Show and Prove (12 page)

E
ven though the door to her office is wide open, I knock. Lost in the printouts across her desk, Barb doesn't hear me. I knock again, louder, and she jumps. “Hey, you.” She pulls off her glasses, rubs her temples, and forces a smile. “Long time no see.”

I say, “You see me every day.”

“You know what I mean, Smiles.”

Yeah, I knew what she meant. And I want to know what has Barb so worried. She'd probably tell me if I asked. Instead, I say, “Can I have the key to the storage room?”

Barb reaches for the large key ring hanging from her belt loop. “Sure. What are you looking for?” She rifles through the keys, then hands me the entire set dangling from the key I need. “It's the one with the burgundy nail polish on it.”

I remembered. Burgundy for the storage room, pink for the utility closet, red for the office. Mama did the same thing. Gold for the building door, silver for the police lock to our apartment.

“I'm helping Pedro learn English, and I figured I could borrow one of the textbooks we keep in there for Homework Help.”

“That's a great idea, Smiles.” Barb's face lights up, and my heart aches. “I'm not supposed to do this, but why don't you let Pedro borrow it for the summer. You just have to promise me that you'll get it back from him before camp ends, OK?”

“Sure thing, Barb.” I have to get out of here. “Thanks.”

The storage room is a cage off the stairwell leading to the emergency exit. Although it's clear no one's allowed back here, there's always some frisky kids making out. Sure enough, I find two Famers pawing at each other. “Busted and disgusted!” I yell. As they spring apart and hightail it back to the gym, I laugh at them. “Can't be trusted.” I'm going to lord it over them all day, make them think I'm going to call home, but I wouldn't do that.

I undo the padlock to the storage room and let myself in. It doesn't take me long to find the books I'm looking for, because not only was it my idea to organize the place, I'm the one who created the system. Last fall Barb and I made a list of every title we had here, and then we numbered every copy. From three to six every day for an entire week, I took inventory by myself. Then one night Barb came in to get her keys. “Quitting time, Smiley.”

I dried my eyes and wiped my nose with the sleeve of my sweater. “You go ahead. I'll lock up here. Just need to make sure the door's closed all the way behind me, right?” My nose was still running, and I had to sniffle a few more times.

“The dust in here,” said Barb. “It can really flare up the allergies.” I nodded, squinting back more tears. We both knew allergies weren't the cause of my suffering. “Smiles, even though I trust you, I can't leave you here by yourself. If something happened to you, I'd never forgive myself.”

I nodded but couldn't move. I had a stack of phonics workbooks in my hands, the top one opened to the page with words and pictures for
th. Moth. Thread. Tooth.
The
Mother
in the picture was colored in with brown crayon and given an Afro.

Barb walked toward me. “How far have you gotten?”

“Not far.”

“Looks like you've made lots of headway to me.”

“Nah, I got a long way to go.”

Barb took the phonics workbook out of my hand, smiling at the page. “How cute!”

“Not supposed to mark up the books, though,” I said. “Supposed to write your answers into the composition notebook so that the next class can use the workbook.”

“Yeah, that saves the school money, but it wouldn't kill these publishers to make textbooks that kids could relate to.” Barb held up the workbook. “The kid who did this had the right idea.” Then she flipped to the front cover and saw my name printed in my mother's soft print. “Did you get in trouble for doing this?”

I shook my head as I remembered when and why I did it, even though it was over ten years ago. Father Davis had called Mama to complain that I talked too much in class.
Raymond is a model student, except he's a distraction to the other children.
Mama politely uh-huhed him, but she hung up the phone livid. That night I overheard her say to my dad,
Ray-Ray isn't chatting up the other kids during quiet time to be a “distraction.” He finishes his own work quickly and gets bored, that's all.
So Mama gave me permission to go ahead in my workbooks.
You don't have to stop learning for no one. Teach yourself if you have to. Keep going.
And that's when I turned the blond phonics mom into mine. Father Davis had a fit and called home again. Mama promised to give me a good talking-to. When she hung up, she asked me to show her, and when I did, she just laughed and laughed and laughed. Told me to tell Father Davis that she had done punished me good, and then bought me my own subscription to
Dynamite
so I could get it in the mail instead of waiting on the library.

But I didn't say any of this to Barb. I couldn't. Nor did I have to. I started to cry again. That was the first time since the funeral. Everyone kept telling me to be strong, to be a man about it. When I broke down in the storage room that night, I expected Barb to say the same thing. Instead she pulled my head into her shoulder and wouldn't let me go until I was done. At least done for that night.

