“Can we talk?” she asks, looking for a spot to squeeze into at the table.
It’s pretty crowded, but if we shove over a little … No one moves. Vicky waits a few seconds, and I don’t know what to do. I raise my eyebrows and shrug a little.
“Um,” I begin. “Well …”
She laughs, and it’s not very convincing. “Yeah, I’ll just catch up with you later,” she says, and almost collides with Vijay and his camera as she walks away, trying to hand out “Vote Vicky!” flyers without dropping her lunch. She sits at a table by the door, alone.
“Yo, Reggie,” Joe C. says. “Do you want to go on the Hip-Hop History tour with me?”
“What? What’s that?” And do you have to talk about it right this second?
“It’s this tour in Manhattan where all of these oldheads take you to the places where hip-hop began.”
“Hip-hop began in Africa,” I say. “West Africa.”
“You know what I mean,” he says. “ ‘Manhattan keeps on makin it, Brooklyn keeps on takin it, Bronx keeps creatin it, and Queens keeps on fakin’ it'… Boogie Down Productions,” he adds. “ ‘The Bridge Is Over.’ Criminal Minded, 1987.”
“Thanks, Professor,” I say. “I knew that. My parents have that album. It’s a classic.” Joe C. better not get all Columbus on me and share all of his new ‘discoveries.’
“Yeah, it’s a good one. I figure a DJ’s gotta be a scholar in a way,” he says. “So, you want to go? It sounds like fun.”
Maybe, but it also sounds like it has a high awkward quotient. “I don’t think so,” I say. “I don’t think Black people go on those tours. We know all of that stuff already.” I know I sound silly, but I’m picturing riding through the ‘hoods on a bus with Joe C. and a bunch of Germans wearing Kangols. Not. Good. At. All.
Joe C. sighs. “Yeah, I figured you wouldn’t go. I may ask Gunnar to go with me.” After a pause, he adds, “He’s pretty cool. You really should come by.”
I focus on sharing my chips with Charlie, who’s finished all of his lunch. Joe C. gives me a nudge, and I look up. Blaylock has come in and pulled Justin aside; now Donovan’s coming this way.
“How’s it going, Pukey?” he asks. Vijay moves a little closer to us with his camera; he can smell blood. Donovan notices too, and raises his voice. “Hey, is Talkin’ Trash doing a special episode on all-time losers?”
“Shut up,” I mutter.
“Did you tell them about those stupid comic books you make?” he says. “You’re probably into all that freak role-playing stuff by now too. That would be a good story: ‘Pukey Geek Goes All-Out Freak.’ Is that why you’re supporting that witch? It’s pretty sad, watching you make an even bigger fool of yourself this year. And I didn’t think that was possible.”
“Why are you so worried about it?” says Joe C.
“I just feel sorry for him,” answers Donovan. “Everyone knows that Justin and I are going to win. We don’t even have to campaign. Theirs is so bad, it’s like watching a train wreck.” He looks at Ruthie. “On second thought, that would be your face.”
Ruthie turns away. I feel like I should say something, but I just want to run, especially because Vijay and Charlie are so interested in this conversation. All I need is a televised version of Donovan cutting me down while I’m in headlighted-deer mode.
“I’m out,” I say, grabbing my stuff. “I’ll see you guys at the lockers.” I start walking.
“Pukey punk,” calls Donovan.
Charlie follows me out of the cafeteria, not saying anything. I don’t look at him, and before he can tell me that he’s just experienced a Ghost of Christmas Future moment and might jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, I talk fast.
“Hey, um, Charlie, I’ll see you later. I’m really busy right now, there’s a lot going on. ‘Bye.” I practically run down the hall before he can say anything.
“Hey, Reggie!” Great. Vicky.
“Vicky, I know you want to talk about your Miss Clarke proposal, but—”
“While I have been working hard on the Academic Pageant plans, that’s not what I want to talk to you about.”
“So, what is it? I’m kind of in a hurry.” To bury myself under some covers.
