"And I was worried about you, Frankie?"
"George, this is Eva. She lives here."
George leaned over and kissed Eva on the cheek.
Eva took both of their hands and held them. George and Frankie shot glances at each other, not sure what to think, but both digging the attention.
Eva pulled them closer to her as they sat under the maple tree. From the other side of the backyard three muscular teenagers wearing football jerseys hurried towards the bench. Eva noticed them first.
“Don’t worry about them. Let them think what they want. They need to get with the changes.”
The oldest of the three was Eva's brother, Rob, a nineteen-year-old-jock of the worst sort. He believed that he was special simply because he was born into money. Rob stood directly over Frankie, looking down at him.
"I didn’t invite you to my party, and I don’t want you bothering my sister. So I want you out of here.”
Frankie looked at the guy standing over him and rose slowly.
“That’s fine with me. God knows you can’t have a black person at your party, what would the neighbors think.”
An undercurrent of uncomfortableness ran through the crowd. The voice of James Brown wailed through the speakers singing about love and freedom. Frankie had to laugh to himself that the only blacks at the party was him and James Brown.
Eva jumped up and pushed her brother away from Frankie.
"Are you always going to be a jerk, you jerk! Won't you ever grow up?"
Rob ignored her, still smirking at Frankie. Frankie slowly turned toward George.
"Come on, George, let's hit the road. There’s nothing here for me."
With one big step, George rose and pushed Rob back.
"Do you have any idea how much I would enjoy kicking your ass? Do you have a clue?”
Rob continued to move a few steps back from George.
"I don't have any quarrel with you, George, you know that. I just didn’t invite him. You can stay if you want.”
"You screw with my friend, you screw with me."
Frankie grabbed George's arm and turned him away from the group.
"I'll walk you both out," Eva said, giving her brother a dirty look.
Frankie turned to where Rob was laughing with his friends.
“You better kick James Brown out of your party. You know he’s black too.”
They left the party as a murmur ran through the yard, followed by nervous laughter.
"I’m really sorry about all of that. My brother has always been an idiot,” Eva said, as the three of them stood in front of her house.
“What do you say the three of us get together soon? Please?”
"Why don't you come to our neighborhood tomorrow,” George said, not believing she would.
"I’ll be there. Where should we meet?"
"Meet us outside the movie house on Midvale Avenue around eight o'clock," George said, then reached over and kissed her on the cheek.
"Far out. I'll see you both tomorrow.”
Under the warm glow of the street light, three strangers became three friends.
Eva watched George and Frankie disappear down the tree-lined street, a dog’s bark announcing their exit. She liked George’s edgy energy and that he wore his emotions on his sleeve. Frankie was smart and seemed wiser than other boys she knew. It would be so great if they would come to San Francisco with her, she thought. She headed back into the party looking for her brother with anger in her eyes.
Frankie and George took a short cut along train tracks that fed right into the back of the housing project. Some nights, they could hear the trains rattling past their houses, the train whistle entering their sleep. George could not stop thinking about the incident back at the party. Frankie knew what George was capable of when he got angry, he had the broken leg to prove it.
"Man, Frankie, rich people are the most screwed-up people in the world. I mean they have everything, and they still got to get over on people.”
"Forget it, George. We're going to do better then any of those neanderthals. I’ve applied to college in New York City. I'm going to be a writer.”
George stopped and stood in the middle of the tracks. The summer stars danced above him, revealing the look of wonderment on his face. All of the anger had disappeared.
"A writer, get out. I never knew you wanted to do that."
"I've been thinking about it for a while now. I mean, I love to read, and I’ve written a few things. But whatever I do, I got to get out of here, George. This place sucks.”
"I know." George said, trudging along the tracks.
"Me, I'm not smart like you. I couldn't even finish high school.”
“You’re smart in your own way, George. You just didn’t like school.”
“Frankie I dig working down at the boathouse. It gives me a sense of freedom being out on the water. I just want to work with boats.”
"Well, we better do something quick, or the army is going to send us over to Vietnam," Frankie said.
For a split second, George thought about telling Frankie about his draft notice. He told Frankie everything that was going on in his life, but he could not find the words to tell him about this. He so much wanted to tell Frankie but he needed more time to sort out what he was going to do, and then he would tell his best friend.
They walked silently listening to the sounds of the city as cars, voices, and sirens mixed into a new and dangerous song.
"I like her, George. I like that girl a lot."
"I was thinking the same thing, man."
They walked in silence until they reached the project. They stood outside George's house and watched as a cop car slowly cruised past them, then picked up speed after seeing nothing was happening.
"You know, George, I can take care of myself. I would have kicked that guy’s ass tonight, if he had given me anymore shit."
"I know that, Frankie. I just want to make sure my man becomes a world famous writer. We’re partners, Frankie. We will always be partners."
They sat on George’s steps for another hour, talking softly about Eva. When they finally ran out of things to say they disappeared into their homes. That night, they both drifted off to sleep to the sounds of a train whistle, James Brown, and the voice of Eva calling them on to something better.
CHAPTER THREE
Joey Johnson was twenty-one years old when he finally got out of jail. He had been sent away to Camp Hill, an upstate prison, for three years for holding up a liquor store on Ridge Avenue. While in jail he met some members of the Black Panthers, a militant group determined to fight by any means necessary the white man’s oppression of the blacks. To Joey, the words and belief of this group opened his eyes and made him strong. He now had reason to live.
Frankie watched his older brother from his bedroom window walking up the long winding steps that led to their house in the project. Joey was no longer in jail, but to Frankie, he seemed to be in a prison of his own making, his body and mind, tight with anger, was ready for any danger.
One evening a few weeks back, Frankie had watched a few of the local white boys give Joey a hard time. The four street-tough teenagers had been drinking beer when they spotted Joey as he stepped off the number 61 bus. The leader of the group, a loudmouth jitterbug by the name of Wilson, made a derogatory remark about Joey's outfit, saying he looked like a pimp. Joey stopped sharply