Eighth-Grade Superzero (5 page)

Vicky bombarded me with e-mails the entire weekend. I made some more suggestions for the platform, like cleaner bathrooms or a fund-raiser for a community organization, but she just ordered me to hand stuff out after school. Which is what I’m doing right now, shoving a couple postcards into kids’ hands and mumbling, “Vote Vicky, please.”

Mialonie is standing across from me, in front of the office, and she’s alone. She looks like royalty. This is A Moment, and I know I should say something to her, and I’m looking at her, and I’m like,
Look at me, look at me,
but I chicken out and turn away. Okay, deep breath. Maybe I’ll even say “hi.” No, “hey.” I turn back around. Josie is with her now, so it’s too late. Again. Oh, well.

When I get to the lockers, Ruthie’s sitting in front of hers, humming and writing in her journal.

“I was so inspired by
FRONTLINE
last night,” she says. “Lots of ideas for the New World Order Collective.” Ruthie isn’t allowed to watch TV, except for as much PBS as she wants. Her family sits down together every morning and has newspapers for breakfast. Our parents share a subscription to the
Jamaican Weekly Gleaner,
and Ruthie actually reads it.

“Did you write a little something about your boyfriend Reggie, King of the Wedgie?” says a voice over my shoulder. I turn around to Donovan cackling, Justin a little behind him, not smiling. I keep my eyes away from Donovan’s so that I don’t have to look away first.

“Or maybe you can come up with things to rhyme with Pukey,” he continues, looking at Justin. “You’re good at corny stuff like that.”

“Come on, D,” Justin says. “We’re gonna be late for practice.” He looks at me. “You know he’s just playing,” he says. He gives Donovan a light shove and they head down the hall.

Ruthie stands, shaking her head. “I don’t believe Justin even likes Donovan. He just likes having a lackey around, I guess. How insecure. I’m disappointed.”

“Justin doesn’t have anything to be insecure about,” I say. “And since when did you expect a lot from Justin? I thought you said he was hollow.”

“Everyone has something to be insecure about,” says Ruthie. “It all depends on how they deal with it.” She puts an arm around my shoulder. “You’re worth an infinite number of Donovans. He’s not even in the same dimension as you.”

“Thanks,” I say. “You always have my back.” I point to a yellow “Save the Date!” flyer taped to the wall. “Speaking of having my back … you know our parents are going to want us to go to the Holiday Jam together, right?”

Ruthie grins. “Of course. That way it’s not a real date and they don’t get all crazy.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Maybe Joe C. will even bring mythical Maria and it can be a double non-date.”

Mialonie and Josie walk by.

“Hey, Reggie,” says Mialonie. “See you.” A book falls from her stack, and I jump out from under Ruthie’s arm to pick it up.

“See you,” I say, handing her the book. I watch her walk away. When I turn back to Ruthie, she’s pulling some books down from her locker.

“ ‘See you'?” I say. “Did you hear that? What do you think that means?”

Ruthie shrugs and rolls her eyes. “Do you have to be such a sheep?” she says. “What was I saying a minute ago? Must’ve had a brain leak.”

Whatever.

Joe C. walks up to the lockers. “So, today, right?” he asks, opening his locker and pulling out his portfolio.

“Today is the day Mialonie Davis spoke to me,” I say, grinning. Joe C. high-fives me.

“Sweet. Pretty soon you guys will be double-dating with me and Maria.” He goes on: “Anyway, I meant, are you coming with me today? Or do you have to do stuff with Vicky?”

“Sounds good,” I say. I’m remembering how Mialonie’s eyes look like chocolate.

“Hello? Earth to Reggie,” says Joe C.

“Huh? Yeah, um … what?”

He laughs. “You said you would let me know about going over to the mall, remember? Or do you have to do some campaign managing?”

Ruthie snorts.

“The mall sounds good,” I say. “I want to stop by the public radio offices first, though, since they’re right next door. They told
me that I could pick up some equipment for the homeless shelter thing.” I look up and down the halls. “Come on, let’s get out of here before Vicky tracks me down.”

