Jamell lugs his bloated backpack and his cumbersome musical instrument with him as he walks to the bus.  His backpack droops, pulling the jacket off his shoulder, as he tries to manage it all.  He walks through all the black kids who’ve milled outside the black kids’ buses.  He’s a black kid. 

Next to him, three boys pounce a smaller boy with punches.  The school’s only black school teacher breaks up the boys, though he never sees the extent of the problem. Or if he did, it doesn't faze him. 

“Hey, hey!  Get on the bus,” he said. They made their way with zig zag lines to the bus.  Meandering, jabbing each other, laughing. Jamell walks in a straight line. 

How do I tell him he makes me cry with his strength?  How do I tell his mother he passed out candy bars to all the girls first, and then the boys?  He will be a man to be proud of.  I believe in him.  But he needs to get his poetry notebook turned in on time.  How do I tell him that, while making him know he’s a shining star? 

Jamell’s dad is dead, and it is in his eyes.  He is a star, and I must tell him.  Time is running out.

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