Eighth-Grade Superzero (23 page)

“Come
on
!” bellows Monica. “I can’t be late.” She’s standing by the door, holding the “Mama” shoes that she got from Auntie Joyce to wear in the play tonight. She got a standing ovation opening night, and I have to say that I’d probably go see her again even if my parents weren’t making me.

“Monica Angelica Una McKnight,” says Mom calmly as she walks down the stairs. “You must be a real lionheart gal to be talking to me like this.”

“Sorry,” mumbles Monica.

Mom wraps her arms around Monica. “It’s okay. I know you’re nervous. And I know you’re going to be fabulous. You look” — she glances down at Monica’s short dress and slips a grandma sweater over her shoulders — “beautiful.”

Let’s not get carried away, Mom.

Pops comes out of the kitchen. “Son! I’ve been thinking about your campaign, and—”

“This is
Monica’s
night!” Monica, Mom, and I say in unison. We all laugh.

“You’re right,” says Pops. “I apologize. And Monica, I’m proud of you.” He whips out a bouquet of flowers from behind his back. It’s the third one in three days.

It’s probably a light trick or something, but my sister is glowing. She and Mom hold hands as they stand in the foyer; Mom kisses her forehead and tugs the dress down a little more.

As we head out, Pops whispers, “I have an idea for your speech. You’ll love it. It’s exactly like what I did when Dexter Robertson tried to undermine my second term as Head Boy. We’ll talk later.”

I almost walk right into Mialonie, who’s waiting at my locker when I get to school.

“Hey, Reggie,” she says. “I wanted to tell you that Josie and I are thinking about doing a recipe book with the Olive Branch seniors. My mom said she could get her sorority sisters to help us out.”

“That sounds good,” I say.

“I’m glad you talked me into sticking with it. Remember when Dave first told us about it? That seems like a lifetime ago.”

I still haven’t spoken to Dave since I stormed out of the library. I’m not even mad at him anymore, but I don’t know how to tell him that.

“Yeah,” I say. “Things are completely different.” “You must be really excited about the election. Seems like it’s gonna be a close race.”

“You think so?” I say. “I mean, I know how I compare to Justin.”

Mialonie sighs. “I still have that book … You’ve got a lot of potential, you know. I can take you shopping, did I tell you that? You could wow everyone by becoming a whole new guy.”

Just when I’m getting comfortable being Reggie. I change the subject. “Didn’t you used to go out with Justin?”

“Why do you ask?” she says, a definite chill in her voice. When people answer a question with a question, they don’t want to answer.

I sigh. “No reason. Stupid question. Forget it.” “Are you okay?” she asks.

“Just tired,” I say. “And I have to work on my speech for the assembly.”

“Well, then you’ll be fresh and spontaneous,” she says. “Yeah, being an eleventh-hour candidate has its advantages,” I say. “I hope.”

She laughs. “Well, the bell’s about to ring,” I say. “I’ll see you at the poster party.”

“See you,” she says. I stuff my backpack in my locker and grab my books. I don’t watch her walk away.

I can’t believe this turnout. Even though everyone is scrambling to get term papers done before the break, a bunch of people have shown up for the poster party at Joe C.'s. Not only are Mialonie and Josie actually here, but Cristina, Joelle, Vijay, James Kim, and George Henderson and his LARPing crew came too. And Hector. The election is in two days, and we are focused.

“Slogans, people!” Joe C. calls out. “We need catchphrases!” “The winds of change,” says Josie. “Or just wind of change, I guess.”

“Meh,” says Joe C., and Josie frowns. She’s not used to a lukewarm reception.

“Too strong to stop,” says James Kim, in a surprisingly deep voice. Josie turns away from Joe C. and looks at James with interest. She whispers something to Mialonie.

“Yeah, that’s cool,” says Hector. “But use the number 2, instead of words.” I’m impressed, but then he adds, “Number 2 …” and starts giggling.

“Vote McKnight to fight for right,” says Joelle in a soft voice. She still looks down when she talks, but I think she knows that we’re all friends here. Even Mrs. C.'s dogs seem to be on my side. They’re not slobbering on everyone and jumping around; Joe C. just put on the Food Channel, and they’re all lined up on the couch watching this Tyler Florence guy. I feel like offering them a bowl of popcorn.

Ruthie sits next to me. “It’s a regular Rainbow Coalition in here, it’s fantastic!” she whispers.

“Huh?” I ask. “What’s that?”

