Ship of Souls

by Zetta Elliott

“Yes,” says Mrs. Martin, “I can tell already he won’t be anything like the others.”

  The caseworker sees my confusion and rushes to explain. “Mrs. Martin had a bad experience last year with a couple of brothers she agreed to foster.”

  The tacky flowers dance a bit as Mrs. Martin shakes her head. “It was dreadful! I hated to send them back, but those two boys would have tried the patience of a saint. They ate as much as grown men and helped themselves to anything that wasn’t nailed down…”

  “Well, I can assure you that you won’t have any trouble with D. Right?”

  Ms. Ward looks at me. This is my cue, my last chance to seal the deal. What should I say?

  “I—I don’t eat much. And I can help out around the house—I’m used to doing chores. And, well…” I search for something else to say but feel my throat closing as tears fill my eyes. All I manage to squeeze out is, “I really need a home.”

  Mrs. Martin blinks her eyes, then reaches into her pocketbook to get a tissue. She hands one to me and uses another to dab at her eyes. “Bless you, child. I know God has a plan for us.” To Ms. Ward she says, “Can I take him home now?”

  “Well, you’re already in the system, so I should be able to expedite this paperwork. What do you think, D? Are you ready to go?”

  And that’s how I came to live with Mrs. Martin. Things were pretty good at first. I never had a grandmother before, but Mrs. Martin was just how I imagined a grandma to be. She cooked my favorite meals, baked cookies for me to have when I got home from school, and she even gave me an allowance! In exchange all I had to do was act grateful, and that wasn’t hard because I was grateful. Sometimes I’d think about Jimmy and wonder if he was still waiting for another foster home. There was no way I was going to give Mrs. Martin any reason to send me back. I wasn’t just good—I was better than good. I became Perfect-me, the best possible version of my true self.

  Then one day Ms. Ward came to visit us, and she mentioned a newborn baby who’d been abandoned by her crack addict mother. Mrs. Martin had been wanting to foster a little girl, so I guess she thought this was her chance. Ms. Ward came back the next day with a tiny little baby who makes a whole lot of noise. Her name’s Mercy, and it’s not really her fault. She was born addicted to the same stuff her mother was on. She’s going though withdrawal, and that means she needs a lot of time and attention. Not even Perfect-me can compete with a sad little crack baby, so I just plug my ears and try to help out with all the household stuff that Mrs. Martin no longer has time to do.

  I don’t mind going to the store on my own. Truth is, I prefer it. Somehow Mrs. Martin never heard of “white flight.” When all her white friends left because black people started moving into the neighborhood, Mrs. Martin just stayed put. Now she’s the minority, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. Where I live now is a lot like where I used to live before, except people sometimes look at me funny when I go out with Mrs. Martin. Everyone knows a black boy like me doesn’t belong with an old white lady like her. But it wasn’t like there was a line of black folks waiting outside of Children’s Services. None of them came forward when I needed a home, so I don’t need their fake concern now.

  3.

  My new school is about the same as my old school. Ms. Ward, my caseworker, made sure the principal knew I was a “special case,” and so all my teachers treat me that way. They know I’m a foster kid, but I don’t have to be Perfect-me at school. Just being quiet and smart’s enough.

  To the other kids, I’m no one worth noticing. I didn’t have a lot of friends at my old school since I was only there a couple of months, and I probably won’t have many friends here, either. I joined the math club because the coach invited me, and it’d be rude to say, “I’d rather be alone.” I like numbers because they’re constant. Predictable. Some numbers even go on into infinity. Numbers aren’t like people.

  On Monday during math club, a tall black man wearing a kufi comes into our room. He has a winter coat on, but it’s unzipped so I can see the gold embroidery on the front of his long blue shirt. Mr. Powell goes over to talk to the man, and after a few moments he turns and points to me. Then he says, “D, could you come over here for a minute?”

  As always, I do as I’m told. “Yes, Mr. Powell?”

  “D, this is Mr. Diallo. He’s looking for someone to tutor his son in math. The job pays ten dollars an hour. You interested?”

  “Sure,” I say, nice and calm like I make that kind of money all the time. “When do I start?”

