Eighth-Grade Superzero (21 page)

“A poster party?! I suggested that a week ago!” says Ruthie, almost dropping her tomato and rice sandwich.

“You did? That’s great, so we agree that it’s a good idea. She’s going to start doing some stuff at Olive Branch with us.”

“I’m surprised she has time,” says Ruthie, “what with all of the looking in the mirror she has to do.” Hector walks over. “At least we have people like Hector who really want to work. And what’s with her name? It’s like fake Hawaiian or something. Did her parents make it up?” She gives Hector a tooth-whitener commercial smile.

“Anyway,”
I say, trying not to look at Hector, “did you come up with slogans and stuff for the posters?”

“Yes,” she says, taking a sheet of paper out of her notebook. “Here are a few ideas. Remember, these are just, like, ideas … notes.”

REGINALD GARVEY MCKNIGHT.
FOR JUSTICE, FOR PEACE.

VOTE INTEGRITY. VOTE FOR CHANGE.
VOTE REGGIE.

DISMANTLE THE POLITICAL MACHINE!
VOTE REGGIE FOR A NEW DEMOCRACY

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say. My voice is a little harder than I mean to sound. “Slogans are supposed to rhyme, they’re supposed to be catchy. And what do you mean ‘for peace'? We’re not at war, we’re at Clarke.”

“I’m still working on them,” she says, snatching back her sheet of paper. “I just wanted to show you the direction I’m going in.”

“Well, right now it looks like the road to nowhere,” I say.

“Why would you be going anywhere else?” asks a voice over my shoulder. I turn around to see Donovan cackling, Justin a little behind him, not smiling. A few kids stop talking and eating to watch what goes down.

“Shut up,” I mutter.

“This is going to be so good,” he says, snickering. “Only a loser like you could be this clueless about what a loser he is and try to run for office.”

“Why are you so worried about it anyway?” asks Ruthie. “Scared that your candidate can’t take the competition?”

“You guys are such bottom-feeders,” Donovan says. “It’s painfully pathetic.” He starts off down the hall, laughing. Justin doesn’t move for a few seconds, then he walks the other way. Donovan turns around — I know he’s looking for Justin, but he tries to play it off. He looks at me and mouths “I hate you.”

I turn back to the lunch table. “I’m sorry,” I say to Ruthie. “I’m just stressed.”

George Henderson appears with about a dozen LARPers carrying cardboard swords.

“How’s it going?” he asks. “Thanks for coming to check us out the other day. We want to hand out flyers.”

I give him a stack of the flyers I made and Ruthie puts an arm around him. That girl is just touchy-feely with the world these days.

“We really appreciate your help,” she says.

“Yeah, we do,” I say. “I just …” I feel like I need to be honest with them. “You know the LARPing may not really be my thing.”

George Henderson looks at me. “It doesn’t have to be. But you respected us, and we respect what you’re doing.”

A girl adds, “You got up on a table and made that speech, and you followed through. You’re keeping it real, and we’re impressed.”

“You may have the makings of a LARPer yet,” George says.

“Thank you, I guess,” I say.

I impressed someone. I’m beginning to feel like a candidate.

When the theme music for
Talkin’ Trash
starts up, people shut up right away. Vijay was everywhere with that camera of his; I have no idea how I’m going to look this time around.

“Even if you are not ready for day,” I mutter to myself as the music fades, “it cannot always be night.”

Sparrow chirps, “The race is ON!” There’s a clip of Vicky running, I think it’s to the bus stop to catch the B63, but it looks like she’s literally running away from the election. Vicky’s mug fills up the screen, and with a lot of head-tossing and glaring into the camera, she announces “that I have indefinitely suspended my Clarke campaign in order to embark on my quest to be Freshman representative on an as-yet-unnamed college campus.”

“Can you confirm the reports that you are going down a shame spiral of humiliation and anxiety, barely clinging to the last vestiges of your sanity?” asks Sparrow.

“Of course not. What a joke. I’ve simply realized that my skill set is more suited to significant things, not the little eighth grade presidency.”

“Aren’t you worried about breaking the cycle of leadership in your family? Do you understand that you’re a legacy? The voters,
and your mom, want to know: Are you ready to be the first campaign quitter in the Ross family?”

