Eighth-Grade Superzero

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  “Get up here, Ruthie!” she roars. “I don’t have much time.” When Ruthie just looks at her, she adds, “Please.” I’m impressed.

  Ruthie smiles and starts up the stairs. She turns and looks at me. “Uh, see you at school,” she says.

  “Oh, okay, see you.”

  I linger at the kitchen table, letting my Cheerios get soggy, while I hear them mumbling and moving around upstairs. When I think I can’t wait any longer, I hear Ruthie’s shoes coming down the stairs, so I run out to the hallway to look like I’m just going out the door.

  “Oh, hey,” I say. “I was just leaving. Do you want to walk together?”

  “Sure,” she says, and we head out.

  “So how’s the Monster’s acting?” I ask. “I still can’t believe she’s trying out for a play.”

  “I think she’s good,” says Ruthie. “We had a good talk about the story, and she relates to the themes.” I don’t even try to mask my skeptical look, and Ruthie nods. “I’m serious. The dream deferred … feeling held back by outside forces — Monica gets that.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Monica is outside forces holding people back.” I laugh. “And I bet John Wilkins has something to do with this. She has a crush on him, which is the funniest thing I’ve heard in years.”

  Ruthie rolls her eyes. “You are such a bonehead sometimes.” Then she gives me a sidelong glance. “But in the interest of full disclosure, he is trying out for the male lead.”

  I let out a whoop. “Ha! I knew it! Fat chance, fathead!” I yell back in the direction of my house. Ruthie sighs and we walk on in silence. I sneak looks at her all the way to school.

  8:55 A.M.

  The morning is quiet, and I look away fast every time I see Vicky, looking tired, handing out flyers. I’m starving by the end of second period, and decide to grab some of my lunch out of my backpack on the way to third.

  “Have you seen this?” screeches Ruthie as soon as I get to my locker. She gives me a red flyer with a big purple V on the bottom. I scan; the centerpiece of Vicky’s new solo campaign seems to be pushing for a special “community achievement fund for more appropriate recognition of student accomplishments.” Basically she wants to raise a whole lot of money for a formal banquet at the end of the year, where we celebrate our collective greatness with steak and lobster tails.

  “What, are we senior citizens or something now? And we already have an awards assembly in June,” I say. “I slept through it last year.” Joe C. walks up and I hand him the flyer.

  “Apparently, it’s not enough to pat ourselves on the back,” huffs Ruthie. “We need to have a group mastur—”

  I clap a hand over her mouth, even though I know she hates that. “Please don’t go there. I get the point.” I think I’d rather have the sex talk with Mom, Pops, and Reverend Coles than hear Ruthie say that word.

  She pulls my hand off, all fired up. “There are so many real issues we could be focusing on! I gave her Bling: Glistening Instruments of Death, my annotated report on the exploitive realities of the diamond industry.”

  “In that case, I would have gone with the banquet plan myself,” says Joe C. “For real. And do people even say bling anymore?”

  I notice his belt buckle. “Is that a nameplate? Who’s ‘THE GODSON'?”

  “It’s my DJ name,” he says. “I won a junior mixtape competition last night.”

  “Godson? I don’t get it,” says Ruthie.

  “You know, The Godfather,” mumbles Joe C.” Junior competition … Godson. …” At least he has the sense to look a little sheepish. But he looks proud too.

  “Congratulations,” I say.

  “Thanks,” he says in a way that makes me glad I congratulated him. “I used some of those records you gave me in the bonus ‘Way Back in the Day’ round.” He smiles.

  The second bell rings as I feel a tug on my shirt. “Charlie!” I say, turning around. “What’s up, little man?”

  He’s wearing his Dora shoes and he’s got a big smile on his face. Then he looks at my Adidas and his mouth starts to quiver. I reach into my locker and pull out my own Doras.

  “I didn’t want to mess mine up,” I say. “I was just about to change.”

  10:46 A.M.

  A few people glance at my Dora shoes, but no one says anything. Ruthie’s not in English, so I wonder if there’s some kind of international border crisis. Joe C. and I are walking down the hall to our lockers, and as we pass the girls’ bathroom, Ruthie bursts out and slams right into me.