  “As soon as possible,” says Mr. Diallo. “I brought my son—he’s waiting outside.”

  All three of us go out into the hallway. A tall kid in a red hoodie is leaning against the lockers. His back is to us, and that seems to anger Mr. Diallo.

  “Hakeem!”

  The kid throws a sullen look over his shoulder but says nothing. The hood partly hides his face, but I know this kid. He’s a star athlete who just happens to be two grades ahead of me. He’s in the regular middle school that shares the building with my magnet school.

  “I am talking to you, Hakeem. Show respect!” Mr. Diallo’s voice booms down the empty hallway. “And take off that hood—you look like a criminal.”

  Keem Diallo rolls over so that his back is pressed against the lockers. He pulls the hood off his head, and I see he’s wearing a kufi, too. I’ve seen Keem around school, and he never had a kufi on then. Keem sweeps his eyes over me but doesn’t say a word.

  Mr. Diallo turns his attention back to me. “My son has basketball practice every day until four p.m. On Tuesdays and Thursdays he will go straight from practice to the library. You can tutor him there.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say. Then I turn to Keem and hold out my hand. “I’m D.” I hope he just gives me a regular handshake and not some five-step homeboy greeting.

  Keem just stares at me for a moment, but before his father can yell at him again, he pulls his hand out of the hoodie’s front pocket and shakes my hand—once. “Keem.”

  “So…what sort of math problems are you having trouble with?” I ask.

  Mr. Diallo throws up his hands. “Everything! He needs help with everything!”

  Keem sulks but dares not look his father in the eye. “I said I’d do better.”

  “How can you do better when you don’t even know what to do?” Mr. Diallo turns to Mr. Powell. “With my two jobs, I simply don’t have time to tutor him myself. I thank you for your assistance with this matter.”

  “I’m happy to help. And your son’s in good hands—D’s the brightest student I’ve ever had the honor to teach.”

  That puts a wide grin on my face until I catch a glimpse of Keem—he’s looking at me like I’m something he just scraped off the bottom of his size-twelve shoe. Mr. Diallo puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “You bring honor to your family, young man.” That wipes off what’s left of my smile. There’s no one left to be proud of me.

  Keem pulls the hood of his sweatshirt back over his head and follows his father down the hall. Mr. Powell and I go back into the classroom. I bury myself in the college-level algebra problem that’s scribbled on the board.

  4.

  On Tuesday I stand in front of the library and wait for Keem to show up for his first math lesson. He’s a few minutes late, but I decide to let it slide. I want to say, “My time’s valuable, you know.” But what else do I have to do? Besides, there’s this girl—Nyla—who hangs out with the kamikaze skater kids who flip their boards off the library’s front steps. She watches them and I watch her. When Keem finally shows up, I see him watching her, too. He’s slick, though. Keem knows how to watch a girl and not get caught. Maybe he’s got something to teach me after all.

  We go inside and find a table in a corner of the youth wing that’s not too rowdy. I’ve already decided on a few topics of conversation and so jump right in. “You know, ‘algebra’ comes from the Arabic word Al-Jabr. In the Middle Ages, Muslims introduced Europeans to a lot of important mathematical concepts.”
/>   Keem looks at me like I’m nuts. “I didn’t come here for a history lesson. You’re supposed to help me with math.”

  Small talk is tough.

  “I know,” I say, “but math has history.” I seriously doubt Keem and I have anything else in common, so I decide to try my next topic: religion. “So…when do you pray?” I ask.

  “What?”

  I fight the urge to duck. Keem looks pissed, so I follow up with a quick explanation for my question. “It’s just that—well, I thought Muslims had to pray five times a day. You can’t really do that when you’re at school, right?”

  Keem just stares at me for a moment. Then he says, “Qadaa. I make it up later when I’m at home.”

  I nod and think about saying, “That’s cool,” but decide to just keep my mouth shut.

  “We should probably get started,” Keem says in a neutral voice. He opens his binder and takes out his most recent test. “If I don’t boost my grades, Coach’ll have to bench me.”

