Eighth-Grade Superzero

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

“No thanks,” she says. And sits down next to me. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I liked what you said that day. About civic responsibility.” She checks the table before she puts her stack of books down.

  I look in the general direction of her face. “Oh, uh … really?” I smile a little, and aim closer to her eyes. “I didn’t say much.”

  Mialonie smiles back. “But I can tell … there’s more.”

  There’s a long pause. Can she hear me swallowing? I notice that the top book in her stack is called Be Extra: How To Be Yourself Plus (For Tweens and Teens)! What more does she think she needs?

  I point to the book. “Plus what?” I ask.

  “Plus everything,” she answers, and she must have swallowed the sun at some point today because she is dazzling like you wouldn’t believe. “It’s about going beyond, not being satisfied with your own status quo.”

  “Oh.” I nod like I know what she’s talking about.

  “We should talk. It would be so good for you.”

  You would be so good for me.

  “You’ve changed so much since … school started,” she says. “This book tells you how to talk, dress, even eat in a more productive way so that you can maximize your potential.” She pauses and smiles. “And you do have potential.”

  Just having this conversation makes me feel like I’m getting to wear the superhero cape for a while. I smile back even though I can’t think of anything to say.

  “What’s that?” She points to my Night Man notebook.

  Oh. So much for being more powerful than a locomotive. I’ve got my own social kryptonite on display.

  “Nothing,” I say, turning the notebook over. “Just some ideas … fooling around.”

  “ ‘Night Man’ — is that a superhero? Is he classic, like Lobo or Luke Cage? Or more Black Thunder or Agent 355?”

  I forget to think and look her full in the face. “How do you—” I stop, because I realize how stupid my question is going to sound. But still … Mialonie is into comics?

  “Are you Marvel or DC?” she says, shrugging. “I’m DC all the way. I guess I’m just old-school like that.”

  “Um. I like both,” I say. “I mean, DC can be kind of corny, but they had John Stewart. Marvel had Lucas Bishop, so …”

  She raises one eyebrow in a way that I didn’t think could happen in real life. “Oh, are you too cool to pledge allegiance to one or the other?”

  I shrug, because we both know that’s not the case. I’m tired of feeling off balance, so I say, “And of course, there was Spawn.” This is a game I can play.

  “Yeah, McFarlane’s good,” she says, casually dropping the name of the Image Comics creator. “He makes you think.” She points to my Night Man notebook. “So tell me about Night Man.” Her nails are sparkly.

  “I made him up when I was just a kid,” I say, trying to emphasize what a long time ago that was. “He’s, uh, homeless, and that’s all people see, this street bum … but he’s holding it down in this whole underground city. But like I said, I was just a kid when I started this. Now that we’ve been going to the shelter — it’s different.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine…. Can I read it sometime?” she asks. “Maybe we can collaborate.”

  “You for real?” My voice goes up at the end of the question, but still, it’s not quite a squeak.

  She gets up. “That’s all I ever am,” she says. She sits a few seats away and starts whispering to Josie. They both smile, and so do I. Even if I haven’t worked on Night Man in a long time, he’s working for me in surprising ways.

  3:15 P.M.

  I think these shoes give me power. For the rest of the day, I’m floating. In chemistry, I don’t hear Mrs. Rostawanik call on me three times to recite my epic poem based on the periodic table (progressive, integrated curriculum = weird assignments). No “Pukeys” all day. After last period, Charlie brings a couple of little kids over to my locker to meet me, and he makes the words “Big Buddy” sound like “President of the Universe.” I feel too good to go home; Joe C. is going beatboxing or something with Gunnar, and Ruthie is going to the Brooklyn Museum with Cristina Rodriguez, so I decide to swing by Olive Branch unannounced. Wilma says that we’re always welcome. I can finish interviewing George, and today I’ve got my own story to tell.

  When I get there, I notice that the cardboard box town is growing, and Commerce Girl giggles when I ask if she’s the mayor. I catch George’s eye and we head over to our corner.

