Instead of Three Wishes Read Free Page A

dressed in his bathrobe and pajamas and his school shoes with no socks. His ankles were cold.
    â€œLeroy,” his mother finally said, “this says that youwere supposed to write a report about the life of your African ancestors and you wrote about Sweden and said that’s where your white missionary ancestor came from.”
    â€œIf Curtis can say his ancestor was Shaka, king of the Zulus, how come I can’t have a white missionary?”
    â€œBecause, Leroy, you were supposed to write about your African ancestors, people that you can be proud of, young man. Even if they were pig farmers and not kings of the Zulus.”
    â€œIf I’m gonna write about ancestors I’m proud of, how come I don’t write about Grampa, who went to Oberlin College, or about my mother, who is a nurse, or about my dad? Aren’t I supposed to be proud of them?”
    â€œThat’s flattering, Leroy, but you were assigned to write about your African ancestors. Your dad and I aren’t that old yet.”
    â€œBut all the books in the public library are about white people from Sweden. Every year we’re supposed to write about African ancestors and every year there’s only the one book about Africa and everybody writes the same report and it’s really stupid. Why don’t they have any books about Africans if that’s what we’re supposed to write about?”
    Leroy’s mother put the paper on the table. “Well, Leroy, it’s because this used to be a community of people who came from Sweden. Back then the library had money to buy books, and they boughtthe books that the people who lived here wanted to read. Now the library doesn’t have any more money to buy books, even though the neighborhood has changed. That’s why we have a lot of people whose ancestors are African reading about life in Sweden instead.” She sighed.
    â€œBut,” she went on, “there are books about Africa in the main library downtown, and that’s where we’ll go this Saturday. Your teacher says that your report was very inventive and well researched, even if it was on the wrong subject, so she’s going to let you write another one. I’ll write her a note that says we’ll go get some books on the right subject.”
    â€œOkay,” said Leroy as he watched his mother sign the paper. “But I’m gonna write about pig farmers, not about Shaka.”
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    Riding his bike home from school that day, clutching a bag full of boric acid bottles, Leroy was cheerful. There had been a sale at the hardware store, and he had gotten twice as many bottles of boric acid as well as a box of Roach Motels thrown in free. Leroy’s head was still full of facts about Sweden and the north; they seemed appropriate as he bicycled through the snow, but he looked forward to a trip to the main library downtown. In addition to the books on Africa, he hoped to get The House of Dies Drear by Virginia Hamilton. The only copy in the school library had disappeared before he had a chance to read it.
    Ignoring the cold winter wind as it blew throughhis jacket, Leroy absentmindedly navigated around snowpiles and ice patches until he reached the alley behind his building. Disaster struck as he turned into his own backyard. He hit an ice patch he hadn’t seen and skidded across it. He might have recovered if one hand hadn’t been occupied with the paper bag. Without proper steering, the bicycle careened around the corner of the row of garages and struck a pile of bricks that had been left to one side of the sidewalk by the superintendent six months earlier. The bicycle stopped. Leroy didn’t. Still clutching the brown bag in his hands, he flew over the handlebars. The last thing he saw was the cloud-filled sky above him before he landed on his head in the snowbank on the other side of the brick pile.
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    It was the cold that woke Leroy. Snow had slipped inside his collar and was