“Zander, please don’t make me tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“Put your arm around me.”
“No!”
Tears. Her shoulders were shaking. I leaned closer and asked her what was up.
“Put your arm around me and I’ll tell you,” she said.
“But I don’t really want to.”
It was a lose-lose situation, and I figured it was nothing.
“You got a bet with somebody that you can get me to put my arm around you?” I asked.
“It’s about Kambui,” she said, almost in a whisper. “But please don’t make me tell you.”
I looked around the room. Everybody was looking at us. I felt embarrassed and stupid. Mostly stupid. But if it was about my boy Kambui I had to find out what was going on.
I put my arm around Caren.
“Last night,” she sniffed, “about eight o’clock, the police called my house. My father got the call. He was talking to the New York City Police Department. They told him that they had received information from Scotland Yard —”
“Scotland Yard?” I moved away from Caren. “Get off my back. Scotland Yard didn’t give anybody any information.”
“That you had told the kids in some school in London —”
“Go on.”
“Put your arm around me, so people won’t think it’s about the police,” Caren said.
“No.”
“Good, because I promised I wouldn’t breathe a word,” she said. “And I really want to keep my word to my father.”
I put my arm around her again.
“They said that Kambui had photographs of the guys who held up the mall and that the Cruisers were keeping it secret,” Caren said. “You could all be accessories after the fact.”
“Oh, snap!”
“But the good news is you’re all juveniles, so you won’t get more than two or three years. My father was upset that I overheard his conversation, which is why I promised him I wouldn’t breathe a word of this.” Caren put her two arms around my waist. “He said he didn’t want me anywhere near you hoodlums.”
THE CRUISER
THE PERFECT AS ENEMY OF THE GOOD
By Bobbi Mccall
Recently we’ve seen a certain community “activist” try to stop projects (and progress) by claiming that he is seeking a higher ground, the search for perfection. Charles Lord has already objected to some of the special schools in the city by claiming that all students should be offered the same programs. When it is pointed out to Mr. Lord that all students won’t necessarily benefit from the programs offered at the more selective schools, he continues his ranting about his quest for the perfect world in which both schools and students are always up to the task.
Mr. Lord is also very much for limiting community opportunities unless the opportunities meet his vague standards. What I would like to suggest to Mr. Lord is that ultimately he is no different than the people he claims are trying to destroy the community. They might try to stop how the neighborhood advances in a different way, but Mr. Lord is also trying to bring an end to some of the most innovative programs and opportunities available.
The perfect can often be the enemy of the good and, in the long run, may not even exist as modeled by Charles Lord.
As difficult as it is, we are trying to give you misguided children the benefit of the doubt!” Mr. Culpepper’s neck seemed two sizes too large for his collar and was bulging out in a red and white circle over the blue-striped shirt. “And we need you to tell us exactly what you know about any crimes at the mall.”
“When did we lose the right to an attorney?” LaShonda asked. “Even on the TV cop shows you get the right to an attorney!”
“Young lady —”
“She’s correct.” Mrs. Maxwell held up a hand, palm toward Mr. Culpepper. “I don’t think we want our students telling us anything that might get them into trouble later on.”
“And I, for one, don’t want them doing anything or withholding any kind of information that will bring infamy to the school, Mrs. Maxwell.”
“I will take full responsibility for that, Adrian.” Mrs. Maxwell’s voice was still calm, but she was in control. “I would like all of you to go home and discuss this entire matter with your parents or guardians. Tell them that they are free to discuss it with either me or the Board of Education’s legal department if they so choose.
“But understand this. I know you are very bright young people, but any involvement with the juvenile justice system is quite serious. There is no matter that is guaranteed to be casual when the police are concerned. The school in London — Phoenix, I believe — has made a serious charge, which should be answered. Please tell your parents as much as possible and, by all means, listen to their advice. You are free to leave now.”
I looked back over at Mr. Culpepper and saw that he was still steaming. And I wasn’t surprised when he followed us into the hall a moment later.
“Mr. Scott,” he said in a voice that sounded like a cartoon alligator getting ready to eat a cartoon rabbit, “may I have a word with you?”
“Yeah, sure,” said the cartoon rabbit.
“Perhaps in my office?”
We walked down the hall to the same office that the Cruisers had been formed in. I remembered the first time we were there, with Culpepper lecturing us on how education was an adventure on the high seas of life. What I thought I knew he was going to say this time was that he was disappointed in the Cruisers and that I had better see that we got our act together.
I was wrong.
“Young man, if I ever catch you near my daughter again I will personally tear you limb from scrawny limb, eat the residue of your wretched body, and pass it through my body into the urban wasteland that will never — mind you, NEVER, be part of my daughter’s life. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
The cartoon rabbit gulped as the cartoon alligator grew larger and larger.
“Now leave my office, and stay as far away from me and from Caren as your peanut brain can MANAGE!”
The way I figured it, the days of the Cruisers were numbered. Even if we got out of this in one piece there was too much conflict for Mrs. Maxwell to keep supporting us. And Mr. Culpepper would be just too eager to see us bite the dust.
