Eighth-Grade Superzero

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  “Hey, George,” I say. “LARPing, right?” He nods. “I’m sorry I never got to a meeting. I tried to talk to Vicky about it, but …”

  He nods again. “You don’t have to say anything. Actually, I wanted to congratulate you on your candidacy.”

  “Our first supporter!” squeals Ruthie. “Would you like to join us?”

  He slides into the seat next to me. “I’d like to sign on to your campaign. I’ve got an original perspective, and I am well versed in the art of the teen movie turnaround and happy ending.”

  “Huh?” says Joe C.

  “It’s about image,” continues George Henderson. “It doesn’t matter what you say, or what you mean, it’s all about perception.”

  “I guess,” I say, a little dazed. “But that sounds kind of … phony.”

  “It’s the drama, the story,” continues George. “Creating a compelling narrative. I know about those things.”

  I have an idea. “Hey, George, you know the Olive Branch shelter that I talked about?” He nods. “Would you be interested in teaching people about LARPing there? Maybe get a club or something going?” “Drama club” was on the wish list, and this seems pretty close.

  He grins. “Sounds interesting — I’ve got a costume collection like you wouldn’t believe.” He gives me a business card. A business card! “Text me. We’ll talk image.” He slides out and walks away.

  “That was weird,” says Joe C. “And I think I believe the costume collection.”

  “He had a point, sort of,” I say. “Image counts.” I look over at Justin’s never-ending line of ladies. “I do need people to see that I’m more than just Pukey. And more than ‘not Pukey.’”

  “Let’s finish eating; the bell’s gonna ring soon,” says Joe C.

  We eat and pretend not to watch the crowd at Justin’s table. Vicky Ross walks by and glares at me. Vijay’s getting the whole scene on tape.

  “I wonder how the Talkin Trash segment is going to turn out,” I say. “They didn’t tape me that much.”

  “That’s a good thing,” says Ruthie.

  “Yeah,” says Joe C. “They didn’t tape that much. How bad can it be?”

  NOVEMBER 24

  8:09 A.M.

  Very, very bad, actually. Even though we’re just counting the minutes until Thanksgiving weekend starts, when Talkin’ Trash starts up the next day, people actually watch. There are clips of Justin tossing a football and kicking a soccer ball around with some kindergarteners. (A bunch of girls go “awwww.” Even Ruthie, the traitor.) There’s Justin saying how he wants to make the school a better place for all students — it all sounds like Blaylock was his speechwriter — and then the We Love Justin Show ends with the whole Pied DJ scene, and Donovan making a big V for victory as they all dance out the door.

  They flash a still image of Vicky, and that’s it. She gets all huffy, but everyone shushes her so that we can watch the rest. The rest is me. Sparrow’s intro is, “We all know him as ‘Pukey.’ “ Then there’s a sound effect of (what else?) someone throwing up. She goes on to say, “Our team is working really hard on getting more details of his campaign out to you ASAP, so more on that later.” (Lots of giggles.) “And I’m really sure things’ll really heat up as the campaign really gets underway.”

  How many times can she say “really”? I want to slide under my desk but I keep watching my very own train wreck. There’s a clip of me and Ruthie arguing with Joe C. behind us reading a bottle cap. Then there’s a long shot of the puddle that Joe C.'s broken Juiced! bottle made under my feet. Sean loud-whispers, “Did he wet his pants?”

  “No Pukers for President!” is the first thing I hear after the bell rings to end homeroom. I don’t even have to look to know it’s Donovan. At least almost everyone else looks away as they laugh at me. Ruthie has her sympathetic face on and I can’t stand it, so I just give her and Joe C. a quick wave and head out the door.

  “No Pukers for President!” has already caught on by the time I get to my locker. Donovan says it over and over, and a few other kids like Sean Glanville join in. I keep my head down and my books up and pretend I don’t hear anything.

  George Henderson waves as I walk past his locker.

  “Anytime you want to talk …” he says.

  I nod. I don’t want to talk to anyone now. I want to go underground. Maybe that’s where George is, and maybe he has the right idea.

