It Doesn't Take a Genius

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  “There’s room for us all,” he says.

  “Charles,” I say, “I think it’s a fantastic idea. I can help you plan if you want. You’re a genius and a good guy.”

  “As are you, my good man, as are you!” He gives me a fist bump.

  I bump him back, and we both stand and bow without even checking to see if anyone can see us. Then we get up and start walking with a new bop in our step.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Even though Michelle and I are sure that nobody made anything better than our Morning Glory mini muffins, we still come in second place in today’s Great DuBois Baking Show competition. With a little more than a week to go, we’re running out of time to take the top spot.

  “That’s our second second this week!” says Michelle, throwing down her oven mitt. “I don’t do second.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I went a little overboard with the cinnamon.” Not only am I not winning anymore, I’m bringing my friends down too.

  “No, I’m the one that suggested banana mash instead of banana chunks,” she says sadly. “We gotta up our game for the next one. I think it’s a veggie theme. Pumpkin Peppermint Brownie Swirls?”

  “How about it’s just a stupid bogus camp competition?” says Hannah, who apparently got to switch into this class even though camp’s half over. “Y’all are acting like this is going to keep you out of college or something.” She takes a muffin. “Tastes good to me,” she says, and grabs two more as she walks out. Michelle and I look at her, then each other, then we just laugh and start a muffin swap with the rest of the class until it’s time to go.

  ***

  We have a really awesome Black to the Future conversation about “power, privilege, and utilizing available resources.” Ade, who usually hangs with Derek, is in my group and for once he doesn’t brag about his dad’s Tesla. He even told us that it makes him uncomfortable when his dad complains that people in America don’t have “Naija hustle,” but he gives his dad a pass because he knows his dad got called an African booty scratcher for months when he first came from Nigeria. “People at my school were even calling me that for a while,” says Ade. “Then I came in with my new phone and they got real quiet.”

  Lamar, who hasn’t talked to me since registration day, gives Ade a nod.

  Class is over before I realize that I didn’t get the usual lump in the pit of my stomach when Ade talked about his dad. Progress?

  At the end of class, I go over to Luke, who’s giving Derek some instructions. They look over at me like I’m a mistake.

  “What’s up, E?” asks Luke.

  “Uh, do you have a minute?” I say. I look at Derek. “In private.” Derek just smirks and doesn’t move. Luke gets a concerned look immediately, so I add, “It’s nothing bad, just wanted to uh, catch up.”

  “Sorry, E, we’re leading a found objects diorama workshop right now. I gotta get over to the studio.”

  “Oh … maybe I can come to your class—”

  “It’s full,” says Derek. “People signed up days ago. You missed the boat. Boat—haha! Guess anything on the water is not your style, right?” He snickers, and Luke raises his eyebrows, then tells Derek to go on ahead.

  “You two got beef?” he asks, after Derek leaves. “Derek is all right.”

  “I’m your brother, though,” I say. “And he’s far from all right. He might be worse than Mac. You should have heard—”

  Luke raises his hand. “E, I’ll see you later, okay? This class was my idea, I had to talk Dr. Triphammer into it, so I need to go.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” I say, flopping down into a chair. “So what I’m being bullied. Who cares.”

  Luke checks the time again, then sits down next to me. “Bro,” he starts, “Don’t make such a big deal out of this stuff. I’m sure Derek was just joking. He’s not bad, he’s just … sarcastic sometimes. Maybe if you get to know him, he’ll tell you his story.”

  “I’ll pass on Derek’s story,” I say. “Is this your pep talk? Because it’s gone downhill. Wayyy downhill.”

  “Sorry, Emmett. I just meant that Derek—”

  “I don’t get why it’s so hard to call me E. I get that Derek is like your favorite word now, but is it that hard to call me E?”

  “Sorry.” He sighs. He looks at the time again.

  “If you have to go, just go,” I mutter. “Maybe if Derek has news, you’ll make time to listen to him.”

  “Emmett, E—”

  “Mr. Charles, don’t you have somewhere to be?” booms a voice. We both jump; it’s Dr. Triphammer.

