I dont have much work to do around the house like some girls. My mother does that. And I dont have to earn my pocket money by hustling; George runs errands for the big boys and sells Christmas cards. And anything else thats got to get done, my father does. All I have to do in life is mind my brother Raymond, which is enough. Sometimes I slip and say my little brother Raymond. But as any fool can see hes much bigger and hes older too. But a lot of people call him my little brother cause he needs looking after cause hes not quite right. And a lot of smart mouths got lots to say about that too, especially when George was minding him. But now, if anybody has anything to say to Raymond, anything to say about his big head,1 they have to come by me. And I dont play the dozens2 or believe in standing around with somebody in my face doing a lot of talking. I much rather just knock you down and take my chances even if I am a little girl with skinny arms and a squeaky voice, which is how I got the name Squeaky. And if things get too rough, I run. And as anybody can tell you, Im the fastest thing on two feet. a There is no track meet that I dont win the first place medal. I used to win the twenty-yard dash when I was a little kid in kindergarten. Nowadays, its the fifty-yard dash. And tomorrow Im subject to run the quarter-meter relay all by myself and come in first, second, and third. The big kids call me Mercury3 cause Im the swiftest thing in the neighborhood. Everybody knows thatexcept two people who know better, my father and me. He can beat me to Amsterdam Avenue with me having a two fire hydrant headstart and him running with his hands in his pockets and whistling. But thats private information. Cause can you imagine some thirty-five-year-old man stuffing himself into PAL shorts to race little kids? So as far as everyones concerned, Im the fastest and that goes for Gretchen, too, who has put out the tale that she is going to win the first-place medal this year. Ridiculous. In the second place, shes got short legs. In the third place, shes got freckles. In the first place, no one can beat me and thats all there is to it. Im standing on the corner admiring the weather and about to take a stroll down Broadway so I can practice my breathing exercises, and Ive got Raymond walking on the inside close to the buildings, cause hes subject to fits of fantasy and starts thinking hes a circus performer and that the curb is a tightrope strung high in the air. And sometimes after a rain he likes to step down off his tightrope right into the gutter and slosh around getting his shoes and cuffs wet. Then I get hit when I get home. Or sometimes if you dont watch him hell dash across traffic to the island in the middle of Broadway and give the pigeons a fit. Then I have to go behind him apologizing to all the old people sitting around trying to get some sun and getting all upset with the pigeons fluttering around them, scattering their newspapers and upsetting the waxpaper lunches4 in their laps. So I keep Raymond on the inside of me, and he plays like hes driving a stage coach which is O.K. by me so long as he doesnt run me over or interrupt my breathing exercises, which I have to do on account of Im serious about my running, and I dont care who knows it. b Now some people like to act like things come easy to them, wont let on that they practice. Not me. Ill high-prance down 34th Street like a rodeo pony to keep my knees strong even if it does get my mother uptight so that she walks ahead like shes not with me, dont know me, is all by herself on a shopping trip, and I am somebody elses crazy child. Now you take Cynthia Procter for instance. Shes just the opposite. If theres a test tomorrow, shell say something like, Oh, I guess Ill play handball this afternoon and watch television tonight, just to let you know she aint thinking about the test. Or like last week when she won the spelling bee for the millionth time, A good thing you got receive, Squeaky, cause I would have got it wrong. I completely forgot about the spelling bee. And shell clutch the lace on her blouse like it was a narrow escape. Oh, brother. But of course when I pass her house on my early morning trots around the block, she is practicing the scales on the piano over and over and over and over. Then in music class she always lets herself get bumped around so she falls accidentally on purpose onto the piano stool and is so surprised to find herself sitting there that she decides just for fun to try out the ole keys. And what do you knowChopins waltzes just spring out of her fingertips and shes the most surprised thing in the world. A regular prodigy. I could kill people like that. I stay up all night studying the words for the spelling bee. And you can see me any time of day practicing running. I never walk if I can trot, and shame on Raymond if he cant keep up. But of course he does, cause if he hangs back someones liable to walk up to him and get 4. waxpaper lunches: sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. 