Eighth-Grade Superzero

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  Ruthie rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “Co-opting opponents’ ideas,” says Joe C. “You really are becoming a politician.”

  I ignore that. “In the end, I’m sure people would rather hear that their work, no matter how small it is, is worth something, instead of how valuable Justin is.”

  “Or Vicky for that matter,” adds Joe C. “She really is delusional.”

  “I threw up in my mouth a little while she was talking,” says Ruthie. She looks at me. “I mean … sorry. Didn’t mean to go there.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. “We all know I’ve been there.”

  She raises her eyebrows and turns to Joe C. “Did he just—” she begins.

  “Yes, he did,” Joe C. replies. “He joked about it.”

  “It sounds crazy to say that I’m proud of you for making a puke reference, but I am.” She hugs me.

  “So am I, my friend, so am I,” adds Joe C., giving me a pound.

  They leave, and as I head to class, I smile and say, “I’m Reggie McKnight and I’m running for president” to a couple of bored-looking seventh graders I pass by. And then I say it again.

  3:03 P.M.

  When I get to my locker at the end of the day, George Henderson is already there. He has silver dollars in his loafers and he’s carrying a big black case that looks like an old-school doctor bag. He introduces me to the other LARPers, and we all head over to Fort Greene Park, right up the hill to the Prison Ships Martyrs’ Monument. I think I’m the only one who’s self-conscious; everyone else jumps right into some story that involves a lot of “hails” and swordplay. We take a break for snacks — bread, cheese, and cold sausage — and I think the fun of the whole thing makes the food taste even better. Someone’s brought some fake “mulled mead,” which tastes mostly like hot apple cider, and I’m happy for it since I can see my breath out here. A bunch of kids explain the complicated rules about magic and characters to me, and I really don’t get it, and they can tell, but they’re glad I’m there and keep trying to bring me in.

  I’m having a good time, mostly just watching the action, and a couple of girls come over and ask me about Olive Branch and what it is.

  “There are a lot of kids there,” I start. “Whole families. I started going as part of a group project, but I think that we can do a lot more.”

  “Like what?” asks the one wearing fairy wings and carrying a light saber.

  “Like tutoring after school, getting local businesses to donate stuff, just playing with the kids. George Henderson said some of you guys would be interested in starting a drama club.” I think for a minute. “Making sure that they aren’t ‘they’ anymore.”

  “I like that,” says Warrior Fairy Girl. “I’ll come check it out. Nice to see someone talking about something real when they’re running for president. You’ve got my vote.” She jumps up and joins a battle against a couple of dragons and a Stormtrooper. It’s cool how this thing is so precious to them, and they want to share it with me. Usually it’s the crappy stuff we want to give away.

  DECEMBER 6

  4:04 P.M.

  When I stop by Olive Branch after school, people are like, “Hi, Reggie,” in that easy way that says I’m a part of things, and it feels good. I look for George as soon as I walk into the shelter, and Wilma just looks at me and shakes her head. I make deals with God: Bring George back and I’ll pray every night. Bring George back and I’ll keep my room spotless. If I win this election, You have to bring him back. I am a little scared, trying to bargain with God, but He seems to be letting it slide. I talk to a couple of the kids; Charlie gives me a hug.

  “Today is a good day,” he says. “Really good, like when George used to live here.”

  “That’s cool,” I say.

  “I hope when he comes back, he comes when you’re here,” he says. “Because he was always in a good mood after he saw you. Once he told me that we had to share you as our best friend.”

  I am happy and sad, and a little proud.

  Wilma squeezes my shoulder and then points to a couple of boxes. “That must be some school you and your friends go to,” she says.

  “What friends?” I say.

  “The other kids from your school,” Wilma says. “Over there.” She points to a group to her left, and marches away. I look over and see Vijay, Veronica, and James Kim, whose voice I’ve never actually heard. He’s that kind of shy that teachers let slide, so they never call on him. I don’t know if I’m more surprised to see them here, or to see them together. It looks like Vijay’s teaching Veronica and James how to use his camcorder.

