Eighth-Grade Superzero (15 page)

She sucks her teeth and gets up. “He left this morning. He took all of his stuff with him, so he’s not coming back. And he gave his table to Marcus. He promised we were going to build a playhouse.” She walks away, dragging her feet a little so her shoes make a hissing sound on the tiles. I look down at my sneakers, and when I look up, I see Charlie and his mom. She’s nudging him, but he’s not moving. It’s obvious from the scowl on his face that his mood has changed since I saw him a little while ago, so I go over.

“Hey Buddy,” I say.

“Hi,” he says, not looking at me. His mom smiles at me and goes to talk to Wilma.

“So, um, I heard, George stepped out for a minute,” I say.

“George left,” Charlie says. “I came back to tell him about what happened today, when you got on the table and everything, and he’s gone.”

“What are you talking about? He’ll be back.”

“No he won’t,” Charlie mutters. “He took all of his stuff! And
some big boys knocked down our town. And you’ll probably leave too. Everybody leaves.”

“Hey,” I say. “Remember all we’ve been through together? I’m not going anywhere. We’re a team.”

“Yeah, sure. People always run away. And I will too, one day. I hate living here.”

Okay, I don’t blame him really, but I know I’m supposed to say something Big Buddy-ish. “You can’t run away, Charlie. Just, um, keep your head up.”

He looks me full in the face. “I
am
gonna run away. And you always leave too, to go to your house.
You
run away.”

“But—” I start.

“Leave me alone!” Charlie runs to join Commerce Girl and I stand there for a minute. Wilma is marching over to a group of old ladies fighting over an overstuffed laundry bag, and I follow her.

“Hi, Wilma,” I start, and then watch in awe as she swoops in and snatches the bag away from the old ladies in one smooth motion without breaking her pace.

“Yes?” she says. “Can I help you, Reggie?”

“I was looking for George….”

“George isn’t here,” she says.

“Yeah, that’s what I was wondering. I mean, do you know when he’ll be back?”

Now
she
looks at me like I’m crazy. “I don’t keep tabs on a grown man. I guess he’ll be back when he’s back.” She drops the bag into a pile of similarly overstuffed bags. “Or he won’t.” She motions to a young woman who looks enthusiastic and out-of-place. “Charmian! I need you to start sorting these
clothing donations before we have a riot up in here.” Cheerful Charmian bounces over and starts opening the bags. Wilma marches away and I have to jog to keep up.

“But he didn’t just leave, right?” I ask. “I mean, he was doing projects with the kids, and he told me that he was going to start a sports program here. And a tutoring program.”

Wilma stops marching and looks at me like I’m still crazy, but also pathetic. “Look, hon, George is one of our more active residents. That means he does a lot to help out when he’s here, and it also means that he comes and goes. I can’t do much about it except pray that he’s staying out of trouble and that he doesn’t bring any back with him.”

I think of those bloodshot eyes, and that smooth, oily voice talking about getting high, and I’m scared. “So you think he’s not coming back?” I say, and I’m surprised by the panicky squeak in my voice. I clear my throat. “That little girl just said he took all of his stuff, and gave away his table. He loved that table. Maybe you should call the police or something. George is my …” I pause. “He’s my friend.”

Wilma looks at me like she’s known a thousand guys like me, and she feels sorry for all of us.

I shrug. “We talked about a bunch of things….” I sound so lame. I sound like someone who thought that sneakers covered in Dora the Explorer stickers had superpowers. I sound like someone who was too much of a punk to keep those shoes on.

Wilma looks over my head; I turn and see a couple of kids doing some obviously fake but ferocious-looking martial arts moves. I’d told George that maybe Joe C. could teach karate here. The kids must feel Wilma’s eyes on them; they stop and wander
away. She starts sorting through a box of dirty clothes. A couple of T-shirts are torn and there’s a red dress with a huge blue stain in front.

“Uh, do you want me to put those in the trash?” I ask. Maybe if I do some work she’ll take this George situation a little more seriously.

“Trash?” she murmurs, not looking at me. “These are donations that just came in today.”

“But …” I point. “They’re kind of …
old.”
Did people really send this crap for Olive Branchers to wear? Would I have sent “the homeless” some old, broken-down gear before I started coming here?

Wilma shrugs, but I notice that she takes a few of the really jacked-up shirts and the stained dress and puts them to the side. I just keep standing there while she sorts. The bad pile gets bigger. She turns, looking a little surprised to see me.

