Eighth-Grade Superzero (7 page)

“I thought it was going to be different, somehow. Not so … scary. I mean, there were all these people, and kids, and whole families … and I talked to this man, and he was kind of harsh, and …” I stop. I can’t say
and I’m scared that that’s who you’ll become.

“And?” says Pops.

“I want … I feel guilty or something. There was even a kid there that I … know. It’s like I’m about to mess up, and I don’t want to. I just want to know what I should do.” My throat hurts. This is more than I’ve talked to Pops since forever. “What should I do?”

“I don’t know, son,” he says. And he hugs me. Longer than he’s hugged me in a long, long time.

I walk to school thinking of those people at the shelter looking like they’ve got no reason to keep going … but they were still moving forward. By the end of our interview, George was talking about going back to school to get a master’s degree. In our meeting at the end of the session, Jeff said his partner wanted to build birdhouses, and I watched this little girl pretending to be an astronaut. That takes a kind of faith that I’ve never even thought about before.

Donovan is sitting on the school steps eating what looks like a bacon sandwich. I try to slip by, but he sees me and jumps up.

“Pukey!” he yells. “Good to see you. It’s always nice to encounter lower life-forms. Reminds me of how lucky I am.”

“Whatever,” I say. I don’t know what I’d do without that word. I head over to the folding table set up by the front door for campaign activities and pull the stack of Vicky flyers out of my backpack. I’m giving up on Vicky too quickly. I bet there’s a way this school can help the shelter. If the whole “can-do” spirit thing can be in full effect
there,
then we’ve
got
to be able to get it together at Clarke. Maybe if I stress how good it will look for that mayor grant money thing, Vicky will listen to me, we’ll make
this campaign about something … and I might actually redeem myself.

Donovan saunters over, picks up a flyer, and immediately rips it in half. A piece of bacon falls out of his sandwich. I grab the ripped papers from his hands.

“Hey, everybody,” he calls. “Pukey’s gonna blow!”

Amazingly, people seem eager to verify this, and drift over.

“Your girl is already inside,” he says. “Talking about how she is going to make us pay for her college education.”

Huh?
A few people boo.

“What’s next?” he continues. “A kindergarten slave trade?” More boos. “V is for
vomitocious!”
he yells. I notice Hector’s grin out of the corner of my eye. “Which is exactly what you and Vicky are, Pukey.” More people come over. “V is for
vengeance,”
he continues, trying to be all Martin Luther King, “which is what We the People Who Matter will seek if you and that moose-faced hoghead get anywhere near the presidency.”

I’m glad the bell ringing drowns out some of the laughter. I wait a few minutes before I start packing up, and a couple of kids come over to the table.

“Uh, hi,” I mumble. I glance around to make sure Donovan’s gone, and then I raise my voice. “Vicky Ross for president. Vote Vicky for … victory, for … veracity, for …” I look at the flyer. “Value.”
Value? What does that even mean?

My candidate and I need to talk.

A boy with binocular-thick lenses and $1 coins in his penny loafers takes a flyer.

“Thanks,” I say. “I’m Vicky’s campaign manager. We want to
be the voice of the people. What are your biggest concerns about life here at Clarke?”

“Not concerns, exactly…. We have some ideas for her campaign platform. LARPing would be really good for English, and also, we’re tired of the censorship of the library computers.” He rolls his eyes. “We’re not all looking for porn.” At that, his friend looks down at his own shoes.
Speak for yourself.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I say. “Uh, what’s LARPing?”

He lights up. “Thanks for asking!” He takes out a flyer. “Live-Action Role-Playing. I’m trying to spread the word. People from all over create stories and act them out, with costumes and everything. A group of kids in Vermont started a national LARP organization for teens. You can be assigned a character in an existing game, or create an original story world. People think we’re just weirdos, but it’s kind of a great way to get involved in stories.”

“We use the same principles as official LARPers,” says the other guy. “It’s like we create a living video game.” He finally looks up at me and I can see how much he loves this LARP stuff.

“Sounds interesting,” I say. “We’ll check it out.”

“Tell Vicky to come to the next session at my house,” he says.

His friend grins. “Yeah, he has some love scenes he wants to act out with her.”

