“Yo, shut up!” Antwan growls, throwing a pillow that hits both of us in the face. Sneaky throws the pillow back, and turns the volume down on the TV.
But when Sneaky’s running back fumbles a few minutes later, and I scoop the ball up and run for a touchdown, I forget all about Antwan and jump up screaming. Problem is, Antwan jumps up, too, and his eyes are a scary red.
“Didn’t I tell y’all to shut up?” he says, adding in a few cuss words this time. I sit back down, feeling a little nervous. Antwan turned into a different kind of dude once he started high school this year, and Sneaky’s mom is always fussing with him about who he hangs out with and how he treats Sneaky.
“Yo, Sneaky, you and yo’ punk friend need to get outta here.”
Antwan glares at us. The room is small enough to smell Antwan’s funky breath. A year ago, me and Sneaky would’ve clowned him about it. But right now, Sneaky just sucks his teeth and turns the PlayStation off.
“Whatever,” he says to his brother, then to me, “Yo, Isaiah, let’s go to the park, and let this dummy clean the room.”
I pull on a T-shirt, lace up my sneakers, and we get out of there before Antwan thinks too hard about that last sentence.
March 5
IT’S SUNDAY NIGHT, 7:08 p.m. Mama was supposed to pick me up at three. Sneaky’s mom’s been calling her, but no answer.
“Do y’all have a house phone where y’all staying?” Sneaky’s mom asks.
“Um, I don’t know it,” I say, staring at my shoes. Sneaky’s the only one who knows we moved into a motel, not an apartment on the other side of the city, and I made him promise not to tell anybody.
“You don’t know your phone number?” Sneaky’s mom asks, and I can tell she’s a tiny bit pissed.
“Ma, c’mon!” Sneaky says, glancing at me. “Nobody uses house phones anymore.”
Truth is, there’s a phone in our room, and Mama even told me the number. But I made sure it slipped out of my brain like the water from our leaky faucet. That room is not home.
“Maybe she’s down at Miz Rita’s,” I say, mainly because it’s the first thing that pops into my mind.
“We’ll go check,” Sneaky says, pulling my arm.
Once we’re in the hallway, he asks, “You really think she’s down there?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “Maybe Charlie’s getting her hair done or something.”
If Mama has a whole lotta bad days in a row, Charlie ends up with her hair in this crazy Afro puff that doesn’t get combed. When we still lived in this building, Miz Rita would be the one to hook Charlie up with braids and beads and stuff. I’m hoping she’s hooking Charlie’s hair up right now, and that Mama’s there, too, maybe even laughing with Miz Rita.
The elevator’s broken, so we take the stairs to the first floor and knock on Miz Rita’s door.
“Uh-oh,” she says when she opens it, “trouble’s at my door.”
“Hey, Miz Rita,” we say.
“Is my mama here?” I ask. “Or Charlie?”
Miz Rita frowns a little. “No, I haven’t seen either one since y’all moved.” Miz Rita gives me a look. “Matter fact, not one of you even came to tell me you were leaving! Had to find out from Sneaky!”
My eyes drop to my shoes again. Miz Rita’s right; we haven’t been back to the building since we had to leave last month. We didn’t even tell anyone goodbye. I don’t think Mama wanted anyone to know that she couldn’t pay the rent anymore.
“Isaiah?” Miz Rita says my name in a way that forces me to look at her. “Is everything okay, baby?”
“We’re good,” I tell her, cuz I’ve gotten used to saying that, even when we’re not.
“Well, you tell your mama and little Miss Charlie that I miss them, all right?”
“I will.”
“And you stay outta trouble, Sneaky, you hear?”
Sneaky grins. “Miz Rita, I’m never in trouble!”
“Uh-huh,” she says, rolling her eyes. She tells us good night, and we start back up the stairs. When we get to the seventh floor, Sneaky stops. I do, too. Seventh floor is my floor. Was my floor. I used to wish we lived at the very top, like Sneaky, but Daddy always said there was something special about the number seven.
“Ever wonder who lives in your place now?” asks Sneaky.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe sometimes.”
