Eighth-Grade Superzero

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  NOVEMBER 8

  3:47 P.M.

  Back at Olive Branch, I’m determined to get some interviewing done. George is all “less me, more you” every time I come here, but I’m supposed to be leading this project, and it’s not a good look if I’m not doing the assignment properly. I push the heavy doors open and almost take out Charlie’s mom.

  “Sorry!” I say, as she jumps back.

  “No problem,” she says, and smiles.

  I’ve been trying to cut back on the awkward silences lately, so I clear my throat. “Um, we’re doing a wish list for the shelter,” I start. “I posted it over there. You can write down anything that you think Olive Branch needs and we’re going to see what we can do.”

  “That’s nice,” she says. “Reggie, I want to thank you. Charlie was afraid that you’d laugh at him because he lived here.”

  “Laugh?” I say. “But it’s not funny at all.” Oops. “I don’t mean … I just …” I trail off.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says, sighing. “It’s not funny. But we’re getting out of here soon. I’m on a list for a place in the Bronx.”

  “Oh. That’s good.”

  “I just wanted to let you know how much you’ve helped him. He talks about you all the time. You’re like a superhero to him. He says he wants to be a writer. All he used to ever say was that he wanted to be someone else.” She hugs me and walks away quickly before I can say anything back.

  I walk over to George, my notebook and pen already out, and wait for him to notice me. He’s kneeling down on the floor, surrounded by kids and cardboard boxes, paper, glue, and a bunch of stuff that looks like it could either be art supplies or garbage. Charlie brings over a box full of empty milk cartons and dumps them out. He came over to my house a couple of days ago with a whole bag of train stuff and we set it up in my room. I even cleaned up a little. He left all of it there “so it would be nice and safe.”

  “Uh,” I move closer to George, and try to sound serious. “So, I guess we should get started with the interviewing….”

  George glances up at me. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” A couple of the kids look at me and raise their eyebrows. Charlie moves a little closer to me, like he’s got my back.

  I clear my throat. “Um, yeah. Sorry. I guess it won’t take too long, I just wanted to follow up on some of the things we talked about…. And we have a deadline….” I trail off, because he stands up.

  “Check this guy out,” he says to the kids. A couple of them giggle. Charlie doesn’t. “He’s got a deadline for his project. Guess he doesn’t see that we’ve got a project of our own going here, huh?”

  “We’re building a CITY!” says Charlie. “A whole city!”

  “I’m in charge of commerce, that means business,” says a girl. “You’re standing on the place where the big train station is going to be.” I move a little to the left. She shakes her head. “Now you’re at the bus station!” She and more kids start laughing, and not for the first time am I glad you can’t see the blush through the Black.

  “Come over here,” says George, motioning me away from the group. I follow him, doing a few exaggerated steps to show that I don’t want to King Kong the city anymore. This time when the kids laugh, it’s okay.

  “Don’t you go to some big-time school?” asks George.

  “Uh, yeah,” I say. “What does Clarke have to do with—”

  “I don’t know what they’re teaching you there,” George says, “but you need to learn a few things.” I look around the room at the other kids from youth group sitting with their interviewees and recorders. I don’t see Dave. When I look back at George, he’s all slitty-eyed again, so I just nod.

  His voice softens. “I’m not trying to be down on you or anything. But I’m doing something here with these kids that’s important too. And needs to be done right now.”

  Playing? I think. I try not to let Whatever show on my face. I guess it doesn’t work, because George continues.

  “It may look like just playing, but these young cats are engaged, man, they’re dreaming and being productive.” He points over to the group, all gluing and cutting and working. “A kid got stabbed last night,” he says out of nowhere.

  “What!?!”

  “By another kid.” His voice is dead. “Neither one of them more than eight years old.”

  “Don’t they have rules or something? What about the metal detectors?” George just looks at me. I shift a little. “Is the kid okay?”

  “We don’t know yet. But what are you talking about, ‘okay'? None of these kids is okay. That’s what I’m trying to do here, make it a little more okay.” He pats my shoulder. “Do you get it now?”

