It Doesn't Take a Genius

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  I raise my hand.

  “No, your stomach doesn’t hurt,” says Brant. “Neither does your head or anything. You’re fine.”

  I don’t have the nerve to fight him on that, especially since he was there when I was having a great time playing badminton a little while ago. I stomp to the end of our line and stay a little behind as we walk over to the big pool.

  “I’m scared,” says Lance. I’ve mostly stayed away from him since his accident that first week. No need to remind people about pee pants. Guilt by association is a terrible thing.

  “Why?” I shrug. “Brant will be there.”

  “Will you hold my hand?” asks Lance. I feel bad, but … no.

  “Um … Brant!” I call out. “Lance wants you.” I zip up to the front of the line while Brant goes to check on Lance.

  When we get to the pool, Brant makes us walk around the whole thing, and I stare at the “9FT” markings on one end. Lance tries to stand next to me and I slide away. Does he think I’m a kindred spirit or something? I hope not. We start at the shallow end, where I can still stand. When Brant tells us to work on our strokes with a buddy, I walk as far from Lance as possible and link up with a kid who must be part polar bear or something because keeps complaining that the water’s too warm. Lance looks pretty scared, though, and I feel bad. I also feel like if he pees in this pool, we might not notice right away, which is not a good thing.

  “Nice work, E,” says Brant. I’m doing pretty good, if I do say so myself. I can float on my back really well now. If I just think about the water, and close my eyes—

  “Eyes open at all times!” shouts Brant. Oops. I practice the stroke for the front crawl with my feet firmly on the pool floor. I even tread water in the middle of the pool for a minute. Three is what you need to pass the Isle test.

  “Deep end, everyone,” says Brant. We cling to the edge and kick for a while, then one by one, Brant helps us “swim” by kinda, sorta holding us while we get from the middle of the pool to the edge. I do get a couple of real crawl strokes in between dog paddling.

  “You gotta relax, E,” says Brant. “You got this. Don’t worry about how you look.”

  Easy for him to say. I’ve been trying to pretend that I don’t see the other kids my age pretending not to see me. But Derek’s not around (probably sucking up to my brother), so I don’t hear any straight up ridicule.

  “I think you’re ready to try the test again,” says Brant. “You’ve got the skills, you just need to believe in yourself.”

  “You sound like Shiny Suit Man,” I say without thinking.

  “Who?”

  “Uh, never mind.”

  It’s hard not to notice that Lance is really having trouble, he’s crying and everything. At one point his snot gets out of control—and into the pool. Gross.

  “Ewwwwww!” says a kid. We’ve only got five more minutes, so Brant just dismisses us early. I’m trying to hustle out of there when he calls me over to where he’s standing with Lance.

  “Uh, do you want me to get a towel?” I say, not looking at Lance, who seems to be trying to blow the rest of the snot out onto the ground. I feel bad for him, but … ewwwww is right.

  “I was wondering if you could hang out with Lance and me here for a couple of minutes, to help him get used to the deep end. You did so well today, I want Lance to see that he can too.”

  I don’t know how I can help Lance. If anything, I’m probably a cautionary tale, like, If you’re not careful, kids, you’ll end up left behind in the baby pool. I focus on drying myself off. “Uh, well, I was going to shower and change …”

  Charles, Michelle, and Natasha are coming toward us.

  “E!” shouts Michelle. “Epic UNO game about to happen! You in?”

  I look back and Brant and Lance, who’s shivering now. “Sorry, Brant, maybe next time.” I don’t meet Brant’s eyes. “You’ll be fine, Lance. See you tomorrow!” I run toward my friends before either of them can answer.

  ***

  After UNO, I find Luke showing a group of little kids a book about the artist Romare Bearden when I walk into his classroom. “Remember, Romare Bearden’s style—” He stops when he sees me. “Hey!” he says, jumping up. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a class or something?”

  “It’s my free,” I say, “and I need to talk to you. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been leaving you alone lately. But Brant says I’m ready to take the swim test again. I’m freaking out.”

