Show and Prove (11 page)

“I
got it, Q!” I wave the encyclopedia and yell so he can hear me over his drill. Once Qusay told me that schools were named after Islamic holy cities, I figured there had to be a good name for the Bronx that wasn't already used. I broke out his encyclopedia set and discovered a city where Abraham and his family are believed to be buried in a sacred cave. “So the school in Harlem's the Allah Youth Center in Mecca, right? And the Brooklyn one is called Medina. We can call this school”—I slap my hands against the book to make a drumroll—“Allah's Youth Academy of Hebron.”

Qusay shuts off the drill, grinning from ear to ear. “That's brilliant, God.”

I blow on my nails and rub them on my shirt. “Don't mind if I agree.”

I continue browsing through the books I'm sorting. Of course, he has
The Autobiography of Malcolm X.

“So does this mean you'll be joining us?”

“I don't know, Q,” I say. “I'm not shopping for a new religion. No offense.”

“None taken, because the Nation is not a religion. Nor are we an offshoot of the Nation of Islam. We don't even believe in some divine being who is out there somewhere,” Qusay says as he pokes the air with his drill. “The Black man is God, Raymond. He has an innate divinity that he can cultivate and harness from within, instead of beseeching some mystery god outside of himself.” Now Q points the drill at me. “Now you see why I'm driven to create this organization. The white devil has been very effective in concealing the truth and slandering those of us who wish to teach it.” He steps away from the wall to examine the three shelves he just created.

“The first one is still crooked,” I say. “There on the right.” I debate whether I should say anything. I like hanging out with Qusay. He teaches me things I would never know. I want to be a part of the five percent. Although I never admit it to anyone, I've been questioning everything, especially after Mama died. God, America, everything. Nike's right. Going to Dawkins is changing me, just not in the way he dogs me about. And not in the way the people at Dawkins would like or how Mama had hoped.

In public school, I got good grades for memorizing things for tests. At Dawkins, they push us to learn the facts but to interpret them ourselves. That's great until the sense I'm making upsets my teachers and classmates. The brochure says Dawkins is committed to equal opportunity, but you can count the number of Black kids in each class on one hand, we only learn Black history one month during the year, and the only Black adult in the school building is the live-in custodian.

“You got me in hot water at school, Q.”

“And how did I do that, G?”

“Last semester we were learning about the Kennedy assassination and got to talking about conspiracy theories. I remembered you telling the homies about the Tuskegee Experiment when you used to build at Pulaski Park.” Damn, I forgot that might be a sore spot for Qusay. He would hold parliaments there all the time until Junior threatened to beat Q down if he didn't take his “preachin' ass” somewhere else. Booby and some other Barbarians were getting hyped about Q's teachings, and I guess Junior saw that as a threat to his business. When Qusay doesn't respond to my mention of his exile from the park, I continue. “I asked my teacher whether, if something like the Tuskegee experiment could happen, it is far-fetched to believe that the U.S. government didn't have a role in this crack explosion, like you said.” Before I know it, I add, “Or AIDS.”

Q gives me that look my mother used to when I brought home straight As.

“And what did that white devil say?” I imitate my teacher stuttering, and Q laughs. “And while he was at a loss for words, I explained to the class how the U.S. government told almost four hundred Black men it was treating them for syphilis when the true point of the study was to let them die. That this only ended ten years ago.” I hold back the fact that I learned about the experiment when I was doing research on sickle cell anemia, trying to understand the threat against my mother. Searching for hope. Still believing that I was fighting the right enemy.

“I can't wait to have the money to hire you,” says Q. “You've already given me so many good ideas. You're going to make an excellent assistant and teacher.”

I like the sound of that a lot. But sometimes Q says something that punches me in the gut, and I wonder if I'm cut out to be a poor righteous teacher. Since that debate, things have changed between Eric, Sean, and me, but I still don't look at them and see white devils. They're nice guys who mean well. That's what I want to believe, anyway. I
have
to believe it. I can't keep my promise to Mama and make it through one more year at Dawkins if I can't believe it. Who knew that good intentions could be so blinding.

But if he's willing to build with Booby, Pooh, and other homeboys even when they're stealing and dealing for Junior, Qusay's not going to turn his back on me the way Eric, Sean, and even Nike did. I hold up X's autobiography. “But when Malcolm completed his pilgrimage to Mecca, he met white people who embraced him and treated him as an equal. Not only did that change his views about them, he concluded that Islam was the solution to racism.”

