Eighth-Grade Superzero (12 page)

So I’m handing out more meaningless Vicky propaganda in the cafeteria doorway, and I am not in the mood for this at all. I’m sorry everybody hates her, but it’s become painfully clear that they have good reason. I spent a lot of time at the Olive Branch over the weekend, and what’s going on there is so real that her campaign just seems even more fake. At this point, I’m just doing this because I said I would, but one more crack and I’m out.

“I can’t believe you still have this many left! What are you doing?” Vicky grabs a bunch of flyers out of my hand. She shoves them at kids, and a few teachers, as they walk in. Some people crumple them up right away; she doesn’t miss a beat and gives them another. I move a few inches away from her as she practically throws them at Veronica and her Cruzers-in-waiting. Sean Glanville takes a bunch, and now we’re out.

Vicky turns to me. “That’s how you get things done. How can I get this through to you? If you’re going to work for me, you’re going to have to actually work. Don’t try to ride on my accomplishments.”

She is not human. I’m thinking that I don’t even have to be gracious about getting out of this when the first red spitball hits her in the middle of the forehead. She turns, and another hits her
ear. Donovan is standing on a table, laughing and throwing spitballs our way, hard and fast.

All of a sudden there is a hailstorm of red spitballs, and everyone in the cafeteria has the aim of a major league pitching legend. Vicky is getting hit in the face, in the chest, all over. I get myself way out of range, and watch as she flinches at the first barrage. Then she just stands there, kind of laughing and holding her arms up, like she’s inviting the spitballs to a party. People are picking them up and taking multiple throws. Donovan yells “Here’s my vote!” each time he launches one. It’s mean, and it’s vicious….

And it’s not directed at me.

I gotta give it to Vicky, I’d have been out of here after the first one.

I gotta give it to everyone else, Vicky is a pain in the—

A few spitballs land near me. Some little kids run over and snatch them up and throw.

I wonder if a teacher is going to stop this; then I wonder if there are teachers throwing spitballs. It’s possible. It’s Vicky.

I should do something. I am her campaign manager, after all. What would Night Man do? I imagine myself standing in front of her, spitballs bouncing off of my puffed-out, super-muscled chest.

Donovan looks at me; his grin widens and his eyes narrow.

I take a few steps backward, toward the door.

I don’t even like Vicky. She doesn’t respect me, and she’s not going to change. This whole thing is a waste of time.

She gives a few bows and finally turns to the door; everyone is laughing and cheering and you could almost pretend that
it’s all in fun, we’re all in this together, just good-natured horseplay.

I take a few more steps back, until I’m almost out of the cafeteria.

Vicky turns and looks directly at me. She’s still smiling, and her nose is high enough in the air that I can see straight into her flaring nostrils. I can also see that there are tears in her eyes. She brushes past me as she walks out, and the cheers get louder.

I’ve been there. Right where she is.

But now, I’m over here. On the other side.

It doesn’t feel like I thought it would.

Dave answers the phone on the first ring, all high energy even though it’s seven in the morning. He wasn’t in church yesterday, which was weird.

“Sorry to call so early,” I say. “I just wanted to tell you that I’ve been talking to George about doing more stuff at the shelter, like painting and workshops and stuff, and I wanted to sit down with you sometime and go over my ideas.”

“I knew you had it in you!” says Dave. “Sure, we can talk. My schedule’s a little tight right now, and we’ve got to make sure we wrap up Listening Ears. We’ve got less than a week to turn everything in.”

“I’m not slacking on that,” I say. “I’ve got everybody’s interviews transcribed.”

“You’re not pulling too many all-nighters, are you?” Dave asks.

“I’m used to it,” I say. “But, listen, I wanted to ask you—”

“I’m sorry, Reggie, I’ve got to get out of here, I have to catch a train. But I’m proud of you, my man! What did I tell you? I knew you could do this.”

“Okay, but I have to talk to you,” I say. “I’m ready to work, but I need your help.”

“We’ll talk soon, I promise,” he says. “Adios.” I hang up the phone slowly. I didn’t even get to tell him that Wilma sent me an e-mail yesterday saying that George had offered to supervise any tutors that I bring in; she says that some of the older kids want to talk to me too. Vicky asked me for a meeting this morning, and I’m thinking maybe we can talk to Blaylock about just starting that after-school program before the campaign is over. I’ll emphasize how good it will make her look to voters, and then she’ll get on board. I know she’s all kinds of wrong, but after Friday, I know I’m not that right either.

Vicky is rummaging in her locker; I figured she’d get here early. I take a deep breath and wonder if I should open with an apology. But maybe it’s better not to bring it up, pretend that the whole spitball thing was no big deal.

