Mr. Bogart didn’t mind the white kids as much, and I might have though he was simply a racist, had it not been for Tyrone Marshall, who was black. Tall and soft-spoken, Tyrone was incredibly smart. He had the highest test scores in every subject except math, where I beat him. He didn’t show off, but when he got called on, he was never wrong. One of his book reports, on which he’d gotten an A+, was hung on the wall. I memorized a line from it because it had impressed me, even though I couldn’t understand all of the words: “This book takes us into an arena of fierce controversy.” His skin was a matte dark brown, like chocolate dusted in cocoa, and he had thick lashes that curled violently away from his eyes. Mr. Bogart loved him and so did I.
(60) When Mr. Bogart lectured about how wonderful Tyrone was, and by implication, what a sorry bunch of underachievers the rest of us were, Tyrone would sink ever lower in his seat.
“You were born in the get dough [ghetto], were you not, Tyrone?” Mr. Bogart asked, pacing back and forth before the blackboard.
Tyrone nodded.
“Were your parents college graduates?”
Tyrone shook his head.
“What does your father do?”
His voice barely audible, Tyrone responded, “He’s in jail.”
“And your mother?”
“She’s a saleslady.” A dull red burning was visible through Tyrone’s skin, lighting it up from the inside. He was miserable. Much as I understood that feeling of embarrassment, I wanted to be in his place too.
“And YET…” Mr. Bogart addressed the rest of us dramatically. “And YET this boy has the highest national test scores this school has ever seen.”
Tyrone looked down.
“Tyrone, I know you are modern [modest] by nature but you must set an example.” Then Mr. Bogart continued his speech. “And YET Tyrone reads Langson Hughes and William Golden. I ask you—what is the difference between a Tyrone Marshall and the rest of you? DETERMINATION. DRIVE.” And so he went on.
All of this made Tyrone a complete outcast with the other kids. I wanted to tell him that I had been like him in Hong King, that I knew what it was to be admired and hated at the same time, that I knew it simply amounted to being alone. I wanted to tell him I thought he had beautiful eyes. Like so many things I wanted to say, I never did. What I did do what this: when Annette gave me candy, which happened often, I sometimes hid some in Tyrone’s desk. I knew he wouldn’t tell anyone.
(61) A slow, shy smile spread over his face whenever he found it; then he’d look around surreptitiously. I’d quickly look down and I think he never caught me, but I don’t know for sure.
The Bible and meaningful books 