He Said, She Said
Page 4
“Like there’s anything creative about throwing a ball?”
“The Super Bowl is like a movie, and the quarterback is the leading man.”
Uggghhh!
“Look, T-Diddy has a master plan. You on board or what?”
“Or what.”
“Tomorrow we’re going to put on a rally,” he says, like it really is a concert. “We’re going to galvanize the streets.”
“What streets?”
“Look, trust me. Let me call the plays. I got you!”
“No, you don’t. But, yeah, we’ll see.” If there’s a chance it’ll help save a teacher’s job, I’m down. I guess.
“Can I call you tonight, Claudia Clarke?”
“You mean, can you call me a B tonight, like you just did a few seconds ago.”
“I’m just saying, if we’re gonna do this protest, shouldn’t we, uh, you know, uh, discuss the plan?”
“Just let me know what time your little rally is, and I might be there.”
The way he said plan was suspect. I knew all he wanted was to score with me, like he had with every other girl at West Charleston High School. Thank goodness the bell rang.
“Dang! Mr. W, since I was here on official biz, can I get a pass?” Omar says to Mr. Washington, who’s walking back into the room.
“Don’t try me, Mr. Smalls,” Mr. Washington says, putting his phone back on the desk.
“So I’ll call you tonight, Claudia?” he asks on his way out the door.
His protest idea does kind of intrigue me. Even though he is still a jerk.
“Text me.”
Omar
“You better watch out—I’m coming for that queen,” Uncle Al taunts during our nightly game of chess.
“Check,” I say, smiling. “I guess you taught me how to play the game a little too well, Unc.”
Even though I’m six moves away from checkmating him, my head isn’t really in the game.
Fast Freddie and I were trying to lift weights after school. I say trying because his cousin Belafonte was in there, bawling like a broad the whole time because the band got cut. C’mon son, it’s just the band.
The deal is, I only got one step left in the T-Diddy Guaranteed Ladykilla Plan. Too bad. I’m making this ish up as I go along. This protest thing might work, though.
First things first. I gots to figure out what to say, so I can text her.
After dinner, I went online to see if I could figure out a plan. First I Googled “protest,” which had, like, 413 million results. C’mon, really. Then I tried “rally,” which turned up a bunch of information on Rally Software and Checkers Drive-In—their burgers are no joke. I did find some news articles and historical pages on rallies, but I wasn’t really trying to read all that. If I was going to impress Claudia tomorrow, I needed an easy plan, and I needed it fast.
“Wake me up when you move.” He ignores me. “You know I got homework to finish, right?”
“Smalls, stop rushing me. By the way, we’re still going fishing Sunday morning, to celebrate Dr. King’s birthday.”
“What does fishing have to do with Martin Luther King?”
“Know your history, Smalls. ‘Teach a man to fish and you feed him forever.’”
“Dr. King didn’t say that.”
“Shhhhh, I’m trying to concentrate, Smalls.”
It doesn’t matter how hot or cold it is, this joker loves to go fishing. And since he’s in a wheelchair, this means that I have to go as well.
When we first started going out, I hated it. Sundays are my sleep-in days. The last thing I want to do is go digging for bait at four in the morning. The messed-up thing is, when we get out there, I do most of the fishing.
There is one upside to it, though. I did discover Folly Beach.
“When is your big college announcement?”
“You know when it is, Uncle Al, now move.”
“What time is it? Is ESPN gonna be there?”
“Seriously, Unc, you’re going to either move here or there.” I show him. “And then I’m going to trap your queen, and then you have to protect your king with the rook, and then I got your queen, and then it’s two more moves max until checkmate.” I pop a handful of seeds in my mouth and lean back.
“Well, ain’t that some ish. Smalls got me up against the wall. You do them dishes yet?” Whenever Uncle Al is about to lose, he goes off on some domestic randomness.
“Yeah, I did the dishes, and took out the trash, and cut the grass. So now what?” He ignores me again. “You give up, old man?” Uncle Al hates losing. But he hates giving up even more.
“Smalls, I told you about spitting those sunflower seeds on my porch. You’re going to need to sweep up out here tonight.”
“Unc, it’s cold out here. Let me do that tomorrow.” Charleston’s cold is nothing like Brooklyn’s ice. But when it’s been seventy degrees for like most of the winter, and now all of a sudden it’s in the fifties, that’s cold.
“There, I moved.” Unfortunately for him, it’s the worst move he could have made, ’cause now I can have him mated in two moves. But since it’s getting late and I’m on a mission, I prolong his defeat.
“Unc, tell me about one of your rallies from back in the day.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Did you ever have to speak at one?”
“Boy, I spoke at about twenty of them things,” he says, finally looking up from the board at me. “I remember this one we had at Howard in the snow. I really got them jokers fired up, Smalls.”
“What were you saying?” I ask excitedly, taking down notes on my iPhone.
