Way Too Much Drama

by Earl Sewell

  “Come on. Let’s go,” I suggested before the librarian came along and asked LaShaunda to lower her voice. If that happened, I feared LaShaunda would become even more enraged. As we walked home, she asked me about the merchandise we’d stolen a few days earlier.

  “So what’s the deal? When are we going to go pawn that stuff and get the cash, and when will you give me one of the new phones you took—I may not be able to turn it on but I can at least have a phone that takes pictures,” she continued, gesturing with her hands.

  “I told you. I’m grounded right now and can’t leave the house. My aunt and uncle have me on a short leash.”

  “Tell them to go to hell! You got business to handle.”

  LaShaunda assumed that I could do or say anything to my aunt and uncle without fear of consequences. Sure, I didn’t like living there, but I wasn’t ready to tell either of them to go jump off a bridge, at least not yet.

  “Just relax. We’ll get the money for the merchandise. You have to trust me.”

  “I need money, Viviana. I’m going crazy living in the house with my foster mom and her boyfriend. That guy looks at me and I can tell that he’s undressing me. I swear, if that fool touches me, I’m going to commit a homicide.” She made a fist with one hand and slapped the palm of her other one.

  “Why don’t you call the social worker and report him?”

  “Those social workers don’t care! I’m just a damn case number to them and a check to my foster mom. By the time my social worker gets around to dealing with this, an entire school year will have gone by. They’re slow. As long as I haven’t been shot, raped or part of a felony, they’re not going to do much to rock the boat,” LaShaunda argued.

  “What do you need the money for?” I asked. LaShaunda stopped walking, then turned to look at me.

  “Look at my clothes, Viviana. I’m walking around the school wearing stuff from the 1980s. My foster mom only shops at thrift stores. Even if I had grown up in the 1980s I would not have been caught dead wearing leg warmers. I’m not trying to look like Madonna. Lady GaGa has already taken that job. Besides, I need to buy me some personal stuff because my foster mom uses whatever from the Stone Age, and the granny panties that she buys makes me feel like I have on a giant diaper.”

  “Oh,” I replied, picking up on what she meant. “I have about twenty bucks. Take it and do what you need to do. You don’t have to pay me back,” I said, reaching into my purse and handing her the money.

  “Seriously? You’re just going to give me twenty dollars?” She seemed both surprised and pleased.

  “It’s the least I can do for you helping me out when I was being attacked by Toya,” I said with a smile.

  “You’re all right with me,” LaShaunda said and bobbed her head approvingly. We had just turned a corner and began walking down a side street. “Look, I got this crazy idea that I’m working on, that I want you to be part of.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell you right now because I’m still working out all the details. But, if I could show you a lifestyle where you could live freely and not worry about people trying to run your life, would you be interested?”

  “God, yes,” I said, hoping she’d tell me more.

  “Okay. I’ll fill you in when the time is right.” She grinned at me.

  “Cool. I’d better get into the house.”

  “Yeah. I’m going to head up to the pharmacy. Peace.” She tossed up two fingers.

  seventeen

  MAYA

  Keysha and I were walking up the back stairwell. We were headed to our history class. When we made it to the second floor, I noticed that the hallway seemed noisier than usual. The sound of books being dropped on the floor was a constant sound, as well as the sounds of locker doors slamming and a thousand voices talking all at once.

  “You know the homecoming dance is coming up in October,” Keysha said.

  “And,” I responded, wanting to know why she had brought up the subject.

  “Well, I’m sort of hoping Wesley will ask me to go.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he will. Especially now that he is back on your good side,” I said.

  “Do you think I should give him a hint, you know, just to make sure he asks?”

  “That’s up to you.” I thought about Misalo. “Misalo asked me out to lunch yesterday.”

  “Really? Are you going?”

  “No. I told him that I would not go until I got a real apology from him,” I said.

  “What would he have to do for you to believe and forgive him?”

  I thought about her question for a moment. “Say that he’s sorry and promise he will never treat me like crap again, and really mean it.”

  “Maybe you should tell him that. You know guys are really clueless when it comes to stuff like that.”

  “How do you know how boys think?” I questioned her.

  “I spent hours at the swimming pool reading books and articles on guys and relationships, remember.” She chuckled sarcastically as we entered our classroom. We took our seats and I took out my heavy history book. “Look at that.” She pointed to a message that Mr. Morgan had written on the blackboard.

  “Win ten thousand dollars in prizes and scholarship money,” I repeated, reading what was written on the board.

  “What do you think that is?”

  “I have no idea,” I said, repositioning myself in my row. Mr. Morgan entered the room and shut the door behind him. As he walked toward his desk, he took a sip of the coffee he carried in a mug and then took a seat. He began taking attendance. Once that was done, he explained the message on the blackboard.

  “I wanted to bring to everyone’s attention that tryouts for the High School District Quiz Show Team are now open,” he said.

  “What’s that?” asked Viviana.

  “Duh! It’s a quiz show,” I said, not wanting to pass up the opportunity to bruise her self-esteem. She glanced at me, and I saw the flames of revulsion flickering in her eyes.

