Juba! by Walter Dean Myers Read Free Book Online Page A

whispered in his ear. I looked over to where Mr. Reeves was sitting and talking toJohn Diamond. Their heads were just about touching, they were so close together.
    The door banged open and four fellows came in. They all had bandanas tied around their legs, so we knew they were from one of the local gangs. They found spots against the far wall and leaned against it.
    â€œProbably from the mayor’s office.” Jack Bishop chuckled. “Out looking for the dancing voters!”
    Fred Flamer was number eleven. When he started out to the middle of the floor, John Diamond stood up.
    â€œShow us your minstrel stuff, Fred!” he shouted. “You’re the best!”
    John Diamond was running the auditions, and I didn’t like that one bit. I had to think he was already hired.
    I thought Fred would go for a clog dance, his best move, but instead, the piano player started a step dance. What Fred did surprised me. I sat back in my chair and just watched. Fred wasn’t a first-rate dancer, but he was better than the fool I saw on the floor. He came out reeling and staggering around like he was drunk. He looked over toward where Mr. Reeves was sitting and began rolling his eyes. John Diamond started laughing, and so did Mr. Reeves. The more they laughed, the more Fred clowned it up, even falling to his knees and shaking his shoulders as if he were having a fit or something. I felt myself getting madder and madder.
    It felt to me like Fred was on the floor longer than any of the others. He lay on his back and started shaking. He smiled with his chin on the floor. He was throwing away his skills. John Diamond roared with laughter, and when Fred had finished and had stood up and taken a deep bow, John began to applaud.
    â€œTwelve!”
    Whatever I had in me I was going to put out on the floor. The piano player started in on “Old Rattler,” and I hit the rhythm on the first chorus. The song had been a good choice because it let me show off my clog-dancing skills, marking a steady beat on the floor and keeping the momentum moving throughout my body. I had a pattern that I had worked on to get the audience going, and every time I did a stutter step toward the front, people started clapping with me. I knew I had them going, and I wanted to keep them going even higher.
    â€œCoon it up! We want to see some minstrels!” John Diamond yelled out.
    I ignored him and kept dancing, but the clapping began to slow down.
    â€œCoon it up, boy—this is a colored dance!” John Diamond again.
    I kept dancing, doubling on my steps, beating my hands together, keeping my elbows high.
    â€œCome on, Juba, do you want a job or not?” Pete Williams’svoice boomed through the small hall.
    â€œThirteen!” John Diamond called the next dancer even though I hadn’t finished my routine.
    I was beat down, tired, and hurt. I went back over to where Stubby and Jack Bishop were sitting and plopped down in the chair.
    â€œYou done good, Juba,” Jack said. “You done real good.”
    Number thirteen was an old man I had seen around the neighborhood. They told me he used to be a dancer. He was smooth, but he was grinning like he had lost his mind; he was “cooning it up,” even though he was white.
    The auditions over, I sat with Jack and Stubby and watched as the dancers started getting their things together and leaving. The woman who had brought the little girl I liked came over and patted me on the hand. She didn’t say anything, just patted me on the hand.
    John Diamond, Mr. Reeves, and the man Jack had said was a slave dealer left together.
    â€œJuba, you want to tell us how you’re feeling, or should we just look at your face and figure it out?” Jack asked.
    â€œThe way I feel? Like everything that is me, the real me, the inside me, is dead,” I said. “I don’t even know if I feel that or if I just know it.”
    â€œSo I’m going back to the