  “That’s great, bro,” he says, squeezing my shoulder but looking over at the kids, who are staring at me. “I’m sure you’ll have fun whatever you do. I’m teaching right now, can we talk about this later?” He starts walking back to the kids. One of them points to me and asks, “Who’s that?”

  “My little brother,” says Luke. “He’s leaving now. Okay, now … who wants to work in the style of Romare Bearden? Do you remember the word that I used?”

  “Collage!” yells out a girl.

  “That’s French,” says another kid.

  “I have a brother,” says a girl with swirls of cornrows.

  Luke claps three times. “Right now, it’s my turn to talk, and your turn to listen.”

  All the little kids put their hands to their ears like they’re working really, really hard to use them.

  “Luke,” I say, but he was ushering his group to a round table. “Luke!” I call out a little louder. He looks over at a woman at the other end of the room, then comes over to me.

  “Come on, E, my boss is right there,” he says, sounding annoyed.

  “Sorry … I just really need to talk to you.”

  “Listen, Mom is blowing up my phone,” he says, taking his phone out of his pocket. “Do you know what that’s about?”

  Oops. “Uh, I don’t know, I talked to her a little while ago … I’ll call her back. But seriously, I’m nervous about the swim test. I’ve got less than a week. Can you take a break? Want me to ask?” I start walking toward his boss.

  “No!” Luke’s voice is sharp, and it startles me and the little kids. He sighs. “Emmett, I have to focus. I have a break later, during period seven, you can look for me then. Or—”

  “I have an idea,” I said. “I could be like your helper or assistant! I’m free now, and—”

  “Seriously, Emmett, listen to me. Go. Now. Whatever it is, you’ll work it out. Or talk to you counselor, that’s what he’s there for! Anyway, I have D, remember? He’s been great.”

  “Yeah, right,” I mutter.

  Luke pats me on the shoulder. “Stop wasting your free. And good news about the swim test, right?”

  “Well, can you at least come to my test?” I ask. “Show of support?” If you even know what that means anymore.

  “Yep, sure, text me the time, I’ll be there.” He moves away quickly, chanting “Coll-age! Coll-age!” to the kids until they join in. It does make me feel good to see how much they love him. It reminds me of me when I was little.

  Okay, E, you got this. Luke will be there. You know what you’re doing. Mom will be so proud, and Dad is going to be fist bumping his angel-friends up in heaven. I take a deep breath, and as I head to Street Style, I start to smile. Maybe this is a turning point. Maybe my superhero moment is on its way.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Someone is banging on the door, hard, and I almost fall over as I’m trying to change my shirt. I spilled syrup on it at breakfast; I hope no one (and by no one, I mean Natasha) noticed. More banging. Gleam Dream Clean Machine doing a surprise check?

  “What the—” I jump up and open it, and Luke bogarts his way in.

  “Why would you start asking Mom about Dad like that?” he says. “And about being depressed? Are you crazy???”

  Finally! Luke is visiting me! Better late than never, I guess. But it’s way too early in the day for dragon-level aggression. But it’s not exactly working out the way I expected.

  “‘Crazy’? That language is kind of ableist,” says Charles, who si
ts up in his bed and moves one of his accordion folders full of sheet music to the floor. He said it helps him digest. He keeps talking. “I have a thesaurus that …”

  Luke turns to him, and it doesn’t look good.

  “Uh, Charles?” I start.

  He looks up and gives me a thumbs-up. “Say no more,” he says. “I’m gonna go … brush my teeth. Again.” He leaves. “These choppers don’t gleam all on their own.” He glances at Luke, then grabs his bassoon case. “And uh, maybe I’ll practice in the lounge too.”

  As soon as the door closes, Luke sits down and runs his hands through his hair. “What were you thinking, E?”

  “I was just … asking a question,” I say. “I was just in a bad mood or something.”

  “What kind of mood do you think you put Mom in, huh?” he asks. “The one thing I asked of you, you couldn’t even do that.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “We’re supposed to be making life easier for her,” he says. “She’s finally doing this doctor thing, the last thing she needs to worry about is … you talking about Dad.”

