Kenny Wright

by James Patterson

  By the time I leave the cafeteria, I feel like the scum that scum wipes off its own shoes at the end of the day. At least I know what my next move is.

  “WHY’D YOU HAVE to take that girl’s lunch?” I say when I hook up with Ray-Ray for chess that day.

  “I was hungry,” he says. Like that explains everything.

  “It wasn’t cool at all, man,” I say.

  “Why not? I did it to you,” he says.

  “Yeah, and look where it got me,” I say.

  Ray-Ray laughs like that’s a good one. Then he reaches over and breaks off half the brownie on my side of the table.

  “You know what, Ray-Ray?” I say. “I don’t want to do those other lessons anymore. I quit.”

  “Serious?” he says. “What’s the deal? We still good, right? Me and you?” The way he talks and chews that brownie at the same time, it looks like he’s got a mouth full of mud.

  “It’s messing me up. I’m maaaaad grounded. And it’s, like, the opposite of good. Being cooped up in the house is a bad look. I can’t afford to keep getting in trouble.”

  “What about the trouble you’ve been getting out of?” he says. “When was the last time anyone stuck you in a locker?”

  “Well—” I say.

  “Or jabbed you in the kidneys? Tied your shoelaces together? Slapped a ‘kick me’ sign on your back?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Or called you Grandma’s Boy? Or swiped your chair? Or knocked down your—”

  “Okay, okay,” I say. “I get it. I’m a walking target.”

  “Wrong,” Ray-Ray says. “You were a walking target.” Then he sits back and puts his hands behind his head like he’s Donald Trump, with chocolate-covered teeth, and minus the swamp-rat-looking hairpiece.

  “So maybe Ray-Ray knows what he’s doing,” he says.

  “Well, I hope so,” Dr. Yetty says. She just appeared out of nowhere. Maybe she’s a mutant or a magician or something. Dang!

  I just about jump out of my kicks. I’m wondering—how long has she been standing there in the door? How much did she hear? And also, what are the chances she’d let us put a bell on her expensive-looking shoes so we can hear her coming from now on?

  “Ray-Ray, are you ready for our first chess game?” she says.

  “You know it,” Ray-Ray says. “Don’t worry, Dr. Y. I got this.”

  He’s acting just as cool and confident as he tells me to be all the time. So maybe Ray-Ray’s a decent teacher after all.

  Because even I believe him.

  I SHOULDN’T HAVE believed him. Ray-Ray and Dr. Yetty’s game lasts about forty-five seconds. That bamma didn’t stand a chance.

  He puts a pawn out. She puts a pawn out.

  Ray-Ray moves his knight. She moves her bishop.

  Then Ray-Ray stops and looks around. His knee is bouncing up and down, and I can tell he’s trying to figure something out.

  The rules are, he has to get through a game—win, lose, or draw, but without asking any questions or making any illegal moves.

  And I can’t say a word. Dr. Yetty told me I could watch, but I have to sit behind Ray-Ray and keep my mouth shut. I’m keeping my fingers crossed, too. This is my chance to put all this Ray-Ray stuff behind me, once and for all.

  Then on his third move, Ray-Ray jumps his queen over some pawns and sets her down on the other side. In chess, that’s about as legal as setting the board on fire. And I’m like, Dude…really?

  “Are you sure about that?” Dr. Yetty asks him before he takes his hand off the queen.

  And now I’m like, Dude…what the…

  Ray-Ray looks at her. He smiles like she’s trying to psych him out. Then he takes his hand off the queen and sits back.

  “I’m sorry, Ray-Ray,” Dr. Yetty tells him. “That’s not right.”

  “Aw, man, I thought I had it,” Ray-Ray says.

  I thought he had it, too. But that wrong move came out of nowhere.

  “Let’s give it another week and try again,” Dr. Yetty tells us. “Kenny won’t let you down. Besides, I believe in second, third, and fourth chances, as long as you’re working to get better.”

  Some other grown-up might have cut us some slack during the match, but not her. She’s already standing up to leave. She turns to walk out and all we hear is the click-clack of her heels, and then nothing. She’s gone.

  With Dr. Yetty, the rules are the rules. A deal’s a deal.

