It Doesn't Take a Genius

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

“Uh, does it have to begin with the letter A?”

  “Good one. Comedian? Are you an acting student?”

  “Uh, I do debate. I’ve been school champion three times …”

  “Great! That’s like a requirement around here. We have about fifteen state champs this year.”

  All righty then. “I like to watch movies … I, um, recently founded Cinemathique, a film club in my community.” I mean, I’m trying to, sort of, so it’s not really a lie, right? And I wish Mme Francine was here to give me points for coming up with a Frenchy-sounding name on the spot. Marcus is looking at me like he’s expecting more, so I start quoting my own application essay. “I’m, uh, looking for that space between the lines, where I can find my deepest self.” When I was writing the essay, I hadn’t plagiarized exactly, but I’d taken out this book of essays that we’d used in English class and used it for inspiration. I’d laid it on a little thick, but the people who read applications like that kind of thing. “The summer is always a time of discovery, you know? It’s like you can take a deep breath because school and all that … um, folderol is over, but you’re also holding your breath in anticipation of what’s to come. It’s an awkward position. A liminal space, if you will.”

  I’m using vocabulary words now. Please make it stop.

  “Uh-huh.” Marcus stops at a room and looks at me. “Folderol. First time away from home?”

  I nod, and for a second he looks like he’ll burst if he doesn’t laugh. But he remembers that he’s a counselor and not supposed to laugh at campers, so he keeps it in, and I hold my head high.

  “I went on a school camping trip for three days, though,” I say, wishing my voice didn’t have to squeak right at that moment. “I was also ten at the time, which is quite the coincidence. Like, with you, I mean, when you went here.” I force my mouth closed. “Um … I guess I’m a little nervous.” Now I do seem like I’m about ten!

  “No worries, bruh,” says Marcus as we step into a building with a sign over the door that says robeson hall. Marcus pats my shoulder in what he probably thinks is a gentle way. “Welcome to Robeson Hall. You’re on the third floor, which is …”

  “Walker?” I say.

  “Yeah, right, Walker.”

  “Not the beauty empire,” I add, like he wasn’t the one who told me that.

  He gives me another funny look. “Yeah. So this is a warm, welcoming community. Diverse but tight knit. You’ll meet kids from the States, the Caribbean, even the Continent. There are kids from eleven states and six countries this year. We represent the Diaspora here at DuBois.”

  “The Continent?”

  “Africa,” he says, smiling and making a fist.

  “Right,” I say. “I knew that.”

  “Do you have any questions?” he asks.

  “Uh, do we have trips into town or anything?” Now that I’m on DuBois’ campus, which is the Blackest place I’ve ever been, I’m not eager to get off. I’m thinking there might be more TraxlerWexler types.

  “We don’t go into town much,” Marcus says, after a pause. “And if we do, you guys will be well-supervised.”

  That reminds me that I have to let him know that Mom’s alter ego is actually Concerned Black Mom, and she’s about to be unleashed. “Uh, so my, um, mom, said you would know about this … you’re supposed to call her? I have her number here …”

  “Right!” he says, nodding and taking the paper with Mom’s phone numbers, Skype name, Facebook page, and email address on it. He goes on. “And, Emmett, don’t worry about being a geek or a nerd here. There’s no popular crowd. No hierarchy, just community.”

  Marcus doesn’t look that old, but he sure sounds old and clueless about how kids really are. There’s always a hierarchy.

  “Is that a slogan or something?” I ask. “No Hierarchy, Just Community? And people call me E.”

  Marcus just smiles as he unlocks a room door. “So, this is your spot,” he says, waving his arm around the room. “Looks like your roommate’s here already … Let me see … oh yeah! Charles. I remember now.”

  I hope that the fact that we share a name is a good sign. It sure does look like Charles is here. Two giant trunks sit in the middle of the room, along with five suitcases and four instrument cases. There are also two twin beds, two desks with office-looking chairs, and a little couch near the window.

  “Yep, Charles is an interesting guy. I think you two are going to get along.”

  Why, just because his first name is my last name? “Hey, you’ll be like … the Charles Brothers, get it?”

