Public School Superhero

by James Patterson

  I don’t get it. It’s not like I’m the biggest brain. I’m not a butt-kisser like Lucinda Morehead, either. And I know for a fact that some of the other kids live with their grandmas—including Quaashie R. So how come I’m the official school punching bag?

  Weirdly enough, that’s when I start thinking about Ray-Ray. He’s even skinnier than I am. He’s hyper as one of those elementary school shorties. And he’s totally annoying. But people don’t ride him the way they do me.

  Even when someone does mess with Ray-Ray, it’s like he doesn’t even care. Like nothing ever bothers him. And I’m thinking, How does he pull that off? What’s his secret?

  On the real—I wish I was more like that.

  Which is the weirdest thought of all.

  I mean, if you’d told me at the beginning of the school year that I’d ever want to be anything like Ray-Ray Powell, I’d have said you were crazy. Straight bananas. Nuttier than one of G-ma’s pecan pies, with extra nuts.

  But guess what I’m figuring out real quick? Middle school’s crazy, too. And nutty isn’t always the same thing as wrong. Sometimes in life, you have to get in where you fit in. We just went over this in science. It’s called adaptation. If your environment changes, guess what? You better change, or else.

  So now here I am, actually wanting something from Ray-Ray, if I can get it. And like it or not, there’s only one way to find out.

  I’m going to have to ask.

  NEVER THOUGHT I’D SEE THE DAY

  I wait until we’re playing chess the next day, so we’re good and alone. I don’t want any witnesses for this.

  We’re about halfway into our first game. Ray-Ray’s trying to figure out his next move. I even left my rook wide open on purpose, but he doesn’t see it.

  “I need to ask you something,” I say. “But don’t get all excited about it, okay?”

  “How come?” he says. He’s already excited. The thing with Ray-Ray is, he’s kind of like a blender with no off switch. There’s just fast, faster, and fastest. He probably ought to be on one of those prescriptions, but I don’t think Ray-Ray gets to the doctor too much. His teeth are messed up, too. Jacked. Looks like he chews rocks for breakfast. Every morning.

  “You know how you’re always saying I shouldn’t let people mess with me?” I say.

  “Yeah?” Ray-Ray says. “What about it?”

  “Well, don’t let this go to your head, but I was sort of wondering if you could maybe… you know. Tell me how,” I say.

  Ray-Ray just shrugs. “It’s like you expect it to go down, and it shows. Looking scared’s the same thing as being scared. You got it?”

  “If I got it, I wouldn’t be asking you,” I say. How am I supposed to just not be scared of someone bigger than me? It’s not like I can turn it off and on, or run down to the corner store for some guts.

  That’s when Ray-Ray starts to get some kind of new idea. I can see it on his face, like he just won a hundred bucks on a scratch-off ticket.

  “So that’s how we’re gonna do it? You give me lessons, I give you lessons? That’s the new routine, bamma?” he says.

  “Who said anything about lessons?” I say. “Just tell me what to do.”

  “Yeah, right.” He sits back and points at the chessboard. “’Cause you’re just gonna tell me how to play chess, huh?”

  I’m starting to think this was a bad idea. Not because Ray-Ray’s wrong. But because he’s right. If I’m going to toughen up, I’m going to need some kind of practice.

  “I know exactly where to start, too,” Ray-Ray says. Already, he’s pulling out this phone I didn’t even know he had, and he starts tapping away.

  “Hang on,” I say. “What are you doing?”

  “You’ll see. It’s a surprise,” he tells me.

  And speaking of surprises, he leans in then and slides his queen all the way across the board to take out my rook.

  “Bet you didn’t think I saw that, did you?” he says.

  Nope. I definitely didn’t.

  But then again, it seems like there’s a lot of things I don’t see coming these days.

  MEETING THE KING

  Just before 4:15, Ray-Ray starts putting the chess stuff away.

  “Come on,” he says. “It’s almost time.”

  “Time for what?” I say.

  He doesn’t wait for me, though. He just walks right out of the room and leaves me standing there. Part of me thinks I should let him go. You never know what’s going to happen next with Ray-Ray, and I don’t mean that in a good way.