  4:32 P.M.

  After school, I stop by the Olive Branch for a little while, and playing trains with Charlie puts me in a better mood. Jeff is almost done with the mural design, and, no lie, it’s going to be a masterpiece. I help peel potatoes for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving meal, and Gabriella collects all of the peels for the composting thing she’s doing.

  When I get home, at first I think I’m the only one there, but when I walk by Monica’s door, I hear these funny sounds like a dying animal. I pause; I can ignore the scary sounds and retreat to my room and lock the door, which is what I really, really want to do. Or, I can risk life and limb and investigate.

  Hmmmm.

  I knock on the door.

  “Go away!” roars Monica, which should be enough, but I crack open the door. “Come in if you want to die.”

  “Look,” I start, “I’m not trying to be all up in your business, but I heard noises, and —” I look at her. She’s lying facedown on her bed. There’s no dying animal in sight. So were the sounds … crying?

  “Um, are you okay?” I ask, stepping into the room. I can’t remember the last time I was in here.

  “Get out,” she mutters without looking up, and now I know she’s been crying. Because she cries some more.

  I don’t know what to do, so I pick up the box of tissues on her desk and hand it to her. Then I sit on the edge of the bed. She stops and glares at me, so I slide to the floor. I just sit and look around while she winds down to sniffling. For reasons I don’t have to go into, I don’t spend much time in her bedroom. It’s kind of neat, which surprises me. She used to have all of her science stuff around — a microscope, this plastic model of the human body where you could take out all the organs and stuff (and hide them in your little brother’s cereal), and her at-home science lab. That’s still sitting on her desk, though it looks pretty dusty. I can see a basketball on her closet floor, and I’m surprised to see that she still has her NBA All-Star poster up too. Her computer is on; it’s at a website called “DOES HE WANT YOU … TO GO AWAY?”

  Finally, she sits up. “So you can gloat,” she says, looking in the mirror. Her makeup is streaked and all over her face in black and red smudges.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. But then I think I know. “You didn’t get the part, did you?”

  “Yeah, so ha ha, it’s so funny that I was stupid enough to try out,” she snarls. “You might as well laugh now, because I’ll get the last laugh someday.”

  I sigh. “Monica, listen — I’m sorry about what I said, and I’m sorry about the tryouts. I didn’t realize how much you wanted to be in the play.”

  “I’m in the play,” she says and then she starts sniffling again.

  “Oh!” I’m confused. “Well, that’s good, right?” Unless … “You didn’t get cast as the Walter Lee guy, did you?”

  She looks up, and I’m glad there are no bricks nearby because I can see her arm twitch like she wants to throw something. “No, you brain-dead social slug, I didn’t.” Then she sniffs again. “But actually, maybe it’s worse.”

  “Huh?”

  “I got the part of Mama, okay? I’m the mother.”

  Monica’s the star? My sister Monica?

  “But … I mean, Monica, that’s the lead! I mean, Mama is like the rug holding the room together! That’s a big deal! Ruthie is going to be so happy for you!”

  “You’re so stupid. I don’t want to be Mama. I don’t want to be the big fat old lady in a housedress and a wig!”

  I can see her point. And I start to get what Ruthie was talking about. “But … I
mean, I guess it’s not glamorous, but —”

  “Of course it’s not glamorous!” she says, rubbing her smeary face with paper towels. “Why would anyone ever think of me as glamorous? I’m just … oh, forget it. Why am I talking to you?” She falls back on the bed in a pretty dramatic way. I guess she is good.

  “Because I’m here,” I say after a minute. “And I’ll listen. I promise. How about a truce? No name-calling, no fighting … what do you have to lose?”

  Silence. I sit, trying not to look like I’m afraid she might jump up and tackle me. After a few minutes she slides down on the floor next to me.

  “Whatever. I might as well talk to my stupid —” I look at her. “My baby brother. I don’t have any friends anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tatia got the part of Ruth. I heard her and Renee laughing about the fact that I tried out for it in the first place.”

  “Why do you hang out with them if they’re like that?”