  “Sorry, Dr. Triphhammer,” says Luke at the same time that I say, “Free period, sir.”

  “I was talking to the junior counselor Mr. Charles, not camper Mr. Charles,” says Dr. Triphammer, pointing at Luke. “Who apparently wasted thirty minutes of my time asking to lead an art workshop that he doesn’t plan to show up for.”

  Luke stands. “I’m really sorry, sir, I’m heading to the studio now. My brother just … I had to …” He trails off.

  “As you learned in training, we’re all family here, and we have a responsibility to each other, not just to some people.” He glances over at me. “If you’re not ready for that responsibility …”

  “I’m very sorry, sir, it won’t happen again.” Luke runs out without looking at me. A tiny part of me feels glad that he got taken down a little, even though it’s the usual Dr. Triphammer extra bark, no bite.

  Dr. Triphammer folds his arms and glares at me. “Didn’t I see you lounging under a tree earlier today? You seem to have a lot free time.”

  “I wasn’t exactly lounging, I …”

  “Here, I have a job for you. Just because you have a free period doesn’t mean you should fritter it away,” he says, and I know better than to laugh at the fact that he said fritter. “I’m checking for trash left behind. Since you seem to have nothing better to do, you can look under these seats …” The man is obsessed.

  So I spend ten minutes hanging with Dr. Trashhammer and picking up chip bags from the floor. He mellows out a little by the end, and I tell him that DuBois has inspired me to do good work when I get home. It feels like I’m laying it on a little thick, like the time I told Pastor Booth that the Bible was straight fire (“And brimstone, young man! And brimstone!” he answered), but Dr. Triphammer seems pleased. “You have good ideas,” he grumbles. “Do the work to refine them.” He peers a little more closely at me. “Aren’t you the boy who’s a Novice zero swimmer? You should use this time to practice your strokes! When I took over DuBois, I pledged that every camper from the Bear Cubs on up would know how to swim by the end of three weeks. What are you?”

  “Huh? A … a boy, sir.”

  “I mean what unit. Don’t be smart.”

  I wasn’t, and furthermore, aren’t we all supposed to be smart here? I just say. “Oh. I’m in the Young Lions.”

  “So what’s your plan, then?” he asks. “Have you been preparing to retake the test?”

  I mumble some “Yes sir, okay, sir, and thank you sirs,” and get out of there.

  ***

  I’m not sure what to do next. As I head to my dorm, I’ve still got some free period left. I should be working on a solo street style routine for the competition, but I have ideas for Michelle’s choreography, so I work on that instead. Charles is probably making puppy eyes at Michelle, or he’s in the lounge having a bassoon battle with some of his music friends. It’s … a unique sound.

  “Everyone’s in the game center,” says Marcus as I walk into the building. “Do you want me to walk you over?”

  “Uh, no,” I say, and I’m not surprised when he looks relieved. Seriously, how did he get this job?

  Maybe the same way you got into this camp, says a voice in my head. Faking it till you make it. Have you made it yet?

  I’m here, and I belong here, my other voice says. It’s all good. I’m a star too.

  Marcus is still looking at me, and for a second I wonder if he heard the
voices in my head too, or if I actually said all that stuff out loud. “Uh, but thanks, Marcus,” I say quickly. “Thanks for making me feel, uh, welcome, and everything.”

  He smiles and claps my back so hard I almost fall over. “Really?! Thanks, little guy! I’m still trying to figure out this counseling thing. Uncle Trip has been on my back, and it’s been tough.”

  Uncle Trip? “Trip—Dr. Triphammer’s your uncle?” That explains a lot.

  He nods and pats me on the back, only slightly softer this time. “You made my day, little E.”

  “It’s just E.”

  “Thanks, little E.” He waves to one of the kitchen staff, who rolls her eyes. “Gina! Let me holler at you for a second!”

  ***

  I see Luke and the Gnat heading out of the art shack, as I’m walking toward the game center, and I swear he sees me too, but he keeps talking to that parasite intern of his. Whatever. I go over to them and start talking to Luke, ignoring Derek.

