Public School Superhero

by James Patterson

  I’m six blocks from home. On the days G-ma doesn’t tutor, she expects me there by 3:45 unless I tell her something else. It’s never worth being late. She just makes me read more, or do the dishes, or something.

  Still, I figure I can stop for a minute. If someone’s hooking me up with free hot chips, who am I to turn them down? Then I’ll head on home after that.

  When we get to the store, Vanessa goes inside, but Ray-Ray stops on the sidewalk.

  “Hold up,” he says. “We’re just going to hang here a second.”

  “What’s going on?” I ask Ray-Ray.

  “Nothing,” he says. “We’re just getting some hot—man, shut up and just chill for a second.”

  “I am,” I say, “but why—”

  Almost right away, the door to the store opens back up, and Vanessa comes flying out of there like her butt’s on fire. I can see she’s got a big bag of chips in her hand. And I can see some lady inside coming after her, too.

  “Run!” is all Vanessa says.

  I get it now, but it’s too late to do anything about it. So I take off as fast as I can, just like all the others.

  But I’m also thinking—

  FIVE ON THE RUN

  There’s no way I’m stopping now. Why should I? This doesn’t have anything to do with me.

  Luckily, the lady from the store isn’t very fast, because neither am I. I’m chugging up Minnesota Avenue behind Preemie and Ray-Ray, who are behind Vanessa, who’s behind Quaashie, who’s faster than all of us. He gets around the corner, and across Good Hope Road, then up between two apartment buildings, and straight onto Sixteenth until we get to W Street.

  By the time I catch up to them all, I’m about ready to throw up a lung.

  “Why’d you do that?” I say to Vanessa.

  She looks at me like I’m super-lame. “You buying next time?” she says.

  The truth is, I have a couple of dollars in my pocket, but I don’t say anything. I just shake my head. This felt like it could’ve easily been one of those “wrong place, wrong time” kinds of moments that G-ma lectures me about.

  “Dang, this is good,” Preemie says. She throws a handful of hot chips in her mouth, and her eyes begin to water in seconds. That girl is crazy. She fans her tongue and then chomps on a few more like nothing ever happened. Ray-Ray passes the bag over to me.

  “No thanks,” I say.

  “Go on,” he says. “I owe you.”

  I guess he means for all those after-school snacks. But even so, I probably shouldn’t take it. I know what G-ma would say.

  Still, Ray-Ray and the rest of them are all staring at me, so I take one and shove it in my mouth. They’re mad hot, and they stain your fingertips for a day or two with an angry shade of red. But we love ’em.

  Meanwhile, a bus is pulling up at the corner and Ray-Ray’s looking like he’s ready to take off. “There’s my ride,” he says. “You wanna have some fun?”

  I don’t even know what he means. None of the others are going for it, so I just stay put. Next thing I know, the bus is pulling away from the curb and Ray-Ray’s running after it. He jumps up on the back bumper, grabs hold of a little grip that’s hiding there, and waves at us while that bus takes him right back the way we just came.

  I’m not saying it doesn’t look fun, because it kind of does. Fun—but dumber than that dude in your math class who sits in the back, picks his nose, and eats his boogers when he thinks no one is watching. But you caught him one day, and all he could do was flash that goofy booger-eating grin. You know the dude.

  G-ma would ground me for life if she ever caught me doing something as stupid as bus-surfing, or whatever Ray-Ray calls it.

  And speaking of G-ma, it’s almost 3:45. I’ve got to get home—now!

  ACTION!

  Call me paranoid if you want, but I scrub that bright-red chip residue from my fingers at a filthy gas station restroom before I even get home. You never know with G-ma.

  When I get there, she’s all fired up about something else, though. She’s got her gospel music playing from an old radio sitting on top of the fridge. Her favorite group’s some old guys called the Mighty Clouds of Joy. She’s tappety-tapping away at her laptop, seated at the kitchen table. There’s a bunch of papers stacked in front of her, with lists of names and I don’t know what else. She even tells me to get my own snack.

