Eighth-Grade Superzero (18 page)

When I get to the Olive Branch, Jeff and Gabriella are already there. I don’t say a word when I see the “Hope Depot” banner behind Wilma’s desk. The old Jeff might have said something stupid about being an Olive Branch “resident” with all of the time we spend at this place, but I think all of us are just grateful for the way that the actual residents make us feel at home. I look at Wilma, and she knows without saying anything that I’m wondering about George, and she shakes her head.

“Check this out, Reggie,” calls Carmen. “We’ve gotten a lot of new books; we need to get organized like a real library. Can you round up some volunteers?” She and Gabriella are all geeked out about the cataloging system they developed. I compliment them on it; Jeff comes over.

“Yeah, we want to get started on the painting too,” he says. “We need the whole youth group on board, but that might not even be enough. I want to start making a work schedule, so let me know how many we’ll have. We’ll start on these walls first, and then hit up the mural.”

“Sure, yeah … I’ll get on it,” I say. And I know just where to find some volunteers. The candidate kid is back.

At home, after lunch, I work on trying to put Reggie McKnight, Presidential Candidate, together. I’ve turned in Blaylock’s confusing candidate forms and need to go over Ruthie’s list of ideas and my notes from my Vicky campaign days. Just thinking about that big rally makes me tired, so I lie down with Pops’s poetry book for a while. I’m going to hang Gwendolyn Brooks’s “Speech to the Young: Speech to the Progress-Toward” up on my wall.

Say to them,

say to the down-keepers,

the sun-slappers,

the self-soilers,

the harmony-hushers,

“even if you are not ready for day,

it cannot always be night.”

I shut the book and go back to my desk and campaign folder. It’s time to work.

“Hey, um, got a pen?” Hector sounds almost embarrassed, and I realize that even though Donovan’s been relentless with the “No Pukers for President” thing, it’s not catching on like it would have a couple of weeks ago. Even Hector hasn’t joined in, though I still have to keep up a steady supply of ballpoints. I hand one over.

“Thanks,” he says. “Pull my finger.”

A
Talkin’ Trash
“Justin Is King” episode airs, where he seems like a prophet, a pro athlete, and a scholar all rolled into one girl-friendly, man’s-man package. Sparrow Barrow even calls him “Mr. President” a few times. Blaylock makes his first-ever appearance on the show, mostly to stress how the fate of the world rests on the Step Up And Lead rally with the mayor tomorrow. And Justin has connections (of course), so the whole deal is being covered by some local news show as a “feel-good” story about youth getting involved in their communities. Blaylock says “televised” so many times, it’s like he’s in a competition of people to see who can say the word
televised
the most. He makes a point of thanking Justin for his “service to the school,” and is “sure Justin’s efforts will be recognized by his classmates.”

Maybe thanks to that, when we finally get to lunch, no one seems to notice my campaign table. Justin and his crew are
leaning against his, eating McDonald’s. People go up to them, and there’s a lot of laughing and talking going on. Vicky’s not even sitting; she’s harassing people while they’re in line for lunch and then following them to their tables. Vijay’s getting it all on film, and every once in a while he turns his camera on me, the Lone Stranger. I sit at my chair behind the table, trying not to stare at everyone, trying to look positive but not desperate. Ruthie and Joe C. keep looking over at me; I kind of miss their company, but I told them that I’m better off doing this alone. I didn’t add that I thought Ruthie’s straw hat and Joe C.'s six-pack of Juiced! wouldn’t help matters.

Veronica Cruz wanders over, and I take a deep breath. “Hi, Veronica. I’m running for president, and I wanted to talk to you about ways that I think Clarke can make its mission a reality—”

Veronica interrupts me. “Have you done my latest poll? Top five reasons why I would make the best First Lady for Justin?”

“Uh, what?”

She flicks her hair and laughs. Veronica will stop in the middle of a crowded hallway to flap her hair around; she also brushes it during exams. “Whatever. I don’t know if I have any more forms for you to fill out anyway. Go to
Ronnie-is-hot.com
and do it there. So … what were you saying?”

“Never mind,” I say. She’s already walking away, flicking her hair all over the place. Mialonie is ten times hotter.

Ruthie comes over. “She thinks she’s the only girl in the world with hair on her head.”

“You’re hovering,” I say, but I smile as I say it. She pats me on the shoulder and wanders away.

“Can you tie my shoe?” A little kid comes up to the table and puts his foot up in my face. I look at him; it’s the “Pukey-Pukey-Pukey” kid from a few weeks ago. Guess he’s graduated to shoelaces. I sigh and tie and he runs away without saying thank you.

Two guys come over. I sit up straight and try to look cool.

“Do you plan to do anything about the information systems at this place?” one of them asks. “We’re about five years behind the times.”

Computer Club. “Uh,” I start, “I’d probably consult guys like you, and I guess get an idea of what you think we need.”