  I feel weird about going over to them, but I do, and thank them for coming. Vijay doesn’t even smirk once.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without that camera,” I say to Vijay. “Sparrow works you hard.”

  “News flash: Talkin’ Trash is not my life,” he says. “I’m a serious filmmaker. I have a lot of short videos online. I just finished a series on Queens and all the different ethnic groups that live there.”

  “Really?” I say, surprised. “That sounds really cool.”

  “Thanks,” he says. “So is what you’re doing here.”

  I chat with him for a while, while Gabriella and Carmen lead James over to the library corner, which is looking pretty impressive. Veronica starts painting with Jeff and immediately ends up squealing about paint on her nose, but Wilma puts a stop to that fast and they get down to business. Veronica texts Josie, who shows up within minutes with three other girls; they all put on a bunch of old T-shirts and grab some paint rollers. Jeff mouths “thanks” to me with a big old cheesy grin.

  Ruthie runs into the shelter for a quick meetup with her Listening Ears partner, and asks me to wait for her because she’s coming over to run lines with Monica. Monica has really thrown herself into her role as Mama — she’s even managed to glam Mama up a little so that she looks like Beyoncé's grandmother. As I wait for Ruthie to tear herself away from a gaggle of little girls, I hear her say “Philippians 4:13 — remember that!”

  Ruthie and I head out.

  “Did I see you having a conversation with James Kim?” she asks. “I thought I saw his mouth move.”

  “I did,” I answer. “And he had a lot to say.”

  “Wow, Reggie, you really may be starting a revolution,” she replies.

  After we walk for a bit, I ask, “What was that Philippians 4:13 thing about?”

  “You know, ‘I can do all things through Him who strengthens me’ … I’m thinking about starting a little girls’ club and using that as the motto. The girls are so sweet — I’m going to see if my Little Buddy Jamila can join us.”

  “Sounds good,” I say. “So … do you really believe that?”

  “Believe what?”

  “That ‘I can do all things with God’ stuff. Do you really believe that?”

  She’s quiet for a minute. “Yeah, sometimes I really do. If I don’t think about it for too long but I think about it deep, you know what I mean?”

  I look at her. “What do you think?”

  She laughs. “Okay, yeah, that doesn’t make any sense. What I mean is, if I think about it the same way I think about eating or studying for a math test, then it’s hard for me to believe. But when I just feel it, like I feel heat from a rainbow or peace from watching a fountain, then I believe.”

  “I can’t believe you just referenced hot rainbows,” I say. “Do you believe in unicorns too?” She laughs again. “I want to believe in something,” I continue, “but … I don’t know.”

  “I think it’s okay not to know. In fact, my mom always says that that’s a sign of a true believer — knowing that you don’t know it all.”

  “Hmmm … but then, how can you trust God, if you can’t even figure Him out? Seems kind of unfair.” I wonder if one of God’s avenging angels is going to materialize and zap me away for saying that. “I’ve been trying to answer that question that Dave asked us way back: ‘If God
is so good, then why are things so bad?’”

  “And?” asks Ruthie. “What answer did you come up with?”

  “I didn’t, that’s what I’m saying.” I glance at her. “What about you?”

  “I just … Okay, remember how we were talking about the story of Peter in the boat in youth group a while back?” I nod. “And how when he kept his focus on Jesus, he was okay, but as soon as he didn’t, he stumbled? I just go a step at a time, trust a little bit, and stumble a little bit too. I mean, I don’t know about fair, but I believe that God is just. It’ll all be right in the end. But I can work on making it as right as I can right now too.”

  “You’re going to be Dave when you grow up, aren’t you?” I say.

  “I’m going to be whatever God has planned,” she says, smiling. “And I’m convinced that He has something great in store for me.”

  “I wish I could be sure,” I say. “I’m not trying to get struck down, but … I have questions all of the time.”

  “I don’t think that’s how He is,” she answers. “I think God can take a few questions.”

