Eighth-Grade Superzero (10 page)

I’ve got organic gummy bears in my pocket, and I’m waiting for Ruthie to get to homeroom so that I can grovel. She walks in, sits at her desk, and opens a book without looking my way. She’s still all frosty because of that run-in with Donovan in the cafeteria the other day, and I admit it: I miss her. I haven’t gotten one IM or e-mail from her in days.

“I’m sorry,” I say, in my most pitiful voice. “Are we friends?” I add a pout; I’m laying it on thick like chocolate frosting.

She looks up from
Their Eyes Were Watching God.
“What’s wrong with your face?” she asks, not smiling.

“This is me being sorry,” I say. I poke my lip out more, and raise my eyebrows. “Really, really sorry.”

“For what?” She goes back to her book.

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” I say. I can’t tell her that I can’t even stand up for myself with Donovan, much less anyone else.

“You’re not going to make this right, are you?” she shoots back.

“Make what right?” I ask. I’m not sure what we’re talking
about anymore. We’re interrupted by Hector, who strolls over and leans on Ruthie’s desk.

“Excuse you,” she says. I smirk, and Hector reaches over and snatches my pen out of my hand. He turns back to Ruthie.

“So, um,” he starts, “I … w-w-what I’m thinking is …”

When did he start stuttering? Dare I hope it’s permanent?

Hector takes a deep breath. “I want to find out more about … the Fort Benning thing you were talking about last week, and, uh, the garment industry too.” He sits up a little straighter. “I want to help.”

My mouth drops open, and so does Ruthie’s. Then she gives Hector the smile I thought she reserved for her Malcolm X poster. “Well, I … that’s great! What do you want to know?”

Hector smiles back. “Everything, I guess. I want to be a part of the solution, you know?”

I can barely stifle my groan. I wait for Ruthie to remind him that he is firmly implanted on the problem end of that equation.

“Let’s talk, then,” says my temporarily insane friend. “Do you want to meet after school? My piano lesson was cancelled.”

“You play the piano? That’s cool,” says Hector as Ms. A marches into the room. “Yeah, after school is good. I’ll meet you at your locker.”

Hector slides into his seat behind me, throwing in a punch to my back. Ruthie, the traitor, doesn’t even say anything.

Ms. A drops some stuff on her desk and starts writing on the board.

“Hey,” I whisper to Ruthie. “As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted, will you accept my apology if I treat you to a slice after school?”

Ruthie shrugs and whispers back, “Don’t worry about it, it’s all good. Maybe another day on the pizza.” She looks at me and smiles. “Seems like I’m booked today.”

“Monica, it’s been a while since we’ve done any drills,” says Pops, scooping up a mound of mashed potatoes as big as a snowball. After daily pop quizzes, state test prep, and three early mornings of begging people to take “Vote Vicky!” postcards, I’m grateful for the weekend, even if it means sharing space with my gremlin of a sister. Mom had soca playing in the kitchen all day while she was cooking, and I even saw her and Pops dancing for a minute. I take a bite of her oxtail and stew peas. We had an early snowfall yesterday, but this food tastes like it’s summer and I’m a little kid again, and I don’t know yet that there is evil in the world.

Then Evil speaks. “Mom, the chicken is too spicy.” Monica has been talking in this weird whiny voice lately. “It’s going to wreak havoc on my pores.”

“ ‘Wreak havoc'? Did Dick and Jane teach you some new vocabulary words today?” I snicker, and Mom gives me a light backhand to the head.

Monica puts more callaloo on her plate, watching me the whole time. I look away first. I’ve been pushing it lately. Last week, I threatened to tell Mom about the night she went clubbing when she was supposed to be studying with her friend Asha. I
asked her how many baby seals she got; I thought that was a good one, but she didn’t get it.

“Don’t eat it, then,” says Mom, real calm because she knows that it is impossible to keep from eating her fried chicken. She says she took this Saturday off to get some rest, but I think it was for Pops. He’s smiled more today than he has in two months, and I can tell she’s been working hard to keep him up.

Monica grunts and sucks the meat off of a bone.

“Am I invisible?” Pops asks. “Inaudible? I thought that I just asked Miss Monica a question.” He takes more mashed potatoes, and they fall off of his spoon as he points to Monica.

“It didn’t sound like a question,” she says in a phony “who, me?” voice.

Mom slides her eyes over Monica’s way, and her
Don’t push it
is almost audible.

Monica smiles. “Just playing, Pops…. Actually, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that. About basketball, I mean.”

