Eighth-Grade Superzero

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  I wait awhile, but he seems like he’s done, so I say good-bye, and head to the steel doors.

  NOVEMBER 4

  3:30 P.M.

  As Joe C. and I leave the school building, the posters announcing Holiday Jam committee meetings remind me how much I looked forward to winter break when the school year started. It was a relief to tell George that Night Man isn’t working, but I don’t know how Joe C. will react.

  We pass the Crazy Sock Man, who’s in the middle of the street, wearing shorts and screaming about White people and black cats.

  “That guy should be in a home or something,” says Joe C. “He’s dangerous.”

  “He’s not hurting anyone,” I say quickly.

  “Just my feelings,” he says. We both try, and fail, to laugh.

  “I’m surprised you’re coming with me,” he adds as we walk to the 2 train. He wants to do a little browsing for Night Man inspiration at Bergen Street Comics before we go to his house to study. “We don’t really talk about Night Man anymore.”

  “Lots going on,” I say. A kid runs by who reminds me of Charlie. I haven’t seen him at school in a while; even though I have no idea what to say to him, I keep looking for him in the halls.

  “You and Vicky don’t have meetings or anything?” Joe C. asks. “Not that I think you should.”

  “I know,” I say. “At lunch I told her that maybe we should propose a canned food drive for the shelter, something totally easy, and all she wanted to talk about was her proposal for a merit-based lunch voucher system.”

  “What’s that about?” Joe C. asks.

  “She wants people who get the best grades to get discounts in the cafeteria. She thinks that the more we support the top students, the more everyone will benefit. Ruthie called it a twisted Talented Tenth trickle-down theory.”

  “Whatever that means,” Joe C. answers. “And they should be paying us to eat that food.”

  “I’ve gotten some interesting e-mails from people about cafeteria food. Vegetarian options, kosher options … ‘not-nasty options’ …”

  “My mom wants the school to go totally organic.” Joe C.'s mom is a lawyer.

  “I’d like to avoid people making any connections between me and nasty food with a high you-know-what factor anyway.” I try to laugh but it comes out like I’m choking.

  “Yeah, I guess you would,” Joe C. says. “Look, it’s not the best nickname, but it could be worse. What if you were Acid Face Johnson?”

  Good point. Everyone used to call this girl “Pizza Face,” but after Ruthie did a current events on women in some country getting acid thrown in their faces, it became “Acid Face.” Last week, Hector asked Acid Face if he could use her as a model for his presentation on the moon’s surface.

  Joe C. looks at me. “You can tell me. You do realize that you made a mistake, right? With Vicky?”

  “I don’t know what to do,” I say, taking out my campaign notepad to look over some of the suggestions that I’ve heard. “There are kids who are actually coming to talk to me about the election, and there’s a lot we can do. I just wish I didn’t feel like I was the one running against my own candidate … and Donovan. I mean, Justin.”

  “Yeah,” says Joe C. “Sucks to be you.”

  Is he being sarcastic? I let it go.

  “You do have a lot going on,” he continues. “The homeless thing, Vicky … When are you going to have time for Night Man? The things you really want to do?”

  I take this as a rhetorical question; at least, I take it as one I don’t want to answer right now. A police car weaves through the traffic, siren screaming. Miss Yvette, who’s lived on my block “since before these yuppies were old enough to spell ‘gentrification,'” she always says, calls out a hello as she drops soda cans into a shopping cart. (Those nickels she gets from recycling send her to Atlantic City every weekend.) A couple of old guys playing chess in the park challenge us to a game.

  There’s a couple slobbing each other down in front of a nail salon. They’re almost horizontal and I’m expecting a baby to pop out of the girl any minute. What if that were Mialonie and me, and …

  I look away from them, fast. “I heard Justin did it in fifth grade.”

  “Did what?”

  I just look at Joe C. until he gets it.

  “No way.”

  “Yeah,” I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “That’s what I heard.”

  “You believe that?” asks Joe C.

  “All the girls at school are in love with him.”