I try not to shudder since that wouldn’t exactly look supportive. “I’ll see what I can do,” I say again. They walk away.

The second bell rings; no time for my locker. I gather up my campaign stuff and head inside. I jog down the hall, but I stop when I see Vicky up ahead. An old lady is yelling at her, finger in
Vicky’s face like one of those mean army guys in a movie. Did I forget Grandparents’ Day? Did Vicky? She’s not saying anything. Finally, the old lady shoves a box in Vicky’s arms and stomps out.

I walk up to Vicky slowly, not sure if I should pretend that I didn’t see anything. She looks even more tired when she sees me.

“My mom is, um, really stressed out,” she says.

Whoa. Vicky’s mom is
old.
And my mom is always saying “Black don’t crack,” so if she looks seventy-five she must be a hundred. I remember what Vicky said about all of those brothers and sisters and being a “legacy”; after what I just saw, I’m guessing she doesn’t get a whole lot of support at home.

“Where’ve you been, anyway?” she asks. “I … oh, I don’t know, I kind of expect help from my campaign manager.” She flashes the smile/grimace, like she’s just kidding, but she’s not.

“I was outside handing out flyers. What’s this thing about you making people pay for your college education?”

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Donovan just—”

“Oh, him,” she says. “Hello? Negative campaigning? Personal attacks?” She gives me another one of her shoulder “pats.” “We’ve got to be ready for this kind of thing from the enemy. They will stop at nothing.”

“So, he was making it up?” I ask, rubbing my shoulder.

“I’m assuming he was referring to my Empowerment Fund proposal. That was your idea, remember?” She starts walking toward her locker, which is far away from mine.

“Empowerment Fund?” I fall into step beside her. “What are you talking about?”

“Raising money to start up a Clarke merit-based scholarship fund,” she says. “Your idea was good, just needed a little tweaking.”

“Tweaking? I said that we should raise money to help out a community organization, not for scholarships. In fact, I—”

“A school
is
a community organization. And by supporting our top students, who are the ones who have the potential to make this community great, we will be helping out a community organization.”

“But, it’s kind of … not the same thing,” I say.

“You’re right.” She smiles. “It’s better. Less chance of wasting money on people who don’t … who can benefit from good leadership.”

Time to switch tactics. “A couple of
voters
just asked me about something,” I say, taking out the LARPing flyer. “They had some ideas about the English curriculum and the library.”

“Maybe you should poll it later. If it’s just some fringe thing, then I’m not interested,” Vicky says, looking at the flyer but not taking it. “Think big-ticket issues. Fund-raisers. Honor roll parties. Award ceremonies sponsored by Junior’s. Oooh — free cheesecake to the student with the highest GPA every month! See? I just came up with that one on my own. It’s the feel-good stuff that matters, so get on that.” The last bell rings as she grabs her books from her locker. “Gotta go,” she says. “See you at lunch. And … what’s LARPing? Sounds a little loser-ish to me. No offense, if you’re into it.”

“I’m not,” I say. “But I was going to find out more, since they
are
part of the
voting
community.” And because they cared so much. “I didn’t want to judge without knowing.”

“Uh-huh, that’s sweet. How are you doing with postcards?” she asks.

“I’m good,” I reply. “But—”

She hands me the box that her mother gave her. “Great. Here are seven hundred more.” She looks at me without smiling, which is, strangely enough, a relief. “I need my campaign manager to exercise good judgment. So please, stay away from freak gatherings and boring issues that matter to two people. Your job is to get me elected. Focus on what’s important.”

“Yo. So you haven’t really talked about it,” says Joe C., clearing his throat a few times. “Was it intense?”

“Huh?” I say. “What’s that music?” I’m kind of surprised he called. Joe C. and I used to have
Night Man
phone meetings every Saturday, but the collaboration thing has been a little raggedy lately.

“Sorry, hold up….” The music gets lower, but I can still hear it. “The homeless people thing. You haven’t told me anything. How was it? Did you get any ideas for
Night Man?”