I texted Bobbi and we agreed to have the Cruisers meet at the Burger Joint on 145th Street. I knew we needed to think fast if we were going to keep the Cruisers intact, and we had to have a plan that defused the situation. Something both calm and intelligent.
“Let’s kidnap Phat Tony and torture him!” LaShonda said. “Make him tell us what he knows, and then, if it doesn’t sound right, kill him!”
“Okay, so we’ve got two votes in favor of torturing Phat Tony,” Bobbi said. “If you go along, Zander, it’s a done deal.”
“I think we should call up my uncle Guy and ask him,” I said. “He’s a policeman.”
“And tell him what when he asks us about Kambui’s pictures?” Bobbi asked. “If we tell him that we have a picture of Phat Tony at the mall, which just could be evidence of a felony, he stops being your uncle and goes back to being a cop. Are you reading me?”
“Loud and clear,” I said.
“I’m sure that’s what the police want to talk to me about,” Kambui said. “They want me to come down to the station and look at the videos from the stickup. Man, if I do that and I see Phat Tony doing a stickup I’m going to feel stupid bad.”
“You can tell them you don’t know who it is,” I said.
“I think I got to tell them the truth,” Kambui said in this tiny little voice. “And they asked me to bring any photos I had down to the station. So Phat Tony is going to get busted for lying.”
A waitress came over and took our orders. Bobbi had a grilled cheese on toast, LaShonda and I had cheeseburgers, and Kambui said he wasn’t hungry. I felt sorry for him.
“And these foperoos from London contacted Scotland Yard and told them about w
hat we were doing over here in Harlem,” Bobbi said. “Let’s get on a plane and go over there and beat them up!”
“Violence only leads to more violence,” Kambui said.
“War is simply politics with bloodshed,” LaShonda said. “And the kids at Phoenix have escalated the whole thing.”
“I just brought it up as a question to them,” I said. “I really blew it, right?”
“You’re still the man, Zander,” LaShonda said.
So what I was seeing was that we weren’t wrapping our brains around anything that smelled like a real answer and we were just venting. I knew that was all right for a while. Mom did it all the time, but it wasn’t going to solve anything.
“Kambui isn’t the problem,” I said. “Neither are the kids from London. They’re probably just looking for something to do and copped a chance to call Scotland Yard. What’s making everybody on this side of the ocean miserable is whether somebody from Da Vinci did the stickup. If that did happen then Culpepper’s right. It will mess up Da Vinci’s rep.
“So let’s find Phat Tony and get the deal done,” I said. “Because if he didn’t have anything to do with the mall bit then we can just all bust down to the police station with Kambui and fess up or whatever else they want, no sweat.”
“And if Phat Tony did have something to do with it?” LaShonda asked.
“Then we stick together, because we’re Cruisers,” Bobbi said. “And Phat Tony has to deal on his own.”
“Suppose he did have something to do with it,” Kambui said, “and he’s got a gun. Anybody here habla la bang-bang?”
“But Kambui has to go down to the police station, anyway,” I said. “And the police have to do a follow-up because Scotland Yard has contacted them.”
“Then the cake is done, and we just need to get it out of the oven,” LaShonda said.
“Or we’re done,” Bobbi said.
“If we do decide to take a plane to London and beat up the kids from Phoenix, can we land the plane on Charles Lord when we get back to the States?” This from LaShonda.
“You got two votes for landing on Charles Lord,” Bobbi said.
“Three!” Kambui.
“Four!” Me.
THE PALETTE
A Chance for Da Vinci to Shine
By Ellen Ravielli, Language Arts
The upcoming citywide language competition will offer an excellent forum to show off the skills of Da Vinci students. In a world that is rapidly becoming a global village, language skills are a must. In the future, one would expect every successful businessperson to speak at least two or three languages.
The competition will consist of translating a three-minute taped message and two pages of written material from either a novel or a business journal. Credit will be given for accuracy, fluency, and speed. This is a chance for our school to shine and to show it is ready to move into the realm of global affairs.
THE CRUISER
NO QUIERO GANAR NADA
By Kelly Bena
I can’t help but feel that competitions are nothing more than a way to see how well one competes and have little to do with education. I don’t ever remember reading that Shakespeare or Marlowe or Joyce or Toni Morrison spoke a bunch of languages. Isn’t education really about depth and interest and work? I don’t think the kids with the best grades are going to be tomorrow’s leaders, and I don’t think blue ribbons or whatever they hand out at the language competition are going to make us have a better understanding of the world. I’m not against good grades (teachers, please note!), but I don’t want to be a slave to them, either.
So I’m sitting at the table eating a bowl of cereal and figuring what I’m going to say to Phat Tony when I hear somebody trying to unlock the door. Naturally, I figure it’s Mom. But then the door doesn’t open right away and I figure she’s having trouble getting the door open because she’s carrying some bundles. Maybe even Chinese food for supper.
When the door still doesn’t open I think about getting up and answering it but there’s no use in getting up if it’s going to open any minute so I wait a bit longer. Then the door opens and it’s Mom.
