It Doesn’t Take a
Genius
It Doesn’t Take a
Genius
Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich
Text © 2021 by Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich
Cover illustration © 2021 by Gordon James
Published by Six Foot Press. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any foerm or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information contact Six Foot Press, 4200 Montrose Blvd. Houston TX 77006
First Edition
Printed in Canada
This book is set in 11.5-point ITC Century Book
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request
Distributed throughout the world by Ingram Publisher Services
ISBN 13: 9781644420027
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
It Doesn’t Take a
Genius
Chapter One
The last day of school is the perfect opportunity to make peace with Mac. Or at least prompt him to rethink his plan to ride his bike past my house all summer yelling, “What you got, loser?” the way he did last summer after I won the school debate trophy for the third straight year. Which, since I won that one, loser doesn’t really make sense, but I guess yelling, “What you got, winner?” wouldn’t either. I could have answered, “Well, I’ve got the trophies you wanted, even though you’re older than me,” but though I’m considered smart smart, and not people smart, even I know that’s probably not the way to go. Mac is pretty smart himself; we’re both honor roll regulars. He’s also a full-fledged, first-class, Grade A GOON, even though he tries to disguise himself as an ordinary kid. One who’s second-best on the school debate team. I’m just saying.
Anyway, he won this one, and let it never be said that Emmett Charles isn’t a gentleman and a scholar (I don’t think anyone’s ever said that, maybe my mom.) “Congratulations, Mac,” I say, holding my hand out (and up too since my body hasn’t gotten wise to the fact that I’m thirteen now, and he’s like NBA-size). I try not to make a face, but the locker next to Mac’s is giving off a smell that could destroy a nation.
“Shut it, tardigrade,” mumbles Mac, shoving my hand away. He goes back to dumping what looks like ten years’ worth of papers and books (and maybe some fossilized sandwiches) from his locker into his backpack.
“Interesting name-calling, Mac. The water bear is definitely a resilient and miniscule animal, so … nicely done. That might be a way to describe me, even though technically, I didn’t actually lose, so there’s nothing for me to be resilient about, and … ahem, uh, anyway … I’m serious, stellar job yesterday! I thought your argument in favor of corporal punishment at school was convincing, mostly because of your enthusiasm for, um, school-sanctioned beat downs.” I’m working hard not to inhale; Mac doesn’t seem to notice that there might be a decomposing body tucked away right next to him. I probably should have stuck with just nice job because from the expression on his face and the way his fists clench, he doesn’t need me to remind him that he didn’t exactly beat me this year. That he’s never beaten me at debate—and he’s tried to. A lot. That’s a fact. My big brother, Luke, is always reminding me that sometimes the facts matter less than I think they do.
“You really are the dumbest smart guy around, aren’t you?” asks Mac, slamming his locker door. “I don’t want your compliments. I don’t want your attempts to be the bigger man, which”—he looks me up and down—“is technically impossible. I don’t want your anything.” He walks away.
Except maybe my three debate trophies, also my science fair award, and Spelling Bee record. And little does he (or anyone else) know, I’d managed to avoid a catastrophe yesterday.
I clear my throat. “Let’s put our friendly rivalry behind us! You won! You’re debate champion! Debate KING! It’s all yours,” I call out. I’d said I was taking a break, but only I know the real reason why I’d dropped out of the competition at the last minute. Luke had given me a funny look when I’d announced that I was opting out of competing, but luckily he was too excited about his big news to pursue it.
“Uh, excuse me, can you move?” says a voice at my back. “You’re in front of my locker.”
I turn to see Terry Campbell frowning at me. Mac is way down the hall. I almost want to give up and see what happens when Terry opens his locker, because that smell is bad enough to make me want to risk it all to find out what it could possibly be. But …
I run after Mac. I’m risking a lot—maybe literally my life at this point, if Mac’s balled up fists are any indication—but I need to make sure that he knows that if I had competed against him, I would’ve won. Because that’s what I’m supposed to do. And like Yoda said: Do or do not. There is no try. Or losing.
I pull up next to Mac and do a decent job of not taking two steps for his every one. The halls are pretty empty already; when that last bell rings, people clear out fast.
“What do you want now, mosquito?”
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Why are you still mad at me?” I try not to breathe like I’m in the middle of the annual fitness test, but Mac’s pace and my end-of-the year backpack make me feel like I’ve been thrown into a Very Junior Iron Man competition. I’d placed squarely in the forty-second percentile for height and weight at my last checkup. For once, not a score I wanted to brag about. Luke keeps telling me that he had a big growth spurt between thirteen and fourteen, so mine should start any second now. He didn’t even laugh when he caught me doing the Stretch-Grow-Let’s-Go workout that I’d found online.