  “Luke, I haven’t had a chance to tell you about how I’m working on this play—”

  He frowns and puts up his hand, looking around. “E,” says Luke, “that’s great. I heard you’re dancing up a storm too. Do you. The whole point of you coming here was—”

  “To hang out with you,” I blurt out.

  “Do you guys need a moment?” asks Derek in a fake voice that the old Luke would have caught in a second.

  “No,” says Luke right away. “D, I’m sorry for the interruption.”

  Wait, Luke’s apologizing to him?

  “I—” I start.

  “Emmett, I’m trying to tell you and you don’t want to hear me. I came here to work. You came here to … whatever, but I’m not going to let you ruin my experience.” He takes a deep breath. “More than you already have, at least.”

  Derek whistles under his breath.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? How have I ruined—”

  “E!” Charles runs over. “We were going to come get you—I’m so glad you’re here!” He gently pulls me into the game center as I try to pick my jaw up from the ground. “That didn’t look like it was going well,” he says to me in a low voice. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dr. Triphammer walk over to Luke and the Parasite. I hope he’s telling them both off.

  “You good?” asks Charles as he leads me over to Michelle and Natasha.

  I nod. The speakers are blasting Normani, and my head hurts. I can’t believe Luke. I guess getting into that school has really changed him already. Forget him! “Yeah, my mom wanted me to remind my brother … that she can’t send him anymore Spider-Man underpants.”

  Charles gives me a ???? look, but I stay stone-faced.

  “Uh,” he says, “Well, if you need to talk … Anyway, we really were going to come find you. Michelle said you’ve been working hard on her show and probably need a break.”

  Nice to know someone cares. “Yeah, I wanted to spend a few minutes with the play, working on some ideas for The Two Amys in my head.”

  “Thanks for encouraging me with my library workshop idea,” he says. “I told Michelle, and she loved it. She’s going to suggest a Black theater class at her school. And you know Michelle. By ‘suggest,’ she means present them with a hundred-page plan.” He laughs, and I try to join him, but it gets stuck in my throat.

  “Yeah,” I say slowly. “It really is a good idea, isn’t it? The kind of thing that people will get behind.” It’s funny, that’s the kind of thing that could have won me a camp award or something. I forgot that I’m trying to score points here. Maybe I should have played that differently.

  “It’s great!” says Charles. “I’m going to call my parents tonight and tell them. They’ll love it, it’s the kind of thing they’ll be talking about putting on my college application, and I can do what I love. It’s a win-win. Michelle was giving you lots of props.”

  “Why me?” I ask. “It was your idea. “She should be giving you the props. Girls like an ideas man.”

  “I told her you inspired it,” he says, “I wouldn’t have had the guts to even say it out loud if you hadn’t started that conversation.” We dap it up and laugh when we mess up and have to start over. It’s a regional thing, I guess. But even if we can’t get a good handshake going, we’re good. We’re a crew of two, but we’re still a crew. The air hockey table is free, and we play until I’m laughing for real. We don’t keep score. I can feel Luke’s presence nearby a couple of times, but I don’t look at him.

  “Thanks, Charles,” I say. “For everything.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Five, six, seven, eight,” I call out. I’m teaching a bunch of seventies dance moves for a possible Camp Showcase ensemble routine called Soul Memories. Since I didn’t have much time to come up with something new, I’d thought back to my audition and figured starting from Soul Train might be perfect. Last week of camp starts tomorrow and I’ve got to have something—a trophy, a certificate—to show for my time here. And now that I’m not ruining my stupid brother’s experience, I can focus on shining in Street Style. I’m getting that solo. After I reminded Mom that she’d officially ended my punishment and triple-checked that I really did need to use my phone for camp work, she gave me free(ish) rein, so I’ve been watching tons of online videos and documentaries. I’ve learned about how so many street dances got smoothed out and became popular because of Soul Train. I think I’m coming up with something that has both old school and next generation appeal for the group routine. And it seems like people in the class agree, because today they voted that it should be the one that we do in the showcase. Even though some of the moves are kind of … acrobatic, so far, everyone’s making an effort.