  I figure my sweaty foot funk will go unnoticed here, so I take off one of the Dora shoes and hand it to George.

  “Check it out,” I say to him. “Would you believe that Dora the Explorer took down my nemesis?”

  George holds my shoe, turning it over and staring like he’s memorizing it.

  “Nice work,” he says. “Didn’t realize you were that much of a fan. I know a guy who can set you up with the whole series on DVD for five dollars, if you want. Including unreleased episodes.”

  “No thanks,” I say quickly. I point to Charlie, who’s playing tag with a group of girls. “I just did it for him. This guy I know was making fun of him at school, just ripping him apart because he had on Dora shoes. It made me sick.”

  George hands back my shoe. “Put your shoe on, boy. You realize how funky your feet are?”

  “So for once I didn’t just stand there,” I continue as I slide my foot back into the shoe. “I said something this time.” I laugh. “And he didn’t like that at all.”

  “I guess things are getting better,” murmurs George, looking down at his own black old-man shoes. “I remember the days when we were killing each other for shoes.” He looks up at me, and I wonder how he can see out of eyes so bloodshot.

  “So, you said something. Good. Elaborate … what’d you say?”

  I pause. “I don’t know. You know … I just kind of told him off.” Maybe I need to write the whole thing down, because the details are getting fuzzy already.

  “Okay,” he says. “So you made a statement. And you’re making one now, with the shoes.”

  “I didn’t even think about what I was doing,” I say. “I just … did something.”

  “So now that you’ve had a chance to think,” George says, “what’s next?”

  Can’t I just have my moment? I shrug.

  Something flashes across his face, but then he smiles. “I’m proud of you.” I grin. “Are you proud of yourself?”

  “Well … yeah!” I say. “I’m glad I could be there for Charlie. That’s mostly what matters.”

  “Mostly?” he asks.

  “I mean … I was just having his back … I wasn’t thinking about making any statement,” I say. “That’s not really me.”

  “What’s really you, Reggie?” George asks, and then he points to my shoes. “That?”

  I shrug again. I wish we could have stayed on the “I’m proud of you” track. George closes his eyes and we sit for a while, until I wonder if he’s asleep.

  “I saw that wish list thing you put up,” he says. “I was working with the kids the other day, and I had some ideas for an after-school program. Maybe you and your smart friends could come do some tutoring, get these kids involved in some sports…. I got a few notes together,” he says, rummaging around in the gym bag on the floor. “And you’ve got some elders here who could teach all y’all some real stuff.”

  “I know! I was thinking the same thing,” I say. “Ruthie told me that her partner told her about something called Friday Freedom School that old — I mean, where people used to teach about activist movements and community leaders. The youth group is going to start painting this whole place in a few weeks. Jeff saw us doing that little cardboard city thing, and he had an idea for a mural based on it. And maybe my school could open up the gym on the weekends and stuff so kids from here could come and use it.”

  “I’m proud of you,” he says again suddenly. “Let’s go celebrate.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet and I can see the duct ta
pe holding it together. “A big bag of those chips you like,” he says. “My treat.”

  “Better than a five-course meal,” I say, smiling.

  NOVEMBER 12

  11:12 A.M.

  So I’m handing out more meaningless Vicky propaganda in the cafeteria doorway, and I am not in the mood for this at all. I’m sorry everybody hates her, but it’s become painfully clear that they have good reason. I spent a lot of time at the Olive Branch over the weekend, and what’s going on there is so real that her campaign just seems even more fake. At this point, I’m just doing this because I said I would, but one more crack and I’m out.

  “I can’t believe you still have this many left! What are you doing?” Vicky grabs a bunch of flyers out of my hand. She shoves them at kids, and a few teachers, as they walk in. Some people crumple them up right away; she doesn’t miss a beat and gives them another. I move a few inches away from her as she practically throws them at Veronica and her Cruzers-in-waiting. Sean Glanville takes a bunch, and now we’re out.

