“But if you don’t, you’ll look like a punk,” says Vijay.
“Punky McKnight,” says Sparrow, giggling.
I can’t let them do this to me. “Okay, I’ll do the show,” I say too loudly. “Start rolling, or ‘action,’ or whatever you guys say.”
“We’re already taping,” says Sparrow.
Ruthie grabs me. “This is stupid, Reggie, let’s—”
“Shut up, Ruthie,” I say.
Sparrow turns to me. “So, Pu — Reggie, why do you think you should be president?”
I clear my throat and try to stand up straight. “Well, I—”
Faintly familiar music blasts behind me. Real heavy bass and a thumping beat. My locker pops open. I turn around and it’s the Justin Party Train again. Running out of ideas, Donovan? They can’t possibly fall for this reheated crap.
“JW’s house!” yells Donovan. “Join us at Justin’s place after school for a rally — free food, good music, and prizes! Become a part of Justin’s crew and learn more about Justin’s plan for a new, feel-good Clarke! Say no to outdated letter grades and useless testing! Say yes to Justin!”
The chorus of “Woo hoos!” is so loud that I feel like I’ve been punched. Justin cuts off the music and Donovan starts handing out PayDay candy bars. But he just pushes past me and my friends, which makes Joe C. drop an open Juiced! bottle on Ruthie’s foot. Ruthie squeals in pain. The Juiced! makes a little puddle on the floor.
Blaylock comes out of his office. “Justin, can I speak to you for a moment?” For a second, I think that FOR ONCE Justin is going to get in trouble, but Blaylock actually hugs Justin as he ushers him into his office. Donovan tries to slip in behind them, but Blaylock brushes him off.
Donovan looks over at me and nods. “What’s up, Pukey? Good luck trying to hang with the big dogs.” He tries to stroll off, but his shoulders are so slumped that they remind me to stand up straight.
“Let’s wait here,” Sparrow says to Vijay. “We can talk to Justin after he comes out. What a campaigner! Um, later … Reggie,” she says, glancing at me. “We got enough of you for now, we’ll get more tomorrow.”
“I didn’t even say anything,” I mutter, but they’re crossing over to the other side of the hall and don’t hear me. I slam my locker shut, but it pops open again and everything falls out.
“They’re just going to make you look stupid and Justin look cool,” says Ruthie. “The whole reality-show thing is a waste of time. We should focus on the issues that kids care about.”
“They couldn’t make me look any worse than you did,” I say, grabbing my papers and books. I throw a bunch of stuff into my backpack without looking and close my locker carefully.
“First of all,” says Ruthie, “you’re the one who was all up in the middle of the cafeteria yelling about being an agent of positive change. Second of all, we got here early to meet you and you didn’t show up. Third of all, if this is the kind of candidate you’re going to be, then I don’t want to be your campaign manager anyway!” She hits my locker and it pops open and everything falls out again.
Joe C. holds up his hand like a ref. “Hey, hey … Let’s all have a drink and calm down.” He opens up a bottle of Juiced! and reads the cap. “Did you guys know that no word in the English language rhymes with month?”
Ruthie and I both stare at him. Then we all start laughing.
“Now I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to prove that one wrong,” gasps Ruthie. “Like the one where you said it’s impossible to lick your elbow.” She tries to lick her elbow. “See?”
“Not only do you remember them,” I say, “you’re doing them. Don’t let him get you, Ruthie! Must. Resist. The Juiced!!”
“She’s just living the dream,” says Joe C. We laugh again. “You’ve gotta admit, that beat Justin uses is pretty sweet. From a purely professional point of view,” he adds quickly.
“I think his whole thing is style without substance,” says Ruthie. She looks at her watch. “Okay, it’s really late. Class starts in two minutes, and I have to stop at the library. Tell Ms. A I’ll be there soon.” She looks at me. “Maybe the Dark McKnight thing was a little too much, okay? Friends?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Friends.” My smile is almost real. “I’m sorry I was late; I overslept. And I’m sorry I told you to shut up. I do want to have a meeting, though, somewhere kind of private. Any ideas?”
