Eighth-Grade Superzero (11 page)

I asked Ruthie if she wanted to walk home together today, and she acted like I should have made an appointment or something. So I wait quietly at her locker while she talks to Cristina Rodriguez, who keeps giving me dirty looks.

“We should get our Little Buddies together for a playdate,” says Ruthie when we finally head outside. “They’d be so cute.” “You’re such a girl,” I say.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you — Ida’s home, and she says hi.” Ruthie’s big sister Ida is a freshman at Cornell and she is beautiful. So beautiful that to call her hot would be an insult. So gorgeous that you forget she has a name like Ida. The crazy thing is that she used to look just like Ruthie.

We walk down Lafayette Avenue without talking for a while. I am not going to ask about her “date” with Hector. We pass Gruenwald’s Market, and I laugh. “Remember when we read the diary of Anne Frank in third grade and you stormed into Gruenwald’s to demand accountability for the Holocaust?”

Ruthie grimaces. “Don’t remind me. I still buy stuff there just because I feel guilty.”

We’re passing the playground, and kids are screaming and
running around like they just got released from Rikers instead of school.

“Hey,” I say. “Thanks for encouraging me to do the Buddy thing. That was … deep when I found out Charlie lived at Olive Branch.”

Ruthie nods. “He’s a nice kid. Reminds me of a little you.”

“His mom came up to me to thank me, and I don’t even know what for,” I say. “It’s not like I’m doing much of anything.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “There’s something going on at the shelter. Like there was already a spark, but it’s gotten bigger. My Listening Ears partner told me that the youth group is bringing a new energy to the place. And I mean, maybe you don’t see it, but Charlie lights up like a Christmas tree every time he sees you.”

“I wish we could do more stuff together,” I say. “But homework is killing me. How are we supposed to give them wisdom if we don’t have time to absorb it ourselves?”

“I took my Buddy Jamila to rallies at the UN and the Botanic Gardens,” says Ruthie, all sunny and smug. “Tomorrow we’re going to the Carousel in Central Park.”

“You don’t need me to tell you to shut up, do you?” I ask. As she opens her mouth, I cover it. “Rhetorical, Ruthie. Rhetorical.”

“Don’t hate, congratulate,” she says, all proud like she’s saying something cool, and not something that was in when Pops was in “primary school.” Then she gasps. “Oh my God, look!”

It must be something big to make St. Ruthie forget to say “gosh.” I see my Little Buddy Charlie curled up on the sidewalk next to the playground gate. Donovan’s standing over him and a bunch of other kids are there, laughing. For once, I don’t think; I
just run over and pull Charlie up. “What the — what’s going on? Are you okay? What happened?”

Charlie’s doing the usual — gasping, snot, hiccups. I scan the group for clues about what happened. Hector wanders over and shouts “Fight!”

A little boy raises his hand. “Um, he was talking about his shoes.”

I’m guessing the first “he” was Donovan. I look at Charlie’s feet and he’s wearing … Dora the Explorer sneakers.

Oh.

Charlie looks the way I feel after a Donovan encounter. And he’s a little kid! He’s five years old and already he’s broken.

I turn to Donovan. “Why don’t you pick on a personage of your own size? Oh wait — I guess you’re doing that.”

Score! That gets a big laugh from the crowd, which has gotten bigger since Hector yelled “fight.” Surprise knocks most of the mean from Donovan’s face.
Yeah
, I think.
I’m saying something today. And yeah, I got help from a book my mom gave me, but you don’t know that.

I continue: “You mad that he’s got your girlfriend’s picture on his shoes?” That one’s a little weaker, but the crowd’s with me so they laugh anyway. Donovan snorts.

“Whatever, Pukey. Of course you’re gonna defend
her
— oh, I mean him. He’s like your Mini-Me; it must be like looking in a mirror.”

“At least I don’t crack mirrors,” I say. Getting weaker; I need to end this.

“Why are you hiding out with the babies anyway, Pukey?” Donovan sneers. “I never see you handling your election business.
Scared of the spotlight, maybe? Afraid you’re gonna have to get up on that stage again?” He turns to the crowd. “Puke alert avoided! Don’t worry about bringing your protective gear to the election assembly!” He smirks. “You are the most ghost campaign manager ever. You don’t have her back at all.”