  “I guess …”

  I look at Joe C. “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Have you, you know …”

  “Oh. Well, no. Anyway, you would know.”

  “I thought maybe with that girl from computer camp …”

  “What, are you crazy? Anyway, she wasn’t that cute. And Maria, remember?”

  “So, you would have?” I say it real low, even though no one is close to us.

  “I don’t know…. What about you?”

  “I guess … I don’t know. Yeah, probably. It depends.” I’m almost whispering now.

  “My mom tries to talk to me about that stuff. It’s so embarrassing.”

  “Yeah, Pops gave me a book,” I say.

  “Any pictures?”

  “Naw, it’s one of those Christian books…. You know, ‘Save it for marriage.’”

  “Oh.” We’re both quiet for a while. Then he laughs. “Maybe your parents will set it up so you and Ruthie can lose your virginity to each other. They’ll have to fight off Vicky first, though.”

  I chase him for two blocks before he apologizes, and I still make him pay for the fries we pick up at the Chinese takeout place.

  When we get to the subway station, we just make it onto the train, and I know right away that it’s the wrong one. A bunch of older guys are laughing and playing around; with all of the labels on their jackets and shoes, they don’t even need real names. It’s quiet, and I can feel them staring, and it’s one of those times when Joe C. seems Whiter than ever. Joe C. squeezes onto the bench next to a guy who’s opened his legs even more to make the space smaller. I stand in front of him, grab the rail, and pretend to read the vocational school ads posted over the windows.

  Joe C. pulls out a Gargantua comic book.

  “I found it,” he says, way too loud. “Remember we were looking for the one where Gargantua and Velvet Steel work together?”

  I glance down and away real fast, hoping he gets that I don’t want to look at the book right now. It’s a long time until the next stop, and low profile is the way to go.

  He opens up the book to a pullout spread. “Look at these lines. I think I can do something just as good as this,” he says. One of the guys across from us lets out a snort. I shake my head a little. Joe C. goes on, and it’s like he’s shouting. “We should write them a letter too. Because if Gargantua and Velvet Steel work together in this issue, then what happened in Number 613 is impossible.”

  The snorty guy says something I can’t hear, and some of the others start laughing. Joe C. looks right at them (nooo!) and shrugs, then turns back to me. “Here.” He waves the book at me. I don’t do anything right away.

  “Your friend is trying to give you something,” says Snorty. “Why are you being rude?” His friends laugh some more.

  I know what they’re thinking. My clothes and my hair are a little too corny. My friend is a little too White.

  Joe C. looks at me, and at them, and then at the floor. “Anyway,” he mumbles after a long minute, “it’s just stupid.”

  Snorty looks at Joe C. “I used to read those books. Do they still have the Space Brawler?”

  “Yeah,” says Joe C. “Only he lost his powers and he’s on this pilgrimage to find out why.” Snorty reaches for the book; Joe C. hands it over. He flips through it for a minute.

  “So you draw and stuff? You want to make your own comic books?” he asks Joe C. It’s like I’m not there.<
br />
  “I’m okay,” says Joe C. He nods toward me. “We’ve been working on some stuff.” I try to catch Snorty’s eye, but he’s not having it. He just focuses on Joe C.

  Joe C. pulls out his art journal and shows it to Snorty, who’s impressed.

  “You’re pretty good,” he says, showing his friends. “Keep it up. My uncle is an illustrator; he’s done a lot of picture books. It’s good work.”

  We pull into our stop. Joe C. gathers his things; Snorty and a couple of the other guys give him a pound. I feel like I have too many limbs and trip as I head to the door. As I head out, I hear one of the guys mutter “stupid Whiteboy” under his breath. I’m so glad Joe C. didn’t hear that, but when I look up I realize that the guy is looking me full in the face.

  NOVEMBER 5

  8:42 A.M.

  I’ve got organic gummy bears in my pocket, and I’m waiting for Ruthie to get to homeroom so that I can grovel. She walks in, sits at her desk, and opens a book without looking my way. She’s still all frosty because of that run-in with Donovan in the cafeteria the other day, and I admit it: I miss her. I haven’t gotten one IM or e-mail from her in days.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, in my most pitiful voice. “Are we friends?” I add a pout; I’m laying it on thick like chocolate frosting.

