“Uggghh! You act like you still love him.” I take a sip of my chai latte and keep my eyes on the road. “If you do, trick, then talk to him.”
“Nothing to say. It’s gonna take a long time for me to talk to him, and even longer to trust another guy on the planet.”
“I heard Uranus had some good guys.”
“You’re stupid.” And we both laugh like we used to, before all the madness started. “As long as I don’t have to see him today, ya know.”
“I hear ya, girl. But just in case we do, I got my pepper spray.”
The first person I see when I walk into school is Omar Smalls. He looks different. It’s not like I forgot what he looked like, but I don’t see the guy who gave me the best birthday celebration ever. I see the ho. The playa. The guy who bet his friends a hundred fifty dollars that he could sleep with me. I immediately turn and walk down the stairs, past the band room, along the “detention” hallway that goes under the school, and come up the stairs near my government class. Mr. Washington is sitting at his desk.
“We missed you in class on Friday, Ms. Clarke.”
“Sorry about that. Rough day. I heard we had a quiz.”
“We did, but it was really to make sure everybody’s been doing the reading. I know I don’t have to worry about you doing the reading.” He didn’t, normally. But ever since I’ve been all up in Omar’s mix, I haven’t been as diligent with all my reading assignments as I should have been. I’ll catch up next weekend. Nothing to distract me now.
The bell rings.
On the way to my seat, I get all kinds of sympathy remarks from the students.
“Girl, you okay?”
“That was some messed up ish, Claudia.”
“T-Diddy did the same thing to my cousin last year. He’s a good football player, but he don’t know how to be good to no girls.”
When I hear this last comment, I want to come to his defense. Tell her how he came and changed my tire in the middle of the cold night. How he volunteers for Lucky Dog. How he made me a five-course dinner. How he learned French for me. How he introduced me to Pat Conroy.
“Play with fire, and you get burned. I tried to tell you, this here is a big-girl game. Know the rules, bish.” I turn around and see Eve walking toward my desk, gritting on me like a pit bull. I sit down and try to ignore her. Don’t worry, Claudia. She’s not going to touch you; Mr. Washington is right there, up front. She’s crazy, but she can’t be that stupid.
Turns out she is.
The palm of her hand feels like a hardcover book when it slams against the back of my head. When I hear it hit the floor, I realize it was a book. U.S. history. No she didn’t.
I jump up, forgetting the pain momentarily, and instead focus on protecting myself if she tries to come at me.
“Girl, what’s your problem. Are you crazy?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m crazy a’ight,” she screams, waving her hands all willy-nilly. Where is Mr. Washington? He’s got to see this! When Eve steps out of her sandals, a collective “ohhhhhh,” fills the class. “Claudia Clarke is about to get a beatdown,” somebody hollers.
She comes at me fierce and fast, her long and flaming-red-fingernailed hands flailing in the air, and before I know it, I’m back in tae kwon do camp. Sixth grade. I only made it to yellow belt, and the only thing I learned was how to block and punch. I’ve never tried it outside of the white uniform. Until today. I’m Claudia Clarke, the good girl. So when I block her wild blow with my left arm, and my right fist connects with her face like a hammer, everyone is in shock. Especially me. She slides to the floor like a holy roller in church. I drop my books, ready to do it again once she gets up.
“Who’s burned now, bish?” I scream at her, feeling like I’ve discovered the Pam Grier in me. It feels kinda great. But before I can stomp on her, or whatever two years of martial arts and six years of pent-up, raw, unadulterated, pure hatred of her was dictating me to do, Mr. Washington separates us. Now he shows up.
“Stop it this minute, both of you.”
“Both of us?” Eve says, standing up. “She’s the one who punched me.” I see blood dripping from her hand, which is covering her eye, and I feel a little bad. Only a little.
Mr. Washington instructs a couple of students to take Eve to the nurse’s office—before he realizes that there is no nurse’s office. It got cut in last year’s budget deficit.
I run and get the first-aid kit and give it to Mr. W.
“Even a prison has a nurse,” he screams. “This damn school is worse than a prison. Shit! Shit! Shit!”