The inside of her locker door is covered with “Vote Vicky!” posters in different colors; no school pictures of friends, none of those silly photo-booth pictures that girls always take when we go on school trips to the amusement park. Not even a note or a chain letter that’s been passed around under a teacher’s nose. Vicky’s best, and I now realize only, friend is clearly Vicky.

“Hi, Vicky,” I say, for once tapping her on the shoulder first. “That idea I had about opening Clarke facilities for the shelter kids? I’ve been thinking, and—”

“Your job,” she says slowly, without looking up from her locker, “was to work on my campaign for president here at Clarke.
Not to be a lame community activist or charity-case collector.” She’s holding a shopping bag full of rubber balls with “Vote Vicky!” on them. I can’t help but think that after the spitballs, that’s pretty … ballsy.

“And
your
job,” I snap, because she has such a knack for squashing any feelings of sympathy, “or at least the one you want, is to focus on the needs of the community you’ll serve. Clarke has students at the shelter. Clarke is blocks away from the shelter. Are you really going to pretend that what’s going on there doesn’t matter?”

“Are you really going to keep pretending that you’re my campaign manager?” she says, looking up. “You were supposed to focus on
me.
Nobody forced you into this, you know,” she continues, and while I might argue with that, I keep my mouth shut because I can see her hands shaking a little. “You have made one mistake after another and have just created more work for me. All I do is clean up your messes. I mean, those stupid sneakers — was that supposed to be funny? I don’t need that, and I don’t need you.”

“Does this mean I’m—” I start.

“Fired!” she says, just as I say, “— free?”

“I don’t care what you want to call it, we’re done, okay?” she says, more softly. “I thought we could be — work together, but obviously that’s not going to happen.”

Was she about to say
friends?
Or something even worse? I want to feel sorry for Vicky, but that’s what got me into this mess in the first place.

“That’s it, then,” I say. “Um, good luck with your campaign.”

“Thanks,” she mumbles, and starts to walk away. I head down
the hall in the opposite direction, and she calls, “Reggie!” I turn and look.

“Vote Vicky!” she yells, and tosses me a Vicky ball. She aims low (no surprise there), and my Very Special Binder comes in handy to block it. I guess Coach was right about how useful they can be.

I asked Joe C. to meet me at the park today after school. There’s a “Black people” side to the park, where family reunions set up their grills right under the N
O
B
ARBECUING
signs, and a “White people” side, where bikini-clad skinny girls (“mawga gals,” my mom’s always saying) stretch out on the doggy grass as soon as March rolls around. The wind is a little strong; I zip up my jacket and pull my hat down lower. Still, I almost feel like laying out myself, I’m so relieved about being done with Vicky. Plus I’m exhausted from carrying my own overstuffed backpack, along with another holding a surprise for Joe C. I haven’t seen him much, between the shelter and school, but he sent me this really funny drawing of me in my Dora shoes, with a cape blowing out behind me. He’s always had my back, even when he doesn’t get what I’m doing, and last night I came up with a way to let him know that I’ve got his too.

He walks up to where I am in the middle, near the Vanderbilt Monument. He takes a Juiced! out of his backpack as we settle onto a park bench. “I left my sketchbook in my locker,” he says. “Sorry.”

“No problem,” I say. “I don’t want to work anyway.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re the guy who’s too busy to work.”

Okay, this isn’t going to be easy. “I’m the guy who’s free at last,” I say. “As of yesterday, I’m officially free from the Vote Crazy campaign.” I’ll start with that.

“Woot!” shouts Joe C., high-fiving me. “I can’t believe you didn’t say anything!”

“The important thing is no more Vicky Ross,” I answer.

“I heard she got pelted with her own flyers on Friday. You didn’t tell me about that either….” he says. “I always miss the good stuff. First, the Donovan smackdown, and now this.” He gulps down his Juiced! “Everybody’s still talking about the Donovan thing. You did good, with the Dora shoes and everything.”

“I wish you could have seen the look on Donovan’s face,” I say. “Vijay should have gotten
that
on camera. Talk about
Talkin Trash
!”

I don’t have the shoes on, but they’re in my backpack. I didn’t have them Monday, and I wonder if I would have done something different when those spitballs started flying if I’d had the shoes on. I know it’s silly, but they’re kind of like my talisman. I’ve been on a quest for the new me, and I think these shoes got me a few steps closer.

A bunch of kids from school come into the park. Some high school guys are there, and Justin. And Donovan. He’s holding a basketball. My first instinct is to hide, and I hope it doesn’t show. Donovan’s not looking this way, though; he’s dribbling the ball between his legs and concentrating like he’s trying out for the NBA.

“Speak of the devil …” Joe C. says.

“… and the devil appears,” I finish. “He didn’t see us; he’s too busy trying to be a baller.”

“You want to go?”

Yes
, I think. “No,” I say. “Let’s hang out for a little while longer.” If I can hold it down for five minutes, I’ll win. What I’ll win, I don’t know, but it’s important enough to risk public playground humiliation.

