He Said, She Said

by Kwame Alexander

  Called the silent treatment, the nonviolent protest was supported by students, teachers, and national media alike. As word got around of the protest, schools across the state began their own silent protests. Even a few celebrities sent words of encouragement. Charleston’s own, country singer Darius Rucker, showed solidarity for the students with a special song at one of his concerts last weekend in Columbia. During a recent episode of his Comedy Central show, even Stephen Colbert, another native Charlestonian, voiced his concern. Colbert, who funded a new arts award at the University of Virginia, was interviewing the actor Bill Murray about his latest movie and the minor-league baseball team he owns in Charleston when Murray mentioned the protest.

  Luther Lee, a senior and staunch supporter of the silent treatment, had this to say: “I hope everyone learned something from this. We didn’t have to raise our fists. We didn’t have to fuss and fight. We used our silence to fight. We fought together, and we won.”

  While we certainly proved something major with our concerted effort, this fight is far from over. Several of our teachers are still without full-time jobs and thus health insurance. Next Monday, the school board will meet to decide their fate. While we wait for the verdict, let us remember that if we’ve learned anything during this protest, it’s that we are a family. And families stick together. We have every hope that the school board will do the right thing. We won’t be quiet if they don’t!

  Omar

  When she gets home from school today, there will be a plain brown envelope. It will contain a CD. Written on it in black Sharpie will be PLAY ME.

  When she puts it in her laptop, it will play the Mission: Impossible song, and then my voice will come on: “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to make your way to the middle of Marion Square, at exactly five twenty-seven p.m. Eastern Standard Time. There you will rendezvous with a stunningly attractive dude who will be wearing a suit and holding indigo tulips. He will also have on orange-and-green underwear. The future of the free world is now in your hands. This CD will self-destruct in five seconds.”

  “You’re early.”

  “I was excited. I thought maybe I had a secret admirer or something. But I see it’s just you.”

  “Oh, you got jokes, do you?” I say to Claudia, and grab her hand. “Walk with me, birthday girl.”

  “Where are my tulips?”

  “Tulips. Plural, really? Why not just tulip? Let me find out Claudia Clarke is high maintenance.”

  “Uh, you’re the one who said I was getting tulips. I’m just saying.”

  “I changed my mind. Come on, let’s walk.”

  I put my arms around her and we walk to the corner of King and Calhoun. There’s a skinny little black boy in a hooded black shirt selling sweetgrass flowers. He head-nods me and comes up. Normally I walk by, never even look these jokers in the eye. I just pretend they don’t even exist.

  “What’s good?” I ask him. He looks at the basket of flowers on the ground next to him.

  “Dem flowers fuh sell,” he says to us, in Gullah accent.

  “How many you got, homeboy?”

  “Mo’ nuh da,” he says. I have no idea. The kid puts two dirty pinky fingers in his mouth and whistles loud as a train. Seconds later, about three more boys with baskets rush over.

  “I need a double deuce,” I say, flashing two fingers twice.

  He whispers to the group, and they weave twenty-two sweetgrass flowers right there on the spot. “How long?”

  “Fas’,” he says, not looking up.

  “Cool, how much?”

  “T’ree.”

  “C’mon son, three dollars?” I say to this little hustler. Claudia bows me in the ribs. “What, he’s trying to get over on a brother,” I say, smiling at her. “Look, I’ll give you two dollars each, homeboy.”

  “Two and haff,” he counters immediately.

  “Little man, you ought to move to New York, ’cause you keepin’ it really hood. That’s cool, though. Holla at us when you finish, we’ll be over there,” I say, pointing to a nearby bench.

  “Omar, you still trying to impress me, I see.”

  “It ain’t even like that. I was going to get tulips for your birthday, ’cause you know that’s your favorite flower and all,” I say, smiling. “But I figured that these kids could probably use the money more than them big flower shops.”

  “Awww, that is so sweet!” She kisses me on the lips and makes a soft, moaning, sexy sound. “But why twenty-two?”