“I’ve got a rapport with Cutler; we talk union sometimes. I’ll see if we can get into his office for a few minutes,” says Ruthie.
“And one more thing,” I say. “I never, ever called myself an ‘agent of positive change.’ “ Ruthie hugs me and runs down the hall, her jacket flapping around her waist.
“She runs like a girl,” says Joe C. He helps me restuff my locker, and we start walking down the empty hall together. “We are so late for Ms. A.”
“Forget Ms. A, what about me? What was I thinking, taking on Justin?”
“Calm down, we’ll come up with something. You’ve got me and Ruthie behind you — what more do you need?”
I’m not sure if he’s being funny or serious.
“Let’s talk later,” he says. “Don’t count yourself out.”
When we get to Ms. A’s room, she doesn’t seem too angry that we’re late. In fact, class hasn’t started yet. Vicky’s eyes are red and watery; she’s sniffling, but no one offers her a tissue. People are whispering and everyone turns to look at me, and my attempt to slide unobtrusively into my seat is made even more unsuccessful by the fact that I trip over Sean Glanville’s backpack. Hector doesn’t ask for a pen; he actually offers me one.
“Okay, everyone,” says Ms. A. “Let’s settle down. I know there’s a lot of election talk going around today, which is a good thing for once. But we’ve got work to do.”
She makes a little speech about how she’s looking forward to a spirited, sincere campaign, may the best person win, and I swear she looks at me and winks.
10:55 A.M.
“Thanks, Mr. Cutler!” calls out Ruthie, holding open the supply closet door. Cutler holds up a lumpy muffin and grins. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a school custodian smile before. “I gave him one of my homemade apple-broccoli muffins in exchange for ten minutes in here,” she explains, ushering Joe C. and me inside. “Perfect spot for a quick top-secret strategy session.”
“Ouch!” says Joe C., as he hits his head on a shelf and a lightbulb crashes to the floor. “Did you tell him it was apple-broccoli? He’s probably going to lock us in.”
“I said it was a delicious home-baked good, which is the truth,” retorts Ruthie.
“Okay, guys, whatever … Look, we don’t have much time,” I say. “We need to figure things out.”
“Speaking of which,” says Joe C., looking at me, “when did I miss the whole I’m-gonna-jump-up-in-the-middle-of-the-cafeteria-and-run-for-president conversation?”
“I know it was kind of crazy,” I start. “Everything happened all at once…. I was thinking about Acid — I mean Joelle, and Charlie, and George, and trying to help those kids, and then … uh, I guess I did this. I wanted things to be different. And I got tired of just wanting it.”
“Exactly!” jumps in Ruthie. “It’s what I’ve always said. Well, Gandhi too.”
“I don’t know about Gandhi,” I say. “I just saw how even though George was homeless and struggling, he inspired those kids. And here I am, inspiring Charlie to talk about somebody’s mom. And I … wasn’t much help to Vicky.”
Joe C. chuckles. “Virgin Mary’s baby shower. That was a pretty good one,” he says. “And I’m Catholic so I probably shouldn’t laugh.”
Ruthie unrolls a long sheet of paper. “I’ve got some talking points for you,” she says, “things that will call attention to some of the real issues we have here at Clarke, such as the deplor able bias in our history books, and de facto segregation at lunchtime.”
“Remember when I thought it couldn’t get worse than this morning?”
I say to Joe C. “I was wrong.”
“Ha ha,” says Ruthie. She shakes her head, but she’s smiling a little. “And we’ve got to work on your big speech.” She writes something down. “Not just the rally next week, but the one at the assembly on Election Day, in front of the whole school — that’s gotta be BIG.”
I stop smiling.
I forgot about the speech.
“Figures they’d have a punk like you do this.”
I know without looking that the voice is Donovan’s. The fake bass and genuine sneer in it are unmistakable.
