He Said, She Said

by Kwame Alexander

  “Big Moose, these cheaters think they actually can beat us,” a guy I recognize as their quarterback says to the fat dude named Moose. That’s appropriate.

  “T-Diddy, am I mistaken, or did we whoop that Bayside ass?” Willie Mack hollers.

  “Panthers swooped down and wrecked shop, forty-one to thirty-five,” I boast.

  “Everybody knows the officials liked y’all better than us; helped y’all win,” Moose says.

  “IfY’allWeren’tSoUglyTheOfficialsMightHaveLikedY’allToo.”

  “Who you calling ugly?”

  “You, Bayside busta,” I taunt, using some of my Brooklyn slang on them.

  “WhatKindaWackNameIsTheBaysideTornadoes?”

  “I got your wack right here,” the quarterback says. Two more of their guys start gritting on us even harder.

  “We’re Tors, and we can finish what y’all started on the field right now,” Moose says, looking dead at me.

  “Y’all ain’t Tors, y’all is toys. ’Cause you got played,” Willie Mack adds. We laugh loud as hell, not because it was that funny, but to show solidarity.

  Ten of our teammates come running out of the party. Now what? Apparently, Bayside is not as stupid as they look. They back away, speeding off in their green hoopty, but not before screaming, “Watch your back, Titty.”

  “Them boys is wildin’ out. They drove two hours just to talk ish,” Willie Mack says.

  I hope so. Them kids from Bayside be acting foul. Somebody got shot outside their school last summer.

  “Let’s go get our party on,” I say, and we head back inside.

  “Let’sGoGetOnThemFigLeaves,” Fast Freddie says.

  “You need to leave that stuff alone. You know the NCAA got drug testing,” I remind him. Clemson wants him baaaad, but his priorities are a little wack.

  “Where’s wifey?” Willie Mack asks me as we walk back into the party.

  “Upstairs taking a leak. We out when she comes down. It’s going down tonight, fellas!”

  “IKnowThat’sRight. KnockItOutTheBoxT.”

  “Believe that, and tomorrow, it’s on to the next one.” Fast Freddie and I laugh alone, ’cause sometimes Willie Mack gets all righteous.

  “Sometimes that ish is foul, T-Diddy.”

  “Willie Mack, you know how T-Diddy do. Love ’em and leave ’em, hit ’em and split ’em. Use ’em then lose ’em, baby!” Now he’s laughing too.

  “I don’t blame you, T. Your girl Kym is legit, but—”

  “But what, Mack?”

  “No offense, T-Diddy, but Claudia Clarke is the bomb dot com,” he says, his mouth mopping the floor, his fingers pointing to the sofa. “She’s wearing them jeans like she painted them on.”

  “That’s Claudia Clarke, the one who’s always collecting ish for kids in Africa and whatnot?” I ask, eyeing the baddest chick at the party. She looks like a cross between Beyoncé and, uh, Beyoncé.

  “Last week she was collecting shoes for needy kids. Soles4Souls.”

  “SheThinkShe’sHarrietTubman.” Fast Freddie is my dude, but sometime he says some real stupid ish.

  “Dayum, homegirl doesn’t dress like that in school. I knew she looked good, but not that good.”

  “You know she’s in the band,” Willie Mack says.

  “HalfTheSchoolInTheBand.”

  “For real, what instrument?” I ask.

  “A dancer.”

  “She’s out there twirling the batons and whatnot?” I ask.

  “She’sADancerAndAGoody-Two-Shoes.”

  “I ain’t know she was packin’ all that. She got butt for weeks,” I add, still checking her out.

  “MondayTuesdayWednesdayBadunkadunk.”

  “I’d hit that in a heartbeat,” Belafonte says, popping up out of nowhere like he always does, drinking something pink and questionable.

  “Me too,” I tell him.

  “Too fly for you, playa,” Willie Mack says.

  “What’s that, Mack?”

  “You married to Kym, pardner,” Belafonte says. “Plus, she’s been checking me out at band practice. That’s all me over there.”

  “SheDon’tDateHighSchoolGuys.”

  “C’mon, son. She ain’t never met T-Diddy, aka Ladykilla, aka Honeydipper, aka Pantydropper.”

  “TDiddyBeDroppingPantiesLikeIt’sHot!”

