Eighth-Grade Superzero

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  One evening after Pops and I eat a silent dinner, I’m surprised by a knock on my bedroom door. Mom comes in before I say it’s okay, and I shove my plate of cake behind my pillow before she can see what it is. “Hey, Mom,” I say, trying not to be obvious with the swallow. “You’re home early.”

  She’s still wearing her coat and carrying her briefcase. She’s had the same one since she started working again. The stickers that Monica and I “decorated” it with so she could “think about us all day long” are still there.

  “Are you doing homework?” she asks.

  “Uh-huh,” I say. “I’ve got four tests and a report this week.”

  “Don’t overdo,” she says softly, coming over to the bed. I shrug; I know she won’t want me to under-do, so …

  “I heard from your Aunt Daphne today,” she says, sitting on the bed and rubbing my forehead the way she does when I’m sick. “How are things at school?” Aunt Daphne is Ruthie’s mom, and she carries a business card that says “Full-time Wife and Mother.” Talking to her usually makes my mom feel guilty, so I wonder if she’s going to whip up some extra-special treats tonight. Ruthie says her mom feels guilty when she talks to mine, so I guess they’re even.

  “Fine,” I say. She keeps looking at me. “Um, I got an A on my math test.”

  “Very good,” she says. She raises her eyebrows. “And everything is … going well socially?”

  “Sure,” I say. I’m on my way to Loser of the Year! For a second I think about breaking down and finally telling her about my life as Pukey, how bad this year has sucked, and letting her be my mommy again; but no. I still have some dignity with my mother, at least.

  “You don’t see Donovan Greene much anymore, do you,” she says, and it’s both a question and a statement.

  I shrug again. I’m not giving up anything. Monica walks by, peeks in, and makes a face.

  Mom rubs my head some more, then she pulls a book out of her briefcase and hands it to me. The title: Right Back ATCHA! Win the War of Words with the World’s Wittiest Comebacks (And Vocabulary Helps).

  It takes me a minute to figure out what “ATCHA” means. Then another to decide that I’m going to kill Ruthie. And one more to realize that I actually don’t have a shred of dignity left with my mom. She must know the whole story.

  “I just happened to see this while I was browsing at the bookstore,” she says. “The clerk assured me that they’re all clean and respectful comebacks. And educational!”

  Great. Nice, clean comebacks that will improve my essays. Donovan’s probably already quaking. I flip the book over. “Jimmy” writes: “I used to just cry when people teased me, but now I’ve learned to stand up for myself AND I raised my SAT score 200 points!” I wish Jimmy were here so I could punch him.

  Mom hugs me quickly and kisses my forehead. “Don’t stay up too late,” she says, standing up. She still has her coat on; she picks up her briefcase and gives me another quick rub. “And don’t get any crumbs in the bed.” She walks out, closing the door behind her.

  OCTOBER 27

  3:46 P.M.

  We’re back at the Olive Branch. I show Dave the work I’ve been doing every night, transcribing the youth group’s interviews.

  “And Dave,” I say. “There were some kids here that first day, they looked around my age … but I don’t see them now.”

  Dave hands the pages back to me. “Yeah, well,” he says softly. “Would you want to hang around if you lived here? Have other kids see you living here?”

  I nod. I know what it’s like, wanting to be invisible. But theirs must be a whole different level. I don’t see Charlie around today either.

  “How’re you doing?” he asks. “I know it’s a lot of work for one guy, all of this transcribing. I’m going to try to get someone else to help out. Gabriella … she kind of left you hanging, huh?”

  “It’s all right,” I say, even though I could use the help. “It’s interesting, the stories people are telling. Did you know that guy called Old Crump led a union desegregation movement in the South? And he was practically a kid. Mialonie’s partner, Miss Joycelyn, had her quilts in the Museum of Modern Art.” I smile. “And it figures Ruthie would get a former Black Panther.”

  Dave laughs as George walks toward us.

  “What’s up with all this chitchat?” George asks. “We got work to do.” We walk over to “his” corner; there’s a card table now, so we sit across from each other and I put my little bag of chips on the table, right in the middle.

  “You got anything to drink?” he asks, and I shake my head. I take out my notes from our last meeting and stare at them. George stares at me.

  “Um, do you want to pick up where we left off? I wanted to ask you about the subway tunnels, because—”

  “No,” says George quickly.

  “Okay,” I say slowly. “How about when you used to hang out on the Brooklyn Bridge? I was wondering—”

  “Not that either.”

  “Uh, what is Raleigh like? I’ve never been down South.”

  “Maybe you should go down there and find out for yourself,” he says.

  It’s like a do-over of the beginning of that first visit here — and it’s going just as well as it did the first time.

  “So …” I start, and trail off.

  “Don’t you got something to talk about?” George asks. “What’s your story?”

  I don’t say anything until I realize that I will always lose the stare-down battle with George. There’s no contest.

  “Well, I’ve got this project, that, uh, maybe I can ask you about?” Of course my voice goes into squeak mode at the end of my question.