“PC or Mac?” the other guy says.

“I’ve got a Mac at home,” I say.

I think they like that; they look at each other and shrug. “Here’s my e-mail address,” says the “PC or Mac” guy. “Let me know when you put together your technology subcommittee, and we’ll talk.” They high-five each other for some reason and leave.

Not bad,
I think. Though I wish I’d gotten something about Olive Branch in. Ruthie comes over again. “Hey, I saw that,” she says. “That’s the way to go. Attract the disenfranchised, the overlooked—”

“Okay, Miss Liberty,” I say. A few girls from a sixth grade table walk up. They look like they’re still in fifth grade.

“So what are you all about?” says the one who looks like she wants to beat me up. “All I know is you’re the guy who threw up.”

“Gross,” mutters the one who looks like she smells a dead animal.

I need to come up with something fast. “I’m, uh, here for …
the disenfranchised, the overlooked, the downtrodden,” I say. I pretend not to hear Ruthie’s snort.

“So, like, what does that mean?” the first girl asks. “What are you gonna do for me?”

“Well, I’m thinking more along the lines of what we can do for our community,” I say. “There’s a homeless shelter called Olive Branch that really needs our help—”

“Yawn,” says the first girl. “Everyone needs our help — they need to start helping themselves. I’m not voting for someone who’s gonna make me feel guilty and give me extra work. What about a step team? Getting rid of the corny dress code? Let me rewind: What are you gonna do for
me?”

“What would you like me to do?” I ask.

That makes her friends giggle. She sucks her teeth. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about,” she says.

Ruthie jumps in. “Hi, I’m Reggie’s campaign manager. What he means is that this is your opportunity to express yourselves. We want to hear your ideas! This is a campaign of the people, by the people, and for the people. It’s not a popularity contest.”

“That’s for sure,” says one of the gigglers. They drift away.

I look over at Justin’s table, where he’s asking girls to give him thirty-second dance lessons in preparation for the Holiday Jam. I heard he’s proposing something to do with more fund-raisers, but I’m not sure, and from the looks of the festive scene at his table, no one cares. They just want to be around him. And that’s what’s going to get him votes.

Blaylock walks into the cafeteria and smiles over at Justin. He raises his eyebrows when he turns my way.

“We’ve got to get it together,” I say to Ruthie. “The big rally thing with the mayor is tomorrow, and I’ve got nothing. Meeting at Joe C.'s at four.” I start walking over to George Henderson’s table. “And I’m bringing a guest.”

“We have got to prove that Reggie has the credentials to make this more than an office in name only,” says Ruthie as Joe C. lets us into his living room. About eight dogs come running up to greet us.

“C’mon, everybody knows that people vote for who they like. Besides, who has credentials in eighth grade?” says Joe C.

“Don’t be a victim of the system, Castiglione,” counters Ruthie. “It’s about sincerity, the courage to have convictions. Reggie, when you speak from the heart about the ways that you want to make a difference, you will capture the voters’ respect.”

“Yeah, well, Justin’s gonna capture their hearts,” says Joe C. “Did you see those heart buttons that Lisa Vincent made? Featuring Justin’s big ole head? He’s got the girl vote on lockdown.”

“So superficial,” says Ruthie.

“Like you don’t think Justin looks good. I saw you batting your eyes at him yesterday,” says Joe C.

I raise my eyebrows and look at Ruthie, who blushes. “That’s ridiculous. I was just showing Justin the latest statistics on the effects of inefficient waste disposal.”

Joe C. rolls his eyes. I don’t like the way this conversation is
going. Ruthie says “JUSTIN” like his name is all in capital letters.

“Ruthie,” I say, “I don’t need one of my campaign managers drooling over the competition.” We follow Joe C. to the kitchen so that we can pick up some extra snacks while he feeds the dogs and gets out a couple bottles of Juiced!.

George Henderson has been watching and listening to all of this like we’re a reality show. He smiles. “I think you’re in good shape,” he says. “You’re developing a following already, from what we saw at the shelter. And I heard Mialonie Davis talking you up. Getting girls like that on your team is the way we want to go.”

“Girls like what?” asks Ruthie.

George Henderson clears his throat and Joe C. laughs.

“This really is going to turn into a teen movie,” Ruthie says, looking at me. “We all know what’s going to happen. You’ll get a makeover and then you’ll get popular, learn to dance, discover your hidden jerk, and desert your real friends. Then something catastrophic will happen and you’ll be humiliated and unpopular again and listen to a lot of sappy ballads and have to come crawling back to your old friends, who’ll be stupid enough to forgive you.”

“Give me a break, Ruthie,” I say. “I may like the occasional slow jam, but a sappy ballad? Never!” We all laugh.

