by Dwayne Reed
Mr. James closes the door seconds after the bell rings. “Good morning, scholars! It’s Friday, so you know what time it is,” he says, pausing and taking a slow look around the room. Gurgle. I try to ignore the loud swishy feeling that rises in my stomach as I think about what he’s gonna say next, but it only gets worse. “Practice rounds of oral presentations! I’m sure you’re all excited to see what your classmates got so far. Y’all ready or what?”
It’s quieter than it was on the first day when he said good morning to us for the first time. Why would anybody be ready for this? Talking to each other about timely stuff? Gurgle. Pretending like it’s the real thing? Gurgle. I touch my stomach, trying to get it to chill, but there’s no real chill in sight.
“Well, ready or not, let’s do this.” Mr. James turns to a plastic cup on his desk full of what looks like used-up Popsicles. I mean, there’s no red juice left on them, but I know they’re the same sticks that be inside the Firecracker freezy pops me, Maria, and C.J. ate all summer. He turns back around and stands there for a second while it feels like nobody in the room is breathing. “We gon’ break y’all into groups. Random groups.” Come on, man! The whole class lets out a groan while we all look around, nervous about who we’ll have to work with. I thought today couldn’t get any worse. Surprise.
Mr. James starts pulling Popsicle sticks with each of our names written on them out of the cup, one by one, calling each of us to get in groups of three, and I slowly watch the only people I feel okay around get picked for groups I’m not in. First Maria gets picked. Then Lil Kenny. And finally me.
“Simon Barnes… Russell Taylor… Bobby Sanchez.”
Help.
Somebody help me. Please don’t make me have to use my legs to walk over there where Bobby is.
Maria turns around from the corner she’s now sitting in with her group, leans over the back of her chair, and smiles so big her teeth look bigger than her whole face. I can’t help but give her the angriest look I can give my best friend so she’ll turn back around. Somehow, I float to the back of the room where Bobby and Russell are already sitting, looking back to see Mr. James’s eyeballs following me. I notice a lot more eyeballs than his watching me walk back there, eyeballs of people who’d know better than to put me with Bobby.
Standing in front of Bobby, I stare down at the flash cards in my hands and notice my hands shaking so hard I wonder how my body can feel so cold when it’s still summer outside.
MR. JAMES DON’T LIKE ME… HE HATES ME PROBLY.
WHY ELSE WOULD HE HAVE ME PRACTICE WITH BOBBY?
DON’T HE KNOW THAT ME AND SANCHEZ ARE NOT COOL?
OUT OF EVERYONE AT SCHOOL, I GET PUT WITH THIS FOOL?!
UGH! I SWEAR TO YOU, IT’S SOMETHIN’ I DON’T CARE TO DO.
IT’S ABSOLUTELY TERRIBLE, AND SUPER UNBEARABLE.
WORST GROUP EVER! WORST WEEK EVER!
DO I THINK THIS WILL WORK? NO, NOPE, NAH, NEVER!
“All right, everybody. We’ve got ten minutes. You each get three minutes to try out with your group what you’re thinking about doing, and you can use the last minute to tell each other what y’all think. You can switch the person who’s presenting when you hear the ding on the timer. Have fun and be nice to the people in your group, all right?” He starts the timer, puts it down on his desk, and leans back. I’m beginning to think Mr. James loves seeing us all freak out.
“You go first, Barnes,” Bobby orders, staring at me from the seat he hasn’t even moved from, his back leaning against the wall and his legs spread out like he’s chilling at home on the couch. “Show us what you got.” I shuffle back and forth on my feet. The timer is ticking, so I look down at my flash cards and try to say something.
“Homelessness,” I whisper, clearing my throat and pulling at the collar of my favorite polo Moms bought me last year. I laid it out last night cuz I always wear it when I need to feel okay. Nobody knows that, though. I say the word again, hoping the rest of the words will come. “Homelessness.”
“AND?” Russell blurts out. Bobby doesn’t even try to keep his snickering under his breath. He laughs out loud. I shuffle the flash cards in my hand and then remember I put them in order for a reason. I need them to remember what to say. Panicking, I try finding the first card again.