  “I already have a brother,” I say, but he’s not listening.

  He looks at his watch, which is an old-school watch with hands and roman numerals and everything. “House meeting downstairs in thirty minutes. I’ll see you down there?”

  “Um, is that a question or a directive?” What is wrong with me?

  Marcus laughs. “You’re a funny little guy. See you in thirty.”

  “Uh, don’t forget to call my mom,” I say. I look at my watch. “I’m supposed to call her in fifteen minutes, but that needs to be after she talks to you. She’s kind of intense about that kind of thing.”

  Marcus grins. “I gotchu. She just ‘wants to ask a few questions,’ right?” He takes out his phone. “It’s handled,” he says, like he thinks he’s really ready for Mom’s smoke.

  I shrug as he heads down the hall, and all I hear is “Hi, Ms. Charles, so good to—” before I hear Mom, all loud: “Is this my son’s counselor? I’ve been waiting for your call! I just want to ask a few questions!”

  I have to laugh.

  Chapter Twelve

  I watch Marcus leave, walking a little slower than before, then I shut the door and take a deep breath. The beds look a little thinner than mine back home, but not like the boot camp slabs that Billy and WeeDee warned me about. The wooden closet is all along one wall, and as I walk over, the door opens and a boy pops out.

  “AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!” I scream. I knew it! Horror movie! “AHHHHHHHHH!”

  “Sorry! Sorry!” says the boy. He is wearing a polo shirt that’s tucked into khaki shorts. His whole self looks freshly ironed. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m Charles Thompson. Your roommate.”

  “BRUH, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” I look to see if he’s hiding a hatchet behind his back.

  He holds up his hands. “Sorry! I’m really sorry! It was just awkward, and when things are awkward, I get … more awkward.” His glasses are all fogged up, and he takes them off to wipe them on his shirt, which is the most normal thing he’s done so far.

  There’s a knock.

  “You okay in there, Emmett?” asks Marcus.

  I stare at Possibly Charles, Possibly a Camp Killer, for a long minute. I gulp. “Yeah … sorry, I thought I saw … a raccoon. But … it was, uh, nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Okay,” says Marcus. He chuckles. “You’ll probably be seeing more of those. Good idea to get used to them.”

  “Yep, cool, cool, thanks,” I say. A few seconds pass before his footsteps fade.

  “I am really, really sorry,” says Charles, stepping forward with his hand out. “Thanks for not saying anything. It would have made me look weird in front of Marcus, and I’m pretty sure he already thinks I’m weird.”

  “It is kind of weird!” I say, folding my arms. “What’s up with”—I gesture to the closet—“that?!”

  “I was hanging up my stuff and then I heard you coming and I was trying to decide if it was better to let you have a moment to yourself, or to be here welcoming you since I figured you were a new camper since they always pair up vets with newbies, but I wasn’t sure and then it was too late and I panicked and just jumped inside.” He looks at me. “I overthink a lot. And I panic a lot.”

  Hmmmm. I can relate, I guess.

  “I’m Emmett,” I say.

  “I heard.” He nods and holds out his hand again, so I shake it.

  “Charles,” I finish.

  “Yep, that’s me,” he s
ays, still shaking.

  “No, I mean, my last name is Charles, I’m Emmett Charles.” My hand hurts.

  “Oh! I’m Charles Thompson, but you can call me Charles.” He finally lets go; I sit and notice a stack of big hardcover books.

  “My vintage encyclopedia collection,” he says, smiling and proud like he just said, “My vintage car collection” or something. “I also have a small selection of dictionaries in multiple languages and a sampling of atlases, if you’re interested in the changing geography of our world.”

  I think about how Marcus said Charles and I would get along well. Hmmmm. Also I have the uncomfortable sense that this dude is more me than, well, me.

  “I thought everyone was a nerd here,” I say. “It was even on a guy’s shirt. Blerds united and all that. No hierarchy, just community?” I sigh. “I was kind of looking forward to just being …” I grinned. “Ordinary.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Charles, plopping down in the other chair. “Everyone is amazing in this place. And of course there’s a hierarchy. We’re kids. You’re a newbie, so there’s a learning curve. But it’s abundantly cool, that’s why I keep coming back, kind of a Wakanda of Black excellence for three weeks.”

