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  To Be a MAN

  A N N E S C H R A F F

  A Boy Called Twister

  The Fairest

  If You Really Loved Me

  Like a Broken Doll

  One of Us

  Outrunning the Darkness

  The Quality of Mercy

  Shadows of Guilt

  To Be a Man

  Wildflower

  © 2011 by Saddleback Educational Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-61651-008-4

  ISBN-10: 1-61651-008-0

  eBook: 978-1-60291-793-4

  15 14 13 12 11 1 2 3 4 5

  TABLE OF CONTENT

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  Trevor Jenkins let the door slam when he got home. Mickey Jenkins, his mother, yelled at him, “What you doin’ comin’ two hours late from school? What you been doin’, boy?”

  “Ma,” Trevor groaned, his hands tensing into fists. He felt like punching a hole in the kitchen wall to let out some of his frustration. “I told you—we had track practice after school. Coach Curry is getting us ready for the meet against Lincoln.” Trevor thought to himself that he couldn’t take much more of this. Ma was worse than a warden at a maximum security lockup.

  Mickey Jenkins came around the corner with the angry frown she always wore on her face. She was tall for a woman, a bit over six feet. She was all hard muscle, no fat. Her appearance brought to mind a tough length of leather. She worked as a nurse’s aide in a rest home, and she could lift the patients, even men, with ease.

  Trevor remembered being afraid of his mother all his life. It wasn’t any better now that he was sixteen. But it hurt more, especially his pride.

  “You never said it’s gonna take you all of two hours, boy,” his mother scolded. “Don’t you be lyin’ to me. I won’t have that. I don’t want you hanging around with your lowlife friends after school, you hear what I’m sayin’?”

  She had raised her four sons without a husband. He had run off when the oldest was a little more than five and the youngest was a baby. She always swore she would raise her sons to be good, honorable men, even if she had to whup them every day, and she often did. Her eldest, Desmond, was now in the United States Army. A picture of him, a handsome young man proudly wearing his uniform, hung from the living room wall. He would soon be joined there by her second oldest, Junior, who was in boot camp. Tommy, who was a couple of years older than Trevor, was a freshman in City College. None of the Jenkins boys had ever gotten into trouble with the law, and Mickey Jenkins meant to keep it that way.

  “I got no lowlife friends, Ma,” Trevor protested. “I hang with Jaris and Derrick, and you’ve known those guys all my life. I grew up with them,” Trevor dropped his school books on the floor. “You also know Kevin. He’s a great guy.”

  “Don’t be havin’ no temper tantrums on me, boy,” his mother said sharply. “You know well as me what I meant by lowlife friends. Jaris and Derrick and that Texas boy, Kevin, they’re good kids. I got no problem with them. I’m talkin’ about that hussy you been eyeballin’ down at the yogurt shop.”

  Trevor stiffened. There was a pretty girl working at the Ice House, the new yogurt shop. Her name was Vanessa Allen, and she was beautiful. She had dyed dark red hair that looked beautiful with her cocoa-colored skin. Trevor never had had a girlfriend because his mother didn’t believe in teenagers dating. Trevor had talked to Vanessa a few times and he liked her. She seemed to like him too. Vanessa had dropped out of Tubman High at the beginning of her sophomore year, and Ma considered all high school dropouts to be trash. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ma,” Trevor lied.

  “Y’know darn well what I’m talkin’ about,” Ma insisted. “Don’t dummy up on me, boy. You gettin’ hot and heavy with that trashy redhead works at the yogurt shop, that Allen girl. She’s so bad she don’t even live with her parents no more. She’s only sixteen, and she’s bad through and through.”

  “I’m not ‘hot and heavy’ with anybody, Ma,” Trevor argued. “I went in a coupla times to get a frozen yogurt and she waited on me.” Trevor wanted to scream. He loved his mother and he knew she loved him and his brothers. But she ran the house like a jailer, demanding to know where Trevor was every minute of the day. It had been the same with all the brothers, but the older ones had gone into the army, and she eased up on Tommy when he started college. Now she was able to give her full attention to Trevor.