  “I’m just gonna have to hope that some of whatever you’ve got rubs off on me.”

  “I don’t know if I’ve ‘got’ anything, but you’re welcome to hang around, even if you get on my nerves sometimes. I’m not going anywhere,” she says. “And …” She stops.

  “And what?” I say. “Come on, I bared my soul. No fair holding back.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I was just going to say that we can love each other through the doubts and questions and everything, but I didn’t want you to take it the wrong way and get all weird on me. I mean ‘love’ in the holy sense.”

  “Like a nun and a priest getting with each other?” I say with a smirk. “That sounds like a movie I want to see!” She swings her bag at me and I jump out of the way, laughing. “Kidding, I’m kidding.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand!” she screeches.

  But I look at Ruthie a few times, with her Oxfam T-shirt and the bright yellow hat she knit herself, and I think I do understand.

  8:40 P.M.

  I’ve been reading the Black poetry book for the last hour instead of doing my homework. I really like “The White House” by Claude McKay. I wonder how it would go down if, instead of a big election-assembly speech, I said things like:

  Your door is shut against my tightened face,

  And I am sharp as steel with discontent;

  But I possess the courage and the grace

  To bear my anger proudly and unbent.

  I stand up in front of my mirror and practice saying the lines with different gestures and facial expressions. I almost believe myself; maybe Monica’s not the only actor in the family. There’s a knock on my door. I open it, and Monica peers into the room.

  “Who are you talking to?” she asks.

  “No one,” I mutter. “We have to do, um, oral book reports tomorrow.”

  “Whatever,” she replies. “You have a phone call.” She’s holds the phone out to me. “It’s a girl,” she says. “A real one, not just Ruthie. Oooh!” She makes kissy sounds and she is not covering the receiver, so whoever is on the phone can hear every word.

  I grab the phone. “Gimme that!” I whisper. “How would you like it if John Wilkins called and I did that to you?”

  She shoves me. “Rub it in, why don’t you, Little Dumber Boy?” She stomps off.

  I sigh. So much for forging a new bond with my sister. For a second, I think about just hanging up the phone, but then I put the receiver to my ear. “Uh … hello?”

  “Hey, Reggie,” says a voice so caramel it can only belong to one girl. Mialonie.

  “Hey! Hi! How! Are! You!” I sound like a male cheerleader.

  “Uh, not as good as you, I guess. You sound cheery,” she says. “Are you pumped up?”

  “About what?” I ask.

  “The election? Hello, you’re running for president.”

  “Oh — yeah, I’m all pumped up,” I say.

  “I think you’d be great,” she says. “And I wanted to know if you need any help.”

  “Help?”

  “You know, with your campaign? It’s too bad that you missed the rally,” she says, and I hear the question in her voice, but I let it pass. “I noticed that you don’t have any posters up or anything. We could have a poster party. Josie’s a great artist, I’m sure I can get her to help out.”

  “Oh, yeah! Uh, sure!”

  There’s a pause.

  “I was also thinking; remember that Be Extra book I have? I thought you might want to read it. Self-improvement from the outside in. I can take you shopping if you want. New gear, new you.”

  From the outside in? Whatever, I’m not going down that road again. “Well, that sounds … good, but I’m kind of focusing my campaign on getting the school involved at the shelter.”

  “I heard about that. What exactly are you doing?”

  “Just hanging out with the people, I guess. That whole Listening Ears thing made me realize that just being there is important. I think. Not that I’m saying that my presence is so important, but all of us …” I’m lost. I wish I were tongue-tied — that would be better than this.

  “I think it’s so cool that you’re doing that. That place is kind of depressing. I don’t know if you remember my partner—”

  “Miss Joycelyn,” I say. “The quilter.”

  “Yeah,” says Mialonie. “She told me that she prays hope into each one she makes. It’s hard to believe that anyone can have hope in that place. Everyone there needs so much; I feel guilty.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “but I feel like I need to be there too.” My voice gets stronger. “It’s not just a do-gooder thing, it’s, um, reciprocal, you know? I get a lot from everyone there. It’s even helping me with my homework!” I say, laughing. I’m laughing with Mialonie Davis, who looks like that girl on the video request show.