“Um… homelessness,” I say a third time, trying to stall. Oh no. OH NO.
“AY YO! MR. JAMES! BARNES AIN’T SAYIN’ NOTHIN’!” Bobby screams out, leading the whole class to turn toward us and laugh at me this time. My hands freeze as I look up to see Bobby staring back at me. Leaning forward in his desk, he grabs the edge of it, and Russell joins him in staring me down. Except Bobby doesn’t say anything else. He just starts looking more annoyed than usual. Like he’s tired of me saying that word and wishes I would just move on or something. Which confuses me. Bobby normally acts like he could watch me suffer forever.
Gurgle. Guuuuurgle. Suddenly I can taste last night’s spaghetti rising up in my belly like it needs to go back where it came from—which is outside my body. GURGLE. Then I can actually feel the noodles filling my mouth. Dropping the flash cards I wrote all over last night trying to be prepared for today, I run to the door, flinging it open, and speed all the way down the hallway past Ms. Berry’s office. Ms. Berry don’t like kids running in the hallway, but this is an emergency.
Splash! Red sauce and half-chewed spaghetti noodles cover the floor just inside the boys’ bathroom and keep coming out of me too fast for me to get to a toilet. Moms is right. I eat waaay too fast. How did unchewed noodles make it in there? Oh no. Just when I thought I was in here by myself and was glad no one would see, a toilet flushes and the stall lock unlatches. Justin steps out to wash his hands but freezes in front of the sink when he notices me and stares. Not seeing Bobby’s sidekicks with him this morning made me think they hadn’t come to school today, but I was wrong.
“Yikes, man.”
CHAPTER 14
NOTORIOUS D.O.G. MIGHT BE THE FIRST fifth grader in history at Booker T. to run out of class in the middle of a presentation to puke. This morning when Dad told me being notorious meant to be known for something I did, I didn’t know it was gonna be this. I didn’t know it’d be because I’d lose my words in front of my small group right before losing last night’s dinner on the floor of the bathroom. Dad picks me up from the nurse’s office, shaking his head, laughing. He can’t even pretend to be serious about this.
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s not? Now you can be known as the Notorious G.A.G. Come on! So catchy,” he says, slinging my backpack over his left shoulder and pushing me out the door with his free hand. “You probably set a new school record, son.” I don’t feel like talking. All morning everyone either laughed at me or smiled in my face like everything was so funny, but my worst nightmare has finally come true and even Dad got jokes. At least it’s Friday and Dad hadn’t left for work yet. At least he could come when they called him. At least he isn’t mad at me for bombing the first try at my first fifth-grade assignment.
“Rhymin’ Simon! Whatchu doin’ home from school so early, big man?” Sunny pauses to look at his wrist to check the time on a watch he isn’t wearing. “Time just be goin’ by so fast these days, can’t tell my up from down. My left from right. My morning from night! Look at that, my boy. Your rhymes are startin’ to rub off on me.”
“How you doin’, Sunny?” Dad says back to him so I don’t have to.
“Oh, I’m all right, man,” Sunny says, still staring at me, then pointing. “But what’s wrong with the boy? Look like somethin’ wrong wit’ him. He don’t look too good.”
“Rough morning, Sunny. We’ll catch you later.” Dad squeezes my shoulder and leads me up the apartment building stairs.
Five hours later Dad wakes me up with a knock on my door. He looks down at the trash can he moved from the bathroom into my room next to my bed, and then looks back at me like he’s surprised.
“Brought you some ginger ale. And some crackers for
that queasy stomach.” Drinking soda is all of a sudden okay with adults when something’s wrong with your stomach. As long as it’s nasty ginger ale. For Dad and Moms, ginger ale fixes everything.
“I don’t need no crackers, Dad. I’m not even sick.”
“Oh really? So people just be throwin’ up at school and goin’ about their business all the time, huh? What you gonna tell me next, that you were just clearing your throat?” Dad flashes a smile.
“I’m serious, Dad. I’m okay.”
“What was it, then, Si?”
“I—I—I was… I was scared.”