  I clap like a real choreographer. “Okay, guys, I know the Hustle is kind of complicated, let’s break it down for each count. Back, right, left, right, left. Forward right, left, right, left, lean right, one, turn two …”

  After about three tries, they get it! And even better, they’re liking my work. Jeimy, who taught us all a fire bachata routine yesterday, comes up afterward during independent work time and says she thinks that I might help us end up with of the best showcase routines ever.

  “I gotta admit,” she says, “when you came in here talking about oldies, I couldn’t see it, but this is good. And you’re a good teacher.” She glances over at Hannah. “Some people are all, ‘Just do it!’ and that’s not helpful.”

  “Your routine was really good,” I say. “I didn’t know all that stuff about DR.” Triple M makes us talk about the cultural origins of any dances we demonstrate or share; after Jeimy’s presentation, I seriously want to go to the Dominican Republic. Talking to Jeimy gives me an idea. “I would love to incorporate some of what you showed us,” I say. “Maybe … maybe I can adjust my idea a little.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “We bring our own spin on Black culture to this class, and it blows my mind every day. My aunties are all about Soul Train, but your family knows merengue and stuff. And Trina is always twerking when she thinks Triple M isn’t looking and saying it’s ‘a hundred percent Atlanta,’ but remember Fatou called it Mapouka and she’s from the Ivory Coast.”

  When Triple M heard I was Jamaican(ish), he had me do some research on Jamaican dance history. I watched videos of the Jonkonnu, Gerreh, and Gumbay dances, and it was a pretty interesting mix of African, European, and Indigenous influences. “Maybe the showcase routine could be … like Memories of Our Heritage or something like that. I’ll come up with a better name. Or we can all brainstorm.” I hope it doesn’t seem like I’m trying to rip everybody off. “I can spend some time coming up with a … remix of my original idea that includes a little of everybody else’s, but not in a stealing way.” I add quickly, “More like …”

  “You want it to be more collaborative,” Triple M says from behind me, making me jump. “That’s definitely one of the principles we like to promote here at DuBois.” He gives me what could almost be a smile. “Oh! Have I given you all T
he Collaborative Habit to read yet? Twyla Tharp. I should make it required reading …” He goes over to his notebook on the bench and starts scribbling. Uh-oh. I hope I didn’t just create more assignments for Street Style. Natasha gave me her outline to read to get ready for shooting, and I still have to choreograph a grand finale for Michelle. Normally I’d ask Luke to help me out. Normally I wouldn’t have to ask. He’d know.

  “I mean, that could be really good,” says Jeimy. “Like, really good.” We start fooling around with some moves right then and there. Marcus jumps in with the Harlem Shake—even though he’s from Virginia Beach, his New York cousins would visit every summer and tell him it was the only dance people did in the city. By the time he learned that wasn’t true, he was a pro. Then Triple M shows us the Chicken Noodle Soup, “a Harlem Shake evolutionary dance,” whatever that means. Other people jump in, and family stories are mixed in with dancing, and we can’t stop laughing. Suddenly Triple M is telling us that class ended five minutes ago, and I haven’t even worked on my own routine. We all do a quick “Show Up! Show OUT!” huddle, then I grab my stuff and run to shower and change; I’m hoping to maneuver myself into the seat next to Natasha in Black to the Future.

  The discussion has already started; Natasha’s sitting between Michelle and someone else who is not me. Charles waves me over to the seat next to him.

  “So would you guys agree that we’ve got something special here?” Charisse is asking.

  Almost everyone mumbles yes or nods in answer. I hear Derek mutter something again about how DuBois is not what it used to be, but when he raises his voice all he says is “We definitely got hooked up with the staff this year,” and points to Luke like they’re connected in some way, which they’re not.

  “And it’s something that a lot of our brothers and sisters don’t have access to, right?” says Gordon. “Real talk, when I was a camper, I knew I was waayyyy out of my league with some of the other people who were here. People having horses at home …” I laugh along with everyone else; I know exactly how that feels.