  Vicky turns to me. “That’s how you get things done. How can I get this through to you? If you’re going to work for me, you’re going to have to actually work. Don’t try to ride on my accomplishments.”

  She is not human. I’m thinking that I don’t even have to be gracious about getting out of this when the first red spitball hits her in the middle of the forehead. She turns, and another hits her ear. Donovan is standing on a table, laughing and throwing spitballs our way, hard and fast.

  All of a sudden there is a hailstorm of red spitballs, and everyone in the cafeteria has the aim of a major league pitching legend. Vicky is getting hit in the face, in the chest, all over. I get myself way out of range, and watch as she flinches at the first barrage. Then she just stands there, kind of laughing and holding her arms up, like she’s inviting the spitballs to a party. People are picking them up and taking multiple throws. Donovan yells “Here’s my vote!” each time he launches one. It’s mean, and it’s vicious….

  And it’s not directed at me.

  I gotta give it to Vicky, I’d have been out of here after the first one.

  I gotta give it to everyone else, Vicky is a pain in the—

  A few spitballs land near me. Some little kids run over and snatch them up and throw.

  I wonder if a teacher is going to stop this; then I wonder if there are teachers throwing spitballs. It’s possible. It’s Vicky.

  I should do something. I am her campaign manager, after all. What would Night Man do? I imagine myself standing in front of her, spitballs bouncing off of my puffed-out, super-muscled chest.

  Donovan looks at me; his grin widens and his eyes narrow.

  I take a few steps backward, toward the door.

  I don’t even like Vicky. She doesn’t respect me, and she’s not going to change. This whole thing is a waste of time.

  She gives a few bows and finally turns to the door; everyone is laughing and cheering and you could almost pretend that it’s all in fun, we’re all in this together, just good-natured horseplay.

  I take a few more steps back, until I’m almost out of the cafeteria.

  Vicky turns and looks directly at me. She’s still smiling, and her nose is high enough in the air that I can see straight into her flaring nostrils. I can also see that there are tears in her eyes. She brushes past me as she walks out, and the cheers get louder.

  I’ve been there. Right where she is.

  But now, I’m over here. On the other side.

  It doesn’t feel like I thought it would.

  NOVEMBER 15

  7:00 A.M.

  Dave answers the phone on the first ring, all high energy even though it’s seven in the morning. He wasn’t in church yesterday, which was weird.

  “Sorry to call so early,” I say. “I just wanted to tell you that I’ve been talking to George about doing more stuff at the shelter, like painting and workshops and stuff, and I wanted to sit down with you sometime and go over my ideas.”

  “I knew you had it in you!” says Dave. “Sure, we can talk. My schedule’s a little tight right now, and we’ve got to make sure we wrap up Listening Ears. We’ve got less than a week to turn everything in.”

  “I’m not slacking on that,” I say. “I’ve got everybody’s interviews transcribed.”

  “You’re not pulling too many all-nighters, are you?” Dave asks.

  “I’m used to it,” I say. “But, listen, I wanted to ask you—”

  “I’m sorry, Reggie, I’ve got to get out of here, I have to catch a train. But I’m proud of you, my man! What did I tell you? I knew you could do this.”

  “Okay, but I have to talk to you,” I say. “I’m ready to work, but I need your help.”

  “We’ll talk soon, I promise,” he says. “Adios.” I hang up the phone slowly. I didn’t even get to tell him that Wilma sent me an e-mail yesterday saying that George had offered to supervise any tutors that I bring in; she says that some of the older kids want to talk to me too. Vicky asked me for a meeting this morning, and I’m thinking maybe we can talk to Blaylock about just starting that after-school program before the campaign is over. I’ll emphasize how good it will make her look to voters, and then she’ll get on board. I know she’s all kinds of wrong, but after Friday, I know I’m not that right either.

  7:26 A.M.

  Vicky is rummaging in her locker; I figured she’d get here early. I take a deep breath and wonder if I should open with an apology. But maybe it’s better not to bring it up, pretend that the whole spitball thing was no big deal.