I try to focus on the Pledge — the Clarke Pledge of Proactive Community Living, which we’ve had to say all together on every first day ever since kindergarten. The teachers pick one student to lead the Pledge at the assembly every year, and this year is my turn. My chance to be someone spectacular. That Guy. I pretend it’s not so different saying the Pledge on stage in front of everyone. I haven’t been up here since kindergarten, when my Frederick Douglass wig fell off in the middle of the “Every Month Is Black History Month” assembly.
Donovan makes the puking sound he does every time he sees me, but this time it reminds me of Mom’s first day of school Breakfast of Champions, and not in a good way. She believes in starting the day off with a meal large enough to feed the entire Caribbean. She made me eat a boatload of oatmeal with cranberries and walnuts, a cheese omelet, then fried dumplings with two mounds of Jamaica’s national dish, codfish and ackee, for “back home fortitude.”
“You know you’re going to mess this up.”
I still don’t look at him. Always a mistake to catch his eye. Just face forward and don’t think about the fact that my stomach is somersaulting like a circus clown.
At least I’m not wearing a wig this time. And I don’t cry in front of people anymore. (Please, God, no. Anything but tears.)
He starts laughing. “I guess you’re the right choice, if they picked someone to represent WEAK. You are weak, Reginaaald. How’s your voice? You know you like to squeal like a girl when you’re nervous.”
I clear my throat, and can taste the omelet remains in my mouth. I swallow.
Blaylock is wrapping up his big intro, and I can hear that the crowd on the other side of the curtain is restless. Everyone waits for the first day Pledge. Not because we care about it, but because the person who leads it always does something spectacular. Last year, Julie Glover used the flag as a baton and did a whole routine while she recited. The year before, Sam Chen break-danced.
It’s the first day of school. Eighth grade. New me, the warrior. Night Man creator. Superhero simulator.
My plan for the Pledge? Wait, what was it again? Oh, right. I’m going to be “reporting” on Night Man’s latest good deeds at Clarke — cleaning up the school yard, starting a recycling program, bringing back recess for all grades…. And then I’ll quote Night Man saying the Pledge. I worked with Joe C. on some special art just for this that I’m going to show on the big screen. (Ruthie wanted me to dress up as Night Man, but no way I could have pulled that off.) This way, I can use Night Man to finally show everyone the real me. This way, I can be That Guy. And no one will guess that I’m terrified up here.
I swallow again, and this time, I can taste the codfish.
Blaylock says my name, but the crowd is already screaming and cheering, and it’s almost loud enough to drown out the roaring in my ears.
Just before Donovan pulls the curtain, he hisses, “Good luck, Frederick Douglass. You’ve been making a fool of yourself since, what, kindergarten? This will bring back memories.”
The curtains open and I am up on this stage, and everyone is looking at me. The cheers get louder. I take a deep breath, and I think the oatmeal is stuck in my lungs.
There are a lot of “shhh!”s and giggles, and finally, silence.
You can do this. Just make it fast and get your butt off this stage.
You can do this. People do it every year. DJ Johnson said the Pledge backward.
Don’t think about wigs.
Or crying in front of the entire school.
Don’t think about breakfast.
Especially not the eggs.
Or the fish.
Or fish eggs.
I open my mouth, and—
I puked up my guts on the first day of school.
I cannot get back on that stage.
Donovan sneering.
My stomach rolling. And rolling.
Overflowing. Spilling out onto the stage. All over the stage.
Splatter on Blaylock’s shoes.
The silence. Then the “ewwww!”s. Then the laughter.
Cutler limping out on stage with his mop and bucket.
And the nemesis, the instigator, Donovan. Laughing the loudest of all.
I’m feeling a little dizzy. I want to sit down. Oh, wait — I am sitting down. What have I done?
I was the guy who wanted to get up in front of the whole school and show them Reggie McKnight, Night Man creator. I ended up the guy who spent the first day of eighth grade in a T-shirt with a pink and silver unicorn across the front (courtesy of the nurse’s “Oops! Cabinet,” since renamed “Regurgitation Station”).
I cannot get back on that stage.
“Come on, Reg,” says Joe C., nudging me. “Remember the cafeteria?” He looks down at my feet. “Maybe you should put on the shoes.”