Mac stops walking. Thank God. “Shut up, bedbug. I can’t even enjoy my win because it’s all about you. You didn’t compete. You would’ve set a new record. You, you, you. Excuse me for just wanting a little less you in my life. Too bad you’re not the brother who’s leaving.”
Mac continues outside, and since I’m going the same way, I follow. But I stay a few steps behind, because, you know, it doesn’t take a genius to see that he’s also mad. Like, BIG mad.
I look
around for my brother. He’d planned to leave during his free period so he could get the car from Mom and drive us and our locker contents home from school. I also want to catch Luke before he runs into Mac. Luke and Mac have a history. Because Mac and I have a history. And right now, it’s in the present.
“Looking for big brother to save you?” Mac moves closer to me. “Better get used to him not being around. Maine isn’t exactly around the corner, so next year, you won’t have him to fight your battles.”
“You’re just jealous,” I say. Luke’s artwork had caught the attention of a fancy boarding school, and they offered him a scholarship for his last year of high school. I guess I shouldn’t have been shocked, Luke is Luke. But even I hadn’t realized how good he is.
“Nope. Sorry, bro. But maybe you’re jealous. You got your little trophies and certificates, but Luke’s getting invited to the big leagues. I guess he’s the real genius—”
“You got a problem, Mac? Other than your usual ones?” Luke has come up out of nowhere. Like a superhero. He’s even taller than Mac, wears his shirts a little small so girls can peep his muscles, and his fade is tight and gleaming. Now he’ll tell Mac off and we’ll speed away in the car, leaving him in literal smoke. (Mom’s car is in desperate need of a tune-up.)
“No problem, except for your termite little brother. You going to come to the rescue as usual, or let him fight his own battles?”
“You’re kind of pathetic, you know that, right?” Luke rolls his eyes. “Getting this shook by a twelve-year-old kid.”
“Thirteen!” I say. The last school bus wheezes away. There are a few staff cars left in the parking lot, and some teachers are already at the bus stop across the street, pretending that they don’t see us kids now that school has ended. Our city is too big to walk everywhere but too small for something cool like a subway system.
“Not the time, Emmett,” he mutters. Which I guess means it’s also not the time to remind him that he agreed to start calling me E.
Suddenly Mac laughs. “You’re right,” he says. “Whatever. I’m out.” He starts walking away, then turns back and calls, “And congratulations to you, Luke! I’d say that I’ll miss you, but I won’t. Especially since I’ll have your beetle brother all to myself in September.” He smiles a smile that makes me feel sicker than the smell of Terry’s locker. “I can’t wait.”
“Yeah, well, many beetle species are useful to humans, which is more than I can say about you! Let’s debate that in September,” I yell back, knowing that Luke is going to have to coach me all summer. There’s no way I’ll set foot on that debate stage if winning’s not a sure thing. “Because I’ll be back in competition mode! So get ready to be number two once again!” I turn to Luke and hold up my fist for a bump.
He hugs my shoulders instead and sighs. “You did not just say number two. Come on, beetle boy. The car died and Mom had to get it towed to the shop. We’re walking home.”
We start down the street and pretend we don’t hear Mac’s honk when he drives by.
“What was that about anyway?” Luke asks. “This time, I mean.”
When we’d been practicing during debate meetings, Mac had … been better than me. I knew it, and I could tell some of our teammates knew it too. And I wasn’t about to take any chances, so I dropped out. “I have no idea,” I say to Luke. “I was truly trying to congratulate the guy on winning the debate tournament, which, as you know, I didn’t do this year, so …”
“So …”
“So who’s to know who would have won? I mean, I think that’s why he’s mad. Because he didn’t just want to win, he wanted to beat me.”
“And you didn’t give him the opportunity,” Luke says. I glance over at him, but he’s staring straight ahead.
“Worked out that way” is all I say. I don’t even like debate, to be honest. But I’m good at it, and I learned early on that’s what matters. People love a winner. When you win, everyone sees you. And if people don’t see you, maybe you’re not really there.
Chapter Two
On the way home, we walk past the pet spa that used to be a laundromat and the wine shop that used to be a corner store where you could get everything from Catholic candles and paper towels to hot, fresh empanadas.
“So maybe this is a good time to talk about our summer plans,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about some things we could do to make it extra special, since you’re leaving.” I can’t keep the accusation out of my voice, and I hope Luke doesn’t notice.
“You don’t have to make it sound so dramatic,” says Luke. “I’ll be back for breaks and stuff. And I don’t know what kind of extra special things you have in mind. We usually just come home from camp and watch movies, right? Anyway, I’m just trying to chill and get ready for my senior year.”
