President of the Whole Sixth Grade_Girl Code

by Sherri Winston

  “Sorry, Daddy!” I said, batting my eyes and trying to look super innocent. “I could have paid some of it.”

  He said, “Don’t worry, you’ll pay some. But Mom and I agreed to do it, so it’s done.”

  One thing I knew for certain: If you wanted to distract parents from money talks, all you had to do was bring up school.

  So I told him about Mrs. G.’s quest to teach us about different careers. Then I surprised us both by asking, “Daddy, did you always want to be a nurse?” My spoon tinged against the side of the bowl.

  Daddy gave a little bark of laughter. “Ha! When I was young like you I thought I was going to be a racecar driver. And then retire from racing and open up my own chicken and waffle joint.

  “I was gonna call it Dragstrip Diner,” he said.

  Then he let out one of those laughs old men sometimes do, mouth open, tongue out, all while he chortled, “Hee-hee-hee!” With a very dramatic snap of his fingers, he said, “Girl, I was going to be in business!”

  I shook my head. “That sounds so ghetto, Daddy. For real.”

  He gave me the Dad Squint. His tone was playful, but his eyes were serious. “What’ve we told you about calling stuff ‘ghetto’? Better not let your mother hear it.” With a grumble, he added, “I don’t want to hear it again, either.”

  It wasn’t a bad word, but I kept my mouth shut. I took another scoop of cereal. Milk sloshed. The spoon tinged the side of the bowl. Wood smoke swirled on the outside deck.

  He shook his head, his face taking a thoughtful expression. “You know, to answer your question, when I got to high school I wanted to be a doctor,” he said.

  “For real?”

  My dad was the kind of guy who liked cooking, grilling, hanging out with his old-dude friends, and sometimes taking car engines apart and putting them back together again. I’d never pictured him as someone with dreams of being anything other than who he was.

  He nodded. “I joined the navy when me and your mother married. The plan was to apply to medical school when I finished my service while your mother went on to join the FBI.”

  “What happened?” I scooped the last bits of cereal out of the bowl and into my mouth.

  He smiled. “Your sister happened. We wound up starting our family a little ahead of schedule.” He looked sheepish.

  Katy! Wouldn’t you know it. She was causing trouble before she was even born!

  He said instead of medical school, he finished with the Navy so Mom could go to FBI training.

  “Dad, do you sometimes wish you could still be a doctor?”

  He did a little shrug. “Sometimes, baby. But, well, it’d take at least a few more years to pull that off. And it’s not cheap. So, well….”

  He let his voice drift off, then stood and started toward the door. He stopped, palm on the handle, and turned:

  “You know what, brat,” he said. “It’s nice having breakfast with you like this. I miss you when you are at the bakery.”

  “Well, Daddy, it’s been nice sharing this father-daughter moment, but I’ve got real life waiting on me this morning.” I said.

  “Stay outta trouble, brat!” he said, heading for the smoker.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m thinking of hot-wiring a car and going drag racing, you know? So I can be like dear old Dad.” I snorted out a laugh. It was fun joking around with him.

  Without even looking up, he got me back. He said, “Be sure to take the phone book with you. You’ll need it to see over the steering wheel.”

  Short jokes. Really? If I weren’t so confident, that would really hurt.

  Dad gave me a stiff salute. I saluted him back.

  I watched him walk away. As much fun as I have playing around with him, I never thought about him having hopes and dreams. A doctor? You know? I could see it. He would have made a really good doctor.

  I stood for a moment, staring at him. What did it feel like to have a lifelong dream and see it disappear? It made me feel bad for Dad. It did something else, too:

  Thinking about Dad giving up his dream made me want to stick to my plan and make my dreams come true even more. Which meant getting Mom on board with my online bakery idea.

  Operation Get Mom to Say Yes continues!

  Monday was a teacher in-service day—they had to go to school, but we didn’t. With my permission slip and check in hand, there I was at boot camp.