“That, back there, in the lunchroom. It’s not a good look for me,” she says.
“What are you talking about?”
“Donovan totally punked you, and honestly, you had the camera right there and not only did you fail to promote me and my brand, you looked like a fool.”
“Thanks a lot, Vicky,” I say. “Can we talk about something else right now? Like the service-learning idea? I think that Olive Branch, that shelter I told you about—”
“This is what I mean. I’m talking about winning the election, you’re talking about street people who have nothing to do with us.”
“No, see, that’s what I mean,” I say. “There are kids there, kids from Clarke even, and old people … and kids our age who could come to Clarke for after-school projects and fund-raisers and stuff. We need to change our message. I’m not even sure we have one.”
“Look, I want to win, not get blamed for inviting a bunch of hoodrats to our school. I’m sorry, I know you want to help, but my reputation’s at stake. You’ve got to pull yourself together, for my sake.”
I open and close my mouth a few times.
“I hope we understand each other,” she says.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever understand you, Vicky,” I say.
She smiles the poor-little-puppy smile again. “How about we both think about it a little? I’m usually able to do something with your ideas. We’ll figure something out.” She hugs me. Gross. “Glad we had this little talk.” She whips out some “Vote Vicky!” pencils and bookmarks and pushes them into my hands. “New swag. See, I am changing things up. Remember: Focus on me. And by me, I mean ME.” She leaves.
I’m not cut out for politics. I’m leaning against my locker, trying to recover, when Ruthie and Joe C. get there. Ruthie just grabs some stuff from her locker and walks away.
“What’s her problem?” I say. “Like it’s my fault Donovan’s a jerk.”
Joe C. shrugs and closes his locker. “I gotta get up to the fifth floor.”
“Later,” I say. As he walks away, I stay at my locker for a few more minutes. I don’t care if I’m late.
OCTOBER 31
11:03 A.M.
I leave my parents in the sanctuary and head over to the church library to meet Dave and the group, and not just because Reverend Coles said in an e-mail that he’s planning to “rock da house” with his sermon. We have another group session at Olive Branch coming up on Tuesday, and Dave wants to talk about the project, so everyone shows up today.
Ruthie barely says hi to me; guess she’s still got something up her butt about the things that Donovan said. I don’t know why I’m getting blamed. I grab a spot on the old saggy black couch in the corner of the room and take out an unfinished snack bag of onion and garlic-flavored chips and a new notebook. As I lick chip crumbs from my fingers, I feel someone standing over me and look up. It’s Mialonie.
I can’t help it; I take in a big, deep breath, and then I’m sitting there staring at her, holding my breath like a fool.
“Hey,” she says, in that low, sweet voice.
“Hah — hey,” I let out my breath with a whoosh. My onion and garlic breath. Good job, Reggie. She sits next to me, and I really have to fight to keep from taking another deep breath.
Dave claps his hands. “Okay, real quick, I just wanted to find out how you’re feeling about the Listening Ears Project.” He scans the room. “How is it going?”
Silence, and then Jeff shrugs. “It’s depressing. Is that what you want to hear?”
“I want to hear the truth,” says Dave. “Go on, I’m listening.” But he looks at his watch as he says it. Dave isn’t completely focused on us, and that’s not like him.
“You could have warned us more,” Jeff continues.
Ruthie
breaks in. “What did you expect? Homelessness is depressing. It’s a shame that we let it happen to people.”
“What we?” says Tiffany, glancing at Dave. “I mean, I feel bad, and I want to help, but it’s not my fault.”
“Whose fault is it?” asks Dave.
Some people mumble, but don’t speak up. I do. “It’s everyone’s. And no one’s. And theirs, and ours … I mean, it sounds corny, but the most depressing part for me was feeling like that could be my …” I’m not going to say Pops, so I finish “… someone I know.”
“So,” says Jeff, “it’s okay if it’s someone you don’t know?”
I’m not going to get into it with him; this is real. “No,” I say. “I’m saying I realized that there’s no one that I don’t know.” It’s only when the words come out of my mouth that I understand them.