  “That no-good Allen girl,” Mickey Jenkins ranted, “she lives with her trashy sister, and she can run wild there. Bad sorts comin’ and goin’ there all the time. I know what I’m talkin’ about. I’m no fool, boy. Nobody pulls wool over my eyes. When your no-good Daddy walked out on us, I had four babies—four baby boys!—and I brought you all up by my own hard work. Army makin’ men out of Desmond and Junior, but I still got work to do with you and Tommy, especially you, boy. You could go either way.”

  Trevor felt like the walls were closing in on him, threatening to squeeze him until he couldn’t breathe. Anger was boiling up inside him. “Ma,” Trevor pleaded, “I never been in trouble. I’m making good grades at Tubman. You can ask my teachers. I get along good with all of them. I never cause any hassles. Ma, can’t you just get off my back for two minutes?”

  Mickey Jenkins came closer to her tall, handsome son. “Boy, don’t you talk to me in that tone of voice. I can still whup you up one side of your head and down the other, and you better believe it.”

  “I’m sorry, Ma,” Trevor apologized, “but I just had a long track practice, and I’m tired. I need to do my homework, and you’re screaming at me like I’m some criminal. Ma, you win! I mean, you got me whipped, okay? I don’t even have the courage to buy a sandwich at school. I eat those hideous tuna fish sandwiches you make, those disgusting things. I eat them ’cause I’m scared of you.”

  “You remember the baggie, boy?” Ma asked, dragging out her most potent weapon.

  “Oh man!” Trevor groaned, “I was like eleven years old, and I didn’t even know what it was when the kid gave it to me to hold. You gonna throw that in my face again?”

  “You were wild in those days, Trevor,” Ma told him. “I had to be tough. Remember—I told you if I ever find a baggie on you again I’d kill you?”

  “You gonna be throwing that at me when I’m an old man, Ma?” Trevor asked bitterly.

  “I won’t be around when you’re an old man, boy,” Ma declared. “I work sixteen hours a day for you and your brothers. The army is feeding Desmond and Junior right now, but I still got to see you and Tommy raised right. I don’t ask for nothin’ more than that. Every Sunday I go to the Holiness Awakening Church, and I ask God for nothin’ more than to let my sons grow up good and decent men.”

  “I know, Ma,” Trevor responded. “I’m doing my best.”

  “Okay,” Ma said. “Just make sure you don’t never lie to me about where you are. That’s the beginning of trouble. When the kids start lying and tellin’ stories. Next thing you know, the police are at the door telling you your child is in custody, or he’s down at the hospital or the morgue ’cause he was drivin’ drunk.”

  Trevor headed for his room. He felt like a steamroller had run over him. He grabbed his cell phone and called Jaris.

  “Hey man, Ma is really
on the warpath tonight,” Trevor said.

  Jaris was Trevor’s closest friend. If you were Jaris’s friend, he had your back. “Why?” Jaris asked, “What’s going down, Trev?”

  “I was late coming home from school ’cause of track practice,” Trevor explained. “Coach Curry ran us longer than usual. She’s like giving me the third degree, man. I don’t know how much more of this stuff I can take. I’m coming in the door, and there’s this fierce-looking woman who’s my ma, and she looks like she’s gonna take me down, man.”

  “Take it easy, dude,” Jaris said. “Just hang in there. You’ll be okay. Your mom probably had a bad day. She’s got a rough job. Being tired makes some people mean.”

  “Easy for you to say, dude,” Trevor replied. “You got nice, sane parents. You got a fun mom and a great dad. I think Ma is crazy sometimes.”

  “No, she’s not crazy, man,” Jaris told him. “She just loves you guys so much, and she’s scared the streets will get you. They get a lot of guys. When your dad cut out, it made her hard and angry.”

  “Lousy bum!” Trevor said of his father. Trevor was a baby when his dad left, so he had no memories of his father. From time to time Trevor would see him on the street, often drunk, asking people for change for cigarettes or a bottle of wine.

  “You still see your dad around?” Jaris asked.