  I don’t know if I do, or if I know what I’m even supposed to get, but I nod again. George gives me a friendly but hard punch on the shoulder.

  “All right, Reg-dog, let’s get to work.”

  “Uh, okay,” I say, not sure what to do. He looks at me, then at the interview equipment in my hand. “Oh — um. Let me put this stuff down. I’ll be right over.” I put everything into my backpack and stick it behind Wilma’s desk, then I hustle back to the group.

  “Mr. George,” Charlie says, “can Reggie help me make a really tall tower?”

  George hugs him. “Of course, little man.” He nods me over to Charlie and the two of us get to work. George starts grabbing stuff, and he’s smiling, and the kids are watching him and working hard. Something about the whole scene is like Santa’s workshop or something; I can look at this little group and almost forget the gray walls, the industrial-strength smell, and the old woman talking to herself in the corner.

  After we finish our tower, Charlie and I sit down next to the commerce girl, who’s bossing a bunch of other kids around. “How can we help?” I ask.

  She doesn’t miss a beat, handing me a couple of shoeboxes. “Start cutting a door and some windows. That can be McDonald’s.”

  George’s head snaps up. “I know I didn’t hear nothing about no McDonald’s in this town. What did we talk about?”

  “Happy, healthy people in a happy, healthy town,” a couple of the younger kids yell. Commerce Girl is light enough for her blush to show.

  “Oh, yeah,” she says. “Well, it can be a fruit and vegetable market then.”

  “You got it,” I say. And I get to work.

  NOVEMBER 10

  2:48 P.M.

  I asked Ruthie if she wanted to walk home together today, and she acted like I should have made an appointment or something. So I wait quietly at her locker while she talks to Cristina Rodriguez, who keeps giving me dirty looks.

  “We should get our Little Buddies together for a playdate,” says Ruthie when we finally head outside. “They’d be so cute.” “You’re such a girl,” I say.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you — Ida’s home, and she says hi.” Ruthie’s big sister Ida is a freshman at Cornell and she is beautiful. So beautiful that to call her hot would be an insult. So gorgeous that you forget she has a name like Ida. The crazy thing is that she used to look just like Ruthie.

  We walk down Lafayette Avenue without talking for a while. I am not going to ask about her “date” with Hector. We pass Gruenwald’s Market, and I laugh. “Remember when we read the diary of Anne Frank in third grade and you stormed into Gruenwald’s to demand accountability for the Holocaust?”

  Ruthie grimaces. “Don’t remind me. I still buy stuff there just because I feel guilty.”

  We’re passing the playground, and kids are screaming and running around like they just got released from Rikers instead of school.

  “Hey,” I say. “Thanks for encouraging me to do the Buddy thing. That was … deep when I found out Charlie lived at Olive Branch.”

  Ruthie nods. “He’s a nice kid. Reminds me of a little you.”

  “His mom came up to me to thank me, and I don’t even know what for,” I say. “It’s not like I’m doing much of anything.”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “There�
��s something going on at the shelter. Like there was already a spark, but it’s gotten bigger. My Listening Ears partner told me that the youth group is bringing a new energy to the place. And I mean, maybe you don’t see it, but Charlie lights up like a Christmas tree every time he sees you.”

  “I wish we could do more stuff together,” I say. “But homework is killing me. How are we supposed to give them wisdom if we don’t have time to absorb it ourselves?”

  “I took my Buddy Jamila to rallies at the UN and the Botanic Gardens,” says Ruthie, all sunny and smug. “Tomorrow we’re going to the Carousel in Central Park.”

  “You don’t need me to tell you to shut up, do you?” I ask. As she opens her mouth, I cover it. “Rhetorical, Ruthie. Rhetorical.”

  “Don’t hate, congratulate,” she says, all proud like she’s saying something cool, and not something that was in when Pops was in “primary school.” Then she gasps. “Oh my God, look!”

  It must be something big to make St. Ruthie forget to say “gosh.” I see my Little Buddy Charlie curled up on the sidewalk next to the playground gate. Donovan’s standing over him and a bunch of other kids are there, laughing. For once, I don’t think; I just run over and pull Charlie up. “What the — what’s going on? Are you okay? What happened?”