“Good,” says Pops. “I know you think you’ve got game, but it takes hard work and perseverance to separate you from the pack. Let me tell you, when St. Joseph’s needed someone to step up and be a leader on the football team, they didn’t have to look far….”

I sneak a look at Monica, who’s already looking at me. We share an eye roll, then look away before it gets too friendly.

Pops stops talking and clears his throat. “Anyway, that was all a long time ago.” He coughs a little. “So what did you want to say, Monica?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah … um, well, I don’t want to play ball anymore. I’m not going to try out for the varsity team next year. I’ve changed my mind.”

Three heads snap up so fast they almost come off. Monica drew a face on her first basketball and would push it around in a toy stroller. I’ve seen the pictures; Pops keeps them in his wallet. And March Madness? It’s straitjacket time around here; she tapes every game so she can replay each one in slow motion, and she and Pops scream at the screen. This must be a joke. I wait for the punch line.

“I’m trying out for cheerleading,” says Monica.

Now,
that’s
a punch line!

“Be serious, Monica,” says Mom, standing up and collecting plates.

“I
am
serious,” Monica says.

Mom sits back down. “Monica, what is going on with you? I have been letting you go around with those silly girls, wearing too much makeup and acting the fool. And don’t think I don’t know about that trashy
Cosmopolitan
magazine in your room. But this is ridiculous.”

“I can’t believe you were snooping around in my room! That’s such an invasion of privacy!” yells Monica. I make a mental note to check my room for contraband. “What does
Cosmo
have to do with anything anyway? Why are you even bringing that up? Anyway, cheerleaders are athletes. They work hard—”

“— boosting the egos of boys with below-average grades,” cuts in Mom.

“You guys don’t understand anything. That’s not what it’s about now. Cheerleading is a competitive sport.”

“Monica … you used to be a serious child, you had an interest in science, and we’ve always encouraged your athletics,” says Pops, who’s been sitting there looking like he got sucker punched.
“Look at your brother: He’s involved in school politics. That’s respectable.” He looks at me and nods. “And he’s involved with that homeless shelter.”

“Uh … yeah, but you know, it’s just a little youth group thing.” Pretty nice to have Pops’s approval heading over my way, but it makes Monica glare like she is going to stomp me to death.

“That’s good, Reggie. Just be careful,” says Mom. “You,” she turns to Monica. “Cheerleading. Why would you want to spend your time doing something so mindless?”

“I can’t explain it because you wouldn’t understand.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Mom says, standing up. She starts dumping the food into plastic containers; I wouldn’t have minded a little more. Monica picks her plate up, drops it hard into the sink, and then stomps upstairs. Mom starts to say something, then just mutters under her breath. Pops is still sitting there, looking dazed.

Why did Monica have to go and ruin things? My summer day’s gone, and the chill in the air makes me want to go to my room and crawl under the covers.

“May I be excused?” I ask, and leave before I get an answer.

What burly ball-playing beast is an aspiring booty-shaking pom-pom waver? That’s a quiz I would have failed for sure. Cheerleading?!?! My lumberjack gladiator of a sister? There’s got to be another angle. I lie in bed and wonder if the cheerleaders at Future Leaders are actually a gang of master criminals who plan and execute ATM robberies. Monica as thug I can believe. But Monica all short skirts and sexy smiles? Not even close. I used to
wonder what Mom and Pops would say if I told them about Night Man, but I’m guessing it would look like I’ve been writing a textbook compared to Monica’s latest news.

I can hear Mom and Pops murmuring in their bedroom. I’ve got to give it to my sister. No one will ever ignore Monica. They may shudder, run screaming, or even wonder how the God who created Mialonie could also create something so monstrous … but she makes an impression.

Back at Olive Branch, I’m determined to get some interviewing done. George is all “less me, more you” every time I come here, but I’m supposed to be leading this project, and it’s not a good look if I’m not doing the assignment properly. I push the heavy doors open and almost take out Charlie’s mom.

“Sorry!” I say, as she jumps back.

“No problem,” she says, and smiles.

I’ve been trying to cut back on the awkward silences lately, so I clear my throat. “Um, we’re doing a wish list for the shelter,” I start. “I posted it over there. You can write down anything that you think Olive Branch needs and we’re going to see what we can do.”

“That’s nice,” she says. “Reggie, I want to thank you. Charlie was afraid that you’d laugh at him because he lived here.”

“Laugh?” I say. “But it’s not funny at all.”
Oops.
“I don’t mean … I just …” I trail off.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, sighing. “It’s not funny. But we’re getting out of here soon. I’m on a list for a place in the Bronx.”