“Ah. But we talked about this! You don’t have anything to be sc—”
“That’s not true! Everybody keeps acting like everything is so easy. Nobody knows how I feel. Nobody understands.” I drop my head down and hear Dad let out a deep sigh. All of a sudden he’s sitting on the bed next to me. But he doesn’t say anything for a few minutes.
“My bad, son. I guess I just wanted you to not feel like that. Maybe I made too big a deal about trying to make you not feel scared when I should have tried to help you feel brave.”
“Brave?”
“Yeah. Being brave don’t mean you not scared or afraid. It means you feel those things but you do it anyway. There’s a lot of things that are scary. If we all waited till we didn’t feel scared, we’d never do anything, son. I was scared when me and your uncle got on that stage way back then.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, man. Peed on myself a little bit when I stepped under those spotlights and really looked out into the audience, seein’ everybody lookin’ up at me.” What!
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“Nah, son. Your granny had a FIT when she saw that stain in my pants when she was doin’ the laundry! Lectured me like I was a little kid about making sure I went to the bathroom before going to bed, for WEEKS after that.” The thought of Grandma Lucille telling Dad to make sure he peed before bed when he was a teenager makes me laugh till ginger ale comes squirting out my nose.
“Aye, chill, chill, chill. I ain’t tell you all that so you can clown your dad, okay? But, you see, we’re even now.” I wipe my nose on my sleeve and we get quiet for a long time.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, son?”
“Can we go back to the shelter… please?”
“Didn’t you already—”
“Please?”
“All right, son. But first, drink some more of that ginger ale.”
This time Miss Wanda looks surprised to see me and Dad back at Creighton Park Community Outreach. On a Friday after school, everything feels different. Walking in, we notice a huge line out the door and around the block, and I don’t find a lot of the faces I saw earlier in the week. Not only are there tons of people, but a lot of them are teenagers and little kids, too. A weird smell that I remember from my visits before is much stronger. I follow behind Dad to the dining hall, searching for Sunny through all the people waiting to get something to eat.
“It’s this many homeless people in Creighton Park, Dad?” I have to keep my mouth from hanging open, and Moms is always telling me it’s rude to stare.
“Yeah, son.”
“I don’t think Sunny’s here, Dad.”
“That’s who you came to see?”
“Yeah, Dad. Where is he?” I ask, suddenly feeling embarrassed as I realize I don’t know where Sunny sleeps every night.
“Well, that’s hard to say. Even though this place feeds a lot of people in need in our community, they still run out of food, and they don’t have a lot of space for people to stay.” I notice Miss Wanda has put on an apron and gloves to help serve and is standing near the front of the food line as we walk by. “There’s a lot goin’ on here today, Simon. Sunny’s luck probably ran out today.”
“Miss Wanda, is Mr. Sunny here?”
“Ain’t seen him today yet, baby.” I know Miss Wanda doesn’t know me, so I let her call me that even though the Notorious D.O.G. ain’t no baby. On the way out the door I get an idea.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, Si?”
“Can we go to the corner store?” Dad looks down at me like he wants to tell me no because of my queasy stomach or because him and Moms don’t think we need to be eating all that junk.
“Please? It’s not for me, Dad.”
CHAPTER 15
OUTSIDE OF CHICAGO CORNER MY STOMACH grumbles at the smell of the catfish sandwich and fries coming from the box I’m holding in my hand, while I try to think of a way to get Dad to walk me to the park. We see Sunny outside of our apartment building all the time, but I had a feeling he wouldn’t be there this time. If there isn’t space for him at the shelter, where else would he go for something to eat?
“Dad?”
“Yeah, Simon?” Dad says, looking like he’s over me asking for stuff today.
“Um… can we go to the park?” Especially stuff I already know we aren’t allowed to do.
“Now, Simon, you know I don’t like y’all goin’ in there.”
“But what if Sunny’s there, Dad? I have to give this to him. What if he’s really hungry?” Dad looks around and then up at the sky for a minute before looking back down at me. I make sure I have on my best pretty please face. Dad has a soft spot for my sad face. He doesn’t say it out loud, but I know that between me and my brothers, the Notorious D.O.G. is his favorite.
