It Doesn't Take a Genius

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  “You’re welcome,” she says. “Move over, let me pour this in. Nice job with the butter and sugar, E, good and fluffy. I mean, you’re here, don’t waste it.”

  “I keep offering to help him, but he’s all, ‘I got interns.’ I don’t know what else to do.” I don’t mention that his intern is my nemesis.

  “Come on, Booker T.,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You told us you basically creative wrote your way into this place at the last minute. So be creative. Like, this is literally supposed to be a summer of creativity. You can think of something.”

  I did do that, didn’t I? I guess she’s right, I am here. And maybe I can do both—create some opportunities for myself, and keep Derek the opportunist from trying to take my place. “You’re a smart cookie, Michelle,” I say. “Cookie, get it?” I get our tray of snickerdoodles in the oven.

  She flicks some flour at me. “Just for that, you’re on solo cleanup duty,” she said. But she laughs, and so do I.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Uno!” I yell. Free period, and I’m chilling with Charles, Michelle, and Natasha in the game center and we’ve just finished the most epic game of UNO ever. WeeDee and Billy used to think I was joking whenever I suggested a game—they said they stopped playing UNO when they were eight, but my camp crew is not only up for it, Natasha even has a special Jean-Michel Basquiat deck. Now that I know who he was, I’m even more impressed.

  We go over to the pinball machine line, which is super long.

  “I’m going to go back to the dorm, rewrite some scenes before dinner,” says Michelle. “E, can we talk about the opening dance number tomorrow? During third period?”

  “Oooh, I’ll come with you, I want to go over my script,” says Natasha.

  “You’re doing a documentary,” I say to Natasha. “Why do you have a script?”

  “It’s really more of an outline. My mom wants to see what I have planned,” she says, sighing. “She knows this could be my third win in a row, so she’s … very interested.”

  “Good thing you got it handled,” says Michelle.

  She shrugs and looks down. “Anyway, E, be ready. We’re about to start shooting soon, and we won’t have much time. I can’t believe camp is half over already.”

  “I know,” says Michelle. “Some of my cast members still don’t know their lines.” She looks at me. “Or their dances, but some of them are saying that you haven’t taught them the whole routine yet. I know you’re on top of this, but I just want to make sure they have time to learn everything. So, third period tomorrow?”

  “I have swimming third period,” I say, not adding that I haven’t worked on the opening number yet. “And I wish I didn’t.” They’re all nice enough to just nod and not make a big deal of the fact that people have been graduating from my swim class every day. Soon it’ll just be me, Monifa the Snitch, and Lance Gotta Pee.

  “Why do girls always go places together?” asks Charles after the girls leave. “They lock arms and everything. Why are girls so … companionable?”

  “Probably because we use words like companionable,” I say. “On that note, we’re never gonna get a turn at this.” I point to the pinball machine. “Why don’t we give up while we’re ahead?”

  Charles agrees, and we head out.

  “I’m going to practice my solo for the Camp Showcase,” says Charles. “Want to join me? I bet you can use one of the music practice rooms. We only have a little time left in this period, but you could run through some of your moves. Aren’t you auditioning for a Street Style solo?”

  But I’ve got a better idea. I’ve got a little steam now, and I’m ready to take on the world … the logical next step: quit swimming. Because by “take on the world” I mean things that are not a lost cause.

  “Imma see you later,” I say. “Just got to take care of some business first.”

  ***

  The air conditioner in the camp office is blasting so hard, the guy at the front desk is wearing a coat.

  “Hi! How can I help you!” he asks. “Hope your Camp DuBois adventure is going well!”

  “I need to change my … um … schedule,” I say. His hard-core cheer is throwing me off my game. “One of my classes.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry it’s not working out. We want you to have a positive experience at DuBois. What are you interested in changing?”

  Maybe this will be easier than I thought! “Can I join filmmaking?” I ask. “I tried to sign up before, I sort of do some stuff in film at home. There was a waitlist on Opening Day, but maybe someone dropped out …”

  “Okay, let me see, it’s a little late to make that kind of change, we’re halfway through the camp session, but …” He types on his laptop so fast I think he’s faking it. “Tell me your name?”