  She rolls her eyes and looks at me. “You wouldn’t understand. You’ve got your little BFF-pinky-swear crew that sticks by you no matter what.”

  “Well, you’ve got … um,” I trail off. She makes a face.

  “Exactly. Thanks for the pep talk, I feel so much better now. Next you’ll tell me Jesus loves me just the way I am, but He loves me too much to let me stay that way.” She snorts.

  “Or that you’re too blessed to be stressed,” I say without thinking, remembering another of Reverend Coles’s favorite sayings.

  “Or in my hour of need I’ve got His power indeed,” Monica adds, and this time the snort almost turns into a chuckle.

  “If you’re looking for a Boss, just look to the Cross.”

  “If you’ve got pain and strife, try living the Spirit-filled life,” she adds.

  “Or, there ain’t no flava like that of the Save-yah!” I say, laughing, but then she glares at me; I’m still the Enemy.

  I sigh. “Monica, I’m sorry about the play. I know you’re disappointed, but you really are the star. That means you must have been good.” I think a little. “And what about Asha? She’s cool, ‘even if she’s a Trini.’ You guys seemed like pretty good friends before you started hanging out with the video girls.”

  Monica shrugs. “Nothing against Asha. I just wanted … I cannot believe I’m telling you this, and if you say one word to anybody I will tear your limbs off and stuff them down the toilet — I just wanted people to see me in a different way this year. I’m tired of being just the baller, the big girl …”

  “The bully?” I volunteer. “The brute?” She does punch me in the arm this time, but not as hard as usual.

  “Very funny. Joke all you want. It is a big joke, me trying to be something else. Those cheerleaders laughed at me, and I bet all of those drama-club people are cracking up right now.” She gets up and literally shakes it off. “Whatever.” She looks at her wall calendar and mutters, “I heard there’s gonna be a step team next year. I’m gonna try out for that.”

  She puts some white stuff on her face and wipes the last of the makeup off. When she turns around, she looks really young, and I remember the time that I lost Mr. Tiddley Pom, my stuffed octopus, and she went out in the rain to find him. Of course, she was the one who’d buried him in the park in the first place, but I remember how sorry she was and how she hugged me after she brought him back.

  “That’s what I admire about you, Monica,” I blurt out. “You’re amazing.”

  “What are you talking about, SuperGee — I mean, uh, yeah. Huh?”

  “You’re not afraid to try things, to take action. You’re all fearless.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” she says, quickly adding, “And idiot doesn’t count there.” I let it go.

  “I’m serious,” I say. Then I tell one of those lies that I figure God has to forgive, if He’s anything like I think He is. “You totally inspired me to do something a couple days ago that I would never have had the guts to do if it weren’t for you.”

  She turns around and looks at me. “Get out. What are you talking about?”

  “Well, I got up on a table in the middle of the cafeteria and announced that I was running for president. That I wanted to do something big for a change.”

  “Humph,” she says, shrugging a little. “Big deal. I thought you were going to say you did something like … like … I don’t know, something major.”

  “Come on, Monica, this is me. It is major! I’ve been trying to be invisible at school ever since … the beginning of the year. But, um, when I saw how you were going all out and trying new things, it got me thinking that … that instead of trying to be invisible, I should start taking some risks.” And even though I’m totally lying, it kind of clicks, and it becomes true.

  “Yeah, well, a lot of good it did me,” she mutters, turning back to her mirror. “My so-called friends are cheerleaders and I’m not, I get to play a fat old lady in front of the whole school … My image has gone from bad to worse.”

  “Come on, Monica,” I say. “Did you really want to be a cheerleader?” Then I take my biggest risk yet. “Or did you just want to get next to John Wilkins?” I brace myself; this could get ugly.

  She doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then she shrugs. “The cheerleading thing, whatever. It’s just that those girls get looked at a certain way. I mean, I’m not down to hang on the fence and watch the guys play ball all afternoon the way they do, but …” She trails off, then she sighs. “I can’t talk about this. Not with you.” I wait for a minute, but she’s clammed up.