“All right, Si,” he says, kneeling in front of me for a second. “But you stay right next to me and don’t talk to nobody we don’t know, got it?”
“Okay, Dad.”
Walking into the park is a lot different than walking past it. Now I know for sure it isn’t the park that me and C.J. used to play at on Saturdays. It stinks real bad and there’s garbage everywhere, even though there’s trash cans. We walk halfway down the block, back down Loving toward the homeless shelter again, and turn onto a sidewalk that goes all the way through the park. I stay close next to Dad while I look at all the tall trees on both sides of the long sidewalk, with plastic bags piled at the bottoms of all their trunks. Trash bags full of clothes and other weird things instead of trash. I move closer to Dad when I notice people staring at us from behind some of the benches, talking to themselves. A few are going through the overflowing trash cans, looking for food. I’ve never seen Sunny around this park or even going through a trash can. The thought of him doing that makes me upset. I don’t know if we’ll find him here, and that makes the feeling even worse.
“Two more minutes and we’re out of here, Simon.”
“Visitors! I ain’t had visitors in years! You should have called first. I would have baked a cake and fried up some wings!” Sunny’s voice booms from a bench close to Linden. The bench that isn’t too far from where I was standing and staring into the park just a few days ago before Aaron noticed I was far behind. “Can I get you a glass of water? Pop for the kiddo?”
IS SUNNY BEING FUNNY TRYNA GIVE US A DRINK?
YEAH, HE’S PROBLY JOKING, WELL, AT LEAST, I THINK.
HE SAID IT WITH A SMILE, AND HE GAVE US A WINK.
DOES HE HAVE SOME ICED TEA, OR LEMONADE THAT’S PINK?
“That’s okay, Sunny. I brought you something,” I say, looking up at Dad. He nods, giving me the signal that it’s okay to step closer to Sunny. Go ’head, he mouths.
“My maaan,” Sunny says back, sounding just like Dad. “Whatchu got there?” I feel funny getting this close to Sunny outside the shelter, but he sort of reminds me of Grandpa John, his voice always sounding so warm. Sunny smells like so many things, but I don’t know what. Whatever it is, it smells like it’s been on him for too many days. Grandma Lucille would never approve. He’s been sweeping up leaves and trash on our block since I was little and he always has a smile on his face, but not so much this time. I’ve even seen him dancing around on the sidewalk with whichever broomstick he’s using like he was at a party with somebody, having the best time. Sometimes he even has on a dressy suit jacke
t that he found somewhere, making it look even more like the sidewalk is the fanciest party ever and he’s the special guest.
This time he looks different, though. Like the way Moms looks when she works the night shift. But times twenty. Or like when Dad says he’s disappointed in something me and my brothers did. But times, like, one hundred. Sunny hums to himself and shuffles around on the bench a little bit while I take the box out of the plastic bag.
“I couldn’t find you at the shelter. Are you hungry?” It feels like a silly question, but I don’t know what else to say.
“I guess I could eat,” he says, looking over my head at my dad. He scratches at his neck where I see his collarbone poking out until he covers it back up. I hand him the box. My stomach grumbles a little, smelling the catfish and crinkle fries. I laugh to myself, hearing Moms telling us how her catfish is way better than anything we could get at the store. “Thank you, kiddo,” Sunny says with a little water in his eyes. He starts doing a little bop, bouncing his shoulders and then swaying back and forth in his seat while chewing his first bite. On the second bite, he shoots up out of his seat, doing some footwork I’ve seen both Dad and Grandpa John do when they’re happy.
“What you know about that, young’un? You don’t know nothin’ about that good ol’ two-step, my boy! This is before your time! I ain’t had catfish in forever! What they put in this seasoning?” Sunny keeps dancing around his bench, taking bites into the bread and fried fish like we’re not even there. Maria dances when she’s eating, too. I smile extra hard, knowing we made Sunny happy enough to do the eating dance. He pauses from the sandwich to move on to the fries, stuffing a handful into his mouth at a time, not caring about the grease spreading all around his mouth the way crumbs get on my face eating Fruity-O’s. I wait a second for him to take a break.