“Don’t you ever talk to your parents?” She shakes her head. “It was a civil rights organization, big in the eighties, all about people of all races working together. It’s still going strong. Never mind. Oh, and it’s also a political party in Kenya. But I’m sure you knew that.”

“Yeah, fill me in later,” I say as she stands to go.

George Henderson comes over. “This is great!” he stage-whispers. “People are coming out to support you! I know a winner when I see one.”

I wonder if he’s ever actually looked at Justin. I still haven’t mentioned Justin’s offer to anyone.

Joe C. walks up and pats me on the back. “This place is buzzing. We’re almost there!” He walks away humming something. I think he thinks it’s “Hail to the Chief,” but I’m pretty sure it’s the 1812 Overture. I’m smiling to myself when I notice Ruthie touch Hector’s arm, and I can’t help myself; I walk over there and grab hers.

“Ow!”

“Sorry,” I say. “Joe C.'s busy — can you help me get some more food?”

“Sure,” she says, and follows me to the kitchen.

Mrs. C. may not be around much, but she keeps the place well stocked with snack food. Ruthie and I start grabbing bags of chips and stuff from the cabinet. I rip open a bag and down a few.

“I think Joe C. has some big musical plans for your victory party,” Ruthie says. “Can you make sure it’s not all Bob Marley? He means well, but I think he’s trying to be authentic and everything.”

“Bob Marley
is
authentic,” I say. “But I know what you mean. I’m on it.” I swallow my mouthful of chips. “So.” I clear my throat. “My mom went to Mile Gully Primary School.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, raising her eyebrows.

“And I was thinking that maybe Clarke could do some sort of partnership thing with them, or another school in Jamaica — maybe an exchange or a fund-raiser or something. And maybe you could help me; you’re like the global girl of the campaign….” I trail off, and she hugs me.

“Reggie! Going global! I’m so excited! Oh, I have so many ideas—”

“If I win, I’ll need you to keep me on track,” I say. “And thanks for the rally. I know it wasn’t exactly your style.”

“Rah rah,” she says, smiling. We stand there for a minute. I wonder if my breath is offensive. At least it’s not onion and garlic. She smells good.

I lean toward her….

Mialonie pops her head in. “Reggie!” she calls. “We need your opinion.”

Ruthie picks up a couple of bags and heads out. “I’ll take these,” she says softly. “Aloha.”

Mialonie comes into the kitchen. “These are the slogans we have so far — I kind of like this Dark McKnight idea on the list.”

“That was Ruthie’s idea,” I say. “I sort of shot it down before. I guess I was wrong.”

“Oh, I didn’t know she came up with that,” she says. “She’s into comics?”

“No,” I say. “She was just trying to come up with something that related to me. She knows the stuff I like.” I smile.

“What’s so funny?” she asks.

“Uh, nothing,” I say, trying to look casual. And powerful. And serious. And taller. I’m always trying to be someone else around Mialonie. It’s kind of exhausting.

“Oh, we need more dog treats too. A commercial for some show called
Barefoot Contessa
came on and the dogs started barking at the TV. Joe C. said you know where everything is.”

I go over to the cabinet under the sink and pull out a bag of dog treats. “Here you go,” I say. “And, um, Mialonie, I really appreciate you coming out like this. Thanks.”

She grins. “It’s all good. I think you’re going to win this thing.”

I wonder if she really thinks so. I wonder if I really think so. Then I remember Sparrow’s “woman scorned” commentary.

“I haven’t told anyone this,” I say. “But Justin asked me if I wanted to run with him. As a ticket. Together.”

“What about The Weasel?”

“Who?” I say.

“Donovan,” she says, like I should know. And I do, but I didn’t realize
she
did.

“Yeah, that’s what I wondered. But he sounded kind of over Donovan. Anyway, I turned him down.”

I don’t know if I want her to be impressed by the fact that Justin asked or by the fact that I turned him down. Both, I think. Is she impressed? I lean against the counter and try to look like a maverick.

“It figures,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Justin’s always in the market for a sidekick. It’s like oxygen to him. He thinks he’s such a big dog.”

“So, what were you? To him, I mean,” I blurt out.

She shrugs. “It was no big thing. And it was like a hundred years ago, the beginning of sixth grade.” And I can tell that I really shouldn’t bring it up again. “I’m nobody’s sidekick, though,” she says, laughing a little. “That’s for sure. And you can be a big dog too, with some help. You should go the whole superhero route. Posters with you wearing a cape, emphasize how you saved the O.B. kids.”

“I didn’t ‘save’ anybody,” I say. “And that’s not really me.”