  “I’m surprised you don’t know, homegirl. Today is our twenty-two-day anniversary from when we met at the house party. For each day that I’ve gotten to know you a little better. For each day that we’ve grown closer. For each day that I’ve realized that there is no other girl on earth who rocks my world like you do. For each day that we’ve changed the world together, I am getting one flower.” I get down on one knee, like I’m about to propose. I’m not, LOL. She starts getting all teary-eyed.

  “The sweetgrass plant was originally harvested by slaves in South Carolina. It’s now considered a treasure. Claudia Clarke, you have harvested me from a boy to a man.” I don’t even care how corny it sounds. I’m feeling it. Feeling her. “Happy birthday, homegirl.” And I hand her a gift.

  “Wow, I don’t know what to say, Omar.” She kisses me on my cheek. “But a book? Really, for my birthday. No jewelry or cash even,” she adds, chuckling.

  “Maybe you should just open it, homegirl.”

  She does. Slowly. Carefully peeling back each corner of tape, slowly pulling the wrapping off. Yes, it is a book, homegirl, but not just any old book. How do girls cry and laugh at the same time? Never understood that.

  “My bad—you don’t like it,” I say sarcastically.

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just that, uh, you remembered. He’s my favorite,” she says, thumbing through the book. The Pat Conroy Cookbook. Yeah! I wipe her tears with my finger. “Omar, why is there a stain on this page?”

  “Oh, you know I had to try out the shrimp and grits recipe. That joint was fire! Pat Conroy is the best chef I ever read.”

  She gives me a look. “He’s not a chef, Omar.”

  “I know, homegirl. Just messing with you. I picked up one of his novels at the library last week. A little long, but he’s a decent writer.”

  “Omar, I’m a decent writer. Pat Conroy is the best frickin’ novelist ever.”

  “Happy birthday, beautiful. I hope you enjoy it.”

  “I love it, Omar, and I love—”

  “Heh.” The boy in the hoodie interrupts, handing me the sweetgrass flowers. I give him two twenties and a ten and tell him to keep the change.

  “Appreciate that, homeboy. Be easy,” and then I hand the flowers to Claudia. “Happy birthday, beautiful,” I say, and give her the T-Diddy special kiss, with my hand cradling the back of her neck. Oh yeah!

  “Omar Smalls, you do rock my world.” She stands up, leans into me, and we kiss again in the middle of Marion Square like we own the night.

  “Homegirl, plenty of time for this, but we gots to be out. We’re on a schedule.”

  “Out? We are out. Where else are we going?” I pinch my lips together with my fingers. “Everything’s a big secret tonight, huh, Tom Cruise? Okay, I’ll play along. Just as long as you don’t try to blindfold me.”

  “Well, actually . . . ,” I say, and pull out an orange-and-green bandanna. She almost has a conniption.

  “You’re insane. I’m not putting that on.”

  “Trust me, Claudia. I got you. You’ll be happy, I promise.” I spin her around and place the bandanna over her eyes and around her head.

  “Please don’t mess up my hair, I just got it done. Jeez.”

  I tie it, but not too tight, and then grab her hand. “Okay, just stay close to me—I got you. Let’s walk.”

  We cross the street, just to throw her off a little. I take her back down King Street. We pass the Frances Marion Hotel, St. John’s Lutheran church, and a doctor’s o
ffice. When we get to the Charleston visitors’ bureau, we cross back to the other side of King Street.

  “I have no idea where we are, Omar.”

  “That’s kind of the point Claudia.” But you’re about to be wowed, believe that!

  This guy must really be all that, because there is a line of people coming out of the door and going along the sidewalk. Thanks to Mr. Washington, we don’t have to wait. He shops here a lot and knows the owner real well: “I called Jonathan, and it’s all set, Omar. He’s been keeping up with the protest, and he thinks it’s very cool. When you arrive, go to the back door and ring the buzzer. Tell whoever answers that you’re my student, and they will let you in,” he told me earlier today.

  His plan sounds all romantic and whatnot, but I adjust it a little, so I don’t reveal to Claudia exactly where we are. I want this to be a complete surprise, homegirl.