  And that’s that.

  SINCE I’M GROUNDED, I’ve got to get straight home. Ray-Ray walks with me up Good Hope Road, like he’s got nowhere else to be. I’m thinking, Maybe he has homework to do. Then I start thinking, Maybe this fool has something else brewing in that whacked-out, crazy brain of his.

  “Yo, over here,” he says all of a sudden.

  He crosses the street and goes up to this door between two stores. There used to be an intercom and a lock, but they’re broken now. Inside, there’s some dusty old stairs and I don’t know what else.

  “Come on up,” he says.

  “Do you live here?” I say.

  “Nah, man, this is the bank where I work,” he says. “Yeah, I live here. Why?”

  The truth is, I’m thinking I’m glad I don’t live here. The stairs kind of creep me out.

  “No reason,” I say. I don’t want him to think I’m dissing him or anything, so I follow him up. In fact, I stick close.

  Upstairs, there’s a door with a lock, and Ray-Ray uses a key to let us inside.

  “Yo, Nicky, you here?” he calls out, but nobody answers. “Guess he’s not home,” he says, and throws his backpack onto a mattress sitting on the floor. I guess that’s where Ray-Ray sleeps.

  “Who else lives here?” I say.

  “It’s just me and Nicky,” Ray-Ray tells me. “He’s twenty-two, so he can sign my permission slips and stuff. It’s no big thing.”

  “You got a mom or a dad?” I ask him.

  “Everyone’s got a mom or a dad,” Ray-Ray says. Which isn’t the same thing as a yes.

  Besides the mattress on the floor, there isn’t much. The only artwork on the walls are posters of WWE wrestlers, UFC fighters, and NFL quarterbacks like Cam Newton, Colin Kaepernick, Russell Wilson, and of course ya boy RGIII. By the window there’s a few pics of Rihanna and Beyoncé Scotch-taped on the wall. There’s a bathroom, another door with a padlock on it, and a kitchen right there, but the fridge isn’t even plugged in.

  I think I’m starting to get the picture here. Like for instance, why Ray-Ray’s always bumming for food. Or why he might want to stick around after school, even if it means getting detention, or learning chess.

  Or…not learning chess, I guess.

  “Listen, I’ve got to go,” I say.

  “Just hang out,” he tells me.

  “I can’t. G-ma’s been on me like white on rice. But you can swing through. You know…if you want dinner,” I say. I don’t smell anything cooking like I do at our house when I come home from school, and there’s nothing in the fridge.

  Well, you know I don’t have to ask Ray-Ray twice about that. He follows me right back outside and up the street. He doesn’t even say anything until we’re almost home.

  Then he says, “You sure your gramma won’t mind?”

  I look over at Ray-Ray. He’s got this big shirt on, and it makes him look like a pole with a big walnut head holding up a tent. I don’t think I ever noticed how skinny he is until now.

  “G-ma won’t mind,” I say, “You’re good.

  G-MA DOESN’T EVEN blink about Ray-Ray. You ask her for some grub, and she’ll hook you up.

  Once we’re inside, Ray-Ray stops and stares at the jillion books we have, on every shelf, on every table, some on the floor, on the couch. Everywhere. Everywhere except for the kitchen table. The only book allowed on the kitchen table is the Bible. That’s it.

  “What do you like to read, Raymond?” G-ma says from the kitchen. She’s in there stirring a pot of her amazing black-eyed peas on
the stove. She is the queen of what we call “new” soul food. No butter, no fatback, and instead of flavoring her peas with greasy ham hocks, she uses smoked turkey. (But to keep it real, I still call it a Two-Toot Special because of all the beans.)

  “I dunno,” Ray-Ray says.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” G-ma asks. “Everyone has something they like to read.”

  He just shrugs. “I don’t mean to be rude or nothing, but…books are for sissies,” he says. “The only people I know who read are girls.”

  “Uh-oh” is all I say. Too bad Ray-Ray didn’t bring a crash helmet. I think he’s about to need one.

  But G-ma keeps her cool. Ray-Ray’s a guest, after all.

  “You listen to me, Raymond,” she says. “I don’t know what makes you think that way, but books are for everyone, including you.” She pulls one off the shelf. It’s Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry. “You take this,” she says.