Q lays his drill on the floor and motions for me to follow him outside. Without naming them, he points at particular things. The litter along the curb. The burned-out building across the street with the shattered windows and sooty graffiti. Cutter trudging up the block, singing along with the D Train song blaring out a Grand Prix stopped at the light: “ ‘Keep keepin' on, you gotta keep keepin' on. Keep keepin' on, you gotta keep keepin' on.' ”

“But this is not Mecca,” Qusay says. Then he places his hands on my shoulders. “God, the truth is the truth, and it is available to anyone, regardless of race, creed, language, age, gender…. But the truth in this country is that everything here is for the white man and against all who are not white. Any white man who wishes to be righteous must rebuke the very system that hands him everything based on the color of his skin.”

“They exist, though.” Still, I'm afraid he's right. Sean talks as if being Irish means he isn't white, and Eric won't even say the word
racism,
using
prejudice
and
discrimination
as if they mean the same thing. But if you had told me five years ago I would be going to a school like Dawkins and have white friends to bum about, I would have called you crazy.

“Yes, but they are rare.” Cutter reaches us, now singing, “Mama Used to Say.” Last year I was the only person in the world who couldn't stand that song. Funny how now it doesn't bother me in the least.

Qusay squeezes my shoulders and then extends a hand to Cutter. “God, how are you this fine day?”

Cutter says, “Brother, can you spare some change?”

“For you to buy that poison and inject it into your veins? No, I do not have any change to spare you, my brother,” says Q. He puts his arm around Cutter's shoulder and steers him toward the door of the storefront. “But I do have something to eat if you're hungry.”

“I am,” says Cutter. “I'm so very, very hungry.” I follow Qusay and Cutter inside the academy.

“W
hat's next?” I ask, resting my chin on Sara's shoulder.

“Willie…” I love when she sings my name like that. “Stop.” Sara wiggles away from me.

“What? I was just trying to look at your list.” I sway my head with El DeBarge as he sings,
All this love is waiting for you, my baby, my sugar.
I'm hoping to finish soon so maybe Sara'll have time to chill somewhere with me instead of rushing home.

Sara reads from the loose-leaf-paper she tore out of a notebook. “Some tomatoes, cucumbers, and scallions, and we'll be done.”

I give Sara's cart a push, but the back wheel sticks. “You need a new cart, yo.” I kick the wheel, and the cart juts forward. “Y'all making sofrito?”

“What?”

“I figured that, since Ricans don't use tomatoes in our recaito.” I don't tell her about the Dominican girl I used to mess with who told me that. Whassername said that Puerto Ricans are the only people in the world who don't put tomatoes in recaito, like we're a race of morons. I quit her for that. “That's how we're unique,” I say, motioning between Sara and me. “Am I right? You making sofrito tonight?”

Sara studies her list. “Something like that.” She takes a jar off the shelf and places it in the cart. “So you were saying about Smiles…”

“He waited until the last minute to tell me he was transferring to Dawkins.” I follow Sara as she turns the corner and heads toward the fruits and vegetables. “I mean, I ain't no honor student, OK, but I know you got to go through a lot to get into a school like that. Applications, tests, interviews…”

“Geez, that was two years ago, Willie. And he's your best friend. Why are you still holding a grudge?”

“I could've transferred to another school myself if I had known he wasn't coming back to Port Morris with me.” Once I say it, I worry that Sara'll ask what the big deal is. I don't want to admit how scared I was about going back there without Smiles. Without him on my side, I didn't know if the homeboys from the block would be my backup if any hoods at school started with me. I could've gone to DeWitt Clinton or someplace like that. Turns out I was worried for nothing because everybody pretty much acted like I ain't exist. That is, until I quit Vanessa at the end of this school year and landed on Junior's shit list.

Sara picks up a tomato and sniffs it. “Maybe Smiles waited until the last minute because he didn't know if he was going to go through with it. It's a big deal to go to a school where you don't know anyone and no one is like you.” She adds it to the cart and looks me in the eye. “Take it from me. That's why I'd rather travel for an hour and a half than transfer somewhere closer to here.”

That's exactly my point, but I don't say that. Somehow it's enough that Sara understands, even if she doesn't realize it. Her stare is pretty intense with those syrupy eyes, and I don't know what to do with myself. “Smiles still could've told me he was applying, though.”

“He obviously was afraid of how you would react,” Sara says. She grabs my baseball cap, puts it on her head, and looks for her reflection in a freezer door. “Can't say you proved him wrong, can you?” She pulls her ponytail through the hole in the back of my cap, lowers the brim down over her eyes, folds her arms across her chest, and pouts. “You left me flat, bro!” she says, her voice low. “That's wack.”

“I don't be like that.” Yes, I do, but pretending to argue is fun. And Sara looks cute imitating me.

She takes off my cap and swats me with it. “Yes, you do!”

“Do not.” I reach for my cap back, but Sara pulls it away.

“Do too.”