  Well. Okay, then.

  Charles keeps talking. “But it can be intimidating your first time. Oh, and pro tip: Steer clear of Derek Huff.”

  Just the way he says, “Derek Huff,” tells me a lot about the kind of guy Derek must be. But I’m not worried. I’ve got Luke, which means I’ve got points before the game’s even started.

  Even though we’d gotten off to a rocky start, Charles is cool. His stuff is in the middle of the room because he’d waited until I arrived to choose a bed. And he knows the same version of extreme advanced Rochambeau that I do so that makes it easy for us to decide. Once we get that out of the way, we start to unpack. He has a whole trunk full of sheet music. Two of the instrument cases hold a bassoon and a keyboard. He’s also got a vest with all these pockets for his harmonicas.

  “What do you play?” he asks.

  “Oh, I’m not a musician,” I say.

  “Oh, okay. Sorry, I just assumed. Almost everybody here plays an instrument a little, like on the side.”

  “Oh …” I say. “Well, I can breakdance. I’m going to be in Street Style.” I point to his bassoon. “I had a bassoon solo dedicated to me last year at my school, and the marching band did a half time salute to my third straight regional debate win.” Yeah, I’m flexing a little.

  “Nice,” says Charles. “But even more impressive is how you found a way to work in a debate brag.”

  After a pause, we both laugh.

  “You’ll fit right in. Like I said, this is an oasis of Black excellence. I mean, there’s this girl who plays English horn—she is FIRE! Like, I’ve never heard anything like it, and I’ve been playing English horn since I was nine.”

  “I thought you played bassoon,” I say.

  “Yeah, I dabble in English horn. When I want to relax.”

  Oh, he wants to battle? “Aaaaaactually,” I say, drawing the word out long, “I’m also interested in film, but the class was full by the time I signed up.” I don’t add that my film experience is basically just watching a lot of them, or that I’m feeling a tiny bit nervous about living up to everything I said about myself in my application. I may have made it sound like I’d done a little more filmmaking than I’ve actually done, which is none.

  “Cool,” says Charles. “I don’t know anything about filmmaking, but my friend Michelle—she’s a playwriting major—has a friend who’s into film too. Natasha. She’s been to all kinds of film festivals and places where they have red carpets and stuff. Her mom’s a famous director. She always wins. Natasha, I mean. I’ll tell Michelle to introduce you.”

  “What do you mean ‘wins’?”

  “She just wins. Best camp project, most likely to succeed at life, the Blackity Bowl—you’ll see.”

  “Uh, sounds good,” I say. Not intimidating at all. And what in Black campness is a Blackity Bowl?

  Charles jumps up, his eyes a little wild. “You’re supposed to call your mom! And then we have house meeting! I hate being late!”

  I stare at him.

  “I’m sorry, I heard when I was inside …” He trails off, pointing to the closet.

  “Uh.” I look at my phone. “Thanks. I have two minutes, plenty of time.”

  “Yep, just want to be of help,” he says. “I’ll go on ahead and save us seats.”

  “Yeah, no worries. Thanks for keeping me on my toes.” I like Charles. I mean, he kind of makes me look pretty cool. And he is definitely, as Marcus said, interesting.

  Suddenly I wonder … what does that make me?

  ***

  “Are you sure you have enough underwear? You didn’t pack any with holes, did you? And I went through a lot of trouble to find those little Spiderman shorts you asked for.”

  “MOM!” I hiss, looking around and turning down the volume on my phone. She’s so close to hers, her head fills the screen. “Did you call Luke already? I’m sure he wants to talk to you too.”

  “Luke is busy working. I’ll text him later. You’re sure you have everything? How do you feel?”

  To be honest, I’m kind of glad she’s a little worried. She’d practically packed our bags for us, and it seemed like she was itching to get started on her big summer study session. Or was it something else? I couldn’t get Luke’s dating talk out of my head.

  “You never told me if Dad went to camp,” I say.

  “He didn’t mention it,” she answers, and that’s it.

