The Battle of Jericho Read Free Page A

to school here too? How come he wasn’t a Warrior?”
    Josh’s father, Brock, and Jericho’s father, whose name was Cedric, were brothers and had both attended Frederick Douglass High. However, Cedric, the older of the two, had never been asked to pledge. Brock, three years younger, had pledged and boasted about it ever since. Jericho wasn’t sure if his father regretted not being a Warrior or not. But he told Kofi, “Aw, my dad ran the school when he was here—he didn’t have time to be a Warrior!”
    â€œYou think he’ll be glad you might be in it?” Kofi asked.
    â€œProbably.” Jericho bit into his second ice cream sandwich. “He don’t stress me about that kind of stuff.”
    â€œYou think they make those Warrior jackets big enough for you, Jericho?” Josh asked with a grin.
    Jericho had actually wondered the same thing, but he said, “You just jealous ’cause when the girls try to put their arms around you, they think they’re grabbing a skinny old pencil instead!”
    â€œI’d rather look like a pencil than a bowl of oatmeal!” Josh countered.
    â€œWell, at least my hair doesn’t
look
like oatmeal!” Jericho zapped back at him.
    The three of them laughed as the bell rang and they picked up their lunch trays. “We’re gonna be Warriors of Distinction!” Josh declared as he did his own little dance of joy across the cafeteria floor.
    As they left the lunchroom, Jericho glanced over to Arielle’s table. She had gathered her books, and she seemed to be looking directly at him. The faintest hint of a smile touched her lips.

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 4—AFTER SCHOOL
    â€œ JERICHO, MAY I SEE YOU A MOMENT? ” Mr. Tambori called as Jericho was packing his book bag after school. Jericho frowned momentarily and glanced at his watch. He was in a hurry to get out of school on time today. But Mr. Tambori was his favorite teacher, his music teacher.
    â€œSure, what’s up, Mr. T?”
    â€œYou know the citywide instrumental competitions are very soon—the last week of January,” Mr. Tambori began. “Your trumpet solo will be the highlight of the evening.”
    â€œYeah, I know—a Thursday, right? Talk about pressure! I’ve been practicing every night. I’m at the place where I dream the music,” Jericho replied, smiling.
    â€œGood. A colleague of mine who lives in New York will be there. He is a professor in the music department at Juilliard. This could be the ticket to the rest of your life, Jericho,” he said seriously.
    Jericho fidgeted with the buckle on his book bag. “Can I just get a ticket for the rest of this week first? I don’t want to think that far ahead. Maybe I’d rather play football.”
    Mr. Tambori looked at Jericho intently. “Are you serious? You have a talent that is rare and wonderful.”
    Jericho shrugged. “Coach says I’m pretty good as a fullback.”
    â€œHow many fullbacks were asked to play The Star-Spangled Banner’ at the opening day of the Bengals game last year?”
    â€œLook, Mr. T. That was really cool—my dad was so proud of me. Even some of the girls around here thought I had it all together when I was asked to do that. But I got to watch the game while I was there, and the football players saw more action, got more attention, and got paid more than any trumpet player I ever met!”
    â€œHave you ever met Wynton Marsalis?”
    â€œI wish.” Jericho smiled wistfully. “But don’t worry, Mr. T. I’m not gonna blow this off. Don’t get me wrong—I love my trumpet. And playing it makes me really mellow. But it’s hard to decide about the rest of my life in the next five minutes or five days. I can’t even decide whether I want pepperoni on my pizza or not. Give me a little space about the big stuff, okay?”
    Mr. Tambori smiled. “Okay, Jericho.