The Outlaws of Sherwood Street: Giving to the Poor Read Free Page B

I’ve read all about the popes. For a while, there were two at a time, although you probably knew that.”
    I hadn’t known that. Silas was a homeschooler, knew things no one else did. “Dina DeNunzio’s a TV reporter. She’s been sniffing around.”
    â€œSniffing around what?”
    â€œThink.”
    â€œCan’t you just tell me? I’m kind of busy right now.”
    I tried and tried not to say “doing what?” and failed.
    â€œKnow those automatic flushing toilets?” he said. “I’m building an app that will flush every single one of them within a three-mile radius at my command.”
    â€œIs that a good idea?”
    â€œCan’t think of a better one.”
    â€œLet’s do this in person,” I said.
    â€œDo what?”
    â€œOur talk. It’s a half day for me and Ashanti tomorrow. Can you be at HQ around noon?”
    â€œI was kind of planning to sleep in.”
    â€œNoon, Silas. Be there.”
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    Now’s the time, no avoiding it, to admit that I go to private school, namely Thatcher Academy. Not my idea. Some kids from my part of Brooklyn got sent to private school right from kindergarten. Others made the switch later. My parents, on account of their beliefs about society, had waited until what all their friends said was the last possible moment—namely seventh grade, if they had any ambition for me at all—and then caved.
    Of course, lots of kids stayed in public school, Tut-Tut for example. Which was why, the next morning, I walked to Thatcher instead of taking the train—twenty-five blocks including the detour to stop by my old public school, Joe Louis, where Tut-Tut went. It was the best way to get in touch with Tut-Tut: he didn’t have a phone, didn’t have much at all.
    I came to the chain-link that enclosed the Joe Louis school yard, a small yard with cracked pavement and litter in the corners, and looked through. Three kids were shooting hoops at the single backboard, but everyone else was clustered around the doors, waiting for the bell to ring and free them from the cold. Tut-Tut could usually be found at a spot of smooth pavement behind the backboard, making his little chalk drawings. Tut-Tut was very artistic, made wonderful drawings, usually of things like parrots or flowers from Haiti, which was where he was from.
    I didn’t see him. Kind of odd, because Tut-Tut didn’t like to hang around his apartment, always got to school early and stayed late. Tut-Tut lived in the projects with his uncle; I’d met the uncle, and understood.
    The bell rang. I checked down the street in the direction Tut-Tut would be coming from. No Tut-Tut. The basketball players took their last shots and started shuffling reluctantly toward the school building. They were all boys, two of them already sporting fuzzy mustaches. I picked the unmustached one and called through the fence.
    â€œWhere’s Tut-Tut?” Toussaint was actually Tut-Tut’s real name, but no one used it.
    â€œHuh?” said the kid.
    â€œYou know,” said one of the others. “That loser.”
    And the third one said, “Th-th-th-that l-l-l-l-” That—a lame imitation of Tut-Tut’s stutter—broke them all up, like it was the highest form of comedy.
    â€œHe’s not a loser,” I said. “Where is he?”
    They all came to the fence. “Who are you?” said the one with the thickest mustache.
    I gave him a closer look. Carlos something or other: he’d been in the class across the hall the year before, my last year at Joe Louis, but six inches shorter then, and baby-faced.
    â€œRobbie,” I said. “I used to be in Ms. Hernandez’s class.”
    He squinted at me. “Yeah?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWhere are you now?”
    â€œThat doesn’t matter. I’m looking for Tut-Tut.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWe’re