“I started off with a fancy quote, from Gandhi or Frederick Douglass, you know something to get them ready for the funk I was about to bring. Then I just told ’em like it was. The power of the people to change the world. Freedom ain’t free. Everybody has a voice. Speak up for your rights, for your children’s rights, ya know! Boy, I’m telling you, by the time I finished, it was one hundred degrees out there in December. I’m talking revolution, you hear me, Smalls, we—”
I do hear him. For the next two hours he talks and shouts and moves across the front porch like a Baptist preacher. The neighbors don’t mind. They’re used to seeing him and Spooky and Clyfe holler like this.
I hear every story he’s told me before, only this time I actually listen. Research. We never finish the game, and even though none of his sermon makes a whole lot of sense, I have enough stuff to at least text Claudia and show her I’m the real deal.
Omar Smalls: Hole up, hole up. I thought you were going to be doing the speaking.
Claudia Clarke: This was your idea. Plus, I’m a writer, not a talker.
Omar Smalls: Seriously, you expect T-Diddy to speak at the rally. LOL!
Claudia Clarke: I don’t even know if I’m coming.
Omar Smalls: This conversation would be so much easier on the phone, or on Facebook.
Claudia Clarke: The Facebooks blur the lines of friendship too liberally.
Omar Smalls: The Facebooks? Bwahahahaha!
Omar Smalls: Claudia, you still there?
Omar Smalls: Hellloooo! You still there?
Claudia Clarke: I’m here, but GTG. Homework.
Omar Smalls: WAIT!
Omar Smalls: You like my plan for the rally though, right?
Claudia Clarke: Mildly impressed.
Omar Smalls: C’mon, you know T-Diddy did his thing.
Claudia Clarke: We’ll see tomorrow.
Omar Smalls: So you’re coming.
Claudia Clarke: I didn’t say that.
Omar Smalls: T-Diddy bringing the noise and the funk tomorrow, homegirl.
Claudia Clarke: Homegirl? Seriously?
Omar Smalls: That’s my Brooklyn coming out. How y’all say it in the country? LOL!
Claudia Clarke: Oh, so now I’m country?
Omar Smalls: JK
Omar Smalls: You are a flower in the ocean.
Claudia Clarke: Good-bye.
Omar Smalls: Can I get a thank-you? Dayum!
Claudia Clarke: For what? Next time, why not throw the sun in your mixed metaphor cliche.
Omar Smalls: W/E. I was just trying to be real for a minute. Let you know I was feeling you. It’s all good, though. I ain’t trippin’.
Claudia Clarke: Yadda yadda yadda . . . So you’re not just into sports, but theater too.
Omar Smalls: Theater???
Claudia Clarke: DRAMA!
Claudia Clarke: You’re not slick, Omar. I know what you’re trying to do. Like I told you at the party, I don’t date athletes, and I don’t date boys with girlfriends.
Omar Smalls: Me and Kym broke up.
Claudia Clarke: See you at the rally tomorrow.
Omar Smalls: Yeah, the rally. Why they cut the arts funding anyway?
Claudia Clarke: Because the school cares more about football and basketball than art and music and making sure we have textbooks that aren’t ancient.
Omar Smalls: Well, we did win the championship.
Claudia Clarke: And how is that going to change the world? What impact does winning a ball game have on changing the human condition, Omar?
Omar Smalls: Changing the human condition? WTH.
Claudia Clarke: Stand for something, or fall for anything, Omar.
Omar Smalls: Is the sky falling, or am I just high? Bwahahahahaha!
Claudia Clarke: Everything’s a joke to you, isn’t it?
Omar Smalls: Buzzkill.
Claudia Clarke: You may not be serious about about saving the arts in our school, but I am.
Omar Smalls: Hole up, hole up. T-Diddy is still down!
Omar Smalls: I hope you wear them jeans to the rally. Those ones you had on at the party.
Claudia Clarke: Again, random . . . But thanks for the, uh, compliment.
Omar Smalls: Look, we can at least be friends, right?
Claudia Clarke: That’s cute, Omar. You want to be my friend?
Omar Smalls: Yep.
Claudia Clarke: How about friends with benefits?
Omar Smalls: That’ll work.
Claudia Clarke: T-Diddy thinks I’m bootylicious?
Omar Smalls: Fo’ sho!
Claudia Clarke: Let’s go out on a date.
Omar Smalls: Word!
Claudia Clarke: Take me to the Avery this weekend.
Omar Smalls: That’s a new restaurant.
Claudia Clarke: It’s a museum and cultural center.
Omar Smalls: For black people, right?
Claudia Clarke: It’s *for* anybody, but it has African American art.
Omar Smalls: I knew that. I was just messing with you.
Claudia Clarke: Whatever, Omar!
Omar Smalls: C’mon, give T-Diddy a chance.
Claudia Clarke: Okay, I’ll give you a chance. Introduce me to Pat Conroy, and I’ll let you smash?
Omar Smalls: Oh Snap! For real?
Claudia Clarke: Word!
Omar Smalls: Who’s Pat Conroy?
Claudia Clarke: Exactly!
Omar Smalls: Seriously, who is he?
Claudia Clarke: The fact that you have to ask that question means that you will never get in my jeans.
Omar Smalls: I know you all goody-two-shoes and Ms. Valedictorian and whatnot, but you ain’t gotta play T-Diddy like that. No need for all that--I’m just trying to be nice.
Claudia Clarke: I see. So you’re not trying to play me?
