The Bully Page 5

  Chapter 6

  After Tyray and his friends left, Darrell sat alone on the sidewalk. His whole body was shaking.

  When the boys were out of sight, he started gathering the oranges that were not ruined. Though the bag had been slashed, Darrell had no choice but to use it to carry the remaining oranges home. Each time he took a step, an orange would slip out through the hole. He was bending to pick up an orange that had rolled into the street when he heard someone behind him.

  “Here’s an extra bag, honey,” said a heavy-set woman holding two bags. She was emptying one by moving a few groceries to the other. “That bag of yours ain’t good for nothin’.”

  “Thank you,” said Darrell, gratefully taking the bag. He started packing oranges into it.

  “You’re welcome, child,” the woman said. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before.”

  “I just moved here from Philadelphia. I live a few blocks up the street. My name is Darrell,” he told her as he put the last orange into the bag. Darrell was glad to find that most of the fruit was intact. Only six oranges were too crushed to keep.

  “Well, I’m Mrs. Davis. I live in that apartment house at the corner. Just me and my grandson Harold. I’m raisin’ him all by myself,” she said, pausing. She seemed lost in thought for a second. Then she asked, “Say, you wouldn’t be goin’ to Bluford, would you?”

  uYeah, I’m a freshman there,” Darrell said.

  “Well, praise the Lord!” Mrs. Davis cheered. “The good Lord musta intended us to meet ’cause my grandson, Harold, he’s a freshman too. That poor child is having a tough time in high school because he’s so shy. He needs some friends to talk to. You seem like a nice boy. Would you look for Harold in school and try to make friends with him? I’d be so grateful.”

  “Yeah, I can do that,” Darrell said. He knew who Harold was. He was the guy who seemed to nod at him during algebra. Now Darrell knew why the boy had not spoken to him. Harold was shy.

  “You know, Darrell, Harold’s life ain’t always been easy. Sometimes he’s so quiet, it’s like he’s crawled into a shell. And, oh, how I worry. Just look for him sittin’ by himself in a corner somewhere,” Mrs. Davis said.

  Darrell noticed that her description described him as much as it did Harold. “I’ll find him, Mrs. Davis,” Darrell promised. “And thanks for helping me.”

  “Wasn’t any trouble at all,” she said. “Oh, one more thing, child. Don’t let Harold know I talked to you. He would feel bad about that. Just act like you ran into him by accident.”

  “Okay,” Darrell agreed.

  A big smile spread across the woman’s wide face. Then she turned around and walked towards her apartment on the corner.

  Darrell hoisted the bag of oranges onto his shoulder and went home. It seemed like days had passed since he left to go to the supermarket, but the living room clock indicated that only an hour had gone by. Exhausted, Darrell put the fruit in the kitchen, went to his bedroom, and closed the door. He never wanted to go outside again, let alone go back to school tomorrow.

  Darrell flopped on his bed and stared at the ceiling. What am I going to do about Tyray? he wondered. Even if he dodged him tomorrow morning by taking the back way to school, he would run into Tyray eventually. He felt trapped. He and his mother could not afford to give money to Tyray every day, but if he did not, he knew he would suffer. He had to do something, but what?

  If only I were bigger and stronger, Darrell thought. Then Tyray would leave me alone. But how could he make himself stronger? Darrell thought about Mr. Dooling’s words— “Sports help you build strength and confidence.” Still, he could not picture himself playing basketball or running track. He could not see himself wrestling either. Darrell remembered what the kid in his gym class had said. If Darrell joined the wrestling team, he would be the practice dummy.

  Darrell thought about Tyray again. In his mind, he replayed all that had happened after dinner. Again, he felt Tyray’s spit landing on his cheek and smelled his stinking breath. Again, he saw Tyray’s face mocking him. But the worst was the laughter. Alone in his quiet room, Darrell could still hear Tyray and his friends laughing. Enraged, he slammed his fist into his pillow.

  Then Darrell dropped to the floor and began doing push-ups. When he finally went to bed, his arms felt like rubber bands. That night, he dreamt he was trapped on the street again with Tyray and his friends. They were stomping and crushing round objects on the ground just as they had a few hours earlier. Only in this dream, the objects were not oranges. They were tiny human heads. And each one had a face—Darrell’s face.