When I brought my cousin Grace to our neighborhood mall, she almost fell down the escalator stairs, she was laughing so hard. The malls up where she lives in Westchester are like palaces, with giant fountains and free samples everywhere you turn. Our perpetually broken escalators and Not-Even-Close-to-Super Target can’t compare. But we’re happy to have a place to hang out, and there’s McDonald’s. My uncle Terrence says that mall fast food offerings are part of “the White man’s genocidic plan to oppress us.” Sometimes Uncle Terrence is like an adult Ruthie on drugs, and I guess that’s not too far off. Pops is always telling him how he is such a disappointment to the family, but then he tells Mom that the Ivy League and the Navy killed Uncle Terrence’s spirit. He seems pretty spirited to me; every time I tell him that I looked up one of his words, like “genocidic,” and couldn’t find it in a dictionary, he says I shouldn’t be conned by the wordplay of the White man. Uncle Terrence is pretty cool, though, if slightly scary.

Joe C. needs to buy dog food at Target, but we stop for some school supplies first. I pick up a giant three-ring binder. We had a Very Special Health Class last week where we got divided up and the guys went to the gym with Coach Conners (we have no teams at our school, but still, it’s “Coach”). He told us that “strong” guys who are “secure in who they are” don’t need to “engage in, er,
um … sexual activity before the, er, um … appropriate time.” But if we’re inappropriately weak, we should “protect ourselves responsibly.” He also said the binders were good to carry around for those “unexpected moments of spontaneous excitation — even when there’s absolutely no discernible cause.” His exact words. I feel stupid getting the binder, but I don’t want to get caught out there. Joe C. gets one too. I don’t say anything, and neither does he.

As we weave around shopping carts and escaping toddlers, we enter the world of grooming. I stop to get some deodorant.

“Have you ever tried this stuff?” I say, picking up a black spray can.

“Perfume for men?” says Joe C., raising his eyebrows, which always seems like a lot of work because they’re so bushy. “Are you kidding me?”

“What, you never heard of guys wearing cologne?” I say.

“Yeah, but that’s different,” he says, and then before I even have to ask how, he picks up a can himself. “Let me take a look at this … ‘Get your freak on'?” He laughs. “Good thing I’ve already got my mojo. I’m a strong man, secure in who I am.”

“Don’t act like you don’t need help,” I say. Maybe this stuff is like a magic potion: spray on sex appeal and self-confidence. Nobody else is around, so I take the cap off and spray a little into the air. We cough and sniff.

“Not bad,” says Joe C.

“You think girls really like this?” I wrinkle my nose.

“Girls are always into smells and scented everything. Maria wears this watermelon lip gloss that you can smell a block away.” Joe C. makes a face. “And it’s all sticky.”

“Yeah, okay,” I say. I get ready to spray a little body spray over my head when I see Monica with Tatia and Renee. She looks like their bodyguard. “Let’s get your dog food,” I say to Joe C. “We can hit up McDonald’s and then go to the comic shop.”

The lines at the registers are all long and barely moving. Joe C. points to a magazine with a cover story about the latest celebrity cause — homelessness.

“Those public radio people were sure happy you’re doing that project,” he says.

“Uh-huh,” I say. “I guess most people aren’t really checking for the homeless.”

“Are you scared?” he asks.

“Of what?”

“You know, the whole shelter thing,” he says. “I mean, those homeless people. They’re not … My dad wouldn’t let me get near a place like that.”

He says “a place like that” like it’s another planet, full of living nightmares too horrible to describe. And “they’re not …” what? Most of the homeless people that I see have skin closer to mine than his, and I wonder if he would talk about me the same way. I say, “A place like what? What are you talking about?”

“Forget it,” he mutters, picking up the magazine.

Good. Because we need to leave this conversation alone.

I feel a tug on my jacket. It’s my Little Buddy Charlie.

“Hi, Big Buddy Reggie!” he says, grinning so hard it must hurt. I’ve been looking out for him at school, but I guess I keep missing him. “I got a new Thomas train! And a coal car!”

“That sounds great,” I say. A woman in the next line waves Charlie over. “You can just call me Reggie. Is that your mom? I think she’s calling you.”

“Do you want me to bring the train to your house today?” he asks. “You can be my first friend to play with it.”

“Um, yeah, well … maybe another time.” It’s like I just told him that I was canceling Christmas and birthdays forever; his whole body droops. “I promise, another day real soon, okay? So, um, how’s it going?”

“Okay,” he mutters. His mom comes over.

“Hello, Reggie,” she says, smiling. “I’m Beverly Calloway. Charlie spotted you right away. He said you were the really tall, smart guy in line.”