She leans over a little, and I look into her eyes.

“It could be,” she whispers.

“I used to take piano lessons with Ruthie,” I say.
Where did that come from?

She looks confused, and then says, “Uh, really? That’s very nice.” She moves away, and I’m … relieved?

“Yeah,” I go on, “for a long time. Well, she still does, but I don’t anymore.” Dear God, please zap my mouth now.

Mialonie turns to close the cabinet door. “Um, okay,” she says. “I’d better get these out there, before the dogs start howling.” She pauses for a minute, and then she leaves.

I want to bang my head against the refrigerator but instead I slam my fist on the counter. “OW!” I yelp.

Joe C. pops his head in. “You okay?” he says. I shake out my hand and nod. He grins. “You were in here for a long time, playa.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” I say. “And don’t say ‘playa,’ “ I add, taking a sponge out of the sink and throwing it at him.

He dodges the sponge and it hits the wall. “Gross,” he says. “You’re going to have to wipe that up.”

I do, and then without looking at him, I say, “I still don’t know if I can do it.”

Joe C. knows exactly what I mean. “It’s just a speech. You’ve got this. Anyway, you’ve been speechifying for, like, two weeks now.”

“But … me, on that stage again?”

He’s quiet for a minute. “Well, you
could
do a stunt or something, or do your speech in Pig Latin, like—”

“No, it’s not a joke, or some silly thing anymore. I can’t do that to the shelter, or people here who care. Or myself.” I toss the sponge back into the sink and wash my hands. “Where’s Maria?” I ask.

“Oh, she just texted me,” he replies, looking all sad, and I feel like a jerk. “She can’t make it. And she was going to bring zeppoles too.”

For a second I picture Maria in some kind of ruffly old-fashioned dress with red-and-white checks, throwing a pizza up into the air and saying
“Mamma mia!
That’s
amore!”
I laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Joe C. asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “She’ll bring them next time, right?”

“Right,” he says, and we walk into the living room together. I’ve got to keep believing in second chances.

I’m like a boxer before the title fight. Except I’m not in the ring. I’m in the auditorium. About to be front and center stage again. And the fight is against my own stomach.

“You have your talking points, right?” asks Joe C. “Do you want to go over them again?”

I hold up the two sheets of paper. “One: Clarke was built on a mission and a message. Two: We have not fulfilled them. Three—”

“You’re not going to just read the list like that, right?” Joe C. interrupts. “Start with the ‘We Can Do It’ stuff.”

“I thought the list sounded more take-charge,” I say. “You told me I sounded like an infomercial before.” I’m sweating. I was going to go without eating anything this morning, but my mom wasn’t having it and made me have a bowl of cereal. Ever wonder what partially digested oat flakes taste like? Because I can tell you.

“Leave him alone, Joe C.,” whispers Ruthie. “But Reggie, you have to make eye contact with the audience. Show your personality. You’re reading too much. You know this. You’ve got this.” Was the milk sour? I think the milk was sour.

Blaylock walks over and grumbles, “You’re up first, Reginald. Five minutes. Keep it … clean.” He’s wearing sneakers.

“You guys should go,” I say. “Thanks for everything.” Joe C. pounds me on the back, Ruthie hugs me, and then they’re gone.

I’m alone. Justin must have some big entrance planned; I’ve seen a bunch of kids wearing matching sweatshirts and holding “JW’S HOUSE” posters, but I haven’t seen The Man himself yet.

I look at my speech again. “I’m Reggie, and I believe in myself, and I believe in you. We are the future; let me lead the way.”

Wait, did I actually write that? I think back to all the reading and writing I did at church and at home. It can’t come down to Vicky-esque clichés.

“Let me give you a few reasons why you should vote for me.
One: Clarke was built on a mission and a message. Two: We have not fulfilled them….”

Maybe Joe C.'s right, that’s too negative. Should I start off with
Seventeen: Olive Branch provides shelter and care to over one hundred families a month. We can help?
Is it too late for me to go get Charlie?

“Keep up the bad work, Pukey,” says Donovan, emerging from the shadows like in some Batman comic.

Don’t answer. Don’t listen. Twenty-Three: We have the talent and resources to share.

“Is that your little speech, Pukey?” he continues. “Why don’t you save it, because nothing can save you. How will it feel to be known not only as the guy who thought he could beat Justin
Walker, but the guy who puked twice in the same year in front of the whole school?”

I swallow.

“Because you will. I can tell you’re about to do it now. You want to puke, don’t you? There’s bile tickling your belly and climbing up your throat like a snake. Do you feel it? Are you scared?”