  “Emmett Charles,” I say. “They call me E.”

  “Emmett, what class do you want to replace?”

  “Uh …” How do I say swimming without saying swimming? “I have this medical thing, I need to stay out of the water, and—”

  “Fancy meeting you here,” says a silky voice behind me. I feel a cool breeze and turned around: Mr. Micah McDowell.

  “I … H-hi, Triple—Mr. Micah McDowell …” I stammer. Had he heard anything?

  “Did I hear you trying to drop a course?” His eyes are like lasers. I blink. He doesn’t.

  “Uh … I wait, what?” Busted!

  “I thought that I heard you imply”—dramatic pause—“that you needed to drop swimming for medical reasons. I assume you have documentation. Signed by a parent or guardian. Or you’re willing to have us contact a parent or guardian right now to confirm this medical excuse. Or perhaps I heard wrong?”

  “Um, no, I was just … making sure that I was officially enrolled,” I say as the desk guy frowns and opens his mouth. I go on quickly. “I mean, because I’m new, and I just wanted to make sure of things. I’ve been in the class for a few days now, and I thought it would be a good idea to be sure that … all the Is are crossed and the Ts are dotted.” He raises an eyebrow. “Wait—I mean, the other way around.”

  “I see. I’m glad to hear that,” says Triple M. Does he ever blink? “Because I’d hate to think that just because your swim test didn’t go … swimmingly, that you’d quit. Street Style team members don’t quit. You are a member of a team and expected to conduct yourself accordingly.”

  How did he know about my test? “Team player, yep, that’s me,” I say. I turn to the desk guy. “Uh, thanks for, confirming that for me. I … you’re doing great work here. Great work.” I back away from the desk quickly, tripping over my own feet until I’m safely on the other side of the door.

  “Didn’t you tell me you were planning to audition for a Camp Showcase solo?” Triple M calls out after me. Um, no. “I can’t wait to see what you have planned.”

  From inside I can hear the faint strains of (evil) laughter. Great, way to ruin things after you smoked that audition, Emmett. Now he definitely has it in for me. I’m gonna have to get Luke to smooth things over. And maybe introduce me to some head counselors so that I can have a little staff muscle on my side when Derek and his henchpeople are around.

  ***

  Triple M seems to be in an okay mood by the time I get to Street Style; he only has us do the same eight count twelve times. He starts a unit on African moves and teaches us the Shaku Shaku, which he says is from Nigeria and is played out there but “with all the clodhopping stomptrosities going on in front of me, y’all need to start with basics.”

  It looks easy, but it takes me a couple of tries. Every time I swing my right foot out, I can’t get it back fast enough and stay up on my toes at the same time.

  “This is not a Midwestern marching band practice,” says Triple M, walking past me. Still, he does ask me to demonstrate at the end, so I guess I’ve kind of got it. Then it’s presentation time. Jeimy talks about the history of merengue, and my hips almost fall off when we get in pairs to practice. Hannah goes next, and even though she
gets up with a lot of heavy sighs and grumbling about “homework at camp,” she does a fun presentation on the choreographer Fatima Robinson. It turns out that she directed one of my favorite shows, The Wiz Live!. After I saw that on TV, I practiced every dance scene for weeks. The Wiz was also a movie when Mom was little, and of course she and Uncle Davidson made us watch it; it was pretty good. Hannah’s report is thorough, and Triple M actually smiles when she mentions that Fatima Robinson did that sick choreography for this ancient Egyptian–style video called “Remember the Time.”

  “That was my first professional gig,” says Triple M, sliding into a few moves from the video. We applaud.

  “Yo, that was a long time ago,” someone whispers. “How old is he?”

  Triple M actually tells us a little more about his career—he was a backup dancer, he went on tour with Normani, he even teaches intensives at the famous Alvin Ailey dance school in New York City. “I still take workshops too,” he says. “There is always something to learn. I’m headed to a Dance Theatre of Harlem workshop after camp ends.”