And for the next week, Barb and me, we took inventory together from six to seven. I didn't cry every night, nor did I shed all the tears. One night I asked Barb why didn't Big Lou and she have kids.
I don't know.
I couldn't understand that, but I knew better than to ask when I saw her eyes well up. Instead I made a joke.
I mean, not like you need any more. You've got, like, dozens, with a new batch every year. We're like sea monkeys.
Barb laughed and wiped her eyes.
I guess that's true.
And we both understood that what I really meant was that she had me.

Once I find an English textbook with the matching workbook for Pedro and the teacher's edition for myself, I lock the cage and leave. When I return to Barb's office to give back her keys, the door's closed. I knock and open it, but no one's there. As I cross the room toward her desk, I hear Barb's voice on the other side of the cafeteria. I lay her keys across the printout and take a peek. I was right. She was poring over the budget.

After a quick glance toward the door, I lean in for a closer look. Having helped Barb prepare funding proposals and reports, I understand a few things. Before copying and mailing them, she asked me to look them over for any typos, and over time, weird things like
in-kind contributions
and
indirect costs
began to make sense. Before our falling-out, I had hoped to learn more. I grab a pen and quickly write down a number on the palm of my hand.

That's when I get the idea, and I know exactly where to look.

I rush over to the door and peek outside. Barb and Cookie are sitting at a cafeteria table. Cookie points out something on her dumb clipboard, and Barb goes into a long explanation. I close the door and race over to the filing cabinet.

The bottom drawer is where we file the old proposals and reports. I dive into the back of it, to the last folder in the batch labeled
FUNDED
. I flip through it quickly and find the proposal I want. The original that got Barb the money from the city to start the after-school program and summer camp. I lift my T-shirt and stuff it into the front of my shorts.

I hustle into the boys' room and lock myself into a stall. My eyes zoom onto the
PERSONNEL
line like metal to a magnet, and I compare that number to the one I scribbled across my palm from the current budget. Not only did Barb tell the truth about the funding cuts, her own salary took a deep hit. So did Big Lou's.

Now I feel guilty for taking the proposal, and I don't know why. If I had asked Barb if I could borrow it and told her why, she would've said no without any good reason. It's not like Qusay's academy is competition for the day camp or after-school program. I saw to that when we were brainstorming ideas. Q was intent on trying to be all things to all people, but I convinced him to focus on his strengths—
turning Kevins into Qusays
is how I sold him on it. Now he and Barb will be offering different kinds of services, helping different types of kids. He just needs an example to follow as he creates his own proposal. When Q's done copying it, I'll bring it back, even though I doubt anyone will miss it.

S
miles is happy as a pig in slop that we brought the Champs to the Skatin' Palace. You'll never catch him dancing unless he's on those All American whites, and the Palace is his favorite rink because the DJ booth is in the middle of the floor. It's like the center ring at a circus, where all the best skaters put on a show. Easy Erv just put on “I'll Do Anything for You,” and Smiles went berserk.
My jam!
he yelled as he raced to the booth. He started doing the crazy legs, and a crowd formed around him. I guess I'm happy for him. Can't always be me in the spotlight.

Big Lou said it was time to break up the pool trips, but I'd rather we'd gone to the park instead. I mean, I'm a fresh skater and bought my own pair, just like Smiles. I couldn't ruin my fly outfits with those fugly rentals with the fat orange wheels and matching toe stop. I'd just rather master my hollow back.

A slew of girls watches me rehearse my routine for the competition, but out the corner of my eye, I'm scoping Sara and Cookie knee-deep in girl talk. I can tell they're checking out guys from another camp by the way they lean toward each other, giggle uncontrollably, and occasionally point across the floor. When Easy Erv mixes into “I.O.U.,” Cookie jumps to her wheels. She tries to pull Sara into the rink with her, but my girl stays put. Cookie finally gives up and leaves her flat, heading straight for the DJ booth. Smiles'll love that.

Sara eyes the skaters circling the rink, her foot tapping along with the beat in those hideous rentals. I guess they do that so no one will want to steal 'em. Just when she picks up the newspaper sitting beside her, I slip on my All Americans and glide over to her. “Hey, Sara.”

“Hi, Willie.” Sara folds the newspaper. Maybe this means that she's no longer mad at me over the Cutter thing.