“Let’s go see,” Sneaky says, and his hand pushes the door open before I can think of a reason to stop him.
“What we gonna say?” I whisper once we’re in front of 722.
Sneaky shrugs and knocks on the door. I’m thinking we’ll probably have to bolt when the door opens, but we both just stand still.
An Asian dude, maybe, like, seventeen, opens the door.
“Hi,” says Sneaky. “We’re collecting pop bottles for school. Do you have any empty ones?”
The kid stares at us for a second, and even though I know he has no idea who I am, it kinda feels like he does.
“No, we don’t have any,” he says. A shorter woman, probably his mom, comes behind him and says something in their language. The kid waves his hand and answers her.
While they’re doing that, I look inside the apartment, and it’s all different. They got the TV in a totally different spot, and their couch doesn’t look as comfy as ours. They probably don’t know that I once threw up right in the hallway, or that Charlie drew purple crayon all over the wall in the living room.
They don’t know any of that. To them, we’re just two kids collecting pop bottles. And they don’t have any to give us.
“I liked it better when y’all was there,” Sneaky says as we walk back upstairs to his place.
“Me too.”
I wonder what Mama would think about the aquarium they have in our old apartment. She always told us, “No pets!” Daddy probably wouldn’t like the new paintings on the walls. He liked to hang up sports stuff.
When I’m back in Sneaky’s room, and I’m holding Daddy’s notebook, I wonder if he knew something was gonna happen to him; if he knew I’d have to be a hero for real, and that’s why he wrote the stories he did. One thing’s for sure; when I don’t write, it feels like I’m letting him down.
March 11
“ ’SAIAH, WHAT’S THIS?”
I pry my eyes open and squint up at Charlie, who has something so close to my face, I can’t see what it is.
“Dang, move back!” I say, pushing her hand and blinking the sleep away. Charlie’s got this annoying habit of waking me up by being right in my face and super loud. At Smoky Inn, I sleep on a tiny couch pull-out that creaks every time I move, and definitely every time Charlie jumps on it.
Charlie moves back an inch, which doesn’t help too much. I sit up, and she holds out her hand again. When I look down, my stomach starts doing its karate-chopping, and I glare at Mama, who’s still bundled up under the covers on her side of the bed. I want to tell Charlie to go ask Mama what it is, but I know I can’t.
“Is it bad?” Charlie asks.
I take the label from her and study it, trying to think up something to tell her.
“I don’t know, Charlie,” I say. “Where’d you get this?”
“It was in our bed,” Charlie says, pointing to her spot by Mama.
I get a little mad that Mama would rip off the label from her bottle and leave it in the bed for Charlie to find. She should be the one answering Charlie’s questions, not me!
“I think it’s trash,” I tell Charlie, talking louder than I have to, hoping Mama hears. “It’s a wrapper from something, and it needs to get thrown away.”
“Oh,” says Charlie. She skips over to her side of the bed, reaches under her pillow, and brings me a whole handful of torn-off labels. “Is this trash, too?”
I snatch them from her hand and crumple
them up.
“Hey, don’t snatch, ’Saiah!” Charlie pouts. “Those are mine!”
“No, they’re not!” I yell. “These aren’t for you!”
My voice wakes Mama, and she sits up groggily.
“Isaiah, what are you yelling for? I’m trying to get some rest!”
I want to show Mama what Charlie found, want to throw the labels right in front of her and see how she explains herself. I want to tell her I saw her receipt to P.J.’s in the refrigerator, stuck to the empty carton of orange juice. But instead, I squeeze the labels tighter in my hand and try to ignore the karate-chopping in my stomach.
“Mama—” Charlie starts to say, but I cut her off.
“Let’s get some breakfast, Charlie,” I tell her.
“Yeah, let your brother get you cereal or something….” Mama’s voice trails off as she settles back into her cocoon.
Cocoon is a funny word. I wrote a poem about it once, still remember it by heart:
One day I’ll build a cocoon on the moon, and when I come out,
I’ll eat clouds with a spoon!