Omar Smalls: Nope. This ain’t about you, even though you too stuck-up to see that. I’m trying to help save the band, help the teachers keep their jobs. This is about the people. Freedom ain’t free.
Claudia Clarke: And neither is a good piece of ass, apparently. What’s it worth, Omar, about $150?
Claudia
Two things you can count on in our school: one, that you will find a pregnancy test in the girls’ bathroom, and two, by the end of school, everybody knows who took it. News and rumors spread faster than the bossip at West Charleston. The only way to guarantee that nobody finds out your business is not to tell anybody your business, not even your best friend. I learned that the hard way freshman year.
So it didn’t take me long to hear it from Blu, who heard it from Tami, who heard it from her sister, who heard it from her boyfriend, who overheard his big brother, Willie Mack, talking to Freddie Callaway about it on the way to school one morning.
Claudia Clarke: Yeah, I know all about your little bet.
Omar Smalls: What bet?
Claudia Clarke: You’re not the first, Omar, and you won’t be the last. Like I said, I’m not interested. I got plans, and shallow jocks with no purpose other than to throw a ball don’t fit into them. We can’t be friends. I’m on a mission, and right now my focus is on taking a stand against the wack school board. So you can either be down with that or keep it moving. Feel me?
Omar and I stand with nine other students on the school’s side lawn at seven thirty a.m. Six of them, including Luther, who helped me with the Save the Chimps project, aren’t even here for the rally. Apparently we’ve intruded on their smoke zone.
Before school, at lunch, and after school, the same group of eighteen-year-olds gathers on the side lawn near the picnic tables to smoke cigarettes. A part of me is glad that at least we look like we have a small crowd. The other part of me gags on all the cancer smoke that is going to kill them. And me.
The sweat on Omar’s head can’t be from the weather. It’s not even sixty degrees. He’s nervous; in way over his head. He’s probably happy that not a whole lot of students have shown up. I guess you won’t look like the fool you and I both know you are.
He apologizes to me for the whole bet thing. But like I tell him, “It really doesn’t matter. You’re a guy. And guys are apes.” I’m probably too hard on him, but it is what it is. Guys only want one thing: to get inside our minds, so they can get between our legs. My last boyfriend was a professional primate.
Leo was a sophomore in college. He spoke French, quoted Shakespeare, drove a Benz; and his singing opened me in ways that I’d never been opened. I used to go hear him play guitar and sing on Monday nights at a local coffeehouse. Unfortunately, it was months after I’d given him the lala before I realized that Leo was a frickin’ rock star by all definitions—he sang for Lindsay on Wednesday, Dominique on Thursdays, and Tina and Bubbles on Saturday. I haven’t dated since.
“Hey, T-Diddy, you wanna toke, man?” Luther says, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and offering it to Omar. When Omar shakes his head, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out option number two, definitely not a cigarette. Omar grins at him, looks at me, frowns, then shakes his head again. If I didn’t already have a million reasons not to get to know him, I would now. A jock who sleeps around and smokes weed. How cliché can you get?
“Well, we tried, Claudia. No point in staying out here in this nip,” Omar says to me.
“What about the teachers, the band, the school’s arts funding? What about galvanizing the streets?”
“We can’t have a rally with no troops, homegirl.”
“I thought you said you were going to get the word out.”
“I did. Put it on Facebook. Like fifty people said they were coming. Look,” he says to me, pulling out his phone and showing me his Facebook page.
“Hey, look!” Angel, Luther’s girlfriend, screams, pointing to the front of the school. Coming from the direction of the buses is a swarm of West Charleston students.
“Oh, snap,” says Omar.
“I guess I underestimated you and Facebook,” I throw in. “It’s on now, Mr. Football.”
Within minutes, more than two hundred kids, led by half the football team, fill the lawn in front of us. Five minutes later, most of the school is out here.
“Pass that Bobby Brown,” one of the football players yells, the smell of Luther’s weed still soaking the air.
“T-Diddy’s. About. To. Bring. That. Funk,” Blu whispers, sneaking up behind me.
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��This should be interesting,” I answer.
“Why we here?” a kid from the crowd screams.
“I guess we better do this, Omar. You okay? I only ask because you don’t look okay,” I say, somewhat mockingly.
“T-Diddy’s fine. Let’s do this. Introduce me.”
“What?”
“T-Diddy needs an introduction. Part of my game ritual. You know, a hype man. Or woman.”
“You serious? What should I say?”
“You’re the writer,” he says, and jumps up on one of the picnic tables, leaning down to give me a hand up. Before she goes off into the crowd, I see Blu taking a puff of one of Luther’s cigarettes. I can’t tell which one it is.
“Come on, homegirl.” He pulls me up. Strong hands.
“It’s up to y’all to save the band. Do this thing big, for real,” Belafonte screams up at us.
“IsThisSomeKindOfCampaignSpeech?” Freddie Callaway, another football player, yells from the front.
“Isth T-Diddyth runningth forth presidenth?” Tami shouts, and the first couple of rows in the crowd roar because no one has a clue what she said. She’s with Eve and Kym, and they’re gritting on me like we have beef.