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O
kay, Peaches!”

“Let me explain it to you again, Autumn.”

“No. I got a headache.” Closing my books, I walk away from the table, ignoring her when she say I better get my butt back over there.

Why did I ask her for help? She made the answer too complicated. Now I'm confused all over again.

Picking up a bowl of pickles, I cross the cafeteria, eating 'em one by one. I'll shape our pickles like flowers when we own a restaurant.

“Hey.” Jaxxon stands beside me. “Smile.”

I give him a fake one.

“What's wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” Looking around, I see Roberto and wave.
I'm finally keeping my promise to him, letting him teach me to play chess in the library today after school.

“Don't wave.” Jaxxon looks at Adonis. He telling me about the time he asked him for help studying for a algebra test.

“Did you pass it?”

“Did awright,” he says, watching girls walk by. “'Cause of Mr. Epperson working with me, not him.”

I am not going to wave at Adonis. But I'm staring. “How come you don't wear suits?”

He stares down at his jeans. “I don't wanna look like him.”

I'm sorta dressed up myself today. A skirt and top — plus my feather. Peaches yells for me. Jaxxon tells me to go to my mother. Walking over to our table, I pick up my books. “I'm not mad,” I say to her. “Just leaving.”

In the library, upstairs, way in the back, I sit by myself. Doing nothing for a long time. Bored with math, with reading. I turn on my phone and watch some matches. We made it to states. I woulda, too. Going over the moves in my head while they making 'em on the mat, I get sad. Then I take myself over to the stacks and sit down.

Pulling out a book. Any book. Looking at the pictures. Laughing at one that got ladies wearing corsets
and men with long, scraggily beards, I take a picture and text it to Peaches. This yr husband, I write.

“Sorry,” she say, “for being Pattie today.”

The bell rings. I slide between the stacks, evaporating into the books, looking over the thin ones. Something about the old ones I like sometimes, not the smell or the faded pages but the type and all those big words, not that I understand 'em. Lying on the floor, under the sun, eyes closed. I wake up and he's staring down at me.

“Do you have class, Autumn?”

I flatten my skirt. “I was thinking … they won't miss me.”

Usually Adonis be trying to escape, running as fast as he can. Staying put, he keeps looking at me. I'm wondering what he thinks, what he sees. But I stand up anyhow. “See you.”

It's not till I'm on the first floor that I start breathing again. Green is for sure his color. It make his eyes pop.

Finding another corner, in the back, on the first floor. In the empty library computer room, I open my reading book. Biting my thumbnail, I read in my head, telling myself over and over again, “You can do it. Keep trying. Don't quit.”

R
oberto! Nate! Stop it!”

Their wheelchairs crash into each other. Like gladiators riding chariots into battle, they swing rulers and sticks, striking each other on the heads, poking shoulder blades and elbows. “Cut it out!” I rush into the hall, wedging my wheel in the door, practically falling out of the chair.

More seventh graders show up, steering their wheels toward the fight. They push and roll as fast as they are able. Spinning and bumping, yelling and hitting, the five of them ignore my pleas. “Marvin, didn't I —”

It's springtime. Everyone, even a few of the teachers, are acting out of sorts. Marvin's hands are on his wheels, moving them back and forth. Like a race-car driver revving up his engine, he finally takes off. A boy
a few feet from him does the same, pushing, rolling as fast as they can, while the other boys cheer. Turning their wheels just before impact, they crash wheels. Marvin flies out of his seat, and onto the floor — landing by a classroom door, he laughs. Roberto has to help him up. Since he has fallen out his chair, he will lose points, Roberto reminds him.

The other boys begin to finger their wheels. I take things into my own hands. Backing up, bracing myself, I ram my chair into the thick of them. Pulling Roberto by the collar, I issue a stern warning. “This is a school. Behave yourselves. Or else.”

Apparently they were playing a game, and not fighting. But they are here for chess club. “Not to dillydally around,” I say, ushering them into the room.