  But I’m curious, too. And I did ask for his help. So I pack up the rest of the chess stuff and head out after him.

  When I get into the hall, Ray-Ray’s right there.

  “What are you doing?” I say.

  “Waiting,” he says.

  A second later, the detention room door opens, and the D-Squad for that day comes pouring out, like the Nationals on opening day. I see Dwayne, and Vanessa, and Jerome and Tiny, too.

  “I don’t want any trouble, Ray-Ray,” I say.

  “Ain’t gonna be any,” he says. “Just the opposite. You remember I said how you’re always acting like one of those pawns, just waiting to get picked off?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, get ready to meet the king,” he says. “Watch and learn, son.”

  Then he starts moving again, heading up the hall just ahead of everyone else.

  When we get outside, there’s this black Jeep sitting out front. The stereo is knockin’! It’s a track from Wale’s first album. I can feel the bass in my chest all the way from the curb. The Jeep’s right in the place where you’re not supposed to park, and it’s got two bad-looking dudes in the front seat. The one on the passenger side looks a little bit like Ray-Ray.

  “What’s good, Nick?!” Ray-Ray yells out, and keeps walking toward them.

  That’s when I figure out who “the king” is. It’s Nicky Powell. The Nicky Powell. I can still remember the way Dele and Vashon bugged out when they found out Nicky was Ray-Ray’s brother.

  Which of course makes me even more nervous. What’s someone like me supposed to say to someone like that?

  Nicky looks me up and down when we get over to the car. Then he turns the stereo down, but I can still feel the whoomp-whoomp-whoomp-whoomp vibrating in my ears.

  “This is Kenny,” Ray-Ray says. He’s standing on one foot and kind of bouncing up and down. It’s this weird habit of his.

  “Chill, Ray-Ray,” Nicky says, and Ray-Ray puts his other foot down. You can tell he thinks Nicky’s “that dude,” because Ray-Ray never does anything anyone tells him.

  “You the one who’s teaching Ray-Ray chess?” Nicky says in a slow, cool drawl. He sounds like one of those late-night radio DJs, but cooler. I wish I had that voice.

  “Yeah,” I say. At least I know how to answer that one.

  “Thanks, man. I owe you.” Nicky reaches out the window and gives me a pound. “Hop in. My man Trayvon can give you a ride,” he says.

  The guy behind the wheel hasn’t looked at me once. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. But I do know what G-ma would have to say about all this.

  “That’s okay,” I say. “It’s not that far, and my grandma likes me to walk straight home.”

  Nicky looks at me now, the same way Ray-Ray does sometimes. Like I’m some kind of charity case.

  “We’re working on it,” Ray-Ray tells him. “Yo, Kenny, you’ve got an audience. You want to hang here with them, or you want to roll with us?”

  I start to turn around and look, but Ray-Ray puts a hand on my neck.

  “Just pretend they’re not there,” he says. “Like you couldn’t care less—got it?”

  I got it, all right. I just figured out that Ray-Ray’s doing me a world-class solid here—introducing me to Nicky Powell, right in front of the D-Squad. I’ll bet this is frying Tiny’s brain into a crisp like cheap bacon. You know, the kind that shrivels all the way down until it looks like a stic
k of gum.

  And either way, he’s right. The last thing I want right now is to get left alone with that crew. So when Ray-Ray opens the car door, I go ahead and get in behind him. Then Trayvon pulls away from the curb, fast and loud. Wale spits the second verse of the track that I can’t remember the name of but that will come back to me sometime later today.

  I never look back. Not even once.

  But I sure do want to.

  SWEATIN’ WITH THE BIG DOGS

  About five seconds later, I start to wonder if I’ve just made a huge mistake.

  This is definitely not the kind of thing a Grandma’s Boy would do. But is that a good thing… or not?

  “I don’t live very far,” I tell Trayvon. “It’s just up on—”

  “Sit tight,” Nicky says. “We’re going to make a quick stop first.”

