Eighth-Grade Superzero (22 page)

“Give a little, get a lot,” I say to a girl as I hand her my flyer. “If we demonstrate increased use of our school facilities by inviting the Olive Branchers here, we can make a strong case for additional funding for after-school programs, like a community step team.” I can’t help but think of Vicky as I add, “And in these competitive times, it does help to show a real commitment to public service on your Clarke Senior High application.”

I’ve been doing this every morning as people walk into school. And it’s working, I think. People keep coming to Olive Branch. Vijay’s gotten some great footage of youth group kids and Clarke kids volunteering together at the shelter, and Blaylock is going to use it in the package he sends to the mayor’s office to apply for that grant money. Blaylock’s first reaction whenever he sees me is still a frown, but he doesn’t ignore me anymore. And he remembers my name. We have a week till the election.

In homeroom we watch
Talkin Trash
— a “Special Election Report,” according to Sparrow, who’s perched on the edge of her seat like she’s ready to jump up and accept her Emmy award. Onscreen, she turns to the camera. “This is Erica Barrow, and today
Talkin’ Trash
is conducting Man-on-the-Street interviews,
impromptu, unedited, and uncut. We want to know what YOU think.” The camera zooms in on Vicky, walking down the hall as though she has someplace way more important than eighth grade to be. “Vicky!” Sparrow screams. “Are you ready to comment on your former campaign manager’s ascendancy? Was he planning it all along? Do you feel betrayed?”

I hold my breath.

“As you may know, I am now suspending my college freshman representative campaign to be the voice of reason here at Clarke,” starts Vicky, with that nightmare smile. “I
have
heard that he’s stolen some of my own ideas about community service, but Pukey doesn’t understand the most important part — preparing ourselves to serve well, not just doing a bunch of stuff to make us look good.”

I’m pretty sure I don’t have to feel bad anymore.

“But,” presses Sparrow, “your former campaign manager deserting you and then launching a splashy campaign himself — it is a deathblow to your spirit, isn’t it?”

“I would have to care more to feel betrayed,” says Vicky. “And as for the corruption claims surrounding Pukey’s campaign … he probably isn’t involved.” She pauses. “As far as I know.”

No she did not just do that.

Then Sparrow flashes her big teeth and chirps, “Mialonie! A few questions …” We get to watch Sparrow run down the hall in her really short skirt, and it’s not a treat. “Mialonie, I understand that you’ve been volunteering at Olive Branch Shelter. Does that constitute your endorsement of, um, Reggie McKnight’s campaign?”

She said my name! Not Pukey! My actual name on camera!

“I support Reggie and the work that he’s doing there,” says Mialonie. “People should check it out.”

“How do you respond to claims that he is using the homeless as a political opportunity?” says Sparrow.

What?

Vicky comes into the frame and whispers into Sparrow’s ear.

“And,” says Sparrow, “this just in: He may also be pocketing donations to the shelter.”

WHAT?!?!

“Who’s making those claims?” asks Mialonie.

“I can’t reveal my sources,” says Sparrow, and you can tell she’s been waiting to say that one.

“Whatever,” says Mialonie. “Reggie was down with the shelter way before he entered the race. He has a lot of potential, and an open mind, which is more than I can say for some people.”

Sparrow pushes the mic a little closer. “So you’re actively campaigning against your ex-boyfriend, front-runner Justin Walker?”

She didn’t have to say front-runner.

Mialonie gives Sparrow a look that should have withered her, but Sparrow is inhuman, and just stands there ready to chirp something inane. When Mialonie walks away, Sparrow turns to the camera.

“There you have it, people. Nothing like a woman scorned. Wonder what Justin could have done to inspire such womanly wrath? Maybe he just didn’t understand ‘a woman’s worth.’ Clearly, Mialonie is an independent woman, and—”

I tune out. Sparrow has an amazing ability to latch on to a
word and use it until she’s wrung every last bit of meaning out of it. I don’t want to hear the word “woman” ever again.

