Eighth-Grade Superzero (16 page)

“There’s a salad to make,” says Pops without looking at me. There’s a smart answer on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it and get the lettuce out of the fridge and start washing it. Pops and I work in silence for a while.

“So tell me about your long day,” he says. I look at him, and he nods. “Go on. I’m interested.”

I don’t really want to talk to Pops about it, but I know I’m skating on thin ice.

“Well, um, you know that project we’ve been doing with Dave? The homeless shelter thing?”

“Listening Ears, right?” he says, nodding. I’m surprised he remembers the name.

“So, the guy who was my partner—”

“George,” says Pops.

“Yeah, George. He’s gone. Like, really gone. I went there today to tell him — something that happened and he was gone. Nobody knows where he is.”

“Couldn’t that be a good thing?” asks Pops. “Maybe he’s gotten on his feet. You said he was a pretty together guy.”

I did? I don’t even remember talking to Pops about George.

“I happened to hear you and Dave talking at church the other day. I wasn’t eavesdropping,” he adds quickly. “I was there already.”

Pops on the defensive! That’s a first. “Yeah, maybe,” I say slowly. “But … I don’t know….” I don’t want to tell Pops why I’m scared. I don’t want him to judge George. Or call me a fool for believing in him in the first place.

“But what?” he asks. “You’re worried that he’s not okay?”

I nod slowly. I can feel him looking at me, so I raise my head.

“Is he involved with drugs?” he asks.

I just shrug, which I know he hates. He lowers the flame under the meat sauce and sits at the table.

“What does this” — he shrugs — “mean?”

I know I’m pushing it, so I look up. “Yeah. He used to be on drugs. But he’s clean now, and anyway it wasn’t his fault, he was under a lot of pressure…. He had a tough life,” I finish. My voice sounds thin and squeaky and I hate it.

“Many of us have tough lives and are able to refrain from drug use,” Judge Pops begins, but then he adds, “And many aren’t. And we cannot judge either way. Addiction is a complicated thing.”

I’m shocked, and I don’t even bother to hide it.

“You thought that I would say something else?” He smiles.
“You
judge
me,
Reggie. I thought you’d know better than that.”

“You always think I should be better than something. Why can’t you just let me be me? Just leave me alone and get a job!” My words shatter in the air.

His voice gets hard and his accent gets stronger. “And who exactly are you to talk to me like that?”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. What finally does is a whisper. “I don’t know…. Nobody, I guess.” I’m ready to send myself to my room. “Can I go now?”

Pops nods. I start to leave, and then he says:

“Reginald Garvey McKnight. Sit down.”

He used my whole name. I sit down at the table. I am a jerk. It’s so quiet, I think that I can hear the minutes go by on the microwave clock. Pops sags a little in his chair.

“Pops.” He doesn’t look at me. “Pops, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

He nods, and it looks like that’s all I’m going to get. I wish he’d sit up straighter. I don’t know what else to do, so I just keep talking.

“I got all involved with this thing George was doing, working with little kids … and now he just leaves.” I take a breath. “And then I go to Dave for help, and he tells me he’s leaving too.”

“Dave’s leaving?” Pops looks up.

“Yeah. He’s gonna be a teacher. In
Jersey.”
I spit the word “Jersey” out and Pops smiles a little. “And I know you’ve been looking for a job, I don’t know why I said that….”

“You’re feeling abandoned,” Pops says, sitting up. I shrug again, and he lets it go. “It’s been a stressful time around here,” he says slowly. “Lord knows it’s been hard for all of us. I never expected to be out of work for this long, and I will tell you the truth —” He pauses and looks right in my eyes. “I’m ashamed.”

I broke Pops. I hate myself. “Pops,” I start, and I don’t care that my voice is shaky, but he puts his hand up.

“I know you’re at an age when you’re going through some things that we should probably talk about.”

Please don’t say sex. Please don’t say sex.

“Like sex,” he says, and for a minute I think that I really am melting into the floor, but he’s looking over his glasses at me with a question in his eyes.

“Huh?” I shift in my chair. “Come on, Pops. Of course not.”

“Just checking,” he says. He picks up the lettuce and starts shredding it. “I don’t tell you enough how proud I am of you.”
He looks at me. “Or should I say that I don’t tell you at all.” He goes back to shredding. “You are a responsible young man — doing that Big Buddy project, working with the youth group, studying hard…. I tell you, you are way ahead of me when I was your age.”