“Did you ever play that game?” Roberto asks me.

Of course I haven't. Someone could get hurt.

Marvin looks at the board, contemplating his next move. “My cousin's electric chair moves fast. Zoom,” he says, slapping his hands together. “I could win against everyone in that.”

The chatter starts up again. Chess pieces become airplanes, wheelchairs, and cars. Holding them up in the air, they ask if I think about driving, sometimes. Or getting legs. “I want a pair,” CK says, and adds he
doesn't know why, but playing chess isn't something he wants to do today. “When I get 'em, I'm racing in the Olympics.” He bumps fists with Roberto.

Two of the other young men have legs. A bullet paralyzed one boy. The other was in a car crash. They look at me, asking again about legs. “If you would like to have them, and can afford to get them,” I say, “then you should. I — like myself this way.” I stop and remember that it's true. I love my body. I love being me. When I dream, I forget.

Before I realize it, two hours have passed. Hardly any chess has been played. The entire time the boys tell me about their game. Sometimes a wheelchair falls over; a student ends up on the ground. It has gotten them nearly suspended twice. I've never heard of the game. They made it up. It's called Wheel Crash.

When chess club ends, I hand Roberto a laptop. I've been tutoring him regularly for months now. I almost gave it to him earlier. But I wanted him to appreciate learning for its own sake, not for the price at the end.

He's a quick study. His grades are rising fast. “This is for you.” I've used my own money to have it restored and cleaned. His name is engraved across the top in silver.

Running his fingers over the letters, Roberto smiles at me. “Wow.” His friends, gathering around like baby
ducks, ask if I could tutor them as well. When they leave, they bring up their game again. It's fun. I should learn to play, they say, on their way out.

Waiting outside the school for Ma, I watch Roberto and his friends still horsing around. They toss book bags and punches. They text girls in their classes, while they wait on the van, which is late. Roberto pushes his way over to me. “Adonis.” He giggles into his hand. “If … we start a secret club, will you be the president?”

Before I can answer, he says they will call it the Wheel Crashers Club Number One.

I've always played by the rules. I could never for one moment be in charge of something the school is against. Roberto will understand when he is older. Autumn never would. At weigh-ins one day, leaning into me, quietly she asked if I ever do anything wrong.

I was too exhausted to be upset with her. I'd woken up at four to finish a project, tutored some students at school at seven thirty before going to class, and worked with the wrestling team later.

As soon as the boys are picked up, I get a text from Ma. She's running late. I head for the library until it closes, wondering why Autumn is in here.

Autumn sits at a desk, with her shoes off. Her toes grip the side of the desk, while her teeth chew on a
pencil. Books would be piled up around me if I were here late. She has a notebook in front of her, and a textbook — which is closed.

Opening the book, she makes a face. A few seconds later, she's scratching, tapping her pencil on the table. It's math. I just bet that's what she's working on.

“Hi, Mrs.—”

“Shhh,” Mrs. Carolyn says, pointing toward Autumn. “This is the first time she came to study … by herself.” She looks up at the clock on the wall. “Closing soon.” She disappears. I watch Autumn. Do not ask me why. She looks absolutely frustrated after a while.

Mrs. Carolyn does not have to ask Autumn to leave. Autumn stands up, knocking her book off the table. “Ahhhh!” she yells, before she looks around to see who might have heard.

I duck behind a shelf. She leaves the library, perhaps to use the girls' room. Passing by her desk, I see what she was trying to accomplish.

In secret, I scribble the answer on her paper.

S
tupid
.

I take that word out of the jar, ripping it up. Sitting on my window seat, looking out, I put in another one.
Intentional
.

I read it on a bus sign. Be Intentional, it said. When You Want to Send a Message, Give Her Diamonds.

I looked it up while I was at the library in school. It means on purpose, planned.

I been intentional about Adonis, wrestling, cooking, and being Peaches's best friend. Now I'm gonna be intentional about other stuff. That's what I'm hoping.

