Eighth-Grade Superzero (3 page)

“Shut it, Bulimic Boy.”

“Both of you, stop,” says Mom. She runs a community health center in the Bronx, so she’s usually all motivational (“Like a cheerleader mom, but in a fierce way,” Ruthie said once), but she’s been working overtime and lately her main contributions to dinner conversations are yawns.

“What are your goals right now? High school is coming soon. This is an important time, time to buckle down,” says Pops. “Not time to be worrying about image.”

“Well, I was thinking—”

“And don’t think we’re going to spend money on new clothes, if that’s where this is going,” he adds.

Oh, well. “Who said anything about new clothes?” I ask. “I just thought it would be cool if I —”

“What do you mean, cool? Reggie, you’ve got to be focused on how you spend your time, decide you want something and go for it….” Blah blah blah.

“Pops, he’s in eighth grade. It’s not exactly a life-or-death situation,” says Monica, getting up for more cake. I am shocked that she says something almost nice. But she still eats the last piece of cake without asking if anyone else wants some.

“Monica, everything we do in life has eternal consequences. Maybe if you thought more about your spiritual life …” Even worse. When Pops gets in preachy mode, even God must cover His ears. Next he’ll come home with some dumb book like
God Speaks to Preteens 2!
that has nothing about real life, like why doesn’t God do something about war, drugs, and poor people.

But then
we’re
the poor people now, so he won’t be buying any more of those books. Thanks, God, I guess.

“Maybe I could try a new activity,” I say. “There’s a steel drum ensemble starting up.”

“Steel pans, yeah?” says Pops. “You know, I played for a while, back in the day, but your grandmother didn’t like my practicing.”

“Never thought I’d say this,” says Mom, “but your mother was right. Don’t bring all that noise up in this house, Reggie.”

“But I could drop piano,” I continue. “I know that costs money, and the steel drum thing is free.” That should score some points.

“There is always money for the important things,” Pops says quickly. “We’re not paupers.”

Monica jumps in. “Can I go to Sephora with Tatia and Renee?” she says. “There’s going to be an event tonight.”

“What’s Sephora?” asks Pops. “I thought we were going to work out a little. Those tryouts are coming up.”

“Whatever, Pops. It’s makeup and stuff. You see what I mean about being out of it?”

“What kind of event would a makeup shop be having?” asks Mom.

Wait, are we done talking about me?

“Tatia and Renee said—”

“I am tired of hearing about Tatia and Renee,” Mom continues. “Those two girls are not serious.” I saw Monica with Tatia and Renee at Starbucks once. Monica had a foam mustache and they looked like they had just stepped out of the club scene in a hip-hop video.

“Where’s Asha?” asks Pops. “You don’t bring her around anymore. Now, that’s a nice girl. A Trini, but still very nice.” Trinidad is above Barbados and Guyana in Pops’s personal Caribbean Country Rankings, but nowhere near Jamaica, “the crown jewel.” Don’t get him started on Haiti. “Asha has her head on straight — I’m sure she’s not talking this kind of nonsense.”

“I can’t even be bothered with this right now,” says Mom, standing up. “It’s a school night, Monica, so you will not be going to any ‘event’ at a makeup shop. You can do your basketball, and then—”

“I’m not working out tonight,” mumbles Monica. “I don’t feel like it.” Pops starts to say something, but Mom puts up her hand.
Then it’s quiet for a while except for the sound of Mom scraping the plates.

“Why don’t you guys both go and finish your homework,” says Mom. “I’ll come check on you in an hour or so.”

And that’s it. Mom starts on the dishes, Pops goes into his study, Monica stomps off, and I’m left alone at the table.

That went well. I’ll cherish it.

Maybe homework only took “an hour or so” in the olden days when Mom and Pops were in school, but even though I work for a while, I know I’ll never be done by bedtime. I’ll just get up early and finish before school. I got an e-mail back from Dave. He’s all positive and says how life is about taking risks and growing, and he tells me to pray and be true to myself. He also tells me to look at Jeremiah 29:11–14. Dave says you can always find stuff in the Bible that relates to real life. I don’t know about all that. Maybe it’s because Dave prays a lot. I try to pray sometimes, but I don’t know if I do it right, because I mess up all the time. I mean, if He’s all the things we say in those prayers, why can’t God just zap things into shape? Or at least just me?