  What the what!?! Now even my sweat’s starting to sweat. Quick stop? What exactly is that supposed to mean?

  Or do I even want to know?

  The whole time we’re driving, Nicky doesn’t look back at us once. Trayvon hasn’t said a word, either. Before I know it, Trayvon screeches up to the curb, and Nicky hops out with his hands in his pockets. “Hold it down, Tray. This won’t take but a minute,” he says.

  I look up at the storefront—and we’re outside Ben’s Chili Bowl, a DC institution. They make, by far, THE best chili dogs this side of the universe. No lie. Forget about those wannabe dogs that your mother just slops together. These babies are like heaven… in a bun… covered in chili and onions.

  After about twenty minutes, Nicky comes back out with a sack full of chili cheese dogs, maybe a dozen, plus chili fries and milk shakes. Milk shakes, man!

  Nicky hands Trayvon the sack. He cracks a smile and then says, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. A brotha is hungry!” So I guess he can talk, after all.

  When Nicky passes us a couple of straws and our milk shakes in the backseat, he looks at me kind of funny.

  “What’s the matter, Chess Man?” he says. “You expecting we were going to rob a bank or something?”

  “Nah,” I say, real quick. I laugh, too, but it comes out wrong—kind of like a goat. I’m trying to act like I hang out with dudes like them all the time, but mostly I’m just coming off as lame. A real bamma.

  I figure Ray-Ray’s going to make fun of me, too, but he’s got his big mouth stuffed with chili dogs. Trayvon doesn’t even look back and tosses two chili dogs in my lap. There aren’t any fries left. Ray-Ray already took all those, but I’m not going to complain. For one thing, G-ma hardly ever lets me eat this stuff, and for another—I’M STILL ALIVE. I’d call that two for two.

  As soon as we’re back on the block, I tell Trayvon he can let me out on the corner. “I’ll just walk the rest of the way,” I say. I’m done taking chances for the day.

  “Congratulations,” Ray-Ray says, looking at me on the sidewalk.

  “For what?” I say.

  Whatever he says back, I don’t even hear it. Trayvon peels out and the smell of burnt rubber fills my nose. The speakers are knocking that new Rick Ross joint. I can hear it blocks away.

  But I guess I just finished my first lesson.

  ONE THING OR ANOTHER

  I’m not even late by the time I get home. But I am in trouble.

  Kind of.

  When I open the door, there’s a whole apartmentful of people inside. I see Dele’s and Vashon’s moms, and a bunch of other parents from the school. Even Dr. Yetty’s here, looking at something with serious eyes glued to her Kindle Fire—the latest version, of course, in a fancy-looking red leather case. That’s Dr. Yetty.

  “Kenny!” she says when she sees me. “How are the chess lessons coming along?”

  “Uhh… fine?” I say. It seems like a complicated question, even though it’s not. Half my brain is still back there in Trayvon’s ride.

  “When can I expect to play a game against Ray-Ray?” Dr. Yetty asks me.

  “Soon, I hope,” I say. Because that’s no lie. Meanwhile, I’m wondering if I still have chili and onions on my breath, and if anyone saw me getting out of that Jeep.

  All I want to do now is get to my bedroom and close the door, so I keep moving. I scoot around Dele’s mom, squeeze past some lady on a cell phone, and get about two more steps before—

  “Look who it is!” G-ma says.

  She’s sitting in the living room with a bunch of other people. Mrs. Clark is there, too, standing by a big pad on an easel, with a black marker in her hand. The pad says stuff like “Save Our Schools” and “Education First.”

  So I guess this whole big action thing of G-ma’s really is happening. Which isn’t great news for me. Because I know what’s coming next.

  “So, Kenny,” Mrs. Clark says, “your grandma tells us you might be willing to stand up and speak at our rally. Have you given it any more thought?”

  Talk about a complicated question! I look over at the door to my room, and it might as well be on the other side of the galaxy by now.

  So I open my mouth, and I give the one answer that’s going to get me there a little faster.

  “Sure,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

  I mean, what else am I going to say?

