A small, skinny boy looked up from the graphic novel he was reading. “What’s that?”
“I asked if anyone is sitting here,” T’Challa said.
The boy looked at the empty seat and then back to T’Challa. “Uh, nope,” he said.
T’Challa slid into the seat. The bus lurched and he flew forward again. He sighed. He wasn’t even at school yet, and he felt like he’d already been through an ordeal.
T’Challa sat and watched as more passengers got on—mostly businesspeople, but he also saw lots of teenagers, most of them with backpacks and wearing headphones. The seat was uncomfortable, and every bump and jolt made it even worse. They sat in traffic for what seemed like hours. A blast of heat came through the vents, and T’Challa felt sweat on his back. He turned to the boy next to him. “Hi, um. This bus goes to South Side Middle School, right?”
The boy slid his glasses up on his nose with one finger. “Yeah. It’s like this every morning. Total bummer.”
T’Challa didn’t know what the boy meant.
“Are you new here?” the boy asked. He nodded in the direction of M’Baku. “I’ve never seen you or your friend before.”
“Oh,” T’Challa said. “Yes, we’re new.”
“I’m Ezekiel,” the boy said. “Actually, everyone calls me Zeke.”
T’Challa froze.
What’s my name? Father said to keep my identity a secret, but he never gave me an alias!
T’Challa fidgeted in is seat. “I’m, uh…”
Think! he shouted inside his head. “I’m T.,” he blurted out. “T. Charle—”
“Oh. Hey, T. Charles,” Zeke replied.
T’Challa sighed a breath of relief. T. Charles, he thought. Not bad.
After a bumpy ride on the city streets, the Magnificent Mile was left behind, and the bus continued on to the South Side. They passed fast-food restaurants, electronics stores, check-cashing places, and what seemed like a hundred pawn shops. Finally, the bus pulled into a neighborhood with large homes on both sides of the street. After a few more turns, the bus wheezed and came to a stop. Everyone except the adults filed out. T’Challa looked through the window. “Where’s the school?”
“Just around the corner,” Zeke said. “This is the closest stop. C’mon. I’ll show you the way.”
“Oh,” T’Challa said. “Okay. Thanks.”
He found M’Baku in the crowd and they exited together. A minute or two later, T’Challa stood on the cracked sidewalk and took in his surroundings. South Side Middle School was a giant old mansion covered in ivy. Several small brick buildings fanned out from a larger one with a massive clock tower. The whole place was bordered by a fence. T’Challa couldn’t help but think of a prison he had seen in Wakanda. There was only one, and it was reserved for the worst offenders and enemies of the king.
“C’mon,” Zeke said. “Let me show you where to go.” He led T’Challa and M’Baku into the school.
As soon as the door was opened, T’Challa was assaulted by a symphony of noise: metal lockers clanging shut, students shouting at the tops of their lungs, and teachers pleading for quiet. Most noticeable of all, though, was the music, which seemed to reverberate along his bones. At least, T’Challa thought it was music. He had never heard anything like it in his life. A few words drifted from one boy’s portable radio, a massive box with two speakers:
I’m cooler than ice
And twice as nice
Watch me flow
Down real low
Like Curly and Moe.
T’Challa suddenly remembered that his father said there was something they should do right away when they arrived at the school. “We’re supposed to meet the principal,” he said to Zeke.
Zeke’s eyes widened, looking from T’Challa to M’Baku. “You want to see the principal? On purpose?”
“Yeah,” M’Baku piped up.
Zeke raised an eyebrow. “Okay,” he said hesitantly.
T’Challa and M’Baku traded wary glances.
Zeke led them both to an office with a frosted-glass window that read PRINCIPAL. Inside, a man with glasses sat behind a desk, typing on a computer. “Good morning, Ezekiel,” he said with a smile. His teeth were very straight and white, T’Challa noticed. “How can I help you today?”
