Excerpted from MY MONTICELLO by Jocelyn Nicole Johnson. Published by Henry Holt and Company October 5th 2021.
Copyright © 2021 by Jocelyn Nicole Johnson. All rights reserved.
We got dropped off too early. Our Mamas leaned long across bucket seats, scraped sleep from our cheeks, their nails like a ragged kiss. As they pulled away, we faced our school, pressed our foreheads to the glass of the double doors, still locked. We punted backpacks while we waited, pitched rocks at the marquee by the road. knowledge is power, it read. john henry james elementary.
We poured out of school buses too, our voices turned up like a TV left to blare. The drivers’ threats grazed the scruffs of our necks: They didn’t even know our names. We paraded down the wide main hall, limbs loose, toes pinching more than they had the day before. Our Mamas told us, You’re growing like a weed, boy. You’ve got to learn to do better. I don’t know what to do with you anymore.
Ten years old and already the top of our school, we knew how to talk to anybody. We hiked our hoods up, refusing to speak. We elbowed into the breakfast line, wondering aloud: Why Richard Lordly carry all them books? How many different endings can there be? Why Aaliyah and Khaliah forever walking and talking together, like they joined at the hip or something? How come Fat Rod’ney gotta be so fat? For real, no lie—his plate must be piled high every night.
We said Rod’ney like it’s supposed to be said, two separated syllables. The first like something fresh gone bad. Rot pressed up next to knee.
Melvin Moses Green burst into line, triangling a muscled arm around Fat Rod’ney’s head. He slapped the back of Rod’ney’s neck where a strip of bare skin showed. Fat Rod’ney just kept stumbling forward, shoving a tray of jiggling fruit cocktail and milk, eyes teary at the sting but still cheesing. Rod’ney acted as if they were tight, like they were only messing with each other.
Melvin Moses Green was in our class too, but we only called him Moses. In Gym, on the playground, he drew our eyes, a bright brown boy a head taller than us. We couldn’t help but see how strong he was: his thighs hard as footballs, his biceps bulging. Moses was the youngest in a long line of brothers who did not come out the house once their Daddy went in in the evenings. In the upper boys’ bathroom, Moses called us soldiers, commanding us to lift our shirts. Elbows in, eyes squeezed tight, we braced for the blows that Moses delivered to our ribs, our stomachs. We turned to let him strike our kidneys so hard it drew soft grunts from our lips. He struck us coolly, paying careful attention, like he was trying to show us something. Water leaked from our eyes and caught in our lashes. Afterward, we let our breath out and grinned.
Some days we got to school so late since our Mamas had to work that second shift at the Hospital or Juvenile Detention. Some days we couldn’t wake our Mamas, no matter how we tried. Or else we woke up and no one was around, not even out the window. At the corner, we could see the back of the school bus growing smaller, leaving us behind. Our kid brothers, our baby sisters, would look to us like, What we supposed to do now?
Whenever we got to school late, we had to go in through the office. The Vice Principal gave us a stern talking-to. The Counselor asked, Is everything okay? The Secretary gave us pink tardy slips that we then flashed at whoever we passed in the hall. Held them up like, Don’t even, like, I’m free! Even when we were just a few minutes late, the closed classroom door always stopped us. Through the glass, we could see how everything had started without us. We wished we could be anywhere else. We ached to be inside already.
Stand and face the flag, the Principal said. Place your hand over your heart. We pressed the sore places where Moses had slugged us the day before. We recited the Pledge, mouthing or mumbling or enunciating each word. Only Cherida Smith was allowed to stay seated, light-skinned with pink ribbons blooming from her head. Cherida pressed a plump cheek to her desk, rolled her eyes back way too far like Zombie Face was a game she was playing and winning. We knew Cherida had Type 2 so she got to go to the Nurse at the slightest. Plus, Cherida’s Ma died back in September. Your Mama dies, they let you do most anything.
During Pledge, we’d check out Richard Lordly: Lord Richard, we called him. We didn’t yet know the thing that would happen, the thing we would do. Lord Richard would hump a tower of books, shiny hard- backs and soft, thick science fictions. His family got shipped from Africa, some dusty, hungry part or else why bother coming here? We shrank from Richard’s chalkboard-black skin, mocked the funky way he spoke, like a song hammered out in Music on wooden xylophones. During Pledge, Lord Richard might mutter the words as if they were some kind of ancient prayer. Other times he gave a grand salute, his narrow chest stiff, hand sharp at his forehead and heels softly clicking. Richard would be like, Ah-tennn-shun!, doubling over, laughter spilling through his yellow teeth. When he did this, we couldn’t help but crack up with him, even the Teachers. Sometimes Richard would squeeze his eyes shut, sway his arms side to side like a white lady dancing. A moony half grin would pass over his face and we felt sure he was recalling some sweet, rambling story from one of those books he shouldered. We pictured words rising and battling and winning. The Teachers said Richard was “going somewhere.”
