It Doesn't Take a Genius

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  “Join the club.” She nods and smiles a half-smile.

  “Hey, are you ready for me to join your crew?” I ask. “How’s Black Girl Magic going?”

  “You mean in my life, or the film?” She half-smiles. “Ugh, I’m getting a headache. Hit me again before it gets bad.”

  As we go through more questions, I think about Mom studying and getting ready for med school. I wonder what my dad would have thought of that, of Luke getting into Rowell, of me … doing something. I stop again. “I never really thought about living up to anything.” Mom had said to have fun and take advantage of the opportunities, like she always says, but what does that really mean?

  “Do your parents put a lot of pressure on you?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Not exactly … but they do talk about how fortunate we are, how much people sacrificed so we could live our best lives.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I guess that true. But it’s kind of … a lot.”

  She shrugs again. “Life is a lot. Come on, let’s keep going. Give me more science, they always go heavy on those.”

  “Oh!” I knock the notebook off the table by mistake. It slides under, and I dive for it, hitting my head on the way back up. Ouch. I try to pretend I’m smoothing my hair in a feeling myself kind of way as I feel for a lump. “Um, hey, did you say you were taking a Katherine Dunham class?” I ask. “Yeah, Lynn might be even tougher than Triple M, but I love it.”

  “I, um, have to do a report on her tomorrow, like a short presentation.” Here comes the swole tongue again. “Um, I, uh, maybe, uh, if you have time later, you could tell me some stuff? Or something?”

  “Sure,” she says. Then she taps the notebook I’m holding. “More science, please!”

  So I keep quizzing her, and each question reminds me of how much I don’t know but it’s okay because it’s Natasha and I’ve got my sandwich and there’s something new happening inside of me that feels good even if I haven’t figured it out yet.

  ***

  Ceramics has a vibe that I can get used to. Our teacher, Ms. Clay (seriously), looks like a cross between the illustrations of River Mumma in this book I have at home called West Indian Folktales, and Mrs. Whatsit in that A Wrinkle in Time movie Luke took me to when I was little. She always has bowls of pretzels in the room, and there’s a mini fountain in the back that makes little bell sounds when it’s plugged in. Today we talk about different African pottery traditions and techniques, and we watch a film about pot making in Burkina Faso. Then we all get lumps of clay and she tells us to make a pinch pot, which is something I did in kindergarten, but whatever. I sit between a guy named Clarence who keeps asking Ms. Clay to check his work and a girl who says she saw this film at some museum last year.

  Even though I’m disappointed that I didn’t get into one of Luke’s art classes, this is some good stuff. If I ever get a chance to tell him that, I will. I like being in that room, with Ms. Clay’s jazz music playing—she tells us it’s Mary Lou Williams, and when someone makes the mistake of asking “who” she gives them an assignment—an oral report on Black women of jazz. Sometimes these teachers remind me of all the aunties and uncles at our family gatherings. Once, Uncle Todd, who’s not even related to us, had me memorize and recite his original poetry at Thanksgiving because “the boy needs to know how to present and represent” (like I’m not already a debate champion, but whatever). With the sunlight streaming in through the art shack windows, I feel like a real artist. The clay feels like hope in my hands, and working with it gives me ideas for new moves. I also realize that my pinch pot work isn’t bad; I wonder if I can be an art assistant or something! Yes! That might be a way to work in some time with Luke, show him all the great stuff I’ve been doing here, that I belong here with him.