“Still waiting for your encore, Pukey!” yells Donovan. “That last performance was … puke-tacular!”

I walk fast, pretending not to see the plastic blobs of fake vomit everywhere, like a yellow brick road. I keep my head down all the way to my locker, where Joe C.'s waiting. While I’m packing my backpack, a little boy runs up and yelps “Pukey-Pukey-Pukey!” real fast and then runs away. This from someone who hasn’t even graduated from Velcro to laces on his sneakers.

“I guess this nickname is better than … the other one,” says Joe C. after a minute. For a while last year, Donovan got people calling
me
“Whiteboy” for hanging out with Joe C. so much. Clarke Junior is known for being one of the most “ethnically and culturally diverse” schools in New York City, but we still keep things pretty separate but equal when you get right down to it, so “Whiteboy” wasn’t exactly a compliment. “And I still think they’ll just forget about it eventually.”

“Whatever,” I say. “Should we go to the library to work on
Night Man
?”

“You need to get to the office, Reginald. You have a Big Buddy check-in,” says Ms. A, practically sending me through the ceiling. Where did
she
come from? Silent but deadly.

“I don’t have a Little Buddy, Ms. A,” I remind her. “I signed up, but I never got assigned.” Eighth graders can be paired up as “Big Buddies” with kindergarten kids, and Ruthie’s parents and my parents fell all over themselves signing us up to be “positive role models.” Joe C. doesn’t have to do the activity thing the way we do. Whenever I say that to my mom, she just says, “White folks have that luxury.”

“You do now,” Ms. A says, peering into my locker. “New student. Get going. Main office. The meeting started ten minutes ago. You’re late.” She leaves.

I look at Joe C. “Sorry.”

He shrugs. “Go do permanent damage to impressionable youth. Don’t forget to tell them that cockroaches can live nine days without their heads before they starve to death.” He hands me a few sheets of paper. “More art to talk about later.”

“Thanks.” I walk to the elevator, then decide to take the stairs after I see the crazy long line. I catch a glimpse of Isobel Sirrett in her wheelchair at the end.

When I get to the office, it’s packed. A lot of people sign up to be Big Buddies just so they can boss the little kids around. Ruthie comes over to me, trailed by a little girl with huge Afro puffs. “What are you doing here? Are you a Big Buddy now?”

I shrug. “I don’t know what’s up. Ms. A ordered me here.” I look around the room. Vicky’s here, of course; she’s been collecting extracurriculars for her college applications since second grade. And Justin, with Donovan glued to him, is surrounded by kids. Mialonie and Josie are perched on the secretary’s desk. I don’t look at Mialonie directly, but I smile at the desk. I think she
smiles back. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Josie whispering in her ear.

“This is Jamila,” says Ruthie, pointing to Lil’ Afro Puff, who frowns at me. “The little ones are so cute,” Ruthie whispers.

“Yeah, right. Remember how
we
were in kindergarten?” My parents have a picture of us on the first day. Ruthie had just punched me because I didn’t know what divestment was, so I’m crying and holding my stomach.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.
I
was cute.”

“So I don’t get it, then — what happened?” I say.

“You mean, how did I go from cute to spectacular in such a short time? I know, right? It’s amazing!” We both laugh. Jamila pulls Ruthie away as the secretary jams a sheet of paper in my hands and leaves to answer the phone. I glance at the bubble letters across the top: “Tips for Being a Top Big Buddy!”

One of the little kids is crying so hard there’s a long rope of snot hanging out of his nose. The secretary goes to get a tissue but the kid rubs it on the back of his hand before she gets back. Then Blaylock leads the snotty kid over to me — my new Little Buddy. Why am I not surprised? His pants and socks are both way too short; his ashy legs are straight and skinny like stilts. He’s at that post-crying/gasping-for-air stage. I hope he doesn’t die on me. Blaylock, who is not known for his emergency response skills or his compassion, frowns and leaves.

“What’s your name, little man?” I say.

No response.

Cryboy and I stand there while the other Buddy pairs talk and laugh. Looks like we’ll need the whole box of tissues. I look
at the wall clock. I shift, my backpack unzips, and my Night Man notebook falls out. The kid checks out the cover that Joe C. designed.

