The Sable Quill

By Xlibris US

The story of the Sable Quill revolves around a young, African American boy from Baltimore, MD named Malik Mills, who has dyslexia and struggles academically and socially with his confidence. Malik is a budding athlete whose basketball skills are overshadowed by his anger and violent tendencies. His parents, school administrators, neighbors, and friends are at a lost to help Malik. Even a child psychologist who tested Malik and diagnosed his mood disorder and dyslexia was at a lost to help him. Through some majestic maneuvering, Malik wins a palm reading at the Universoul Circus and with it an onyx, diamond, and gold pen. This pen unbeknownst to Malik is magical. It provides Malik with advantages that he did not previously have. It sets up a collage of assists and opportunities for Malik not just to change, but to flourish and thrive. With the help of the Sable Quill, his parents, his potential love interest and tutor, Tameka Thomas; and his own hard work, determination, and dedication, Malik changes his life, becomes a better person and a better student, and passes the legacy of the Sable Quill on to future posterity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493197026

Book preview

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CHAPTER ONE:

Introducing Malik Mills

Trouble At School

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Malik settle down. Stop fighting, said Miss Patterson, screaming at the top of her lungs as she gestures to some of her students to get the principal.

Miss Patterson is the tenth grade US History teacher. She stood there, hair frizzled, sweat on her brow, looking around her classroom hoping that Principal Maddox would hurry with the hall monitors or the school police. She was a petit, pristine young woman in her mid-30’s with a peach colored complexion, silky dark brown hair, and hazelnut colored eyes. Known as Lady Brown P by the female students in her class, Miss Patterson thought hard why she chose this school and remembered she wanted to make a difference. But, the question is, what difference can she make in an asylum where she is really not in charge? This fight was just another reason why she considered transferring to another school.

This was a usual occurrence in Miss Patterson’s room. Almost every day since Malik was transferred from W.E.B. Dubois Environmental High School, he appeared center stage in a rough house altercation with any person who spoke to, looked at, and caught him wrong. Malik, a so called problem child, was engaged in a major skirmish grabbing the other student’s head and punching it repeatedly.

Malik was a tall, brute of a boy nearly engulfing his adversary in height and size. Standing six feet, four inches tall, weighing two hundred and ten pounds, wearing a thick blowout haircut, a mean Mike Tyson like scowl and complexion, this boy seemed more like a linebacker for a football team or heavyweight boxer, than a teenager in his sophomore year of high school.

The boy he was fighting was Woodrow Thomas, who was no angel, was nearly dragged off his feet, while absorbing punch after punch from Malik. He was frail looking, five foot, ten inches tall, model like boy, with brown bumps on his face. These bumps, however, would dwarf in comparison with the knots, Malik was putting on his face and head with every shot.

The classroom was full of rowdy, cheering, desensitized teens ranging in age from fourteen to seventeen. Most of them were in the tenth grade, but a few of them were juniors and seniors. Many of the juniors and seniors failed US History as freshmen and sophomores and had to make it up to graduate. Others like Malik were taking it for the first time. But, on today’s lesson, Napoleon was not the featured attraction, Malik and Woodrow were.

Suddenly, Principal Maddox came rushing in, yelling at the US History class to settle down and be quiet. Accompanying Principal Maddox was two hall monitors, Mr. Reeves, a big former football player standing six feet two, two hundred and sixty-five pounds and Mr. Derrick, a cocky and stern, former Marine, standing six feet four, two hundred and fifty pounds who looked like the Rock, Dwayne Johnson. His muscular build caught the attention of every pubescent teen girl in the class.

Mr. Reeves and Mr. Derrick restrained and carried out both Malik and Woodrow. They carried them to the support room, where the Assistant Principal, Pandora Haynes waited. Known around the school as No Pain No Gain Haynes, her reputation for being harsh and stern, fair proceeded itself. There sitting in the chair next to Guidance Counselor Williams, Miss Haynes dawning a cocoa brown complexion, gold and black hair at the roots, with a big nose and big lips splattered with brown lipstick, wearing a blue blouse and a black skirt, she gazed off into space letting thoughts of pending pain troll around her brain.