“Oh … yeah. It was, uh, intense.” I don’t know what to say, and I don’t want to say much. Part of me wants to tell Joe C. that the ideas I got have nothing to do with
Night Man,
but his comments about “that place” and “those homeless people” still sting. “I interviewed this guy … it was pretty interesting. I’m going to go back there soon — I want to talk to him more.” Then I remember something George told me. “Oh, hey, remember that show we saw about the subway tunnels? It was all true — people live underground for years and years. He said there are even informal shops and mayors and stuff. It’s like
The City of Ember.”

“Yeah?” says Joe C. “Do they like it down there? Was your guy one of the real mole people? Did he eat rats?”

It’s time for me to change the subject. “What’s up with the music? You going on one of those celebrity dance shows?”

Joe C. laughs. “Very funny. I’m still at my dad’s, working on some mixes. Gunnar gave me some equipment; he’s great. I got a CD of sound effects for movies too.” I hear the sound of a baby crying and what sounds like a police siren. “What do you think?”

“Sounds … interesting,” I say.

“Yeah, I got to work on it,” says Joe C. “If I get any good, Gunnar’s gonna hook me up with some clubs here in Bay Ridge.”

There’s a pause, and for a minute I wonder if I’m really talking to Joe C., like maybe I’ve fallen into this alternate universe where homeless people come to life and Joe C. wears tight V-necks and dress pants.

“Hey — listen to this,” says Joe C. “Andrew Johnson, who succeeded Abraham Lincoln, was born in 1808. Lyndon Johnson, who succeeded John F. Kennedy, was born in 1908.”

“Spooky,” I say, relieved. Same old Joe C. “Thanks for letting me know, though,” I say. “I appreciate it.”

“So, do you guys score points with God for the homeless stuff?”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to think about it like that,” I say.

“I know, but everybody does. It would be pretty sweet if you could get grades that count toward the afterlife. We’re awesome at getting good grades.”

“I need all the points I can get to bring up my life GPA,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “So, what else? You’re not giving up much info.”

After a pause, I say, “Remember the kid from the Buddy program? Charlie?”

“Uh-huh, the one from Target, right?”

“Yeah. Well, he … lives there. At the shelter.”

“Whoa,” says Joe C. “I wouldn’t have thought that. He, like, goes to school. And he’s not all …”

“All what?” I ask, even though I know.

“All … homeless-looking,” he says. “They were buying toys and stuff. Maybe his mom’s on drugs. My dad says most of them are.”

I pretend that I didn’t have the same thoughts about them shopping. “What are you talking about, Joe C.? Do you realize how stupid you sound? Is every poor person on drugs? What’s ‘homeless-looking'?”

“Did you talk to him?” asks Joe C.

“Just hi. We didn’t really have a chance to chitchat.”

“Um, so, I should go,” Joe C. says. “Gunnar said he might stop by.”

I try not to sound too happy about getting off of the phone. “Yeah, I have to transcribe my notes from this thing, and then do my homework.”

“Okay, see you tomorrow. E-mail me if you have ideas you want me to sketch.”

“It’ll probably be a while before I have new Night Man material,” I say.

“That’s cool — Gunnar’s going to Amsterdam soon and I want to soak up as much as I can from him. So I don’t know how much time I’ll have….”

“So we’ll talk,” I say. “No rush. There’s a lot going on. Later.”
We hang up, and I think about taking out my Night Man notebook, but I don’t. After seeing the shelter and talking to George,
Night Man
feels so fake, like one of those scary fairy tales Monica used to read me where people always got chopped up with axes. I wasn’t sure how happy those endings were when I was little. I’m not sure now.

Even though it’s a Saturday afternoon, Ruthie comes over later to study. We seem to have more tests than there are days in the week, and of course they will all be “a significant percentage of our final grades.” I’ve got a feast laid out on the coffee table, but Ruthie hasn’t opened the bag of organic carrot and zucchini chips that I bought especially for her. That’s on her; I’m a little suspicious of something called Carrucchinis!, since I’ve learned a lot about the flavor of exclamation-pointed foods from Juiced!.

“Is Monica upstairs? We should ask her about some of this stuff,” Ruthie says. “She helped me with my math homework once.”

“When was that — kindergarten? That’s about the level she’s stuck at.”

“I know you get the good grades and everything, and she … doesn’t. But Monica’s no fool. She’s been limited to playing the unfeminine dumb jock role.” Ruthie opens her notebook. “Who knows who she could really be?”