Justin is the first to leave class; he’s not smiling. Donovan scurries out behind him. I look at Joe C. “That wasn’t too bad, huh?” I say. “Except for that part about me pocketing donations. I mean, no one’s going to believe that, right? We don’t even ask for money.”

He grins. “Come on, Vicky was so obvious about her Machiavellianness that it’s not very Machiavellian. I think that segment was sweet. Justin has some competition … and you have some Mialonie!”

We smile and punch each other’s arms, pretending that we’re the kind of guys who joke like this every day. A couple of people say “Hey, Reggie,” as we walk down the hall.

“Should be a good poster party,” says Joe C. “Maria might stop by too.”

If she can leave that alternate universe she exists in,
I think. But I don’t say anything. I’ll leave Joe C. to his fantasy life. Mine’s on its way to becoming reality.

Ruthie is kind of quiet at lunch, spending most of her time talking to Cristina and Joelle (who sits with us every day now). I don’t look over at Justin and Donovan’s table. I don’t have time really; people are coming up to ask me about Olive Branch and the campaign. My talking points seem to have caught on. I did a Clarke wish list too, and make sure that people know that I’m ready to fight for the elimination of tuna tacos and an increase in the
bathroom paper products supply. I don’t go as far as promising to eliminate tests, but I do promise to create an “Assessment for the Real World” Task Force that will work with the administration on alternative grading systems and test prep classes that emphasize stress relief.

George Henderson stops by the table. “We should hold a rally right after school,” he says, “to capitalize on this
Talkin’ Trash
momentum. What do you think?”

“I think I’ll give it a try,” I say.

He gathers Ruthie and Joe C. for a quick conference, and when lunch is over, they tell me to meet them at the front door right after school. I don’t know what they’ve got planned, and
I
definitely don’t have a plan, but I’m ready.

“Thanks, guys,” I say. “Let’s do this.” I’m feeling reckless. Justin brushes by me; he turns and gives me a quick nod.

That’s right, I think. It’s me. Watch out.

“Two, four, six, eight!
Clarke students are really great!
Reg McKnight can sure relate
To what real people want and need
And take us to a higher level
So come on out and join the revel!”

“Reg
McKnight?” I mutter to no one in particular. Ruthie is jumping up and down on the steps shouting this “rhyme.” Her exuberance seems to be drawing a few people over, and I can’t
help but think that she looks … cute. Hector is standing next to her like a bodyguard, which mars the image a little, but George Henderson convinced her that pom-poms would look more supportive than demeaning, especially since she has on one of her D
ON’T
M
ESS WITH
M
E
, I’
M A
R
EAL
L
ADY
T-shirts and a miniskirt with S
TRONG
B
LACK
W
OMAN
on it. Her voice is getting hoarse, which is kind of sexy.

I shake myself a little. Focus, Reggie. George Henderson said it would be a good idea to make a little speech (“a rallying cry, har har” he called it), and I still have no idea what I’m going to say. I tried to make some notes during study hall, but ever since the Sharpie incident, Mr. Carter walks up and down the aisles to make sure we’re actually doing schoolwork.

Joe C. is sitting off to the side, scribbling, and I’m hoping he’s writing another cheer. Ruthie winds up with a shout of
“La Luta Continua!”
which I don’t really get, but whatever. The little crowd yells it back. Hector hands her a bottle of water, and she comes over to me.

“I’m not going back out there alone,” she says. “Joe C., you’re gonna have to cheer with me for the next round. I know what you said, but this is too borderline stereotypical cheerleader. Next time I’m playing my banjo. I’ve been songwriting.”

“Deal,” I say, grinning.

“You guys can work out the details and the longing looks later,” Joe C. says. He nudges me forward before I can even say anything about “longing looks.”

It’s just the front steps. It’s not a stage. I’m outside, and I’m not Pukey.

I’m me.

“Uh, hello,” I say to the crowd.

