“Oh?” he says. He’s not looking pleased. “I don’t recall your candidacy announcement, or your candidate registration forms.” He makes a point of flipping through the manila folder as he speaks.
“Yeah, um, well, that’s what I was doing today. Announcing.”
“I see. You do understand everything that needs to be done in the coming weeks? You have no campaign presence, you haven’t participated in the debates—”
“Debates, sir?”
He looks at his papers again. “Oh. Yes, we seem to have forgotten about those this year.”
“Did we have them last year, sir?”
“Ahem, that is not the issue here. Next week is the Step Up And Lead candidates’ rally, and because of Clarke’s illustrious history (and I dare say also because of my modest efforts at innovation during my tenure), the mayor will be in attendance. It’s an opportunity to showcase Clarke’s legacy as one of the nation’s top schools, and is meant for our brightest stars. I have it on good authority that Clarke is a lock for that grant money, as long as no one screws this up. It is not something to be taken lightly, so decide now if you have the … stomach for it.”
Yeah, even though he didn’t remember my name, he does remember the first day of school, and the part he played in my … accident. I just look at him and nod. He really doesn’t seem happy about this at all. I don’t get it. What about all of that “step up and be a leader” talk? I try again. “Uh, sir? I was thinking that I would take your words to heart, and, um, become a force for positive action in our community.”
He looks at me like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “I would not have expected you, er, Reginald, to run for president. As a matter of fact, I was just speaking to Justin Walker about his plans for the rest of the year.”
“Excuse me, sir, but doesn’t he have to win first?” Talk about heir apparent. Except it’s obvious Blaylock was never the Justin when he was a kid.
“Well, erm, of course, but …” Blaylock smiles a little. “Students like that do the school proud.”
I just sit there. How am I supposed to respond to this?
“It would be unusual for me to let you enter the race at this late date,” he says. “Highly irregular.”
“Uh, I understand, sir….” I keep my eyes down. “But is there a rule against it?”
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he sighs and shuffles some papers around on his desk. It’s getting a little weird, this just sitting here, and then I realize — he has no idea what to do.
“No,” he says slowly. “There’s no such rule. I suppose that if you do want to enter the race, you may.” He leans forward and hands me some papers. “Fill these out and return them immediately. And watch your step, Reginald. I will not have a repeat of last year’s debacle. This process is a dignified one.”
I almost laugh, but I turn it into a cough.
“And I expect you to respect that. Understood?”
“Um, yes, sir,” I say. “May I be excused?”
He clears his throat. “Yes. And remember what I said.”
Yeah, right. But I’m feeling good as I leave the office.
Let me reintroduce myself, sir. I’m Reggie McKnight, and I’m in this thing.
2:39 P.M.
By the end of the day, I don’t mind the whispers, which I’m used to anyway. A couple of people come up and ask me about Olive Branch, and I tell them to meet me there after school. Every once in a while, someone looks at me like they hadn’t known how crazy I was, and I want to say, “That makes two of us!”
I get a bathroom pass near the end of last period and head to my locker early, hoping to slip out before the rush. I need to clear my head, and I want to talk to George. When I get to my locker, Charlie’s there. “What are you doing?” I ask. “Does your teacher know you’re over here?”
“I got a bathroom pass,” he says.
“You’re gonna get busted,” I say, pulling on my lock. “You’re gonna get me busted.”
Charlie mutters something.
“I can’t hear you,” I snap. “What did you say?”
He looks up. “I said,” he starts, kicking the locker next to mine, “I don’t know why I have to apologize to Anndalisa. She’s always mean to me!”
“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” I say automatically.
“But … when that boy was saying mean things to you, you said mean things back, and it was COOL!” he says. “And everybody was laughing at him, not you.” He takes a deep breath. “Anndalisa always says mean things to me, and everybody laughs. But today they laughed at her.”
“But Charlie,” I say, “how do you feel when people laugh at you?” Good. Classic turnaround stuff. Ruthie would be proud.