  “What’s going on, G-ma?” I say.

  “We’re starting an action,” she says. “Myself, Dr. Yetty, and some folks from the neighborhood.”

  “What’s that mean?” I ask her. “What kind of action?”

  “An organized, peaceful—but forceful—march for better schools, for all the children in our city. Not just the lucky ones. Or the rich ones. Or the ones who live west of the river.”

  “So, G-ma—why do this now? Why do we have to march and make signs and all that stuff? And why is Dr. Yetty getting mixed up with this?” I wonder aloud.

  My G-ma could inspire a herd of gazelles to organize and rise up against a pride of lions. “The truth is, I haven’t seen her kind of passion, especially from a woman so young, since I marched in Selma, way back when,” she tells me.

  “What I mean is, isn’t she a part of what you—I mean we—are marching against? The people in charge?” It just seems weird to me to have her down with us. As far as we know, she’s going to be in and out like the rest of those bammas.

  “No, baby. Not at all. I love what she stands for, and so does almost every other parent. But there’ve been a handful of parents claiming that she pays too much attention to the male students. Can you believe that? Some people don’t like the all-boy mentoring program she started in her first week on the job. God knows that’s what you boys need, but who am I?” She shrugs and then closes her laptop.

  I guess G-ma has a point about Dr. Yetty. I mean, she did bring three new staff people along with her. First there’s Mr. Anthony, her right-hand man. He’s like a real serious administration-type dude. Then there’s Mr. Yarborough, the new head of security, who’s actually pretty cool. He’s one of those ex–Navy SEALs, but you couldn’t tell by looking at him. And there’s a man who grew up right around the corner from our house, Mr. Griddine. He’s what’s called a Director of Strategic Plans or something. I don’t know what any of those guys really do. I don’t. But you know what’s cool? They look like me. They look like Ray-Ray. They look like us and they’re in charge of stuff. They wear suits and tell people what to do. That’s something I’ve never seen at my school.

  The way G-ma’s going, I can tell we’re going to be talking about this for a while. Which is fine with me. Anything right now is better than How was your day? or any of those other “essay questions” she usually asks. I can just see how that would go.

  So I get busy making a peanut butter and banana sandwich while G-ma keeps on talking.

  “We’re going to march up Martin Luther King Avenue,” she says, “and have a big rally right in front of your school.”

  “Cool,” I say.

  “I’m hoping for a thousand people, maybe more. Parents, teachers, and most of all, students—”

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  “Which is why I want you to be one of our speakers. I think you’d make an excellent student ambassador, Kenneth.”

  This time, I don’t say anything at all, because that peanut butter just got stuck in my throat like a ball of cement.

  “I know it’s a little scary,” G-ma tells me. “But it’s no different than what I asked you to do at the neighborhood meeting.”

  “You just said it was going to be a thousand people!” I say.

  “That’s just more ears,” she says.

  “Well… uh… I don’t think I’d make a very good ambassador, either,” I say.

  “Nonsense!” she says. “If we see something wrong in the world, it’s up to us—not someone else—to stand up and be heard.”

  That’s another one of G-ma’s greatest hits, if you hadn’t noticed. She always s
ays you’re supposed to speak up if you see something wrong.

  You know—like if someone steals stuff from a corner store.

  Or gets detention and lies about it.

  Or has to teach chess for all the wrong reasons.

  Stuff like that.

  And guess what else I realize? Ray-Ray Powell isn’t the big faker around here anymore.

  I am.

  23

  STEEL VS. STEAL

  EGYPT IS IN AFRICA

  Dr. Yetty’s got a special assembly the next morning. It’s part of the history unit she’s teaching, called “The Cradle of Civilization.” That’s just one thing Dr. Yetty’s been doing different at UMS. She’s the principal, but she’s also teaching some. We call her the History Channel now. And today’s assembly is all about Egypt.

  “I thought this was about Africa,” Ray-Ray says.