  “No thanks,” he says, but G-ma gives him another one of her looks. It says, Oh, no, you didn’t, and We’re not done here, and I may be small, but I can get nuclear mad if I have to, all at the same time. I guess Ray-Ray picks up on it, because he keeps hold of that book.

  “Now come over here,” she says, and gives him another one out of the living room.

  “And…here,” she says, going straight into my room.

  Five minutes later, Ray-Ray’s all loaded down with Hatchet, Harry Potter, and The Giver, too.

  “Next week, you come back here for dinner, and I want to hear about at least one of those books,” she says. “If you can’t find something to like in that stack, I say you’re not trying hard enough. You hear me?”

  Ray-Ray shrugs. “Yeah,” he says.

  “Excuse me? ‘Yeah’ is not a word,” G-ma says.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ray-Ray says.

  So I guess he’s starting to see where the whole Grandma’s Boy thing came from. To be honest, I kind of like it. It’s like I’m getting the night off.

  And the weird part is, I think Ray-Ray likes it, too. I guess everyone can use a little G-ma now and then.

  Plus, that Two-Toot Special is really good.

  WHILE G-MA’S GETTING dinner ready, I take Ray-Ray in my room and show him my comic collection. I know he thinks I’m a geek for reading them, but I give him a couple of the New 52 to take home with the other books. I’m a huge DC Comics fan. Marvel is cool, but I’ve been a DC head, Justice League and all that stuff, since I was a little kid.

  “Just try them,” I say, but then I shut up because now I’m starting to sound like G-ma.

  “Who’s this?” Ray-Ray asks me next. He picks up the picture of my dad from next to the bed.

  It’s an old picture, and it shows him in his good police uniform. “Dress blues” is what Dad used to call them.

  “That’s my father,” I say.

  “I thought you said he was some kind of big detective,” Ray-Ray says.

  Oh, man. I’ve got so many lies going, I kind of forgot about this one. So I take a risk—a huge risk—and go ahead and tell Ray-Ray the truth.

  “He was,” I say. “But then he died. Some guy shot him in the stomach when he was making an arrest. Like three years ago.”

  “For real?” Ray-Ray says.

  “His name was Kenneth Wright, like me,” I say. “He’s the one who taught me how to play chess.”

  Ray-Ray doesn’t say anything about that. He doesn’t call me out about lying, either. Which is cool.

  It’s not like I meant to keep it all a secret. Arthur knows about it. Dele and Vashon, too. I just don’t like to talk about it that much. G-ma always says I’m the bravest kid she knows, because of everything that happened. But back then, it didn’t make me feel so brave. Kind of the opposite, actually.

  “Dude looks like you,” Ray-Ray says. Then he sets the picture down again and picks up one of my comics.

  “I guess,” I say. People used to tell me that all the time.

  Mostly, though, I think he looks like Stainlezz Steel.

  THE NEXT MORNING when G-ma walks me to school, Dr. Yetty isn’t standing outside. Usually, she’s right there, saying good morning and asking everyone if they did their homework.

  But not today.

  Then during homeroom, Mrs. Freeman gets on the loudspeakers and does the morning announcements instead of Dr. Yetty. I’m thinking she must be sick at home—like really sick. Dr. Y. is the type of principal who would come to school in a tornado if she could.

  But it turns out to be something even worse.

  During second-period math, the door opens and Mrs. Freeman comes in with some old dude I’ve never seen before. He’s wearing a suit, a tie, and a smile that has bad news written all over it.

  “Good morning, boys and girls,” Mrs. Freeman says. “I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Bowman, our new principal here at UMS…”

  There’s some more yakkety-yak after that, but I don’t hear it. I’m just thinking, New principal? Seriously?

  This is the third principal of the year and it’s not even Christmas yet! Mr. Diaw lasted about five minutes. Dr. Yetty lasted about ten. It’s like they’ve got a revolving door on that office.

  Meanwhile, everyone’s talking at once. Tiny and Jerome are high-fiving. Ms. Jones looks like she wants to cry. And Lucinda Morehead is crying. She really liked Dr. Yetty. So did I.

