Simon B. Rhymin'

by Dwayne Reed

  MATH’S HARD! FLASH CARDS?

  NO WAY, NO THANKS!

  ALL THOSE QUOTES AND STICKY NOTES—NOPE, NOPE, NOPE!

  Camille is probably just trying to scare us like her and her friends always do. And Maria’s love of fancy quotes and school supplies makes me feel kinda low. I guess I’m not really excited for school like she is.

  I pull my new all-blue book bag tighter onto my back, squeezing the shoulder straps, and feel the gold Black Panther pin I attached to it press against the inside of my hand. It’s already too heavy, filled with proof that Moms overdid it once again. I didn’t do everything Maria did last night, but by the weight of this thing, I know something in there will work.

  Just then, C.J. runs up, breathing extra hard and wiping sweat off his forehead. Of course he ran all the way here. We all look at one another and bust out laughing. C.J.—short for Cornelius Jeremiah—is always a hilarious dude to look at with his lopsided T-shirt and shorts riding up his butt after an almost-late morning school hustle. His first-day look ain’t no different than any other: This morning he’s rockin’ his favorite yellow Goku tee, his dad’s hand-me-down dark red basketball shorts, and mismatched Steven Universe socks inside a pair of classic high-top Chucks that he probably won’t ever stop wearing until they’re so old his feet rip through the soles and his toes are barking through the front. He made sure to seal the look with his signature high-top fade and an extra-crispy side part right above his left eyebrow.

  MY BIG HOMIE C.J., AS COOL AS IT GETS,

  SO CONFIDENT, FROM HIS HAIR TO HIS ’FITS,

  A HILARIOUS DUDE, FUNNY DOWN TO HIS BONES,

  I’M GLAD HE’S MY FRIEND, CORNELIUS JONES.

  “Whoo, I made it!” C.J. says, smiling and opening a medium-sized bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. I’m pretty sure he loves them just about as much as he loves anime, playing ball, and watching Saturday morning cartoons while FaceTiming us from the couch leaned over a bowl of Fruity-O’s. He low-key probably loves eating Flamin’ Hots just as much as he loves old-school Derrick Rose. So… that means, A LOT. He pulls out a handful and stuffs them in his mouth all at once. You’d think he didn’t have breakfast like he does every morning with his little sister, but we know this is just Breakfast: Part Two. “Y’all know you want some. Corn and cheese are breakfast foods, don’t be lookin’ at me all funny.” We crack up at this speech we’ve heard a million times.

  I’ve been friends with C.J. since I was really little, so we’re basically cousins. That’s how it is on the West Side—anybody that’s not your cousin can still be your cousin if they’ve known your family long enough. It’s weird, but it’s a thing. I even call his mom Auntie Sharon. But that’s also because I’d have big problems with my mom if I called a grown-up just by their first name. And I don’t want those problems. C.J.’s tall and big, so people think he’s tough. But the joke’s on them, because he’s kind of like a teddy bear, actually, and he loves watching Disney movies, on top of his regular cartoon faves, with his little sister. But I’m not snitchin’ on him because I don’t mind other kids thinking C.J. is a big, bad part of the Notorious D.O.G. squad. I want kids to think he’s like my security or something—especially kids like Bobby Sanchez.

  “Hey, Simon. Did you get any taller over the summer? They’re probably gonna send you back to kindergarten for being so short, so I don’t even know why you’re in the fifth-grade line, bruh!” Bobby teases, jabbing his elbows into his friends’ sides, egging them on to laugh. Bobby has walked up with his friends Justin Cook and Victor G., and they both look at me and laugh a little too hard along with their leader. All three of them are dressed like it’s basketball season—Bobby in his usual extra-long white tee, some vintage-looking Pistons shorts, and what look like hand-me-down all-white Air Force 1s—even though all of them would be better talkin’ stuff on the sidelines. They’re the kind of kids who make a lot of noise wherever they go, even if they’re not really saying anything anybody else wants to hear.

  I try to think of something—anything!—to say back to Bobby, but the words just won’t come out of my mouth.

  SEE, I CAN’T STAND THIS STUFF,

  BOBBY SANCHEZ ALWAYS MAKING THINGS TOUGH,

  PICKING ON ME CUZ I’M SMALLEST IN THE GROUP,

  WISH I HAD THE GUTS TO STAND UP TO HIS CREW!

  I’D SAY SOME OF THIS AND PROBABLY SOME OF THAT,

  THEN EVERYONE WOULD LAUGH AT MY FUNNY CLAPBACKS.