Mialonie says slowly, “I know what Reggie means. Remember when we talked about grace, and hospitality? It’s like … I can’t walk past the guy who sleeps in front of Dunkin’ Donuts anymore without looking at him. I mean, I knew he was there, but now … I really look.”
Silence, and then a snort from Gabriella. She hasn’t been around in a while; I wonder if she’s going to come back to the shelter. Or help me with the transcripts.
“Give me a break,” says Gabriella. “You do one good deed — and I still don’t get how good it even was — and now you’ve got eyes into people’s souls? Come on.”
“Well, I got something out of it,” shoots back Mialonie. “And maybe you would have too, if you’d gone more than once.”
“Why do we have to get something out of everything anyway?” asks Jeff. “Everything is not some lesson.” He looks at Dave. “Or Jesus parabola.”
“You mean parable, bonehead,” says Ruthie.
“My partner, George, told me a lot of things about New York City that I didn’t know,” I say. “He’s real cool, actually. I’m getting a lot out of this, so it would be cool to give back.”
Jeff sneers. “You’ll get your medal in Heaven, then. Congratulations.”
I ignore him. “I’m just saying. There are kids there and everything. And some of the adults can teach us more than anything we learn at school. I mean, we’re supposed to be listening; we should do something about what we hear.” I rip a page out of my notebook. “We can ask people at the shelter what they need. Put a wish list together and then find community resources to fulfill it.”
“That’s a good idea,” says Gabriella slowly. “I’ll help.” I look down because I don’t want her to see my skepticism. “Seriously,” she says. “I will. Just … I might need you to remind me that it really is helping, Reggie.”
“Well, that place needs to be painted for one thing,” says Jeff. “Guess Home Depot had a sale on Depression Gray when they painted the first time.”
Ruthie smiles, but not at me. “We can be ‘The Hope Depot'!”
Everybody groans, but I’m kind of liking this whole idea. I don’t need Vicky to get involved at Olive Branch. The youth group is already there.
Dave looks at his watch, then shifts a little. “Guys, this is one of the better discussions we’ve had, but I need to be somewhere this afternoon, so let’s get going.”
“That’s it?” I say. “Don’t you have anything to say?”
Dave is already packing up his stuff and moving toward the door. “I have an announcement, but it’s no big deal, another time. We’ll talk later, I promise.”
For once I don’t feel like I can bank on Dave’s promise, and it doesn’t feel good.
NOVEMBER 2
2:08 P.M.
“Why are you doing this?” George asks. This is my fourth time here, so I’m getting familiar with what George calls his “chill” days. I call them Grumpy Old Man Days, but not to his face. His eyes are closed, and we’ve been sitting in silence for fifteen minutes.
“Hey, I’m the interviewer,” I say, trying to be jokey and bold at the same time. “I need to ask the questions here.” When I was doing the transcripts, I realized that George and I talk more about me than anything else. I came up with some great new questions so it wouldn’t be all about me, but he hasn’t answered any of them yet.
“What, I’m not allowed to ask questions?” George opens his eyes. They’re bloodshot.
“Um, no … Of course you can ask … I’m just, um, you know, trying to finish the interview.”
“Uh-huh.” He closes his eyes again.
Pretty soon I realize that I’d better answer him about why I’m doing this. “I don’t know, I go to church every week with my parents,” I say. “And this is a youth group thing.”
“What kind of answer is that?” asks George. “I asked why you’re doing this, and you tell me about church and projects and your parents.” He sits up and leans forward. “Why. Are. You. Doing. This?” George enunciates every word in a way that Mr. Stanzione, who runs the debate team, would go crazy for. “Stop playing around. You know exactly what I mean.”
The problem is that I don’t know exactly what I mean. I take a deep breath.
“I like youth group, okay? I told you, this is … real, and, um, you’re interesting, and you’re teaching me a lot.” I take out a bag of chips and open it. I start to tip the bag to my mouth, but I stop and offer it to George first. “I hope people buy the book with all the interviews so we can raise some money for the shelter. And I was telling the youth group that maybe we could help out here more. Satisfied?” I look at George, who takes the bag and tips it to his mouth.