“Bad!” he says, like I’m not as smart as he thought I was.
“So do you want to make someone else feel that bad?” Hey, I’m pretty good at this.
“Yeah!” he crows. “Especially Anndalisa!”
Oh. Well.
“Okay,” I say. “Uh, here’s the thing …” I look at my watch; the bell’s about to ring. “See, that guy who was making fun of your shoes, we have a history. We used to be boys, but then he turned on me for no reason except that he’s a jerk and he’s always trying to humiliate me — I mean really humiliate me, and I try and try to ignore him but he’s always in my face, and then I didn’t like him picking on you, so I had to speak up. And yeah, okay, it felt good for a little while, but it doesn’t mean you should do it because it’s not really right.” I take a breath. “Understand?”
“No,” he says.
Join the club. “Um, have you ever heard someone say ‘Do as I say, not as I do'?” I’m hitting new lows. Referencing hypocritical adult sayings. Nice.
Charlie shakes his head.
“Scratch that,” I say, as the bell rings. “Listen. It’s just that … when you do that, say mean things like that, it’s like you give the other person power — superpowers — over you, like they’re controlling how you behave.”
“What would Night Man do?” asks Charlie. “Nobody could have superpowers over him, right?”
“Night Man would agree with me,” I say. I take a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll be honest. It felt good to say those mean things to Donovan.” Charlie giggles. “But … it felt better when I wore the Dora sneakers to show that I was your friend instead of saying mean things to show that I was his enemy.” Aha! “That felt much better,” I finish. “Because it was the right thing, the Night Man thing to do.”
He just looks at me, and I don’t know if he gets it. People are rushing by; a few glance over at us and our matching shoes.
“And Night Man always apologizes when he makes a mistake,” I improvise. “Because even Night Man makes mistakes.”
“Even though he’s a superhero?” asks Charlie.
“Yeah,” I say. “Being brave enough to make mistakes is, um, part of what makes him a superhero.” There’s a click in my brain when I say that.
I start packing my backpack. Someone bumps into me, hard. I turn around and Donovan is passing by, giving me a look that Joe C. would illustrate with laser flames shooting out of his eyes.
Charlie’s eyes widen. “Are you gonna apologize to him?”
Smart kid. He’s got me. I bend down and take a long time untying then retying my laces. I try to think of something Blaylock-ish to avoid answering the question. I search for a movie or quote or even a Bible verse to get me out of this one. Then I take a deep breath and look Charlie in the eye.
“Yes,” I say.
I walk Charlie to his classroom, and head back to my locker to put the Dora shoes inside before I leave. Some people are waiting for me there, and I end up answering a bunch of questions about Olive Branch. Veronica Cruz thinks that posters of her would be a great fund-raiser, but other people have actual good ideas. This gets me all pumped up, so I change my mind and decide to take the shoes to the shelter with me. Wait until George hears what happened today! He’s not going
to believe it.
4:09 P.M.
When I push open the heavy doors, my black-and-gray Adidas look right at home inside the community room at Olive Branch. But I see the rollers and cans of paint sitting in a corner and know it won’t be long before this place is looking more like Hope Depot than a people dump. I scan the room for George, and I don’t see him right away, but I do see Commerce Girl sitting on a chair not reading a magazine in her lap. I go over. “Hey,” I say. “Remember me?” She shrugs.
“Where’s the town?” I ask, squatting next to her and looking around. “Do you guys keep it in a closet or something?”
She looks at me like I’m crazy. “We don’t have closets,” she says. After a pause, she adds, “We don’t have a town anymore. That game’s over.”
“What do you mean? Where’s George? Don’t let him hear you talking like that.”
She looks me full in the face and it feels like a smack. “Why don’t you shut up?” she snarls. “He’s not even here anymore.”
“What —?” I look around some more like George is going to pop out from behind one of those big black garbage bins. “Did he go out or something?”
