Everybody called him Lee Jack. His name was Leroy Jack Johnson. And like his namesake, he was buff, cut and powerful. During gym class, he would pose in front of the mirror admiring his pectorals and biceps. In the pool, he would pose on the diving board tensing his muscles before executing a perfect swan or jackknife. During fencing practice, he looked like Errol Flynn or Basil Rathbone or somebody. He was the one who showed you how to punch.

Her name was Trudy Miller. She was light-skinned with long hair and big legs. She was in your class, and she was one of the ones who people referred to as ’fast.’ You had a secret crush on her. One day in the library, she told you that she was afraid to ask a question. She wanted to know if you would ask it for her. Naturally, you agreed. You raised your hand. The teacher, a stately looking woman, was a substitute. She didn’t know any of the children by name, so the protocol she established was that she would point to the student who was to speak next. She pointed to you. "What is an iris?" you asked on Trudy’s behalf. You knew the answer, but you asked anyway just to be of service to her.

The teacher answered the question, and Trudy rubbed your hand and thanked you profusely. She actually touched you. She was close enough for you to smell. The second question was, "What is a tibia?" This one you did not know. But again, the answer brought a touch from Trudy and a flash of her magic smile.

You raised your hand a third time. "What is a hymen?" The class fell silent, and all eyes turned to you. Everybody knew that you did not know.

Trudy was Lee Jack’s girl. The next day in gym, the class was running laps. Lee Jack bumped into you. You thought it was on purpose, so you pushed him back. He squared off and punched you in the stomach. The air inside you gushed from your mouth as you doubled over. You could see the muscles in his left arm flexing as he drew back and punched you in the side. Gagging for air, your gaze fixed on the muscles in his legs sliding like machine parts under his skin as he shifted his weight to punch you in the other side, you heard him mumble, "that’s for talking to Trudy."

Still airless, you collapsed to your knees on the floor. The color in the image of Lee Jack standing over you began to fade. You slumped over hitting your shoulder and head on the gym floor. His image turned white like an overexposed photograph. Then, his image was gone.

  *      *      *
  

"I’m through bending over," you said.

"The fuck you are," Reggie countered.

By now, Reggie was a grown man. You were thirteen, but big for your age.

"In fact, I’m fucking you right now. Take your shit off."

Resignation and resolve come in many forms. That was the lesson you learned three days after Clarence the third left town. It happened right in front of the church. That corner had no stop signs. Cars routinely barreled through that intersection without looking. That corner was an accident waiting to happen, and it happened that day.

It was a Dodge pickup truck and an old Chevy. The truck was going south, the Chevy west. And the hit itself wasn’t bad. Barely a fender bender. The truck broadsided the Chevy after skidding on the brakes about ten feet. The impact was light enough that the Chevy barely moved. In fact, the guy in the Chevy pulled over to the side of the road. He got out on the passenger side and walked around to inspect the damage. He was a young black guy wearing khaki pants and a white t-shirt.

The guy in the truck, a portly white guy balding on top, had a problem. He looked around at all the black people standing and watching, and decided it wouldn’t be safe to get out. After all, it was he who had hit the other guy. He tried to restart the truck. You could hear the fan grazing against something as the starter turned. He jerked his body forward as he spat "goddamnit" into the steering wheel. He pumped the gas and tried again. Smoke began to waft from beneath the hood. His expression changed. Now he smiled because he knew he had to get out and be friendly. He pulled the door handle, but the door wouldn’t move. The impact of the hit was just enough to push the fenders back far enough that the doors wouldn’t open. The smoke grew thicker. His expression changed again. His brow was pinched as the seriousness of the problem began to dawn on him. He put his shoulder to the door to no avail. An orange glow formed in the smoke, and soon, flames began to lick at the corners of the engine compartment. He began to panic. He looked around wildly. Smoke was pouring into the cabin. He slid to the other side and tried to force that door open. It, too, was stuck. He kicked the door. He hit the windows with his fists. He kicked the windows. The Chevy driver and a couple of other guys ran over and tried to open the doors from the outside. One guy got a crowbar. But before he could get the bar wedged into the crack between the door and the truck body, the engine burst into flames. Everybody backed away.

That’s when you saw it. He knew he was trapped. He knew he was going to die. Standing on your porch, you could see straight into the front of the truck. He hit the steering wheel with his fist, then sat back. He turned his head just slightly, and looked you in the eye. Tears welled up in his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. He was sweating. Smoke filled the cabin. He didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want to look like a coward. He hit the window with his fist again and again and again. His head fell back. You could smell the tires burning. There was a sound like the sound a pea makes as it leaves the shooter, only louder, and the whole truck was burning. You could see him sitting there, totally engulfed in flames. Now you could smell him. In the distance you could hear the scream of sirens.

Reggie grabbed you by the collar. "I’m gon’ make you suck my dick."

You could feel the tears welling up in your eyes. You curled your fist as tightly as you could, and swung. You felt the cartilage snap under you blow. You could hear it, too. Blood gushed from both his nostrils, and he dropped to the floor. His eyes were glassy. His head weaved a little as if he had trouble controlling his neck muscles. "And you bet’ not mess with my sister neither," you said. He sat up for a moment, then lolled over onto his side. After a while, he went to the bathroom and cleaned himself up.

When Big Ma got home, she asked him about it. "What happened to yo’ face?"

"Aw, Ma," he said, "I fell down at work."

"You need to find a different job. One where you won’t be falling down like that," she said.