“Oh, I forgot — here’s that list you started.” She walks to her desk and returns with some pages that she hands to me. “It got longer. Old Crump is all fired up and he wants to do some kind of apprenticeship program; can you see about getting tools donated? Oh — and I never knew this, but Nancy over there was an actress. She thinks an acting class for the kids would be fun.”

I fold the pages up and shove them into my backpack. The wish list. All of those big plans. How am I going to pull that off without George? Why did I think I could pull
anything
off? I’m not ready for this.

Wilma reaches out and rubs my head a little, but it’s like she does it for emphasis. “Hon,” she murmurs, “you gotta understand that these people are struggling. Even the ones like George —
especially the ones like George, who help out a lot and got a lot going for them. They got a lot against them too.” She pats me on the shoulder. “Sometimes, it’s mostly themselves. But it’s real. There’s not too much we can do.” She pats me again and calls out, “Charmian, after you finish with those, I need you to come and help me set up for dinner.”

I’ve been dismissed.

Wilma is a fraud. She looks and sounds like she’s all about getting things done, but when it comes to a real person, she’s just giving up. I’m not going to give up. I’m going to do something. I look at Charlie, and even though he can’t hear me, I whisper, “I’m not running away. I’m coming back, and I’m bringing George with me.”

Dave is pulling books from the church library shelves. He jumps a little when I knock.

“Reggie! Come on in, I wasn’t expecting anyone.” “Is the library closed?” I ask, looking around. “No. But you know how it is — I wasn’t expecting anyone.” We both chuckle — nobody ever comes here besides Dave. I drop down on a couch and cough when the dust rises. “We gotta do something,” I say. “George is gone.” “Huh?” asks Dave. “Who’s George?”

“George. The guy who was my Listening Ears partner. I just went by the shelter and he’s gone.”

“Oh,” Dave says, rubbing his head and yawning. Another sign
of the apocalypse — Dave doesn’t get tired. “Did you talk to Wilma?”

“Yeah,” I say. “She was all, ‘He’s a grown man, just pray, blah blah blah.’ That’s why I’m here. You’ve got to do something.”

Dave raises his eyebrows. “Like what?”

I shrug. “I don’t know…. Find him, make sure he’s okay. Take him to rehab or something. I don’t know.” Why is he asking me?

Dave sits down in a chair next to the couch. More dust flies. “Reggie, it’s not such an easy thing to track down a chronically homeless man on the streets of New York. And Wilma’s right — he’s a grown man. We can’t be responsible for him.”

“What about all that ‘He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother’ stuff you always say?” I ask. “Doing for the ‘least of these'?” I can’t believe Dave hasn’t already rushed out to start looking.

He sighs and looks down at the patchy carpet. “Reggie, I’ve got a lot going on here. I’m glad that you’re concerned, though. Why don’t you go look for him?”

“Me?” I ask. “Come on, Dave. I can’t—” I stop.

“Can’t what?” asks Dave, sounding more like the Dave I know, ready to pounce on me with a couple of verses. “You sound like you think something needs to be done.” He stands and starts pulling books down again.

“Yeah, I do,” I say. “That’s why I’m here. I thought you’d agree.”

“So, if you think that looking for George is the thing to do, then why don’t you go ahead? You don’t need me for that.”

“Thanks for the support,” I say. “Thanks a lot.”

Dave stops messing with the books and looks at me. “Reggie,” he says, “I’m glad you want to help. I applaud your passion. But you don’t need my seal of approval. You don’t need me to help you do what
you
think needs to be done.”

“I don’t know what needs to be done!” He opens his mouth, but I go on. “I know you’re gonna say ‘All I need is God,’ and yeah, I get that … but I have no idea what I’m doing here.” And suddenly I’m not talking just about George but about life. “I’m the guy just trying to get through the day without” — I can’t talk to him about the Pukey stuff — “falling on my face.”

“What’s wrong with falling on your face?” asks Dave. Then he looks me right in the eye. “Again?”

We have one of those I-know-that-you-know-that-I-know moments, and if it was anyone but Dave, it would be excruciating. But I’m kind of relieved. I should tell him about the lunchroom today, but it’s George who’s the main character right now.

“Where do you think he is?” I ask, looking at the mangy rug. “Maybe he got a job — he’s almost an engineer, you know — maybe he found a place and everything …”

“Maybe,” says Dave.