  “Another project?” he mutters. “Is that the new thing, everything’s a project?” He looks at me. “Everyone’s a project?”

  “No!” I practically shout. “I mean, no, I … It’s something … something I’m writing, really. A graphic novel. I mean, you know, like a comic book, but—”

  “I know what a graphic novel is.” Suddenly a smile breaks open his face. “That’s all right! I used to write my own comic books when I was coming up.”

  Now it’s my turn to smile. “You did? What were they about?”

  “Oh, I had this rapping detective character, you know….” He grabs some chips and looks down. “It was just fooling around.” He takes another handful of chips. “I did it for about four years.”

  “Why did you stop?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Moved on, I guess. Or the creative juices just stopped flowing.”

  “I know what you mean,” I say. “See, Night Man — that’s my character — I’ve been working on it since kindergarten, and my friend Joe C. does the art, and it’s cool and everything, but —” I stop. “Rapping detective?”

  “Yeah,” George laughs a little. “Whenever he solved a crime, he would get all lyrical and wrap everything up with a rhyme.” He glares at me. “What’s your guy? Night Man? What does he do?”

  “Well, he’s, uh, homeless….” I glance at George, but he just stares. “He’s really a superhero, but nobody knows it. They can’t see the real guy behind the homeless part.”

  George nods. “But the homeless guy is part of the real guy too, right?”

  “Yeah, exactly.” I nod. “He uses his knowledge of the streets to help him. Like he built a community center in an abandoned subway tunnel for all these street kids with his reward money for saving the city from an enemy attack. All of the gifts that he gets for saving people’s lives and stuff, he uses them to create this perfect underground community where everyone watches out for one another. The mayor thinks that he destroyed them when he sealed the manhole entrance to the tunnel, but Night Man knows a way in through a local storage center.”

  “Interesting,” says George. We’re quiet for a few seconds.

  “But lately I’ve been having a hard time working on it. It’s … different now.”

  “Now, meaning since you started coming to this place?”

  I
nod.

  “That’s good, then,” he says. “That means you pay attention.”

  “And I got all involved in this school election….”

  “You running for office, Obama?” he asks.

  “Nah, I’m just helping this girl who is. But … the whole thing is so fake. I mean, it could be something more, but she’s just … I can’t even explain it.”

  “So why are you doing it then?” George asks.

  I shrug. “I guess I thought I could help,” I say. “Make a difference at school and all that. But maybe I’m wasting my time, putting myself out there like that. See, there’s this guy at school … we used to be friends.”

  “And what?” asks George. “He’s running for president too?”

  “No, but he’s helping this guy who is. It’s obvious that he’s just trying to get to me.”

  “Seems like it’s working,” says George, pouring crumbs from the bag into the palm of his hand.

  “What?”

  “Him getting to you.” He drops the bag on the table.

  “It wrecks my nerves!” I blurt out. “Why can’t he find something better to do?” I start to crumple up the chip bag.

  “Why can’t you?” George asks. He takes the bag and manages to pour a few more crumbs into his mouth.

  “Huh?”

  “I mean, seems like you got enough to work with … your girl running for president—”

  “Vicky is not my girl,” I interrupt.

  “Your candidate, then. And your graphic novel … and coming here … Like I said, you got a lot of projects. What’s important to you?” He hands back the empty chip bag.

  I pause before I speak again. “This isn’t a project,” I say. “It’s like, I’ve been so sick of how fake my school is — we talk all about community service and community spirit, and it’s just the same old thing every year. But this place, this is … real. And I want to be a part of it.”

  He smiles again. “That’s because you’re paying attention. Just keep paying attention, smart boy. You’ll figure it out.” He points to my Night Man notebook. “Let me check that out. Homeless superhero, huh? You sure his name isn’t George? Cuz well, you know …”

  “As a matter of fact …” I start, and we both laugh.

  OCTOBER 28

  7:56 A.M.

  I run up the steps at school, and today I don’t trip. Progress. Pops made me a BLT for breakfast this morning, one of those don’t-tell-your-mother meals. He remembered the election and asked how it was going; I said “fine.” It’s not often that Pops says something to me that doesn’t start with “Why can’t you …” so I didn’t want to ruin things by telling him that I haven’t been the best campaign manager around. He even gave me a couple of bucks “just because.” Still, I’ve already missed the first bell, and I start running, hoping that I look athletic and not panicked and sweaty.

  Charlie’s standing near my locker. His fists are clenched and his eyes are slitty, just like George’s when he’s mad.

  “Hi,” he says, like he’s daring me to do something.

  “Hey,” I say. “Good to see you the other day. Sorry we didn’t get to talk.”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “Have you been sick or something?” I ask. “I’ve been looking for you at school.”

  Charlie shrugs. “Sometimes I don’t feel like coming. My stomach hurts sometimes. And my mommy doesn’t feel good sometimes either.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re here,” I say. I keep it light and casual and like it’s totally normal for him to live at the Olive Branch. “I went back to the Olive Branch too, but I guess you were out.”

  “Maybe it was when I went to the doctor,” he says. “I didn’t have to get any shots.”

