Kenny Wright

by James Patterson

  “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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  I don’t get it. It’s not like I’m the biggest brain. I’m not a butt-kisser like Lucinda Morehead, either. And I know for a fact that some of the other kids live with their grandmas—including Quaashie R. So how come I’m the official school punching bag?

  Weirdly enough, that’s when I start thinking about Ray-Ray. He’s even skinnier than I am. He’s hyper as one of those elementary school shorties. And he’s totally annoying. But people don’t ride him the way they do me.

  Even when someone does mess with Ray-Ray, it’s like he doesn’t even care. Like nothing ever bothers him. And I’m thinking, How does he pull that off? What’s his secret?

  On the real—I wish I was more like that.

  Which is the weirdest thought of all.

  I mean, if you’d told me at the beginning of the school year that I’d ever want to be anything like Ray-Ray Powell, I’d have said you were crazy. Straight bananas. Nuttier than one of G-ma’s pecan pies, with extra nuts.

  But guess what I’m figuring out real quick? Middle school’s crazy, too. And nutty isn’t always the same thing as wrong. Sometimes in life, you have to get in where you fit in. We just went over this in science. It’s called adaptation. If your environment changes, guess what? You better change, or else.

  So now here I am, actually wanting something from Ray-Ray, if I can get it. And like it or not, there’s only one way to find out.

  I’m going to have to ask.

  I WAIT UNTIL we’re playing chess the next day, so we’re good and alone. I don’t want any witnesses for this.

  We’re about halfway into our first game. Ray-Ray’s trying to figure out his next move. I even left my rook wide open on purpose, but he doesn’t see it.

  “I need to ask you something,” I say. “But don’t get all excited about it, okay?”

  “How come?” he says. He’s already excited. The thing with Ray-Ray is, he’s kind of like a blender with no off switch. There’s just fast, faster, and fastest. He probably ought to be on one of those prescriptions, but I don’t think Ray-Ray gets to the doctor too much. His teeth are messed up, too. Jacked. Looks like he chews rocks for breakfast. Every morning.

  “You know how you’re always saying I shouldn’t let people mess with me?” I say.

  “Yeah?” Ray-Ray says. “What about it?”

  “Well, don’t let this go to your head, but I was sort of wondering if you could maybe…you know. Tell me how,” I say.

  Ray-Ray just shrugs. “It’s like you expe
ct it to go down, and it shows. Looking scared’s the same thing as being scared. You got it?”

  “If I got it, I wouldn’t be asking you,” I say. How am I supposed to just not be scared of someone bigger than me? It’s not like I can turn it off and on, or run down to the corner store for some guts.

  That’s when Ray-Ray starts to get some kind of new idea. I can see it on his face, like he just won a hundred bucks on a scratch-off ticket.

  “So that’s how we’re gonna do it? You give me lessons, I give you lessons? That’s the new routine, bamma?” he says.

  “Who said anything about lessons?” I say. “Just tell me what to do.”

  “Yeah, right.” He sits back and points at the chessboard. “’Cause you’re just gonna tell me how to play chess, huh?”

  I’m starting to think this was a bad idea. Not because Ray-Ray’s wrong. But because he’s right. If I’m going to toughen up, I’m going to need some kind of practice.

  “I know exactly where to start, too,” Ray-Ray says. Already, he’s pulling out this phone I didn’t even know he had, and he starts tapping away.

  “Hang on,” I say. “What are you doing?”

  “You’ll see. It’s a surprise,” he tells me.

  And speaking of surprises, he leans in then and slides his queen all the way across the board to take out my rook.

  “Bet you didn’t think I saw that, did you?” he says.

  Nope. I definitely didn’t.

  But then again, it seems like there’s a lot of things I don’t see coming these days.

  JUST BEFORE 4:15, RAY-RAY starts putting the chess stuff away.

  “Come on,” he says. “It’s almost time.”

  “Time for what?” I say.

  He doesn’t wait for me, though. He just walks right out of the room and leaves me standing there. Part of me thinks I should let him go. You never know what’s going to happen next with Ray-Ray, and I don’t mean that in a good way.

  But I’m curious, too. And I did ask for his help. So I pack up the rest of the chess stuff and head out after him.

  When I get into the hall, Ray-Ray’s right there.

  “What are you doing?” I say.

  “Waiting,” he says.

  A second later, the detention room door opens, and the D-Squad for that day comes pouring out, like the Nationals on opening day. I see Dwayne, and Vanessa, and Jerome and Tiny, too.

  “I don’t want any trouble, Ray-Ray,” I say.

  “Ain’t gonna be any,” he says. “Just the opposite. You remember I said how you’re always acting like one of those pawns, just waiting to get picked off?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, get ready to meet the king,” he says. “Watch and learn, son.”

  Then he starts moving again, heading up the hall just ahead of everyone else.

  When we get outside, there’s this black Jeep sitting out front. The stereo is knockin’! It’s a track from Wale’s first album. I can feel the bass in my chest all the way from the curb. The Jeep’s right in the place where you’re not supposed to park, and it’s got two bad-looking dudes in the front seat. The one on the passenger side looks a little bit like Ray-Ray.

  “What’s good, Nick?!” Ray-Ray yells out, and keeps walking toward them.

  That’s when I figure out who “the king” is. It’s Nicky Powell. The Nicky Powell. I can still remember the way Dele and Vashon bugged out when they found out Nicky was Ray-Ray’s brother.

  Which of course makes me even more nervous. What’s someone like me supposed to say to someone like that?

  Nicky looks me up and down when we get over to the car. Then he turns the stereo down, but I can still feel the whoomp-whoomp-whoomp-whoomp vibrating in my ears.