Zeke stepped forward. “This is T.,” he said, pointing to T’Challa. “T. Charles.” He turned to M’Baku. “And this is his friend—”
M’Baku swallowed.
“Marcus,” T’Challa said, coming to his rescue.
M’Baku nodded along, relieved. T’Challa wasn’t sure if he needed an alias or not, and they hadn’t even thought to talk about it.
“Ah,” the man said, his eyes lighting up. “The exchange students from Kenya?”
“Uh, right,” T’Challa stammered.
“I’m Mr. Walker,” the man said. “Mrs. Deacon’s assistant.” He studied them both for a moment. “My wife and I were in Kenya last year. Beautiful country. Where, exactly—”
“We really need to see the principal,” M’Baku cut in. “For our class schedules?”
“Ah,” Mr. Walker said, glancing at his watch. “Yes, it is getting on in the morning. I’ll let her know.”
“Thank you,” T’Challa said.
The principal, Mrs. Deacon, was a tall woman with close-cropped hair and quick, birdlike eyes. T’Challa studied the rules she had just gone over with them:
No one allowed in the halls during class without a pass
No food or soda except in the cafeteria
No bullying
No chewing gum
No music (which T’Challa thought strange, considering all the music he’d heard in the hallway)
Mrs. Deacon printed out their class schedules, and T’Challa looked at all the subjects: Advanced English, Social Studies, French—which he was already fluent in—Art Exploration, Advanced Sciences, Physical Education, and several more classes.
M’Baku stared at the list, aghast. “All of those?” he whispered, but loud enough for Mrs. Deacon to hear.
“Oh yes,” she said. “That’s just first semester.”
M’Baku gulped.
T’Challa opened the door to the embassy room. “I’m exhausted,” he said as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
“Tell me about it,” M’Baku agreed. “I feel like I just ran thirty miles in the forest.”
“The jet lag should wear off soon,” T’Challa replied. “My father said we should stay up as late as we can the first few nights to get acclimated.”
“Hey,” M’Baku said. “What’s this?”
Several shopping bags had been placed on both boys’ beds. T’Challa picked up a note card on the pillow.
Thought you boys might need some Chicago gear.
—Clarence
“Clarence?” M’Baku asked.
“The concierge,” T’Challa reminded him.
“Oh, right,” said M’Baku.
They tore into the bags and found winter coats, thick socks, T-shirts, wool caps, and gloves. After a lot of back-and-forth, they both settled on the pieces they liked most.
“Now we’re ready for Chi Town,” M’Baku said, posing in front of the mirror.
“We are,” said T’Challa, but wondered exactly what that meant.
The first few days at South Side Middle School went by in a rush. T’Challa was swept up in a whirlwind—memorizing students’ and teachers’ names, finding the right classrooms, and getting oriented to a completely new environment.
“I can’t believe we’ve got all this homework,” M’Baku complained one night at the embassy. Books and papers were spread out all over his bed, along with several empty potato chip bags.
“We’ll get used to it,” T’Challa consoled him. “Just give it a little time.”
“Easy for you to say,” replied M’Baku.
T’Challa didn’t have trouble with any of his classes. He had learned a lot at his father’s knee. And then there were his tutors, of
course, who were well-versed in everything from ancient civilizations to advanced robotics.
“I’ll help you,” T’Challa offered. “What are you having trouble with?”
M’Baku screwed up his face. “Uh, everything?”
A few days later, T’Challa found himself sitting in his French class, poring over verbs and sentence structure. It was gray outside, and the room was cold. He wished he had brought a sweater.
“And who can give me the correct conjugation of the verb to be?” asked Mrs. Evans, the French teacher. She sat behind her desk and surveyed her students. The classroom fell silent, except for the sound of pencils tapping against wooden desks. T’Challa had already answered several of her questions, and now he had a choice to make: Should he give her the correct answer, or wait for someone else to give it a shot?
Silence.
T’Challa waited.
And waited.
Mrs. Evans sighed, and rested her chin on her fist.
T’Challa raised his hand.