  “Trust me, cuz, it’ll never happen. She’s Oprah. You’re Flavor Flav,” Willie Mack says, dapping Fast Freddie and sending Belafonte to the floor, bowled over with laughter.

  “Good luck with that, T. She only dates college dudes with GPAs of four-oh or higher,” Belafonte says, then leaves as fast as he came.

  “MaybeHalfOfMeCanDateHerThen,” Fast Freddie adds, laughing.

  “Willie Mack, I know you ain’t doubting T-Diddy’s playa skills.”

  “I’m just saying, they may work on some of these other nasty girls, but not her.”

  “BongBong,” Fast Freddie says. “Don’tForgetTheT-DiddyThree-StepGuaranteedLadykillerPlanOnHowToBagAGirl.”

  “Straight out of the playa’s playbook,” I throw in, sending me and Fast Freddie into a fit of laughter.

  “Yeah, well, I bet you fifty dollars you can’t get her number,” Willie Mack chides.

  “A phone number? Hah! Make it a buck fifty, and I’ll bring you her panties.”

  “OhSnapT-DiddyGoesInForTheKnockout. WhatchuGonnaDoMack?”

  “Bet!”

  Watch this,” I tell them. “If you see Kym come down, give me a warning.” I spit out my sunflower seeds, pop in a peppermint Altoid, and jet over to Beyoncé, who right about now, got me almost speechless.

  “Lips like yours ought to be worshipped/I ain’t never been too religious/But you can baptize me anytime,” I say to Claudia, and kiss the back of her hand. Some girl I smashed last month hears me, rolls her eyes, and walks away.

  “You trying to flirt with my girl, T-Diddy?” Blu, who lives around my way, screams from her seat across from us.

  “Naw, Blu, I was just telling her she’s rockin’ those black jeans,” I say, still smiling like a kid on Christmas morning. During the awkward silence, I see Fast Freddie and Mack looking in our direction, trying to see if I still got my playa moves. The moment also gives me the chance to survey her curves, imagine my fingers dancing inside her waist-length hair. “Don’t hurt your eyes,” Blu screams, while Claudia’s still using silence as her shield.

  “Can I at least get a smile? You know the poem was dope.” She’s giving me no play. “You probably already know, but I’m T-Diddy.”

  “T-Diddy, huh?”

  “Yeah, can’t stop, won’t stop.”

  “Do you always speak in clichés?”

  “Only when I’m spellbound. You want a drink?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Yeah, me either.”

  “So why’d you ask?”

  “You got T-Diddy flustered.”

  “And T-Diddy has me bored.”

  “Oh, it’s like that, Claudia Clarke. Even after I wrote that haiku for you.”

  “First of all, it wasn’t a haiku. And second, you didn’t write the poem.”

  Busted! Step one of the T-Diddy Three-Step Guaranteed Ladykilla Plan: unsuccessful. “A’ight, a’ight, you got me. I got it from a poetry book. I was just trying to impress—”

  “That’s sad, Omar.”

  “So you do know T-Diddy?”

  “Again with the annoying third person.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “No, I’m not what?”

  “No, you’re not saying anything. Nothing. I’m sure you’re a nice guy. And I appreciate you taking the time to come over and introduce yourself, but we’re about to leave.”

  “Why so early? We’re just about to do T-Diddy’s Panther Shuffle.”

  “Sorry, never heard of it.”

  “It’s easy. Like the cupid shuffle, but T-Diddy puts more bounce in it. Feel me?”

  “You ste
al poems and dances, huh?”

  “Don’t hate, participate.”

  “Thanks for the cliché. Gotta run. We have articles to write,” she says, and turns to her friend Blu McCants. “Time’s up, Blu. Let’s go.”

  “Oh, so you write for the Panther Pride. That’s what’s up. Make sure you do a piece on the team. We can even talk later tonight. I can give you an exclusive interview,” I say, smooth as butter.

  “Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m not interested in boys, especially ones with girlfriends. So keep it moving, Mr. Football.”

  “Me and Kym are just good friends,” I say to her, intent on getting a phone number and texting her tonight.

  “Oh, I see. Well, good thing, because Kym, your, uh, good friend, is headed over here right now.”

  I spin my head around so fast I almost get whiplash.

  “What’s going on over here?” Eve, standing next to Kym, asks, smacking her lips.