“Well, it’s a good thing you don’t have to be locked up in here anymore,” says a voice behind us. Standing in the doorway is Principal Jackson, aka Cruella, and some young white dude in a corduroy suit who none of us recognize.
“Uh, Dr. Jackson, we’re all just a little discombobulated. What can I help you with?” Mr. Washington asks, still treating Eve, who is, justifiably, still gritting on me.
“Actually, there is nothing you can help me with. Is that blood? Was someone fighting in here, Mr. Washington?” The room grows quieter than it was before.
“There was no fight. Eve just, um, stumbled on her way to her desk and hit the corner of the desk. It was ugly.” Eve looks at me and I know she won’t say anything, because Cru has a rule that fighting is an automatic one-week suspension, whether you’re the fighter or the fightee. So we both keep quiet.
“She fell on her eye?” Dr. Jackson asks suspiciously. “Oh, never mind, just have some of your students get it cleaned up.”
“Will do.”
“In the meantime, can you step out in the hallway for a minute, Mr. Washington? There is something we need to discuss.” The entire class stares at Dr. Jackson and then at Mr. Washington.
“I’m a little busy here. As soon as I finish, I’ll come down to your office,” he responds.
“Unacceptable. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. I need to speak with you this moment.” Mr. W ignores her, still tending to evil Eve’s busted eye.
“Fine. Someone get some ice from the cafeteria,” he says to no one in particular, while shooting me a disappointed look. He hands the first-aid kit to another student. I head for the cafeteria, and he follows Cruella into the hallway. While I’m walking away, I can hear snippets of their conversation: “. . . insubordination . . . the school board voted . . . so many complaints about you . . .”
I do hear Mr. Washington’s response loud and clear.
“Bullshit,” he yells. Something’s going down, and it’s not good. I grab the ice and run back to class. I see Cruella talking to another teacher, and the white guy in the corduroy suit standing outside the door. Inside, Mr. Washington is talking to the class:
“I’m being laid off. A substitute will take over class until they reassign one of the existing teachers to this class.”
“No way, Mr. W,” says one student.
“That’s ill—how long before you leave?” asks another.
“I have fifteen minutes to exit the building. The guy standing in the hall is my escort.”
I run outside and see Dr. Jackson walking away. “This isn’t fair,” I yell. She whips her head around so fast, it takes a second for her body to catch up.
“Ms. Clarke, I’ve had about enough of you and your antics these past few weeks. If I were you, I’d keep quiet.”
“I will not,” I say defiantly. This is not the best week, and it’s the worst frickin’ day to try to silence me. Oh hells no!
“Well then, you can pack your proverbial bags also, because you’re suspended for the day. Want to try for two?”
Before I tell her hell yeah, I hear a loud commotion from Mr. Washington’s room. I rush back inside.
“Hey, check this out. Kids are leaving.” Leaving?
“Yeah, they’re all walking onto the lawn.”
Cruella apparently followed me, because she rushes over to the window. Several students follow. Mr. Washington and I, and the rest
of the class, go over as well, and sure enough, there’s got to be a hundred students outside, and more are coming. What’s going on?
“Oh, snap, y’all, I just checked FB on my phone,” Tami hollers. “Listen to this: ‘The governor and her flunkies on the school board didn’t take us serious. They just fired a bunch of our favorite teachers. Let’s show them how we do. Meet me on the lawn. Not later. Not tomorrow. Now. ASAP. Oh, it’s going down. Speak up now!’”
“Who wrote that, Ms. Hill?” Cru asks with a stern look.
But Tami doesn’t need to answer, because everybody knows who wrote it. And when we look out the window at the guy standing on top of a picnic bench, it’s confirmed. There he is, looking like Dr. Martin frickin’ Luther King in jeans and Timberlands, standing on the mountaintop. Within seconds, our class is empty.
Damn you, Omar Smalls.
Omar
I pop a few more sunflower seeds in my mouth, take a swig of Mountain Dew, and put both back inside my locker.
“YoT-DiddyThereIsYourGirlComingInTheDoor.”