  The next morning, Darrell jogged to school using back streets to avoid Tyray. At one point, he thought he saw Tyray and Rodney in the distance, but Darrell moved so quickly, they did not seem to notice him. When Darrell neared Bluford, he blended into a largowd of students moving towards the school. Once inside, he hurried to his locker and rushed to class. He did not want to be caught in the hallway.

  Darrell was relieved when he made it to English class and Tyray and Rodney were not there. But the two boys arrived several minutes later. Tyray scowled at Darrell as he came into the classroom. Darrell pretended not to see him. Though Mr. Mitchell was at the chalkboard when they entered, Tyray still managed to elbow Darrell as he walked by his desk. The teacher did not seem to notice.

  After class started, Tyray glared back at Darrell a few times. Once he even made a fist and punched into his palm, making a slapping sound. Darrell tried his best to ignore him, but he was scared. Halfway through the class, Mr. Mitchell noticed what Tyray was doing.

  “Mr. Hobbs,” Mr. Mitchell said, “to do well in this class, you need to pay attention to what’s happening in the front of the room—not the back.” Tyray turned around and left Darrell alone for the rest of class.

  At lunchtime, remembering his promise to Mrs. Davis, Darrell decided to look for Harold. After buying a slimy brown slab of meatloaf, he scanned the cafeteria. In a far corner, he noticed a boy hunched over a plastic tray, eating alone. It was Harold.

  Darrell was happy to see the lonely boy. Without him, he too would have to endure another lunch alone. Now at least he could walk knowing where he was going. As he approached the table, he hoped Harold would like him.

  “Anybody sitting here?” Darrell asked.

  Harold glanced up in surprise. “No . . . sit down.”

  Darrell pulled up a chair and sat across from Harold. Finally, he thought, I am not alone. He looked over at Harold. The boy was taller than Darrell, but slightly overweight. He had his grandmother’s soft round face. Harold did not look at him. He seemed afraid to make eye contact.

  “My name is Darrell Mercer,” Darrell said.

  “I’m Harold,” the boy said nervously, “Harold Davis.”

  Darrell wanted to talk to Harold, but he could not think of anything to say. Then he looked at his lunch. “Man, what is this stuff?” he asked, picking up a hunk of the soggy meat. “It looks like a piece of my shoe.”

  Harold smiled. “Your shoe probably tastes better than this,” he said, flicking a chunk of meat into a white glob of mashed potatoes.

  Both boys laughed. At first it was nervous laughter, but then it grew more relaxed. They started talking about the school and the teachers they had. After lunch, they walked together to their next class, algebra.

  In class, Darrell saw Amberlynn again. This time she smiled and said “hi” to him. Things are definitely better today than they were yesterday, Darrell thought. But he still had to get through gym. As the time for the class drew closer, Darrell could feel knots in his stomach. By the time the bell rang, his hands were trembling.

  Darrell went to the locker room as quickly as possible. He wanted to get changed before everyone else arrived. As soon as he changed, he headed into the gymnasium to wait for Mr. Dooling.

  This is it, Darrell thought. This is where Tyray is going to get me for not meeting him this morning.

  Tyray and Rodney came out of the
locker room a few minutes later. Mr. Dooling had not come out yet. “There’s the little punk that didn’t show up this morning. You better have somethin’ for me, or those oranges ain’t going to be the only things that get crushed.” Tyray’s voice was loud, and other students turned to watch what was happening.

  “I told you last night, I ain’t got no money,” Darrell replied. Just then Mr. Dooling arrived with his attendance sheet. Tyray quickly moved away.

  “Today, we’re continuing your conditioning. We’ll jog like yesterday. Only now we’re adding one extra lap around the track,” Mr. Dooling said.

  Many students groaned.

  “Don’t worry. It’s not a race. I want everyone to run at a good steady pace. Let’s go.”

  Again, the class headed outside and started jogging. Within a few minutes, the crowd of runners spread out. Like the day before, Darrell watched over his shoulder as Tyray and Rodney closed in on him.

  “Look at those legs, man. That boy runs like a chicken,” Rodney said, getting nearer.