She sucks her teeth and gets up. “He left this morning. He took all of his stuff with him, so he’s not coming back. And he gave his table to Marcus. He promised we were going to build a playhouse.” She walks away, dragging her feet a little so her shoes make a hissing sound on the tiles. I look down at my sneakers, and when I look up, I see Charlie and his mom. She’s nudging him, but he’s not moving. It’s obvious from the scowl on his face that his mood has changed since I saw him a little while ago, so I go over.
“Hey Buddy,” I say.
“Hi,” he says, not looking at me. His mom smiles at me and goes to talk to Wilma.
“So, um, I heard, George stepped out for a minute,” I say.
“George left,” Charlie says. “I came back to tell him about what happened today, when you got on the table and everything, and he’s gone.”
“What are you talking about? He’ll be back.”
“No he won’t,” Charlie mutters. “He took all of his stuff! And some big boys knocked down our town. And you’ll probably leave too. Everybody leaves.”
“Hey,” I say. “Remember all we’ve been through together? I’m not going anywhere. We’re a team.”
“Yeah, sure. People always run away. And I will too, one day. I hate living here.”
Okay, I don’t blame him really, but I know I’m supposed to say something Big Buddy-ish. “You can’t run away, Charlie. Just, um, keep your head up.”
He looks me full in the face. “I am gonna run away. And you always leave too, to go to your house. You run away.”
“But—” I start.
“Leave me alone!” Charlie runs to join Commerce Girl and I stand there for a minute. Wilma is marching over to a group of old ladies fighting over an overstuffed laundry bag, and I follow her.
“Hi, Wilma,” I start, and then watch in awe as she swoops in and snatches the bag away from the old ladies in one smooth motion without breaking her pace.
“Yes?” she says. “Can I help you, Reggie?”
“I was looking for George….”
“George isn’t here,” she says.
“Yeah, that’s what I was wondering. I mean, do you know when he’ll be back?”
Now she looks at me like I’m crazy. “I don’t keep tabs on a grown man. I guess he’ll be back when he’s back.” She drops the bag into a pile of similarly overstuffed bags. “Or he won’t.” She motions to a young woman who looks enthusiastic and out-of-place. “Charmian! I need you to start sorting these clothing donations before we have a riot up in here.” Cheerful Charmian bounces over and starts opening the bags. Wilma marches away and I have to jog to keep up.
“But he didn’t just leave, right?” I ask. “I mean, he was doing projects with the kids, and he told me that he was going to start a sports program here. And a tutoring program.”
Wilma stops marching and looks at me like I’m still crazy, but also pathetic. “Look, hon, George is one of our more active residents. That means he does a lot to help out when he’s here, and it also means that he comes and goes. I can’t do much about it except pray that he’s staying out of trouble and that he doesn’t bring any back with him.”
I think of those bloodshot eyes, and that smooth, oily voice talking about getting high, and I’m scared. “So you think he’s not coming back?” I say, and I’m surprised by the panicky squeak in my voice. I clear my throat. “That little girl just said he took all of his stuff, and gave away his table. He loved that table. Maybe you should call the police or something. George is my …” I pause. “He’s my friend.”
Wilma looks at me like she’s known a thousand guys like me, and she feels sorry for all of us.
I shrug. “We talked about a bunch of things….” I sound so lame. I sound like someone who thought that sneakers covered in Dora the Explorer stickers had superpowers. I sound like someone who was too much of a punk to keep those shoes on.
Wilma looks over my head; I turn and see a couple of kids doing some obviously fake but ferocious-looking martial arts moves. I’d told George that maybe Joe C. could teach karate here. The kids must feel Wilma’s eyes on them; they stop and wander away. She starts sorting through a box of dirty clothes. A couple of T-shirts are torn and there’s a red dress with a huge blue stain in front.
“Uh, do you want me to put those in the trash?” I ask. Maybe if I do some work she’ll take this George situation a little more seriously.
“Trash?” she murmurs, not looking at me. “These are donations that just came in today.”