She puts my cap back on, and we go on like this as I chase her with the cart to the register. Just my luck, Sara chooses the one handled by Blue Eyes. To make matters worse, Cutter is standing at the end of the conveyor belt, waiting to bag groceries. Blue Eyes and I been long done, but I still get nervous as those dots of ice bounce between Sara and me. Sara doesn't notice anything, placing groceries on the belt. I feel damned if I do and damned if I don't, but I'd rather do something than nothing.

“Hey, Blue Eyes, I heard you're an aunt now,” I say all friendly. “Congratulations! What's the baby's name?”

She glares at me. “Matthew.”

“That's a cool name.”

“Excuse me,” Sara says.

Blue Eyes snaps, “What?”

“I have a coupon for those chickpeas.”

Blue Eyes sucks her teeth so hard it's a miracle Sara isn't drenched in spit. “You should've told me that before.” She peers over the register and yells, “VOID!”

Sara says, “You know what? Forget it. It's no big deal.”

I want to say something so bad, but it'll just make things worse. I already done tried to be cordial, but if Blue Eyes wants to cop an attitude, what am I supposed to do? I ease past Sara and grab a plastic bag so we can book ASAP.

“That's all right, youngblood,” says Cutter. “Let me take care of that for you.”

“No!” It comes out so loud that Sara and Blue Eyes stop staring at each other to look at Cutter and me. I motion for Cutter to step away from me, and he backs up. If I had my way, we'd just leave the groceries that dope fiend already started to bag.

Without another word, Sara pays. Blue Eyes gives her the receipt, her change, and a dirty look. I grab Sara's groceries while Cutter just stands there looking pathetic. Sara drops her change into the makeshift cup Cutter has made by cutting a milk carton in half. As she does it, she makes eye contact and says, “Thank you.”

“At your service, young lady.”

We walk out of the A&P and don't speak for a block. I finally say, “You shouldn't have done that.” Why is it so easy for Sara to look that druggie in the eye but not me?

“Done what?”

“Give him money. He's just going to shoot it up.”

“That's none of my business.”

I have to laugh at that. “How's that none of your business? It's your money!”

“If someone needs help and I'm in a position to, I give it. That's between my God and me. Now what Cutter does with that money is between his God and him. Like my mother always says,
Do good and throw it into the sea.
”

“But you're
not
helping him, Sara,” I argue. “The dude's got an addiction, which means he can't even help himself. By giving him money, you just—what they call it?—enabling him.”

Sara mulls it over. Then she says, “Who doesn't have an addiction? Or at least an obsession. Everyone has something they struggle to resist even though they know it's not good for them.”

“Uh-uh, not me!”

“Uh-huh, yes, you.” Sara's dead serious. “You're addicted to clothes. Not just any clothes either. Brand-name clothes.”

“Clothes ain't bad for you,” I laugh. “The opposite. How you going to compare that to being addicted to crack or heroin?”

“Don't you spend almost all your money on them? Doesn't it give you a rush to buy them? Doesn't the high wear off fast?”

“Not the same.”

“So the same.” Sara snatches the Cutter bag from me, and we walk the rest of the way to her building in tense silence. When we reach her door, Sara avoids my eyes as she searches for her keys. “You know, Willie, sometimes you have to look past a person's surface.”

Even though I feel defensive, I keep my tone in check. Let Sara be mad, so long as she keeps talking to me. “And people also got to be for real.”

“It'd be a lot easier for people to do so if we weren't so judgmental.” Sara finally faces me. “When you assume and judge, you never find out what they are. Or who they are. And if we're not going to know people for who they really are, then what's the point of having relationships?”

She motions for me to give her the other grocery bag. I hold open the door for her as she makes her way inside the building. “So if everyone has an addiction, what's yours?” I wait for her to say mythology or reading the newspaper. No matter what it is, I'll have a thousand more questions because I don't want her to go.

Sara smiles. “Like you don't already know.” She runs her fingers through my frizzy curls. “I like your hair like this. It's nice and soft.” Then pulls off my cap and lays it on my head. “I'll see you at camp Monday.”

“Word.”

As I walk home, I think about what Sara said. What she's saying about judgment is nice in theory, but it's just not like that. People judged me all the time, especially when I first moved here. They looked at my clothes, saw the food stamps, knew where I lived, and made all kinds of assumptions about me. OK, some of them were true, but they didn't know the whole story.

The reality is we
have
to judge. It's human nature. If everyone else is doing it, you can't be the sucker singing “Kumbaya.” If you don't judge in a judgmental world, you won't survive. Not if you want to make something of yourself. If you don't make judgments, you make the wrong friends. You walk down the wrong street and, yes, wear the wrong clothes.

No disrespect, but that thing Sara's mother says about doing good and throwing it in the sea is a nice idea, but that's not for real. One bad judgment can ruin your life. If there's only one thing my mother taught me, it's that.