“That’s the point,” said Buffalo Bob, leaning forward in the chair. “They don’t think they have any power. It’s about people who feel powerless.”
I shrugged. “Well, that sounds like giving up to me. If you go around acting like you don’t have power, don’t have control, then I guess you don’t.”
He grinned, then said, “Well, all right, little mama.” Then he drummed on his legs, ready with another question:
“Do you believe people who have power are more important?”
A woman, tall, thin, and wearing no makeup, with hair the color of blue cotton candy, came around the corner.
“Buffalo, don’t get started on the kid. Sweater Vest is trying to be a mentor. Don’t go scaring her.”
Well, I guess I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stop looking at his goofy vests.
“Nice, Liz. Way to teach our young charge to respect my authority,” McSweater Vest said.
She rolled her eyes. “When you talk like that, Sweater Vest, you make me hate you and your funny wardrobe.”
I stifled a laugh.
Then Buffalo Bob practically barked, “Hey! Knock it off. I was in the middle of a very important interrogation of this budding journalist.”
He swiveled back to me. “If she wants to be in this business she oughta be able to voice her opinions. Am I right?”
I drew a deep breath, blew it out. “I’m not afraid to give my opinion or whatever. Answering your question, I think powerful people are not more important than anybody else. It’s just that being powerful means they’ve got more people to listen to them and say they’re right.”
It’s weird. There’s something about talking to grown-ups treating you like a person—and not just some dumb kid—and challenging you to think, like they are really listening to you. It’s exciting. Talking to Buffalo Bob made my heart thump faster, almost like being on a game show. Like The Life Show, where the questions are based on important stuff and not something lame. I liked the feeling, even if it was a little scary.
The springs in the big man’s chair squeaked as he leaped from the seat. “Somebody give that girl a gold star. Matt, I think this one’ll give you a run for your money.”
I found myself grinning.
McSweater Vest pointed at him and said, “Bob, get back to your side of the room and leave me to mentor this bright young mind.”
Buffalo Bob saluted, dropped into his chair, then put it in reverse and rolled away. Liz tugged a loose strand of powder-blue hair away from her face and gave me another look up and down.
She looked at my mentor and said, “Are you sure the two of you didn’t go to school together? She almost looks like she could have been in J-school with you, Matt!”
Over the next hour, I actually found myself interested in McSweater Vest’s career.
He’d graduated from Northwestern’s School of Journalism six years ago. That made me sit up a little. They were the number one top journalism school in the country. I was dying to ask how he’d paid for such an expensive school, but thought maybe that would be rude.
Instead, I listened.
He told me why he enjoyed writing features. How a lot of breaking news or even investigative journalism pieces moved so quickly that they ignored what was most important—the people who were affected.
“Your first assignment is all about impact,” he said.
He pulled up a flyer, all jazzy and colorful, onto his screen:
The conference was coming up in about three weeks.
I frowned at the flyer, recognition dawning. “It’s the conference the senator told me about when I met her in D.C.,” I said.
“Exactly! That’s why I knew you’d be perfect for this story!”
I felt my entire body groan.
Okay, so back in D.C. I did help the senator draw attention to her cause. It wasn’t hard. I believed in her passion, fighting for more funding so schools could up their technology game.
What she was doing seemed cool and all, believe me. But I’m not a big technology kind of person. If it weren’t for Neptune giving me one of his extras, I wouldn’t even have an iPad. My old clipboard was just fine. (Okay, don’t tell anyone, but my iPad is slightly more fun than my old clipboard.)
Still, the idea of talking technology with a bunch of girls I don’t know from a shady neighborhood does not sound like great journalism. It sounds like a big yawn to me. Just the idea of computer science or coding or whatever was making me want to nap. For sure I’d never get Yavonka Steele’s attention with tech news!
“Programs like SheCodes expose girls to science in a way their schools cannot. It’s also about more than just teaching them the basics of computer coding or website building,” he said. “It’s about introducing them to the knowledge that there is a bigger world full of opportunity beyond the poverty and hardship of their neighborhoods.”