  She looks up from Their Eyes Were Watching God. “What’s wrong with your face?” she asks, not smiling.

  “This is me being sorry,” I say. I poke my lip out more, and raise my eyebrows. “Really, really sorry.”

  “For what?” She goes back to her book.

  “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” I say. I can’t tell her that I can’t even stand up for myself with Donovan, much less anyone else.

  “You’re not going to make this right, are you?” she shoots back.

  “Make what right?” I ask. I’m not sure what we’re talking about anymore. We’re interrupted by Hector, who strolls over and leans on Ruthie’s desk.

  “Excuse you,” she says. I smirk, and Hector reaches over and snatches my pen out of my hand. He turns back to Ruthie.

  “So, um,” he starts, “I … w-w-what I’m thinking is …”

  When did he start stuttering? Dare I hope it’s permanent?

  Hector takes a deep breath. “I want to find out more about … the Fort Benning thing you were talking about last week, and, uh, the garment industry too.” He sits up a little straighter. “I want to help.”

  My mouth drops open, and so does Ruthie’s. Then she gives Hector the smile I thought she reserved for her Malcolm X poster. “Well, I … that’s great! What do you want to know?”

  Hector smiles back. “Everything, I guess. I want to be a part of the solution, you know?”

  I can barely stifle my groan. I wait for Ruthie to remind him that he is firmly implanted on the problem end of that equation.

  “Let’s talk, then,” says my temporarily insane friend. “Do you want to meet after school? My piano lesson was cancelled.”

  “You play the piano? That’s cool,” says Hector as Ms. A marches into the room. “Yeah, after school is good. I’ll meet you at your locker.”

  Hector slides into his seat behind me, throwing in a punch to my back. Ruthie, the traitor, doesn’t even say anything.

  Ms. A drops some stuff on her desk and starts writing on the board.

  “Hey,” I whisper to Ruthie. “As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted, will you accept my apology if I treat you to a slice after school?”

  Ruthie shrugs and whispers back, “Don’t worry about it, it’s all good. Maybe another day on the pizza.” She looks at me and smiles. “Seems like I’m booked today.”

  NOVEMBER 6

  5:32 P.M.

  “Monica, it’s been a while since we’ve done any drills,” says Pops, scooping up a mound of mashed potatoes as big as a snowball. After daily pop quizzes, state test prep, and three early mornings of begging people to take “Vote Vicky!” postcards, I’m grateful for the weekend, even if it means sharing space with my gremlin of a sister. Mom had soca playing in the kitchen all day while she was cooking, and I even saw her and Pops dancing for a minute. I take a bite of her oxtail and stew peas. We had an early snowfall yesterday, but this food tastes like it’s summer and I’m a little kid again, and I don’t know yet that there is evil in the world.

  Then Evil speaks. “Mom, the chicken is too spicy.” Monica has been talking in this weird whiny voice lately. “It’s going to wreak havoc on my pores.”

  “ ‘Wreak havoc'? Did Dick and Jane teach you some new vocabulary words today?” I snicker, and Mom gives me a light backhand to the head.

  Monica puts more callaloo on her plate, watching me the whole time. I look away first. I’ve been pushing it lately. Last week, I threatened to tell Mom about the night she went clubbing when she was supposed to be studying with her friend Asha. I asked her how many baby seals she got; I thought that was a good one, but she didn’t get it.

  “Don’t eat it, then,” says Mom, real calm because she knows that it is impossible to keep from eating her fried chicken. She says she took this Saturday off to get some rest, but I think it was for Pops. He’s smiled more today than he has in two months, and I can tell she’s been working hard to keep him up.

  Monica grunts and sucks the meat off of a bone.

  “Am I invisible?” Pops asks. “Inaudible? I thought that I just asked Miss Monica a question.” He takes more mashed potatoes, and they fall off of his spoon as he points to Monica.