  “Nobody talks to me about Dad!” I say. “I ask questions because I want to know. You guys got to have him longer. Did you ever think about how I feel?”

  “You do that enough for all of us,” he mutters. That stops me cold. Luke’s been mad at me before, but he’s never talked like this. Either I’ve really messed up, or he’s really changed. He didn’t even ask me if I am depressed.

  “Ever since you got into that school,” I say, “you’ve changed.”

  “People are supposed to change, Emmett,” he says. “That’s growing up.”

  We sit for a while. I don’t get why he’s so mad at me, but at least he’s here. I’m not trying to take Mom’s opportunities away. But I remember when being the little brother meant that Mom and Luke were looking out for me. Now I feel like an obstacle.

  Luke stands up. “Whatever. I told Mom that you were just having a bad day. Can you call her back, please?”

  “Yeah,” I answer, not looking at him. I didn’t mean to upset Mom. Or maybe I did a little, at the time, but I feel bad about it now. “Yeah, I’ll call her. And I’m … sorry.”

  He hugs me, and it takes a lot for me not to burst into tears like a baby. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Just call her. Listen, I gotta—”

  “I know,” I say. “You’ve got to work. See you later. I’ll text you about the swim test, okay?”

  Charles pops his head back in. “E, we have Black to the Future in five minutes.”

  “You know you’re good with that swim test, bro,” Luke says. “Brant says you can pass in your sleep.”

  “Not a good idea,” says Charles. “I suspect most would advise staying wide awake in the water. Safety first!” Luke just looks at him, shakes his head, and leaves. “I guess my sense of humor didn’t translate,” says Charles.

  “I get you, C-money,” I say. “Don’t worry about him.”

  “Charles.”

  “C-money is so good, though!” I say, and we joke-argue all the way to class.

  ***

  I call Mom that night and apologize and she gets all mushy when I ask her if it’s okay if we talk about Dad when I get back.

  “Yes, honey, I’m sorry, I thought it would make you sad.”

  “And it makes you sad,” I say. “Maybe we can comfort each other?”

  Then she gets all mushy again, so I’m glad when Charles comes back into the room to get his English horn. He says hi and offers to play for her and she says yes so then they spend time bonding while I just sit there.

  “Your mom is cool,” says Charles. “My mom?”

  “I mean, going to med school and stuff, that must be hard at her age.”

  “Yeah, she is mad old,” I say. “I guess she’s cool in a mom kind of way.”

  I don’t take out Mr. Elefancy and Boo Boo after Charles falls asleep. It’s enough for me to know they’re there.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Aw, man!” I say a few other words under my breath as my clay collapses into itself for the fourth time. I’d gotten all pumped up after we watched a movie about Dave the potter, an enslaved man who made all kinds of pottery and signed it because he could read and write. He even wrote poetry but had to keep it low key on account of racism and the fact that literacy could legit get him killed. I want to make something in honor of Dave. I’ve got less than a week left at DuBois, and at this rate, I’m gonna come out of the ceramics class with a pair of preschool-looking pinch pots.

  “Yo, that looks like a demonstration in astronomy,” says Troy. “Like the galaxy in motion or stars orbiting a planet.”

  “Are you a science major here or something?” I grumble, trying to gather up soggy bits of clay. “I thought this place was just about the arts.”

  “No, I’m ceramics, remember?” he says. Oh yeah. I look over; he’s finishing up a tajine, which Ms. Clay told us was a Moroccan cooking pot. He’s been making a set of cookware from around the world as a wedding gift for his aunt.

  “That’s … really good,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I get three periods a day to work on this stuff, so …” He smiles at me. “I’m sure your street style routines are fire.”

  It’s weird to see how hard people work when they don’t have to. Well, Charisse would say Black people always have to.

  “I see you’ve been studying Georgia Henrietta Harris, the Catawba artist,” says Ms. Clay, strolling by. “Nice work, E.”