“This interview is over,” says Vicky, and the screen goes black for a minute. There’s some whispering and giggling in class, but I don’t dare look Vicky’s way. Then the show cuts to the requisite Justin-can-do-no-wrong clips — dancing, shooting hoops, shaking Blaylock’s hand, dancing some more, talking about opening a school store and improving school lunches, and dancing again.

But she ends with me, and it’s not so bad. In fact, it’s pretty good. “Reggie’s generating some buzz,” she chirps, and the corny bumblebee graphic doesn’t take away from the fact that they open with a shot of me talking to the computer guys. On TV it comes off like I inspire them; you see me talk and then they high-five. There’s a sound bite of me saying “the disenfranchised, the overlooked, the downtrodden,” and maybe they did something to the audio, because I sound …
strong.
They cut right to a clip of Mialonie saying she wishes me the best; it’s so fast that I’m sure it’s very edited; she may have said the same thing about Justin, but who knows? There’s a shot of me consulting with George Henderson, and since you can’t see his Sacagawea loafers or his tie, we look serious and hardworking. Sparrow interviews Charlie, who calls me a “real-life superhero” (I hear a couple of “awwws” usually reserved for Justin on that one), and she talks about Olive Branch and my “pet project to help the homeless.”

The show ends with me, Ruthie, and Joe C. walking down the hall in slow motion while they play music from this old boxing movie called
Rocky
that Mr. Castiglione always talks about. Sparrow finishes with, “A dark horse whose still waters run
deeper than we thought — remember to judge a man by the content of his character, not the contents of his stomach!” Ouch. Then it ends.

Justin walks out of the class quickly, Donovan right behind him. Neither one is smiling.

“Don’t worry about it,” says Ruthie, coming up to me. “I know you’re freaking out about that ending, but the rest of it was positive. Focus on that.”

“I thought it was good too, until the Dr. King/puking reference,” I say. “Do you really think it’ll help?”

“Absolutely,” says Ruthie, hugging me. “The overall message was that you’re the guy to watch, the guy who’s gonna make a difference. That you’re the best man, and you’re gonna win.”

“Thanks,” I say, thinking that I wouldn’t mind another hug.

“I can’t wait until your speech,” she continues. “I can’t wait until everyone sees what I already know.”

The speech.

Is not something I can do.

“You can do the speech, Reggie,” says Ruthie. “You’re not going to puke, it was just stage fright. You’re not that scared kid anymore.” She squeezes my hand and goes up to talk to Ms. A about some extra credit.

Not that scared kid? Oh yes I am.

I’m not sure what people are going to say in the halls, but right away I hear a few people say “Hey, Reggie,” and “Good luck.” I’m late for math because two sixth grade girls come up to ask me about Olive Branch.

I see Vicky taking down “Vote Vicky!” posters. I feel like I should say something, but I don’t.

Mialonie reminds me about the poster party and says we should do it soon.

Vijay has turned out to be a pretty cool guy. He sits at our lunch table, and Joe C. and I talk to him about making a documentary about Olive Branch. I’m thinking that we can get publicity from it, maybe even some news coverage.

Justin makes a big splash when he does a swing dancing routine on the basketball court with Audrey Glassman and a basketball as a demonstration of how well he works with others. I had no idea he was so dancy. I’m still a long shot; and I do wish that Ruthie didn’t hand out recipe cards titled “Recipe for a Great President” with things like “2 cups kindness and 2 tablespoons conviction” typed on the back. Not when Justin is giving people mini Snickers bars that say “JW.” But people call me “Reggie” at school. And I don’t feel like everyone’s laughing as soon as I pass by anymore.

Maybe I can take this thing.

Yesterday George Henderson and his friends busted into Olive Branch wearing fake armor and heavy cloaks and did some improvisational theater with a group of kids. Mialonie, Joelle, Cristina, and even Hector came by. Hector kind of took George’s place in heading up the city construction, and I would never say this out loud, but he’s doing a good job. The little kids don’t talk about George, and at first that made me mad, because he did a lot for them. But Wilma said that these kids have been through a lot, and people come in and out of their lives all of the time. They’re used to it, and they just “snatch at the bits of grace they can get.”

