Eighth-Grade Superzero (14 page)

I’ve created a monster. In my own image.

“Charlie!” I raise my voice a little, and he looks at me. “Listen to me—”

“Hey!” It’s Vicky. Great.

“What can I do for you, Vicky?” I ask. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

She shoves a small spiral notepad and a pencil in my hands. They are both purple with big red Vs on them. She’s changed things up. Yay.

“Just a token of my appreciation for your vote. Thanks for your support!” She lowers her voice. “You owe me, since you practically killed my campaign.” Her eyes hold mine for a moment. “I may even give you another chance. You can start by handing these out.” She almost jabs me with a bunch of pencils.

I don’t have to take this.
I swallow my
Right-Back-Atcha!
-styled retort.
Or give it.

Vicky hands Joe C. a notepad and pencil, and he starts doodling. Charlie grabs two sets. Crying Girl cries harder. Hector returns with his cookies and a chocolate milk for Ruthie, who smiles at him like he just gave her a copy of a peace treaty. I am in the eye of the Tornado of Crazy.

“I can’t vote for you, Vicky,” I say as I edge a little closer to Ruthie.
This little light of mine.

“Whatever,” she responds, not looking at me. “Remember: Vote
V!”

“I mean,” I speak a little louder, “I won’t vote for you.” Her head whirls around. I stand up. And gulp. “I can’t vote for you because—” Everyone at the table is looking at me now. I’m already putting on a show, might as well make it good. I get up on the table and hope my zipper’s up. “Because
I’m
running for president now!”

I throw up a fist. Charlie cheers. Loud.

And that’s it. The rest, as Hamlet said, is silence.

“What are you talking about?” says Vicky.

“Uh, yeah, Reggie,” Joe C. adds. “What are you talking about?”

“And why are you on the table, fool?” says Hector.

Good question.
Joe C.'s mouth is hanging open. Ruthie looks surprised, and happy. I see Mialonie in the doorway, looking like a model; Josie whispers something in her ear. This is like being on stage, and I want to puke. I think about picking something or someone to focus on so I don’t lose my nerve, but I just close my eyes instead.

“I’m announcing my candidacy for president of Clarke Junior School,” I say, opening my eyes. “I am running for … for … civic responsibility … community service … um …”

“For Blaylock brownnosing!” someone shouts, and that elicits woots and cheers.

“No,” I say. “For people right here in our community. Kids just like us.”
Come on, come on. Think, Reggie. Come up with something good.

“There’s a place called Olive Branch right here in the neighborhood that needs our help,” I start, and I sneak a peek at Ruthie, who’s smiling. “It’s a homeless shelter, but it’s more than that. I’ve been part of a documentation project there, learning from people who are true community resources, treasures even. I’ve gotten a lot out of it, and I want to give back. People are already helping to clean it up, and paint it, and they need more. Tutors, sports clinics — even just hanging out with some of the residents would be welcome. I propose that we show the world that Clarke students
are about something,” I glance at Vicky, “other than ourselves.” She rolls her eyes.

A few people are laughing, but only a few. The paraprofessionals are coming over, looking like they’re about to haul me out of there, so it’s time to wrap it up. Out of the corner of my eye I see Vijay with his camera on me.

“Let’s do something positive,” I say. “Stay tuned for more tomorrow, when me and my, uh … campaign managers over here,” I wave in Ruthie and Joe C.'s direction, “will present my platform.” I jump down from the table just as the paras get to me. One of them jerks her head in the direction of the door. As I gather my stuff, Ruthie grins at me.

“Well, well, well,” she says. “I always knew you had it in you.”

“Campaign managers?” says Joe C. “Will you please put your regular shoes back on? I swear those have some weird power over you — you have gone crazy!”

Charlie’s standing there, looking a little lost. I give him a quick pat on the back.

“We’ll talk,” I say. I point to No-Longer-Crying Girl. “And you have to apologize. That wasn’t nice.” He frowns. As I am hauled away, a few people start cheering. I throw up another fist on my way out.

Blaylock’s office is a mess, and so is he. His tie, which even I know is too wide, is flipped over one shoulder, and one of his shirt buttons is missing. Once I notice that, I can’t stop looking at the gap.