  The first thing I see is the big red D at the top of the page. I’m no miracle worker, and I don’t want to make any promises I can’t keep. Besides, I always thought the rules were bent for star athletes. “They say you’ll probably get drafted before you graduate.”

  For some reason, Keem doesn’t take this as a compliment. “I’m going to college. And I’m going to graduate from college.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  I want to say, “What if some team offers you ten million dollars to play for them?” But I decide to play it safe instead. “I guess it’s good to have a backup plan in case you get injured or something.”

  Keem nods, then surprises me by saying, “People think basketball’s my world, but…I got other skills.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  Keem fidgets a bit and looks around before answering. “I cook.”

  “Food?” I ask like a moron.

  “What else?” Keem replies. “My dad—he’s from Senegal. But my mom—she’s Bangladeshi. So in our house there are lots of different spices and different ways of preparing food.”

  “Fusion.”

  “What?” Keem glares at me like I’ve just said “phooey.”

  “Fusion,” I explain. “That’s what they call food that blends different traditions.” Mom used to take me to this Ethiopian-Cuban place in the city. That was the best food I ever had! But I don’t want to think about my mother right now. I don’t need to start blubbering in front of this jock.

  “Oh, I get it.” Keem relaxes and starts doodling on a blank page in his notebook. “Well, I figure if ballin’ doesn’t work out, I could always open my own restaurant and serve all different kinds of food—maybe soul food but with an African or Asian twist. And no swine.”

  “You’re making me hungry,” I say with a grin. Keem almost laughs, and we turn our attention back to his test.

  To my surprise, it isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. “Half of these answers are almost right, you know.”

  Keem frowns. “You don’t get points for being ‘almost’ right.”

  “I know. But see this problem? You got ninety percent of it right. It’s just the last step you messed up. I can teach you that in, like, five minutes. If you’d solved these four problems, your grade would have been a B instead of a D.”

  Keem stares at the red X marks on his test. “For real?”

  This is my moment to shine. “For real. Here—let me show you a little trick I learned in math club.”

  When our hour is up, Keem shoves his books into his bag and slaps a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Thanks,” he says before getting up and heaving the bag onto his back. “See you on Thursday?”

  “Sure,” I say. Keem nods, tucks his basketball under his arm, and walks out of the library without saying another word. I pick up the money and stare at it for a moment. Mom would want me to put it in the bank, but right now I’m thinking about getting a couple slices and a can of soda. Without Mom around, there’s probably not much chance of me going to college, anyway.

  I leave the library and head straight for the pizza joint. In my head I’m doing the math: twenty bucks a week times however long it takes to get Keem’s grades up. Three weeks? Ten? Maybe the rest of the school year?

  By the time my slices come out of the oven, I’ve already figured out how to spend the money I’ll make as a tutor. I’m so into my dreams and schemes that I don’t see this jerk Selwyn standing outside. Selwyn’s in the sixth grade, too, but he isn’t supposed to be. Mom always told me to watch out for kids who got left back. Most of them are all right, she said, but sometimes they turn into crabs in a barrel, willing to drag down anyone who’s on his way up. Selwyn’s that kind of kid.

  “Hey, look who it is—the brainiac. You smart enough to get the special?”

  “Yeah,” I say warily.

  “Good—that’s one slice for me and one for my boy.” Selwyn grabs the paper bag holding my food. I don’t let go at first, but I’ve got five dollars left in my pocket and don’t plan to get my butt kicked by two kids over some pizza. Selwyn tugs the bag a bit harder and I let go. “Thanks, geek,” he says with an ugly sneer.

  “Hey!”

  All of us turn and see Keem coming out of a nearby bodega with a brown-bagged drink. He casually twists the cap off the bottle and tosses it into a wire trash bin on the corner. “Where you going with my food? D—didn’t I tell you to get me two slices?”

  It takes me a couple of seconds to understand what Keem’s doing, but as soon as I figure it out, I slip into my assigned role. “Uh—yeah, Keem. And I did, but…these guys said they’re hungry, too.” I look at Selwyn and force my lips not to curl up into a smug smile.

  “He’s with you?” Selwyn asks, amazed.