  The inside of her locker door is covered with “Vote Vicky!” posters in different colors; no school pictures of friends, none of those silly photo-booth pictures that girls always take when we go on school trips to the amusement park. Not even a note or a chain letter that’s been passed around under a teacher’s nose. Vicky’s best, and I now realize only, friend is clearly Vicky.

  “Hi, Vicky,” I say, for once tapping her on the shoulder first. “That idea I had about opening Clarke facilities for the shelter kids? I’ve been thinking, and—”

  “Your job,” she says slowly, without looking up from her locker, “was to work on my campaign for president here at Clarke. Not to be a lame community activist or charity-case collector.” She’s holding a shopping bag full of rubber balls with “Vote Vicky!” on them. I can’t help but think that after the spitballs, that’s pretty … ballsy.

  “And your job,” I snap, because she has such a knack for squashing any feelings of sympathy, “or at least the one you want, is to focus on the needs of the community you’ll serve. Clarke has students at the shelter. Clarke is blocks away from the shelter. Are you really going to pretend that what’s going on there doesn’t matter?”

  “Are you really going to keep pretending that you’re my campaign manager?” she says, looking up. “You were supposed to focus on me. Nobody forced you into this, you know,” she continues, and while I might argue with that, I keep my mouth shut because I can see her hands shaking a little. “You have made one mistake after another and have just created more work for me. All I do is clean up your messes. I mean, those stupid sneakers — was that supposed to be funny? I don’t need that, and I don’t need you.”

  “Does this mean I’m—” I start.

  “Fired!” she says, just as I say, “— free?”

  “I don’t care what you want to call it, we’re done, okay?” she says, more softly. “I thought we could be — work together, but obviously that’s not going to happen.”

  Was she about to say friends? Or something even worse? I want to feel sorry for Vicky, but that’s what got me into this mess in the first place.

  “That’s it, then,” I say. “Um, good luck with your campaign.”

  “Thanks,” she mumbles, and starts to walk away. I head down the hall in the opposite direction, and she calls, “Reggie!” I turn and look.

  “Vote Vicky!” she yells, and tosses me a Vicky ball. She aims low (no sur
prise there), and my Very Special Binder comes in handy to block it. I guess Coach was right about how useful they can be.

  NOVEMBER 16

  3:21 P.M.

  I asked Joe C. to meet me at the park today after school. There’s a “Black people” side to the park, where family reunions set up their grills right under the NO BARBECUING signs, and a “White people” side, where bikini-clad skinny girls (“mawga gals,” my mom’s always saying) stretch out on the doggy grass as soon as March rolls around. The wind is a little strong; I zip up my jacket and pull my hat down lower. Still, I almost feel like laying out myself, I’m so relieved about being done with Vicky. Plus I’m exhausted from carrying my own overstuffed backpack, along with another holding a surprise for Joe C. I haven’t seen him much, between the shelter and school, but he sent me this really funny drawing of me in my Dora shoes, with a cape blowing out behind me. He’s always had my back, even when he doesn’t get what I’m doing, and last night I came up with a way to let him know that I’ve got his too.

  He walks up to where I am in the middle, near the Vanderbilt Monument. He takes a Juiced! out of his backpack as we settle onto a park bench. “I left my sketchbook in my locker,” he says. “Sorry.”

  “No problem,” I say. “I don’t want to work anyway.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “You’re the guy who’s too busy to work.”

  Okay, this isn’t going to be easy. “I’m the guy who’s free at last,” I say. “As of yesterday, I’m officially free from the Vote Crazy campaign.” I’ll start with that.

  “Woot!” shouts Joe C., high-fiving me. “I can’t believe you didn’t say anything!”

  “The important thing is no more Vicky Ross,” I answer.

  “I heard she got pelted with her own flyers on Friday. You didn’t tell me about that either….” he says. “I always miss the good stuff. First, the Donovan smackdown, and now this.” He gulps down his Juiced! “Everybody’s still talking about the Donovan thing. You did good, with the Dora shoes and everything.”