“He was really into that project he was doing with the kids; he wouldn’t just leave them hanging.” I’m talking fast now. “He was talking about a whole after-school program. I was going to help out, and get some of my friends to do it too.”

“You could still do the after-school program,” says Dave. “That would be a good project for Clarke. I’m on the Board of Advisors there, you know.”

“You are? I didn’t know we had a Board of Advisors,” I say. “What do you guys do?”

“Well, I’m going to be a chaperone at that Holiday Jam you have coming up…. Got your date lined up?”

“I’m working on it,” I mutter. “Go on.”

“There are two hundred and thirty-seven of us advisors, including the governor. Not a whole lot gets done.”

“That’s the thing about Clarke,” I say. “I know it’s corny, but all of that stuff we’re supposed to be about, civic responsibility and community service? I wish it were for real.” Standing on the cafeteria table and announcing my candidacy feels like a dream now.

“Reggie,” says Dave, sounding impatient again, “you do a lot of wishing and dreaming and hoping. That’s all well and good, but you’ve got to get past that. You know, ‘faith without works is dead.’ James 2:20.”

“I want to have faith. But I’m not like you.”

Dave gets up again. “I’ve got two words for you: mustard seed.” When I just look at him, he adds, “I know you’ll get it. Hit the Book.”

Yeah, yeah. He stacks books in boxes while I sit there for a few minutes. I look around; the room’s looking pretty sparse.

“What’s with the cleanup?” I ask. “Is the bishop coming to review the youth group again?”

Dave doesn’t say anything for a minute. He doesn’t look at me either.

“Hello?” I say.

“Remember when I said that I had an announcement?” Dave starts. “I was planning to tell the whole group at our last meeting, but …” He sighs. “I’m leaving.”

“Huh?”

“I’m moving. I’ve taken a teaching job in Jersey. It’s full-time. I won’t be able to do the youth group anymore.”

“What are you talking about?” I stand up. “You’re just messing with me, right?” I force a laugh. “The Jersey reference was a little over the top.” Dave always tells us that he’s been in Brooklyn so long, he went to Dodgers games.

“South Orange,” he says without smiling. “You’re looking at Columbia High School’s newest English teacher. I’ll start in January.” Then he does look at me and smiles a little. “I’m going to miss you guys. But I’m looking forward to this. I’ve always wanted to teach English.”

I can’t believe this. I don’t believe this. “You’re abandoning us?”

“I’m not ‘abandoning’ anyone,” Dave starts, but it’s sinking in and I’m getting mad.

“What, deserting, then? Is that better? Let’s get to the ‘meat of the sammich,’ Dave. Isn’t that the way you like to roll?”

“I like to be honest, and I like to be real,” he says, and there’s no apology in his voice. “I’ve enjoyed working with you guys, and I’ve been inspired. But I’m ready to challenge myself in a new way. I’ve always wanted to teach — that’s what I studied in grad school. And I need to make more money.”

“What happened to ‘seek ye first His kingdom and his righteousness'?” I ask, and my tone is so nasty that I don’t recognize my voice. “Or don’t you practice what you preach?”

“I try not to preach,” says Dave with a sigh. “Maybe I’m not always successful. But I’m a human being, Reggie, not your guardian angel. And I believe I can serve wherever I am.”

I don’t know what to say. So I just leave. At least this way, I’m doing it first.

The BBC News is playing on the kitchen radio when I get home. I don’t want to get any more depressed, so I try to run upstairs without seeing Pops. The creaky step betrays me.

“Reggie?” he calls. “I’ve been waiting for you. Come in here.”

I drag myself into the kitchen. He’s standing over the stove. “Can you run to the store and get some sugar? I need it for the meat sauce.”

“Can’t we just do without it?” I ask. “I just got home, and it’s been a long day.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Eighth-grade High-Powered Executive,” he says. “I didn’t realize that you had it so tough.”

“You never do,” I say without thinking. Oops.

Pops stirs his meat sauce, and then points to the five-dollar bill on the counter. I sigh, grab it, and head back out.

I skip the fancy new organic market because I’m not in the mood to be followed around by the woman who thinks I’m going to steal her jars of imported whatever. I go to Ralph’s Bodega and grab a box of sugar and a bag of plantain chips for myself, along with the
Brooklyn Courier
and
Our Time Press,
the free papers that keep my parents grumbling over the State of Black America. When I get back, I drop the sugar on the counter and
start to head to my room. I figure he’s going to send me there anyway.