  “Great! So I’ll be back there to do more interviews; maybe we can hang out then. Uh, I’m kind of late….”

  “Did you just take a shower?”

  “No,” I answer, and I keep walking fast. He has to jog to keep up.

  “You’re all wet,” he says. “You have big patches under your arms—”

  “Shouldn’t you be going to class?” I interrupt.

  “Yes, because today I’m sharing for show-and-tell, and I was going to tell them about you and the fun stuff we’re going to do together but I have to ask you what we’re gonna do because we haven’t done anything yet because I know you’re real busy and my mom said I have to ask you ahead of time and make a plan because big boys make plans.” He takes a breath. “So I wanted to know if we’re going to go to the zoo like you said. Or something.”

  “How about this,” I say as the last bell rings. “Lunch.” He’s just looking at me, so I add, “To celebrate you being here today. You can sit with me and my friends.”

  “Really?” he says. “We can even trade lunches if you want. And I can share my juice box. Do you like juice boxes?”

  “Um, you should talk to Joe C. He’s really into juice,” I say. “So, we got a deal? We can have lunch together a lot, if you come to school.”

  He nods.

  I realize that the last bell rang about a hundred hours ago. I’m in trouble. “Listen, I’m really late, and so are you, so I’ll see you later.” I start backing away.

  “Okay,” he says. “I have to tell you something too. Something important.”

  “See you later, okay?” I turn around and start running. The door to Ms. A’s class creaks as I open it, and everyone looks up from … a pop quiz? I look at Ms. A: She fake smiles back and points to the test paper already on my desk.

  “You’ve lost some time, Reggie,” she says. “Better get to it.” Joe C. gives me a “don’t worry about it” look as I head to my seat. Audrey Glassman is already done with hers, and she raises one eyebrow at me. Whatever.

  I look at the quiz. It’s on NATO. No wonder Joe C.'s not worried. NATO is at the top of Ruthie’s New World Order Collective action list, and we’ve been getting a crash course in everything from the Cold War to the Riga Summit. I raise my hand and smile at Ms. A. “Will there be extra credit?” I say.

  11:38 A.M.

  Bonded with Pops and aced a pop quiz. It all gives me enough confidence to say hi to Mialonie and Josie as I pass their table in the cafeteria. (I’m always surprised to see Mialonie eating; I keep expecting her not to do things like eat and go to the bathroom like the rest of us.) Then I slide into my seat next to Ruthie.

  “I never thought that I’d say this,” I start, “but your NATO sermons came in handy.”

  “Don’t sleep,” Ruthie says. “I know which way the winds of the world blow.” She takes out her journal. “I’ve got to write that one down. ‘Winds of the World,’ I love it. Could be the future title of my book.”

  “Don’t talk anymore,” I say. “Please. Just don’t.” I pick up my slab of pizza.

  “Hey, Reggie!”

  I look up; it’s Charlie. I shove Ruthie a little to make room for him. “Hey, Charlie, have a seat!” He puts his brown bag down and climbs up onto the bench. He just sits there for a minute, so I give him a pat on the back and Ruthie makes a series of “awww” sounds.

  “What do you have for lunch?” I say.

  “Peanut butter and jelly,” he says. “And grapes. They’re cut in half. Halves are semicircles.” He looks at my tray. “My mommy made me lunch today because I told her I didn’t like school lunch. I have to finish every bite. But I meant the tacos. I love pizza, though.”

  I give him half of my pizza. “So, what’s your secret? Let’s talk now, because we don’t have much time.”

  He looks at Ruthie, who makes a big show of taking out The Week magazine and holding it up in front of her face.

  Charlie takes a deep breath. “Well,” he starts, “um … there’s somebody mean….” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “A bully. She’s really, really mean!”

  Uh-oh, she? Already, this is not good.

  “Is she bigger than you?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says, popping a grape half into his mouth. �
�Lots bigger.”

  “Well, what does she do?” I say. Joe C. arrives and sits down across from us.

  “She’s always poking me in the back,” he says, “really hard, and she calls me Chupacabra Charlie.”

  “Chupa-what?”

  “El Chupacabra,” answers Joe C. “The goat-sucking beast. Originated in Puerto Rico. Some say it’s an urban legend, but tell that to George Thurston of San Antonio, Texas. One took a chunk out of his leg on December 18, 2005.”

  “You remember my friend Joe C.,” I say to Charlie. “Fanatical juice drinker and hoarder of useless information.”

  “You just needed it,” Joe C. reminds me. Ruthie snorts.

  Charlie keeps looking at me. “I hate her! I never did anything to her, and she’s so mean to me! What should I do?”

  “Um,” I say. “What do you do now?”

  “I try to tell her to stop, but usually …” He stops, and motions for me to bend down so he can whisper in my ear. “… I start crying.” He looks like he’s about to cry right now.

  I think about it for a minute. “Just don’t say anything,” I say finally. “And walk away before anything happens.” Charlie keeps looking at me like he’s waiting for more. I shrug and eat one of his grapes.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around: Vicky’s standing there with her lunch tray balanced on yet another folder.