“How come you never call me Nike like everybody else does?”

“Why do you want to be named after a sneaker?”

“But I'm not,” I say. “I'm named after a god, remember?” I bet Cookie busted me, telling her I wouldn't know diddly-squat about no Greek mythology. Why can't I name myself after a fly brand if Cookie can go around sounding like junk food?

“A goddess.” I got a feeling that Sara might be a little bit into women's lib. Not on that all-men-are-chauvinist-pigs extreme that Cookie's into. Just enough that I shouldn't cringe at the idea that like an idiot I nicknamed myself after a female. “Tell the truth. You were thinking of the sneakers.”

Sara has the best smile. Any other
Fraggle Rock
–looking chick, I would've told her to step off. “You telling me you've never had a nickname?” I point to the shorts she'll take off and replace with an ankle-length skirt at three o'clock. “You obviously do things to make your outside match the picture of yourself in your mind.” Uh-oh. She's getting tense. I wasn't trying to snap on her or anything, just show her how much we have in common. “What does the name Sara mean?”

Her grin returns. “Guess.” Better than winning Zingo, yo!

“It means beautiful.”

“No!” But Sara's giggling, and that's all that matters.

“It means perfect.”

“Willie, stop!”

“It means queen.”

“Close!”

“For real? Princess?” Sara jabs me in the arm, and you know what that means. “Ah, Sara means princess.”

“You knew it all along.”

“No, I didn't, I swear! Why would I know that?”

“Because it's in the Bible, maybe?”

“I guess something stuck from that one year at Saint Aloysius.”

“Why would your parents send you to a school for just one year?”

Here's one thing that igs me about girls. To get close to them, you have to answer questions you don't like. Deep questions that only a dog would think of lying to in an effort to go all the way with them. Despite what they say about me, I'm not
that
much of a Casanova, and I'm not trying to be one either. Besides, a girl who doesn't ask these kinds of questions is the kind who be singing,
No romance without finance.
I don't want a girlfriend like that. That's the catch-22 with girls who ask ill questions. They're really into you, and nine times out of ten, you want to keep it that way.

“In '78 we had just moved to this neighborhood from Williamsburg. That's in Brooklyn.” Easy Erv is now playing “I Like What You're Doing to Me.” I laugh to myself at his timing. “Anyways, we moved here in the middle of the seventh grade, and let's just say I wasn't fitting in at IS 139. So my mother put me in Aloysius for eighth grade. When I graduated, I went on to Port Morris High School.”

“You fought a lot when you first moved here?”

“Yeah, you know how kids like to test the new one on the block.”

“Tell me about it. When I first moved here, I got teased so much,” says Sara. “They used to—” She stops herself, and I don't push. I understand wanting to leave things like that in the past. What you can, at least. She says, “I didn't fight, though. I hate fighting. Too much fighting in the world.”

“I only fought because I had to. It's different for us guys. That's why I started dancing. To avoid fighting.” Time to change the subject. “So where do you go to school, anyways?”

“Saint Demetrios.”

She might as well have said her school is on Mars. “Where's that?” Just when I think I've gone out with at least one girl from every high school in the Bronx, I discover I missed one. Good thing I'm persistent.

“Astoria. Of all places, right?”

“Queens?” She has Smiles beat by a long shot. “Like, near the pool?”

“No,” she laughs. “The other way.”

“Damn, girl, you're full of surprises.” Then I realize something. “If your mother can let you go to school all the way in Queens, then she can give you permission to go to a movie or concert with me sometimes.”

“That's different.”

“No, not really. Diana Ross is doing a free show in Central Park next week. Go with me.”

“Maybe she'll let me go if my brothers come along.”

“How old are your brothers? And how many we're talking about? And are they big like Conan the Barbarian?”

Sara laughs hard at my questions until I catch it. One topic leads to another, and the conversation flows easily between us. That's nothing new for me. My rap is always smooth with the ladies.

But talking to Sara
is
different. With other girls, I don't have to say much. They do most of the talking, and I just have to throw in an occasional
Word!
or
For real?
and I'm in like Flynn. Sara asks me questions, and I have to think before I answer, not because she's testing me and I'm trying to be fly, but more like we're both digging into each other for treasure. Other girls ask me which rappers I like, but Sara asks me why I like the Sugarhill Gang and the Treacherous Three, and I have to give that some thought. The more she tries to get to know me, the more I learn about myself.