  Mrs. Freeman claps her hands to get us all quiet, but I speak up anyway. “Where’s Dr. Yetty?” I say.

  That’s when the new guy steps up. He still has that smile stuck on his face, like someone painted it there.

  “Due to an emergency situation at Southridge Elementary, Dr. Yetty has been transferred over to that school,” he says, and then some other stuff I don’t listen to. I’m back inside my head, trying to figure out what this all means.

  I’m almost eighty-seven percent certain that Dr. Yetty being transferred has something to do with the handful of (and I’m sorry for saying this) stupid-thinking parents who complained about the good things she brought to the school. I bet you!

  Mr. Bowman fixes his goofy-looking mouth to say something else I’ll just ignore. But before he can spit out one syllable, he’s interrupted by what sounds like a sea of anger flooding the hallways.

  We all get up and rush to the door to see over a hundred hollering, fussing, cussing, and just plain old upset parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles. It looks like the whole neighborhood is there. It’s a sight to see, and hear. And man, does it bring a smile to my face.

  “WE WANT DR. YETTY BACK!”

  “WHAT SENSE DOES THIS MAKE TO PULL THE LADY OUT SO SOON?!”

  “WE’RE NOT GOING TO STAND FOR THIS ANYMORE! THE SCHOOL DISTRICT THINKS THEY CAN DO US ANY KIND OF WAY. NOT THIS TIME!”

  I’m filled with pride, mixed with more anger. I feel like a dude who’s in a fight and his hands are tied up. Somebody has to do something, is my first thought.

  Basically, there’s two things I know for sure.

  One—G-ma’s going to be ticked. And I mean like super-nuclear mad with extra crazy mambo sauce. As far as she’s concerned, Dr. Yetty’s the only good thing to happen at UMS in a long time.

  And two—no more chess lessons for me and Ray-Ray! If Dr. Yetty’s gone, then the deal is off. And to be real, I don’t know how I feel about that.

  Because the rest of it feels like a first-round uppercut knockout punch from Floyd Mayweather for poor old Union Middle School. But seeing all of them in the hallway, standing up for us, kind of loosens the ties around my hands. Union might be down for a second, but I feel like I’m going to help it get back to its feet and come out of our corner swinging.

  Haymakers, baby.

  ALL DAY LONG, I can’t find Ray-Ray around school. Then at 3:15, I’m headed out and I see him coming up the sidewalk toward the front entrance.

  “Yo, where you going?” he says.

  “Home,” I say. “Where have you been all day?”

  “Around. Mind your own, son,” he
tells me.

  I guess Ray-Ray doesn’t worry about skipping school. His brother probably writes him all the excuse notes he wants.

  So I tell Ray-Ray about Dr. Yetty and the huge crowd that came up to represent for her. I also mention how we might be off the hook for those chess lessons. But when I try to give him some dap, Ray-Ray just leaves me hanging.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask him.

  “Nothing,” Ray-Ray says, but you can tell it’s more like the opposite. I guess he’s too cool to let me know how he really feels. It’s not like I’m Dr. Phil or something.

  “Ray-Ray? You good?” I say.

  “I’ll see you later,” he says. “I gotta bounce.”

  “No you don’t,” I tell him. “You were just coming here to meet me. What’s the deal?”

  Ray-Ray stops again and turns around. He ice-grills me like he wants to give me one of John Cena’s Attitude Adjustments. I’m talking a painful-looking frown.

  “Put it this way,” he says. “You’re way better at teaching chess than you thought.”

  “Huh?” I say.

  “You think I jacked up that game with Dr. Yetty by accident?” he asks me.

  “Uh…kind of,” I say.

  Now my head’s spinning. If Ray-Ray blew that game on purpose, that means he wants those chess lessons to keep going. And maybe not just because of the snacks.

  “You want to play some now?” I ask him. “I can go get my set.”

  “Nah, man,” he says, and backs off. “I’m good. You just do you. I just thought we were cool.”

  “We are,” I say.

  “Yeah, as long as it gets you out of trouble. After that, you just leave me hangin’, right? I see how you do it.”

  It’s like I’ve got this new superpower, and it’s all about making people mad at me. I don’t even have to try anymore.