  BUT THAT AIN’T ME, I’M THE NICE ONE, SEE?

  SMALL GUY, BIG HEART, NOTORIOUS D.O.G.

  Briiiiing! Briiing!

  Now here’s the bell. Oh, class. School. Right.

  CHAPTER 3

  WELCOME, SCHOLARS!

  These words are written across the whiteboard in big, bold letters. Scholars? Most teachers at Booker T. call us plain ol’ students. Ms. Berry, the principal, sometimes tries out citizens of the school community, and we once had a really old substitute teacher who kept calling us pupils (what IS that, though?), but no one has used the word scholars. This guy already seems weird, but when we walk in he shakes all of our hands and looks us in the eyes. He seems like he’s actually hype to see us. Weirder. But his smile makes me feel kind of okay. A teacher that looks as young as he does who calls us scholars wouldn’t pull some big project business on the first week. Right?

  “Good morning, 5-B!” the guy, our teacher, Mr. James, says with a huge grin on his face. Mr. James looks way younger than Dad and only a little bit older than my big brothers—so, young for a teacher—and is wearing a bright red bow tie and tennis shoes. Bold move. Some of the other kids look confused, piling into our new classroom with desks that don’t have names stuck to them in bright colored letters like every other year. I grab the desk one row behind Maria, who sits in the front, as always. From behind her big curly hair that Ms. Estelle pulled into a big puff at the top, I watch Mr. James walk around the room, waiting for us to say something back.

  “Morning,” a few of my classmates barely whisper, like they’re still half asleep and mostly scared. Mr. James smiles all by himself, looking like he thinks it’s funny.

  “Good morning, Mr. James!” Maria says in her loudest, perkiest voice. She can’t help herself. It almost looks like she’s gonna jump out of her seat.

  “Maria, Camille Rivera’s little sister! I’m expecting excellent work from you. Your sister set the bar high.” Maria smiles at the compliment. She’s proud of her hermana—and anything that’ll save her a spot as the teacher’s favorite, early. I’m cool with the distraction while I look around at the walls covered in pictures of little kids from other classes Mr. James had before us. I know they’re his classes because he’s in so many of them, leaned over desks, pointing to whiteboards, and high-fiving like it’s the best day ever, dressed in a different-colored bow tie and matching sneakers like it’s his own special uniform. The rest of the room looks like half a box of crayons exploded on the walls. The wall where we came in is a bright red just like Mr. James’s tie, and the wall in the back is a dark yellow, Maria’s favorite. The wall with all the windows is a dark green, which makes it look like it’s blending in with the trees outside, and the wall behind Mr. James is a bright blue covered in random quotes. We all sit like rows of brown crayons in a box facing the front—following Mr. James’s every move, careful not to do anything to make him call our names. He walks to the middle of the floor where the big aisle he’s made with the desks is and puts one of his sneakers up on a chair. The biggest of the blue wall quotes is taped above his head: I KNOW I CAN.

  “Everyone, take a look at the whiteboard and repeat after me: I’m more than a student, I’m a scholar!” Mr. James excitedly raises his hands up in the air, trying to get a bunch of us to follow along. Nobody moves at first just in case it’s some type of fifth-grade trick our big brothers and sisters ain’t tell us about. Plus, it’s too early for this!

  “I’m more than a student, I’m a scholar,” Maria and about two other kids say, Maria’s words sou
nding like a nursery rhyme. She’s ruining it for the rest of us. Mr. James’s corny smile stays the same for a second and then gets bigger. Another joke none of us can hear. It almost seems like he enjoys the challenge.

  “C’mon now. Y’all gon’ have to do better than that! Again, repeat after me: I’m more than a student, I’m a scholar!” This time, instead of just raising his hands, Mr. James lunges up on top of his desk, feet almost dancing between work sheets, pens, and different-colored markers. My guy is up in front of the class, hopping around on a table, waving his hands all over the place like he’s at a concert! “I’m more than a student, I’m a scholar! AYE! I’m more than a student, I’m a scholar! AYE!” When he hops back off his desk and bounces down the aisles to the rhythm, a few kids next to me start repeating his words while looking around at one another to see if we’re really doing this.

  “Yo, I’m more than a student, I’m a scholar!” Justin Cook, Bobby Sanchez’s wingman, calls out from the back of the room, making fun of Mr. James. But when everybody hears him, the whole class cashes in on the chance to get loud, leaning, rocking, and snapping like it’s the hook of one of our favorite rap songs.