Then Easy Erv dims the lights for the slow jams. The first song he plays is “Fire and Desire” by Teena Marie and Rick James. Now that's
my
slow jam. Everybody goes berserk over “Always and Forever,” but that song's too damn long, if you ask me. I stand up and offer Sara my hand. “Skate with me, Princess.”

“No, I can't.”

“C'mon, you didn't rent those skates to sit there all afternoon.”

“I'm so afraid of falling.”

“I won't let you fall. I promise. I never fall.” I look over my shoulder. Most of the little kids have cleared the floor and have made a mad dash to the arcade, leaving behind the teenage couples and the skate guards. “We can stay close to the wall if you want.”

Sara pushes herself up to her feet, and skating backward, I lead her off the carpet and onto the hardwood. “See, you're way better at this than you think.” I take her hands and place them on my shoulders and then put my hands on her waist.

Although she doesn't pull away, Sara looks nervously around the rink at the other couples. Most of them are skating forward while holding hands. “You're going to keep going backward?” she asks.

“Yeah, that's kiddie style,” I say. “It's better this way.” Plus, if Sara does trip, I can catch her. Or break her fall. Either way, I'm not going to say that and jinx us.

Sara drops her eyes. “Willie…”

I take that as permission to pull her a little closer to me. When I feel her breath on my cheek, I say into her ear, “No different than if we were dancing at a prom or something.”

Sara and I are almost around the rink for the first time when we hear a girl's piercing voice, and it ain't Teena Marie hitting that high note. “I'm not playing with you, Smiles!” A red blur races past, and Sara clings closer to me out of fear of falling. There's Smiles weaving in and out of the couples and doing 360s to taunt Cookie with the rabbit's foot that she clips to her skates. And here comes Cookie, rushing toward us like she's Wayne Gretzky in braids.

The low static of the DJ's mic scratches the air. “This is the couples' slow skate, people,” says Erv. “Couples only. If you're not a couple, get off the floor.”

Sara and I laugh. “Why do guys do that?”

“Aw, he's just playin' with her.”

“Smiles teases Cookie because he likes her.”

“If you don't want to fall, Sara, you can't be sayin' crazy stuff like that, 'cause I'll die laughing right here!”

Sara doesn't think it's anywhere near as funny as I do. “It's like you're still in elementary school, pulling our pigtails and knocking our books to the floor. If you like us, why don't you just come out and say so? And if you don't like us, fine. Just leave us alone.”

In her frustration, Sara's holding on tighter and closer, and I'm down with that. “All I know is, one, Smiles can't stand Cookie. Two, Cookie may or may not like Smiles too tough either.” I look Sara in the eyes and say, “Three, I like you. There. I said it.”

And the second I say it, heat flashes throughout my body from head to toe. Just like the song says, I'm burned up within her flame. Fire and desire. It throws me. I stay rapping to biddies, but I never have just told a girl
I like you
before. I traded pulling pigtails and knocking books to the ground for delivering lines. Judging by the fever that just took me over, that's another kiddie way. I thought I was all slick and grown, but I was just playing keep-away with words.

“Willie…” Sara waits until she catches my eye. “You're blushing.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Boricuas don't blush.”

“Then why are your cheeks all red?”

“Because of the strobe light.”

“The light's blue.”

Before I can ask Sara if she likes me, too, someone slams into her back and sends us crashing to the floor. Breaking Sara's fall as promised, I wind up with hardwood under my ass, a head into my chin, and an elbow in my side. The first thing I think:
Shorty Rock.
But I hear him laughing somewhere off the floor and far out of yoking distance.

“What you gonna do?”

Sara rolls off me, and there stands Vanessa. She's not even wearing skates. The crazy girl just ran onto the rink in her jellies to knock us down. She lunges for Sara, but I block her. “Get off me!” yells Vanessa.

“Are you crazy?” Vanessa goes off, a spiral of arms and insults, as I fend her off and try to get up. With the advantage she has, she could hurt me if she really wanted to, but the sting of her slaps barely registers. “Yo, you better—” Now she swings at my face, and thanks to my reflexes, I dodge that one. “Vanessa, stop!”

Two skate guards come over and grab Vanessa, and I finally get to my feet. Now that I got myself together, the embarrassment sets in. If we were in the street, I'd break on her so bad. I can't believe she took this drama off the block and brought it to my job.