  “It’s a quiz show,” Mr. Morgan continued. “Four students will have a chance to represent Thornwood High School in the district competition. If our team wins the district competition, each student will receive twenty-five hundred dollars in scholarship money and advance to the regional competition. If we win the regionals, then each student will receive five thousand dollars in scholarship money and a new laptop computer, and then we advance to the national competition. The final show will be hosted by a Hollywood celebrity.”

  “Ooh! Who?” asked Red from across the room.

  “Let’s see.” Mr. Morgan opened a folder that was on his desk and glanced at it.

  “Last year’s host was a guy named Common,” he said.

  “Ooh! We get to meet Common?” asked Viviana.

  “No, you won’t get to meet Common because you’d never make the team.” I took another shot at her.

  “Well, that makes two of us,” she fired back.

  “Ladies, cut it out,” Mr. Morgan warned us before he continued. “Last year Thornwood made it to the regionals, but lost to a high school from Cleveland, Ohio.”

  “So how do you try out?” asked Keysha.

  “Tryouts will be held tomorrow after school in the auditorium. Those of you who are interested, please come. There will be a mock show set up similar to what we did in class yesterday. The top four students will make the team.”

  I leaned in closer to Keysha and whispered, “Are you thinking about trying out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “It seems like a lot of fun. Besides, I have all of this useless information I’ve been storing in my head. I might as well put it to good use, and it would be something different.”

  “So you’re not going to try out for th
e school play?” I asked.

  “The quiz show sounds more exciting,” Keysha said. “Excuse me, Mr. Morgan.” Keysha raised her hand.

  “Yes, Keysha,” he acknowledged her.

  “Where will the competitions be held?” she asked.

  “There will be eight district competitions that will be held within area high schools. Regionals will be held in Cincinnati, Ohio, and nationals will be held in Washington, D.C. Did I mention that the top schools will also get a tour of the White House?”

  “Really!” I squealed and clapped my hands in delight.

  “For those who make the team, practice sessions will be held after school in the library for one hour. Please raise your hand if you plan to try out for the show,” instructed Mr. Morgan. I glanced around the room. Keysha’s hand was raised, and so were Viviana’s and Red’s. A few other students had their hands raised, as well. To my utter shock, when I looked at the back of the room, I saw that Misalo’s hand was also up. Our eyes met and he winked at me.

  “Get a life,” I muttered softly.

  “Raise your hand,” Keysha insisted.

  “I’m not sure if I want to do it,” I said.

  “Think about it. If you and Misalo make the team, you’ll see more of each other,” Keysha pointed out.

  “That is very true,” I agreed and raised my hand to be counted.

  The following day after school, Keysha and I walked over to the auditorium. I had no idea if I should try out, but at the same time I was excited about participating. As we walked down the hall toward the auditorium, I heard someone call my name. I turned around and saw Misalo and Wesley approaching.

  “Oh, God,” I grumbled.

  “Are you heading over to try out for the show?” Misalo asked.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Hi, Maya,” Wesley greeted me as he leaned toward Keysha and playfully bumped his shoulder against hers.

  “Hi, Wesley,” I said as I kept moving forward.

  “Do you think you’ll make the team?” Misalo asked.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “So why aren’t you with Viviana?” I knew my question would sting before I asked. A remorseful look spread across Misalo’s face. He didn’t say anything and I knew that he had lost any words he had prepared to speak in his mouth.

  “I’ve moved on, Maya,” he answered. “I’m sorry for everything I’ve done to hurt you. I was dumb. I was stupid and I was stubborn.” Misalo walked ahead of everyone to pull open and hold the door for us. As I walked past him, I began to believe that the words coming from his mouth were sincere. After we signed in, we all took seats in the third row back from the stage. A few minutes later, I saw Viviana walk in with LaShaunda, who was wearing a baseball cap, baggy blue jeans and an oversize shirt.

  I craned my neck and whispered to Keysha, “Hood rat alert.”

  “Please tell me that when I first moved out here that I didn’t look like her.” Keysha pointed to LaShaunda.

  Chuckling, I said, “You were just rough around the edges. That chick has jagged edges.” As I glanced around the auditorium, I counted eighteen students. I knew then that making the team would not be an easy task.

  “Okay, let me have your attention.” Mr. Morgan took center stage. He adjusted his slacks, took a deep breath and began. “Thank you for coming to the tryouts. Everyone will be called up to the stage individually and will be asked four questions worth ten points each. The questions will be on various topics. Once you’ve answered the questions, you are free to go. Only four students will make the team. In the event of a tie, those students with the highest scores will come back for another round, and a winner will be determined. Any questions?” No one raised their hand. “Okay. I’ve taken the sign-in sheet, and I’m just going to go down the list.”

  We sat and listened as students tried to answer some very tough questions, many of which I didn’t know the answer to. Keysha and Misalo knew a few, but that wasn’t very comforting.