He’s got me there. Charlie’s stopped crying; he’s actually standing next to me with his fists balled up like he’s about to do something. In my head, I hear George say,
Don’t give up on the superhero thing, smart boy.

I turn back to Donovan. “You should talk. You’re trying to be big and bad with a kindergartener. And you wouldn’t even exist without Justin. You feed off him, parasite. It’s like you need him to be a human being, and you’re a pretty commiserable excuse for that. By the way, where’s your boy now? Maybe he’s having second thoughts about you.”

More than a few
ooohs
and I hear one “Is ‘commiserable’ a word?”

“Whatever,” he says, and that’s when I know I’ve won. He turns away first, and walks off alone.

“You okay?” I ask Charlie. He nods. I pick up his backpack, which I realize is brand-new and just like mine. “Come on,” I whisper. “Don’t look anybody in the eye.” We walk away from the crowd. I know Ruthie will understand that I’m not dissing her by leaving. “Don’t look back,” I mutter. “I’ll walk you home.”

He’s staring at me like I’m Night Man. And I look at him, at those ridiculous shoes, and just like Night Man, I know what I have to do.

“So … I couldn’t find my size,” I say, since my oblivious friends haven’t glanced at my feet.

“What?” says Ruthie, pulling out her iPod earplugs. “I’m trying to catch up on my BBC News broadcasts before school starts.”

“Listening to no-longer-current events,” Joe C. says. “Always productive.”

I sigh and point to my shoes. They look. And say nothing. I’m feeling a little less confident than I did at home this morning. It helped that Monica was already gone when I left the house.

“Uh … did you puke your brains out again or something?” says Joe C. finally.

“Ha ha,” I say, but the second “ha” catches in my throat a little. Maybe turquoise high-tops with orange stripes are a little over the top. It was the cheapest color, but they seem like they’re glowing now, especially with the picture of Dora the Explorer on the toe.

Ruthie gets it and grins. She wraps herself around me, laughing. “You are the best. I should have thought of that.” She looks at my sneakers again. “How did you find those?”

“I made them,” I say, realizing that it’s been a while since she’s hugged me. “I took Charlie to Cold Stone Creamery after school. Those sneakers he had came out of a donation van the other day. And he was going on and on about how much he loved Dora and Boots and should he like somebody else instead, and he cried some more. I felt so bad.”

“So you decided to reveal your crush on Dora too?” Joe C. shakes his head. “I knew Mialonie had competition, I just thought it was three-dimensional.”

“Donovan was looking for another way to get to me, so he started on Charlie.”

“I don’t know if it was about you,” shoots back Joe C. “The boy was wearing Dora shoes. And now you are too.”

“I want to know how you made them,” says Ruthie.

“Stickers, mostly. And stencils … they have a bunch of stuff at Target.” I shrug and try to look casual. I don’t think it works because they both start giggling. I look down at my sneakers and laugh too. They are almost completely covered with images of Dora and that stupid monkey friend of hers. Charlie went on and on about the monkey yesterday.

“I know I look ridiculous,” I say. “But I don’t care.” At Joe C.'s skeptical look, I nod. “Okay, I care. But I care more about that look I saw on Charlie’s face. I’m tired of Donovan’s persecution party. I’m tired of the way every little thing we do has to get picked apart and judged and categorized. I mean, he’s only a little kid. Does it have to start that early?”

Ruthie nods. “Standing up for the downtrodden. I’m so proud of you, I’ll forgive you for shopping at a chain store that doesn’t respect the basic human rights of its labor force.”

The first bell rings and Charlie comes running up. “Reggie! Reggie, look! I told my mom what happened and look what she got me!”

He’s wearing Spider-Man sneakers.

Charlie wants to go home to the Olive Branch and switch back to the Dora sneakers, but I tell him it’s okay. Donovan’s not at school, and that helps. Ruthie says that the story got around and people are on my side. Maybe. I get a lot of looks, but I can’t read them. After a while, I just look back. As the morning goes on, I walk through the halls without hoping for invisibility and I toss Hector a bunch of pens before he even asks.

By lunch, I sit down to eat my tuna salad sandwich without worrying about who’s watching. Just as I pull my Night Man notebook out so I can fake it in case Joe C. asks if I’ve done anything new, Vicky slams her stuff down next to me.

“Are you kidding me?” she says. “Really? Please tell me this is some misguided joke.”

