by Dwayne Reed
Just past the funky Booker T. dumpster overflowing with leftover stale popcorn chicken, empty milk cartons, and plastic fruit cups, Creighton Community Park spreads across half of the backside of my school. It looks a lot different than back when Dad stopped taking me there to play on Saturdays after my haircut a few years ago. The old sandbox is full of dandelions, the flower that Moms calls weeds, and all the benches that used to be a shiny green that matched the trees are now a mix of rusty-looking oranges, reds, and yellows. Where there used to be a tire swing, just a tire sits on the ground covered in whatever trash is blowing around over there. The lump of blankets next to some trash moves. Whoa. I look across the park near the sandbox at another bench and see a pile of blankets that seems to be moving, too. Wait. I look back down the street and Aaron is already almost at the corner. Did he see that happen, too? There’s an old sleeping bag under the tree near that corner surrounded by too many old grocery bags full of more and more bags, but nobody seems to be around.
“Simon, if you don’t stop daydreamin’ and come on! Short self always actin’ like you can’t keep up,” Aaron yells back at me, suddenly noticing I’m not close behind him, immediately annoyed. “Ain’t nothin’ to look at over there but bums and trash. We ain’t goin’ in there, so don’t even think about it, man.” I see my old favorite park to play at looking a lot like people live there now. Bums and trash doesn’t sound right, but how do I say that to Aaron? He wouldn’t care. I take another look across the park, wondering if I’ll spot Sunny. Maybe he’s hanging out with his friends or singing to himself somewhere with his stuff pushed under one of the benches Dad used to sit on while I made castles in the sandbox or watched the ants climb out of their little hills. “I said, come on!” I snap out of it and run up to meet Aaron at the corner, wishing he wouldn’t boss me around like that. We never get to come on this side, and it’s almost like we’re in another city even though we’re just around the corner from our house. Has it been this way the whole time?
CHAPTER 12
“WHERE Y’ALL BEEN AT?” MARKUS QUESTIONS me the minute me and Aaron walk in the door, like he’s our dad. His feet hang over the end of the couch as usual, gaming control in his left hand just the way he spent most of the summer.
“None of your business, Mark.” Aaron never likes being asked questions—by anybody. So when he answers he doesn’t fully answer, even for things that aren’t that serious. He also never calls Markus by his full name.
“We went to the park,” I say without thinking. I still can’t believe what I just saw—people lying around so much trash and benches that looked like they’d been made into beds—and Aaron won’t talk to me about it, so I have to tell Markus. He’ll care about what I saw there. Or so I think.
“OoooWEE! Pop said we not supposed to go over there! I’m definitely finna tell on y’all.”
“You know we ain’t go to no park, Simon! Why you lyin’ like that?” Aaron looks at me for the first time since picking me up from school. “And you better not, Mark. Unless you want me to tell Mama you was in here playing Fortnite before doin’ your homework.”
“Ain’t no real homework in the first weeks, Ron Ron.”
“I’m not lying, though. We did.”
“We walked by the park. We ain’t go to the park.” I can’t tell if Aaron is annoyed because I said we went to the park, because he had to bring me home before whatever he rather be doing, or because Markus called him the nickname he’s been trying to shake since elementary school.
“Same thing.” The way Aaron rolls his eyes and waves me off as he grabs his basketball makes me wonder why he didn’t just tell me that’s what he was on his way to do. Last year me, Maria, and C.J. would follow Aaron to the Locust Street ball court to cheer on the sidelines for whoever was winning. Aaron always looked like he hated it, though. Probably because his team was always losing. But he’s a junior in high school now and I guess he can’t have us around throwing off his game anymore.
Aaron pulls down his jeans, removing the layer of school clothes to reveal his bright red basketball shorts, and slips his feet into the new Jordans Dad bought him. We all wanted a pair as cool as Aaron’s, but our parents said we can’t get shoes that expensive until we’re old enough to pay for them ourselves. Aaron didn’t pay for his new Retro 11s, but working at Mr. Ray’s sweeping up hair on the weekends means that he can. Enough money to pay Dad back for sneakers and have a little left over for snacks after the games he doesn’t want us coming to.