I remember showing Daddy that one, and he laughed. “Well, that would be something, wouldn’t it, ’Saiah?” he said. “Clouds with a spoon.”
Today, it’s just cereal with a spoon. Nasty cereal, too. I think about the Froot Loops and Frosted Flakes on top of Sneaky’s refrigerator and wish the boxes could magically transport to our table. Also, there’s barely enough milk for both of us, so I mix some faucet water in the jug when Charlie’s not looking and shake it up real good.
“Here,” I say, plopping the bowls on the tiny, wobbly table in the kitchen area.
Charlie slurps the milk like it’s the best thing ever, and that makes me smile.
After breakfast, Charlie asks to draw pictures at the table while I watch TV with the volume super low. This is pretty much what we do all weekend, especially since it’s still cold outside. If it was warmer, I could take Charlie to the park that we always pass on the way back from the library.
Charlie’s a decent artist for four years old, I guess. She thinks it’s funny to draw me as a humongous head with lines coming from it for arms and legs. She sometimes stays in the lines of her coloring books, and she usually draws stuff like flowers and stars, always in pink. Today’s picture is different, though. Charlie’s learning her letters, and she wrote a bunch of them on her paper. It’s not the neatest writing, but I can see that she’s spelled out the name of Mama’s drink, the name that’s on all the labels. When Charlie hands me that paper and moves on to draw a pointy butterfly, I take it and put it right by Mama’s bed so she’ll see it when she wakes up.
March 14
“HEY, ISAIAH DUMB!” Angel Atkins says as soon as I sit down at our table. I ignore her like I usually do, but she’s just getting started. She makes a big deal out of holding her nose and waving a hand in front of her scrunched-up face.
“Ooooh, something stanks, and I think it’s you!” she says.
My stomach gets tight, but I just stare at the table.
“Isaiah Dumb thinks smoking is fun!” Angel laughs. I ball up my fists.
“Shut up,” I say, low enough so our teacher, Mrs. Fisher, doesn’t hear.
“Make me!” Angel sings, sticking out her tongue and crossing her eyes. I start thinking about ways I would make her shut up. If I was a real superhero, I’d have a pocket-sized magic vacuum that would suck up Angel’s words whenever she opens her mouth. That would be cool! Maybe I’ll write a poem about it in my notebook. Isaiah Dunn, the Word-Snatcher.
“Why you smilin’?” Angel demands loudly. “Must be thinking about a shower or somethin’!”
“Angel, I need you to settle down,” Mrs. Fisher says. “You are talking way too much, especially when you’re supposed to be working on the Morning Minute.”
Angel rolls her eyes but shuts her mouth. I grin, mostly inside.
I open my workbook and read our Morning Minute assignment. Every day, Mrs. Fisher writes a sentence on the board, and we have sixty seconds to write something about it. Today, she wrote, My world is a good and happy place.
We’re not supposed to think; just write whatever comes to our mind first. But I do think. About how the world can be good and happy for one person, but bad and sad for somebody else. And how everything can change in just one minute, one walk down the street, like it did for me, Mama, Daddy, and Charlie.
For the first time, I don’t write anything. Mrs. Fisher will probably trip, but I don’t know what to put down. I mean, I guess there are some happy things in my life, like Sneaky, and Daddy’s notebook, and Charlie (sometimes), and Mama’s good days. I really want to write a poem about all that, but right when I start to, my pencil freezes, and my page stays blank.
“Ooooh, you gonna get a big, fat zero!” whispers Angel, leaning over and looking at my workbook.
I slam the workbook shut.
“So what?” I say. “Nobody cares about that stupid Morning Minute!”
“Isaiah!” Mrs. Fisher’s staring right at me, and I know she heard what I said. Angel snickers and pretends she’s working hard on her assignment.
“Why don’t you pull your chair up here to the front by me,” Mrs. Fisher says. “Maybe that will help you get your Morning Minute finished.”
I got in trouble for back-talking Mrs. Fisher last month, so I don’t tell her that what would really help me get my Morning Minute finished is if she moves me away from Angel. She’s gotta know that Angel’s been messing with me all year, for no reason!