  “Isn’t that ballet?” I ask. “What does that have to do with this kind of dancing?”

  “Yeah,” says Hannah. “I mean, it’s cool learning about Afro-Latin stuff and highlife and whatever, but I thought this class was about b-boying and girling—”

  “Peopling is probably the way to go,” a boy interrupts, and some people give him snaps.

  “—so ballet and musical theater moves are not exactly from the streets.”

  “Different forms of dance inform each other,” says Triple M. “And you’d be surprised at how much musical theater and mainstream forms of dance borrow from street culture.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” says Hannah. “People always taking our stuff.”

  “The point is, it’s all our stuff, not just street culture. We are up in all forms of the art of dance,” says Triple M. Then he makes do barre exercises for the next fifteen minutes.

  “Sounds like something to talk about in Black to the Future,” I say to Hannah in a low voice. “I’d be down if you wanted to lead a discussion on it.” She looks at me for a minute and then smiles.

  “Maybe I will,” she says.

  “If you two are done with your side conversation,” calls out Triple M, “maybe you can come up here and freestyle for our enjoyment … or ridicule.”

  Oops. “To this?” I ask. We’ve been practicing to some classical music that I actually recognize from one of Charles’s playlists. Triple M just folds his arms. I take a deep breath and run up to the front with Hannah. She starts battling right away, and I use the opportunity to try out some of the spins I practiced the night before. I know Triple M meant this as a punishment for talking, but with everyone around us saying, “Ayyeee,” I legit feel like I’m in Step Up 8 or whatever number they’re up to.

  ***

  After class, I hang back to apologize to Triple M, and yeah, I guess to suck up too.

  “Um, sorry for talking. I’m just so inspired by this class, for real. Thank you for that Crazy Legs assignment,” I say. “I got real inspired by that too.”

  He just drinks from his water bottle and looks at me.

  “I mean, I am kind of thinking that I could be a choreographer. My uh, brother, he’s a junior counselor here, we were planning this film festival with eighties dance movies. I mean, it’s been mostly me doing the planning, but he’ll be helping me out soon. Anyway, now I know that Crazy Legs was in Flashdance it, um, has even more significance. “

  He screws the cap back on his water bottle. “Who’s your brother?”

  “Luke, Luke Charles,” I say quickly. “I mean, he kind of has a lot to do, he has his art, and he’s going away to boarding school in the fall, but we used to have these themed film festivals on the weekends, so, um, that’s how I got the idea. And my uncle told me about all the dancing in movies like Breakin’ and stuff. Hey—” I get excited. “Were you in that?”

  “I’m not that old,” he says, rolling his eyes.

  “Oh, sorry. Yeah, so … I want to spend some time studying those movies, I’m really inspired by this class and Crazy Legs and stuff …” I trail off.

  “Yep, you said that already.”

  “I just gotta see when Luke has time to sit down with me. I want to run my ideas by him. I haven’t even had a chance to show him what I’ve been practicing here. He usually helps me rehearse and stuff, but he’s been busy with art.”

  “Or,” says Triple M, “you can make the time to sit down with yourself. If this is your thing, then do it. Don’t wait for anyone else.”

  “Luke and I always do everything together,” I say. “He wants to help me, he’s just been a little busy.”

  “Didn’t you just say he was going away to school?”

  “Yeah …”

  “Are you going too?”

  “Um. No.”

  “So, live your best life, Sparky. Maybe there are some things you do together—” I open my mouth, but he holds up his hand. “Things that you’re both interested in. Because it sounds like this”—he points to my feet—“is about you. And you’re doing … okay on your own.”

  He doesn’t know that back home, I was a star. That with Luke bigging me up, I could win every award at the end of the summer. But I don’t want to talk back, because the whole point of this conversation was to get on his good side, so I just say, “I guess.”

  He looks at me for a long minute. “So the eighties, that’s fascinating,” he says in a way that sounds like that’s not what he thinks at all.

  I perk up. “Yeah! I was telling these guys back home about Beat Street, but they nixed it …”

  “Both Beat Street and Flashdance are eighties,” he says.