  “Ow,” I say, bending down to pick up my books. She opens her mouth to say something and then just bursts into tears. Ruthie doesn’t cry. “Ruthie?” I whisper. “What’s wrong?” I put my arm around her and wonder who did this and how I’m going to get them back.

  “Does it smell that bad in there?” says Joe C. “I figured you girls had some flowery scent piped in.” I give him a look, and Ruthie makes a face and wipes her eyes.

  She turns to me. “Joelle Johnson fell asleep in study hall and somebody used a Sharpie to play connect-the-dots on her face,” she says, sniffling. “I can’t believe how cruel people can be. We spent all of last period in the bathroom trying to scrub it off.” Joelle Johnson? Oh yeah, Acid Face. Oh. Ouch to the infinite power.

  “Why do we have to be so mean?” Ruthie wails. “Human nature sucks. I’m so sick of it.”

  “She must be a heavy sleeper,” says Joe C.

  “Excuse me, but she has to babysit her five brothers every night until her parents get home. She doesn’t even start her homework until after midnight.” Ruthie leans against the wall. “But does anyone care about that? No one cares about anything in this place…. ‘Community’ — it’s such a joke.”

  I know this, and everyone does, but it always made me feel better to know that Ruthie stayed stubbornly clueless. I don’t want that to change. I look at her; she’s rummaging through her big bag made out of a pair of jeans. She pulls out a tissue and blows her nose. I reach out again, but she brushes my hand away.

  “Oh, leave me alone,” she mutters. “Like you don’t call her that awful name, both of you. You’re just as bad as whoever did this.”

  I recoil; does she really think that? And then I wonder: Is she right?

  “Maybe she can borrow Suheir’s scarf thing,” says Joe C.

  “A hijab is worn for religious reasons, you ignorant—” She takes a deep breath. “I’m going back in to help.” She disappears into the bathroom, and Joe C. and I stand there for a minute. Kids brush past us, and I wonder which one of them was the culprit. I want to pin it on Donovan, but I know that there are so many people it could be…. Ruthie has a point.

  “A Sharpie … that is pretty cold,” says Joe C.

  “ ‘Does it smell that bad?’ “ I say, mimicking Joe C. “Nice.”

  “Hey, it got her to stop crying,” he replies. We walk on to our lockers.

  Joe C. clears his throat. “If you tell her this I will have to kill you.” He glances at me. “Just once … she was talking about something, maybe the G8 Summit, I don’t really remember, but I was looking at her and it was like she got all … glowing, or something.” He looks down. “I’m sure that sounds dumb to you.”

  “No,” I say, after a minute. “It doesn’t.”

  “Anyway, it was just a spur-of-the-moment thing … before I met my soul mate.”

  “Oh, yeah, of course. Maria,” I say with a sigh. “Mysterious Maria.”

  “I’m going to get her to come hang out with us next week,” he says. “Really.”

  I shrug. We close our lockers and start walking.

  “Ruthie wouldn’t go out with me anyway, because I’m White,” he says.

  There’s not much I can say to that because he’s probably right. I look at Joe C. My Uncle Terrence is always saying “Never underestimate the White man.” I see what he means.

  11:41 A.M.

  When I get to the lunch table, Ruthie’s already there. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled at you
,” she says. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I should have been more sensitive,” I say.

  She gives me a smile that makes me feel like my last puzzle piece was put in place. She starts to bow her head to whisper grace, then looks up. “Do you want to pray together?” she asks softly.

  “Um, right now?” I edge away from her a little. When we were in Sunday school, Ruthie used to belt out “This Little Light of Mine” every time we sang it. She didn’t care how bad she sounded, or who was there; she would really let go. At first, it scared me, but then I’d stand next to her because I liked the song and I wanted to sing it out too. The Sunday school teacher used to tell us to sing “loud and proud,” and I know it’s cheesier than a pizza, but I used to roll like that, full blast, and the more I did it, the more I felt like there was a little ball of fire in my belly, getting bigger and bigger with each verse. We’d be there, all off-key and screechy, but singing anyway. Then we got older and Ruthie kept belting it, but I started noticing that people were noticing us. I sang a little softer. Then I just stood somewhere else, next to Jeff and the other people who never sang, just mouthed the words.