  I’M MORE THAN A STUDENT, I’M A SCHOLAR, AYE!

  I’M MORE THAN A STUDENT, I’M A SCHOLAR, AYE!

  I’M MORE THAN A STUDENT, I’M A SCHOLAR, AYE!

  “I’m a school-er!” This is Lil Kenny, a kid who always seems like he lives in his own world. Before I can stop myself, I’m chanting with the class, too.

  “Okay, okay.” Mr. James laughs, lowering his hands from the sky to get the class to calm down and get back in our seats. Lil Kenny follows his lead and comes all the way down from standing on top of his desk, too, looking glad that he’s not in trouble for getting that reckless on the first day. Mr. James moves into the new-school-year speech that all teachers give and I think the chanting is over, but all of a sudden…

  GOOD MORNING TO MY SCHOLARS WHO ARE IN FIFTH GRADE,

  BET YOU NEVER THOUGHT YOU’D HEAR A TEACHER SPIT THIS WAY.

  SEE, MY NAME’S MR. JAMES, AND THE REASON I CAME

  WAS TO TEACH YOUNG PEOPLE, WHILE KEEPIN’ IT FLAME.

  I WAS RAISED BY MY MAMA, WHO WAS BLACK AND STRONG,

  HAD A BROTHER AND A SISTER WHO WOULD TAG ALONG,

  GOT MY HIGH SCHOOL DIPLOMA, THEN MY COLLEGE DEGREE,

  AND THEN I MOVED BACK TO THE CITY THAT MADE ME.

  THAT’S THE CHI—AND YOU KNOW I REP OUT WEST.

  I BECAME A TEACHER SO THAT I COULD HELP THE BEST.

  ALL THESE KIDS RIGHT HERE, GONNA CHANGE THE WORLD.

  I’M EXCITED TO LEARN FROM YOU BOYS AND GIRLS.

  SO THIS YEAR IS QUITE DIFFERENT, IT’S FINNA BE HYPE.

  WE GON’ LEARN A LOT TOGETHER IN THIS CLASSROOM, AIGHT?

  IT’S GON’ ALL BE LOVE, HARD WORK, AND GRACE.

  I’M SO HAPPY THAT WE’RE HERE TOGETHER IN THIS PLACE.

  Welcome to class!

  5-B explodes. Kids clap, stomp, and scream Aaaaaye while some run up to Mr. James to dap him up. Lil Kenny leaps out of his chair and does a lap around the whole classroom like an old lady at church who just caught the Holy Ghost. Even Bobby and his minions are impressed. “OKAY! OH-KAY!” screams Victor, shaking his head like Mr. James just got his approval. “You lit, Mr. James! Go on ’head!” Lil Kenny takes a second lap as Maria turns to me with eyes bulging so big they look like they’re gonna pop out of her head.

  SI-MON, she mouths. OH EM GEEE, she mouths again, squeezing her eyes tight just before jumping out of her seat to clap. Notorious D.O.G. can’t get too hype on the first day, but WOW! I never would have guessed that my fifth-grade teacher would also be a rapper. And he’s actually kinda good! Man, Mr. James and the Notorious D.O.G. might have to do a music collab in the future. But that’s only if I ever get the confidence to show off my skills in front of real people—well, people other than just my parents and brothers.

  Mr. James drops his imaginary microphone so he can then drop the first bomb on us. “We’ll be getting right down to business starting today so you all can show me what you’re working with.” This is when he picks up the pile of papers he was standing over on his desk just a few minutes ago and puts a stack on one desk at the end of each row. “One of the best ways to get to know somebody is to find out what they really care about,” he says as we all pass the stacks of mysterious paper down the rows. Not gonna lie. Mr. James sounds just as cloudy as the teacher off the Peanuts cartoons when he says “down to business.” He might as well have been saying Blah blah blahddy blah bloop. Every time a teacher says business they mean work, and up until right now I’d forgotten all about that.

  Maria turns in her chair and passes the stack to me with the most annoying smile on her face. “SEEEEEE? Camille was right!” She beams, pointing her finger to the words that read ORAL PRESENTATION and DUE BY ALPHABETICAL ORDER. The first-week project Maria’s big sister was talking about is a BIG OL’ ORAL PRESENTATION. And now I’m big mad. And because my last name starts with B, that can only mean one very scary thing. I almost forget to pass the rest of the copies behind me until a paper ball slaps the back of my head. I turn just in time to see Bobby grinning to himself.

