Forged by Fire by Sharon M. Draper Page B

watchin’ us, man!” Gerald said fearfully.
    â€œThat’s ’cause you put jelly on your potatoes, man,” B. J. explained, laughing.
    â€œWe ain’t done nothing wrong,” Robbie said with casual confidence. “Let’s just eat.”
    They laughed and gobbled up every bit of that food, smiling at the customers and making even the restaurant workers laugh along with them. When they finished, they cleared their plates, stood on the tables, and sang, in perfect five-part harmony, a doo-wop version of the old Drifters song “Under the Boardwalk.” Everyone in the restaurant applauded and cheered as they took their bows.
    An old man with dark brown skin, piercing eyes, and slick gray hair had been watching them from the back of the room. He limped over to them, gave them each a ten-dollar bill, and said seriously, “Enjoy your youth, my young friends. Tomorrow it may be gone.”
    Robbie thanked him, then gave his ten dollars to the busboy as a tip, and the five of them left the place, humming and happy. They ended up with a great meal, a satisfied audience, and more money than they started with. They forgot about the old man and his strange words.
    B. J. Carson, as the team’s manager, went to every practice and game. He was short—only about five feet tall—but he was tough and strong. He tried out for the team every year, and although he never made it, the coaches admired his courage and spirit. He loved basketball, and his sense of humor and knowledge of the game made him a natural to hang with Andy, Rob, Gerald, and Tyrone.
    Sometimes taller, older kids who didn’t know B. J. tried to take advantage of him. They only made that mistake once. Last year, B. J. had accidentally bumped a senior with his book bag as he walked down the hall. The senior, a six-foot six-inch, three-hundred-pound football player named Danté, had not been amused.
    â€œWho you bumpin’, punk?”
    â€œWho you callin’ punk?” B. J. had asserted without fear.
    â€œI’m callin you a punk, yo mama a punk, and yo greasy granny a punk too!” Danté was big and grinned cheerfully. He was used to getting his way.
    B. J. put down his book bag, slowly turned around, and tensed his short, wiry frame to face the much larger boy. Danté started to laugh as B. J. crouched in a karate attack position, but his laughter stopped short as he found himself sitting on the floor in the main hallway, a calm and smiling B. J. offering his hand to help him up.
    â€œHow’d you do that, man?” asked Danté, who was more amazed than angry.
    â€œBlack belt. Master Kim. Tae kwon do. Paid for by my mama and my greasy granny,” he added. “Ever need me to watch your back, call me.” B. J. disappeared into the crowd. Danté just shook his head and chuckled at the nerve of the tough little guy with the powerful whip kick. He never bothered B. J. again.
    The five friends had several classes together at Hazelwood High School. Rob, the smartest of them, made good grades with ease. He already had several academic and athletic scholarships lined up as possibilities.Tyrone was more interested in girls than grades, especially Rhonda, who was best friends with Andy’s girlfriend, Keisha. Andy didn’t make very good grades, but it seemed to Gerald that he just wanted attention at home, even attention for bad grades. Andy’s parents rarely came to their games, while Rob’s parents never missed one.
    B. J.’s mom came to games on nights when she didn’t have stuff to do at her church. Even Monique came to the big home games. Gerald never told her, but it made him feel proud.
    It was Friday after the last class of the day, halfway through tenth grade, halfway through basketball season. It was raining. Gerald headed for his locker.
    â€œWhatcha get on that math test?” Andy asked Gerald.
    â€œAnother C minus. If I study all night or don’t