  “Nothing—we were just talking about an article she might do on me,” I jump up and answer.

  “And I was just leaving,” Claudia adds.

  “Oh, ’cause I hope you weren’t trying to push up on my dude,” Kym says, waving her hands a few inches from Claudia’s face.

  “Eve, check your girl. Don’t nobody want her ‘dude.’ Let’s go, Claudia.”

  “Nobody asked you, Blu. Stay out of this business,” Eve counters.

  “Trick, Claudia is my business.”

  “I bet she is,” Kym says sarcastically. “Don’t let us hold you up. I’m sure you got a big night planned.” She and Eve laugh, and I know I better do something before this ish goes sideways.

  “Kym, this is all a misunderstanding. Claudia, T-Diddy appreciates the love. Can’t wait to see the article. We out.” I grab Kym by the waist and we head outside. I grit on Willie Mack and Fast Freddie as I pass by. Them jokers think this is funny, I bet.

  “Omar, what were you and Claudia Clarke talking about in there?” Kym asks as I take her hand in mine and head toward Uncle Albert’s pimped-out van, wondering if she overheard me and Beyoncé talking.

  “Uh, nothing, she’s a—”

  “A dancer, I know. And I’m your good friend now, huh?” She snatches the hand with my forty-eight-dollar silver bangles away.

  “Cat got your tongue? Speak up, Omar,” she says, then leaves with Eve, aka Evil.

  Deuces! You’ll get over it.

  Back at the party, Tami comes up to me.

  “T-Diddyth, myth parenths ainth hometh—”

  “I’m good, Tami. I’ll holla,” I interrupt. Been there and done that when we kicked it last year. These beezies is treacherous. I make my way over to Mack and Fast Freddie.

  “Where’s Kym?” Mack says, trying not to laugh, and drinking some of the suspicious pink concoction. “So how’d it go?” he asks.

  “That was foul. Why didn’t y’all warn me?” I ask.

  “BetterStepUpYourGame,Playa.”

  “C’mon, son, my plan is guaranteed. You know how T-Diddy gets down.”

  “Stick to football, ’cause you struck out, homie,” Mack says, now full-blown laughing. “Pay up, cuz.”

  “It ain’t over yet. Trust me on that. I’m not finished with Miss Claudia Clarke. I still got two more steps.”

  “The bet ain’t forever, cuz. You got one month.”

  “A month? C’mon, son. T-Diddy doesn’t need a month.”

  “Way out of your league, son,” Willie Mack adds, laughing.

  “TakeTheMonthWoadie. IHeardSheDon’tLikeFootballPlayersEither.”

  “It’s not about what she likes. It’s what she needs. And that kitty needs a Panther. Believe that!”

  Claudia

  pantherpride.com

  Panther Star Is Player of the Year

  by Blu McCants

  As we all know, in December, Freddie Callaway’s dazzling one-handed catch from star quarterback Omar Smalls sealed the state championship game against Bayside, for the 10–2 Panthers. Omar Smalls, aka T-Diddy, was voted South Carolina’s Mr. Football, which is given to the state’s most valuable player of the year. When asked about his achievement, T-Diddy responded, “Football is my life, so this award means everything to me. As I prepare to play college ball, I just hope my legacy here at West Charleston is all about WINNING!” Click here for additional articles on the Panthers.

  West Charleston High Makes Top Ten

  by Claudia Clarke

  Don’t get too excited, Panthers. This isn’t good news. For the second year in a row, our school has made the Association of Secondary Schools’ (ASS) list of the ten worst schools—violence, teen pregnancy, and low academic achievement. We have the highest teen pregnancy rate in the United States. Seems like the girls at West Charleston High School (WCHS) are carrying more than just backpacks these days. Many are carrying babies. School principal Dr. Brenda Jackson says, “We’re looking at ways to combat it. Right now these girls are having sex when they don’t want to. They just don’t know how to say no.”

  This is not an issue that we can just sweep under the rug, Panthers. Our friends’ dreams are being shattered by unplanned pregnancies and abortions. Girls, we have to treat our bodies like the sanctuaries they are. Stop letting guys sweet-talk us. Start respecting yourselves and demanding respect. There are eighty-seven pregnant girls at our school. Ask yourself, are those numbers you can live with? I sure can’t.