  It turns out that Charles, Michelle, and Natasha are all spending rec time in the study lounge. A lot of kids use that period as an extra independent study. The grind is real, and everybody seems to like it. I do too, and it doesn’t hurt that we share a big bag of flamin’ hot Cheetos that Natasha brought from home. While I’m looking up Katherine Dunham, Charles is trying to compose a piece in honor of someone named Chevalier de Saint-Georges, Michelle’s working on The Two Amys, and Natasha is quizzing herself on Egyptian history. I hadn’t expected to be doing so much school-type stuff at camp, but it’s cool. We head outside after a while and Natasha shows me some of what she’s doing in her dance class; I try to memorize it so I can practice in the room later for my presentation. I know Charles won’t make fun of me. We all flop down in the grass under a big tree, and even though we’re working on separate projects, it all feels connected. And I feel connected—to my friends, to Katherine Dunham, even to that lady who founded this place. When Dr. Triphammer walks by and gives us a thumbs-up, I think back to his speech about how this place was started, and I’m glad it’s still here.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Our badminton coach, Jossie, has given up on trying to get people to stop saying shuttlecock instead of birdie and snickering. She’s also given up on trying to get us to play real matches, because we all just want to count how many times we can hit the birdie without dropping it. Some people even make it into an art, spinning and twisting and closing their eyes while the birdie’s up in the air. So Jossie just claps loudly every few minutes and reminds us that it’s an Olympic sport. “One of y’all could be the Naomi Osaka of badminton if you just work!”

  Natasha and I end up next to each other (basically because I put myself next to her), and we trash talk as we hit. She sure knows how to flex; apparently she met Coco Gauff, and Maya Moore came to her house once. I’m surprised when class is over, and Charles comes over to remind me that we still have to do our Superhero Secrets assignment.

  “We’re, uh, grabbing to-go boxes for lunch,” I say to Natasha. Should I ask her to join us, or would that be weird?

  “Bon appétit!” she says, putting away her racquet. I stand there awkwardly not saying anything until she looks at me. Not weird at all, Emmett. “Oh! Um, I’m going to use the lunch period to go over some Blackity Bowl questions, fine tune my production schedule, I’ve got tons of work to do. And I’m not hungry anyway.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Well, um, I guess I’ll see you later. That was … fun.”

  “It was!” she says. “See you!” Even though I’d told Charles last night that Luke is always the one to leave first when he’s with Taliesha, I stand there until Natasha’s out of sight and Charles has to tap my shoulder.

  “Ready?” he says. I nod slowly. “And just so you know, you’re about to catch flies with your mouth open like that. You look a little faint, do you need to sit down?”

  I start to protest, then I see that he’s laughing. “Okay, you got jokes,” I say. “Not like you don’t look like a sick puppy when Michelle’s in the room.”

  We head to the dining hall to pick up our lunch, laughing and joking the whole way.

  ***

  Make a list of all the things you like about yourself. For example, your eyes, your smile, your toes, everything! Do you like the way that you walk? The way that you talk?

  “Who wrote this stupid book,” I ask Charles. “Dr. Seuss?” We’re laying on the grass near the art shack. I shield my eyes from the sun; I’m not used to such clear skies. We’d stuffed the Superhero Secrets workbook in the desk in our dorm room as soon after the first meeting, and hadn’t looked at it since. But the second session is coming up, and the die-hard school nerds in us means that we’re trying to do that dumb assignment anyway.

  “That’s racist,” says Charles, not looking up from his book. “Or at least, Dr. Seuss was.” “Yeah, okay, but … my toes?” We laugh. As Charles continues to read, I take a mental inventory. “And seriously? He was racist?”

  “Yeah, Charisse told us about it last year. Totally broke my childhood but good to know. Maybe that’s why they added Black to the Future.”

  “To break our childhoods?” I say. Black to the Future makes me feel like
there’s so much I don’t know. “So what are you going to say that you like about yourself?”

  “Huh? Oh … I don’t know, my music skills, my mind palace, my voice, there’s a lot, actually,” says Charles casually.

  “Mind palace?” I put up a hand as he starts to speak. “What—Wait, I don’t even want to know.” That came so easy to him, that list. Before I came here, it would have come easy to me too. But now I feel a little off … my hair’s not bad … when I can get Luke to cut it every week. I probably need a new smile. Something a little more mysterious, with less teeth. I don’t realize that I’m practicing until a little girl walks by, carrying a giant pipe cleaner sculpture.

  “Stop making scary faces,” she says. “Everybody’s trying to make me drop my work.”

  “Uh, sorry.”