* * *
They had us read printed paragraphs then answer a strict set of questions in longhand. We did their math equations, got some right, but refused to show our work. We swooshed the brick-red playground ball down through the basket and everybody hollered. We chucked it up into the rafters and everybody groaned. We jammed our pencils into the sharpener to hear that long electric whine, to catch a bright metallic whiff of smoke. How much pressure did it take, we wondered, to break a thing?
We squeezed our thighs tight, begged the Teachers to let us go out to the bathroom. When they rolled their eyes, we called out, It’s an emergency! After they finally gave us a pass, we took long strides around the farthest hallways. We wandered down to the lower bathrooms, pitched the stumpy remains of our pencils into the freckled ceiling tiles till dust rained on our heads. In time, we found our own way back, but that closed classroom door stopped us again. Finally, we flung it open so hard the knob punched the smooth white wall behind, and everybody laughed. Right away we announced we needed help, but the Teachers were busy with everybody else.
Our Teachers were rail thin or scowling or sometimes soft and wide with lipsticked smiles. They wore printed dresses, hung cardigans on the backs of their chairs. We lifted framed photos from their desktops—the pink-faced husbands, the plump fair children, the beaches behind. We thought of our own Daddies then, the times they drove us to the filling station on Fifth, let us sit up in the front seat. Through the open window, while they pumped gas, we caught them looking at us like, I love you, boy, I love you, boy, I love you . . . Be good to your Mama, they told us. Be strong, you hear me?
We had fresh mouths, loose teeth, darting tongues. Your Mama’s so friggin’ ugly, we said, balling our fists like we were ready. You don’t shut up, we said, I’mma beat your head like a Cherokee drum. We’d been studying the Virginia Colonies.
At the edge of the classroom, we saw Fat Rod’ney trying to get a rise out of Lord Richard. But Richard kept his eyes pinned to the book in his lap. You so fat, Rod’ney said, even though Richard was skinny enough that we sometimes felt hunger just to look at him. You so fat, your titties got titties! You need a dang girl bra! When Rod’ney said this, we looked him up and down, his soft curls rising like curds in milk, his drooping chest. We shook our heads and had to laugh.
And Rod’ney laughed too, like he thought we were laughing with him.
That one Resource Teacher we hardly knew was standing over us.
You are disrupting learning, she told us.
Go back to your seats. Right. Now.
You need to stop messing with everyone.
* * *
They gave us our Free-and-Reduced lunches on Styrofoam trays at noontime. We balanced the weight of berry parfaits, hard pears in plastic bags, and iceberg drenched in Ranch. We figured we had something, but afterward we felt hungry still.
Mateo flashed a fresh bag of Takis and we thrust out eager palms. C’mon, you know you got more than enough! Afterward, we licked burning spice from our fingers. We shredded the bag, tucking foil around our front teeth, like the silvery grills our Uncles wore. Afterward, on the playground, we waved bye to Latrell, who’d caught one swaying braid in a joint of the far metal dome like he was straight-up stuck in the jailhouse. We gasped for air along with Aaliyah, who’d fallen so hard from the squeaky swing it knocked all hope for air from her lungs. She flopped on her back on the mulch near the fence with Khaliah wailing, Breathe, girl! Breathe!
That was the day Melvin Moses Green motioned us to the half-hidden place by the bushes. He paced up and down our ragged line, his back flagpole straight beneath the no-name dull green jersey he wore. Y’all soldiers, right? Moses sang, and we wanted to answer him, Amen! Instead, we pulled our shoulders back, let the sun rain fire on our heads. Moses thrust his ropey arms toward us, then brought them in quickly across his chest like an X or a shield. Y’all warriors, right? Moses roared, his voice charged and ticking like something that would go off soon.
Right! we answered, our voices high and tight in our throats.
When we answered Moses, we thought of the mud-streaked commandos we watched late night in the TV room when we couldn’t fall asleep. We thought of our older Cousins, grown boys teamed up on corners, who had restless, jumpy hands. Crossing our pencil arms at our scrawny chests, we thought of dopey Richard saluting the flag at Pledge. Sweat dampened our chests. We plucked the collars of our T-shirts, trying to stir a breeze.
When I give that signal, Moses said, you boys know what to do.
We nodded like we knew.
* * *
After Recess, we had Art or Gym or Music. As we filed back inside, we found out we had Library that day. The Library Teacher hovered at the top of the stairs, her face round and ruddy, her hands gripping the rail. Most of you did not bring your books back, she called down as we slowly trudged up to her. If you don’t return books, you may not check out new ones today.