“What is this about, uh …” He looks down at a manila folder. “… Reginald?”

We’ve both been here for nine years and there are only two classes per grade; he doesn’t know my name?

“What was the meaning of the disturbance you caused in the cafeteria today?”

“Mr. — Dr. Blaylock, sir, I apologize.” He rubs his temples like he’s got a headache. But he’s been all hyped up about this election thing, and I’m just doing what he talks about all of the time. What’s the problem? I didn’t even have a sound track like Justin’s announcement. “I, uh, am running for president, sir.”

“Oh?” he says. He’s not looking pleased. “I don’t recall your candidacy announcement, or your candidate registration forms.” He makes a point of flipping through the manila folder as he speaks.

“Yeah, um, well, that’s what I was doing today. Announcing.”

“I see. You do understand everything that needs to be done in the coming weeks? You have no campaign presence, you haven’t participated in the debates—”

“Debates, sir?”

He looks at his papers again. “Oh. Yes, we seem to have forgotten about those this year.”

“Did we have them last year, sir?”

“Ahem, that is not the issue here. Next week is the Step Up And Lead candidates’ rally, and because of Clarke’s illustrious history (and I dare say also because of my modest efforts at innovation during my tenure), the mayor will be in attendance. It’s an opportunity to showcase Clarke’s legacy as one of the nation’s top schools, and is meant for our brightest stars. I have it
on good authority that Clarke is a lock for that grant money, as long as no one screws this up. It is not something to be taken lightly, so decide now if you have the … stomach for it.”

Yeah, even though he didn’t remember my name, he does remember the first day of school, and the part he played in my … accident. I just look at him and nod. He really doesn’t seem happy about this at all. I don’t get it. What about all of that “step up and be a leader” talk? I try again. “Uh, sir? I was thinking that I would take your words to heart, and, um, become a force for positive action in our community.”

He looks at me like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “I would not have expected you, er, Reginald, to run for president. As a matter of fact, I was just speaking to Justin Walker about his plans for the rest of the year.”

“Excuse me, sir, but doesn’t he have to win first?” Talk about heir apparent. Except it’s obvious Blaylock was never the Justin when he was a kid.

“Well, erm, of course, but …” Blaylock smiles a little. “Students like that do the school proud.”

I just sit there. How am I supposed to respond to this?

“It would be unusual for me to let you enter the race at this late date,” he says. “Highly irregular.”

“Uh, I understand, sir….” I keep my eyes down. “But is there a rule against it?”

He looks at me for a long moment. Then he sighs and shuffles some papers around on his desk. It’s getting a little weird, this just sitting here, and then I realize — he has no idea what to do.

“No,” he says slowly. “There’s no such rule. I suppose that if you do want to enter the race, you may.” He leans forward and
hands me some papers. “Fill these out and return them immediately. And watch your step, Reginald. I will not have a repeat of last year’s debacle. This process is a dignified one.”

I almost laugh, but I turn it into a cough.

“And I expect you to respect that. Understood?”

“Um, yes, sir,” I say. “May I be excused?”

He clears his throat. “Yes. And remember what I said.”

Yeah, right.
But I’m feeling good as I leave the office.

Let me reintroduce myself, sir. I’m Reggie McKnight, and I’m in this thing.

By the end of the day, I don’t mind the whispers, which I’m used to anyway. A couple of people come up and ask me about Olive Branch, and I tell them to meet me there after school. Every once in a while, someone looks at me like they hadn’t known how crazy I was, and I want to say, “That makes two of us!”

I get a bathroom pass near the end of last period and head to my locker early, hoping to slip out before the rush. I need to clear my head, and I want to talk to George. When I get to my locker, Charlie’s there. “What are you doing?” I ask. “Does your teacher know you’re over here?”

“I got a bathroom pass,” he says.

“You’re gonna get busted,” I say, pulling on my lock. “You’re gonna get
me
busted.”

Charlie mutters something.

“I can’t hear you,” I snap. “What did you say?”

He looks up. “I said,” he starts, kicking the locker next to
mine, “I don’t know why I have to apologize to Anndalisa. She’s always mean to me!”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” I say automatically.