I don’t pretend I don’t know what she’s talking about; I wish I could pretend I don’t know who she is. “Some stuff went down yesterday with my Little Buddy Charlie and Donovan at the playground,” I begin. “And—”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard,” she says. “Donovan punked you again and your Little Buddy’s a girl. Whatever. You have a campaign to represent.”

“Vicky, you are such a—” I start, as Sparrow runs up and almost sticks her microphone in my mouth. Vijay follows, but for once his camera isn’t on.

“Pukey — the public needs to know — what’s with the shoes?” she asks, all breathless like she’s reporting on a hurricane or something.

“My name is Reggie,” I say. “Is this a slow news day or something?”

“Get some close-ups of his feet,” she orders Vijay, before turning back to me. He ignores her. “Where exactly does an eighth-grade boy get those shoes? And is there some sort of significance to your apparent Dora the Explorer obsession?” Without waiting for an answer, she turns to Vicky. “Vicky! Is there a particular message that you’re trying to send with your campaign manager’s shoes?”

“This has nothing,” Vicky starts, “absolutely
nothing
to do with my campaign.” She throws me a glare and leaves. Sparrow runs after her. She doesn’t notice that Vijay isn’t following. He gives me a nod and walks away.

My friends haven’t arrived yet, and my tuna salad sandwich has raisins, celery, red onions, and carrots, so I dig in.

“That looks good,” says a female voice behind me.

I gulp, and some of my tuna salad falls onto the table. I turn. It’s Mialonie. I can’t help it; I move my feet a little more under the table in case she hasn’t given me a pass.

“Um, yeah, it is. My mom made it.” Why do I have to go and mention my mom? It’s like I am determined to kill any suave potential with extreme geekery. “Do you want some?” I hold up a triangle. More tuna salad falls on the table.

“No thanks,” she says.
And sits down next to me.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you, I liked what you said that day. About civic responsibility.” She checks the table before she puts her stack of books down.

I look in the general direction of her face. “Oh, uh … really?” I smile a little, and aim closer to her eyes. “I didn’t say much.”

Mialonie smiles back. “But I can tell … there’s more.”

There’s a long pause. Can she hear me swallowing? I notice that the top book in her stack is called
Be Extra: How To Be Yourself Plus (For Tweens and Teens)!
What more does she think she needs?

I point to the book. “Plus what?” I ask.

“Plus everything,” she answers, and she must have swallowed the sun at some point today because she is dazzling like you wouldn’t believe. “It’s about going beyond, not being satisfied with your own status quo.”

“Oh.” I nod like I know what she’s talking about.

“We should talk. It would be so good for you.”

You
would be so good for me.

“You’ve changed so much since … school started,” she says. “This book tells you how to talk, dress, even eat in a more productive way so that you can maximize your potential.” She pauses and smiles. “And you do have potential.”

Just having this conversation makes me feel like I’m getting to wear the superhero cape for a while. I smile back even though I can’t think of anything to say.

“What’s
that?”
She points to my Night Man notebook.

Oh. So much for being more powerful than a locomotive. I’ve got my own social kryptonite on display.

“Nothing,” I say, turning the notebook over. “Just some ideas … fooling around.”

“ ‘Night Man’ — is that a superhero? Is he classic, like Lobo or Luke Cage? Or more Black Thunder or Agent 355?”

I forget to think and look her full in the face. “How do you—” I stop, because I realize how stupid my question is going to sound. But still … Mialonie is into comics?

“Are you Marvel or DC?” she says, shrugging. “I’m DC all the way. I guess I’m just old-school like that.”

“Um. I like both,” I say. “I mean, DC can be kind of corny, but they had John Stewart. Marvel had Lucas Bishop, so …”

She raises one eyebrow in a way that I didn’t think could happen in real life. “Oh, are you too cool to pledge allegiance to one or the other?”

I shrug, because we both know
that’s
not the case. I’m tired of feeling off balance, so I say, “And of course, there was Spawn.”
This is a game I can play.

“Yeah, McFarlane’s good,” she says, casually dropping the name of the Image Comics creator. “He makes you think.” She points to my Night Man notebook. “So tell me about Night Man.” Her nails are sparkly.

“I made him up when I was just a kid,” I say, trying to emphasize what a long time ago that was. “He’s, uh, homeless, and that’s all people see, this street bum … but he’s holding it down in this whole underground city. But like I said, I was just a kid when I started this. Now that we’ve been going to the shelter — it’s different.”