  “This is Kenny,” Ray-Ray says. He’s standing on one foot and kind of bouncing up and down. It’s this weird habit of his.

  “Chill, Ray-Ray,” Nicky says, and Ray-Ray puts his other foot down. You can tell he thinks Nicky’s “that dude,” because Ray-Ray never does anything anyone tells him.

  “You the one who’s teaching Ray-Ray chess?” Nicky says in a slow, cool drawl. He sounds like one of those late-night radio DJs, but cooler. I wish I had that voice.

  “Yeah,” I say. At least I know how to answer that one.

  “Thanks, man. I owe you.” Nicky reaches out the window and gives me a pound. “Hop in. My man Trayvon can give you a ride,” he says.

  The guy behind the wheel hasn’t looked at me once. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. But I do know what G-ma would have to say about all this.

  “That’s okay,” I say. “It’s not that far, and my grandma likes me to walk straight home.”

  Nicky looks at me now, the same way Ray-Ray does sometimes. Like I’m some kind of charity case.

  “We’re working on it,” Ray-Ray tells him. “Yo, Kenny, you’ve got an audience. You want to hang here with them, or you want to roll with us?”

  I start to turn around and look, but Ray-Ray puts a hand on my neck.

  “Just pretend they’re not there,” he says. “Like you couldn’t care less—got it?”

  I got it, all right. I just figured out that Ray-Ray’s doing me a world-class solid here—introducing me to Nicky Powell, right in front of the D-Squad. I’ll bet this is frying Tiny’s brain into a crisp like cheap bacon. You know, the kind that shrivels all the way down until it looks like a stick of gum.

  And either way, he’s right. The last thing I want right now is to get left alone with that crew. So when Ray-Ray opens the car door, I go ahead and get in behind him. Then Trayvon pulls away from the curb, fast and loud. Wale spits the second verse of the track that I can’t remember the name of but that will come back to me sometime later today.

  I never look back. Not even once.

  But I sure do want to.

  ABOUT FIVE SECONDS later, I start to wonder if I’ve just made a huge mistake.

  This is definitely not the kind of thing a Grandma’s Boy would do. But is that a good thing…or not?

  “I don’t live very far,” I tell Trayvon. “It’s just up on—”

  “Sit tight,” Nicky says. “We’re going to make a quick stop first.”

  What the what!?! Now even my sweat’s starting to sweat. Quick stop? What exactly is that supposed to mean?

  Or do I even want to know?

  The whole time we’re driving, Nicky doesn’t look back at us once. Trayvon hasn’t said a word, either. Before I know it, Trayvon screeches up to the curb, and Nicky hops out with his hands in his pockets. “Hold it down, Tray. This won’t take but a minute,” he says.

  I look up at the storefront—and we’re outside Ben’s Chili Bowl, a DC institution. They make, by far, THE best chili dogs this side of the universe. No lie. Forget about those wannabe dogs that your mother just slops together. These babies are like heaven…in a bun…covered in chili and onions.

  After about twenty minutes, Nicky comes back out with a sack full of chili cheese dogs, maybe a dozen, plus chili fries and milk shakes. Milk shakes, man!

  Nicky hands Trayvon the sack. He cracks a smile and then says, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. A brotha is hungry!” So I guess he can talk, after all.

  When Nicky passes us a couple of straws and our milk shakes in the backseat, he looks at me kind of funny.

  “What’s the matter, Chess Man?” he says. “You expecting we were going to rob a bank or something?”

  “Nah,” I say, real quick. I laugh, too, but it comes out wrong—kind of like a goat. I’m trying to act like I hang out with dudes like them all the time, but mostly I’m just coming off as lame. A real bamma.

  I figure Ray-Ray’s going to make fun of me, too, but he’s got his big mouth stuffed with chili dogs. Trayvon doesn’t even look back and tosses two chili dogs in my lap. There aren’t any fries left. Ray-Ray already took all those, but I’m not going to complain. For one thing, G-ma hardly ever lets me eat this stuff, and for another—I’M STILL ALIVE.
I’d call that two for two.

  As soon as we’re back on the block, I tell Trayvon he can let me out on the corner. “I’ll just walk the rest of the way,” I say. I’m done taking chances for the day.

  “Congratulations,” Ray-Ray says, looking at me on the sidewalk.

  “For what?” I say.

  Whatever he says back, I don’t even hear it. Trayvon peels out and the smell of burnt rubber fills my nose. The speakers are knocking that new Rick Ross joint. I can hear it blocks away.

  But I guess I just finished my first lesson.

  I’M NOT EVEN late by the time I get home. But I am in trouble.

  Kind of.

  When I open the door, there’s a whole apartmentful of people inside. I see Dele’s and Vashon’s moms, and a bunch of other parents from the school. Even Dr. Yetty’s here, looking at something with serious eyes glued to her Kindle Fire—the latest version, of course, in a fancy-looking red leather case. That’s Dr. Yetty.

  “Kenny!” she says when she sees me. “How are the chess lessons coming along?”

  “Uhh…fine?” I say. It seems like a complicated question, even though it’s not. Half my brain is still back there in Trayvon’s ride.

  “When can I expect to play a game against Ray-Ray?” Dr. Yetty asks me.

  “Soon, I hope,” I say. Because that’s no lie. Meanwhile, I’m wondering if I still have chili and onions on my breath, and if anyone saw me getting out of that Jeep.

  All I want to do now is get to my bedroom and close the door, so I keep moving. I scoot around Dele’s mom, squeeze past some lady on a cell phone, and get about two more steps before—