“What?” I make a face. “You were that Head Guy thing. You had the respect of your peers.”

Now he makes a face. “I cared too much about being popular. I didn’t even like football. And I was so busy trying to be everyone’s buddy that I wasn’t a friend to myself.”

That sounds like something Ruthie would say. Or maybe she’s actually said it.

“And when the chips were down, I didn’t have a real friend to speak of.” He sighs. “It was a hard lesson to learn, but I will always be glad that I did, especially after what happened at the job.”

“Uh, what
did
happen, Pops?” I ask.

He sighs again. “Nothing I can prove in a court of law, as I was told. I witnessed discrimination over and over…. Young, qualified brothers who got passed over because they weren’t members of this unofficial ‘club.’ I was ‘in,’ you know, because being Jamaican made me ‘different.’ But when I couldn’t let it go any longer without asking questions, my membership card was revoked.”

“Wait, how can you get fired like that? That’s not fair.”

“Life is not fair, Reggie. Layoffs had to happen, and since certain people weren’t ‘comfortable’ with me anymore, I was first on the chopping block. I don’t regret what I did, though. It’s not been easy, but I would stand up and speak out again.”

“Did anything change? Did any of those guys get promotions or anything?”

“I don’t know,” he answers.

Pops clams up. We sit together for a while as he shreds the lettuce.

“So, you want to go out and look for your friend together?” he asks.

I’m glad I don’t have a heart condition, because I’d be stone-cold dead with all of the surprises hitting me today. “Uh — you serious?”

Pops shrugs.

I think about it. “I guess it doesn’t make sense, does it? I wouldn’t even know where to start.” I shred a few pieces of lettuce myself. “But I don’t want to do nothing, you know? And those kids — if you had seen how excited they were, happy, even in the middle of that dingy place. And today, the bossy one was all defeated…. George was helping them forget where they were, and I was helping. I was even forgetting who
I
was.”

“Maybe you were being who you really are,” says Pops, standing up. “You know, I left a book in here for you the other day. Did you see it? Black poets. Powerful stuff. It really affected me when I was your age, and I see you with this notebook all of the time, so I just thought …” He looks at me. “Did you get it?”

I want to lie, but I don’t. “Yeah, I did. But, um, I didn’t read it yet. Ruthie told me that it’s really good, though.”

“Smart girl,” is all he says, but I know he’s disappointed.

“Pops,” I start, remembering something George said once. “Who’s Samuel Sharpe?”

“Daddy Sharpe!” he says, grinning. “Maybe they
are
teaching you something at that school.” He shuts off the stove and starts to clean up all of the shredded lettuce, and I think that father-son time is over, but he laughs. “Looks like we need another head of lettuce,” he says. “You want to go? We can stop by the shelter, see if George came back. I’ll tell you about Samuel Sharpe. An educated man, a deacon, and a leader of a slave rebellion — one of Jamaica’s bravest.”

“Sure,” I say, starting to get up.

“Wait, let me go get my shoes,” he says. “And you can tell me a little more of what’s been going on. How’s school? And what’s happening with that new image you were going for?”

I have to laugh. “Let me go get MY shoes,” I say. “And I’ll tell you.”

George hasn’t returned to Olive Branch. No one’s seen him either, or they’re not saying. Pops and I walk around the neighborhood for a while, grabbing some Yummy Taco on the way as a snack; we don’t see George, and I’m glad about that. Because if we see him on the street, I’m thinking it wouldn’t be good.

By the time we get home, I’m exhausted. In one day, I’ve announced my presidential candidacy, lost two people who were a big part of the reason for the announcement, and — biggest shocker of all — had a real conversation with my dad. We eat a fast dinner and I go to bed without taking off my clothes or my shoes or worrying about this whole election thing. I just sleep.

When I wake up, it’s late and I want to squeeze my eyes shut and clamp my hands over my ears, but then I see a Post-it stuck to my Dora sneakers. I stumble out of bed to check it out. It’s from Mom — a heart-shaped smiley face. It’s corny, but I smile and it gets me going. When I go downstairs to say thank you, Mom’s already gone. Pops is out, and I guess Monica left without bothering to wake me up. I run back upstairs and get Mom’s Post-it. I fold it carefully and put it in my pocket, and I grab the Dora shoes and put them in a bag. Then I run all the way to school.