5. Chopins (shIPpBnzQ) waltzes: music by composer Frdric Chopin. 30 40 50 60 clutch (klOch) v. to grasp and hold tightly prodigy (prJdPE-jC) n. a person with an exceptional talent b MAKE INFERENCES Reread lines 3145. How do you think Squeaky feels about taking care of her brother? Use an equation to note your inference. liable (lFPE-bEl) adj. likely to 40 unit 1: plot and conflict 038-046_NA_L08PE-u01s01-Raymo.indd 40 12/25/10 3:44:09 AM smart, or take his allowance from him, or ask him where he got that great big pumpkin head. People are so stupid sometimes. So Im strolling down Broadway breathing out and breathing in on counts of seven, which is my lucky number, and here comes Gretchen and her sidekicks: Mary Louise, who used to be a friend of mine when she first moved to Harlem from Baltimore and got beat up by everybody till I took up for her on account of her mother and my mother used to sing in the same choir when they were young girls, but people aint grateful, so now she hangs out with the new girl Gretchen and talks about me like a dog; and Rosie, who is as fat as I am skinny and has a big mouth where Raymond is concerned and is too stupid to know that there is not a big deal of difference between herself and Raymond and that she cant afford to throw stones. So they are steady coming up Broadway and I see right away that its going to be one of those Dodge City6 scenes cause the street aint that big and theyre close to the buildings just as we are. First I think Ill step into the candy store and look over the new comics and let them pass. But thats chicken and Ive got a reputation to consider. So then I think Ill just walk straight on through them or even over them if necessary. But as they get to me, they slow down. Im ready to fight, cause like I said I dont feature a whole lot of chit-chat, I much prefer to just knock you down right from the jump and save everybody a lotta precious time. c You signing up for the May Day races? smiles Mary Louise, only its not a smile at all. A dumb question like that doesnt deserve an answer. Besides, theres just me and Gretchen standing there really, so no use wasting my breath talking to shadows. I dont think youre going to win this time, says Rosie, trying to signify with her hands on her hips all salty, completely forgetting that I have whupped her behind many times for less salt than that. I always win cause Im the best, I say straight at Gretchen who is, as far as Im concerned, the only one talking in this ventriloquist-dummy routine. Gretchen smiles, but its not a smile, and Im thinking that girls never really smile at each other because they dont know how and dont want to know how and theres probably no one to teach us how, cause grown-up girls dont know either. Then they all look at Raymond who has just brought his mule team to a standstill. And theyre about to see what trouble they can get into through him. What grade you in now, Raymond? You got anything to say to my brother, you say it to me, Mary Louise Williams of Raggedy Town, Baltimore. What are you, his mother? sasses Rosie. Thats right, Fatso. And the next word out of anybody and Ill be their mother too. So they just stand there and Gretchen shifts from one leg to the other and so do they. Then Gretchen puts her hands on her hips and is about to say something with her freckle-face self but doesnt. Then she walks around me looking me up and down but keeps walking up Broadway, and her sidekicks follow her. So me and Raymond smile at each other and he says, Gidyap to his team and I continue with my breathing exercises, strolling down Broadway toward the ice man on 145th with not a care in the world cause I am Miss Quicksilver7 herself. I take my time getting to the park on May Day because the track meet is the last thing on the program. The biggest thing on the program is the May Pole dancing, which I can do without, thank you, even if my mother thinks its a shame I dont take part and act like a girl for a change. Youd think my motherd be grateful not to have to make me a white organdy dress with a big satin sash and buy me new white baby-doll shoes that cant be taken out of the box till the big day. Youd think shed be glad her daughter aint out there prancing around a May Pole getting the new clothes all dirty and sweaty and trying to act like a fairy or a flower or whatever youre supposed to be when you should be trying to be yourself, whatever that is, which is, as far as I am concerned, a poor Black girl who really cant afford to buy shoes and a new dress you only wear once a lifetime cause it wont fit next year. d I was once a strawberry in a Hansel and Gretel pageant when I was in nursery school and didnt have no better sense than to dance on tiptoe with my arms in a