“Yeah, I can imagine…. Can I read it sometime?” she asks. “Maybe we can collaborate.”

“You for real?” My voice goes up at the end of the question, but still, it’s not quite a squeak.

She gets up. “That’s all I ever am,” she says. She sits a few seats away and starts whispering to Josie. They both smile, and so do I. Even if I haven’t worked on
Night Man
in a long time, he’s working for me in surprising ways.

I think these shoes give me power. For the rest of the day, I’m floating. In chemistry, I don’t hear Mrs. Rostawanik call on me three times to recite my epic poem based on the periodic table (progressive, integrated curriculum = weird assignments). No “Pukeys” all day. After last period, Charlie brings a couple of little kids over to my locker to meet me, and he makes the words “Big Buddy” sound like “President of the Universe.” I feel too good to go home; Joe C. is going beatboxing or something with Gunnar, and Ruthie is going to the Brooklyn Museum with Cristina Rodriguez, so I decide to swing by Olive Branch unannounced. Wilma says that we’re always welcome. I can finish interviewing George, and today I’ve got my own story to tell.

When I get there, I notice that the cardboard box town is growing, and Commerce Girl giggles when I ask if she’s the mayor. I catch George’s eye and we head over to our corner.

I figure my sweaty foot funk will go unnoticed here, so I take off one of the Dora shoes and hand it to George.

“Check it out,” I say to him. “Would you believe that Dora the Explorer took down my nemesis?”

George holds my shoe, turning it over and staring like he’s memorizing it.

“Nice work,” he says. “Didn’t realize you were that much of a fan. I know a guy who can set you up with the whole series on DVD for five dollars, if you want. Including unreleased episodes.”

“No thanks,” I say quickly. I point to Charlie, who’s playing tag with a group of girls. “I just did it for him. This guy I know was making fun of him at school, just ripping him apart because he had on Dora shoes. It made me sick.”

George hands back my shoe. “Put your shoe on, boy. You realize how funky your feet are?”

“So for once I didn’t just stand there,” I continue as I slide my foot back into the shoe. “I said something this time.” I laugh. “And he didn’t like that at all.”

“I guess things are getting better,” murmurs George, looking down at his own black old-man shoes. “I remember the days when we were killing each other for shoes.” He looks up at me, and I wonder how he can see out of eyes so bloodshot.

“So, you said something. Good. Elaborate … what’d you say?”

I pause. “I don’t know. You know … I just kind of told him off.” Maybe I need to write the whole thing down, because the details are getting fuzzy already.

“Okay,” he says. “So you made a statement. And you’re making one now, with the shoes.”

“I didn’t even think about what I was doing,” I say. “I just … did something.”

“So now that you’ve had a chance to think,” George says, “what’s next?”

Can’t I just have my moment? I shrug.

Something flashes across his face, but then he smiles. “I’m proud of you.” I grin. “Are you proud of yourself?”

“Well … yeah!” I say. “I’m glad I could be there for Charlie. That’s mostly what matters.”

“Mostly?” he asks.

“I mean … I was just having his back … I wasn’t thinking about making any statement,” I say. “That’s not really me.”

“What’s really you, Reggie?” George asks, and then he points to my shoes. “That?”

I shrug again. I wish we could have stayed on the “I’m proud of you” track. George closes his eyes and we sit for a while, until I wonder if he’s asleep.

“I saw that wish list thing you put up,” he says. “I was working with the kids the other day, and I had some ideas for an after-school program. Maybe you and your smart friends could come do some tutoring, get these kids involved in some sports…. I got a few notes together,” he says, rummaging around in the gym bag on the floor. “And you’ve got some elders here who could teach all y’all some real stuff.”

“I know! I was thinking the same thing,” I say. “Ruthie told me that her partner told her about something called Friday Freedom School that old — I mean, where people used to teach about activist movements and community leaders. The youth group is going to start painting this whole place in a few weeks. Jeff saw us doing that little cardboard city thing, and he had an
idea for a mural based on it. And maybe my school could open up the gym on the weekends and stuff so kids from here could come and use it.”

“I’m proud of you,” he says again suddenly. “Let’s go celebrate.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet and I can see the duct tape holding it together. “A big bag of those chips you like,” he says. “My treat.”

“Better than a five-course meal,” I say, smiling.