Downstairs my mom is cooking breakfast. She off today. Bacon. Cheese biscuits. Sausage. Walking downstairs, skipping the last step, I smell it all.

I squeeze the orange juice. Mix in a little cranberry juice and sugarless lemonade. Cutting up strawberries, I ask if she gonna drive me to school. “Gotta see Mr. E.” Before she say anything, I ask about Malcolm X. “You ever read about him?” Online I read that he memorized all the words in the dictionary.

She seen the movie. I said I was gonna rent it but never did. Didn't read the book, either. If it wasn't so thick, maybe I would. “Let's rent it.” She sits hot food on a tray. “This weekend, maybe … I don't know.” Sitting next to me, talking about her job and school, she saying she's proud of me.

“Why?” I take two biscuits. It's nice eating anything you want.

Her hand stop mine, even while it's full. “'Cause I can see you're thinking … figuring things out.”

“Mom …”

“And you been going to class regular again … Running two and three times a week.”

Intentional.
I smile when that word come to my head.
Firstly, I'm being intentional,
I think. I wonder. Did Malcolm X use his words? Or did he just memorize 'em? Store 'em up in his head like boxes in a attic, not letting nobody know they was there? I wonder a lot of things lately. Not even sharing them with Peaches.

 

I walk into Mr. Epperson's room. It's just him there. His feet on the desk show how good the shoe shop fixes his heels. “Protein shake,” he say, holding up a plastic container. “Now. My wife thinks I need to gain weight.” Walking over to me, he ask how he can help me.

“Maybe it's too late … I don't know.” I'm rubbing my hair. Grease gets on my fingers. I stare at them, wiping my hands on my pants.

He hand me a tissue. “Well …?” He ask if I know why I'm here.

I know. But it's hard saying it. 'Cause I decided … once I say it … I gotta do it. Be intentional. Only I keep thinking math is so much work, a lot of reading. And reading and me equals … I don't say it. I promised myself I won't say things like that about me no more. Even if it's true. I won't say the words. I don't know. Maybe speaking 'em out loud (
stupid
,
illiterate
,
dumb
) turns 'em into something. Something we can't see, like poison gas, killing us. Killing me anyhow.

Standing tall and straight, holding my hands close to me, folded, I clear my throat. “Mr. Epperson!”

He salutes me. “Yes, Autumn.”

“I need tutoring! Help 'cause …” My fingers cover my face, pick at my neck, pull my shirt down. “I'm good
at stuff, Mr. Epperson….” I don't want to cry. “But —” I'm not gonna, either.

Adonis knocking on the door. Mr. Epperson is rude to him when he say, “Not now.”

Him seeing me cry would be the worst thing. Or hearing me say what I'm trying to say. I'm glad Mr. E. shuts the door. “Autumn.” He clears his throat, too. “How can I help you?”

He gonna make me say it. “I don't know —” I'm turning around to leave, but he stops me.

“So you came to compete?” He take out his grade book. “Against this girl?” He show me all of my grades. “She's a fierce competitor. Gonna try to take you down. Make you think you can't do math … since she thought she couldn't do it.” He coughs.

I read them to myself. Sixty-three. Sixty. Fifty-eight. Sixty-nine. Seventy. Sixty-one. There's even a forty-two and a half here.

Mr. E. is right. That girl who took these tests, she hate math — only wanted to put numbers on a page and sit the pencil down. “I been —”

I can't see it. Can't see ever getting better.

Breathing in deep. Exhaling. I get my words out quick so I can't take them back. “I been thinking … if I … when I …” I tell him I'm coming to tutoring three
times a week. He ask about wrestling. Season's over now. Plus my parents say the same thing they did in January. I can't be on the team till something between me and reading improve. “No kid can help me, either … with math, I mean.” That's my own rule that means Adonis is not welcomed. Peaches either.

That's fine with him, he say. Show up tomorrow for tutoring. “And be —”

“Intentional.”

“— prepared. Books. Pencils. Calculator,” he say.

“Intentional,” I say to myself.