She told us to sit around the browsing tables and stay “absolutely silent.”
We scattered toward to the low round tables, the air conditioner churning. Sweat cooled on our necks and faces. Quiet bounced around in our heads. Waiting, we wondered where Moses had gone off to. And was it true that Richard had eaten only one meal a day, back in his home country, like he’d claimed when he first showed up at our class? And was Cherida messing with us when she told us the Nurse always gave her something sweet? Graham crackers or a juice box. A palmful of red Jolly Ranchers. Cherida swore, if she waited too long, her hands would get to shaking. Her head would throb and she’d have to lie down for a good long while. Sometimes she got so hungry, she told us, that nothing in the world could satisfy her. Once, when her Ma was still alive, Cherida’d been rushed to the hospital, as if that deep hunger hoped to take her to some far-off place.
The quiet and wonder echoed around us. We offered up small sounds to fill it. We drew our heads together and whispered. We snatched at tattered magazine pages.
Zip it, the Library Teacher said.
We kept on talking, our voices low.
Lord Richard must’ve brought his books back or else they’d made an exception. He circled the library, running his hands along the edges of books he’d probably already read. Zip it, zip it, he mumbled into the air.
We got to humming then. At first there was one lone hummer, then everybody’s throats filled with that bare vibration. Even the girls hummed. Even Cherida, from under pale pink bows. The humming became that song we all knew—it played night and day on the radio. We worked all together, our muffled anthem moving through that wide-open space. Our tongues trembled, but we held our jaws Absolutely Still. The Library Teacher couldn’t tell for sure who was humming. She lurched from table to table, shushing us.
Somebody coughed and we all coughed: Who were we to resist the tickling dryness that rose in our throats
Zip it! I mean it! she said.
How you gonna get us in trouble for coughing? Fat Rod’ney countered, and everybody laughed.
As we laughed and coughed and hummed, the Library Teacher crossed the room to get to her checkout computer. Behind her, Rod’ney’s face lit up.
That was when Rod’ney broke out singing. Belting out the actual words to the song we hummed. Rod’ney had a clear voice and each of us began to move to it. Even the few kids waiting in the line for checkout. Even the ones who’d been told it was their turn to browse the shelves.
Cut it out, Rod’ney! the Teacher ordered, her tongue catching on the d midway through his name, so that it sounded like some other name. When he didn’t stop, she hurried toward him, but Rod’ney ducked beneath the round table, popped out the other side still bellowing that song.
The Library Teacher’s mouth fell open. She glared at all of us, but no words poured out.
Just then, Melvin Moses Green walked back in from wherever he’d gone off to. Right away, he began to rock to the rhythm of our song. Moses jumped on top of the nearest table, did a couple moves from the video. The table jumped and rippled beneath him, but Moses rode the wave. We could not help but cheer.
That’s exactly when the Library Teacher truly helped us fill the shaky, broken quiet. Red-faced, eyes popping, she turned so everybody could see. DON’T SHOUT! she shouted. Stop shouting or else! You all are so bad! You all are in so much trouble!
How you going tell us, Don’t shout, we said, when you the one shouting at all of us, right now?
The Library Teacher ignored our question and ran toward Moses instead. He still stood on his table, stomping and dancing and grinning. Get down! It isn’t safe, she pleaded, but Melvin Moses Green did not look pressed. You need to go to the office! she told him. Right! Now!
How you gonna call out Moses, we said, when everybody’s up and out they seats?
RIGHT! NOW! she shrieked, grabbing Moses by his arm, to pull him down or steady him. When she touched Moses, we all quit singing. Our voices dried up in our throats. When she touched him, he seemed to fracture and rise.
Moses flung his elbow free, jumping from the table so hard his feet slapped the floor. Arms swollen, he grabbed and flipped the table he’d been standing on. Then Moses charged right at that Teacher, his chest angled forward in that battered green jersey. His fists were balled but his ropey arm shot back behind his body. We could feel how badly he wanted to strike her. Instead he toppled the nearest shelf. Books flew to the floor. The rest of us had already moved, but Lord Richard was closer. He hardly had time to jump away.
What is wrong with you? Richard said. Like he really wanted to know. Like he deserved an answer.
The rest of us studied our sneakers, the jumble of open books at our feet. Moses stomped on their fragile spines.
The Library Teacher’s voice came out thin: Go to the office, Melvin.
Moses kept on pacing, huffing air like after finishing an obstacle course in Gym. We would have gone to him, but we could see his balled fists, and we knew their power. The Teacher pushed the call button on the wall, still Moses refused to go.
The Vice Principal and the Counselor came for Moses.