“But I don’t know anything about computer coding or disadvantaged girls,” I said, speaking slowly.
He grinned and said, “Aha!”
If he pulls a rabbit out of his drawer, ya girl is out!
Thankfully, he was rabbit free.
I wasn’t trying to be snippy. What kind of disadvantage was he talking about? Instead of asking that, I asked why black girls need special programs more than others.
His answer: “Indeed!”
Huh? I didn’t want to be rude, but y’all, I couldn’t help rolling my eyes. Still, he just laughed.
“Trust me,” he said. “That is an excellent question. Do African American girls need access to computer science more than anybody else? Or, is it that without some intervention, African American girls living in low-income areas might never have access?”
I just looked at him. He said the girls were from low-income families. So when he’s talking about these girls being disadvantaged, he’s talking about being poor or living in poor neighborhoods.
He smiled like he understood what I was thinking even though I was sure he didn’t. He said, “That’s where research comes in. And not just online research or from books at the library, either.” Uh-oh. The way he looked all excited, I was scared of what was coming next.
He continued, “I’ve arranged to take you to Price Academy, a charter school on the east side, where several girls signed up for the SheCodes program. I want you to interview them.”
Whoa!
I felt a little thump-thump-thump pulse in my neck. Was I excited? Or terrified?
He slid in front of his computer and pulled up a file. It was a list of names. Then he produced a permission slip and told me to have it signed before he picked me up at school the next day.
“If your parents sign the approval slip, I’ll have permission to pick you up at lunchtime next Tuesday. That way we can spend the whole afternoon at Price Academy.”
He also said that since many other mentors and mentees were partnering up, I could pick a partner, too, if I wanted.
“Can I think about it tonight?” I asked.
“Absolutely!” he replied with too much enthusiasm.
Hmm…
I wasn’t totally sold, but I wasn’t ready to give up, either. Maybe a partner was just what I needed.
Reporter’s Notebook
Friday, January 5
*McSweater Vest told me to start researching STEM careers as well as careers in computer science.
A woman named Katherine Johnson, born in 1918, worked as a human computer for NASA. Her contributions, as well as those of other African American women scientists and mathematicians, were featured in a movie, Hidden Figures.
Never heard of black women working for NASA or being part of the country’s first spacewalk. Why is that?
Potential online bakery names:
• Planet Cupcake
• Amazing Cupcakes
• Star Cupcakes
• Out of This World Cakes and Goodies
8
“McSweater Vest wasn’t my first choice.”
I was talking to
Red, Lauren, and Ebony the next day as we headed to our science class. “However, that doesn’t mean I want to do less than my best. Besides, a story on disadvantaged kids could make Yavonka Steele take notice!”
“Girl, be warned. You know when they say ‘disadvantaged,’ they’re talking about those bad kids in the ghetto. I’d take a bulletproof vest if I were you!” Ebony said.
“I don’t think that’s true!” I said defensively. But I had begun to worry that was exactly what disadvantaged meant.
Ebony clicked around on her phone until she found a meme. It showed a picture from an episode of SpongeBob SquarePants where he’d done something dumb to everybody in Bikini Bottom. The whole town was chasing him with torches and pitchforks, looking like zombies. So SpongeBob was running like his life depended on it.
The text under the photo read:
When you take the wrong exit and wind up in the ghetto, you be like…
GET ME OUTTA HERE!
I laughed, then instantly felt guilty. It wasn’t like ghetto was a curse word. So why all of a sudden did I feel funny laughing at it?
Red, ignoring the running SpongeBob, said, “Well, I think working with him will be good for you.”
“Why? You think—” I began.
She cut in: “I think the kind of story he has picked for you sounds awesome. I’m so glad you invited me to be your partner. My mentor is a dancer. He’s a great dancer writing for a dance magazine, but he doesn’t care at all for actual journalism. Other than getting tips on my grand jeté, I don’t think he’d be much help. What you need to do, Miss Brianna, is relax and be open-minded.”