  “That boy is a chicken,” Tyray said.

  The two boys jogged right up behind him. Darrell tried to ignore them. Again, he figured as long as he stayed near Mr. Dooling, he would be safe. But as the class began the second lap, Darrell noticed Mr. Dooling had stopped. He was talking to another gym teacher who was also outside with her class. Darrell did not know what to do. He decided to run faster.

  “Look at the midget go,” Tyray said. “You better keep runnin’, boy, ’cause if you stop, you might not run again for a long time.”

  Darrell sprinted as fast as he could. The three boys had moved towards the front of the pack of runners, but Darrell could not keep the pace. He knew he was not as fast as Tyray or Rodney. He was already out of breath, and his heart was pounding. Darrell looked over his shoulder and saw Mr. Dooling in the distance, gradually beginning to catch up. He still did not know what to do. Then he felt a sharp kick against his ankle. The blow knocked Darrell’s feet out from under him. He flailed his arms out and fought to catch his balance, but Tyray kicked at his legs again. This time, Darrell tumbled to the ground, scraping his knees against the rough track surface. Other kids jumped to avoid stepping on him. A few laughed as they passed.

  “That boy is clumsy!” Tyray said, as he ran away.

  Darrell wanted to scream, Tyray did it! Tyray Hobbs kicked me! when Mr. Dooling caught up to him. But he only gritted his teeth and rubbed his ankle. He knew not to tell on Tyray. That would only make his torment even worse.

  “Take a rest, Mercer,” Mr. Dooling said as he jogged by. “Pace yourself better next time. I told you this is not a race.”

  By the time Darrell was ready to begin running again, the class was heading back to the locker rooms. Some went right to the showers. Others changed quickly and waited for the final bell to ring so they could go home. Darrell was worried. He was one of the few people who had not changed back into his clothes. He knew he stood out more than ever. Quickly he hurried to his locker. Just as he opened the metal door, a large hand reached over his shoulder and yanked his clothes out. Darrell knew it was Tyray. Rodney was standing on the other side of him, blocking anyone else’s view of what was happening.

  “Give me my clothes!” Darrell exclaimed.

  “Fool, those are mine,” Tyray shouted. “What are you doin’? You some kinda thief or something?” he asked. Then he and Rodney moved into the crowd waiting by the door. Darrell knew that other kids had seen what had happened, but none were willing to stick up for him.

  “Those are my clothes,” Darrell said, following behind Tyray. Many of the kids standing by the door turned to look at Darrell. A few started laughing and making snorting noises. Tyray managed to squeeze himself into the front of the crowd nearest the door. Darrell could see his clothes under Tyray’s arm. Then the bell rang. Within minutes, the entire locker room cleared out, and Darrell found himself completely alone. The only clothes he had were the T-shirt and shorts he was wearing.

  I don’t want to walk home this way, Darrell thought. He knew he would end up passing Tyray and his friends on the way home from school and they would laugh as soon as they saw him.

  Darrell sat down on a bench in front of his locker. He wanted to wait until the hallways were empty so fewer people would see him in his gym clothes. Just then, he heard a door open, and Mr. Dooling walked in.

  “What’s the matter with you, Mercer?” Mr. Dooling asked. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

  Darrell hesitated for a minute. He was too embarrassed to admit the truth. “I guess somebody picked up my clothes by mistake,” he said. “I can’t find them.”

  Mr. Dooling shook his head. “Well, you can’t stay here. See if you can find something to wear in this basket. Then get going,” he said, handing him a basket filled with musty clothes that students had left in the locker room and never claimed.

  Darrell rummaged through the basket and found a pair of jeans that fit him. After changing, he went to his locker, picked up the books he needed, and headed out of the school. In a dumpster along the side of the building, he saw his clothes. They were covered with orange peels and ice-cream-sandwich wrappers.

  Darrell felt as if his head would explode. He could not take this anymore. He wanted to scream. Instead, he yanked his dirty clothes out of the dumpster and walked home.

  Darrell was grateful his mother was not home when he got there. It gave him time to dump his dirty clothes into the washer without her asking questions. Then he went to his room, hid the jeans he took from gym under his bed, and did more push-ups.