circle over my head doing umbrella steps and being a perfect fool just so my mother and father could come dressed up and clap. Youd think theyd know better than to encourage that kind of nonsense. I am not a strawberry. I do not dance on my toes. I run. That is what I am all about. So I always come late to the May Day program, just in time to get my number pinned on and lay in the grass till they announce the fifty-yard dash. I put Raymond in the little swings, which is a tight squeeze this year and will be impossible next year. Then I look around for Mr. Pearson, who pins the numbers on. Im really looking for Gretchen, if you want to know the truth, but shes not around. The park is jam-packed. Parents in hats and corsages and breast-pocket handkerchiefs peeking up. Kids in white dresses and light-blue suits. The parkees8 unfolding chairs and chasing the rowdy kids from Lenox9 as if they had no right to be there. The big guys with their caps on backwards, leaning against the fence swirling the basketballs on the tips of their fingers, waiting for all these crazy people to clear out the park so they can play. Most of the kids in my class are carrying bass drums and glockenspiels10 and flutes. Youd think theyd put in a few bongos or something for real like that. e Then here comes Mr. Pearson with his clipboard and his cards and pencils and whistles and safety pins and 50 million other things hes always dropping all over the place with his clumsy self. He sticks out in a crowd because hes on stilts. We used to call him Jack and the Beanstalk to get him mad. But Im the only one that can outrun him and get away, and Im too grown for that silliness now. Well, Squeaky, he says, checking my name off the list and handing me number seven and two pins. And Im thinking hes got no right to call me Squeaky, if I cant call him Beanstalk. Hazel Elizabeth Deborah Parker, I correct him and tell him to write it down on his board. Well, Hazel Elizabeth Deborah Parker, going to give someone else a break this year? I squint at him real hard to see if he is seriously thinking I should lose the race on purpose just to give someone else a break. Only six girls running this time, he continues, shaking his head sadly like its my fault all of New York didnt turn out in sneakers. That new girl should give you a run for your money. He looks around the park for Gretchen like a periscope11 in a submarine movie. Wouldnt it be a nice gesture if you were . . . to ahhh . . . I give him such a look he couldnt finish putting that idea into words. Grownups got a lot of nerve sometimes. I pin number seven to myself and stomp away, Im so burnt. And I go straight for the track and stretch out on the grass while the band winds up with Oh, the Monkey Wrapped His Tail Around the Flag Pole, which my teacher calls by some other name. The man on the loudspeaker is calling everyone over to the track and Im on my back looking at the sky, trying to pretend Im in the country, but I cant, because even grass in the city feels hard as sidewalk, and theres just no pretending you are anywhere but in a concrete jungle as my grandfather says. T he twenty-yard dash takes all of two minutes cause most of the little kids dont know no better than to run off the track or run the wrong way or run smack into the fence and fall down and cry. One little kid, though, has got the good sense to run straight for the white ribbon up ahead so he wins. Then the second-graders line up for the thirty-yard dash and I dont even bother to turn my head to watch cause Raphael Perez always wins. He wins before he even begins by psyching the runners, telling them theyre going to trip on their shoelaces and fall on their faces or lose their shorts or something, which he doesnt really have to do since he is very fast, almost as fast as I am. After that is the forty-yard dash which I used to run when I was in first grade. Raymond is hollering from the swings cause he knows Im about to do my thing cause the man on the loudspeaker has just announced the fifty-yard dash, although he might just as well be giving a recipe for angel food cake cause you can hardly make out what hes sayin for the static. I get up and slip off my sweat pants and then I see Gretchen standing at the starting line, kicking her legs out like a pro. Then as I get into place I see that ole Raymond is on line on the other side of the fence, bending down with his fingers on the ground just like he knew what he was doing. I was going to yell at him but then I didnt. It burns up your energy to holler. f Every time, just before I take off in a race, I always feel like Im in a dream, the kind of dream you have when youre sick with fever and feel all hot and weightless. I dream Im flying over a sandy beach in the early morning sun, kissing the leaves of the trees as I fly by. And theres always the smell of apples, just like in the country when I was