  “Yeah,” Trevor answered. “I turn my head and look the other way. Just seeing him makes me sick. He doesn’t try to talk to me. Not that I would want to talk to the old creep. He has a beard and he looks like he hasn’t had a bath in a year. I’m telling you, Jaris, he played a dirty trick on Ma and us.”

  “There’s too many men like that around,” Jaris said.

  “When he was with Ma,” Trevor said, “he spent all his money on himself. Drinks, gambling. Then he quit his family altogether. Someday I’d like to just go up to him and ask him how he manages to sleep nights. I’d like to ask him if he ever thinks about us at all. But I’ll never do that. I’m too much of a wimp. I’m so afraid of Ma I’m still eating those lousy tuna fish sandwiches at school.”

  “Trevor, your mom is probably so hard on you guys ’cause she’s afraid you’ll grow up like your father,” Jaris suggested.

  “Yeah, I know, Jaris,” Trevor agreed, “but I’m making decent grades, and I’m good in track. I got nice friends. Why doesn’t Ma come up to me and smile sometimes and say ‘Good job, son’? Instead she’s got that mad face on all the time.”

  “You’re afraid of her and she’s afraid of you, Trevor,” Jaris said.

  “Afraid of me?” Trevor asked incredulously. “I’ve never laid a hand on her. I wouldn’t do that in a million years. She’s beaten me up a lot, but I never ever thought of hitting back. I think hitting a woman is the lowest thing a man can do, but when she’s your own mom—that’s out of the ballpark, man. Means you’re evil.”

  “No,” Jaris explained, “she’s not afraid you’ll hit her. She’s afraid you’ll slip off track and go bad. That makes her mean and sour, dude.”

  “Jaris, I’m wondering, man, if you’d do me a big favor,” Trevor asked. “I can’t get through to my mom. But she’s got a lot of respect for your mom. Would you ask your mom to find a way to talk to her? I just can’t take much more. If your mom could, you know, just ask her to go out and eat for old times’ sake or something. And then if she could just say something good about me. I know your mom likes me, Jaris. Your mom and mine both sing in the praise choir at Pastor Bromley’s church. That counts a lot in my ma’s book. She’d listen if your mom told her I was a good guy, and she didn’t have to come down so hard, you know? Would you see if you could do that for me, man?”

  “Sure, Trevor,” Jaris agreed. “You bet. I’ll tell my mom what’s happening and she’ll find a way to do it. She’ll go to bat for you, man. Mom thinks you’re a great guy.”

  Mickey Jenkins had only one day off during the week—Sunday. Monica Spain, Jaris’s mother, invited her to go to breakfast after church.

  “That’d be a nice change,” Mickey Jenkins said. “That’s real nice of you, Monica.”

  After church, Mrs. Spain drove Trevor’s mother to a nice but inexpensive chain restaurant near the church. On the way to the restaurant, Jaris’s mother asked, “How’s everything going with your family, Mickey?”

  “Oh, I can’t complain too much,” Mrs. Jenkins replied. “Desmond is a private first class in the army, and Junior is doing fine in basic training. Looks like he’s gonna make it through. I don’t worry much anymore about Tommy ’cause he’s doin’ good in college. Trevor, now that’s the one I worry about. He’s only sixteen. That’s the worse age, you know, Monica.”

  “I’ve always thought Trevor was a really good boy,” Mrs. Spain commented. “He and Jaris are the best of friends, you know. I’ve always been so grateful for that. Trevor has been a wonderful friend to my son, and I never worry when they’re together.”

  “Oh Monica, that’s real pleasing to hear,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “But Trevor has a wild streak you know. Remember when I told you about him having that dope?”

  “Mickey,” Mrs. Spain protested, “that was ages ago. Trevor was just a little boy. He didn’t even know what that stuff was. Jaris did worse at that age, I’ll tell you. They do really stupid things in middle school. But now Trevor is a junior in high school. Jaris tells me the teachers really like him. And he’s making good grades, isn’t he?”

  “Well . . . yes,” Trevor’s mother agreed.

  They pulled into the restaurant parking lot, and Mrs. Spain said, “This is on me, Mickey. My treat. We don’t get together to talk about our lives or our kids nearly often enough. There are no friends like old friends.”