When I get to the shelter this afternoon, there are some colored lights hanging from the ceiling for the holidays, and a big “Happy Whatever You Celebrate” sign over Wilma’s desk. The place feels alive. I think people are bringing friends and family members; there are people working that I’ve never seen before. It reminds me of that first time I came in and saw George working with the kids, and there was that spark in the room. It’s a full-fledged flame now, and a little part of me can’t help but think,
I did this.

I’m a leader. Me. Things really have changed.

Carmen comes over. “I told you,” she says.

“What?”

“They’re staying around, getting involved.” She points to some of the teenagers painting with Jeff. “You brought them here.”

“What school do they go to?” I ask.

She grins at me. “They live here, dummy,” she says. I take a closer look. I can’t tell them apart from the Clarke kids. “Since you stuck with us, and you haven’t been acting all funny or stuck-up, they feel like they can be here with dignity. So, like I said: thanks.” She hugs me and runs back to the library corner to take care of the people waiting to check out books.

“I can’t stay long, I just came to find out about the next mural project,” says Hector, breaking into my reverie. “I’m almost finished with the city. Soon I can show you how something else is done.” Someone donated a bunch of boxes filled with packing peanuts. Hector looks to see if Ruthie’s watching, and she’s not, so he picks some up and tosses them at me.

“Thanks for the news flash,” I say. He rolls his eyes. “Seriously, I appreciate your help. And I know Ruthie does too.”

He smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “I hate to tell you this, but you really are a fool for never getting with her. Oh, well, your lack of a brain is my gain.” He lowers his voice. “I need some information, though. I want to get her something for the Holiday Jam. I was thinking a necklace or a bracelet. What do you think?”

“Why are you getting her a gift?” I ask.

“Because I’m smooth like that,” he says, smirking. “When I
pick her up, I’ll just flash the gems and she’ll be like putty in my hands.”

I stop what I’m doing and look at him. He laughs.

“I don’t mean
that,
‘Dad,’ “ he says. “Maybe I was wrong about how you feel about her.” He narrows his eyes. “Don’t get any ideas, though. You missed your chance. If you ever even had one.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say quickly. “I just didn’t know you were picking her up, that’s all. So, you guys are going together, like a date?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you know?”

“Um, yeah, I just forgot is all. With all of this stuff here, and the campaign, I forgot all about the party.” I pick up some packing peanuts and throw them in a garbage can. Ruthie is across the room; she looks over and smiles, but I can’t tell if she’s smiling at me or at Hector. I decide to leave early too.

When I go in through the side door of the church, it feels like someone has just been there. I look around without moving too much; seems like the coast is clear, so I slip into the sanctuary. I do a quick bow/salute thing toward the altar and head for the pews.

“Hello, Reginald!” Reverend Coles. Again: Why can’t there really be an invisibility cloak?

“Um, hi, Reverend … Coles,” I say.

“Cools,” he says, chuckling and snapping his fingers. He looks
like he’s in one of those old-school concerts my parents love that come on PBS during pledge time. “So I don’t know if you’ve heard that we’re losing Dave,” he continues. He shakes his head. “We’ll really miss him, won’t we?”

I shrug; I seem to remember a period when Reverend Coles went to the bishop to complain about Dave holding youth group during the service.

“Well, I don’t want you to worry,” he says, patting me on the back. “I am going to pick up the slack while we work on a new plan.”

I don’t say anything. I wonder if he expects me to make a joyful noise or something, but I just can’t.

“Actually,” he says, looking away, “I was wondering if you might come talk to me about the youth group.” He glances at me. “Tell me what you guys like about it, what I can do to keep things going.”

Leave the ministry?
I think, and then I immediately feel bad. He looks embarrassed and very, very tired. “Uh, sure, Rev. There’s a lot going on right now, but, uh, maybe during winter break.”

“Wonderful!” he bellows, back at full strength. “My door is always open.” He pats me on the back again. “Did you come in for some reflection and prayer, son? Always a good thing. Seek, and ye shall find. Seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you.” I’m a little dazzled by the way he’s able to turn this stuff on. He doesn’t even stop to think. “He fills you when you’re empty, with living water. God is good, all the time. Yes, He is. Rest in the Lord. I could use some of that myself.” He sighs and walks away. I notice that he limps a little.