Joe C. shrugs, and we watch the basketball game start. Donovan’s good. He’s always been good at basketball; he used to beg Monica to play with him all of the time. It’s weird watching him like this. I’m expecting a lot of trash-talking and clowning, but he’s serious and smooth. He plays fair, and doesn’t complain when he gets fouled hard. And he does, a lot. He gives up a lot of shots to Justin, who plays lazy and shoots confidently. Justin doesn’t miss a shot, and neither does Donovan when he takes them. Supposedly Donovan’s dad was almost in the NBA. That’s what Donovan used to say all the time, but he could have been lying. He also told us that his dad was a spy and a sniper. His dad left when he was two, so he was never around for us to see if the stories checked out.

“So are you going to the shelter again soon?” asks Joe C. after a while. “How’s that wish list thing going?”

“It’s all good. I’m going to be there a lot,” I say. “You can’t go there and then forget about it. It’s exactly what,” I swallow, “what the Clarke Pledge is talking about.” Joe C. is one of the only people that I can even mention the Pledge to now.

“You’ve really gotten into this thing,” he says slowly. “You’re all serious about it.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Does it make you feel better?” he asks. “Holier or something?”

“I don’t know about all that. It’s just … I have a good time, I’m more myself there. The Listening Ears Project is almost done, but a lot of us from the youth group are planning to stick around. We’re going to clean up the place, paint it and everything. George, my partner, he wants to have a whole after-school program. And it’s not all about projects. I can do my thing there, talk to George, hang out with Charlie, not worry about … stupid stuff.”

We sit for a minute.

“I thought this was some Ruthie thing,” says Joe C., “but it’s all you, isn’t it?” He pauses. “I want to check it out. I want to help. But …” He stops.

“But what?” I ask, looking up.

“It freaks me out a little.”

“Try anyway,” I say after a pause. “I still do.”

Some pigeons move toward us, and they look so mean I’m expecting them to take out their knives and snatch Joe C.'s MP3 player.

“Listen,” I say, taking a deep breath. Joe C. looks at me.

“Night Man …” I stop again. “I think it’s done.”

Neither one of us speaks for a while.

“I know,” he says. “It was fun, though.” He shrugs. “I could never come up with something like that. Thanks for letting me work on it.”

I watch the pigeons fight over a bagel. “It was kind of an X-Men rip-off anyway. But yeah, it was fun. And, uh, I couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks.”

He nods and adds, “So …” Another pause. I wait.

“Nothing,” he says, looking away. “It’s cool.”

“Huh?” I ask. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” he says again. Then he looks at me. “I’m just saying. Man up and tell me if you don’t want to hang out with me anymore.”

“Whoa, Castiglione,” I say. “What are you talking about?” But we both know, and it’s complicated, and I don’t know what to say. I hope I don’t have to go on that hip-hop tour to prove my friendship.

Joe C. looks at me for a moment, then shrugs. “Sorry. Just seems like things are changing.”

“Got a lot on my mind,” I say. “But it’s not about you.” And then I do know what to say. “It gets messy sometimes. But we will always be boys. Just don’t say ‘man up’ anymore.”

“Always,” he says. “I got your back.”

Looks like it’s getting heated on the basketball court. Some guys are arguing, and Justin and one of the older guys are trying to break it up. At the other end of the court, Donovan’s got the ball, and he’s not even watching the argument, he’s just shooting baskets. He looks like he’s in a bubble, just shooting and shooting and not paying attention to anything else. His mouth is a little open, almost like he’s praying. He looks like someone I might be friends with.

“I think there’s going to be a fight,” says Joe C.

“Yeah,” I say. Pretty soon, without the game going on, Donovan will sniff me out. I look at Joe C.'s Juiced!. “This might be a record. I can’t believe you haven’t told me about some three-legged midget with no toes.”

“Ha ha,” Joe C. shrugs. “I’ll tell Ruthie you said ‘midget.’ “ He cracks it open and then looks at the bottle cap. “Anthony Duda officially changed his first name to Zipardi in 2002.”

“That’s it?” I ask. “What’s the punch line?”

“Zipardi,” Joe C. says. “Get it? Zipardi Duda?”

It takes me a minute. “Oh!” I say. “That’s not disgusting, that’s just stupid. And weird.”

“Admit it,” he says. “You would miss it if I stopped.”

“Um, no,” I reply. “Really, don’t keep it up on my account. I just tolerate it because you’re like a brother to me.”

He smiles.