“Uh, hello? I’m open-minded!”
“Justice, you know, you can be sort of… um, rigid! Like a grown-up. You know how you want things and you just expect them that way.”
Well!
“Rigid? What does that mean?”
Ebony giggled. “No offense, but you’re just, you know, really, really mature-acting. Sometimes I feel like I’m your student and you’re our sub or something. And since Christmas break you’ve started dressing like a young professional. You know? Prepped out.”
I gave her such a side eye. Hmph! Rigid! Me?
Lauren gave a bark of laughter and high-fived Ebony. “Nice save, Eb,” Lauren said. Then, to me, she said, “I love your new young executive look. It’s so you. But c’mon, Bree, I’ve known you since forever. You’ve always been a little more serious and dedicated than the rest of us. Now, with your striped cardigans and crisp white shirts, you look the part. Luckily for you, preppy chic is in.”
“Preppy what—”
I didn’t get to finish that thought. Instead, as I rounded the corner I crashed right into Jorge Milian.
“Dang, girl!” he said. Jorge was a trip. Long body, skin like caramel. Even though he was fussing because I truly did bump into him, he was also grinning.
“Come on, Cupcake Girl, you know what time it is!”
A chorus of voices, including Red’s, piped up:
“It’s Ugly Cake Friday!”
Okay, so Friday mornings I start my day at Wetzel’s Bakery. My friend Raymond’s mom owns the bakery. She found out I liked to bake and she offered me a place to sell my cupcakes.
It’s been great, but I want to also sell my cupcakes online. Mom says I am stretched too thin already. Hmph! We’ll see about that.
On Fridays I bring the bashed-up, smooshed-up cupcakes and experimental baking treats that didn’t make the cut for the display case. Between you and me, sometimes I make a few batches and just smoosh ’em and ugly ’em up to bring in anyway.
Thank goodness I didn’t forget to bring the box this time. As we entered the classroom, everybody hovered around me like I was carrying gold. The bell rang, but our teacher was still a no-show. All you could hear was “mmm-mmm-mmm” and “num-num-smack-smack-smack.”
Jorge held up a golden cake with what looked like spikes sticking out. “What was this one supposed to be?” he asked.
“I was trying to mix praline into my batter, but I couldn’t get it to act right.”
He laughed, held his head back, dropped the baked confection down his gullet, and said, “It’s acting right now!”
Everybody was still eating and munching when Ebony shouted out:
“Hey, y’all, Brianna Justice is going to interview some East Detroit kids. Not downtown east, but east-side east, as in, sho’ ’nuff ghetto.”
Jorge grabbed another chunk and grinned. He said, “Brianna Justice goin’ to the hood!”
Everybody burst out laughing. I laughed, too, but I didn’t feel like laughing. They were starting to make me nervous—scared, even. I didn’t like not knowing what to expect or how to act.
We were eating and laughing so much that we didn’t even notice that our teacher was so late. Finally, thirty-five minutes into the class period, the sixth-grade dean came into the classroom and announced that our science teacher was not coming to class—EVER!
Dean Carter wouldn’t tell us why our teacher left the school. Instead, she passed out some boring assignments. I leaned over to whisper to Red.
“So will you? Partner with me and McSweater Vest for our journalism project?”
She’d been licking a red lollipop. The kind with gum in the middle. She bit into the gumball.
“Well, remember, I’m willing to partner up with you, Justice, as long as you do something for me.”
I shot her a look. Not this again. The cheerleading thing. Really?
“You help me, I’ll help you?” she said, raising one brow.
I groaned. “Red, you’re not seriously going to blackmail me into trying out, are you?”
“Yep!” She grinned.
“But I am not a cheerleader,” I argued.