“Is — is — that yours?” he whimpers.

“Uh … maybe, but tell me your name first.”

“Ch-Charlie Calloway.”

“Okay, Ch-Charlie. I’m Reggie.”

He giggles. “Not Ch-Charlie. Just Charlie!”

“Okay, Just Charlie.”

He giggles again. Maybe this won’t be so bad. “No, Charlie Calloway.” He giggles some more. “That looks like a superhero.”

Okay, I’ve got him laughing. Good sign. “Oh! Sorry, Charlie!” I grin. “He
is
a superhero. I’ll tell you a secret — I made him up when I was the same age as you.” Charlie’s eyes get big and he looks at me like
I’m
Night Man. I feel like a cheat, since he’s really impressed by the drawing Joe C. did. “I have a whole bunch of stories that I’ll show you one day. Anyway, I’m going to be your Big Buddy. So I can help you with stuff … and, um …”

What are Big Buddies supposed to do anyway? I eavesdrop on Ruthie’s conversation.

“… because we don’t realize that the American government supports the oppression of children worldwide. Maybe next time I’ll read to you from UNICEF’s Convention on Rights of the Child.”

“I have new markers at home,” Jamila replies. “And my cat is going to have kittens!”

I try the “Tips” sheet instead. “Um, what’s your favorite color?”

“Blue,” he answers right away. “And green.”

“Oh, I like—”

“And black too,” he finishes.

“Do you have a favorite TV show or activity?”

He just looks at me.

“What about a favorite book? I used to like Dr. Seuss.
The Cat in the Hat? Green Eggs and Ham?”

More looking.

I clear my throat. “Would you, could you, talk to me?” He almost smiles, and I continue. “We would … um … we would have some fun, you see!”

Now I can tell he’s trying hard not to smile.

“Yeah, fun … in a boat, on a float … lots of fun, Charlie, you and me!” I pretend to wipe sweat from my forehead. “Whew!” I mutter. “Tough crowd. Those were some of my finest rhymes.”

He’s looking at me like he’s half hoping, half afraid I’m going to start tap dancing or something. I look back at my “Tips” sheet. “Uh, do you like school?”

His face breaks open in a smile. “Yeah!” he says. “Lunch is really good! And we get waffles at breakfast.” He stops smiling and glares at me. “Are you gonna be my friend?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. That’s what Big Buddy means.”

“Like best friends? Do you live in an apartment?”

“A brownstone. It’s like a house.”

“A house! Can I come over? I’ll bring toys.”

“Yeah, sure, one day. We’re friends now, so we can do a lot of things together. Maybe go to the zoo or something.”

He starts to hug me, then he stops and holds out his hand for a high (for him) five instead. Even in kindergarten, you’ve got to be smooth.

“Um, so it looks like it’s time for you guys to line up,” I say, giving him a little fist bump. “It was nice to meet you, Charlie. I’ll see you soon. In a car, on the moon …”

“Bye, Reggie!” He’s got a big grin on his face.

Someone thinks I’m cool.

There are red postcards with big purple Vs on them stuck in all of the lockers. There are also a lot on the floor. I pull out the one in my locker; it’s a scary close-up photo of Vicky over the words “Vote Vicky!” “Oh,” I say. “Vicky Ross.”

Joe C. nods. “She just shook my hand and smiled so big I thought that she was going to eat me alive.”

“The Grin Reaper,” I say as I throw the postcard inside my locker.

“I’m not looking forward to weeks of Vicky Ross in my face,” adds Joe C.

We get to class before the last bell rings for once, and Blaylock is standing up front and Mr. Gordon is already sitting at Ms. A’s desk. Ms. A is standing by the door; she keeps track of who’s late because “promptness accounts for a significant portion of your final grade.”

“Just a little election check-in!” says Blaylock. He’s not giving up. “I may have mentioned those grants to schools that exemplify the spirit of community partnership, as Clarke certainly does, and our first annual Step Up And Lead rally in December will celebrate that. I am confident that there is someone here who
is the perfect representative of the Clarke Pledge of Proactive Community Service.” He leans forward as though he’s looking for someone in particular.