“We can’t hear you!” yells someone.

“President Pukey is making an address!” screams someone else.

I close my eyes for a minute. Then I open them and start again, louder.

“I’m Reggie McKnight and I’m running for president.” A couple of whoops and scattered claps. “Basically, uh, I’m running to show that this election can mean something. Volunteering at Olive Branch has shown me that we can do more than just the usual school candy sale or competing with one another.” I’m warming up. “Or be negative. We can help others and ourselves by getting past surface issues and making positive changes.” I look back at my friends, and they both smile at me. “You may have seen my flyer.” I hold it up and start reading. “Academic credit for doing the right thing. A literacy program at Olive Branch, with tutoring and storytimes. Walking partners to and from school for the little kids. Babysitting. After-school activities, like chess, drama, basketball … And here at Clarke, um, funding for school sports teams, cleaner bathrooms …” The crowd that came to see Ruthie is starting to drift away, so I skip the rest and shout, “Join us, the People’s Party, at Olive Branch and beyond! Let’s change the world, starting right here, right now!”

A few people clap, maybe half of them, and I take a bow and move off to the side. Joe C. grabs Ruthie and starts a new cheer:

“Get up! Stand up!
Stand up for your rights!
Get up, stand up!
Let’s unite and fight!
For community service!
Don’t be nervous!
You can help the nabe thrive!
And for A’s still strive!
It’s not about you,
It’s not about me;
It’s working together
In unity!”

They finish with a flourish: Ruthie lifts Joe C. high into the air, and that gets the most cheers yet. We’re all laughing, and I feel like myself and it’s good.

With less than a week until the election assembly, I’m still trying to get my speech together. My new notebook is almost full. I look at the stuff I started writing in the church sanctuary a week ago, the stuff I wrote down the night before the Step Up And Lead rally, and realize that there’s something there. Not
Night Man,
but something different. The transcripts are in, and I’m finished with my Listening Ears work, but I’m still listening for stories. And seeing them too — James and Veronica together at Olive Branch, the painting, the library corner, Wilma sorting through all of those donations and wrapping them up with dignity … I need to talk to Vijay about our documentary. I can see the tagline: “Ordinary People Who Do Extraordinary Things.” It needs work, but I like the concept. I think about showing this notebook to Ruthie; maybe it’ll convince her to take my writing seriously. I don’t know why that matters to me so much.

What I’d really like to do is talk to Dave about it, but since I can’t, I open my Bible to the book of James, since that was the last part he talked to me about. It’s kind of confusing — like it says you can’t have faith without “works,” but I remember all the times Reverend Coles warned us not to think we could do
anything to earn salvation. Of course, he made a crack about the Pope on the one day Joe C. visited.

Okay, got to focus on my speech. Who would’ve thought I’d have this many chances to reinvent myself? Center stage again. This time’s going to be different.

There’s a knock; Pops sticks his head in. “Working on the big campaign?” he asks.

I nod. “Um, sort of, Pops.”

“I know, I know, I’m not supposed to talk about it, but … just let me know if you need some help.” He comes in and walks over to my desk. He picks up the Black poetry book. “Have you looked at any of these?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, glad that I’m not lying. “They’re pretty good.”

“This was one of my favorites,” he says, and then clears his throat.

“Oh, and the ending—” He continues:

“Claude McKay doesn’t get enough recognition,” he mutters. “The Jamaican literary tradition doesn’t get enough recognition.”

I try not to roll my eyes. “So Pops, what is he saying? Fight even though you know you’re going to lose?”

“Well,” he says. “Why not go down fighting? You’d feel better about yourself.”

“But you’d still be a loser,” I say. “So what’s the point?”

He yawns. “I guess it depends on how you define loser,” he says. He puts the book back on the desk. “Do you want some mint tea?”

“No thanks, Pops,” I say. “But I appreciate it.” He stands there for another minute, then leaves.

There’s another knock. Monica comes in before I even say that she can. She’s holding the phone. “For you. Some guy named Justin.”