  Luke comes out of the center, surrounded by a bunch of kids, and, of course, Derek. I wave; Luke waves back without stopping. Derek doesn’t say anything; I guess he doesn’t want Luke knowing what a jerk he really is. Instead, he drops behind Luke and makes swimming motions with his arms.

  “Ignore him,” says Charles.

  “Who?” I answer, and I don’t say anything else. Charles just nods.

  “What are you two doing?” booms a voice behind me. I jump; it’s Dr. Triphammer, and he’s carrying one of those clear trash recycling bags.

  “Uh, reading,” I say. “The workbook from Superhero Secrets.”

  “Hmph,” he grumbles. “I didn’t realize that that class was going to generate so much … paper,” he says. “I need to talk to Mr. Oliver about digital tools, maybe iPads for next year.”

  “That would be amazing!” says Charles. “With the pen thing!” He’s right; Dr. Triphammer smiles at him, teddy bear style, but I’m still not sure that he won’t start roaring like a real bear in a second. Charles gives him an exaggerated thumbs-up, but knowing Charles, he means it.

  Dr. Triphammer leans against the tree and sighs. “It would. Just a matter of funding. The cost of running this place …” He clears his throat. “Excuse me. Anyway, carry on. I hope the class is helpful.”

  “Uh, maybe Lamar’s father would know about getting iPads or something,” I say. “Lamar, um …” I look at Charles.

  “Clayton!” says Charles. “Great thinking, E. His family might be willing to donate …”

  Dr. Triphammer grunts something like, “We’ll see,” and hands us each a clear plastic bag. “If we all do our part to create a zero-waste environment,” he starts, and looks at us.

  “Then we’ll have a zero-waste environment?” I finish, because it feels like I’m supposed to.

  “Exactly!” He hugs the tree, then holds out his hands for a high-five. As he walks away I hear him singing that “Camp DuBois Makes Me Happy” song. Charles and I look at each other, but we don’t laugh until he’s at a safe distance. I turn back to the workbook.

  Self-esteem is about feeling good about yourself, believing in yourself, feeling proud of yourself for who you are. It means knowing that you are trying to be the best YOU you can be! It’s not about what things you have, how much money you’ve got, or how famous you are. A lot of rich, famous people are still unhappy? Why? Because they’ve never developed their self-esteem!

  I shake my head. “I can’t believe they call this class Superhero Secrets,” I say.

  “Shiny Suit Man is probably connected or something,” says Charles. “Maybe Dr. Triphammer is his cousin. There’s always a cousin.”

  True. I have about twenty. Ma is always bringing a new one up, like “Oh yeah, your cousin Maria is an astronaut, your cousin Philip ran off and joined the circus.”

  “Shiny Suit Man?” says a voice.

  We look up; it’s a counselor named Reggie.

  “Uh,” I say. Does he know who we were talking about?

  “The Superhero Secrets guy?” Reggie goes on. “He’s my cousin.”

  Great.

  “Uh, um,” Charles and I both stammer.

  Reggie laughs. “I’m just playing with you.” He sits on the grass next to us. “It was kind of weak, right?”

  We just stare at him. It could be a trap.

  He laughs again. “Don’t worry, I won’t snitch.”

  “We just thought it would be … different,” I say.

  Reggie nods. “So … make it different!” He sits back like he just solved poverty.

  “No offense,” I say, “but you sound kind of like our workbook.”

  “What do you mean, make it different?” asks Charles.

  “Touché,” says Reggie. “I really have to be careful about being old and corny. What I’m saying is, when I was just a little older than you.” He looks at me. “What are you, ten? Eleven?”

  “Almost thirteen,” I say.

  “Oh, okay, so when I was about your age, I got involved—kind of accidentally, but that’s another story—in a school election, and I ended up running for president and—”

  “And you won, even though you were the underdog,” I finish. “And you got popular. We kind of know that story.”

  “We, in many cases, are that story,” says Charles. “Except for the winning part.”

  “Actually, I didn’t win,” says Reggie. “But, as clichéd as it sounds, I did end up creating opportunities to help me do better and to do good. I get that this Superhero ‘be the best me’ stuff isn’t exactly meaty, but—tell the truth, were you hoping for like, actual superhero lessons? And capes and superpowers and stuff?”

