“Kill the bastards!” his fifth grade teacher was yelling. “We don’t want them here!”
'Which color!' Ansel shouted to Brian and Raheem.
“Yellow!” Raheem shouted back before being conked in the head by the woman with the umbrella. Both question and answer were fraught with ambiguity. But never mind. This was too important to stand on ceremony.
The entire community was there, including the Murphys, the Yangs, and the Johnsons. Excitement replaced any fears that Ansel might have had in the beginning. The produce manager and basketball coach stood on opposite sides of the platform. One wore yellow, the other green. Ansel had known and liked them both for most of his thirteen years.
Nevertheless, he joined the hateful chant. 'Kill the bastards! We don’t want you here!' And then in a moment of reflection, he appealed to his mother for guidance.
'What are they fighting for, Mommy?'
“I don’t know, Ansel. They believe in something we don’t. Just be ready with your bat if they come over here. Be a brave boy and fight for the cause.”
‘Which side are we on?’
“Ask your father.”
But that was not possible. Mr. Mueller was in an ambulance with the bruised, battered, and beaten from both sides—his white T-shirt stained with red blood.
A few blocks down, there was an elderly man with a cart selling rainbow cotton candy. He charged fifty cents extra for yellow and green.