little and used to think I was a choo-choo train, running through the fields of corn and chugging up the hill to the orchard. And all the time Im dreaming this, I get lighter and lighter until Im flying over the beach again, getting blown through the sky like a feather that weighs nothing at all. But once I spread my fingers in the dirt and crouch over the Get on Your Mark, the dream goes and I am solid again and am telling myself, Squeaky you must win, you must win, you are the fastest thing in the world, you can even beat your father up Amsterdam if you really try. g And then I feel my weight coming back just behind my knees then down to my feet then into the earth and the pistol shot explodes in my blood and I am off and weightless again, flying past the other runners, my arms pumping up and down and the whole world is quiet except for the crunch as I zoom over the gravel in the track. I glance to my left and there is no one. To the right, a blurred Gretchen, whos got her chin jutting out as if it would win the race all by itself. And on the other side of the fence is Raymond with his arms down to his side and the palms tucked up behind him, running in his very own style, and its the first time I ever saw that and I almost stop to watch my brother Raymond on his first run. But the white ribbon is bouncing toward me and I tear past it, racing into the distance till my feet with a mind of their own start digging up footfuls of dirt and brake me short. Then all the kids standing on the side pile on me, banging me on the back and slapping my head with their May Day programs, for I have won again and everybody on 151st Street can walk tall for another year. In first place . . . the man on the loudspeaker is clear as a bell now. But then he pauses and the loudspeaker starts to whine. Then static. And I lean down to catch my breath and here comes Gretchen walking back, for shes overshot the finish line too, huffing and puffing with her hands on her hips taking it slow, breathing in steady time like a real pro and I sort of like her a little for the first time. In first place . . . and then three or four voices get all mixed up on the loudspeaker and I dig my sneaker into the grass and stare at Gretchen whos staring back, we both wondering just who did win. I can hear old Beanstalk arguing with the man on the loudspeaker and then a few others running their mouths about what the stopwatches say. Then I hear Raymond yanking at the fence to call me and I wave to shush him, but he keeps rattling the fence like a gorilla in a cage like in them gorilla movies, but then like a dancer or something he starts climbing up nice and easy but very fast. And it occurs to me, watching how smoothly he climbs hand over hand and remembering how he looked running with his arms down to his side and with the wind pulling his mouth back and his teeth showing and all, it occurred to me that Raymond would make a very fine runner. Doesnt he always keep up with me on my trots? And he surely knows how to breathe in counts of seven cause hes always doing it at the dinner table, which drives my brother George up the wall. And Im smiling to beat the band cause if Ive lost this race, or if me and Gretchen tied, or even if Ive won, I can always retire as a runner and begin a whole new career as a coach with Raymond as my champion. After all, with a little more study I can beat Cynthia and her phony self at the spelling bee. And if I bugged my mother, I could get piano lessons and become a star. And I have a big rep as the baddest thing around. And Ive got a roomful of ribbons and medals and awards. But what has Raymond got to call his own? So I stand there with my new plans, laughing out loud by this time as Raymond jumps down from the fence and runs over with his teeth showing and his arms down to the side, which no one before him has quite mastered as a running style. And by the time he comes over Im jumping up and down so glad to see himmy brother Raymond, a great runner in the family tradition. But of course everyone thinks Im jumping up and down because the men on the loudspeaker have finally gotten themselves together and compared notes and are announcing, In first placeMiss Hazel Elizabeth Deborah Parker. (Dig that.) In second placeMiss Gretchen P. Lewis. And I look over at Gretchen wondering what the P stands for. And I smile. Cause shes good, no doubt about it. Maybe shed like to help me coach Raymond; she obviously is serious about running, as any fool can see. And she nods to congratulate me and then she smiles. And I smile. We stand there with this big smile of respect between us. Its about as real a smile as girls can do for each other, considering we dont practice real smiling every day, you know, cause maybe we too busy being flowers or fairies or strawberries instead of something honest and worthy of respect . . . you know . . . like being people.