  “Uh … maybe later,” I say.

  When she’s done, I clear my throat. “Here’s what I was thinking,” I start.

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” says Hector, leaning over me. His tray is piled high with fish sticks, tater tots, and chocolate milks. He grunts as he squeezes himself into the spot on the other side of Ruthie.

  I can’t stand Hector. And he’s all pushed up in here when he could have just sat at the next table. Joe C. comes over, looks at Hector, then at me, then shrugs and sits down.

  “Can I borrow a dollar?” Hector asks him. “I forgot to get some butter crunch cookies.”

  “Didn’t get enough in your daily kindergarten shakedown?” I ask.

  “He doesn’t do that anymore!” says Ruthie, shoving me. Then she looks at Hector. “Right?”

  “Baby!” he says. “Come on!”

  “Baby?” Ruthie says, a warning in her voice.

  “Uh, sorry,” he mutters. “Slip of the tongue.”

  Heh. Joe C. gives Hector a dollar, and he lumbers off to get his cookies.

  “Did you know donkeys kill more people every year than plane crashes?” says Joe C., gulping down a Juiced!

  “I thought you gave that up,” I say, sighing.

  “It’s an addiction,” he says. “One day at a time …”

  “Joelle!” calls out Ruthie, waving. “Over here!” I look up and see Acid Fa — Joelle standing in the cafeteria doorway. Even from far away, you can still see the traces of Sharpie on her face. She doesn’t move for a minute, and there are stifled snickers and whispers. Ruthie waves her over again, and she walks fast toward our table, her face down and her books up. I know that walk.

  I’m not sure what to say, so I just say “hi,” and try not to look at her face. But then I wonder if she’ll notice me trying not to look, so then I look, but not for too long. Her eyes are really red. Her face is really messed up. I realize that that was all I knew about her until Ruthie told us about her brothers today. I say “hi” again because I don’t know what else to say, and fiddle with my lunch.

  A little girl runs up to me, crying. “You’re mean!” she yells. A few people at the table look our way. Who is this kid? Charlie comes over, and I don’t recognize his swagger.

  “Nah nah nah,” he says to the crying girl. “That’s what you get.”

  “What’s going on?” I ask, as more people look at us. Ruthie pats Crying Girl on the shoulder.

  “This is the girl who’s always mean to me, Reggie! And today I got her back, just like you!”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “He talked about my MOMMEEEE!!” the girl wails.

  “Yeah,” says Charlie proudly. “And it was good, just like the ones you said to that mean guy.”

  Uh-oh. “What exactly did you say, Charlie?” I ask.

  He giggles. “I said … I said, ‘Your mommy’s so old, she was at the Virgin Mary’s baby shower!’ “ He cracks himself up, falling on the floor. Ruthie gasps and glares at me. Joe C. chokes on his Juiced!. Crying Girl cries harder.

  I almost keep a smile from my face. Hey, that’s a pretty good one.

  “Charlie, I never said anything like that,” I say, trying to look serious.

  “Yeah, but I heard some guys saying stuff to each other at the playground and it sounded just like the things you said, so I knew it had to be good. And I was right, ‘cause it worked!” He cackles. “Whatcha got to say now, huh?” he says to the girl. “Your mommy’s so—”

  “Charlie! Um, it’s not good to talk about people’s mommies like that,” I say.

  He thinks for a minute. “Okay.” He turns back to her. “You’re so ugly—”

  I’ve created a monster. In my own image.

  “Charlie!” I raise my voice a little, and he looks at me. “Listen to me—”

  “Hey!” It’s Vicky. Great.

  “What can I do for you, Vicky?” I ask. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

  She shoves a small spiral notepad and a pencil in my hands. They are both purple with big red Vs on them. She’s changed things up. Yay.

  “Just a token of my appreciation for your vote. Thanks for your support!” She lowers her voice. “You owe me, since you practically killed my campaign.” Her eyes hold mine for a moment. “I may even give you another chance. You can start by handing these out.” She almost jabs me with a bunch of pencils.