“That reminds me,” says George Henderson. “My cousin Bobo Dollar is an up-and-coming hip-hop artist. I might be able to get him to give Reggie a shout-out on his podcast.” He pulls out a piece of paper. “We should also talk about tomorrow’s television appearance. We’ve got to establish a brand. I think ‘regular guy’ is fine, but a variation of that might switch things up a little.
You could wear more baseball caps, different jeans, get really hood with it … or go the hip-hop impresario route, with some nice pinstriped suits … and different shoes—”

Ruthie grabs the paper from him and reads. “Wardrobe budget?” she asks. “Celebrity endorsements?” She turns to me. “Let’s be serious.”

“I think G-Henny is right,” says Joe C. “You’ve got to establish a name brand.”

“G-Henny?”
the rest of us repeat. Joe C. has the sense to blush.

“Just kidding,” he mutters.

“As I was saying, people need to get to know the real you,” says Ruthie. “Not just—”

“— Pukey McKnight,” Joe C. finishes. I give him a look. He shrugs.

Ruthie jumps into a speech about getting to know the people I’m trying to reach, finding out what they want, what they need. She sounds like she’s been saving it up.

“That’s real integrified, Ruthie,” says Joe C., making me wonder if he’s been talking to my Uncle Terrence. “The thing is, WE know Reggie’s all right, but other people don’t. And to get them to pay attention, basically, we’ve got to have a gimmick, and we’ve got to have giveaways. People love free stuff.”

“Campaign bribes?” asks Ruthie, raising her eyebrows.

“Not bribes, exactly. It’s … incentive. Like a bonus.”

That sounds pretty good to me.

“Like candy or something,” he continues. “Personalized Snickers bars!”

Ruthie shakes her head. “Justin did that already, remember?

Where are we going to get the money for that anyway? And again — what does that have to do with anything? Can we get away from image and get back to the message, the people?”

“Like you don’t spend time on your image,” Joe C. says. He points to her shirt that says
Africa
Is
Not a Country
and the skirt she made out of a Jamaican flag. “Don’t act like you don’t care how you look.”

“That’s different,” says Ruthie.
“I’m
different. I’m not trying to figure out how to be like everyone else.”

“You’re trying to be something, though,” says Joe C.

“Can we get back to
me,
please?” I say. “I have to get home to help Pops with dinner.”

“Oh, I forgot,” says Ruthie. “I’m coming over to run lines with Monica. What are we having?”

“Mackerel rundown, I think,” I say. “And green bananas. Maybe breadfruit too. But let’s focus. You had a point with the giveaways. It doesn’t have to be personalized Snickers, but … you know how people are.”

Ruthie nods slowly. “I’ll acknowledge that our generation is excessively materialistic and caught up in the tidal wave of consumerism. What about bookmarks? Though everyone threw Vicky’s away.”

“Why don’t we just make a big sign that says ‘Yes, I am a NERD'?” I say. Then I realize we probably don’t need signs for that.

“Remember that girl who was all ‘What are you gonna do for me?’ “ Joe C. says. “The reality is that people want to know what’s in it for them. We have to figure out how to address that.”

“By beating Justin at his own game,” says George Henderson slowly. “You can be what people want. You can be the regular version of Justin.”

Joe C. laughs. “What?”

George Henderson smiles. “Look, Reggie has an Everyman quality that can be exploited — he’s more relatable, not so big-man-on-campus. All you have to do, Reggie, is spruce up your wardrobe, look mysterious, and charm the ladies. Be yourself, but act like Justin. It’s not that hard; I think you can do it.”

“That is laughable,” Ruthie says flatly, and I glare at her.

“Go on,” I say to George Henderson.

“Okay, tomorrow’s rally. Just get up there, call some girls on stage for giveaways, tell a couple of jokes, lead people in a series of ‘Woo hoos!’ and you’re good. Oh — can you put together a sound track real quick?”

“Are you kidding me?” says Ruthie.

“Sound track?” asks Joe C. “I might be able to work something out.”

“What about Olive Branch?” I say. “It’ll be a good opportunity to get the word out.”

“You got the word out when you announced,” says George Henderson. “Now you’ve got to get people to see how cool you are, and then you can say and do whatever you want, and they’ll support you. They’ll support the shelter,” he adds quickly. “And that’s the important thing, right? You beat the system at its own game, and then flip it so you can do what you want and people don’t even know what hit them.”

“You sound like me, sort of,” says Ruthie. “And it’s scary.”

“But it’s sort of true … I think,” says Joe C. “People fall for anything you say if they think you’re cool.”

If they think you’re cool.

“It would be kind of … subversive to knock Justin off his game a little,” I say.

“I am really so sick of people misusing that word,” says Ruthie.

We sit for a moment and I take a sip of banana-carrot Juiced! by mistake. After I come back from spitting it out, George Henderson asks, “What are you going to wear tomorrow? Can you get some new gear tonight?”

“Yeah, after my parents give me the million dollars they’ve been saving for just this purpose,” I say. “Not happening.”