Night on Fire by Ronald Kidd Read Free Book Online

him. “There was going to be trouble. Mr. McCall stopped it. You should be thanking Grant, not beating him up.”
    â€œThey’re trying to change things,” said Larry. “We like the way things are—white on one side, black on the other.”
    Grant said, “White on top, black on the bottom.”
    â€œMaybe,” grunted Larry. He gathered up his books and motioned to his friends. They moved off down the hall like they owned it. It made me want to hit him again.
    I turned to Grant. “Are you okay?”
    â€œYeah.” He rubbed his cheek, where a bruise was starting to develop.
    I said, “Larry Crabtree’s an idiot.”
    â€œHe’s scared,” said Grant. “They all are.”
    I reached out to touch the bruise. Grant flinched.
    â€œHold still,” I said.
    I ran my fingers over the bruise, then pulled a tissue from my pocket, moistened it on my tongue, and wiped the dirt from his cheek, the way I’d seen Mama do. It felt good, like I was taking care of him.
    His chin was strong and his eyes were bright. Sometimes they were angry, like when he thought people weren’t being fair. Today, up close, I saw something new and giggled.
    â€œWhat are all these little hairs?”
    He pulled away. “Stop it.”
    I leaned in and ran my fingers across his chin. It felt rough.
    â€œThey’re whiskers!” I crowed.
    He looked around, embarrassed. “Hey, shut up.”
    â€œGrant McCall has puberty!” I said.
    Actually, I thought it was pretty cool. I didn’t know how to tell him though, so I kept quiet. He headed off down the hall, shaking his head. I hurried after him and stuck close for the rest of the day, watching for Larry Crabtree and his friends. Maybe Grant didn’t like me touching his cheek, but he didn’t mind having me in a fight.
    After school I found Grant sitting by his locker, studying the baseball card he had bought on Friday. It showed a picture of Frank Robinson on the front and his statistics on the back.
    â€œGuess what Robinson hit last year,” said Grant. “Two ninety-seven. How many home runs? Thirty-one. How many triples?”
    â€œHey,” I said, “give me a chance to answer.”
    â€œOkay, how many triples?”
    â€œI don’t care,” I said.
    He glared at me. It was part of our ongoing baseball war. I was a Detroit Tigers fan, and Grant rooted for the Cincinnati Reds, from the city where he had grown up.
    Shaking his head, Grant got the camera from his locker, slung it over his shoulder, and walked with me to the bike rack. I liked it when we rode home together, telling what had happened during the day and complaining about assignments. I didn’t like it when he went off by himself, riding his bike or taking pictures or spending time with anyone but me.
    I asked him, “Want to go downtown?”
    â€œWhy?” he said.
    â€œI have an errand to run. Plus, I want to see your dad.”
    â€œYou’re not going to tell him about Larry Crabtree, are you?”
    When Grant had problems, he didn’t go running to his parents. I’d always admired him for that.
    I shook my head. “No, it’s something else.”
    Grant shrugged. “Let’s go.”
    He loaded his books onto the metal carrier behind his bicycle seat. I did the same. Then we swung up onto our bikes and headed out of the parking lot, past the football field and the sign that said Home of the Panthers .
    Wellborn High, made up of brick buildings on a hillside several miles west of town, was still pretty new. It had been built a few years earlier when the army depot had expanded, bringing hundreds of new families into the area. It seemed funny that we had decided to call ourselves the Panthers, because everyone knew that Cobb High, the Negro school, was known as the Mighty Panthers and had been for years.
    Grant and I pedaled down Eulaton Road, past pin oaks and loblolly pines,