  I don’t have to take this. I swallow my Right-Back-Atcha!-styled retort. Or give it.

  Vicky hands Joe C. a notepad and pencil, and he starts doodling. Charlie grabs two sets. Crying Girl cries harder. Hector returns with his cookies and a chocolate milk for Ruthie, who smiles at him like he just gave her a copy of a peace treaty. I am in the eye of the Tornado of Crazy.

  “I can’t vote for you, Vicky,” I say as I edge a little closer to Ruthie. This little light of mine.

  “Whatever,” she responds, not looking at me. “Remember: Vote V!”

  “I mean,” I speak a little louder, “I won’t vote for you.” Her head whirls around. I stand up. And gulp. “I can’t vote for you because—” Everyone at the table is looking at me now. I’m already putting on a show, might as well make it good. I get up on the table and hope my zipper’s up. “Because I’m running for president now!”

  I throw up a fist. Charlie cheers. Loud.

  And that’s it. The rest, as Hamlet said, is silence.

  “What are you talking about?” says Vicky.

  “Uh, yeah, Reggie,” Joe C. adds. “What are you talking about?”

  “And why are you on the table, fool?” says Hector.

  Good question. Joe C.'s mouth is hanging open. Ruthie looks surprised, and happy. I see Mialonie in the doorway, looking like a model; Josie whispers something in her ear. This is like being on stage, and I want to puke. I think about picking something or someone to focus on so I don’t lose my nerve, but I just close my eyes instead.

  “I’m announcing my candidacy for president of Clarke Junior School,” I say, opening my eyes. “I am running for … for … civic responsibility … community service … um …”

  “For Blaylock brownnosing!” someone shouts, and that elicits woots and cheers.

  “No,” I say. “For people right here in our community. Kids just like us.” Come on, come on. Think, Reggie. Come up with something good.

  “There’s a place called Olive Branch right here in the neighborhood that needs our help,” I start, and I sneak a peek at Ruthie, who’s smiling. “It’s a homeless shelter, but it’s more than that. I’ve been part of a documentation project there, learning from people who are true community resources, treasures even. I’ve gotten a lot out of it, and I want to give back. People are already helping to clean it up, and paint it, and they need more. Tutors, sports clinics — even just hanging out with some of the r
esidents would be welcome. I propose that we show the world that Clarke students are about something,” I glance at Vicky, “other than ourselves.” She rolls her eyes.

  A few people are laughing, but only a few. The paraprofessionals are coming over, looking like they’re about to haul me out of there, so it’s time to wrap it up. Out of the corner of my eye I see Vijay with his camera on me.

  “Let’s do something positive,” I say. “Stay tuned for more tomorrow, when me and my, uh … campaign managers over here,” I wave in Ruthie and Joe C.'s direction, “will present my platform.” I jump down from the table just as the paras get to me. One of them jerks her head in the direction of the door. As I gather my stuff, Ruthie grins at me.

  “Well, well, well,” she says. “I always knew you had it in you.”

  “Campaign managers?” says Joe C. “Will you please put your regular shoes back on? I swear those have some weird power over you — you have gone crazy!”

  Charlie’s standing there, looking a little lost. I give him a quick pat on the back.

  “We’ll talk,” I say. I point to No-Longer-Crying Girl. “And you have to apologize. That wasn’t nice.” He frowns. As I am hauled away, a few people start cheering. I throw up another fist on my way out.

  12:03 P.M.

  Blaylock’s office is a mess, and so is he. His tie, which even I know is too wide, is flipped over one shoulder, and one of his shirt buttons is missing. Once I notice that, I can’t stop looking at the gap.

  “What is this about, uh …” He looks down at a manila folder. “… Reginald?”

  We’ve both been here for nine years and there are only two classes per grade; he doesn’t know my name?

  “What was the meaning of the disturbance you caused in the cafeteria today?”

  “Mr. — Dr. Blaylock, sir, I apologize.” He rubs his temples like he’s got a headache. But he’s been all hyped up about this election thing, and I’m just doing what he talks about all of the time. What’s the problem? I didn’t even have a sound track like Justin’s announcement. “I, uh, am running for president, sir.”