“Where?” I turn around quick, and sure enough, homegirl is in the hallway. I shoot past Fast Freddie and Willie Mack, and about twenty other people, like I’m running down the sidelines toward the end zone. Unfortunately, I see Cru barking in the hallways like she does every morning. The wicked witch has already got it in for me, and I know I better stop running before I get ISS.
This is my chance to talk to her, see if she read the letter I left on her windshield.
I briskly walk past Dr. Jackson, avoiding eye contact, but by the time I get to the school’s entrance, Claudia is gone. I look behind me, in front of me, to the side, outside, but there is no sign of her.
Even though I’m standing in the middle of my school, in the middle of the school that I put on the map. Even though I’m that dude, I feel lost.
The bell rings, and I’m frozen.
“YoTWhere’dSheGo? YouA’ight?”
“Let’s go” is all I can say, as we head to class.
As Fast Freddie, Willie Mack, and I pass the library, I see Dr. Jackson coming out of our class, heading in the opposite direction. She’s smiling, for once. Still, I slow my pace, so I won’t run into her. Ms. Stanley, the librarian, stumbles out of the library with her coat on, crying, barely able to hold the box she’s carrying.
“Let me get that for you, Ms. Stanley.” I take it from her and hand it to Fast Freddie. “You okay?”
“I’m okay.”
“ThenWhyYouCrying?”
“T-Diddy, the school board bootlegged us. They just pink-slipped Ms. Stanley and a whole bunch of teachers,” Luther runs up to us and says.
“They laid us—” Ms. Stanley says, still unable to get out a whole thought without bawling.
“Oh hell no,” I say, like I’m in the huddle and we’re down. “Ms. Stanley, keep your head up. We got you! Fred, Luther, let’s roll.”
“WhatWeDoingKid?”
“It’s going down today, believe that. Pull out your phones.” We’re not supposed to have phones in school, but everybody has them—in pockets, in backpack secret compartments, in bras. I pull mine from my sock. “It’s overtime, people. First they take our band, our music, now they take our favorite teachers. What’s next, they gonna cancel lunch to save money?”
“What’s the plan, Omar?” Luther asks. I have no idea what we’re going to do, but I know that we aren’t going to allow Cru and these clueless school board people to mess with our futures anymore. Where did all these people in the hallway come from?
“Meet me out on the lawn right now! Tweet it, post it, text it, scream it. Put the word out. We are going to turn this mutha out. Y’all feel me.” Judging by the commotion and loud applause in the hallway, they do. Fingers are tapping away on cell phones. Everybody’s spreading the word. Oh, it’s definitely going down.
“LEGGGGOOO!” screams Fast Freddie, and everyone in the hallway heads outside. The word gets around fast, because students are already outside, before us. Oh yeah, it’s on now.
Outside, the weather is perfect for whatever it is we’re about to get into. Sunny and almost seventy degrees; this Charleston weather is as fickle as a Brooklyn bus schedule.
Half the school is outside. I know Cru and her staff must be tripping right about now. And more students are exiting the building. It’s pep-rally crazy out here, and now I have to figure out what the plan is. I jump up on a picnic bench and glimpse a sea of West Charleston faces in front of me. Getting antsy, they holler and scream.
“WHAT WE GONNA DO, T-DIDDY?”
“WE FIRED UP!”
“WHY DID THEY FIRE THE TEACHERS?”
“I THOUGHT WE WON THE SILENT PROTEST!”
I scan the crowd and see Fast Freddie and Willie Mack right in front, Blu talking to Luther, kids in SHHHHH! T-shirts. But I don’t see homegirl. Last time I did this, she was up here with me. C’mon, son, you got this.
The crowd quiets down and everyone looks at me, waiting for their marching orders.
“Those who want freedom, and yet fear agitation” is how I begin, because I remember Clyfe saying it yesterday, although the word he used wasn’t “fear,” it was “deprecate,” but none of these jokers probably know what it means. Heck, I don’t even know. “They are men and women who want crops without plowing the ground, they want rain without thunder and lightning, They want the ocean without the roar of the waters,” I shout. The ocean. Remember the ocean, T?
“Preach!” somebody screams from the crowd.