“Gotta pee!” she says, then scoots past me into the bathroom.
I look on the floor in the hallway and there are two shopping bags. One has those white cartons that Chinese food comes in so I pick it up. The other one has something furry in it.
“Good news! I got a health gig!” This coming through the bathroom door.
I don’t like Mom talking to me when she’s in the bathroom. It kind of freaks me out a little, so I don’t answer.
“You hear me?” she calls out again. “I got a job in a health commercial!”
“Wait until you come out,” I say. “Then tell me.”
I put the bags on the table, toss what’s left of my cereal (after one last mouthful) into the trash can, and sit down.
A moment later Mom comes out, wiping her hands on a paper towel. “How did your day go?” she asks.
I know she doesn’t really want to know, she wants me to hear about her day.
“I killed two kids and robbed a bank,” I say.
“Oh, that’s sweet,” she answers. “So Miriam from the yogurt company called and asked if I was interested in eating yogurt in a ten-second spot. I said yes and she asked me to come down and audition. So I go down and they have all of these really young girls and I’m thinking no way am I getting this. But they’ve been shooting all day and haven’t come up with anyone yet so I figure I have a chance, but not a good chance. Then I figure I don’t have any chance because each girl is more enthusiastic and perky than the last. So it comes to my turn and I don’t feel enthusiastic and I’m never, ever perky, so I just give the script a glance and do a quick read. Like this.”
Mom made me believe she was taking a spoonful of yogurt, then looking at the camera and saying, “Hey, this is pretty good!”
Then she flashes her smile, which is always her strong point.
“Then an old guy who was sitting in the corner stands up, points at me, and walks out. I had the part.”
“How much?”
“Miriam is working out the details now,” Mom says. “But it looks like rent for the rest of the year. Easy.”
“Right on!”
“And you didn’t really kill any kids, right?”
“No, but I might have to this afternoon,” I say. “Remember that mall stickup I told you about?”
“Sort of,” Mom answers.
“There was a mall stickup and the police picked up Phat Tony, from school,” I say. “He said he wasn’t at the mall, but Kambui has a picture of him at the mall on the same day as the stickup. I told some kids in London and they told Scotland Yard and they told the New York City Police Department and the police told the school and now Kambui has to go down to the police station tomorrow to answer questions.”
“You think this guy — what’s his name?”
“Phat Tony,” I say. “I don’t really think he did it but I’m going to talk to him tomorrow and ask him point-blank.”
“Why?”
“Because Scotland Yard called the New York City police and they contacted the school and sort of told them that the Cruisers knew about this, and I think this is going to be Mr. Culpepper’s excuse to break up the Cruisers,” I say. “That, and he thinks I’m fooling around with his daughter.”
“Caren?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you?”
“No!”
“Zander, if you’re going to fool around with girls, you should talk to your father first,” Mom says. “Wait, talk to my brother, I think he knows more than your father.”
“I’m not fooling around with Caren, but I’m a little nervous about talking to Phat Tony,” I say. “And I don’t want to talk to Uncle Guy because he’s a cop. I just don’t want to up and ask Phat Tony if he’s guilty or not because if he tells me that he is then I might have to be a witness or something.”
“When you talk to an
ybody with bad news, it’s always good to start off with some good news, and then just sort of sneak up on it,” Mom says. “And remember that maybe there are some things you don’t want to know and so you have to sort of tiptoe around them. You want some stir-fried beef?”
“I think I’m going to go to cooking school over the summer,” I say.
“Yes or no?”
“What kinds of things don’t I want to know?”
“Anything you have to repeat in court,” Mom says. “Would you rather have some cashew chicken?”
“Yeah, okay.”
While Mom was getting the stir-fried beef I was wondering just how sneaky she was. She had all these strategies that were pretty sweet but I didn’t know if I could have dealt with them if I was, like, going out with her or something. It was funny thinking about Mom as a girlfriend.
I decided to try Mom’s approach. First I got Kambui, LaShonda, and Bobbi together on a conference call.
“Are you going to tell Phat Tony we’re on the line?” Kambui asked.
LaShonda and Bobbi answered together, only LaShonda said yes and Bobbi said no. We agreed on no and I told them not to have their mikes open. Then I called Phat Tony.
“Hey, Zander, what’s up?” he said. “You’re finally calling the Godfather.”
“You hear that the kids at school voted The Cruiser the best school newspaper?”
“Yeah, but I voted for The Palette, because I don’t like your press agent,” Phat Tony said. “She’s just running your name up the pole because she’s got the hots for you. It don’t have anything to do with which paper is best.”
“Well, we’re thinking about running a story about you in the new edition,” I said. “About how you claimed you weren’t in the mall that day when the stickup happened and we got your picture so we know you were there.”
“You don’t have my picture,” Phat Tony said.
“And we can prove when it was taken,” I said. “So you can be charged with lying to the police.”
Silence.
“So what do you have to say now?” LaShonda broke in.
“Who’s on the line?” Phat Tony asked.
Oh, Snap! Page 5