“But … when that boy was saying mean things to you, you said mean things back, and it was COOL!” he says. “And everybody was laughing at him, not you.” He takes a deep breath. “Anndalisa always says mean things to me, and everybody laughs. But today they laughed at her.”

“But Charlie,” I say, “how do you feel when people laugh at you?” Good. Classic turnaround stuff. Ruthie would be proud.

“Bad!” he says, like I’m not as smart as he thought I was.

“So do you want to make someone else feel that bad?” Hey, I’m pretty good at this.

“Yeah!” he crows. “Especially Anndalisa!”

Oh. Well.

“Okay,” I say. “Uh, here’s the thing …” I look at my watch; the bell’s about to ring. “See, that guy who was making fun of your shoes, we have a history. We used to be boys, but then he turned on me for no reason except that he’s a jerk and he’s always trying to humiliate me — I mean
really
humiliate me, and I try and try to ignore him but he’s always in my face, and then I didn’t like him picking on you, so I had to speak up. And yeah, okay, it felt good for a little while, but it doesn’t mean you should do it because it’s not really right.” I take a breath. “Understand?”

“No,” he says.

Join the club. “Um, have you ever heard someone say ‘Do as I say, not as I do'?” I’m hitting new lows. Referencing hypocritical adult sayings. Nice.

Charlie shakes his head.

“Scratch that,” I say, as the bell rings. “Listen. It’s just that … when you do that, say mean things like that, it’s like you give the other person power — superpowers — over you, like they’re controlling how you behave.”

“What would Night Man do?” asks Charlie. “Nobody could have superpowers over him, right?”

“Night Man would agree with me,” I say. I take a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll be honest. It felt good to say those mean things to Donovan.” Charlie giggles. “But … it felt better when I wore the Dora sneakers to show that I was
your friend
instead of saying mean things to show that I was
his enemy.”
Aha! “That felt
much
better,” I finish. “Because it was the right thing, the Night Man thing to do.”

He just looks at me, and I don’t know if he gets it. People are rushing by; a few glance over at us and our matching shoes.

“And Night Man always apologizes when he makes a mistake,” I improvise. “Because even Night Man makes mistakes.”

“Even though he’s a superhero?” asks Charlie.

“Yeah,” I say. “Being brave enough to make mistakes is, um, part of what makes him a superhero.” There’s a click in my brain when I say that.

I start packing my backpack. Someone bumps into me, hard. I turn around and Donovan is passing by, giving me a look that Joe C. would illustrate with laser flames shooting out of his eyes.

Charlie’s eyes widen. “Are
you
gonna apologize to
him?”

Smart kid. He’s got me. I bend down and take a long time untying then retying my laces. I try to think of something
Blaylock-ish to avoid answering the question. I search for a movie or quote or even a Bible verse to get me out of this one. Then I take a deep breath and look Charlie in the eye.

“Yes,” I say.

I walk Charlie to his classroom, and head back to my locker to put the Dora shoes inside before I leave. Some people are waiting for me there, and I end up answering a bunch of questions about Olive Branch. Veronica Cruz thinks that posters of her would be a great fund-raiser, but other people have actual good ideas. This gets me all pumped up, so I change my mind and decide to take the shoes to the shelter with me. Wait until George hears what happened today! He’s not going to believe it.

When I push open the heavy doors, my black-and-gray Adidas look right at home inside the community room at Olive Branch. But I see the rollers and cans of paint sitting in a corner and know it won’t be long before this place is looking more like
Hope Depot
than a people dump. I scan the room for George, and I don’t see him right away, but I do see Commerce Girl sitting on a chair not reading a magazine in her lap. I go over. “Hey,” I say. “Remember me?” She shrugs.

“Where’s the town?” I ask, squatting next to her and looking around. “Do you guys keep it in a closet or something?”

She looks at me like I’m crazy. “We don’t have closets,” she says. After a pause, she adds, “We don’t have a town anymore. That game’s over.”

“What do you mean? Where’s George? Don’t let him hear you talking like that.”

She looks me full in the face and it feels like a smack. “Why don’t you shut up?” she snarls. “He’s not even here anymore.”

“What —?” I look around some more like George is going to pop out from behind one of those big black garbage bins. “Did he go out or something?”