I shrug and smile and try to look responsible.

“Did he tell you about the trouble he’s having at school?” she says, looking at Charlie.

“No,” I say. We both wait; Charlie concentrates on his Cookie Monster sneakers.

“Charlie, Reggie might be able to give you some advice,” his mom says.

Yeah, maybe, if he wants How-to-Be-Humiliated lessons. Charlie doesn’t say anything, and his mom gives him one of those little hugs I remember. “I really appreciate what you’re doing,” she says to me. “You must be quite a student to get picked for this program.”

“Uh, my parents signed me up.”

“Well,” she says. “I’m sure we’re fortunate to have you as Charlie’s buddy. Our boys need positive role models more than ever. Our people need to work together to rebuild our
communities.” She looks at Joe C., who’s looking around for another magazine.

“Oh, sorry — this is my friend Joe C.,” I say. For a minute, I want to add,
Don’t worry, he’s my only White friend. I’m still rebuilding and keeping it real.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hello,” she nods.

“I want to go play with Reggie, Mommy,” says Charlie. “He lives in a house!” Mrs. Calloway stops smiling for a minute.

“Uh … yeah, maybe one day soon, Charlie,” I say. “We have to plan it … or maybe I can come to your house.”

“I don’t live in a house,” says Charlie, looking down. “I’ve never even been in one.”

“Okay, your apartment, then,” I say.

“I’m sure Reggie has a lot to do, honey,” says Mrs. Calloway.

I jump into the pause before it becomes significant. “Or hey, why don’t you sit with me at lunch one day. With us,” I say, pointing to Joe C.

Charlie opens his mouth so wide that I can see his uvula. “Will you show me more of those comic books you made?” His mom’s eyebrows rise; my role model status may have slipped with the mention of the
C
word.

“Sure. You know, Joe C. is the artist. He does all of the drawings.” Charlie looks at Joe C. in awe and I add, “But I made the whole thing up.”

There’s another pause, and then Charlie’s mom picks up her bags. “It was nice to meet you, Reggie, and thank you. Nice meeting you too, Joe-see,” she says, like she’s wondering what kind of
name that is. We mumble back, and she takes Charlie’s hand and leaves. Charlie keeps turning back to wave.

We finally check out and head downstairs. We’re still planning to hop the train to the comic shop for
Night Man
inspiration after we get our fries, even though I’ve got three tests to study for and a report on Larry Doby that I haven’t even started. But from the escalator, I can see the huge crowd of kids in McDonald’s. There’s no music playing, but it seems like there is; it’s bubbling over with energy and laughter and girls’ shrieks. More kids squeeze in as we get closer and everyone looks happy to see everyone else, but when we get off of the escalator I turn to Joe C. and say, “Forget it. Let’s just go.”

At church on Sunday, I try to listen to Reverend Coles, but licking my room clean would be more fun. I flip through
The Book of Common Prayer,
but then I drop it and Pops gives me a Look. Yeah, okay, Pops. Like I didn’t see you roll your eyes a few minutes ago. Monica brought Nana’s old giant Bible with her; I can see her looking at skirts in the catalog she has tucked inside. Mom snores a little, and Reverend Coles’s wife (who used to try to make kids call her “Mother” Coles) stares hard and long. I don’t think I’m holy enough to go up for Communion, but I don’t want to be the person everyone’s wondering about, like, “Oooh, look at that McKnight boy, got himself into trouble. Can’t even take the bread and wine.” Then I’d have to get some Cools Counseling, and my descent into Hell would be complete. So I whisper “sorry, God” three times and shuffle up with everyone else.

After the service, while Mom and Pops are telling Reverend Coles how great he was, Vicky comes over.

“Hi, Vicky,” I say. “I thought you didn’t go here anymore.”

“I don’t really,” she says, “but, you know … we have to show our faces a few times before the holidays so we look good, blah blah blah.”

“You should come to youth group sometime,” I say. “It’s not bad.”

“Yeah?” she says. “It seems like a … tight-knit group. I don’t really know that many people here.”

“Everyone’s cool. I’m sure the group would welcome you.”
Please God, forgive me for lying in church.

“Yeah, right,” she says softly. We stand there for a few seconds. “So I thought we could talk about the campaign.”

“Now?”