  “It didn’t sound like a question,” she says in a phony “who, me?” voice.

  Mom slides her eyes over Monica’s way, and her Don’t push it is almost audible.

  Monica smiles. “Just playing, Pops…. Actually, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that. About basketball, I mean.”

  “Good,” says Pops. “I know you think you’ve got game, but it takes hard work and perseverance to separate you from the pack. Let me tell you, when St. Joseph’s needed someone to step up and be a leader on the football team, they didn’t have to look far….”

  I sneak a look at Monica, who’s already looking at me. We share an eye roll, then look away before it gets too friendly.

  Pops stops talking and clears his throat. “Anyway, that was all a long time ago.” He coughs a little. “So what did you want to say, Monica?” he asks.

  “Oh, yeah … um, well, I don’t want to play ball anymore. I’m not going to try out for the varsity team next year. I’ve changed my mind.”

  Three heads snap up so fast they almost come off. Monica drew a face on her first basketball and would push it around in a toy stroller. I’ve seen the pictures; Pops keeps them in his wallet. And March Madness? It’s straitjacket time around here; she tapes every game so she can replay each one in slow motion, and she and Pops scream at the screen. This must be a joke. I wait for the punch line.

  “I’m trying out for cheerleading,” says Monica.

  Now, that’s a punch line!

  “Be serious, Monica,” says Mom, standing up and collecting plates.

  “I am serious,” Monica says.

  Mom sits back down. “Monica, what is going on with you? I have been letting you go around with those silly girls, wearing too much makeup and acting the fool. And don’t think I don’t know about that trashy Cosmopolitan magazine in your room. But this is ridiculous.”

  “I can’t believe you were snooping around in my room! That’s such an invasion of privacy!” yells Monica. I make a mental note to check my room for contraband. “What does Cosmo have to do with anything anyway? Why are you even bringing that up? Anyway, cheerleaders are athletes. They work hard—”

  “— boosting the egos of boys with below-average grades,” cuts in Mom.

  “You guys don’t understand anything. That’s not what it’s about now. Cheerleading is a competitive sport.”

  “Monica … you used to be a serious child, you had an interest in science, and we’ve always encourag
ed your athletics,” says Pops, who’s been sitting there looking like he got sucker punched. “Look at your brother: He’s involved in school politics. That’s respectable.” He looks at me and nods. “And he’s involved with that homeless shelter.”

  “Uh … yeah, but you know, it’s just a little youth group thing.” Pretty nice to have Pops’s approval heading over my way, but it makes Monica glare like she is going to stomp me to death.

  “That’s good, Reggie. Just be careful,” says Mom. “You,” she turns to Monica. “Cheerleading. Why would you want to spend your time doing something so mindless?”

  “I can’t explain it because you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” Mom says, standing up. She starts dumping the food into plastic containers; I wouldn’t have minded a little more. Monica picks her plate up, drops it hard into the sink, and then stomps upstairs. Mom starts to say something, then just mutters under her breath. Pops is still sitting there, looking dazed.

  Why did Monica have to go and ruin things? My summer day’s gone, and the chill in the air makes me want to go to my room and crawl under the covers.

  “May I be excused?” I ask, and leave before I get an answer.

  What burly ball-playing beast is an aspiring booty-shaking pom-pom waver? That’s a quiz I would have failed for sure. Cheerleading?!?! My lumberjack gladiator of a sister? There’s got to be another angle. I lie in bed and wonder if the cheerleaders at Future Leaders are actually a gang of master criminals who plan and execute ATM robberies. Monica as thug I can believe. But Monica all short skirts and sexy smiles? Not even close. I used to wonder what Mom and Pops would say if I told them about Night Man, but I’m guessing it would look like I’ve been writing a textbook compared to Monica’s latest news.

  I can hear Mom and Pops murmuring in their bedroom. I’ve got to give it to my sister. No one will ever ignore Monica. They may shudder, run screaming, or even wonder how the God who created Mialonie could also create something so monstrous … but she makes an impression.