  “Fool, Egypt is in Africa,” I tell him.

  He just shakes his head like he feels sorry for me. “You should try not looking so smart once in a while,” he says. “Just sayin’.”

  “Yeah, well…” I mumble as we shuffle into the auditorium.

  I don’t sit with Ray-Ray, though. He hangs in the back, where it can get a little dangerous if you’re not careful. So I find Arthur, Dele, and Vashon, and we sit somewhere in the middle, close enough to see, but far enough away to not stand out too much.

  Dr. Yetty shows a whole bunch of pictures and maps and stuff. It’s actually kind of interesting, and a lot of the kids are into it. She tells us that lots of important parts of things like medicine, astronomy, law, art, and music pretty much all started in Egypt.

  “Which is in Africa,” she keeps saying. “That’s part of African heritage, too. A lot of what we see from ancient Greece originally came from Egypt…” she says, and puts a hand up to her ear.

  “Which is in Africa!” a bunch of people say back.

  “The Europeans, as well. They got a lot of what they’re famous for from Egypt…”

  “Which is in Africa!” everyone says. They’re all kind of cheering and getting into it now. Why not? It’s one reason to walk a little taller, and I’m all for that. Dr. Yetty is pretty amazing at getting everyone into it, so nobody feels like they’re acting weird.

  Check it out:

  LESSON #2

  At our next chess lesson, Ray-Ray does exactly what I expect him to do. He comes on strong and attacks, attacks, attacks. It doesn’t matter to him if he gets my knight and I take his queen. He just likes the battles.

  “You’ve got to figure out how to survive,” I tell him. “The idea is to try and take something without losing anything.”

  “Huh?” He looks at me like I just spoke in Swahili, or the way I look at G-ma when she drops one of her old Negro spiritual quotes or African proverbs on me.

  “If you can take something for nothing, that’s better than having to trade, right?” I say.

  Now Ray-Ray sits back and looks at the board again like he hadn’t thought of it that way.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I can see that.”

  It doesn’t really do anything, though. On the next move, he leaves himself wide open just to get one of my pawns. I slide in there for a checkmate, and we have to start all over again.

  “Hey,” he says when we’re setting up the board, “long as we’re talking, you want some free advice of your own?”

  “Not really,” I say.

  “Stop walking around like you’re afraid of people,” he says. “It’s so obvious, man.”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay. Thanks,” I say. This is the last thing I want to talk about with Ray-Ray. But it turns out he’s like G-ma that way. Sometimes it doesn’t matter if you want to talk about something or not.

  So he keeps going.

  “You look at someone like Tiny,” he says. “You can just see it in his eyes. He’s not here to get knocked over. But with you and those geeks you hang out with—”

  “Shut up about my friends,” I say.

  “I’m just saying, it’s like you’re carrying around a sign or something. Says, ‘I won’t fight back, so go ahead and slap the snot out of me.’ You know? You’re like one of these pawns, just waiting to get picked off.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks for the advice,” I say. “It’s your move.”

  Then Ray-Ray takes his bishop and tries to scoot it around the corner like it’s a knight. And I think, This is never going to be over, is it? The way things are going so far, I’m going to be sitting here with Ray-Ray… forever.

  Maybe longer.

  “A” IS FOR IDIOTS

  At first, I’m thinking there’s no good reason to take advice from Ray-Ray. Why should I?

  Except then… a few days later, I get this big fat A on my report for Bud, Not Buddy. And if you’re wondering how that’s linked to Ray-Ray—peep this.

  When Ms. Green hands back the reports that day, she skips right past me. She holds on to my paper and goes to the front of the class.

  “Pay attention, everyone. I’d like to read some of what Kenny wrote,” Ms. Green says.

  No problem, right? WRONG! This is just about the last thing a “Grandma’s Boy” like me needs.

  Arthur flashes me a thumbs-up, and Lucinda Morehead sits up a little straighter. But behind me, I can hear people making sounds like air coming out of a leaky tire. I don’t have the nerve to turn around, but it feels like I’ve got a whole row of lasers pointed at the back of my head.