  We ring the buzzer, and a tall girl with long black-purple hair and oval-shaped glasses answers. I hold up a sheet of paper with the following words written in big black block letters:

  I’M OMAR SMALLS.

  MR. WASHINGTON SENT US.

  She looks at me like I’m the weird one, and then waves us in.

  “We’re almost there, Claudia,” I say, just to reassure her. The store is long and narrow, a hallway with shelves on each wall. It’s unlike any other bookstore I’ve ever been in. Actually, I haven’t been in a lot. There’s even a gray cat that runs in and out of the tiny rooms off the hallway. When we finally get to the main room, which is just a little bigger than Uncle Al’s van, the commotion ratchets up a bit.

  People are drinking red wine and talking. A guitarist sits in the corner playing music that I don’t recognize and don’t particularly care for.

  “Nice music,” homegirl says.

  Uncle Al’s van can comfortably seat about nine football players. I’ve done this a few times. The main room of this bookstore has fifty people crammed into it, and there are another couple hundred lined up outside.

  Everybody’s here for the author in brown slacks and a tan blazer, signing copies of his latest book. The famous author who goth girl is walking us over to right now. The pale-looking, pudgy, famous author dude who homegirl thinks is the Best. Frickin’. Writer. Ever.

  Claudia

  Most of my birthdays aren’t very memorable. My parents would have a cake, but we didn’t really get gifts. I spent most of my birthdays in soup kitchens or in church. They really believed in giving back. I guess when you really get down to it, a birthday is just another day. But out of all of my birthdays, which all seem to just blur together, there is one I will never forget: this one.

  OMIGOD. “OMIGOD, OMIGOD” is all I can manage to say. “This is not happening.”

  “I’m afraid it is, young lady,” he says to me in a voice that sounds a little like Forrest Gump, if Forrest Gump were a slow-talking college professor. I can’t even look at him.

  “Pat Conroy just spoke to me,” I say to Omar, still not looking at Mr. Conroy. “It’s Pat frickin’ Conroy.”

  “Yeah, I know, Claudia. I’m right here with you.” When Omar took off the bandanna, I immediately recognized Blue Bicycle Books. My sister’s book club gets all their books here.

  The summer after sophomore year, I was in a creative writing camp, and we had to read The Water Is Wide, a memoir by Pat Conroy.

  I borrowed it from the library, like I do most books, in case I don’t like them. And thank god I did, because I had some serious problems with it. I mean, I liked his writing, which is why I next read his incredible novel The Prince of Tides, but it was clear to me that Mr. Conroy should stick to fiction. When I got over being starstruck, I all but said this to him.

  “Mr. Conroy, I am so honored to meet you. I have read all of your books, except the cookbook, which my boyfriend just gave me. This is my boyfriend, Omar,” I ramble, putting my hand on his chest to point him out. “You are the best novelist I’ve read. I even wrote a paper on the tortured low-country souls who populate your books and how Shakespearean your work is. Of course, I wasn’t trying to compare you to the Bard, but you come pretty close. So here’s the thing, and I mean this in the most respectful way possible.

  “The Water Is Wide is all about YOU. It should have been about THEM. I am sure those children on Daufuskie Island contributed more to their growth and development than your memoir gives them credit for. As much as I applaud your desire to educate them, to teach them how the magic inside books can change their lives for the better, I am struck by your audacity. You were not their salvation. You were not their only hope. If it wasn’t you, it might have been someone else, or something else.

  “Change is a force, Mr. Conroy. You were an umbrella, an overcoat, perhaps shelter, but you were not the storm that washed away the poor natives’ sins. Make no mistake about it, those children, like me, like students in any disadvantaged situation, are very capable of changing their lot.

  “With that said, my boyfriend says that the recipes and stories in this new cookbook of yours are awesome. I hope that your memoir skills have improved and are on par with the rest of the book. Would you mind signing?” I hand him the book and then walk around the table to his side. “Omar, take a picture.”

