Black Alley Read Free

it’s the two Haitians from before. No way! What does this mean? They’re older and taller by at least a head. A shiver runs down his spine. The Black boys’ faces harden.
    â€œIf it was that easy to rob us,” says one of them, “there wouldn’t be much left in our lockers by now.”
    The one who spoke laughs as if he didn’t care. “What did I tell you? Those Latinos are born thieves!”

    In the boys’ washroom at École-Saint-Pascal-Baylon, there was a long wooden bench where we got changed before gym class. Some kids, already wearing their Phys. Ed. outfits under their street clothes, proudly dropped their pants; others discreetly went and put on their shorts and T-shirt in the stalls. We didn’t talk much: Serge, the Phys. Ed. teacher, only gave the boys five minutes to get ready, and when time was up, the high-pitched sound of his whistle came through the half-open windows. All we heard was the rustling of clothes and, from time to time, the water washing through the urinals.
    When the new boy came in, we all stopped for a moment, looked him over, then deliberately finished slipping on our socks or tying up our laces. Seeing that no one said a word to him, the boy went towards the urinals and stood there, looking awkward. He was Black, short, with a slim body. His delicate features and long eyelashes made him look like a girl. He was wearing a blue striped T-shirt. Remember, Marcelo: sitting there at the end of the bench, near the new boy, already in your PE clothes, you looked up at him. Since he kept standing there looking at the ceiling, you asked him, “Aren’t you going to put on your shorts?”
    The boy looked at you, then lowered his head.
    â€œNobody told me it was Phys. Ed . . .”
    There were discreet coughs. One student, in the back, repeated the sentence softly, omitting the d’s as he had. You all wagged your heads, trying to stifle your laughter. Just like with you the first time, Marcelo: they were making fun of his accent.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” you ventured.
    Without giving him time to answer, Sylvain, who had got up to do his warm-up exercises, shouted, “Chocolate Bar!”
    The whole class burst out laughing. Even the two Black boys at the other end of the bench guffawed. And, to everyone’s surprise, the new boy joined the concert. He had a strange, joyful laugh, that unfurled in an uninterrupted series of i’s. No, no, he
explained. His name wasn’t Chocolate Bar. How silly! His name was Cléo. Akira, next to you, asked him if he was Haitian. Yes, he was born in Port-au-Prince. Akira pointed his index finger towards the two Black boys at the end of the bench: they’re Haitian, too.
    â€œYou good at sports?” Sylvain asked.
    He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say he did all right, but that was about it. Sylvain kept his eyes on him, as he continued to warm up: touching the tip of his sneakers with his left hand, then with his right, going from one foot to the other more and more quickly.
    â€œHave you ever slept with a girl?” Sylvain continued.
    This time a chuckle arose, then greedy eyes settled on the new boy.
    â€œOh, sure!” he exclaimed, as if there was nothing more natural in the world. “That kind of thing happens all the time where I’m from.”
    First, there was some hesitation, as if you only half believed him, then there was a howl: wowowowowo ! The class was amazed. We examined him from his head down to his feet, but differently this time, kind of like we looked at high-school boys. The new boy smiled broadly, displaying a mouth full of uneven teeth. Motionless now, Sylvain stared at him, breathing hard, his mouth open.
    â€œCome on! Tell us how it happened!”
    â€œWhat? We slept together, that’s it.”
    â€œYou want to keep it to yourself? I get it. I’m the same way.”
    â€œYou never slept with anyone!” shouted Akira.