  Everyone in the living room starts clapping for me then. The people in the kitchen lean over to see what’s going on, and G-ma says, “Ladies and gentlemen, meet our new student ambassador!” Now those people start clapping, too, and the whole apartment’s cheering for me like I’m some kind of perfect model student. Or even some kind of superhero.

  What could I possibly say to change things at our school? Why would anyone listen to what’s on my mind? Maybe they’ll care. Maybe they won’t. I’m leaning more toward won’t. It’s not like I’m Marcus Garvey or Medgar Evers. If G-ma could hear my thoughts, she’d say, “No, you’re not Garvey or Evers. You’re Wright, and that’s all you need to be.”

  But you know what? None of that matters. I’m still bugged out. And that’s when my head just about spins right off.

  Actually—no. Not that. More like it splits in two.

  33

  BACK AT THE LAB…

  STARFISH

  Later that night, I’m about to hit the sack when G-ma comes into my room.

  “Did you feel pressured to say yes to that speech?” she asks me. “I didn’t mean for it to happen that way.”

  “It’s okay, G-ma,” I tell her.

  “Well, I’m proud of you,” she says.

  “You shouldn’t be,” I say.

  G-ma looks at me all squinty, the way she does sometimes. “Why not?” she says.

  “Well…” I shrug at her. “I haven’t given the speech yet. Maybe I’ll still chicken out.”

  “I doubt that,” G-ma says. “You’re a brave boy, Kenneth. You’re the bravest boy I’ve ever known.”

  I can’t even touch that one. No way.

  “Do you really think it will make any difference, though?” I ask her instead. “I’m just… me, you know? I don’t really see how—”

  “Kenneth.” She cuts me off, and I already know what she’s going to say. “Have I ever told you the story about the starfish?”

  “Yeah,” I say. She’s told me that one about a thousand times, but it never stops her. I don’t mind, either. I kind of like it. So she sits down on the bed and keeps talking.

  “There was a young man once,” G-ma says. “And he came onto a beach that was covered in starfish.”

  CHICKENS WITH FINGERS!

  I don’t know if I’m ready for another one of Ray-Ray’s “lessons” or not, but a few days later, I get one anyway.

  We’re in the cafeteria at lunch, and Ray-Ray straight-up dares me to steal some chicken fingers off the steam table. I don’t even like chicken fingers. Since when do chickens have fingers? Something just ain’t right about that.

  “Are you crazy?” I say.

  “Yeah,” he says, grinning that Ray-Ray grin of his. “But this ain’t about me.”

  This
is about me, and we both know it. I didn’t exactly ace that car ride with Nicky. When you end up sweating like a pig and laughing like a goat, you’re not exactly a shining example of swag.

  Still, you’re probably thinking, No way, right? Why would I take a stupid dare like that?

  Good question. I just wish I had a good answer. Maybe it’s because Preemie, Quaashie W., and Vanessa are watching. (Especially Vanessa.)

  Maybe it’s because I still have something to prove, and Ray-Ray’s never going to stop pestering me until I do.

  Or maybe it’s because I’m a big fat idiot.

  All of the above, I guess. Whatever the reason is, the next thing I know, I’m sneaking past the lunch line…

  … checking to make sure no one’s looking…

  … grabbing a tub of chicken fingers with a side of hot honey mustard…

  … and getting out of there as fast as I can go.

  Ray-Ray’s right there, and we book it out into the hall. I don’t stop running until we’re all the way around the corner and into the stairwell, where it’s quiet.

  Then we get rid of the evidence faster than you can say GULP. It’s like those chicken fingers just disappear.

  But not for long. My stomach’s already feeling kind of funky, and I’m starting to think there’s more than one reason why this was a bad idea.

  “Good job,” Ray-Ray says with his mouth full. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  And then, all at once, I don’t have it in me. Every bite of every chicken finger I just sucked down comes right back up. All over the stairs. All over the floor. And all over my shoes, too.

  Ray-Ray thinks it’s hilarious. “Way to go, man,” he says. “You’re a regular gangsta now.” He’s loving this, I can tell.

  I’m glad someone is. Because to tell you the truth, I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.