  “Yeah, my friends were talking about a John Hughes focus, but to be honest, I wasn’t that into it …”

  “Well, again, now you have an opportunity to think about doing something that’s meaningful to you,” he says. “Do some research on a couple of other movies, like Krush Groove and Style Wars, and report back to me tomorrow.”

  “I’d be happy to do another presentation, sir,” I say, not knowing how that’s going to be possible in less than twenty-four hours, but knowing that I can’t say so.

  “This is not for a presentation,” he says. “You’ll report back to me. And by me, I mean me.” He packs up his bag. “For a presentation, let’s see one on Katherine Dunham in three days. That you can do for the class.”

  “Isn’t Andre reporting on Gene Anthony Ray then?” I ask. I know better than to ask who Katherine Dunham is. Oh wait—I think Natasha mentioned her before.

  He’s walking to the door. “Yes,” he says without turning around. “So you can go first.” He stops at the door and waits for me to walk out ahead of him. “And I hope you’re preparing some ideas for the Camp Showcase,” he says. “There are solo opportunities, and I’m looking for someone to choreograph an ensemble number. I’ll be keeping a close eye out for someone who has even a soupçon of promise.”

  Me choreograph for the whole class? In front of Triple M? And what does that have to do with soup? “Uh, right. Yes, I’m definitely preparing. So, thank you, um, see you later, Mr. Micah McDowell,” I say.

  “Ciao,” he answers, and leaves. “I look forward to your presentation.”

  Guess I’ll be hitting a study lounge during rec time, I think. But surprisingly, I don’t mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Charles’s nine-language dictionary tells me that soupçon means “a tiny amount.” From Triple M, I know that’s mega praise and I’ll take it. The rest of the day is pretty chill; Italian subs for lunch with fresh salt and vinegar potato chips. I take pictures and send them to WeeDee and Billy with the caption #notcampbutaworldclassexperience #youwishyouwerehere. I sit between Charles and Natasha and try to be low-key suave by helping Natasha with Blackity Bowl practice even though Charles is being high-key corny by going on and on to Michelle about some bassoon concerto in B
-flat major. I try to kick him a few times, but he just says, “Ow!” and keeps talking until Michelle says, “You know Beethoven was Black, right? Alexander Hamilton too.” Then they debate that for a while.

  Natasha eats a couple of my chips. “Come on, E, next question,” she says.

  She called me E! “Uh.” I look at the notebook she’s given me. “Who is the jazz violinist who—”

  “Ginger Smock,” she answers immediately.

  “—who was the only Black member of the Los Angeles Junior Philharmonic when she was a teen and played in an all-female jazz trio called the Sepia Tones. Wow, yep, how do you know all this stuff … Okay … This man obtained almost sixty patents on his inventions, which included the folding ironing board, and—”

  “Elijah McCoy!” she yells.

  “You’re really good,” I say. “No joke.”

  “I have to be,” she replies, taking another chip.

  “What do you mean? It’s just a game, right?”

  “Well, it’s kind of a big deal, the tournament happens in front of everyone, on the last night of camp,” she says. “Before the Camp Showcase.”

  “Oh, Triple M said something about that to me today. He’s looking for choreographers in the class.”

  “Wow, the fact that he even mentioned it to you means he thinks you’re good. He usually only talks to seniors about that. The routine that the Street Style team does is a highlight of the whole show, after the solo dances. The solos are the main event. But still, it’s a big deal. Then there’s the Blackity Bowl, of course.”

  “Oh. Wow,” I mumble, not sure if I should freak out or celebrate about potentially being responsible for making the whole class look good in front of everyone. “Um, so the Blackity Bowl? Is it really that important for you to win again if you already won so many times?”

  “I’m a legacy, remember?” she says. “I have a lot to live up to. And look around. I don’t want to be the slacker.”

  “I know what you mean,” I say. “I know I’m new and all, but I’m thinking of entering the Dance Battle.” Along with choreographing for Michelle, and maybe for the whole Street Style class. And helping Natasha with her film. Hmmm. “Guess I’m gonna have a lot going on.”