“Church is all right sometimes,” he says. “I used to win the Sunday school prize every week for memorizing verses, and not just that old ‘Jesus wept’ trick. I was good at that. But we didn’t have no youth group or nothing after that. When you got too old for Sunday school you had to sit through all that preaching, and I couldn’t get down with that for too long.”
“Dave lets us have real discussions and we try to figure things out. How to talk the talk and walk the walk.”
“You got the Christianese down,” George says, making me feel silly. I wonder when he’s going to give up the chips. “I thought the whole point was that we can’t figure Him out because He’s God and we’re not. So, smart boy, what you got figured out?”
“Mostly that I can’t figure God out,” I say, and he laughs. “When I was little, I thought God was like a superhero,” I say, keeping my eyes down. He doesn’t respond, so I look up. “I wanted to be a superhero too. Not like I wanted to be God, I mean. Just … you know. I wanted to have some kind of power that zapped everything perfect.”
George takes another swig from the chip bag. I can tell it’s already down to crumbs.
“How’s Night Man? You haven’t mentioned it for a minute.”
“Pretty dead,” I answer.
“Don’t give up on the superhero thing,” says George after a while. “It’ll make you feel strong.”
We both look over at Dave, who’s talking to Wilma and using his hands a lot.
“I wish I was as sure as that guy is,” George says, finishing the crumbs and crumpling the bag. “Your boy Dave looks like he could have been one of the twelve apostles. I’m the guy on the outside looking in.” He looks at the crumpled bag in his hand. “Just looking in.” He’s quiet a moment. “Jesus was cool, but sometimes I think He could help a brother out a little more, you know?”
My thoughts exactly.
He stretches. “I keep some Scripture with me all of the time anyway. When it gets down to it, I like having something to hold on to. It kind of goes with your comic book.” He takes a tiny folded piece of paper out of his cracked leather wallet and passes it to me. “Read it.”
I start reading, and he taps my hand. “Out loud, smart boy.”
I look around to see if anyone’s watching, then I clear my throat and start.
“… in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither t
he present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
“What do you think?” he asks when I stop. “It’s … it sounds powerful,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, taking back the paper and folding it very carefully. “It was one of my memory verses when I was a kid. Makes me feel strong when I read it now.” He slips it back into his wallet. “Sometimes I don’t have the strength to read it, though. I just can’t pull the little piece of paper out of my pocket.” He sighs.
I try to lighten things up. “You just reminded me of one of Dave’s favorite sayings: ‘If you want to walk on water, you’ve got to get out of the boat!’”
“Or get pushed out,” says George. He doesn’t laugh. I’m hungry. “Man, I wish I could have voted in the elections today. Gotta get some batteries so I can listen to the returns later. Speaking of that, how’s your election going?”
The pause goes on long enough for me to know that I have to answer. “Not great. I’m just not sure there’s anything I can do to get Vicky to take the issues seriously, and not just herself. It’s not even about issues anymore. It’s about people, and she doesn’t get that.”
“You know who Rosa Parks was, right?” asks George. I resist the urge to roll my eyes and just nod. “Of course you do,” he says. “But you probably heard the old tired lady story. ‘She’d been working so hard, she was just too tired to stand up.’ Nuh-uh, don’t get it twisted. Rosa was an activist. She was part of the Civil Rights Movement long before she got on that bus. She knowingly took that risk, to say, ‘No, I’m not getting up.’ Everything that she’d been through, that she was, she used it that day. And after.”
George was leaning forward while he spoke, but now he slumps down in the chair, and I see the scars running up and down his dangling arms.
“That superhero thing is right there, Reggie,” he almost whispers. “Just do your thing, and be cool.”
I don’t know if he’s talking about Night Man, or God, or the election, or what. I wish I had more than chips for George. Because right now he looks like he has nightmares just behind his eyes.
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