  I can’t keep running from Tyray, Darrell thought. He knew that Tyray would corner him sooner or later, and he knew the next time would be worse. The only solution he could think of was to give Tyray his lunch money. I don’t want to give him Mom’s money, he thought. But what choice do I have? Darrell figured out how much money he could spare. If he did not buy any drinks at lunch, he could give Tyray fifty cents a day. Would that be enough to stop him?

  That evening when his mother came home, Darrell pretended to be doing homework. He could not face her knowing that he was going to give her hard-earned dollars to a kid he hated. He did not want her to know what a weak, frightened boy her son was.

  The next morning, Darrell walked on the main street to Bluford. He knew Tyray would confront him, but at least it would happen when he expected it. Although he hated the idea of giving Tyray money, he was tired of being terrorized in school, and he just wanted to put an end to it as soon as possible. Darrell was not surprised when he spotted Tyray and his friends standing near the supermarket.

  “Look who it is,” Rodney said, watching Darrell approach.

  “There’s the punk who’s been hiding from me,” Tyray said. “Boy, you better have some money for me ’cause I’ve lost all my patience with you.” He walked over to Darrell and stared down into his face. “Whatcha got, fool?” he asked.

  “Me and my mom don’t have much money,” Darrell whimpered. “I can give you fifty cents a day.”

  “Fifty cents?!” Rodney and Tyray laughed. Darrell cringed.

  Darrell fumed inside. No one had the right to call his mother poor, even if it was true.

  “But I won’t be able to eat lunch,” Darrell said. “I need money to eat.”

  “Boy, if you mess with me, you won’t have teeth left to eat anything!” Tyray yelled, grabbing Darrell by the top of his shirt. “Now listen up. You meet me here every Friday morning. You give me ten dollars, and Rodney and me will be a little nicer to you. If you forget to pay one time, I’ll bust you in half. If you tell anyone about this, I’ll put your skinny butt in a cast. You got that?”

  Darrell nodded.

  “I’ll see you here on Friday, Darrell Mercer. You and my money,” Tyray said with a smirk. Then he and Rodney slapped hands and started laughing.

  Darrell went on to school. He never felt worse about himself. He had always been picked on. But never in his life did he pay someone to leave him al
one. Darrell wondered what Malik would say if he knew what he was doing.

  In English, Tyray went to his desk in the front of the room without bothering Darrell. Only once did he look back. This time, instead of threatening Darrell, Tyray rubbed his fingers together as if he were holding money. Then he mouthed the word “Friday” without making a sound. Darrell knew what he meant. Tyray was warning him not to forget.

  “Tyray and Darrell, do you two have something to share with this class?” Mr. Mitchell asked suddenly, surprising Darrell.

  Darrell shook his head.

  “I don’t think Darrell should have to share with anyone. Just look at how little he is. He needs to keep everything for himself,” Tyray said, acting sincere and innocent. The class chuckled at his comment. Darrell wanted to hide under his desk. He just sat there motionless.

  “Tyray, if you have any other helpful comments, you are welcome to share them with me after school today,” Mr. Mitchell said dryly.

  “Sorry, sir,” Tyray said, turning around to face the chalkboard.

  After class, as Darrell gathered his books, Mr. Mitchell approached him.

  “Darrell, is everything all right? You seem like you have a lot on your mind.”

  “I’m still getting used to it here. It’s a lot different from Philly,” Darrell said.

  “Look, Darrell, I know what it’s like to be new in a high school. It’s not easy. If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m right here. You know where you can find me.”

  “Thanks,” Darrell replied mechanically.

  Darrell knew Mr. Mitchell was trying to help, but he could not bring himself to talk to the teacher. Back home, Darrell and his friends made it a rule never to bring adults into their problems, especially teachers. Now, Darrell wasn’t so sure.

  “Thanks again,” he said as he left Mr. Mitchell’s classroom.

  On Friday morning, Darrell headed to the supermarket parking lot with ten dollars. The four-block walk from home felt like the longest walk he had ever taken. Each step required great effort, as if his feet were made of concrete. Even the money in his pockets felt uncomfortably heavy, and every muscle in his legs and back felt slow and achy. It was as if his body was quietly protesting what he was doing.