I take a deep breath and settle into a pew for some Deep Thoughts (I hope). Something shuffles behind me. I jump up; there’s an old guy waking up a few rows back. He’s either homeless or a fashion rebel — he’s wearing a garbage bag with holes in it for a shirt and a bathrobe over it. His boots don’t have laces.

“Got any change?” he asks.

I reach into my pocket for a dollar and give it to him. “Thanks,” I mumble without thinking. “Have a good day.”

He doesn’t answer, and shuffles out of the sanctuary.

Please God, I hope that’s not how George is doing now. If God has a plan for each of us, what’s up with the raw deals? Sometimes I think life is like this big game, where we have just one opportunity to pick and there’s a chance we end up losing it all. Was there something that I was supposed to do to help George, and I was so busy worrying about myself that I let it — let
him
— slide? Did I miss out on a chance with Ruthie before I even knew I wanted one? What about Pops and his job, how unfair that was? How does He expect us to deal with all of this?

I look around the church, and I realize it hasn’t changed since I was a kid. The same statues that used to scare me a little, the bulletin board, the old organ, everything’s been here since forever — through the big fire five years ago, the Easter extravaganzas, and the Christmas pageants. This place never changes.

But I have. And the older I get, the less I understand. I pick up a pew Bible, close my eyes, and open it. I look at the page; I’m in the book of Daniel, whom I never really liked. They were always holding him up to us in Sunday school — the guy who never doubted or even stumbled, who stood up for what was right even
in the face of death, who didn’t ‘defile himself,’ blah blah blah. I like the guys who messed up a little. But it’s what I opened to, so I start reading. And when I get to the part where Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego are in the fire together, I smile. Even if I go down in flames with this campaign thing, Ruthie and Joe C. are going to march around in the fire with me, and we’ll stumble out, all singed and coughing, together. I know this. And just like that ‘fourth man’ who was like ‘a son of the gods,’ whatever or whoever it is that holds us together will be there too.

I read to the end, and then I take out my notebook. I’m going to try ‘prayer journaling’ like Dave used to talk about. I do some deep breathing and say Psalm 23, like Dave said he does. I write down some verses from what I just read, but then I forget about praying and start writing. Not
Night Man,
though. Something new. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s something, so I’ll just keep going.

When I get home, Pops is watching the Food Network. I sit down next to him.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey, Pops,” I say. We sit and watch a very excited team of people frost a cake. Pops is wearing sweats. Even when he’s only making phone calls, he always puts on a suit. “Taking a day off?” I joke, pointing to his outfit.

He looks at me and I realize that it wasn’t funny. “Sorry,” I mutter.

The team is now very sad, because their cake fell. They are going to try to make another even though the announcer says there are only 18 minutes left.

“I can’t play the game every day,” Pops says. “It’s a lot of work being non-threatening, yet professional and enthusiastic. Highly qualified, but not uppity.” He sighs. “So yes, I’m taking a day off from the nonsense.”

This is probably not a good time to mention that sometimes I wonder if we’re going to be homeless. So I tell him something I meant to keep to myself.

“I’m running for president,” I say.

He sits up. “What? What do you mean?”

“I announced it last week. Uh, it was kind of … sudden.” I shrug. But he perked up, so I sit straighter too and clear my throat. “So, yeah, I’m running for president. I want to see some change at school, and I want to, to make things happen.”

Pops is grinning like I already won the election. “That’s the way to do it!” he says. “I’m proud of you.” He’s staring and smiling so hard, I’m embarrassed. I look at the TV, where Team Fallen Cake seems to be making a miraculous comeback. “Need any help with your campaign?” Pops asks. “When is the vote? You know, I was the first boy at St. Joseph’s to be—”

“We vote right before break. I got this, Pops,” I say. “But I’ll let you know if I need anything. Thanks. Thanks for offering.”

He grins again and stands up. “That’s the way to do it,” he says again, rubbing my head hard. He turns off the TV.

“Hey!” I say. “It was getting good.”

“Please,” he says. “We’ve got work to do. You’ve got an inaugural ceremony to prepare for and I’ve got résumés to send out.
Let’s roll.” He walks toward his study, and turns back and gives me another grin.

Let’s roll?
I grin back. That show made me hungry. I think Pops forgot about dinner. That’s all right; I’ll whip something up. I’m getting better and better at that.