Mrs. Evans’s eyes lit up—something that happened every time he answered a question.
“Yes, Mr. Charles?”
T’Challa gave a little cough, a nervous habit he seemed to have picked up as soon as he arrived in America. “The verb to be,” he began. “Present tense: je suis, tu es, il est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils sont.”
Mrs. Evans shook her head in what T’Challa thought could only be admiration. “Your enunciation is excellent,” she said. “Très bien, Monsieur Charles. Merci.”
The smile fled from her face as she returned her gaze to the class. “As for the rest of you, study lesson number two again. We’ll be having this same drill again tomorrow. Class dismissed. À bientôt.”
The silence was broken by scraping chairs and groans. T’Challa received a few sidelong glances and smirks as people left the room. He couldn’t help that he’d learned French at an early age. It was the national language of several African nations, and his father’s visiting dignitaries used it when they greeted him. It was something he had to learn, the duty of a prince.
“Nice job, T.”
T’Challa turned. It was the girl from the bus—the one who had sat next to M’Baku on that first day.
“You’re an exchange student, right?” she asked. “From Kenya?”
“Yes,” T’Challa answered.
“I’m Sheila. I think you met my friend Zeke already.”
“Oh, yes,” T’Challa said. “Zeke. He helped me get started on my first day. Me and my friend…Marcus.”
There was a moment of silence as students filed past them, all talking and jostling.
“What’s school like in Kenya?” Sheila asked.
T’Challa studied her face for a moment. She had tiny freckles, nutmeg-brown skin, and long corkscrew curls. “Well, it’s really different. It’s a little bit more…” He searched for the right word but came up blank.
“Disciplined?” Sheila suggested.
“Yeah. That’s it,” T’Challa said.
Sheila turned to the sound of kids shouting. “It is a little rowdy here. So how’d you get so good at French, anyway?”
“Well, there are a lot of French speakers in Africa, so I learned when I was little.”
“I wish I learned when I was a kid,” Sheila said with a hint of envy. “Conjugating verbs is the bane of my existence.”
T’Challa smiled. He could already tell that Sheila was definitely smart, someone he could become friends with.
“Actually,” Sheila said, “I’m more into science. The natural sciences, to be exact.”
“Ah, like energy and matter, right?”
“Sure, but don’t forget biology and natural phenomena.”
T’Challa was impressed. He’d heard that American students didn’t like to study, but Sheila put that rumor to rest already. They stood in silence for a brief moment. “Well,” T’Challa said. “It was good to meet you, Sheila.”
“You, too,” Sheila replied. “See ya around.”
She’s nice, T’Challa thought, as she walked away. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad at South Side Middle School after all.
A few minutes later, he wasn’t so sure about that.
The gymnasium smelled like dirty socks.
It was large, with a high ceiling, from which hundreds of small lights shone down. Several banners hung from the walls, each showing a roaring tiger on a field of green and yellow. “Wildcats,” T’Challa whispered.
“Seems like you’ll fit in,” M’Baku joked. “You know. Cat family.”
T’Challa cut his eyes at him.
“I’m gonna show these kids how it’s really done,” bragged M’Baku, cracking his knuckles.
“How what’s done?” T’Challa asked.
“I don’t know. Whatever it is they think they’re good at.”
T’Challa laughed. M’Baku certainly wasn’t lacking in confidence.
After getting changed into their gym clothes—courtesy of the embassy—T’Challa and M’Baku fell in with the rest of the boys, forming a line. A loud whistle blow brought the class to attention. A man who was built like a fire hydrant—short and squat but all muscle—walked down the line with a clipboard and surveyed the students. “New year, new recruits,” he said. “Some of you won’t be able to hack it. Some of you will cry, and some of you may faint. But believe me, when you leave here, you’ll be better men for it.”
There were a few muffled snickers, but the instructor ignored them. M’Baku shot T’Challa a glance and rolled his eyes.