  Charlie’s doing the usual — gasping, snot, hiccups. I scan the group for clues about what happened. Hector wanders over and shouts “Fight!”

  A little boy raises his hand. “Um, he was talking about his shoes.”

  I’m guessing the first “he” was Donovan. I look at Charlie’s feet and he’s wearing … Dora the Explorer sneakers.

  Oh.

  Charlie looks the way I feel after a Donovan encounter. And he’s a little kid! He’s five years old and already he’s broken.

  I turn to Donovan. “Why don’t you pick on a personage of your own size? Oh wait — I guess you’re doing that.”

  Score! That gets a big laugh from the crowd, which has gotten bigger since Hector yelled “fight.” Surprise knocks most of the mean from Donovan’s face. Yeah, I think. I’m saying something today. And yeah, I got help from a book my mom gave me, but you don’t know that.

  I continue: “You mad that he’s got your girlfriend’s picture on his shoes?” That one’s a little weaker, but the crowd’s with me so they laugh anyway. Donovan snorts.

  “Whatever, Pukey. Of course you’re gonna defend her — oh, I mean him. He’s like your Mini-Me; it must be like looking in a mirror.”

  “At least I don’t crack mirrors,” I say. Getting weaker; I need to end this.

  “Why are you hiding out with the babies anyway, Pukey?” Donovan sneers. “I never see you handling your election business. Scared of the spotlight, maybe? Afraid you’re gonna have to get up on that stage again?” He turns to the crowd. “Puke alert avoided! Don’t worry about bringing your protective gear to the election assembly!” He smirks. “You are the most ghost campaign manager ever. You don’t have her back at all.”

  He’s got me there. Charlie’s stopped crying; he’s actually standing next to me with his fists balled up like he’s about to do something. In my head, I hear George say, Don’t give up on the superhero thing, smart boy.

  I turn back to Donovan. “You should talk. You’re trying to be big and bad with a kindergartener. And you wouldn’t even exist without Justin. You feed off him, parasite. It’s like you need him to be a human being, and you’re a pretty commiserable excuse for that. By the way, where’s your boy now? Maybe he’s having second thoughts about you.”

  More than a few ooohs and I hear one “Is ‘commiserable’ a word?”

  “Whatever,” he says, and that’s when I know I’ve won. He turns away first, and walks off alone.

  “You okay?” I ask Charlie. He nods. I pick up his backpack, which I realize is brand-new and just like mine. “Come on,” I whisper. “Don’t look anybody in the eye.” We walk away from the crowd. I know Ruthie will understand that I’m not dissing her by leaving. “Don’t look back,” I mutter. “I’ll walk you home.”

  He’s staring at me like I’m Night Man. And I look at him, at those ridiculous shoes, and just like Night Man, I know what I have to do.

  NOVEMBER 11

  8:02 A.M.

  “So … I couldn’t find my size,” I say, since my oblivious friends haven’t glanced at my feet.

  “What?” says Ruthie, pulling out her iPod earplugs. “I’m trying to catch up on my BBC News broadcasts before school starts.”

  “Listening to no-longer-current events,” Joe C. says. “Always productive.”

  I sigh and point to my shoes. They look. And say nothing. I’m feeling a little less confident than I did at home this morning. It helped that Monica was already gone when I left the house.

  “Uh … did you puke your brains out again or something?” says Joe C. finally.

  “Ha ha,” I say, but the second “ha” catches in my throat a little. Maybe turquoise high-tops with orange stripes are a little over the top. It was the cheapest color, but they seem like they’re glowing now, especially with the picture of Dora the Explorer on the toe.

  Ruthie gets it and grins. She wraps herself around me, laughing. “You are the best. I should have thought of that.” She looks at my sneakers again. “How did you find those?”

  “I made them,” I say, realizing that it’s been a while since she’s hugged me. “I took Charlie to Cold Stone Creamery after school. Those sneakers he had came out of a donation van the other day. And he was going on and on about how much he loved Dora and Boots and should he like somebody else instead, and he cried some more. I felt so bad.”