  Mickey Jenkins smiled. She appreciated any chance she got to save a little money. Although she worked long hours doing hard, dirty work, she was paid poorly. The registered nurses earned a good salary, but Mickey Jenkins had never achieved that status. The nurse’s aides were paid no more than the lowest clerical workers.

  “My,” Mrs. Jenkins remarked as they sat down, “this is such a nice place. When I eat breakfast out, I’ll grab something at a fast-food place, a burrito or something, and coffee.”

  “Order anything you like,” Mrs. Spain urged her. “I love the French pancakes here. They serve them with strawberries and whipped cream. And then you get eggs and sausage too. I’ve even got coupons, Mickey. One breakfast is full price, but then the other is half price. So it’s a real bargain.”

  “My goodness,” Mickey Jenkins exclaimed, “French pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream. I feel like a queen or something. I never had much fancy food in my life. My mama raised us on grits with a little syrup.”

  When the waitress brought coffee, they ordered and waited for breakfast.

  “I worry about Jaris too,” Mrs. Spain started to say. “And Chelsea. She’s fourteen and she’s a little firecracker, Mickey. Sometimes Jaris gets into things over his head too, and then it’s nail biting time for me. But I decided I would trust him. I know he’s basically a good boy, just like Trevor. I used to bug him more, but now I don’t. I would go, ‘Why did you stay so long? Why didn’t you call?’—all stuff like that. But I could see he was getting resentful. So I made up my mind I’d swallow my fears and trust my boy because he’s a great kid, like Trevor is.”

  Mickey Jenkins looked thoughtful. “I ride Trevor pretty hard,” she admitted.

  “Well, we’re mothers,” Mrs. Spain said. “That’s what we do sometimes, but we gotta just force ourselves to trust them. Now I give Jaris some space.”

  “You know, Monica,” Mickey Jenkins replied, “thing with you is, you got a wonderful husband. Lorenzo, he’s the best. He’s such a good father for your children to look up to. My boys never had no father. I always felt guilty about that. I picked that bum. I picked Harry to be their father. I picked a man who deserted his wife and babies. Jaris can look up to Lorenzo and see what a good man is. But my poor boys . . . ” her voice trailed off
sadly.

  “But Mickey,” Mrs. Spain protested, “you’ve done a fabulous job raising those boys. Look at Desmond, a fine young man serving his country, and Junior on his way. Tommy and Trevor are both respectful and perfect gentlemen around our house. Don’t underestimate the job you’ve already done, Mickey. You’ve raised three fine young men and Trevor is going to be number four.”

  “I sure do hope you’re right, Monica,” Mickey Jenkins said with a smile. “I do appreciate hearin’ such nice things about my boys. I do so respect your family, Monica, and especially you. You have done a lot with your lives, you and Lorenzo, a nice home, your wonderful teaching career.”

  The waitress brought breakfast and Mrs. Jenkins’ eyes grew huge. “Oh my goodness!” she cried. “Look at those strawberries. That is so beautiful. And all that food. My goodness. This was so sweet of you, Monica. I’m not a very good cook, and we eat just plain food around our house. Oatmeal and toast for breakfast.”

  Monica laughed. “Oh, Mickey, I’m such a terrible cook that my kids pray their father will be cooking. Lorenzo is much better than me. I’m so busy teaching and marking papers that I usually don’t even have time to cook at all. The kids have to put up with those frozen dinners. Bless their hearts, they don’t complain, at least not to me. But I see those funny little peas and corn in the compartments, the rubbery looking chicken, and I think, ‘What am I doing to my kids?’ ”

  They laughed about their common lack of cooking skills and talked about the years past. Mrs. Jenkins remarked, “Monica, you were such a wonderful girl and now you’re such a pretty woman. You’re younger than me.”

  “I’m thirty-eight,” Mrs. Spain announced.

  “I’m forty-five,” Mrs. Jenkins responded. “I remember I was already married to Harry when I’d see you walking by from high school, all the boys admiring you ’cause you were so pretty. I’d look at you and I’d think, ‘She better pick a good boy to marry ’cause she’s got a lot to choose from, that girl has.’ ”