Vicky stands up and Blaylock frowns, like he didn’t want to find
her.
“As some of you may know,” she starts, “I am running for president.” She pauses, and some people fill it up with groans, which Blaylock doesn’t stop. Vicky raises her voice. “I am running for president because I have a duty to this school—” “
Doody
,” whispers Hector, snickering. “— and I want to make it better. I want to make
changes.”
She’s talking pretty strong. Maybe I’m not giving Vicky enough credit.

“I was inspired by our classroom discussion on Tuesday to make a commitment, and that commitment is to you.” She’s fired up, and it feels like the whole room is holding its breath. Has Vicky Ross become a human being?

Ruthie stands up. “Yeah, right, Vicky. You have a long history of a complete lack of regard for anything that doesn’t benefit
you.
I mean, let’s talk reality; let’s talk about what’s happening right now across the Atlantic in—”

“Let’s talk about doing something right here at Clarke,” I say under my breath.

Ms. A jumps down my throat. “What was that, Reginald? I didn’t quite catch what you said.”

“Uh, nothing,” I say, wishing for the millionth time that I had that Harry Potter invisibility cloak. “Talking to myself. Sorry.”

“I’m sure it was more than ‘nothing,’ Reginald. Speak up.” She’s not going to let me slide.

“Um … okay. Not that there’s anything wrong with celebrating our achievements,” I start, “or that it’s not important to pay attention to the global, uh … landscape,” I add, with a quick glance at Ruthie. “But I just wonder if … if civic responsibility could mean making changes right here.” I look at my desk. “Right now.” I hear a gagging sound, but I don’t look Hector’s way.

“Interesting,” says Ms. A. “Elaborate.”

Why did I open my mouth? I’m not trying to be on some platform. “I don’t know,” I say, wishing Ms. A’s laser beam eyes weren’t burning a hole in my face. “I mean, there’s that saying: Think global, act local. I guess I’m thinking that there are ways we could, um, show civic responsibility by working on our community and going from there.” Blaylock looks at me like he doesn’t recognize me with words coming out of my mouth. This is the most I’ve spoken in class without being called on since last year. It might have a little to do with the fact that Donovan’s absent today, but there’s another reason too. I’m sick of this. “Right now it’s like nobody cares.” It feels good to speak up, like taking a deep breath at the beach.

No one laughs! In fact, a few people, not just Ruthie, are nodding their heads.

Then the door bursts open and music blares into the classroom. Real heavy bass and a thumping beat. An older guy with a portable turntable is leading a crowd of kids into the room. Donovan comes in, chanting through some kind of electronic voice machine, “JW’s house! It’s Justin time! You’re ‘Justin time’ to party outside with the next prez!” Then Justin walks in, arms raised like he’s already won.

Is this really happening? A few kids get up and start dancing. Blaylock bangs on the blackboard. “What is going on here?” He has to shout over the beats.

Justin makes a “cut it” gesture to the older guy, who shuts off the music. Donovan starts handing out Vicky’s postcards, except now her face is covered with a big red X. Justin goes over to Blaylock as his party train disperses and the DJ leaves. “Sorry, sir, it’s my fault. We got a little carried away about the election, giving back to the school and everything. I’m very anxious to do my part to sustain and improve our wonderful community.”

Did he steal a memo off of Blaylock’s desk? Why does it sound so smooth when he says that stuff?

Blaylock smiles a little under his frown. “I take it that you are running for president then?” he asks.

Justin nods, and Donovan says, “And I’m his campaign manager. We will
rule
this school this year!”

Blaylock pats Justin on the back. “That’s great, but this is still an educational institution, so you’ll have to keep it after school, and outside.”

“Right, sir,” says Justin. “I apologize again.”

Blaylock actually waits for Justin and Donovan to take their seats. Justin gets a couple of high fives and takes his sweet time settling in. A few people clap.

Unreal.

Vicky stands up again. “As I was saying, let’s take this opportunity to transform our community.” She looks at Justin. “Let’s reject
more of the same.”

Justin just smiles at her.

“So, er, we’re in business!” says Blaylock. “Justin, thank you for stepping up. I am confident that you’ll run an effective, inspirational, award-winning campaign.” He pats Justin on the shoulder a few times. “Vicky … thank you too, of course.”

“Are Justin and Vicky the sole candidates from this class?” Ms. A looks around the room.

Vicky clears her throat. “Ahem,” she says.