  “Well, did he ever—”

  “Don’t forget to spray the disinfectant before you put sheets on that bed, Emmett,” she interrupts. Okay, I get it. No matter what else is changing, we’re sticking with the status quo when it comes to talking about big things. I guess only opportunities, achievement, and other big tings are allowed.

  “Mom, you know I’ll come home if you need me,” I say. “I bet Luke would too.”

  She laughs and rubs her hair back. “I’m the parent here, I’ll be fine. I’ll be hitting the books and getting ready for that test. It’s just so fortunate that this worked out.”

  “Well …” I say. I don’t want to be all I told you so, but, “You always do say to take initiative.”

  “Don’t play yourself, Emmett,” she says, but she laughs. “Seriously, buddy, I’m happy for you both. My boys are growing up. Enjoy.” She waves her hand. “All that. I want you to have fun.”

  She says some more mushy stuff, and I pretend to hate it. Then we say goodbye and she hangs up quickly, probably because she’s already crying for real. A squiggly tickle bubbles up in the pit of my stomach, and I swallow a few times as I put my phone in my pocket.

  Charles pops up next to me. “Um, ready to go to the house meeting?”

  “BRUH! Where did you come from? Seriously, do you have an invisibility cloak or something?”

  “I’m like a panther,” he says, twisting his body around awkwardly. I can’t hold back a laugh because Charles is about as un-panthery as you can get. I’m relieved when he laughs too. He points to the puffy-but-shabby dark green couch near the doorway of the lounge. “We’re over there.”

  “Thanks,” I say, following him to the couch. When we plop down and sink deep into the cushions, we both laugh. And even though a couple of kids give us funny looks, I’ve got someone to laugh with, so I don’t mind.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The house meeting in the lounge is short and all about the rules. Most of the kids from this dorm are musicians, but I hear a couple of kids talking about Street Style, so there are dancers too. Marcus wasn’t kidding—I meet a girl from Jamaica who introduces herself as “Clarinet, first chair, all-state” as if I know what that means; then another from Jamaica, Queens, who says she’s a “social media influencer” and offers to sell me some likes; a boy from Chicago who says he can hook us up with the best popcorn
ever; and a Nigerian kid everyone calls Prince who plays guitar. I try to throw debate champion into conversation just to keep up, but around here, that’s about as special as saying grocery list.

  There aren’t enough chairs for everyone, so I move to the floor and watch a couple of ants try to transport a corn chip without getting stomped. Once Marcus finishes reading from his scripted welcome, we move outside to the lawn, which is a relief, because it’s clear that the AC is only for the main building, probably to make a good impression on the parents. Outside, all the houses are gathered on the grass, and I watch a bunch of reunions—hugs, jumping up and down, shouts and cheers. A really short woman wearing a headwrap and big hoop earrings keeps clapping and trying to herd us into a circle. Finally she puts two fingers in her mouth and whistles, loud. It’s an impressive whistle that stops everything. The sun is starting to go down, and there’s a late-afternoon glow that makes it seem like we’re in a dream. We all slowly move into a roundish formation.

  “I’m going to find Michelle,” says Charles. “BRB.”

  Of course he says BRB. As I sit down on the grass, I listen to a few whispered conversations about who’s back, who isn’t, who’s changed, and who hasn’t. Apparently Lamar’s phone made his stock rise instantly, and Charles’ friend Natasha thinks she’s all that, but she’s not, which probably means she is. I can tell that there are a few other newbies like me; we’re busy trying to look like we really want to sit alone, not talking to anyone. If this were home, I’d go up to one of them, but here, I feel different. Local debate and dance celeb and neighborhood spelling bee champ isn’t all that. My plan had been to stick with Luke, but I don’t see him anywhere. A bunch of adults in blue T-shirts that say black excellence in red are standing in the middle of the circle, and older kids—oh, there’s Luke!—are on the perimeter, trying to kind of herd us in like a flock of hyper sheep. Black sheep, heh. I wave Luke over, but he just holds up a hand in response.

  Charles comes back with a girl. A cute girl. She’s wearing a hoodie that says i’m not a snack, i’m soul food!. I smile.