  I expected it to be easy because I was used to doing real athlete stuff like basketball in the winter and track, swimming, and tennis in the summer—not jumping around and shaking my booty.

  But after two hours of cheer boot camp, my booty wasn’t shaking, it was cramped tight into a little ball. Cheer boot camp was no joke.

  Then Coach Tamar decided that because of my size I could be an excellent flyer. That’s the girl they throw through the air.

  Brianna Justice. President of the whole sixth grade. AND a human cannonball!

  When Coach Kristy finally tooted the whistle to say we were done, I felt myself panting with relief. My whole body hurt sooooo much.

  “Gather round!” she yelled.

  Red and I flopped onto the floor beside each other. She laid her head on my shoulder. Her hair smelled like sweet shampoo. I laid my head on hers. We could feel each other’s hearts beating. I still wasn’t crazy about the idea of being on a cheer team, but seeing that slightly dizzy, happy look on her face made me feel good. I wondered if she’d always feel like she had to prove herself because she’d been born with a bad heart.

  She looked up at me and made a face. I stuck out my tongue. We laughed a little. One of those goofy friend moments that happens too fast even to selfie.

  The coaches said everyone did an amazing job and we all made the team. Red squeezed my fingers. I spun toward her, my mouth dropping open. Oh, snap! It had really happened!

  “Justice, you should see the look on your face. Girl, you’re a cheerleader now!”

  “Oh, no!” I wailed. But we were being silly and it felt good, even if it would take some getting used to. I thought about Dad’s check. Dang! I might have to wash his car a few times and be extra nice, otherwise he could make me pay him back with my money!

  But when the coaches passed out the bags and jackets, I couldn’t help feeling a flicker of pride. It would almost be worth paying for myself. Almost.

  “We know the fees for participating are expensive, but they include all your gear. Wear them with pride, girls,” Coach T. said.

  We were all slipping into our jackets and looking inside the bags when Coach Kristy said, “I like to save five or ten minutes at the end of each practice to allow my girls a chance to chat and get to know one another.”

  She left us and I found myself saying my name and talking about who I am.

  “My name is Brianna Justice,” I said. “I go to Blueberry Hills Middle and I’m president of the whole sixth grade. Oh, and our journalism department is doing this mentorship program and Red and I are partners.”

  Then Red said, “And our mentor is taking us to Price Academy in East Detroit to talk to a group of girls over there and our story is going to appear in the Free Press.”

  Several faces looking from me to Red and back again. A few covered their mouths with their hands.

  “NO!” several shouted. One said, “You can’t go to Price.”

  Sandra Poe, destined to be our team’s captain, whispered conspiratorially, “Brianna! Red! I thought you guys said you were journalists. Don’t you watch the news? The east side is like, well, the gateway to hell!”

  Well, that seems harsh!

  One girl leaned forward, her voice a foreboding whisper. “I know all about that neighborhood. My dad told me. He’s a lawyer!”

  Not understanding, I glanced at Red, then pushed on. “Um, no big deal. We’re just going to talk them about a really cool program that teaches computer coding and stuff like that,” I assured them. Then a different girl grabbed me into a big hug. Soon the others followed and I felt like I was b
eing squeezed to death by sweaty pink anacondas!

  “Price has metal detectors and its own SWAT team,” said a girl with wide-set blue eyes and shoulder-length blond hair. She made a little shiver. Her name was Lori.

  An African American girl named Diandra Mack had her curly hair pulled up on top of her head. She wrapped her arms around herself like the idea of going to the east side of Detroit made her very cold.

  She said, “My mom says all the kids over there are just thugs and hoodlums. It’s so ghetto. Be careful, you guys, honestly!”

  Not once had I given any thought to the girls at Price being different because of where they lived.

  Maybe I should think about it. Sure the area is poor, but the kids were just kids, right?

  Reporter’s Notebook

  Tuesday, January 9

  “Preconceived notions are the killers of honest observation. Never trade what you think you know for what you can discover.”

  —Mrs. G.