“Nothing else to do,” she says, looking around. “And while it may seem like a long time till the election, remember, there’s a lot of business to take care of. We need to start working on plans for that rally with the mayor. I’ve
got
to make a good impression on him; if I can win us that grant money, I don’t have to worry about Harvard.”

“I think you don’t have to worry about Harvard until at least next year,” I say.

She laughs. “I bet you do. Anyway. Have you handed out all of the flyers I gave you? I have some new postcards that I’d like you to laminate and turn into magnets. Hot idea, right?” She smiles.

“Um,” I say, and leave it at that. “Remember what I was talking about in homeroom that day? About the community stuff?”

She looks at me without blinking. Or smiling, which is a relief.

“My cousin Grace gets school credit for volunteering at a children’s hospital. Maybe our campaign can support an organization in the neighborhood or something and get Clarke to give volunteers extra credit.”

“Extra credit!” she crows. “I can work with that.” She smiles like I’m a puppy. “You have such cute ideas.” She pulls out a stack of postcards. “But first. The office supply store in the mall is slow, so you should get started on the laminating now.”

“Don’t you think we need to do a little more than laminate, Vicky? Did you hear about this shelter project we’re starting? I didn’t know there were people living like that right in our neighborhood. If you like the community service idea, we should talk more about it.”

“Actually, we should talk more about your postcard distribution strategy,” she snaps. She moves a little closer to me and lowers her voice. “Listen … I have to win this. I have six brothers and sisters, and they’ve all won every single election they’ve ever entered. I was going to try something different, but my mom … Anyway, do you get it? I’m a legacy.”

“Whoa,” I say. “That must be a lot of pressure.” I know about pressure, but Vicky’s family must take it to the next level.

She shrugs. “I’ve just got to be a winner, you know? So if you do your job right, everything will be fine.” As Reverend Coles starts to approach, she hands me the postcards and slips away.

Looking around for my own escape, I spy Monica trying to chat it up with John Wilkins. He lives on our block and he’s a big-time basketball player at her school. The Sephora face paint plot thickens. My parents tell me to drag Monica away from Mr. NBA.

I jog over to them. “We gotta go, Fright Face,” I say without thinking. John laughs. Uh-oh. For a second, Monica looks like she wants to cry, but that’s not possible because she’s not human.

“Oh, did you wet your pants again, Weggie? Do you need to get home to change your diaper?” She smiles at John. “My little brother has a big bladder problem.”

“Yeah?” says John. “I heard you got a lot of problems, son.”

John and Monica start laughing and I try to think of a comeback that won’t get me stomped. His Nikes are huge.

“Later, John,” says Monica, pulling me away by my neck. “You’ll pay for that, you bridge troll,” she whispers to me as we head over to Mom and Pops.

Dave walks over. “Reggie, what’s up? Monica, long time no see….”

“Hey, Dave,” I say, rubbing my neck.

“Hello, Dave, good to see you,” says Pops. “Monica, Reggie, we’ve got to get going. I know Monica’s probably dying to eat.” He looks surprised at Monica’s responding glare. Takes the heat off me, at least.

“I’ve been thinking about that suffering stuff,” I tell Dave. “You know, why do things suck so bad if God is so good?”

Oops, didn’t mean to say
suck.
My parents frown and Monica smirks.

Dave smiles. “I knew you would. So, what did you come up with?”

I shrug. “I have no idea.” Dave laughs, and I add, “But I want to keep thinking about it, okay?”

“That’s the first step in the right direction,” he says.

“The public radio people gave me a lot of ideas for our visit to the shelter,” I say. “I made a list of sample interview questions for the homeless, like what their childhoods were like and what are some things about homelessness that people don’t realize.” I
remember Joe C.’s comments. “I think a lot of people might not relate to them so well.”

“Fantastic,” says Dave. “We’re well prepared for Wednesday. Reggie, thank you for being on top of things. I appreciate it. And I’m not surprised.”

“I didn’t really do anything,” I say.

“Reggie, you did your thing. Thank you. Take the grace with graciousness.”

I nod even though I’m not sure I know what he’s talking about. That’s nothing new.

“I’m looking forward to our relationship with the Olive Branch community,” he adds. “It’s going to be great.”

I wonder what it’s like to have that much faith all of the time. In
anything.

“Yeah, okay,” I say. “It’s going to be sweet.”