“I’ll be back right before Mama gets home. You better do your homework before I get back,” Aaron says all serious as he ties his shoelaces three times over. He stands back up and stares into the mirror while he ties his red silk durag that matches his shorts tightly over the cornrows he just got braided at the top half of his head. He started getting only the sides and back shaved off after we saw Black Panther and he learned that all the girls in school liked Killmonger. He won’t admit that’s why, but we know.
“Okay,” me and Markus answer at the same time, already doing what we want. Markus jerks and jumps, shooting and ducking things on the screen with his game control hands, while I pull my fist out of the cereal box to stuff a handful of Fruity-O’s into my mouth just the way Moms told me she better not catch me doing. Crumbs fly from my mouth and hands, and I remind myself to clean up the evidence if I want to be allowed to get online with Maria and C.J. after dinner instead of being stuck on kitchen duty. I doubt Dad will come home early again the way he did a few days ago. I quickly eat the cereal that missed my mouth off the counter, scooping any dust that Moms might notice into my hands. Markus barely notices me move to the couch. I scoot closer to him to make sure he does.
“Dog, you’re sitting way too close to me right now. You better back up before you get a whiff of what I just let out my butt.” Markus always brings up farts when he wants to be left alone.
“Don’t you want to know what I saw at the park?” Just then a cloud of funk that smells a lot like rotten eggs rises to my face, and I discover for once he isn’t lying. But I need to talk about what I saw before Moms and Dad get home and think I really went into the park that Dad said we’re not supposed to go to.
“Not really.”
“There were people sleeping on the ground everywhere! Like they were full-on LIVING next to these piles of trash in the PARK! And some people were laying down under the benches with blankets and pillows like it was their bedroom! And there were bags and bags and bags everywhere! It was like the park had really become their house or something. And what happened to the—”
“They do live there,” Markus says blankly without taking his eyes off the screen, his body shooting back into the couch as he dodges his opponent in real life just like he was trying to do in the game. “You already knew that, Simon.”
“In the park?” I guess the word homeless, to me, sounds like no home of their own. Like, maybe they just sleep at a different cousin’s house each night. Which, I guess, feels better to imagine than having to sleep outside on the ground or a cold bench. Markus is right. I had seen this before, but something about it being in the park I used to play in made it more real.
“No, on Saturn. Where else, Simon? Isn’t that where you’re talking about?” Markus is over my questions, but I have like one million more to ask. I haven’t been allowed to walk near Creighton Community Park since I was little, and my first time seeing it since then makes me feel like it’s a whole new park. But old. And dirty. And full of people sleeping outside where everybody can see them. How do you sleep outside where everybody can see you? How about when it gets cold? Are you scared? What do you eat? How do you get food? I don’t know what I’d do without Moms’ lasagna. Does Sunny live there, too? Is this where all the homeless people go at night? Markus leans away from me slightly and a loud rip sputters from under him. More rotten eggs (what do they eat in middle school?). Time to go. If I’m not going to play the game with him, he has nothing else to say to me.
C
HAPTER 13
FRIDAY’S HERE AND I CAN ALREADY FEEL how close Monday is from today. Dad doesn’t even have to come knocking at the door the way he usually does. A whole hour before it’s time to wake up, I lie in bed with the covers over my head, listening to Markus fight bedsheets in his sleep while DeShawn speaks to some character he’s trying to defeat in his dream. It’s like my body knows how close it all is.
I WISH THIS WAS A DREAM I COULD WAKE UP FROM,
BUT MAN, IT’S A NIGHTMARE, AND I CAN’T RUN.
THIS PROJECT’S GONNA MAKE ME SOUND DUMB
SO, WORLDWIDE EMBARRASSMENT, HERE I COME!
The sun comes peeking through the window above my bed, reminding me that it’s the weekend before the morning I hoped would never come. I lie as still as possible, hoping that if I never get out of bed or make any noise, maybe Friday will come and go without me. Maybe, magically, I’ll get to skip another class of Mr. James pressuring me to be ready, and on Monday, somehow, I’ll just know what to say. But the smell of bacon grease that comes floating under our bedroom door lets me know Dad isn’t gon’ be having any of that. I’m getting up whether I like it or not. So I brush my teeth and go downstairs.