  All right, Mrs. G. I understand what you’re saying, but does this really mean I need to be a cheerleader? Hmm…

  I HAVE SO MUCH TO DO!

  Having a website is expensive!

  It can cost anywhere from $600 to thousands!!!

  Business Name Ideas—

  • Cupcake Diva

  • Short Stuff Cupcakes & Treats

  • Snack Shack

  • Motor Town Munchies

  Hmm…. I’ll keep thinking

  9

  I tried not to think too much about the warnings.

  Do you know what happens when you try NOT thinking about something? All you do is think about it.

  So of course, when I got home, I googled Price Academy. At first, it looked like any other charter school in Detroit. Until stories of fights, arrests, and a whole lot more started popping up.

  Omigod!

  I said to Grandpa, “My friends say the people on the east side are ghetto. I’m doing this story about a computer coding program for girls from that neighborhood. So is it? You know, poor and kind of dangerous, I mean.”

  Grandpa was sipping his morning coffee. He used to be a city cop back in the day. He just shook his head. “The east side? All of downtown Detroit is ‘the east side’? Whatchoo talking about, Brianna?”

  “You know the part over by Price Academy and that other high school with all the fights? That part. Is it, you know, dangerous?”

  “Baby girl, your parents have raised you in a nice, safe bubble. You don’t know nothing about ‘the ghetto,’ as your friends call it,” he said, looking up from his church shoes that he was polishing. Black stains smeared on his fingers. He touched his nose and left a smudge mark on one side.

  He went on. “What has your mother told you about calling stuff ‘ghetto’? Think before you speak, Brianna.”

  Gawd! Why was everybody so hung up on that word?

  “But maybe it’s just a word, Grandpa,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Sometimes a word is so much more than that. Them folks on the east side are no different from you and me except… well, some of ’em have lost their way while others have just simply lost their jobs.”

  When I looked at Grandpa, though, his expression was sort of sad. Shaking his head like I didn’t get it. I hesitated, wanting to say more. But what? I didn’t call anybody ghetto, but I knew what it meant when someone said it. And if they were saying it in a funny way, I laughed.

  Only now, thinking about the girls at the cheer camp, how they reacted, it didn’t feel so funny. It felt bad. But it was like, if I admitted it was wrong, I was saying I’d done something wrong when I really didn’t think I had.

  “Anything else?” he asked, peering over the top of his glasses. I shook my head.

  “Love you, Grandpa,” I said, giving him a hug. He hugged me tight.

  “Me too, kiddo.”

  On the car ride Tuesday with McSweater Vest, Red sat in back; I rode up front while he went on and on about our upcoming interview, which he now said was more like a “meet.”

  I couldn’t concentrate. I just kept watching the road. Highway 10 was an icy ribbon that looped into downtown Detroit. Glittering high-rises, shimmering beneath softly falling snow like castles of ice, filled the rearview mirror. The tall, shiny buildings gave way to warehouses of red brick, then warehouse buildings with boarded-up windows. We turned onto a street with puddles of melted ice pooling along the curbs. Dirty snow pressed against buildings. Warehouses turned into regular houses. My hands were clenched. I realized I’d been holding my breath.

  Then I saw that the houses were… just houses. Some areas had boarded-up windows or abandoned lots, but that kind of thing happened all over Detroit.

  Just as I was starting to exhale, to breathe, we rolled up to a stop sign across from a liquor store. I recognized it—this store had been in one of the news videos where a fight had turned deadly. Men stood around, their hard eyes glaring beneath knit caps. It was the SpongeBob meme all over again.

  My throat started to go dry.

  News images once again popped into mind—cops, crime scenes, and people crying. I told myself, Brianna, stop trippin’.

  But I must not have been listening. I’d been in all kinds of neighborhoods—good and not so good—and it had never fazed me before. But now, all I could hear in my head were the jokes and the laughter about people who live in places like this.

  I shivered.

  What was I afraid of? Just because kids lived on the east side didn’t mean they were any different from anybody else, right?