Malik, struggling with Mr. Reeves, and cursing at a profuse rate was sat down into the chair in front of Miss Haynes rudely. Woodrow was given the same treatment in a separate room with Mr. Derrick and Principal Maddox. Miss Haynes looked at Malik with a scowl and then began a diatribe, which was so loud, scathing, and agonizing to the ear that Malik did not say a word unless told to. He dared not because most students who did were quickly transferred to another school and Malik did not want the reputation of being a school nomad. So he sat there and listened. But, Miss Haynes made sure he did more than listen.

Mr. Mills. Tell me what day it is, said Miss Haynes.

It’s Monday, Miss Haynes, October 24, 2005, said Malik.

How many times have I seen you since the beginning of the school year?

I wasn’t here at the beginning of the school year. I transferred last week.

It doesn’t matter, Mr. Mills. Because ever since I met you, it has felt like ten years has been taken off my life?

What do you think about that, said Miss Haynes.

Malik said nothing. Miss Haynes yelled even louder.

You better answer me, boy!

I don’t know what you want me to say.

For starters, tell me what life do you have at home which would prompt you to act like a buffoon and a baboon at school?

I’m not a buffoon or a baboon.

Then, what are you Malik? Are you the loving child your parents’ raised or this demon spawn that rolls into Baltimore Freedom Academy each and every day?

Now, look…

What! What you say?

Nothing.

That’s what I thought you said. You don’t have the right to say anything. You’re a child thinking that you’re a man. You don’t know what it is to be one.

Malik looked at Miss Haynes with such a serious intent that she really went on the attack.

Why are you looking at me like that? What you threatening me, boy! Ha! I will have Mr. Reeves hold you down, while a take a baseball bat and wear you out! I will tell your mother and father that you threatened my life and I had no choice but to defend myself. Now, play with me!

Malik said nothing. He just covered his eyes and cried, while Miss Haynes who resembled a Bengal tiger withdrew from Malik’s face and said these final words.

Do you feel those tears roll down your cheek, Malik? They say to me, Mr. Williams and Mr. Reeves that there’s a human being trying to get out. Only monsters don’t cry. You’re no monster. So stop acting like one. I’m going to call your mother and tell her to keep you in her company for the next three days. Maybe then, you can come back and act like a civilized human being. If you ever cause trouble or threaten me in this school again, you are going home with a knot on your head or be laid out on a stretcher. Are we clear, Mr. Mills?

Yes, Miss Haynes, said a distraught and crying Malik.

Miss Haynes, I recommend that Malik get counseling. His sporadic behavior, emotional moods, and sudden flair ups of violence are a serious problem that he needs to address, said Guidance Counselor Williams.

Very well, Mr. Williams. Write up a referral and I will submit the information to his parents, said Miss Haynes.

Miss Haynes returned to her office which was located on the second floor, the hall monitors returned to their posts, and Principal Maddox went back downstairs to the Main office. Principal Maddox called Woodrow Thomas’ parents and informed them of the fight. They were less than happy to hear about the fight. They were even more upset when they saw the knots and blood stains on their son’s face and head. They immediately requested a conference and meeting with Malik and his parents in Principal Maddox’s office next week. While Principal Maddox was done with her problem child, Miss Haynes had just started.

Miss Haynes called Qadira Mills, a dark haired, brown skinned, black woman who looked like Kenya Moore, former Miss America and former Miss Michigan. She had hazelnut colored eyes, stood five feet four inches tall and weighed one hundred fifty six pounds. She was not too happy because Malik had gotten in trouble for the fifteenth time. In many of these instances, Qadira lost time from work, were passed over for promotions, and was put on probation because of her son’s incorrigible behavior. She was a proud black woman who grew up in the Collington Square, East North Avenue corridor. In that part of town when she was Malik’s age, drugs, sex, and alcohol were the norm. She worked hard the youngest of five children in her family to stay off drugs and avoid getting pregnant until she met Kateb Mills, Malik’s father who grew up around the Madison Street, Milton Avenue Corridor. For Qadira, hearing of her child misbehaving is an outrage and an affront to everything that both she and Kateb taught Malik and raised him to be. Kateb, a taller, handsome, more rugged version of Malik, would not have approved of his son’s reckless and uncontrollable behavior. But, it was not his father’s wrath that he would face first. It would be his mom’s.