  I’m not even sure which part she reads. I’m too busy waiting for it to be over. Finally, after about eight years, Ms. Green stops and asks, “Does anyone have any questions for Kenny?”

  “Yeah,” someone whispers behind me. “What’s it like to be the world’s biggest geek?”

  “Are we supposed to call you Teacher’s Boy now?” someone else says.

  And then, “Do your legs get cold when you wear a dress in the winter?”

  That one cracks everyone up, until Ms. Green yells at them to be quiet.

  “Dwayne! Kwame! Quaashie!” she says. “That’s enough. I’ll see all three of you after class.”

  I know Ms. Green thinks she’s doing the right thing, but I sure wish she hadn’t said anything. Even though they’re the ones getting in trouble, something tells me I’m the one who’s going to pay.

  I also wish G-ma hadn’t made me read that book a second time. Then maybe I could have gotten a nice, ordinary B, and all those guys could have used someone else for target practice.

  But you know me. I want a lot of things I can’t have.

  CLIMB TO THE BOTTOM

  Don’t get me wrong, okay? It’s not like I want bad grades. There’s plenty of reasons why As are worth working for. I get it, I really do.

  But now that I’m in middle school, it’s kind of complicated. See, if you’re not careful, or even if you’re unlucky (like if a teacher makes the whole class listen to your stupid report), then all that work can start to turn against you.

  One second, you’re doing okay, and the next…

  That A you thought you wanted turns right around and bites you in the butt. And usually by then, it’s too late to do anything about it.

  That’s how it went with my book report, anyway. Ms. Green’s English class was only the first bad thing to happen to me that day.

  The first.… but not the worst.

  Just wait. There’s more.

  ALL WET

  After English, I make a quick pit stop in the second-floor bathroom. Which turns out to be a big mistake. Remember when I said you never want to get caught alone in the bathroom at UMS?

  You don’t.

  But you know how it is. Sometimes, when you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go.

  I try to make it fast. I don’t even bother washing my hands (not that there’s any soap or paper towels left, anyway). Still, before I can get to the door, it swings open, and in walk Dwayne, Kwame, and Quaashie R. Also known as Crush, Kill, and Destroy. Sometimes they even tag the outside of the building with a �
��CKD.” Graffiti is like an art form around here, or just a way to let everybody know who’s running the school.

  You didn’t think Tiny Simpkins was my only problem, did you? I wish! This is one way that middle school is like superhero comics. Every time you get rid of one bad guy, there’s at least one more waiting to take his place. That’s how it works. Just ask Batman. Or Spider-Man. Or Stainlezz Steel.

  Meanwhile, I’m trying to get to the door, but I’ve got this Quaashie-sized wall in my way.

  “Waddup, Grandma’s Boy?” he says. “Thanks for getting us in trouble back there.”

  “I didn’t get you in trouble,” I say.

  “That’s not how I see it,” Dwayne says. He brushes right past me and turns on one of the sinks. I reach for the door again, but then Kwame grabs my backpack and spins me right around.

  That’s when Dwayne sticks his thumb over the faucet. It sends a jet stream right at me with perfect aim. And I mean, right at the front of my pants. Now I look like a kindergartener who isn’t quite potty trained, or a dude with a bad bladder problem. Either way, it ain’t a good look.

  My backpack hits the floor. Dwayne, Kwame, and Quaashie start cracking up and pointing at me. And I’m standing there in a puddle like I need my diaper changed.

  “Why don’t you write about that next time?” Dwayne says. He kicks my stuff toward the toilet stalls, and then the three of them laugh themselves right out of the bathroom.

  I don’t go after them. Obviously. Even if I had the guts, I don’t have the muscle. And even if I had the muscle, there’s no way I’m going to go running out there looking like this.

  Now I’ll have to spend the rest of the day with my jacket tied around my waist, and carrying my books all front and center until I dry off. All because of one stupid book report.