  Charles and I look at each other. Then Charles, who’s too honest for his (and my) own good, says, “We thought we’d at least talk about that stuff.”

  Reggie laughs. “Well, you still can, right? And about what you’d do with the powers you have—okay, that’s more corny than even I can take, I’m about to put on a shiny suit myself. Anyway, it just might mean putting yourself out there a little. Taking a risk. That’s the superhero part.” He gets up. “I’ve got to get my group from the art shack. See you all around! Maybe we can talk comics next time?”

  He leaves, and I can’t lie, I do feel a little cooler after a counselor had an actual conversation with me. I also feel like Reggie just spent more time with me than my own brother has in the whole time we’ve been here. And I met him on my own. Plus, he’s a senior counselor.

  “I was wondering …” starts Charles. He clears his throat a few times. “Do you want me to help you with swimming?”

  I look away. “Uh, thanks, but I’m good. I just need to … focus, it’s not that I can’t pass the test. I’ll take it again, and then I’ll be able to come with you guys to the Isle. I got this.” I roll my eyes. “Are you thinking you’ll get your cape by teaching me to swim? What are you, Aquaman?” I try to laugh a real laugh.

  “Nah, I just … wanted to help. If you wanted.”

  “Yeah, I’m good.” A few geese stroll over to see if we have any snacks. When they realize that we don’t, they stalk away, leaving a few lumps of poop behind like they’re cursing us out.

  “Okay, this is going to sound wacked, but … even though he’s a jerk, Derek does have a point about DuBois getting a little … shabby,” says Charles slowly.

  “Does not compute,” I say. Charles is really pushing all my forbidden conversational buttons right now. “Did you just say something about Derek having a point?”

  “I’m serious,” says Charles. “I heard my parents complaining about the camp fees this year. They want Dr. Triphammer to add more academics so they feel like they’re getting their money’s worth. I haven’t told them about Black to the Future; I’m afraid they’ll think it’s a waste of time. But it’s one of the best things to happen to this place in years.”

  “Seriously!” I’m surprised. “I mean, I don’t know what it was like before, but I think it’s great. And it’s awesome learning all this Black history and culture stuff. It should be part of academics, but it’s not, at least at my school back home. I know a lot of y’all go to private school, so maybe you’re us
ed to it, but not me.”

  “Ha, I go to Acheson Academy, which is extra private,” says Charles. “And everything is about Greek classics. The Blackest we get is To Kill a Mockingbird in seventh grade, and you know that’s painful.”

  I never read it. After Luke tried to flush his copy down the toilet; he just told me enough to pass the stupid tests. DuBois is preparing me for something more than bubble tests, more than I’d even thought it would.

  “You know how the Isle is like an oasis in the middle of camp?” continues Charles. When I give him side eye, he grimaces. “Oops, sorry. You’ll pass the test and get out there, I know you will! Er, anyway, I just mean that DuBois is like my life oasis. I can be me without worrying about it.”

  “That sounds like fun,” I say.

  “You don’t seem to worry about that stuff,” says Charles.

  Really? I struggle for a minute; it might be nice to keep up the illusion of cool. But … Charles is always honest with me, so …

  “Yeah, well,” I say. “It’s not easy coming here and being around all these superstars. It feels like me might not be enough.” I lean back against the tree. “But one thing I realized, with all these presentations we do around here, I feel like I can go back to my school and flex. I’ll be talking like every month is Black History Month!”

  Charles looks at me, and then we both say, “Because it is!” at the same time, and laugh.

  We sit in silence for a minute. A group of boys run by with a soccer ball, singing the DuBois song in fake opera singer voices.

  “You know, you just made me think of something,” says Charles. “Tell me if this sounds stupid. The library in my neighborhood has programs for little kids. I could do bassoon presentations, teach about music. You never know where you’ll find the next Joshua Elmore.”

  “I thought you were going to be the next Joshua Elmore,” I say, glad I remember Charles’s favorite Black bassoonist.