“My maaaaaan.” Dad’s way of saying good morning during a week I’d rather skip altogether. “I’m whippin’ up your favorites for breakfast. Come sit with your pops for a minute, son.” I take a seat at the kitchen counter and stare at the bubbles growing around the edge of a pancake just before Dad flips it in the air the way he’s been trying to teach me. “How’d you sleep?”
“Okay, I guess.” I tossed and turned all night until DeShawn screamed MAN, CHILL WITH ALL THAT! from across the room. When it was time to go to bed, I laid down, rehearsing what I was going to say to my class for five minutes about a timely issue. I went to sleep picturing all the faces and thinking about what words would be okay to say, even if today isn’t yet the real thing. Earlier in the week Mr. James said something about practice runs, and that sounded just as terrifying as when we do it on Monday. I feel like I stayed up all night trying to find the perfect words and think maybe I fell asleep only once, before Markus shook me out of a nightmare where I was at lunch with C.J. and Maria and went to take a bite of my pizza only to find out I had no mouth. “You’re losin’ it, man. Here,” Markus whispered, handing me his phone and saying it’d help me go back to sleep. “Don’t tell Dad.”
“I know we’re really close to the big day, and if it’s getting harder to sleep, that’s all right.” Dad puts three pancakes, two pieces of bacon, and a scoop of eggs on my plate and leans over the counter, waiting for me to eat. The pancakes are fluffy and the eggs are cheesy—just the way I like them—but all I can do is look at it. Usually the smell makes my mouth water, but I don’t feel even a little bit hungry.
“Um, thanks, Dad.”
“How ’bout you go get dressed while you let this cool off, son. It’ll be waiting for you when you get back.” Secretly I hope Aaron wakes up and comes to steal it off my plate so I won’t have to try to eat it. My stomach already feels all queasy about going to school. The idea of eating anything on top of that feeling makes it even worse. I know Dad is trying to make today a little easier because he sees me getting more and more nervous, but it isn’t helping. He stares at me as I head back to my room to get dressed, which is even worse than when he reminded me today would be big, as if I didn’t already have the nightmares to prove it. Back in the room behind the closed door, I get dressed slowly, trying to kill the time.
Mr. James says practicing in groups will help. But that don’t seem any easier. It still means I have to talk in front of people in my class. It still means I could mess up and they could make fun of me. Just thinking about it makes me want to live in a cabin somewhere by myself like I hear about people doing in the movies. But there’s no chance. Besides, I’d miss my friends.
“I know breakfast is your favorite thing to eat, so I packed yours up to take for lunch today. Plus, I had to put it away before your brothers got to it,” Dad says, squeezing my shoulder, trying to get me to smile, laugh, something. I’m finally dressed and back in the living room, wishing he’d just act normal. I know he knows I still don’t feel like eating, but he can’t help but try to cheer me up. “You know your mama had to get to work early, but she told me to give you some love, too,” he adds, patting the back of my neck.
“Thanks, Dad” is all I can squeeze out. It’s mostly quiet walking up Locust Street, just the two of us, but it feels good even though I have nothing to say. At least I don’t have to try so hard to pretend I feel like speaking. Dad always lets me be quiet when I don’t have words. He never makes me feel like I gotta know what to say all the time.
SOMETIMES, SILENCE IS KEY.
I CAN BE IN MY HEAD WHERE MY THOUGHTS CAN BE FREE.
WHAT’S COOL IS I DON’T HAVE TO SPEAK.
I DON’T HAVE TO BE SHAKING, OR SWEATING, OR WEAK.
CUZ THE THOUGHTS IN MY HEAD ARE COMPLETE.
I KNOW JUST WHAT TO SAY, HOW TO MAKE IT SOUND SWEET.
NOBODY CAN HEAR IT BUT ME.
YEAH, NOBODY CAN HEAR IT BUT ME.
As I turn into the parking lot, my heart starts thumping too hard against my chest. It gets so loud I don’t hear Dad saying my name until he turns to kneel down in front of me at the bottom of the front steps.