I take the phone and wait until she leaves.

“Hello?” I say.

“Hey,” he says. “Reggie? What’s up?”

I clear my throat. “Yeah. What’s up?”

“So you’ve been really holding it down at that homeless shelter,” he says. “People are talking about you all over school, how you’re spreading positivity and all that.”

“Something like that,” I say.

“So, I was thinking … Do you want to just work together on this?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“The election. Do you want to run together, as a ticket?”

“Clarke’s never had a VP spot,” I say. “It’s just the president.”

“I can get the rules changed,” he says.

I bet you can. Now that would shoot me into the social stratosphere. Hanging out with Justin, being his running mate—

“Wait, who would be who?” I ask.

“Huh?” he says. “Oh, yeah. Well. I mean, I guess it would make sense for me to run as president…. Blaylock’s been, uh, giving me a lot of advice, and, well, it just seems like it might be smoother.”

Of course. I can be the sidekick.

“I can talk to the TV people who covered that rally you missed. If we teamed up, I could probably get us some news coverage.”

“I can’t imagine Donovan liking this idea,” I say slowly. And that, I realize, is a very attractive part of Justin’s proposal.

“Donovan will get with the program. I don’t like a lot of things he does anyway,” says Justin. “And I need to let him know it.”

It’s tempting. I could be redeemed. I could finally be That Guy I’ve always wanted to be. Or at least That Guy’s Friend.

“Um,” I say.

“This way we can both be winners,” he says. “And not just … one of us.”

I know he was going to say “and not just me.” There’s a pause. It would be so easy to say yes and walk into school tomorrow under a Justin cloak of cool. And the thought of how mad it would make Donovan to see me take his place, be the guy who talks to the pretty girl’s best friend, the guy who’s protected and popular by virtue of association, no matter what. And vice president is nothing to sneeze at. I could still do the Olive Branch stuff, and I’d probably get more attention with the Golden Boy’s light reflecting off of me. It’s almost enough for me to agree.

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.

“I’m sorry, Justin. I’m going to stay in the race. You know, finish what I started and all. But thanks.”

“No problem,” he says. I wonder if Justin
has
problems.

“We could still talk about the TV coverage though,” I say. “If you still want to.”

“Sure,” he says. “After the election is over, let’s talk.”

“Thanks for calling,” I say. “I appreciate it.” And I do. The guy’s popular for a reason. Okay, lots of reasons, but I guess his basic decency is a big part of it.

“I’ll see you at school,” he says. “And at the O.B.”

“See you,” I say, and hang up.

While I’m still standing there, the phone rings again. It’s Ruthie.

“What’s up?” she asks.

I don’t want to talk about Justin’s call yet. I’m not sure what just happened.

“Nothing,” I say. “I was doing some writing, thinking about the O.B. — I mean, the shelter.”

“I thought you were done with that comic book thing,” she says. “Oh! Were you working on your speech?”

“I’m just … writing, don’t worry about it,” I say. “So, you never told me that you’re going to the dance with Hector.”

“Well, I mean … we’re not going
together,
we’re just kind of walking there side by side, and then entering the building in unison….”

“Uh-huh. So, he’s, like, your boyfriend now?”

“Don’t be crazy! My parents would kill me.”

“But what if your parents wouldn’t kill you?” I say in a low voice.

Another pause.

“Can we talk about this seriously, after the dance and the election and everything is over?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says. “We can always talk.” We stay on the phone for a while, not saying much, until we make a pact to hang up at the same time.

I slip out of the house and head to the Q train. I’ll catch heat for being late for dinner, but I go to Union Square anyway, and I’m not disappointed. He’s there, and he’s finally in season, banging out those Christmas songs on his battered old steel drums. I walk right up and he hands me the mallets like he’s been waiting for me. This time, when I finish playing, I don’t even wait for applause. I drop my allowance in the bucket, thank him, and go back home. I sing under my breath the whole way.