Where is my son, Malik? said Qadira as she entered the building of Baltimore Freedom Academy.

Hold on, Miss Mills. I will contact Miss Haynes and Miss Maddox to find out where he is, said Miss Waddle, the Administrative Assistant.

Miss Waddle called over the intercom for Miss Haynes and Miss Maddox. Only Miss Maddox answered.

Yes, Miss Waddle. Malik Mills is with me. I will bring him down to the office. Tell Miss Mills, he is coming down now.

Qadira stood there looking up at the old, weathered ceiling, with lights hanging down, a large alcove with a long buffet counter like a police station, and switches to call classrooms, windows with Venetian blinds, and chairs placed along the walls. She remembered these images when she was a student here sixteen years ago. The paint, the design, and the location of every room were exactly the same. The only difference was the name of the teachers, the numbers of teachers, and sounds and sights of students wearing casual slacks, skirts, ties, and shirts and sweaters saying Baltimore Freedom Academy. But, Qadira didn’t have time to stroll down memory because as she was quickly reminded Lombard Middle or Baltimore Freedom Academy was as bad and behavioral prone as it was when she attended the school.

Two minutes later, Malik, crying and sad walked to his mother, who abruptly slapped him in the face. She grabbed him by the ear and dragged him out of the school that chilly Monday morning. But, she was a lot colder than the weather that day. She walked him to the 2005 gray, eight seated Suzuki XL7 and opened up the passenger side. Malik climbed in and she climbed in the driver seat.

Tell me what I have done to deserve what you are putting me through, said Qadira Mills.

You’ve done nothing, Ma. I’m just a bad boy that can’t do right, said Malik.

Is that what your father and I taught you how to think?

It doesn’t matter. I keep getting in to trouble, and I don’t know why.

Did you start that fight with the boy?

No, but I couldn’t let it go. He disrespected me. He called me a dummy because I have trouble expressing myself on paper. What’s wrong with me, Ma?

Tell me how he disrespected you?

He called me a name and said that I was stupid.

So you hit someone every time he calls you a name? And Malik you know you’re not stupid so why buy in to lies and words of someone who does not know you?

Ma, it’s true. I get the worse grades in class. I struggle to write and read.

Boy, we have taught you how to read, bought reading and writing programs, books, etc Don’t tell me that you’re stupid when you’re not!

Well, ma whether you like it or not, your son is not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Qadira said no more to her son. She took him to work with her because if she left him at home alone he would get in even more trouble. Qadira worked as an Assistant Director of the Legal Aid Bureau downtown under the direction of the Victim Advocate Office. She worked on the behalf of victims of rape, domestic violence, bullying, etc.

Malik sat in an adjacent office to where his mom worked. He was upset, bored, and nervous looking for anything to do that did not get him into more trouble. He found a notepad and a pencil and began writing. He did not know what he was writing or what he wanted to write about. He just let his pen glide from one thought to another. Each thought produced a sentence. It looked good, but to Malik it was garbage, so he tore it up. He was frustrated and angry. When Malik appeared like this, talking to him or reasoning with him was impossible. But, Malik was at his mother’s job. No matter how much he wanted to blow up and destroy things, he didn’t. He could act crazy at times, but this was not one of those times.

Qadira walked into the office where Malik was sitting with his head down and several pieces of paper torn up in the waste basket or on the floor. It was 12:30pm and lunchtime stared Qadira in the face. She grabbed her pocketbook and looked at her son before going off on him.

Get up, you lazy, ungrateful boy!

What ma. I’m tired. I just wanted to rest here. I won’t bother anyone.

You sure as hell won’t. You’re coming with me. I know as big as you are that you don’t pass up any meals. Now get your coat and let’s go.

Fine, ma. I’m itching to eat something good anyway.

Qadira and Malik went to the gray, 2005 eight passenger Suzuki XL7 and drove to the Harbor place. Parking was a problem especially with the pre-rush hour drivers heading to their destinations and the rash of pedestrians walking up and down downtown Baltimore as if everyone downtown was on their own personal walkathon. After finding a parking spot, Qadira and Malik jumped out the SUV and headed towards a good restaurant. On the side of the Harbor place where Pratt and Light Street streets intersect, Qadira and Malik found themselves walking up the stairs to the UNO Bar and Grill