“Now, Isaiah,” Mrs. Fisher says, with a little bit of mean in her voice, “you’re holding up the class.”
I want to tell her that I’m not holding up the class, because announcements just came on, and everyone’s watching Gabriella Cruz and Aiden Olsen talk about the weather and today’s lunch menu and spring sports. Instead, I drag my chair right next to Mrs. Fisher’s messy desk without saying a word. I keep my workbook closed, too, cuz there’s no way I’m writing any words about being safe and happy.
March 16
EVERYBODY SAYS SNEAKY’S gonna be a businessman when he grows up, probably cuz he has his own business right now. He sells candy at school, mainly at lunch, which is the only time I see him.
“So what you want, man? Snickers? M&M’s?” he asks me once I’m halfway done with my pizza. Sneaky gets the school lunch, but he also carries a lunch pack with him, which is always stuffed with candy. Guess no one pays attention to that.
“I don’t have no money,” I tell him.
“You don’t have a dollar?” Sneaky asks. I shake my head. “Fifty cents?”
I shake my head again. There’s nothing in my pockets but lint and some rubber bands that we were using during science.
Sneaky shrugs. “Aight, man, I’ll hook you up for free. Get something before I sell out.”
I grin and grab a Snickers. That’s why Sneaky’s my boy. He always has my back.
“Yo, Sneaky, lemme get some M&M’s!” calls Aiden as he walks up to our table.
“Dag, man! Chill with the loudness!” Sneaky says, looking around for the lunch monitors. He got busted for selling candy before, but that was when he tried to do it in class. Usually there’s so much going on in the cafeteria that the adults haven’t noticed Sneaky’s operation.
Sneaky opens his lunch pack, pulls out the M&M’s, and waits for Aiden to hand him a dollar, which is what he charges for most of the candy he sells. Sneaky loves dollars. But sometimes he’ll only charge fifty cents if he really likes the person.
Aiden hands Sneaky a crumpled dollar and takes his candy. Sneaky slides the dollar into his pocket and is about to close his lunch pack when Aliya Morris comes up and buys two Snickers and a Butterfinger. I start grinning, but Sneaky gives me a look, so I don’t say nothing. He’s got this crush on Aliya and it’s pretty
pathetic. She got braces over Christmas break, and he actually thinks they make her look cuter. Weird.
My Snickers bar says something about winning a million dollars, so I read the back label to see what the rules are, imagining that my candy bar is a winner. I’m so busy thinking about what I’d do with the million dollars that I don’t notice Angel marching over to our table.
“I want Skittles,” she says loudly, putting a dollar on the table. I wish Sneaky would charge her two dollars!
Sneaky hands her the Skittles and gets the dollar, but when Angel starts to sit down, Sneaky shakes his head.
“Uh-uh, keep it moving,” he says. “This is a jerk-free zone.”
Angel narrows her eyes. “Nobody wants to sit with you anyway, Sneaky! You the jerk.”
Sneaky ignores Angel, and she storms away. For a second, I feel bad for her. But then I remember how mean she is, and I’m glad she’s gone.
“So does Sneaky make you pay, or do you get stuff for free cuz y’all are friends?” Aliya asks me.
“C’mon, girl, you can’t be all up in our business like that,” Sneaky says. He gets some M&M’s for himself and pours a bunch in his mouth.
“Whatever,” Aliya laughs.
“Don’t hate the hustle,” Sneaky says, zipping up his pack as the warning bell rings. “Without me, y’all would be chomping on carrot sticks all day.”
He’s right. This year, our school got all healthy and took out the snack machines. And at lunch, they serve Jell-O and yogurt parfaits instead of cake and cookies. We’re part of some kind of pilot program that tortures kids by taking away sugar. I mean, I know it’s better to eat fruits and veggies, but I sure do miss the ice cream cups we used to get.
At first, Sneaky complained just like the rest of us. Then one day he snuck in a Snickers bar for lunch, and this kid practically begged him for it. He ended up paying Sneaky two whole dollars for that Snickers. So that’s when Sneaky started his candy hustle.
Isaiah Dunn Is My Hero Page 2