“ ‘Unfeminine dumb jock.’ Nice,” I say. “I’m sure she’d thank you for that.”

“You know what I mean,” says Ruthie. “Women all over the world have to hide our real selves so that we don’t threaten men.”

“Monica is limited by her pea brain and a mean streak that’s only surpassed in size by her muscles,” I say. “Don’t feel sorry for her, traitor.”

Ruthie turns to her notes. We read and write in silence for almost an hour. Monica comes downstairs. She glares at us, mutters “geeks,” and then heads out the door. I give Ruthie a meaningful look, and she shrugs.

I stretch. “When do teachers expect us to actually absorb the information they gorge us with?”

“I think Ms. A wants to change the whole school election system,” says Ruthie. “I overheard her talking to a bunch of teachers about how it doesn’t mean anything, and they’re wasting a good opportunity to teach democracy and social change. She knows what’s up. I thought you did too.”

“Whatever,” I say. “I’m not a politician. I’m a …” I stop, because I really don’t know. Most of the time I feel like a blank page, and everyone else picks up a pen and fills me up before I can even get my thoughts together.

“Oh, yeah, right. You use the power of the pen to make comic books that are going to dazzle us all.” Ruthie sighs. “Real revolutionary.”

I hate when she says stuff like that — not just dissing comics, but like we’ve all got to launch some big revolution or else our lives don’t mean anything.

“Or wait, I forgot — you’re also … kind of the worst campaign manager ever.” She smiles to show she’s joking, but it still stings.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re not the best team,” I say.

“You could be,” says Ruthie. “Maybe not the best, but something better.”

“Give me a break. Vicky is not about to be an ‘agent of change,’ “ I say. “And what, now you’re all on the ‘elect Vicky’ train? Make up your freaking mind.”

“I’m not talking about Vicky,” Ruthie says as she stands up. “I’m getting some water. Do you want anything?” She goes into the kitchen without waiting for me to answer, then comes back with a bottle of water and a book.

“Hey, I didn’t know you had this,” she says. “Isn’t it powerful?”

“I didn’t know I had it either,” I say, grabbing the book from her. “What is it?” I look:
Black Voices in Poetry: A Pan-African Anthology.
I flip through it. It feels old; the pages are yellow and a little stiff. A note falls out, and I read it. It’s from Pops to me; he says that he loved this book in college, and he thought that I might too.

I’m surprised. Sometimes I consider talking to him about Night Man, but I’m afraid that he won’t get it. And then it’ll be tainted, like when I was little and I didn’t like to eat broken cookies. I put the note back in the book.

“I found it on the table in the kitchen,” she says. “It’s a classic. We have the new edition with Kevin Young, Dike Okoro, and Sarah Jones — she’s one of my favorites.”

“It looks interesting,” I say. “I think it’s Pops’s.” As I read, Ruthie grabs the nacho chips.

“Hey—” I start, pointing to the Carrucchinis!.

“Please,” she interrupts. “Look at all of the work we have. I’m too stressed out to have nutritional principles!” We laugh, and when the nacho chips are finished, we share the Carrucchinis! too.

After Ruthie leaves, I could use a break, so I decide to make a trip to Forbidden Planet comics shop in Manhattan. I love that place; it’s like a world all its own, and I almost always get story ideas just being there. I don’t tell Joe C. Like Night Man, I walk alone.

When I get off of the train at Union Square, there’s an old guy playing Christmas songs on a steel drum. And even though it’s October, it sounds right, and I stand there and listen. When he finishes that “Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog” song, we all clap and a few people drop dollar bills into his pail as they walk away. I move a little closer; he looks over and hands me the mallets. No one’s paying much attention, so I pound a couple of times, and the sound is so strong and clear that it’s hard to believe I had anything to do with it. He gestures for me to go on, and I just let loose, hammering and pinging and making up some crazy song while he claps along. I finish with a flourish and take a bow, even though he’s clearly the only one who appreciated my musical stylings. It’s all good, though. I don’t even need to go to Forbidden Planet anymore. It’s one of those unexpected gift moments, like looking up and finding a mirror right in front of you, and instead of food in your teeth or a booger hanging from your nose, it’s really you, and you like what you see.