  A few more turns and we were inside the gated parking lot for Price Academy. Something about hearing the mechanized black iron gate click shut behind us gave me the willies.

  Inside, the halls were noisy. The smell of cafeteria food wafted in the air. It felt a lot like our school. Still, a knot was forming in my throat. What if I said the wrong thing? Did the wrong thing? Were the kids here really more dangerous than other kids?

  I could hear Ebony’s voice in my head:

  “You know when they say ‘disadvantaged,’ they’re talking about those bad kids in the ghetto. I’d take a bulletproof vest if I were you!”

  McSweater Vest shook hands with an armed guard. The guard seemed to know him. He guided us to the school’s front office. I looked at Red to see if she was feeling as unsure as me, but she seemed her usual self. Our mentor stepped inside the office. Red followed. I lingered in the hallway, watching the faces of students.

  I caught the eyes of two boys who were staring. They cut their eyes away from me and I heard one ask:

  “Who’s she supposed to be?”

  The other one, making sure he was facing me, so that I heard, growled out, “’Cause she from some school in the burbs she probably think she all that. She just another ghetto girl trying to act like she so different from the rest of us!”

  It was like being kicked. He needed to get his facts straight!

  The same boy kept glaring in my direction, like he was daring me to say anything, and the knot in my belly tightened. I looked away. So unlike me. Usually, I’d glare right back. But I didn’t. I looked away because I felt ashamed. I swallowed hard. I looked at these kids in this busted-up school, kids with skin brown like mine, kids with reputations for being tough or dangerous.

  I wasn’t ashamed to be black. But I was ashamed of anyone thinking I was like the black kids at this school. Why was that?

  Feeling ashamed felt wrong, though. But I wasn’t comfortable here. I didn’t want anyone to think I… belonged here. In Orchard Park, where I grew up, our grade school was new and updated; Blueberry Hills Middle had its old parts, but basically it was two schools now—the old side with the new. One look told you this building hadn’t been updated in decades.

  “Brianna!” Red whispered. I snapped out of the dark thoughts invading my head and stepped inside the main office.

  A large black woman with coffee-brown skin and a wide smile greeted us. “Well, hello there, Mr. McShea. Glad
to see you come visit me today.” She gave a playful, almost flirty smile. McSweater Vest grinned. Clearly this flirting was something they did often.

  The woman asked, “And who do we have here?”

  She looked at Red and me. We both smiled. By now my heart was jackhammering in my chest. I felt nervous and afraid of saying the wrong thing.

  McSweater Vest introduced us and we told the woman, Mrs. Gilly, that we were working with him to interview some of their students.

  A lady came from down a long hallway and walked up beside us. She smiled, too. Slender with intelligent eyes—eyes like a teacher. She had short natural hair and hazelnut skin with a little pink blush on her cheeks.

  “I’m Talia Newsome, co-founder of SheCodes,” she said. “I’m so happy you girls could be here. We’ve decided that rather than sticking you in the conference room all afternoon, it might be good for you to meet in the science lab instead.”

  Two girls appeared behind her. Miss Newsome introduced them. “Brianna Justice, Scarlett Chastain…”

  “Red, please, ma’am. Y’all can call me Red.”

  Miss Newsome grinned and so did the two girls behind her. “All right then, Red, I’d like you to meet Shania Murphy and Christyanna Webb.”

  We shook hands with the girls and said hey, and then we were all led through a hallway crowded with students. We got a lot of long stares from people. I tried to make myself relax. Told myself they’re just like kids at Blueberry Hills Middle.

  Inside me, though, a little whisper asked:

  But what if they’re not?

  As Miss Newsome introduced us to the entire class, I felt their stares tickle my skin. With my hair swept up and my clothes tidy and pressed, I wanted to come across like someone who was organized, smart, and ready for action.

  Looking around the room, though, I realized that most students wore basic uniforms of navy pants or skirts with light blue or white polo shirts. I touched my hair self-consciously the way I sometimes did when I got nervous. Was I overdressed?