“Simon, my man. Rhymin’ Simon. BIG—”
“I get it, Dad.” Dad always tries hyping me up for things by thinking of every cool version of my name. But most of the time it just sounds silly and makes me laugh. It just makes him sound like an old man. Nothing can really make me laugh right now anyway.
“What’s that name you got everybody callin’ you now?”
“Notorious D.O.G.”
“Do you know what that word means?” The truth is I don’t, really. I just know all the famous rappers have names that make them sound important or special, and last year C.J.’s dad dressed him up for Halloween as one of his favorites: Notorious B.I.G., an old rapper from New York City who everybody knew about before we were born. C.J. looked just like what I’d seen in the pictures with his leather jacket, gold chain, and old-man hat turned to the side. And C.J. was big like him, too. He looked like somebody nobody would mess with, and that night at the neighborhood Halloween party, nobody did. I knew I needed a name like that. And I knew a lot of people were scared of dogs, so.
“Somebody important?” I finally say back.
“It means somebody that everybody knows. And it usually means that everybody knows them for something they did. No matter what happens today or Monday, people are gon’ know you for something good you did, son. First because you got up there and used that voice of yours. Second, because you always doin’ good even when you feel scared or like you might mess up.” Dad’s fist rises into the air in front of our chests to dap me up before he moves out of the way so I can walk up the steps to go inside. Just as Ms. Berry waves hello to Dad, Bobby comes running up the sidewalk from the community park side of the building that me and Aaron walked past yesterday after school. Bobby is empty-handed.
Moms and Dad would never let me come to school with no backpack, but I guess Bobby follows his own rules even outside of school.
“Good morning, Mr. Sanchez. Glad to see you on time. Unprepared,” the principal says, looking him up and down like she’s confused, “but on time. That’s something, I guess.” Bobby sort of keeps his head down as he rushes to get in the door before I do, only looking over at me for a second. He’s breathing all hard and sweating so much his extra-long white tee and Pistons shorts are already sticking to his body. I wonder how many pairs of Pistons shorts in this same color does Bobby have? And white tees? It can’t be that many if the one he’s wearing isn’t even white anymore. School hasn’t even started for the day yet and Bobby looks like he’s been playing football all morning. But Creighton Park don’t have a football field and Bobby Sanchez don’t play no football. I look to see where Victor and Justin are, thinking maybe it�
��s because they’ve all already picked on a fourth grader before the first bell has even rung, but Bobby’s by himself for once.
“Move,” he says under his breath, his shoes flapping loosely against his feet. As rough as he looks today, I’m surprised he didn’t even put on some decent sneakers. I feel like Bobby could be the one getting picked on today with the way he looks.
“SIMON!” Maria yells my name from the doorway of Mr. James’s class. I walk past her and go straight to my seat, keeping my head low, wishing everybody would stop making such a big deal about everything. She follows me and plops down at her desk, turning around to stare at me while I unpack my backpack.
“Oh, so you just gonna ignore me, Simon? That’s all right, I missed you, too,” she says, laughing at my attitude. “Today’s gonna be so fun! It’s gonna be like we’re in a play… but with presentations.”
“That don’t even make sense, Ri-Ri. You prolly the only one who thinks that sounds like fun.”
“Yes it does! Who says you can’t be anybody you want while you practice? Maybe you wouldn’t be so scared if you did it in character.”
LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION!
SIGNING AUTOGRAPHS WITH THE CAMERAS FLASHIN’,
WHERE’S MY AWARD FOR THIS AWESOME ACTIN’?
Maria’s idea doesn’t sound that crazy when I think about it for a second, but then I start feeling real stressed. Practicing what I’m gonna say on Monday and pretending to be somebody else while I do it?! This is getting out of control.
“I hope Mr. James just forgets all about it.”
“You silly, Simon. It’s not gonna be that bad. Plus! We could be partners with Lil Kenny! You know he don’t care. And I’ll be nice!” The idea of practicing with Maria feels comforting, and I hadn’t thought about picking my own group to practice with, but I still don’t wanna do it.