  “Uh, yes?” I say, and she smiles.

  “Take your time, connect with your clay. There’s no rush,” she says. “Remember, you can continue your work even when you’re not at DuBois.”

  I do know that I used up a lot of time trying to hang out with Luke. I look at Troy’s tajine again and wonder what kind of dance routine I could have come up with by now.

  ***

  That afternoon, Triple M is wondering the same thing. “You must be planning on very productive independent periods,” he says after I pass again on showing the class what I’ve been working on for my solo.

  “I got you,” I say. But I’ve also got Michelle, and Natasha, and …

  “Since this is a whole class project, we will work on what you plan—in your independent periods, Sparky—during a portion of class time. You just have to come prepared.”

  “I got you,” I said again. “And I got this.”

  Famous last words, I guess. It’s not so easy to plan a film project; a choreography routine; and help Michelle, Natasha, and Charles during my one independent period a day. I am trying to get stuff done during regular free periods too, but that’s not going so well either.

  “We did this combination yesterday, we all got it down,” says Jeimy. “Do you have any new stuff to teach us yet?”

  “Let’s go over it again,” I say, stalling for time.

  “He’s stalling,” says Hannah, “He doesn’t have anything.”

  “I do!” I say. “It’s just … it’s not ready yet.”

  “And when exactly,” starts Triple M, “do you expect to be ready? You’ve got a few periods left to teach, rehearse, polish.” I just look at the shiny wooden floor. Triple M claps. “Can someone tell Mr. Charles when the Camp Showcase occurs?”

  “On the last night of camp,” chants the class. Sheesh. He said someone, not everyone.

  “Perhaps Mr. Charles is not a math genius, let’s help him out. When is the last night of camp?”

  “In six days.”

  I look up. The mirrors in the studio make it hard not to see yourself, especially when you really don’t want to. “I got it, I apologize.”

  We spend the rest of the period on a trap music tribute that Hannah’s been working on instead. At the end of class, I go over to Jeimy.

  “Nice work today,” I say. “You are really good.”

  She’s stone-faced as she wipes her face with a towel. “You know, it’s a big deal for a
new kid to have his ideas picked for the show,” she says. “Seems like we took you more seriously than you take yourself. If you don’t give us something to work with, we’ll all look bad. And also? I know I’m good.” And she leaves.

  I slowly gather up my things. Triple M is sitting cross-legged on the floor, writing something in his notebook. I stand there for a minute, but anything I can think of to say gets stuck at the bottom of my throat. He never looks up, so I walk out.

  ***

  It hasn’t been a good shoot. Natasha had scheduled a bunch of interviews with the younger kids, but no one had realized how much background noise there would be in their classrooms. And by no one, I mean me.

  “Sorry,” I call out, lowering the mic. “But I can tell that I’m picking up everything. It’s going to be annoying.”

  Vanessa throws up her hands. “How are we going to stay on schedule? And why didn’t we figure this out earlier? We’ve had the schedule for days. Days!” She probably would have wrung her hands at that moment except she had gone to spa class the day before and gotten fake talons longer than a predator bird’s and had been walking around holding her hands out in front of her like a self-important zombie.

  Trixie, the DP, points a thumb over at me. “Emmett signed off on each of these locations two days ago,” she says.

  Natasha turns to me. “Did you cross-reference the location and the schedule? You know we always have to know what’s going to be happening while we film interviews.”

  “Um,” I say. I do remember getting a sheet of paper during class the other day and just checking things off. I’d kind of thought it was just an exercise for learning’s sake. “I checked it off on the sheet …”

  “Okay,” says Natasha slowly, “But did you know what you were checking off? I mean, I’m not sure why you didn’t tell the rest of us that circus class would be going on ten feet away from our location.” Right on cue, a bunch of little clowns started honking red horns and giggling. When Vanessa glares at them, their TA glares back. “We’re in circus,” she says. “What were you expecting? We’ll be miming tomorrow if you want to come back when it’s quiet.”