“My name is Mr. Blevins,” the instructor said. “And today, we’re going to learn the fundamentals of one of the world’s oldest sports.” He paused. “Wrestling.”
M’Baku smiled. He and T’Challa had wrestled from an early age, and the two of them were about equal in their skill.
“Now,” Mr. Blevins said, “I’m going to show you a few basic moves. But first, I need a volunteer. Any takers?”
Silence.
The students dropped their heads and shuffled their feet, squeaking their sneakers on the hardwood floor. T’Challa was reminded of his French class.
He was never one to back down from a challenge. Being the son of a king meant he’d had to prove himself to boys who thought they were better than he was more times than once. He stepped forward. M’Baku gave him a grin. A few of the students eyed him with curiosity.
“The new boy,” Mr. Blevins said in surprise, sizing T’Challa up. He glanced at his clipboard. “T. Charles. Well, Mr. Charles. Let’s do this.”
T’Challa gave a weak smile.
“Do you know the referee’s position?” Mr. Blevins asked, tossing his clipboard to the floor.
“I do,” said T’Challa, and dropped to his hands and knees. It was one of the first things he learned in Wakanda. Mr. Blevins took the advantage position and knelt on one knee, then placed one arm around T’Challa’s middle. He rested the other on his elbow.
“Now,” Mr. Blevins said, his voice carrying through the gymnasium. “On three, Mr. Charles here is going to try to escape. Ready?”
T’Challa released a breath. “Ready.”
“One…” Mr. Blevins counted off. “Two…three.”
T’Challa spun around on his knees and flipped Mr. Blevins on his back, pinning him to the mat in less than five seconds.
A chorus of ooohhhs went up from the crowd.
Mr. Blevins’s eyes were still wide when T’Challa rose from the mat. “Well,” Mr. Blevins said, getting up with a wry smile. “I haven’t been taken down like that in years. That was quite…um, effective, T. Did you learn that in Kenya?”
T’Challa paused. Everyone was staring at him. Whispers filled the gymnasium. His mouth was dry. “I did,” he finally said. “My father taught me.”
Mr. Blevins brushed off his knees. “And what does he do?”
T’Challa swallowed. “Um, a lot of stuff.”
M’Baku covered his mouth with his hand, stifling a laugh.
“
Ah,” Mr. Blevins said. “Looks like you’ll have a head start on the rest of us, then.” He turned and addressed the class. “That’s what I call team spirit! Wildcat spirit!”
“Wildcat spirit!” the class shouted back.
T’Challa grinned inside. He was off to a good start. But as he turned around, he saw that one boy in particular was staring right at him.
And he was smirking.
Later that day, T’Challa sat with M’Baku, Sheila, and Zeke in the cafeteria. The clatter of trays combined with the activity of hundreds of students made T’Challa’s ears ring.
“So,” Sheila began, turning to T’Challa. “I heard you were a great fighter, and that you landed Mr. Blevins on his butt.”
T’Challa swallowed hard. He didn’t want people to think he was a bully or a fighter.
“Hmpf,” M’Baku muttered. “I could’ve done that. T’Challa just went first. That’s all.”
“I hate sports,” Zeke chimed in. “I’d rather read a book.”
T’Challa grinned.
Sheila reached into a brown paper bag and took out a cookie. M’Baku’s eyes lit up. “Want to try one?”
“Don’t do it,” warned Zeke.
Sheila screwed up her face.
“Why?” asked M’Baku. “Something wrong with it?”
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Sheila said. “It’s totally fine.”
“Yeah,” Zeke shot back. “If you like gluten-free.”
T’Challa observed this interaction with curiosity.
“It still tastes good,” Sheila said.
“What’s gluten-free?” T’Challa asked.
“Well,” Sheila began. “Gluten’s a protein that’s in certain types of wheat and grain, like rye and barley. But if you can’t digest that kind of stuff, you can eat foods that don’t have it, or find substitutes.”
M’Baku looked at the cookie like it had just turned into a toad.
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