“But …” I point. “They’re kind of … old.” Did people really send this crap for Olive Branchers to wear? Would I have sent “the homeless” some old, broken-down gear before I started coming here?
Wilma shrugs, but I notice that she takes a few of the really jacked-up shirts and the stained dress and puts them to the side. I just keep standing there while she sorts. The bad pile gets bigger. She turns, looking a little surprised to see me.
“Oh, I forgot — here’s that list you started.” She walks to her desk and returns with some pages that she hands to me. “It got longer. Old Crump is all fired up and he wants to do some kind of apprenticeship program; can you see about getting tools donated? Oh — and I never knew this, but Nancy over there was an actress. She thinks an acting class for the kids would be fun.”
I fold the pages up and shove them into my backpack. The wish list. All of those big plans. How am I going to pull that off without George? Why did I think I could pull anything off? I’m not ready for this.
Wilma reaches out and rubs my head a little, but it’s like she does it for emphasis. “Hon,” she murmurs, “you gotta understand that these people are struggling. Even the ones like George — especially the ones like George, who help out a lot and got a lot going for them. They got a lot against them too.” She pats me on the shoulder. “Sometimes, it’s mostly themselves. But it’s real. There’s not too much we can do.” She pats me again and calls out, “Charmian, after you finish with those, I need you to come and help me set up for dinner.”
I’ve been dismissed.
Wilma is a fraud. She looks and sounds like she’s all about getting things done, but when it comes to a real person, she’s just giving up. I’m not going to give up. I’m going to do something. I look at Charlie, and even though he can’t hear me, I whisper, “I’m not running away. I’m coming back, and I’m bringing George with me.”
4:46 P.M.
Dave is pulling books from the church library shelves. He jumps a little when I knock.
“Reggie! Come on in, I wasn’t expecting anyone.” “Is the library closed?” I ask, looking around. “No. But you know how it is — I wasn’t expecting anyone.” We both chuckle — nobody ever comes here besides Dave. I drop down on a couch and cough when the dust rises. “We gotta do something,” I say. “Geor
ge is gone.” “Huh?” asks Dave. “Who’s George?”
“George. The guy who was my Listening Ears partner. I just went by the shelter and he’s gone.”
“Oh,” Dave says, rubbing his head and yawning. Another sign of the apocalypse — Dave doesn’t get tired. “Did you talk to Wilma?”
“Yeah,” I say. “She was all, ‘He’s a grown man, just pray, blah blah blah.’ That’s why I’m here. You’ve got to do something.”
Dave raises his eyebrows. “Like what?”
I shrug. “I don’t know…. Find him, make sure he’s okay. Take him to rehab or something. I don’t know.” Why is he asking me?
Dave sits down in a chair next to the couch. More dust flies. “Reggie, it’s not such an easy thing to track down a chronically homeless man on the streets of New York. And Wilma’s right — he’s a grown man. We can’t be responsible for him.”
“What about all that ‘He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother’ stuff you always say?” I ask. “Doing for the ‘least of these'?” I can’t believe Dave hasn’t already rushed out to start looking.
He sighs and looks down at the patchy carpet. “Reggie, I’ve got a lot going on here. I’m glad that you’re concerned, though. Why don’t you go look for him?”
“Me?” I ask. “Come on, Dave. I can’t—” I stop.
“Can’t what?” asks Dave, sounding more like the Dave I know, ready to pounce on me with a couple of verses. “You sound like you think something needs to be done.” He stands and starts pulling books down again.
“Yeah, I do,” I say. “That’s why I’m here. I thought you’d agree.”
“So, if you think that looking for George is the thing to do, then why don’t you go ahead? You don’t need me for that.”
“Thanks for the support,” I say. “Thanks a lot.”
Dave stops messing with the books and looks at me. “Reggie,” he says, “I’m glad you want to help. I applaud your passion. But you don’t need my seal of approval. You don’t need me to help you do what you think needs to be done.”
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