  Rap Bandits Caught

  by Blu McCants

  Police are no longer on the lookout for the notorious rap bandits. Last month, authorities found an iPod Mini owned by one of the robbers on the lobby floor of the Coastal Carolina Bank and Trust (CCB&T). In December, two masked men robbed the North Charleston branch of CCB&T. Authorities say this holdup had the same modus operandi of two other branches that were robbed in 2008 and 2009: Two men, one carrying what appeared to be a gun, walked into a CCB&T and proceeded to pass a note to a teller demanding money. They then made the bank managers strip to their underpants while apologizing to the customers/hostages for causing the economic recession. After locking each bank employee in the vault, they escaped in an employee car, which they abandoned in the driveway of a local foreclosed home. I guess truth is stranger than fiction.

  The robbers, most definitely hip-hop fans, always wear masks of old school rap groups: Salt-n-Pepa, Eric B. & Rakim. In an interesting departure, during the most recent bank robbery, the thieves wore masks of two of the most iconic rappers of all time, hated rivals—both of whom are dead—Tupac and Biggie.

  Police found the iPod on the floor near the bank teller who was targeted. During the investigation, police listened to the iPod Mini and discovered a playlist consisting of a demo tape recording by one of the bandits, who mentioned his name more than fifty times on one song. Police captured both suspects, who have not been publicly identified, on Wednesday.

  Eleventh grader Tami Hill was conflicted about the whole situation. “I mean, I don’t condone any type of thievery, but only God can judge them. I love Tupac’s music, and Biggie was just juicy. It’s good to see that they squashed their beef and they’re working together, even if it is, like, robbing banks. Get money!”

  “LOL! Blu, you crazy. Tami is dumb.”

  “Claudia, it took me two hours to translate her tongue-ring gibberish.”

  “Take that mess out of there,” I say, and we just laugh and laugh, like it’s not three a.m. and my sister’s not trying to sleep.

  Our e-newspaper staff is small. As in me and Blu. I try to focus on the hard-news stuff, while Blu likes writing the light, quirky, fun pieces.

  “I know. Can you believe she actually said that mess? Hi-frickin-larious! You finished yet, Claudia? I’m tired.”

  “Yeah, I just need to find a quote for my piece on the budget crisis.”

  “While you’re doing that, I’m going to set up your Facebook page.”

  “I’m overwhelmed with anticipation.”

  West Charleston School Board

&
nbsp; by Claudia Clarke

  Being a member of the Panther Pride Marching Band, I know we all like a little drama. Well, if the school board doesn’t stand up for us, it will be the end of all the drama, journalism, visual arts, and our award-winning band here at West Charleston. Sources say that the state funding reductions will cut arts funding in our schools by 68 percent in the West Charleston school district. If our governor truly cared about education, our futures, she wouldn’t let this happen.

  In a letter on the state’s website, she says, “The economy has hit us hard in South Carolina. It requires us to tighten our belts. Unfortunately, that means we will see some dramatic decreases in state funding for extracurricular school activities. Each school district will have to figure out a way to manage this challenge.” Since when is creative writing “extracurricular”?

  Ironically, our very own school board couldn’t figure out how to close the funding gap and save the arts, but they managed to find the money for a new football stadium, which will cost almost four million dollars. I don’t know about y’all, but we should use some of that money to keep our arts programs alive. Maybe our school is failing because sports are more important than academics.

  The school board did not respond to our emails. Neither did the superintendent. Blu McCants, captain of the dance team and a senior headed to study communications at the College of Charleston, had this to say: “I love what our football team has done for our school, and I am proud of them. But do I think that they are more important than the band or the drama club? NO.” Read more.

  Omar

  Usually I get a ride home from Willie Mack after weightlifting, or I catch the bus. But Willie left early today, and I left my wallet at home. So it’s just me and my big dogs.

  Along the way, I always run into these annoying little kids selling sweetgrass baskets. It’s cool, and a lot of tourists buy them—we even got some placemats and whatnot around Uncle Al’s house—but don’t be harassing me every time I walk by. I’m just sayin’.

  “NO!” I scream at the dirty little joker who tries to sell me a flower made out of grass. Take a bath.

  When I get home, Uncle Albert and his two buddies are holding court on the front steps. Drinking Snapple, eating sweet potato chips, and blasting his favorite music: jazz.