“Shouldn’t you be with your candidate?” I say, and I hope he can’t hear my voice trembling. “Or maybe he doesn’t even want you around.”

“I’ve seen you trying to talk to Mialonie Davis. You know you’re her latest makeover project, right?” he says, as though I haven’t spoken. “Usually she picks some ugly girl, but this year … this year, you were so pathetic and ridiculous that she chose you. Congratulations, son. So maybe you should try to at least keep us in suspense, choke a few words out before you do the Technicolor yawn all over the stage. Again. Your Whiteboy boyfriend can comfort you with his wannabe rhymes. Hey, maybe you can hit your girl Ruthie with it. Covering her in yak would be an improvement—”

I lunge, and even as he steps aside to let me trip and fall, I see the fear in his eyes. I see it. I hit the floor, breathing hard. My speech pages are scattered, and I hear Blaylock introduce me as I pull myself up.

“The first candidate up will be Reginald McKnight,” Blaylock intones, turning toward me.

I brush past Donovan as I head onstage.

“You forgot your speech, punk,” he mutters.

I don’t even look at him. “No I didn’t.”

“So, uh, hello. I’m Reggie — Reginald Garvey McKnight, and I’m running for president…. Thank you…. A couple weeks ago I got up on a table in the cafeteria, and, uh, and made my big announcement. And it felt pretty good, standing up there and being the center of attention.

“But, um, there are times when being the center of attention hasn’t felt so good. Yeah, I guess you remember…. See, I thought that you’d never forget it, and it looks like I was right….

“But then I got involved with the Listening Ears Project, and the Big Buddy program (hi, Charlie), and I stopped thinking about myself so much. I know adults think that’s all we do, think about ourselves, but that’s not always true. You’ve proven that over the last couple weeks by getting involved with Olive Branch. And I’m proud of you. And I want to thank you, because I’ve learned some lessons.

“Anyway, I was talking about never forgetting it. I realize that the thing is, I was the one who couldn’t let it go, the whole … Pukey thing. Yeah, I said it. I let it define me.

“I wanted to be a leader so that you guys would see me in a new way, so that I could have a new image. Image is so important to us, isn’t it? Most of us don’t want to be weird or even just a little different. We just want to fit in. But what I’ve learned is that there are more important things than fitting in. That being true to yourself — even when sometimes you can’t figure out who you are — will last a lot longer than being popular. That it’s really hard to help anyone else when you’re focused on yourself. I needed to see myself in a new way first. I learned a lot and was
given a lot by getting involved with the Olive Branch. It’s been humbling; I was just a small part of things. And that’s okay. I’m the little guy. There’s room for the little guy — there’s a need for the little guy.

“So I can’t say that I’ll be the most charismatic leader Clarke has ever had. That’s not me. My opponent is a good guy, and he’s a popular guy, and if you choose to elect him, I’m sure he’ll do a good job.

“But I’m sure I’ll do a good job too, if you elect me. We can work together to bring the Clarke principles to life, just like I said.

“The activist Cesar Chavez said, and I memorized it because it’s so true, ‘We cannot seek achievement for ourselves and forget about progress and prosperity for our community…. Our ambitions must be broad enough to include the aspirations and needs of others, for their sakes and for our own.’
For their sakes and for our own.
Clarke is already making a difference at the Olive Branch, and I think the Olive Branch is making a difference at Clarke. People are stepping outside of their circles to work together. And there’s so much more that we can do together. We can start in little ways, by being kinder to one another, by welcoming strangers, and by leaving each other room to grow and change.

“We can make a difference.

“I know that usually that means something big and flashy and, um, newsworthy, but just saying hi to someone you’ve never spoken to before makes a difference. Sitting at a different lunch table sometimes makes a difference. Remembering to, um, love the people who love you makes a difference. So, uh, maybe that
made no sense at all. I’m still trying to figure things out myself — I’m a work in progress.

“I want to say some words that I, uh, didn’t get to say on the first day of school: ‘We, the Clarke family, refuse to wallow in miseducation, but will fully participate in the teaching and learning of one another. We have an abundance of smart, art, and heart to create the community of service that our ancestors dreamed of.’

“Think about it. You don’t have to do something BIG. Just something right. And when you do something wrong, that’s not the end of it; you can step up again and still do something right. We can build up without tearing down, even if it’s only in baby steps. I had this fantasy of winning big in this election; I’ve learned that sometimes winning big really means living small.

“Um, thank you.”