“And before we actually turn into girls by talking like this, I’ve got a surprise for you.” I unzip the second backpack and show him the old records that I had to pry out of Pops’s hands. There are names like Sugarhill Gang, Kool Herc, and Eric B. & Rakim on them — I promised Pops I’d get a full scholarship to Cornell in order to get him to give these up. “These are for you,” I say. “From Pops’s collection of vintage hip-hop — or ‘old-school JAMZ,’ as he likes to say.” I draw out the
Z
and Joe C. laughs. “There’s some dancehall in there too. Since DJ-ing is your thing … I got your back too.”

“Thanks!” he says, like I just gave him a car. “Wow!”

“My pleasure,” I say. He takes the second backpack, and I pick up mine. “Do you think the Goon guy is around now?”

“Gunnar,” Joe C. says. “Probably. He wakes up around lunchtime and he doesn’t go into the club until later. Why?”

“Let’s go over to your dad’s,” I say. “We can start working on the sound track for
Night Man: The Movie
.”

Joe C. grins again as we stand up. And I don’t even glance at Donovan as we leave.

The Goon guy
was
pretty cool, and I liked fooling around with all of that DJ equipment. I’m a little late for dinner, but it’s pizza, so Mom’s cool. Still, the dinner table atmosphere is downright cold. Pipitone gave us a pizza with anchovies by mistake, and even though we’re sitting there with a nasty sea-worm pie on the table, Mom and Pops don’t want to bother to send it back.

It doesn’t help that the Wicked Witch Who Didn’t Get into Clarke sings “The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out” under her breath when we open the box. She also starts talking about how “those cheerleaders are stuck-up” and Mom tells her to shut up. Mom actually uses those words. I expect a pig to fly in through the living room window, or Satan to walk through the door wearing a fur coat and shaking off the snow. Nobody says anything else. Then Mom and Pops don’t even eat with us — they go into their bedroom and talk in those annoying low voices that are impossible to hear, even with a glass against the door.

I grab a slice and start picking off the anchovies. Monica stares at the pizza for a long time, then gets a bag of baby carrots from the fridge and starts crunching. She whips out a copy of
American Cheerleader
and ignores me. I feel bad for her about the “shut up” from Mom, so I decide to give conversation a try.

“You’ve been eating rabbit food forever. Is there a new diet in the Land of Evil? Is that how you ogres keep up your strength?”

“Whatever, Biscuitbrain. If you really need to know, I
am
on a new diet. I’m trying out for the school play. It’s
A Raisin in the Sun.
I’m going for Ruth.”

We saw that on Broadway a few years ago; real dramatic. Wait, isn’t Ruth the pretty wife? I start laughing. Then I’m laugh/choking. Then it’s a full-on choke thing and I’m rolling on the floor, gasping for air. Monica gets up and leaves, brings back a glass of water, then drinks it right over me.

“What is so funny, geek?”

“You … in a school play? Playing a woman? Dr. Evil in a dress!” I start laughing again and she pours some water on me.

“You don’t know anything about it,” she says. “Mrs. McMahon encouraged me to try out; she thinks I have talent.” She finishes pouring the water on me and looks like she might get more.

I decide to get up before it gets worse. Monica sits down and goes back to her magazine. I watch her for a minute. Cheerleading? School plays? What is up with her?

“Are the Black Barbies — I mean, Tatia and Renee trying out?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Monica mumbles. “They made cheerleading, so maybe not.”

“Wait, how come you didn’t try out? After all that drama you started …”

“I did,” she says, not looking at me.

Oh.

“I heard Diane Anderson might drop out; rumor has it she’s pregnant. They’re going to have tryouts for her spot.”

“Are you gonna try again? Mom will kill you,” I warn.

“She wouldn’t even notice,” says Monica. “She’ll be too busy trying to keep Pops together if he doesn’t get a new job soon.”

She’s probably right. The murmur-y discussions they used to have only late at night aren’t always so murmur-y or so late anymore.

“I don’t care anyway,” says Monica. “I’m so over cheerleading.”

What’s the magazine for, then?
I can almost relate to my sister at this moment. Will rejection make her a better person?

Monica looks up at me. “Can you move? I don’t want to get loser dust on me.”

I guess that answers my question. “Why are you reading that magazine? One of Joe C.'s dogs would make a better cheerleader than you. A cuter one, anyway.”

“I’m going to come to your school and tell everyone what a punk you are,” she says. “I’ll bring pictures.”

“Why don’t you get off my back,” I say. “This time I’m gonna tell.”

“ ‘This time I’m gonna tell,’ “ she repeats. “You would. You don’t have the guts to do anything else.”

I go upstairs and take the Dora shoes out for school tomorrow. School’s been okay for the last week — at least, no one’s been calling me Pukey lately. It looks like the LARPing kid with his bow ties and penny loafers is next in the line of fire. Mialonie talked to me, and Charlie thinks I wear a cape for real. I got what I wanted, I guess. But it’s not the total zero-to-hero transformation I thought it would be. Do I need to put the shoes back on? Will I have to wear them every day for the rest of my life?