“You will be after the training workshop,” she said. “It’s gonna be like a cheer boot camp—learning stunts, flips, and routines.” Ooo, boot camp. Should I bring combat boots and a Swiss Army knife?
Then Dean Carter said something that sounded a lot like “wonk-wonk, wonkedy-wonk-wonk!”
Since I’d become fluent in school wonk, I knew it meant “no talking, read your assignment, and don’t disturb me with your petty requests for hall passes.”
“You said you only needed someone to work out with. Now, haven’t I done enough?”
“I want you on the team!” Red said, crossing her arms.
“Red,” I said, her name coming out like a whine. Dean Carter glanced over her shoulder. I lowered my voice. “C’mon. I’m not the cheerleader type.”
“What exactly is ‘the cheerleader type’?” Red asked.
“You know. Girls like the ones in those movies who get all worked up about rah-rah-rahing all over the place. Based on what I’ve seen, they can be very… uh, witchy.”
“You watch too many movies. Cheerleaders are athletes!” Red said.
I gave a snort. “No, they aren’t.”
She matched my snort with an eye roll full of challenge. A look that said we’ll see, girlfriend all up in it. She followed that up with a long, slow smile.
“I can just see Yavonka Steele begging you to be her co-anchor and BFF after your interview’s big splash in the Free Press,” Red said, in a teasing song. Like a big na-na-nee-na-nah! Her drawly voice made the taunt sound musical.
Dean Carter cleared her throat. No one clears their throat quite like a bored administrator. When Red and I looked up, Dean Carter pointed her glare at us, so we settled down and read the assignment.
Instead of continuing to fight with Red, I tried reading the worksheet. But my mind kept drifting back to the SheCodes event and the story we were going to write. Since learning of my assignment, I had done a bit of research online. I had no idea that at least fifty percent of all jobs required some kind of computer knowledge and in the next decade that’ll increase to more than seventy-five percent.
That got me to thinking about McSweater Vest and our talk about girls in disadvantaged neighborhoods. With so many c
areers in the future requiring computer training, it makes sense that everybody needs to learn how to use them.
While finishing the worksheet, I realized I had so many questions, but there was one question no one could answer:
Where in the world was our science teacher, Mr. Castle?
“Daddy, when’s Mom coming back?”
I was pouring Cheerios into a bowl.
“She’ll be here next Sunday,” he said, eyeing me from behind the morning edition of the Free Press. “Why?”
“No reason, just miss her.” I put on my best “good daughter” grin. He grunted. I sloshed milk into my Cheerios and scooped a spoonful into my mouth. Operation Get Mom to Say Yes was a go. If I was going to start my own business, I had to convince Mom first.
And that was going to take a secret weapon!
(Evil laugh—wah-ha-ha!)
Even though I might not want to be a baker forever, I still loved it. And earning my own money was fab-u-lous! But the last time I talked to Mom and Dad about letting me have an online business, Mom said, “Absolutely not. You’re too young and your father and I have too much going on right now to help you make a success of it. Maybe in a year or two when you’re a little older!”
“Dad, did I mention, I’m loving your fashion choices this morning?”
He was wearing a Detroit Red Wings T-shirt with red flannel pajama bottoms and a heavy wool coat unbuttoned over his morning ensemble. The mud-brown hat with furry earflaps was a nice touch, too.
He smelled like cold air and wood smoke. He’d been up since the crack of dawn smoking meat in this big wood smoker. He kept moving back and forth between the rear deck and the kitchen. He looked like a cartoon character.
“Thank you, brat,” he said, raising his spatula and waving it around like a king with one of those scepter thingies. “If I were you, I wouldn’t get too mouthy. Did you read that permission paper I had to sign for your cheer boot camp whatchamacallit? My first car didn’t cost that much!”
I tried to hide a giggle. In order to go to the boot camp, parents had to submit signed permission and a check to cover the cost of competing should their child make the team. Was it wrong that I was secretly hoping to give his check back?
President of the Whole Sixth Grade_Girl Code Page 4
