Maybe You Never Cry Again Read Online Free

attention. I looked forother ways to get it. I’d go into stores, steal candy bars. I’d ditch school. I’d go down to the projects and break windows. I wanted to get caught. I wanted to be noticed.
    Then, one day, twelve years old, I got noticed good. Went into a store and stole some baseballs, and never made it out the door.
    â€œYou little sumbitch,” the man said. “I’m going to call your father.”
    â€œAin’t got one,” I said.
    â€œWhat’s your name, boy? Give me your home phone number.”
    â€œNo,” I said.
    â€œYou ain’t gonna give me your number?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œYou want I should call the cops instead?”
    I didn’t answer. And that’s what he did; he called the cops. They came and took me down to the station and I gave them my name and number right quick. They didn’t torture me or anything, but I’d watched a lot of TV in my young life—and I knew they would if they had to.
    My grandmother said, “Keep him.” And she hung up.
    Officer told me what she’d done. “You’re lying,” I said. “I don’t believe you.”
    But he wasn’t lying. He put me in a cell and left me there to think on it, and it was hours before I saw him again.
    â€œLet’s go, boy.”
    He unlocked the cell and took me out front, where I found my mama waiting. And Lord, the look on her face. The pain. The disappointment. I don’t know for sure if that was the moment that changed me, but it was a start. I never wanted to see that look again.
    â€œHey, Mama,” I said, mumbling.
    She didn’t say anything. She looked at me and her eyes watered up and she didn’t blink because she didn’t want the tears to drop.
    â€œI’m sorry, Mama,” I said.
    Still nothin’. She turned and made for the door and I hurried after her and followed her into the street. Went to the corner and waited for the bus in silence and rode all the way home in silence.
    When we were a half block from home, she stopped and turned to face me. “I may weep,” she said, “but I’m not going to suffer.”
    â€œMa’am?”
    â€œIf you’re bad, Bean, if you go bad on me, son, I won’t be there for you. Understand? I’m not coming to get you again.”
    We never again spoke of that day in my house. There was nothing to say. Sometimes less is more. Worked for me.
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    In 1972, when I was fourteen, we moved to Ogden Park, a nicer neighborhood. But it’s all relative.
    â€™Bout every day, some kids would sidle over and ask me, “You with a gang?”
    â€œNo,” I’d say. I was cool about it. I wasn’t going to mess with that element.
    â€œYou too ugly to be with a gang.”
    â€œAnd too black.”
    I’d laugh and slap my thigh and slur my words and mumble like I was stoned or something. They thought that was cool. They’d say, “Bernie fuuuuucked up, man!” And they laughed right along with me.
    But one day they stopped laughing. Kid from school came up to me on the bus, said, “Watch your back, Bernie. They’re comin’.”
    â€œWho?” I said.
    â€œWho do you think?”
    â€œFuck them,” I said. “I’m not joining.”
    When the bus came to my stop, everyone went running off in different directions. I didn’t know what the hell was going on, until I turned and saw eight guys coming up the street behind me.As they got closer, they did this crazy signing thing: fists clenched and crossed at the wrists, followed by a smack to the chest.
    â€œWhat do you want?” I said. I was trying to sound a lot tougher than I felt.
    â€œYou,” one of them said. “Try to run and I’m gonna shoot you in the back of the head.”
    Two guys grabbed me by the shirt and led me down the block and into the alley. I could see people scurrying into the shadows like scared