Sparrow Barrow is blocking my locker and has a microphone in front of Ruthie’s face. This can’t be good. I speed up and get close enough to hear Ruthie speak.

“… Just think of him as ‘Dark McKnight'!” she’s saying. “You know, like the Superman comic books.”

We are not friends.

“She means Batman,” says Joe C., who’s trying to stay off camera. It doesn’t matter; Vijay’s obviously got the camera locked on Ruthie. He smirks. Then they all notice me.

“Hey, Puke — um …” says Sparrow.

“It’s Reggie. Reginald Garvey McKnight, and don’t you forget
it,” says Ruthie so loud I’m sure people in Jersey can hear. I glare at her and try to catch my breath.

“Sorry, Reggie. We’re taping for
Candidates Get Real,
the election reality show, giving the people a chance to see who the candidates really are behind the scenes. We’ve been taping for a while, and we’ll air a couple of specials next week.”

“Why didn’t I know about this before?” I ask. “I was a candidate’s campaign manager.”

“We’ve got hours of Justin on camera. We only started covering Vicky yesterday, after your dramatic lunchroom betrayal designed to brutally undercut her hard-fought journey.”

“Sounds like I’m already being misrepresented by the media,” I say.

“Exactly! This is a chance to show us who you truly are! That’s the beauty of reality television!” Sparrow chirps. Ruthie sighs and rolls her eyes.

“Justin and Vicky are already on board,” says Vijay. “It would be, like, kind of bad if you don’t participate.”

“Justin’s poll numbers are setting a record,” says Sparrow. “And Vicky is dying a slow painful death, and it’s great to have it all on camera. So, what’s up? Are you gonna do it?”

I look at Joe C., who shrugs. “We just found out about this,” he says.

I turn to Sparrow. “Uh, I don’t even know if I’m really running, actually,” I say. “The whole thing might be kind of a mistake….”

“You don’t have to do the show if you don’t want to, but …” Sparrow trails off so it sounds like a chirpy threat.

“But if you don’t, you’ll look like a punk,” says Vijay.

“Punky McKnight,” says Sparrow, giggling.

I can’t let them do this to me. “Okay, I’ll do the show,” I say too loudly. “Start rolling, or ‘action,’ or whatever you guys say.”

“We’re already taping,” says Sparrow.

Ruthie grabs me. “This is stupid, Reggie, let’s—”

“Shut up, Ruthie,” I say.

Sparrow turns to me. “So, Pu — Reggie, why do you think you should be president?”

I clear my throat and try to stand up straight. “Well, I—”

Faintly familiar music blasts behind me. Real heavy bass and a thumping beat. My locker pops open. I turn around and it’s the Justin Party Train again. Running out of ideas, Donovan? They can’t possibly fall for this reheated crap.

“JW’s house!” yells Donovan. “Join us at Justin’s place after school for a rally — free food, good music, and prizes! Become a part of Justin’s crew and learn more about Justin’s plan for a new, feel-good Clarke! Say
no
to outdated letter grades and useless testing! Say
yes
to Justin!”

The chorus of “Woo hoos!” is so loud that I feel like I’ve been punched. Justin cuts off the music and Donovan starts handing out PayDay candy bars. But he just pushes past me and my friends, which makes Joe C. drop an open Juiced! bottle on Ruthie’s foot. Ruthie squeals in pain. The Juiced! makes a little puddle on the floor.

Blaylock comes out of his office. “Justin, can I speak to you for a moment?” For a second, I think that FOR ONCE Justin is going to get in trouble, but Blaylock actually hugs Justin as he
ushers him into his office. Donovan tries to slip in behind them, but Blaylock brushes him off.

Donovan looks over at me and nods. “What’s up, Pukey? Good luck trying to hang with the big dogs.” He tries to stroll off, but his shoulders are so slumped that they remind me to stand up straight.

“Let’s wait here,” Sparrow says to Vijay. “We can talk to Justin after he comes out. What a campaigner! Um, later … Reggie,” she says, glancing at me. “We got enough of you for now, we’ll get more tomorrow.”