A little while later, they sent him back to us.
* * *
We were tired from humming and coughing. We were beat from crawling and cheering and casting our eyes to the floor. We had one last hour back in our classroom before dismissal. Our throats felt sore. We wanted something sweet on our tongues.
Heads down on our desks, we found leftover scraps of foil deep in our pockets, worked the spit-slick surface between our fingers until our Teacher saw and forced us to throw them away.
Five more minutes, she said, sounding almost cheerful. Then we can all pack up and go home.
We could not wait to get out of there. We didn’t really want to leave.
It’s time, our Teacher finally said, standing up near the door in her striped green dress, like the skin of a watermelon. If you can line up facing forward, voice at zero, I have stickers for you!
Why you want us to always turn the same way and stay silent, we told her. Why you think we want your lame stickers anyway? But we did want those stickers. Even after she’d tucked them away.
In time, we packed our things and made a line. It started at the door behind the Teacher, then wound between the clusters of desks, all the way to the back wall. We clumped into clans, wrung our arms around each other’s necks. Khaliah and Aaliyah squeezed hands, like always, but Aaliyah’s family was about to be evicted—she’d be gone before the week was out. Moses walked up and down our knotted line, hand raised to slap somebody’s neck if he caught a bit of skin showing. We snickered and drew our collars as high as they would go, trying not to flinch as he passed us.
Get in line, Melvin, our Teacher said. Haven’t you caused enough trouble for today?
Moses jumped in toward the middle, tugging the frayed edge of his jersey. I’m just messing around, he said.
When our line looked about ready to go, Cherida stumbled from her place. She held fast to a hot pink Dora the Explorer backpack—the type they sold at Family Dollar. Hand on her forehead, Cherida wobbled like a drunk. I think I need to go to the Nurse, she moaned. Why was it, we wondered, that whenever anyone else asked to go to the Nurse, the Teachers shook their heads like they didn’t believe us, like we couldn’t trust our own pain.
She’s lying! we cried. We thought we meant it. She’s trying to make us miss our buses.
For once, the Teacher did not make us wait for her to find the stack of passes and print the time and date. Instead she held up her hand to Cherida. You can hang on a minute, honey.
Cherida’s eyes widened. She took a step back.
She hiccupped.
Let her go! we begged, reversing ourselves, feeling sorry for everything at the edge of what we thought we knew. You have to let her go to the Nurse! Right! Now!
Walk up here, Cherida, next to me, our Teacher said.
When the bell rang, Cherida and the Teacher left the room first and everyone else trailed behind. We were almost through the doorway too when Moses blocked it with his body. He sprang his arms up across his chest, like he’d done earlier at Recess that day. We looked around, to see who was left, hoping not to be the last to understand.
Our eyes all found Rod’ney, who stood right inside the door. He was grinning at Moses like he knew he was about to be in on something. But Moses shepherded Rod’ney out, arm draped around his shoulders. With Rod’ney gone, we were confused till Moses turned back and raised a shaking finger. He directed our eyes toward Richard Lordly, who stood stalled at the end of the line. Richard was squinting at the words of his book, as if he was not there with us at all.
We swallowed then. We knew.
We thought Moses would lead us, but he only said, Hurry!
Richard’s head was still down.
One of us balled and flung our fist, striking Richard in the mouth so hard we saw a flash of yellow. Richard staggered back, eyes wide like Why, one hand holding his bloodied face. Then all of us were on Richard. Our fists. Our elbows. Our knees. Our teeth. We hadn’t realized how hungry we were: We’d never once felt skin so prized beneath our own.
Moses rocked on his heels, keening with laughter. His eyes darting into the hall and back to make sure no one was coming. Richard Lordly was down, and still we kept at it, like we were trying to prepare him for something. We only stopped when Moses called us by our names. Breathing hard, we studied the wrecked boy at our feet. His salt-streaked face. His glassy eyes. A bitter taste rose up in us. Then, one by one, we hurried out to catch up with the line.
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Contributor Notes
Jocelyn Nicole Johnson is the author of My Monticello, five stories and a novella all set in Virginia, forthcoming from Henry Holt on October 5th, 2021, and selected by National Book award winner Charles Yu as his most anticipated book for the year. Johnson has been a fellow at Tin House, Hedgebrook and VCCA; her writing has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Guernica, The Guardian, Kweli, Joyland, Phoebe, Shenandoah, Prime Number Magazine, and elsewhere. Her short story “Control Negro” was anthologized in Best American Short Stories 2018, guest edited by Roxane Gay, who called it, "one hell of a story" and read live by LeVar Burton as part of PRI’s Selected Shorts series. A veteran public school art teacher, Johnson lives and writes in Charlottesville, Virginia.