  “I know what y’all are thinking.” Nah, cuz if you knew, you wouldn’t do this to me, Mr. James, I almost say aloud. “Presentation? Noooooo!” I’d laugh at Mr. James making fun of how we all feel, but my armpits are already dripping. “Due next week? Heeeeelp!” He keeps on while my eyeballs try to read the work sheet, but I can’t get past the due date and the fact that I—

  “But check this out: It can be on whatever you want! What’s something that you care about A LOT that you want others to care about, too?”

  “FORTNITE!”

  “CHIPS!”

  “PLAYING BALL WITH MY COUSINS!”

  “WHEN MY MAMA BE TAKIN’ ME SHOPPIN’ AT THE MALL! We need to do that every day!” The whole class explodes again while Mr. James stands in the front smiling, shaking his head into his hand. “For real, Mr. James. It’s important! She always talkin’ about how we ain’t got no money!” Mr. James’s head pops up like Lil Kenny’s screaming out his mom’s business is the smartest thing he’s ever heard.

  “That’s it, Kenny. Maybe one thing you care about that you could do your presentation on is money. Going to the mall every day might be a little unrealistic,” Mr. James says, walking down the aisle and stopping in front of Kenny’s desk. “But maybe… you can talk about one of the reasons why parents might not be able to take us to the mall as much as we might want. Let’s think a little deeper past video games, food, playing, and shopping, y’all. What are some things that make it hard for you to enjoy these things in your community? Think of something timely—meaning something important going on right now—that is making it hard for a lot of people to enjoy things they like or need.” Now I know Mr. James be on some other stuff. What’s deeper than food and Fortnite? Nothing could keep me from either… could it? “While you all think about that, let’s go over the presentation order so everybody’s clear on when to be ready.”

  FIFTH GRADE IS CRAZY, IT’S STARTING WITH A TWIST—

  A YOUNG, RAPPING TEACHER, HOW COOL IS THIS?

  HE ROCKS BOW TIES AND TENNIS SHOES, THAT’S FLY.

  I MEAN, HE’S KINDA CORNY, BUT HE’S STILL A COOL GUY.

  THIS PRESENTATION, THOUGH? FOR ME, THAT’S A NO!

  I’M NOT FEELIN’ IT, LIKE IT’S TWO FEET OF SNOW,

  LIKE I’M WAITIN’ IN A LONG LINE AT THE GROCERY STO’.

  I LIKED HOMIE’S FLOW, BUT THIS MESS GOTTA GO!

  Most of us have been at Booker T. since kindergarten. I got here in the middle of first grade, but that makes me an old head, too, by now. It’s Mr. James that’s kinda new… to us, at least. I already know my life is over once I see we have to go in alphabetical order. I’ve been called on first for almost everything since I was five. Never for anything this big, though. Under my desk I cross my fingers super hard that somebody new has a last
name that starts with A. After I look behind me where Bobby and Friends sit leaned up against the yellow wall, to my right where the red wall probably matches my cheeks, and to my left where rows of kids I know sit under the windows surrounded by green, my stomach starts feeling as queasy as the things that color made me think of. Boogers… puke… the fart steam you see coming up when somebody lets out a funky one in cartoons…

  “Up first, next Monday, Simon Barnes.” Fingers crossed never works!

  “That’s my friend, Mr. James! That’s my friend!” Maria is more excited than I could ever be. So excited, I want to beg Mr. James to let us switch places. But Maria’s last name is too far down the alphabet, and right then my voice crawls down into my stomach to hide. For a second, Mr. James looks me in the eye before he continues reading out the rest of the names. Even though I dreamed of being up on a stage making the crowd go crazy at home, I squirm in my seat at the thought of it now. Being the youngest of four brothers and the shortest kid in every grade so far makes me used to never being seen. Not in a cool way, at least.

  CHAPTER 4

  “C.J., I’M OVER IT. I CAN’T DO IT.” BY THE time we both get to the cafeteria, half of the tables are full and I find C.J. near the front of the line, where he lets me squeeze in front of him as always. We stop every few steps to have one of the lunch workers drop each thing on our trays, even though we won’t eat half of it. Last year C.J. always tried to get Ms. Kathy to give him double of whatever it was and she always shooed him away like a fly, telling him he needed to slow down and be grateful. C.J. stops in front of her station bouncing his eyebrows, flashing all his teeth, and she drops something extra on his tray. A fifth-grade flex.