  “You’ll have to tell me more sometime,” she says. “Just like you were supposed to tell me about Night Man.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m kind of done with that,” I say. “But I can tell you about what I want to do at the shelter, if you want.”

  “Sure. And I’ve got an idea for the election. I can tell you this trick I learned from Be Extra about projection and portrayal. You portray and project a better version of yourself, and people can’t resist it.”

  That sounds a little creepy to me, but Mialonie is into it, so maybe it’s not that bad. Or maybe it really does work. Maybe I’m not talking to the real Mialonie, but a “better version.”

  “Are you going to the Holiday Jam?” she asks. “Or maybe you don’t do school parties. I never saw you at any last year.”

  “Oh, um, no, I mean, yeah, I do. Go to parties, I mean.” Back to blithering idiot in a single bound.

  “Well, maybe we could meet up there and talk. Dance, even,” she says with a smile in her voice.

  Okay, Reggie, just play it cool and open your mouth and form words. Speak. Speak. Now!

  “Um, that would be cool. I mean, yeah, I’d love to talk at the dance. And dance.”

  “Okay, great. We’ll have fun. Listen, my sister is bugging me for the phone. I’ve gotta go, but we can talk more tomorrow.” I almost drop the phone when she gives me her number.

  “Sure, yeah, see you tomorrow … and, um, thank you.” She laughs. “Okay, you’re welcome, I guess. Later.” And she hangs up.

  I do a dance from my room down to the kitchen and I don’t even care when Monica sees.

  DECEMBER 7

  11:45 A.M.

  “A poster party?! I suggested that a week ago!” says Ruthie, almost dropping her tomato and rice sandwich.

  “You did? That’s great, so we agree that it’s a good idea. She’s going to start doing some stuff at Olive Branch with us.”

  “I’m surprised she has time,” says Ruthie, “what with all of the looking in the mirror she has to do.” Hector walks over. “At least we have people li
ke Hector who really want to work. And what’s with her name? It’s like fake Hawaiian or something. Did her parents make it up?” She gives Hector a tooth-whitener commercial smile.

  “Anyway,” I say, trying not to look at Hector, “did you come up with slogans and stuff for the posters?”

  “Yes,” she says, taking a sheet of paper out of her notebook. “Here are a few ideas. Remember, these are just, like, ideas … notes.”

  REGINALD GARVEY MCKNIGHT.

  FOR JUSTICE, FOR PEACE.

  VOTE INTEGRITY. VOTE FOR CHANGE.

  VOTE REGGIE.

  DISMANTLE THE POLITICAL MACHINE!

  VOTE REGGIE FOR A NEW DEMOCRACY

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I say. My voice is a little harder than I mean to sound. “Slogans are supposed to rhyme, they’re supposed to be catchy. And what do you mean ‘for peace'? We’re not at war, we’re at Clarke.”

  “I’m still working on them,” she says, snatching back her sheet of paper. “I just wanted to show you the direction I’m going in.”

  “Well, right now it looks like the road to nowhere,” I say.

  “Why would you be going anywhere else?” asks a voice over my shoulder. I turn around to see Donovan cackling, Justin a little behind him, not smiling. A few kids stop talking and eating to watch what goes down.

  “Shut up,” I mutter.

  “This is going to be so good,” he says, snickering. “Only a loser like you could be this clueless about what a loser he is and try to run for office.”

  “Why are you so worried about it anyway?” asks Ruthie. “Scared that your candidate can’t take the competition?”

  “You guys are such bottom-feeders,” Donovan says. “It’s painfully pathetic.” He starts off down the hall, laughing. Justin doesn’t move for a few seconds, then he walks the other way. Donovan turns around — I know he’s looking for Justin, but he tries to play it off. He looks at me and mouths “I hate you.”