“Those shoes are how I got myself into this mess,” I say. “What was I thinking? I’m going to make a total fool of myself. I forgot about the stupid speech! Haven’t we seen that show before? No need for reruns.”
“It’s all going to be fine,” says Ruthie. “You may think the odds are against you, but it’s like a David and Goliath sort of thing.” She rubs my back a little, and that feels pretty good, but I shake her off.
“Ruthie, this is my life, not some inspirational Bible story or some charity project for you to organize. It’s hopeless. Justin’s talking about getting rid of grades and tests. That’s what stressed-out superachievers want to hear. Even I would vote for that. I’m not making a fool of myself, again, for nothing.”
“The trouble with the David and Goliath analogy,” muses Joe C., “is that people really like Justin. He’s cool for real. It won’t be the good little guy battling the big evil giant.”
“Thanks for the comforting words,” I snap. He shrugs. “It is like facing an evil giant, though, because I know Donovan’s behind this whole thing. He just can’t stand to see anything good happen for me—”
“Get over Donovan,” says Ruthie. “Get over Justin. You can make a difference. You can do the things that kids really care about. You can make it not a popularity contest!”
“Thanks a lot,” I say.
“You know what I mean. You talk about being Somebody. I mean, I think you already are, but this way you can show the world who Reginald Garvey McKnight really is!” Ruthie gets all worked up. It’s kind of nice that she’s so loyal. “And besides,” she continues, tapping her mile-long list, “there are so many things we could do as president!”
“We?” I say.
Ruthie goes on. “What are the biggest problems at this school? What do we really need? You’ve got to show what you’re about. Standing up for the meek, liberating the oppressed!”
“You want me to show what you’re about,” I reply.
“Touché,” whispers Joe C., smiling.
“The thing is,” I say slowly, “I don’t know if I can take any more humiliation.”
“Did you mean what you said before, about helping out the kids and standing up for the right thing?” Ruthie asks, folding her arms.
“You know I did,” I say. “I just need people to take me seriously.”
“Then take yourself seriously,” she says.
“Don’t go out like a sucker, because you’re not,” Joe C. adds. “And we’re only in eighth grade. We’ve probably got years of humiliation ahead of us.”
“That shouldn’t help,” I say, “but it does.�
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“And what are the odds—” starts Ruthie, and stops.
“—that the same thing will, uh, happen again?” finishes Joe C. “I mean, that was once in a lifetime, right?”
Ruthie and I are silent. We sit there for a few seconds, and I think of Charlie all slumped over, of eating chips with George, and bragging about standing up to Donovan. I think of the Dora shoes in my backpack, and of the days when I thought that, if I wished hard enough, I could be Night Man myself. I remember the kids who asked me about Olive Branch and take my notes from the wish list out of my pocket. “Okay. There are a lot of little kids like Charlie at Olive Branch. I don’t want to let them down. There’s Carmen and her library, and Old Crump with his tools … I know my ideas could be good for Clarke. I don’t want to let George down. I’m not going to let any of them down. Let’s do this!”
“That’s what I’m talking about!” says Ruthie.
The doorknob starts rattling, hard. Joe C. and I look at Ruthie.
“Cutler must have tasted the muffin,” says Joe C.
11:17 A.M.
When we get to the cafeteria, the usual cacophony stops, and a hush blankets the room. I think I really do need superpowers to withstand this kind of scrutiny. How would Night Man handle this? I think. Then I hear George’s voice. Be cool. Just pay attention, and be cool.
The three of us walk to our table together. Donovan looks over and smirks. I notice a line of girls near Justin; he’s handing out little pocket mirrors. As each girl comes up, he holds the mirror up to her and says, “Look who’s voting for Justin.” It gets a giggle every time.
“I’d like to congratulate you,” says a voice. It’s the LARPing kid. He’s wearing a striped polo shirt and dress pants, and he has Sacagawea coins in his penny loafers.
“Who are you?” asks Joe C.
“George Henderson, at your service. Sixth grade.”
I didn’t realize that his name was George. Is this a sign from God?
Eighth-Grade Superzero Page 17