“It’s about to be a storm up in here,” hollers somebody else.
“That’sMyDawg!” screams Fast Freddie.
“Y’all feel me.” I’m getting amped, right along with the students. Oh yeah, it’s on now.
“We tried to be quiet, but they didn’t hear us. So now we’re gonna get in their faces. We’re gonna get loud,” I say, and that’s when the idea hits me.
Uncle Al once told me about the time when he was a student at Howard University and the students staged a sit-in protest in the administration building. They were protesting the expulsion of like thirty-eight students. I don’t remember what for, but I do remember they occupied the administration building and they won.
“The school board wants to disrupt our education with a bunch of bullshit moves, then let’s disrupt their ish. We’re taking our fight to their front door.”
The roar makes the ground tremble, which makes the picnic table wobble. These kids are fired up fo’ sho.
“How are we gonna get there, Omar?”
“We’re gonna march, like they used to do in the old days,” I answer, feeling like I’m on a mission and can’t nobody break my stride.
“Walk?” screams somebody from the crowd, and then all kinds of moans and groans start.
“That’s like ten miles, dawg.”
“Ain’t nobody trying to march ten miles.”
I admit I hadn’t really thought the whole marching thing through. I don’t even run three in practice.
“I’m driving my truck! Who wants a ride?” yells a kid from the back of the crowd.
“A’ight, that’s what’s up. It’s not about the march anyway. Y’all get there however. Just meet me on the steps of the school board building in like twenty minutes. LEGGGOO!”
Kids start dispersing. I jump down and make my way over to Fast Freddie and Willie Mack.
“Willie, can you drive?”
“You got gas money?”
“WeTryingToPlanARevolutionAndThisWoadieTalkingAboutGas!”
“C’mon, son, I got you. Let’s do this.”
We make our way over to Willie’s Honda and jump in. Actually, we don’t jump in just yet, because we have to push-start that baby. When we get it moving, we all jump in.
“T, this ain’t no innocent school-type ish anymore. We’re about to break the law.”
“IGotYourBackButYouSureWeWantToDisturbThePeace.”
I wasn’t so sure when I said it, but looking in the
side-view mirror, I know I’m doing the right thing. There, driving her latchkey car, following us, is homegirl.
I have never been so sure about anything in my life.
Claudia
Channel7News@7News: Omar Smalls, W. Charleston HS take over Administration building: See video here #7News #SilentTreatment
It’s got to be at least a thousand people out here. But only half are from our school. I’ve seen kids I recognize from other bands: Burke, Mount Pleasant, even Bayside. It’s almost six o’clock, which means we’ve been out here for nine hours. With all the chanting, singing, talking, and laughing, and the barrage of TV reporters interviewing any and everybody, the time has gone by pretty quick, though. Still, I can feel the evening chill coming.
There’s twelve of us, lined up in front of the building doors, locked arm in arm. One of the reporters from News Channel Seven called us the Panther Twelve. Omar is on one end, I’m on the other. I still haven’t spoken to him. Everyone else is seated on the steps, on cars, across the street in the park, in trees, everywhere but in the street, where the armed cops are directing traffic and waving their batons and pepper-spray containers. I’m convinced that the only reason they haven’t bum-rushed us is because of the dozens of newspaper and TV people swarming the protest.
Not a single school board member has shown up to acknowledge us, address our demands. Granted, they can’t get out the front door, because we’re blocking it, but I’m sure there are other ways to exit the building. A lot of teachers are here, and not just from our school. The coolest thing is that a lot of local celebrities and community people have stopped by to show us love.
Still, I wonder how much longer everyone will last, with the weather changing and no food. My stomach has growled a few times. I bet you the school board people think we’re going to get too tired or hungry to keep this up. I hope they’re wrong.
When Omar wasn’t looking at me, one time while he was being interviewed, I looked into his eyes, and for the first time in many days, I saw a glimpse of the guy I was starting to really like.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m still pissed. Mainly at myself, for trusting him, for believing that he could be anything more than a football-playing hustler. He wrote me some sappy love letter, but I’m not playing the fool twice.
He Said, She Said Page 18