“Yes, Vicky?” say Blaylock and Ms. A at the same time, with the same sigh.

“I just want to say that at least I’m trying to do something, I’m not just sitting around throwing parties all the time, or complaining.” She stands up and looks around the room. “Does anyone want to help out? We can work together on this. Who’s with me?”

No one will look at her. That’s not unusual because Vicky is pretty much as heinous in appearance as she is in personality, but still.

A couple of kids make a point of sitting on their hands.

Mr. Gordon makes a paper clip chain.

“Anyone?” asks Vicky.

Blaylock looks at his watch.

This is brutal.

Vicky speaks up again. “I was thinking that, um, Pu — Reginald had some valuable insights in our last discussion. I’d like to publicly invite him to be my campaign manager.”

Huh?

Donovan snorts. “I guess it’s a good idea to have a loser help you lose,” he mutters. Ms. A shushes the giggles.

I clamp my lips together and look at my desk.

Donovan is drawing a mustache on one of his anti-Vicky flyers, and I know that this is just the beginning. He will decimate her, just because he feels like it. I don’t want to be associated with the Grin Reaper’s lame campaign, but she’s in for Donovan the Destroyer.

I know how that feels.

Ms. A’s about to speak when Vicky says softly, her voice cracking a little, “Reginald? Can I count on you?”

“I’ll do it,” I say, because I can’t say anything else. I try to look managerial and not like I want to run away. I glance at Vicky. She’s not looking at me.

Ms. A shakes her head just a little before she tells us to take out
Native Son.
Gordon and Blaylock leave; Blaylock turns around to give the class a double thumbs-up.

I have to look at Donovan. He grins and makes the universal sign for throat-slitting.

Ruthie hits me with her math textbook as soon as we get to our lockers after class. “Ow!” I say. “Stop the violence!”

“What is wrong with you?” she asks. “I was so proud of you for a minute there. I mean, you’re better off doing nothing than shilling for that bloodsucker.”

“Going over to the Dark Side,” says Joe C. “I’ll pray for you, my son.”

Ruthie glares at him. “The dark/light thing. Don’t get me started.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” says Joe C. I pat him on the back.

“Listen, I’ll probably just give her a few suggestions and that’s
it,” I say. “I couldn’t just leave her hanging like that in front of everybody. And you know how Donovan is. He’s going to play so dirty. Maybe I can keep her from suffering the same fate I did.”

“Maybe you should focus on keeping yourself from that fate again,” says Joe C., shaking his head. “This is not what I meant by ‘low profile.’”

“I’m not going to be the one out front; I’m not going to be the one making speeches onstage and all that,” I say. I turn to Ruthie. “You’re the one always telling me to get involved, to be change.”

Ruthie sighs. “That’s sweet and all, but she’s such a user. Vicky just knows you’ll work hard because you’re nice. Do you really think she cares anything about helping Clarke?”

“Maybe I can help,” I say. “Maybe this will help me.”

There’s a tap on my shoulder. It hurts. I turn; it’s Vicky.

“Welcome aboard,” she says, dumping an overstuffed accordion folder into my hands. “The V Team is happy to have you.”

I look around for the rest of the “V Team.” Vicky glances at Ruthie and Joe C. “Are you two—” she starts.

They almost fall on their butts, they back away so fast. Ruthie gets busy in her locker and Joe C. holds a notebook in front of his face.

“Uh, Vicky,” I say. “Maybe we should talk about what we’re going to do, have a meeting or something.”

“Great idea! This is going to work out so well. Tomorrow morning, 7:30, on the steps. Don’t be late. And thanks again!” She walks away.

“You didn’t say ‘thanks’ the first time,” mutters Joe C.

She turns back and slows down a little, but she doesn’t stop walking. “That folder is a chronological listing of all of my
achievements since preschool. Please read up tonight so we can focus in the morning on what I need you to do. Learn it, live it, love it. And get every last one of Donovan’s defacements out of people’s hands. You’ve got to be on top of these things.” She stops to flash a big, scary grin at a couple of little kids. “Hi! I’m Vicky! I’m running for president! I’ll walk you to class!” She grabs their hands and pulls them away, in the direction opposite to the one they were going.

“Still feel sorry for her?” asks Ruthie.

“Good luck with that,” says Joe C.