  “So you decided to reveal your crush on Dora too?” Joe C. shakes his head. “I knew Mialonie had competition, I just thought it was three-dimensional.”

  “Donovan was looking for another way to get to me, so he started on Charlie.”

  “I don’t know if it was about you,” shoots back Joe C. “The boy was wearing Dora shoes. And now you are too.”

  “I want to know how you made them,” says Ruthie.

  “Stickers, mostly. And stencils … they have a bunch of stuff at Target.” I shrug and try to look casual. I don’t think it works because they both start giggling. I look down at my sneakers and laugh too. They are almost completely covered with images of Dora and that stupid monkey friend of hers. Charlie went on and on about the monkey yesterday.

  “I know I look ridiculous,” I say. “But I don’t care.” At Joe C.'s skeptical look, I nod. “Okay, I care. But I care more about that look I saw on Charlie’s face. I’m tired of Donovan’s persecution party. I’m tired of the way every little thing we do has to get picked apart and judged and categorized. I mean, he’s only a little kid. Does it have to start that early?”

  Ruthie nods. “Standing up for the downtrodden. I’m so proud of you, I’ll forgive you for shopping at a chain store that doesn’t respect the basic human rights of its labor force.”

  The first bell rings and Charlie comes running up. “Reggie! Reggie, look! I told my mom what happened and look what she got me!”

  He’s wearing Spider-Man sneakers.

  11:46 A.M.

  Charlie wants to go home to the Olive Branch and switch back to the Dora sneakers, but I tell him it’s okay. Donovan’s not at school, and that helps. Ruthie says that the story got around and people are on my side. Maybe. I get a lot of looks, but I can’t read them. After a while, I just look back. As the morning goes on, I walk through the halls without hoping for invisibility and I toss Hector a bunch of pens before he even asks.

  By lunch, I sit down to eat my tuna salad sandwich without worrying about who’s watching. Just as I pull my Night Man notebook out so I can fake it in case Joe C. asks if I’ve done anything new, Vicky slams her stuff down next to me.

  “Are you kidding me?” she says. “Really? Please tell me this is some misguided joke.”

  I don’t pretend I don’t know what she’s talking about; I wish I coul
d pretend I don’t know who she is. “Some stuff went down yesterday with my Little Buddy Charlie and Donovan at the playground,” I begin. “And—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I heard,” she says. “Donovan punked you again and your Little Buddy’s a girl. Whatever. You have a campaign to represent.”

  “Vicky, you are such a—” I start, as Sparrow runs up and almost sticks her microphone in my mouth. Vijay follows, but for once his camera isn’t on.

  “Pukey — the public needs to know — what’s with the shoes?” she asks, all breathless like she’s reporting on a hurricane or something.

  “My name is Reggie,” I say. “Is this a slow news day or something?”

  “Get some close-ups of his feet,” she orders Vijay, before turning back to me. He ignores her. “Where exactly does an eighth-grade boy get those shoes? And is there some sort of significance to your apparent Dora the Explorer obsession?” Without waiting for an answer, she turns to Vicky. “Vicky! Is there a particular message that you’re trying to send with your campaign manager’s shoes?”

  “This has nothing,” Vicky starts, “absolutely nothing to do with my campaign.” She throws me a glare and leaves. Sparrow runs after her. She doesn’t notice that Vijay isn’t following. He gives me a nod and walks away.

  My friends haven’t arrived yet, and my tuna salad sandwich has raisins, celery, red onions, and carrots, so I dig in.

  “That looks good,” says a female voice behind me.

  I gulp, and some of my tuna salad falls onto the table. I turn. It’s Mialonie. I can’t help it; I move my feet a little more under the table in case she hasn’t given me a pass.

  “Um, yeah, it is. My mom made it.” Why do I have to go and mention my mom? It’s like I am determined to kill any suave potential with extreme geekery. “Do you want some?” I hold up a triangle. More tuna salad falls on the table.