“Oh. That’s good.”

“I just wanted to let you know how much you’ve helped him. He talks about you all the time. You’re like a superhero to him. He says he wants to be a writer. All he used to ever say was that he wanted to be someone else.” She hugs me and walks away quickly before I can say anything back.

I walk over to George, my notebook and pen already out, and wait for him to notice me. He’s kneeling down on the floor, surrounded by kids and cardboard boxes, paper, glue, and a bunch of stuff that looks like it could either be art supplies or garbage. Charlie brings over a box full of empty milk cartons and dumps them out. He came over to my house a couple of days ago with a whole bag of train stuff and we set it up in my room. I even cleaned up a little. He left all of it there “so it would be nice and safe.”

“Uh,” I move closer to George, and try to sound serious. “So, I guess we should get started with the interviewing….”

George glances up at me. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” A couple of the kids look at me and raise their eyebrows. Charlie moves a little closer to me, like he’s got my back.

I clear my throat. “Um, yeah. Sorry. I guess it won’t take too long, I just wanted to follow up on some of the things we talked about…. And we have a deadline….” I trail off, because he stands up.

“Check this guy out,” he says to the kids. A couple of them giggle. Charlie doesn’t. “He’s got a deadline for his project. Guess he doesn’t see that we’ve got a project of our own going here, huh?”

“We’re building a CITY!” says Charlie. “A whole city!”

“I’m in charge of commerce, that means business,” says a girl. “You’re standing on the place where the big train station is going to be.” I move a little to the left. She shakes her head. “Now you’re at the bus station!” She and more kids start laughing, and not for the first time am I glad you can’t see the blush through the Black.

“Come over here,” says George, motioning me away from the group. I follow him, doing a few exaggerated steps to show that I don’t want to King Kong the city anymore. This time when the kids laugh, it’s okay.

“Don’t you go to some big-time school?” asks George.

“Uh, yeah,” I say. “What does Clarke have to do with—”

“I don’t know what they’re teaching you there,” George says, “but you need to learn a few things.” I look around the room at the other kids from youth group sitting with their interviewees and recorders. I don’t see Dave. When I look back at George, he’s all slitty-eyed again, so I just nod.

His voice softens. “I’m not trying to be down on you or anything. But I’m doing something here with these kids that’s important too. And needs to be done right now.”

Playing?
I think. I try not to let
Whatever
show on my face. I guess it doesn’t work, because George continues.

“It may look like just playing, but these young cats are engaged, man, they’re dreaming and being productive.” He points over to the group, all gluing and cutting and working. “A kid got stabbed last night,” he says out of nowhere.

“What!?!”

“By another kid.” His voice is dead. “Neither one of them more than eight years old.”

“Don’t they have rules or something? What about the metal detectors?” George just looks at me. I shift a little. “Is the kid okay?”

“We don’t know yet. But what are you talking about, ‘okay'? None of these kids is okay. That’s what I’m trying to do here, make it a little more okay.” He pats my shoulder. “Do you get it now?”

I don’t know if I do, or if I know what I’m even supposed to get, but I nod again. George gives me a friendly but hard punch on the shoulder.

“All right, Reg-dog, let’s get to work.”

“Uh, okay,” I say, not sure what to do. He looks at me, then at the interview equipment in my hand. “Oh — um. Let me put this stuff down. I’ll be right over.” I put everything into my backpack and stick it behind Wilma’s desk, then I hustle back to the group.

“Mr. George,” Charlie says, “can Reggie help me make a really tall tower?”

George hugs him. “Of course, little man.” He nods me over to Charlie and the two of us get to work. George starts grabbing stuff, and he’s smiling, and the kids are watching him and working hard. Something about the whole scene is like Santa’s workshop or something; I can look at this little group and almost forget the gray walls, the industrial-strength smell, and the old woman talking to herself in the corner.

After we finish our tower, Charlie and I sit down next to the commerce girl, who’s bossing a bunch of other kids around. “How can we help?” I ask.

She doesn’t miss a beat, handing me a couple of shoeboxes.
“Start cutting a door and some windows. That can be McDonald’s.”

George’s head snaps up. “I know I didn’t hear nothing about no McDonald’s in this town. What did we talk about?”

“Happy, healthy people in a happy, healthy town,” a couple of the younger kids yell. Commerce Girl is light enough for her blush to show.

“Oh, yeah,” she says. “Well, it can be a fruit and vegetable market then.”

“You got it,” I say. And I get to work.