“I didn’t even say anything,” I mutter, but they’re crossing over to the other side of the hall and don’t hear me. I slam my locker shut, but it pops open again and everything falls out.

“They’re just going to make you look stupid and Justin look cool,” says Ruthie. “The whole reality-show thing is a waste of time. We should focus on the issues that kids care about.”

“They couldn’t make me look any worse than
you
did,” I say, grabbing my papers and books. I throw a bunch of stuff into my backpack without looking and close my locker carefully.

“First of all,” says Ruthie, “you’re the one who was all up in the middle of the cafeteria yelling about being an agent of positive change. Second of all, we got here early to meet you and you didn’t show up. Third of all, if this is the kind of candidate you’re going to be, then I don’t want to be your campaign manager anyway!” She hits my locker and it pops open and everything falls out again.

Joe C. holds up his hand like a ref. “Hey, hey … Let’s all have
a drink and calm down.” He opens up a bottle of Juiced! and reads the cap. “Did you guys know that no word in the English language rhymes with month?”

Ruthie and I both stare at him. Then we all start laughing.

“Now I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to prove that one wrong,” gasps Ruthie. “Like the one where you said it’s impossible to lick your elbow.” She tries to lick her elbow. “See?”

“Not only do you remember them,” I say, “you’re doing them. Don’t let him get you, Ruthie! Must. Resist. The Juiced!!”

“She’s just living the dream,” says Joe C. We laugh again. “You’ve gotta admit, that beat Justin uses is pretty sweet. From a purely professional point of view,” he adds quickly.

“I think his whole thing is style without substance,” says Ruthie. She looks at her watch. “Okay, it’s really late. Class starts in two minutes, and I have to stop at the library. Tell Ms. A I’ll be there soon.” She looks at me. “Maybe the Dark McKnight thing was a little too much, okay? Friends?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Friends.” My smile is almost real. “I’m sorry I was late; I overslept. And I’m sorry I told you to shut up. I do want to have a meeting, though, somewhere kind of private. Any ideas?”

“I’ve got a rapport with Cutler; we talk union sometimes. I’ll see if we can get into his office for a few minutes,” says Ruthie.

“And one more thing,” I say. “I never, ever called myself an ‘agent of positive change.’ “ Ruthie hugs me and runs down the hall, her jacket flapping around her waist.

“She runs like a girl,” says Joe C. He helps me restuff my
locker, and we start walking down the empty hall together. “We are so late for Ms. A.”

“Forget Ms. A, what about me? What was I thinking, taking on Justin?”

“Calm down, we’ll come up with something. You’ve got me and Ruthie behind you — what more do you need?”

I’m not sure if he’s being funny or serious.

“Let’s talk later,” he says. “Don’t count yourself out.”

When we get to Ms. A’s room, she doesn’t seem too angry that we’re late. In fact, class hasn’t started yet. Vicky’s eyes are red and watery; she’s sniffling, but no one offers her a tissue. People are whispering and everyone turns to look at me, and my attempt to slide unobtrusively into my seat is made even more unsuccessful by the fact that I trip over Sean Glanville’s backpack. Hector doesn’t ask for a pen; he actually offers me one.

“Okay, everyone,” says Ms. A. “Let’s settle down. I know there’s a lot of election talk going around today, which is a good thing for once. But we’ve got work to do.”

She makes a little speech about how she’s looking forward to a spirited, sincere campaign, may the best person win, and I swear she looks at me and winks.

“Thanks, Mr. Cutler!” calls out Ruthie, holding open the supply closet door. Cutler holds up a lumpy muffin and grins. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a school custodian smile before. “I gave him one of my homemade apple-broccoli muffins in exchange for ten
minutes in here,” she explains, ushering Joe C. and me inside. “Perfect spot for a quick top-secret strategy session.”

“Ouch!” says Joe C., as he hits his head on a shelf and a lightbulb crashes to the floor. “Did you tell him it was apple-broccoli? He’s probably going to lock us in.”

“I said it was a delicious home-baked good, which is the truth,” retorts Ruthie.

“Okay, guys, whatever … Look, we don’t have much time,” I say. “We need to figure things out.”

“Speaking of which,” says Joe C., looking at me, “when did I miss the whole I’m-gonna-jump-up-in-the-middle-of-the-cafeteria-and-run-for-president conversation?”