  “Yeah,” Keem replies, standing real close so his height is more intimidating. “He’s with me.”

  Selwyn waits for the punch line but then realizes Keem’s for real. And with those three words (he’s with me), I go from being prey to being protected property. I’m untouchable now!

  I can’t help but smirk a little as Selwyn hands me back my food and shuffles off with his boy, leaving me alone with Keem.

  “You all right?” Keem asks in his usual flat tone.

  I just nod since I’m not quite able to look Keem in the eye. “Thanks,” I mumble and extend the bag holding my pizza. “Want a slice?”

  “Nah.” Keem takes a swig from his bottle of Gatorade and looks over my head to the opposite side of the street.

  As I turn to go, I let my eyes roam along the block. On the other side of the street I see Nyla with one of the skater kids. She’s watching us.

  “There’s your girl,” I tell Keem, but then I look at his face and realize he already knows she’s there. That’s probably why he helped me—to impress a girl. Not because he wants to be my friend.

  Keem’s trying to act cool, but I can tell he’s feeling hectic inside. He doesn’t know whether he should keep up the tough-guy routine or try being nice to me. Keem opts for the second option and puts his arm around my shoulder.

  “Come on. I’ll walk you home.” Keem shepherds me down the block like I’m his little brother or something. I glance across the street and see Nyla smiling at me. For some reason I feel bold enough to wave and smile back. For just an instant, Nyla flicks her eyes at Keem. Then she turns and walks off in the opposite direction. Keem waits until we reach the end of the block and turn the corner, then he takes back his arm. He exhales loudly like he’d been holding his breath the whole time. I think he’s going to say something about Nyla, but instead his voice turns gruff and Keem says, “You got to learn to stand up for yourself, D.”

  The anger in my voice surprises me more than Keem. “That’s easy for you to say—you look like a model, you’re built like a giant, and kids at school worship the ground you walk on!”

  “Yeah—when they’re not calling me a terrorist behind my back. Think I don’t know what they say about me as soon as I step
off the court? Or what it means when they sit up in the stands and tell me to ‘blow up’ the competition? We all got our battles, D. We all got to fight for respect.”

  Before I can think of anything to say, Keem mutters, “Later,” and heads down the block. I sink onto the stoop and eat my cold pizza alone.

  5.

  Girls don’t notice me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t notice them. And most of the girls I notice may be out of my league, but that doesn’t stop me from dreaming. I’ve always been an overachiever, so why shouldn’t I set my sights on an eighth-grade girl?

  Nyla’s like a beautiful sculpture made of onyx and silver. She wears skintight clothes—mostly black—with strategically placed holes held together by safety pins. And boots—army boots. She came to school one day with a full head of hair; the next day, the sides and back of her head were shaved, leaving a silky horse’s mane on top. Nyla flipped it to the side so a curtain of black hair fell over her right eye. Next day the mane was cropped short, spiked, and streaked with red. I can’t even count all the piercings Nyla’s got. Rings loop up the outside of her ears, and huge black plugs fill her earlobes. She’s got both eyebrows pierced, a diamond stud in her nose, and a silver ball that rests under her lower lip. I think her tongue might be pierced, too, but I’m not sure ’cause Nyla’s never talked to me.

  One day this creep slipped his arm around her waist as she walked down the hall, and Nyla threw him against the lockers and cursed him out: “Nimm deine dreckigen Hände von mir, du verdammter Scheißkerl!”

  That’s right—Nyla cursed him out in German. He’s lucky she didn’t slug him—with all those silver rings on her fingers, she’d have left a serious dent in that pretty-boy’s face. Nobody messes with Nyla. She’s beautiful, but she’s fierce.

  On Wednesday I come out of the lunch line with my tray of crappy food, and Nyla smiles at me. That’s right—at me. I smile back, and then Nyla nods at the empty stretch of bench to her left. To her right is a loud group of misfits, all of whom are acting like they belong in the same galaxy as Nyla. At first I think it must be a mistake—is Nyla really inviting me to sit next to her, or is she just stretching her neck? I don’t want to look like a total reject, but Nyla’s eyes are locked on mine and her smile grows wider as I start walking over to her table.