  “Okay,” I say. “Just listen. You got the lead role in the school play. And you and John seem to get along all right.”

  She whirls around and jabs a comb at me. “You’re the fool talking about John Wilkins. I never said anything about him.”

  I let fool go, and continue. “And will you just play ball with Pops again? He’s pathetic, dragging around the house with that ball under his arm. I think working out with you helped him feel better about this whole job thing.”

  She comes over and sits on the floor next to me. “It’s been a long time for him, with no job,” she says in a low voice. “Are you scared?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Are you?”

  “I wish they would talk to us about it, and stop having not-so-secret conversations. We’re not babies.”

  “Sometimes I wish we were,” I say. “Or at least little kids, so we could be clueless about all the bad stuff.”

  “You’re still clueless,” she says, but it’s so halfhearted it’s almost a compliment.

  “Whatever,” I say. “Just don’t cry anymore. I thought you’d killed something in here.” She grabs a pillow and pretends to smother me. Then it’s a little awkward, and neither of us says anything. I’m a little out of breath anyway.

  “Why are you in my room?” she says suddenly. “Get out of here!” But she’s giggling, and then I’m laughing; I leave with a smile on my face, and a conversation with my sister put it there.

  NOVEMBER 27

  10:17 A.M.

  When I get to the Olive Branch, Jeff and Gabriella are already there. I don’t say a word when I see the “Hope Depot” banner behind Wilma’s desk. The old Jeff might have said something stupid about being an Olive Branch “resident” with all of the time we spend at this place, but I think all of us are just grateful for the way that the actual residents make us feel at home. I look at Wilma, and she knows without saying anything that I’m wondering about George, and she shakes her head.

  “Check this out, Reggie,” calls Carmen. “We’ve gotten a lot of new books; we need to get organized like a real library. Can you round up some volunteers?” She and Gabriella are all geeked out about the cataloging system they developed. I compliment them on it; Jeff comes over.

  “Yeah, we want to get started on the painting too,” he says. “We need the whole youth group on board, but that might not even be enough. I want to start making a work schedule, so let me know how many we�
�ll have. We’ll start on these walls first, and then hit up the mural.”

  “Sure, yeah … I’ll get on it,” I say. And I know just where to find some volunteers. The candidate kid is back.

  1:34 P.M.

  At home, after lunch, I work on trying to put Reggie McKnight, Presidential Candidate, together. I’ve turned in Blaylock’s confusing candidate forms and need to go over Ruthie’s list of ideas and my notes from my Vicky campaign days. Just thinking about that big rally makes me tired, so I lie down with Pops’s poetry book for a while. I’m going to hang Gwendolyn Brooks’s “Speech to the Young: Speech to the Progress-Toward” up on my wall.

  Say to them,

  say to the down-keepers,

  the sun-slappers,

  the self-soilers,

  the harmony-hushers,

  “even if you are not ready for day,

  it cannot always be night.”

  I shut the book and go back to my desk and campaign folder. It’s time to work.

  NOVEMBER 30

  8:47 A.M.

  “Hey, um, got a pen?” Hector sounds almost embarrassed, and I realize that even though Donovan’s been relentless with the “No Pukers for President” thing, it’s not catching on like it would have a couple of weeks ago. Even Hector hasn’t joined in, though I still have to keep up a steady supply of ballpoints. I hand one over.

  “Thanks,” he says. “Pull my finger.”

  A Talkin’ Trash “Justin Is King” episode airs, where he seems like a prophet, a pro athlete, and a scholar all rolled into one girl-friendly, man’s-man package. Sparrow Barrow even calls him “Mr. President” a few times. Blaylock makes his first-ever appearance on the show, mostly to stress how the fate of the world rests on the Step Up And Lead rally with the mayor tomorrow. And Justin has connections (of course), so the whole deal is being covered by some local news show as a “feel-good” story about youth getting involved in their communities. Blaylock says “televised” so many times, it’s like he’s in a competition of people to see who can say the word televised the most. He makes a point of thanking Justin for his “service to the school,” and is “sure Justin’s efforts will be recognized by his classmates.”