  “Viviana,” Mr. Morgan called. I glanced in her direction and noticed that her friend, LaShaunda, looked as if she were about to doze off to sleep. Clearly this wasn’t her idea of fun. Viviana walked onto the stage and stood in front of the judges. The librarian asked the first question.

  “‘Call me Ishmael’ is the first line of what Herman Melville novel?” she asked. Viviana paused and shifted her eyes several times as she searched her mind for the answer.

  “Moby-Dick,” she answered.

  “Next question. What television visionary created the hippest trip in America, Soul Train?” Again, Viviana paused and searched her mind for the answer. She kept tapping her hand against her thigh like a nervous jackrabbit.

  “Don Cornelius,” she answered.

  “Next question. Of the four presidents carved into Mount Rushmore, who is the only one depicted with a mustache?”

  Misalo leaned closer to me and whispered, “Teddy Roosevelt.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “I had to write a paper on him,” he explained.

  “By the way, I meant to ask you. How are you going to play soccer if you make this team?”

  “I’m not playing this year,” he answered.

  “Really? Why?”

  “Doctor’s orders. I have iliotibial band syndrome,” he said.

  “What is that?”

  “Knee and hip problems. They’re old injuries that have flared up,” he said and then nodded toward Viviana who still had not answered the question.

  “Uhm,” Viviana stalled. “Roosevelt, the first one, not the second one.”

  “Okay. Final question. Charles Darwin is buried next to Sir Isaac Newton in what famous London cemetery?”

  “Do you know the answer?” Keysha asked.

  “I have no idea,” I admitted. “Do you?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “Okay, are you like a genius or something? How do you know this stuff?”

  “I told you. My head is filled with all types of crazy information. I’m not sure how it all got there.”

  “Westminster Abbey,” Viviana answered.

  “Was that the right answer?” I asked Keysha.

  “Yes,” Keysha said.

  “Jeez,” I said sarcastically.

  “Okay, Viviana, you may go,” said Mr. Morgan. Viviana walked back to her seat, woke up her friend and then left.

  “Keysha, your turn,” said Mr. Morgan.

  “Wish me luck,” Keysha said.

  “You’ll do fine,” I assured her. Just as Viviana had done, Keysha took center stage and waited for the questions to be asked.

  Mr. Morgan asked, “What is the largest denomination of U.S. currency in circulation today?”

  “The one-hundred-dollar bill,” Keysha answered.

  “Next question. What queen sponsored the transatlantic voyage of Christopher Columbus?”

  “Queen Isabella,” Keysha answered.

  “Next question. What 30 Rock star wrote the book Bossypants?”

  Keysha paused and then slowly said, “Tina Fey.” I could tell she wasn’t certain of her answer.

  “Last question,” said Mr. Morgan. “In 1960, what singer caused a national craze with his hit song, ‘The Twist’?”

  “Uhm.” Keysha paused then began snapping her fingers hoping an answer would come. “Little Richard,” she answered.

  “No. The correct answer is Chubby Checker. Thank you, Keysha. You may go.”

  Twenty minutes later I walked out of the auditorium with sweaty palms. Keysha was waiting for me in the hallway and asked how my round went.

  “That was hard,” I complained as we walked toward an exit.

  “Tell me about it. I felt like my brain froze up,” said Keysha.

 
“The questions made me feel like I didn’t know anything,” I said.

  “What questions were you asked?” Keysha said.

  “Well, I know that I got one of them right. I was asked what the name of Spider-Man’s alter ego is. I was like, duh, Peter Parker. Then Mr. Morgan switched and asked, ‘In what film does Marlon Brando say that I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse?’ First off, I was like, who is Marlon Brando? I guessed and said Step Up. Then I was asked who painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”

  “You knew that one, didn’t you?” Keysha asked.

  “Michelangelo, right?” I looked at her to confirm my answer.

  “Yep,” Keysha agreed.

  “Anyway, I don’t remember what the other question was. I was just happy to get off the stage,” I joked as we exited the building.

  “Hey, guys, wait,” I heard a voice shout from behind us. Once again it was Misalo and Wesley running to catch up. When I looked at Misalo, I noticed that he was limping. I assumed it was due to the injury he’d mentioned.

  “Why didn’t you guys wait?” asked Wesley.

  “I was ready to go,” I answered.

  “Do you want to know how I did?” Misalo asked.

  “He was a beast up there,” Wesley spoke for him. “He was asked questions about American sports.”

  “Oh,” I said, not all that impressed.

  “Do you guys want to hang out?” Misalo eagerly asked.

  “No. I’ve got to get home.”

  “Yeah, so do I,” said Keysha.

  “Besides, the month of September is almost over, and the temperature has begun to turn cooler. I’d end up complaining about how cold it is if we just hung out at a park or something,” I said, rubbing my arms, which had goose bumps from a drafty breeze coming from an open door behind me.

  “Wesley?” Misalo looked at him, but was clearly disappointed that I had refused to hang out with him.

  “Sure. Do you want to grab some pizza?” Wesley asked Misalo.

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” said Misalo. They said goodbye and walked in the opposite direction. Keysha and I continued on.