  “Wow! I thought he was your favorite author,” Omar says to me as we walk back up King Street. We walk through Marion Square arm in arm, the moon our ceiling. We see some kids from school break-dancing on cardboard, parents pushing strollers, and a guy on a blanket reading a book. Glad the Charleston weather came back. This could be a beach night.

  “He is!”

  “Then why’d you dawg him out like that? You went all bananas on him.”

  “No, I didn’t. I just told him why I thought one of his books was a little suspect. The other twelve are frickin’ genius. I mean, if you saw Tim Tebow walking down the street, wouldn’t you be real with him?”

  “I hate Tim Tebow, but I’m not going off on him just because I think he’s overrated.”

  “See, that’s the difference between us, Omar. Claudia Clarke likes to keep it really real—feel me.” I tickle him. “Plus he gave me his number. Told me we should grab coffee sometime.”

  “You don’t even drink coffee.”

  “It’s metaphorical, Omar. I’ll get tea,” I say, laughing. “And what about all the people in there who recognized you from the silent protest. Did you see that one lady with the SHHHHH! T-shirt on?”

  “What was really crazy was when we walked outside, and the crowd started clapping and chanting, ‘We’re fired up, we can’t take no mo’.’”

  “You’re a star on and off the field, babe.”

  “True dat!”

  “Seriously, Omar, this was the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. You really got me. Do you treat all your girlfriends like this?”

  “Only the ones going to Harvard,” he says, and slaps me on the butt. “T-Diddy always does it big.”

  “Apparently.”

  “But it ain’t over.”

  “I know,” and I kiss him long and hard to let him know how appreciative I am. “Tonight is going to be another very special night for both of us, Omar Smalls.”

  It gets a little chilly walking up King Street, so Omar drapes me in his leather jacket.

  The street is bustling with students from the College of Charleston, all heading to the basketball game against their rivals, Charleston Southern. When we get to George Street, Omar pulls me around the corner. We start walking briskly, like we’re on the run. Maybe this is a part of his whole Mission: Impossible thing. So mysterious. He pulls me inside an art gallery.

  “Omar, what’s up?”

  “Uh, nothing, I just want to check those, uh, quilts.” Yeah, right. If we were playing the free game, the candle would probably die down a little. Maybe he saw a girl he knows, maybe not. Whatever, I’m not going to think about that kind of nonsense on my birthday night. “I’ll be right back,” he says. “What time is it, Claudia?”

  �
��Six forty-seven.”

  “We sure are doing a lot of walking tonight.”

  “Reducing our carbon footprints. T-Diddy is all about going green, homegirl.” This makes me laugh.

  “These heels are killing me.”

  “Killing me too, homegirl,” he says with that smile, then puts his arm around me, slips his huge palm where my back pocket would be if I had on jeans. Feels great.

  “That was a nice quilt exhibit, plus we got to meet the artist. Did you plan this for my birthday, or was it a co-incidence?”

  “T-Diddy plans everything. I figured you might have a thing for black mermaids, being that you’re all feminist and whatnot.”

  “I never knew there was such a thing as a black mermaid.”

  “Hang out with T-Diddy and you might learn a whole lot of new stuff.” He lifts me up with ease and hugs me. If I didn’t have on this long brown skirt, I’d probably lock my legs around him.

  We walk past Blue Bicycle Books again, and the line is even longer now. When we get to the corner, we turn right, and I try to remember which restaurants are down here. I’m eager to know where we’re going.

  This street is like a little cultural heaven. First, there’s a small French bakery that pretty much drags you in with its aroma. Then, there’s a Gullah-themed art gallery featuring mainly the works of this artist named Jonathan Green, who once spoke at our school. Next to that is an Italian gelateria that I’ve never been in. And next to that is our destination. Omar holds the door open for me and ushers me in.

  I’ve heard about Rue de Jean from my parents. They used to go here for their date nights. They raved about the food and how it reminded them of their favorite French restaurant in Montreal. How ironic that I am here for my first real date. This night just keeps on getting better and better.

  “Nice choice, Omar.”

  He winks at me.

  “How many in your party?” the hostess asks.