opponent. Make ’im think I was gonna do a uppercut with my left, like I was a lefty, which I wasn’t, ’cause I was really gonna hit ’im with my right.

  “There’s men over there.” BB pointed toward the roundhouse.

  I could hear the sound of steel being hit with hammers. Loud shouts.

  “Who? Them Negras? They ain’t gonna mess with no white boys.”

  I was about to say he ought to listen to BB, when everything went black. I couldn’t hear or see nothing no more. It was like I had finally disappeared—or died.

  Then all at once I could hear almost like somebody whispering, “You crazy. Look what you done.” It was BB.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Jimmy Ray whispered. “Shoot. This ain’t right. What you hit him with a plank for? We used to fighting fair and square in the village.”

  “Don’t nobody care what you Cabbagetown hillbillies do,” Phillip said. “Shut your traps or I’ll give you both some of this!”

  A shadow come over the top of me. I could barely make Phillip out. He held the plank up high. So that was what hit me. I could feel myself thinking, Well, it’s over now.

  Suddenly the shadow moved away. I could hear words louder now, somebody swearing.

  “What the heck.”

  Ping. Bam. Ping.

  “Stop it,” Phillip yelled.

  Ping. Bam. Bam. Ping. Bam. Ping. Ping.

  “Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.” I could hear Phillip, BB, and Jimmy Ray yelping like hit dogs.

  Some light come back to my eyes. I heard them running away. Shouting, “Whoever you are, we gonna get you.”

  For one split second I saw a face. Then I blacked out again. The next thing I knew, I was on a porch settee with a wet towel over my face. I reached up and moved it. It was a man’s face I ain’t never seen before staring down at me.

  “What’s your name, son?” the colored man asked me.

  “Cl-Clyde Thomason,” I said.

  “Where do you live, Clyde?”