“I know it was kind of crazy,” I start. “Everything happened all at once…. I was thinking about Acid — I mean Joelle, and Charlie, and George, and trying to help those kids, and then … uh, I guess I did this. I wanted things to be different. And I got tired of just wanting it.”

“Exactly!” jumps in Ruthie. “It’s what I’ve always said. Well, Gandhi too.”

“I don’t know about Gandhi,” I say. “I just saw how even though George was homeless and struggling, he inspired those kids. And here I am, inspiring Charlie to talk about somebody’s mom. And I … wasn’t much help to Vicky.”

Joe C. chuckles. “Virgin Mary’s baby shower. That was a pretty good one,” he says. “And I’m Catholic so I probably shouldn’t laugh.”

Ruthie unrolls a long sheet of paper. “I’ve got some talking points for you,” she says, “things that will call attention to some of the real issues we have here at Clarke, such as the deplor
able bias in our history books, and de facto segregation at lunchtime.”

“Remember when I thought it couldn’t get worse than this morning?” I say to Joe C. “I was wrong.”

“Ha ha,” says Ruthie. She shakes her head, but she’s smiling a little. “And we’ve got to work on your big speech.” She writes something down. “Not just the rally next week, but the one at the assembly on Election Day, in front of the whole school — that’s gotta be BIG.”

I stop smiling.

I forgot about the speech.

“Figures they’d have a punk like you do this.”

I know without looking that the voice is Donovan’s. The fake bass and genuine sneer in it are unmistakable.

I try to focus on the Pledge — the Clarke Pledge of Proactive Community Living, which we’ve had to say all together on every first day ever since kindergarten. The teachers pick one student to lead the Pledge at the assembly every year, and this year is my turn. My chance to be someone spectacular. That Guy. I pretend it’s not so different saying the Pledge on stage in front of everyone. I haven’t been up here since kindergarten, when my Frederick Douglass wig fell off in the middle of the “Every Month Is Black History Month” assembly.

Donovan makes the puking sound he does every time he sees me, but this time it reminds me of Mom’s first day of school Breakfast of Champions, and not in a good way. She believes in starting the day off with a meal large enough to feed the entire Caribbean. She made me eat a boatload of oatmeal with cranberries and walnuts, a cheese
omelet, then fried dumplings with two mounds of Jamaica’s national dish, codfish and ackee, for “back home fortitude.”

“You know you’re going to mess this up.”

I still don’t look at him. Always a mistake to catch his eye. Just face forward and don’t think about the fact that my stomach is somersaulting like a circus clown.

At least I’m not wearing a wig this time. And I don’t cry in front of people anymore. (Please, God, no. Anything but tears.)

He starts laughing. “I guess you’re the right choice, if they picked someone to represent WEAK. You are weak, Reginaaald. How’s your voice? You know you like to squeal like a girl when you’re nervous.”

I clear my throat, and can taste the omelet remains in my mouth. I swallow.

Blaylock is wrapping up his big intro, and I can hear that the crowd on the other side of the curtain is restless. Everyone waits for the first day Pledge. Not because we care about it, but because the person who leads it always does something spectacular. Last year, Julie Glover used the flag as a baton and did a whole routine while she recited. The year before, Sam Chen break-danced.

It’s the first day of school. Eighth grade. New me, the warrior. Night Man creator. Superhero simulator.

My plan for the Pledge? Wait, what was it again? Oh, right. I’m going to be “reporting” on Night Man’s latest good deeds at Clarke — cleaning up the school yard, starting a recycling program, bringing back recess for all grades…. And then I’ll quote Night Man saying the Pledge. I worked with Joe C. on some special art just for this that I’m going to show on the big screen. (Ruthie
wanted me to dress up as Night Man, but no way I could have pulled that off.) This way, I can use Night Man to finally show everyone the real me. This way, I can be That Guy. And no one will guess that I’m terrified up here.

I swallow again, and this time, I can taste the codfish.

Blaylock says my name, but the crowd is already screaming and cheering, and it’s almost loud enough to drown out the roaring in my ears.

Just before Donovan pulls the curtain, he hisses, “Good luck, Frederick Douglass. You’ve been making a fool of yourself since, what, kindergarten? This will bring back memories.”