I like watching movies. I whisper a minor-level curse, and I enjoy that, because even though it’s not a real cuss word, I wouldn’t dare say it in front of Mom, who threatened to wash my mouth out with soap when I said the principal sucked. “Why do you have to be such a Donnie Downer? I was thinking we could talk Mom into getting one of those projector things and have film screenings. Invite our friends over and stuff. Remember we talked about doing different themes? Like a whole festival even?” Luke shrugs. As a car speeds up to make the traffic light, he holds his arm up to keep me from stepping into the street. “And I thought we could do stuff like go to GameGear—”
“They’re closing down,” says Luke.
“Oh.”
“I haven’t played video games in a while, anyway. I think it saps my creative spirit.”
“That sounds like something Mom would say,” I mutter. “Not the brother who had the family’s highest score in SpeedFreak for two years running.”
“It was only you and me playing, Emmett,” he says, but he smiles a little. “Not a huge competition. As a matter of fact, I didn’t realize you thought it was a competition. You know there was never any contest.”
I have to laugh, and he does too, which feels good.
“Well, excuuuuuuzay MOI!” I say in my best French accent. We’d both been taking French at school, and I had an A+ average, but last week, Principal Ally announced that the foreign language program had been cut. “So,” I start, “are you going to take French when you go to Rowell? It’ll probably be really good there, with, like, native speakers or whatever.” I try to sound 100 percent eager and interested, instead of 80 percent sad.
Luke doesn’t answer for a minute. “Maybe, I mean … probably.” He gives me a sideways glance. “Sorry about the program getting cut at Heart High. But you’re still the French award winner in the family. I’m sure I’ll keep calling you for help with the accent marks and stuff.” He sighs. “It’s going to be different up there, that’s for sure.” When he pats my shoulder, it feels like he’s trying to transfer some weight off his own. I wonder what he has to worry about. He’s got a whole new world ahead of him!
I know what to do. “So … how many film fests should we plan? Billy and WeeDee want to do a whole one on Westerns.”
Luke frowns. “They’re kidding, right? I know I haven’t hung out with them in a while, but, come on … Westerns?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said,” I say quickly. “I mean, we’ll still have to vote, and Billy and WeeDee may not get it, but I bet they’ll agree with you. They always do.”
“Mmmm,” says Luke. “So, what else do you have planned for the summer? You’ve got debate camp as usual. That’s two weeks.”
Did he not hear me? “Hello? We’ve got more important things to plan. I don’t even know if I want to go to debate camp anymore.” Luke has been a CIT at the local Y for the last two years, but I stopped going to that camp when I was nine. “Maybe I can come back to the Y,” I say. I’d be willing to sacrifice for some dynamic duo antics. Maybe he could even put in a good word and get me considered early for a CIT gig too.
“I wish I’d been taking pictures around the neighborhood,” says Luke suddenly,
looking around. “So many of the old spots are gone.” We wait in the crossing near Crabby Gabby’s Coffee. I’ve never understood the name choice, but there are always people inside. “Not many old-school places like this still around,” says Luke. “I hope it doesn’t end up like Imagination Books and Harry’s Shoes.”
“Yep,” I say quickly. I don’t miss that he changed the subject. Maybe he really does feel bad about abandoning me. I see an opportunity. “Same for Mike’s. Who knows how long the diner will be able to hold on. This might be its last summer, the final hurrah, the waning glory days of grease. We should take advantage of our last summer together by going every day. Grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches forever!” Mike’s is this old-school diner, and we get root beer floats every time we go. Luke always gives me the ice cream out of his so that I get double scoops. Even though he could just order a root beer, he always orders the float to give me the extra scoop.
Luke sighs. “Ugh, my stomach hurts just thinking about it, bro.”
Great. Well, what does he want to do? I kick at a rock as we walk.
“Hey, Emmett. Hey, Luke.” I recognize the voice without looking up. But I do anyway and immediately trip. Tonya Carter is tall, dressed like she just did a photo shoot, and smiling at me. Well, at me and my brother.
Luke laughs. “Hey, Tonya,” he says. “Congrats on the math award. And thanks again for all your help.” Tonya is a math genius who’s been tutoring Luke all year. He says she knows what she wants in a man, and it’s definitely not me, but I live in hope.
“No prob,” she says. Then she pats me on the head. On. The. Head. Sigh. “Hey, Little,” she says, falling into step next to us.
I want to pretend that her calling me Little means we’ve got some special pet name situation going on. “Erar-ahem—blergh” is what I say. Whenever Tonya talks to me, it’s like someone emptied a jar of peanut butter into my mouth. Luke and Tonya exchange a LOOK, which I can only describe as amused, and that shuts me down even more. “Wh-wh-whaffle,” I add.
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