It Doesn't Take a Genius

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  ***

  I’m late for Street Style, but I promised Michelle I’d record some choreography for the Two Amys cast to practice with. I need a tripod for my phone, so I run over to the media center to borrow one. Of course it’s locked, and it takes me twenty minutes before I can find someone on the maintenance team to open it. Mr. Bookman has a huge key ring with about 762 keys on it; it seems like he tries each one before getting to the one that opens the room.

  “Um, thanks very much, sir,” I say, hoping good manners will prevent questions. Technically I’m not supposed to be able to borrow anything without a counselor present to sign it out. But he just waves me inside and walks away, key ring jangling. I wait in the doorway until he’s out of sight.

  The media center is empty and the AC is blasting, which means it’s the perfect spot for me right now, because I feel like I could spontaneously combust.

  I take some deep breaths. I’m now twenty-five minutes late for Street Style, and I can feel the wrath already. Just hoping that the fact that I’ve finished my routine will make up for it. But I got so caught up in my impromptu film idea, I forgot to change for rehearsal, which means I’m going to have to go back to the dorm before I go to Street Style and make Triple M even madder than he’s already going to be. I sigh and look around for a place to put the camera.

  There’s an empty shelf above the row of computer stations, where a bunch of cameras and equipment are connected to the desktops. As I maneuver past, I can see that a lot of film students are in the process of transferring footage from their cameras. I see Natasha’s name on a screen that says “transfer complete.” Of course she’s done. I keep walking, and it’s a minute before I realize that I’m standing in front of Derek’s project. A camera is connected, and it says “transfer in progress” on the screen. There’s also a flash drive connected to the computer, probably full of photos. There’s a folder up on the screen called “Reaching Up and Out,” which is stupid because Derek is stupid. Without thinking, I click on it and the first thing that comes up is a big close-up of Luke and Derek. I keep going, and there’s Luke teaching a group of kids of how to build something out of toothpicks, Luke tying some kids’ shoes, Luke leading an outdoor art walk, Luke showing little kids how to mix paints, Luke talking about Augusta Savage in Black to the Future … Derek really made a whole film about my brother. And it looks way better than anything I could have done.

  Before my mind can connect with my hand, I press delete.

  Are you sure you want to delete?

  I click the mouse hard on yes. I pull the camera out of the computer, then I pull out the flash drive too. I pry open the drive, drop the pieces on the floor, and kick them under the table. The bell starts ringing—or is that in my ears? What did I just do? I shake myself and rush to the door. As I’m closing it, I take another look back at the computer; there’s a sad face on the screen now. I back out, starting to pull the door shut—and crash into someone. We both almost fall.

  It’s Derek.

  “Watch it, Emmett!” he growls, shoving me lightly as he gets up. He pushes past me and continues into the media center. It hits me, what I just did.

  Are you sure you want to delete?

  I sigh and follow Derek inside, walking right to my destruction.

  He’s sitting in front of the computer where his project had been transferring, staring. I stand a little away, keeping my eyes on him, just in case he tries to take me down. For a second, I picture him doing back flips toward me and nunchucking my brains out like some kind of martial arts superhero, but he just sits there, staring. The air conditioner’s humming feels like it’s gotten louder, and I shiver. Now I’m cold. I clear my throat.

  He doesn’t look at me. “Where’s the flash drive?” he asks in a flat voice.

  “I—It’s …” I croak. I point under the table, where the pieces are. “Under there.”

  He looks down, picks up the pieces, and starts trying to put them back together. He still doesn’t look at me, and after a minute, I move closer.

  “It was me,” I say. I sit down in the seat next to him.

  “I did it. I deleted your folder too.”

  He still doesn’t look at me or say anything. As though I’m not there, he starts muttering to himself. “I still have the footage I just shot … maybe Reggie can figure out how to retrieve—”

  “Did you hear me?” I say louder. “I did that. Just now. So … come at me, bro.” I really wish my voice didn’t crack at the worst possible times. Still, I stand up and try to look tough.

  Finally he turns to me … and shrugs. “Whatever.” He goes back to the pieces and muttering to himself.

  I raise my voice. “I—I just. You’ve been monopolizing my brother since we got here, and it makes me sick, like he things you’re some kind of good guy—you don’t deserve to hang out with Luke!”

  “Okay, whatever.”

  Now I’m mad again, and I push my face closer to his. “See what I mean? You don’t even care! You just do stuff to be a jerk. You probably knew I wanted to make a movie with my brother and you just did this to get to me. Like, why are you all up in his face all the time anyway? It’s kind of creepy, actually. He’s not your brother, he’s mine! Are you jealous?” I stop, breathing hard.

  He stands too and leans toward me. I want to step back so badly, but I don’t.

  “Yeah. I am jealous. Your brother has been real cool to me. I didn’t even want to come back this year, but my parents made me. My brother died last Halloween. Hit and run. He was a senior. He was about to be homecoming king. He used to make me sandwiches and we’d have middle of the night Star Wars marathons.”

  I sit back down.

  “My parents made me come because they didn’t want me sitting around being depressed. Like, what else am I supposed to be? They think playing basketball and running around outside is supposed to make me forget that Duane is dead? I’d hear them whispering about him, but if they saw me, they stopped. They never talk about him in front of me. It’s like they want me to forget, as if that’s possible.”

  “I’m … I’m sorry,” I say in a very small voice. I don’t think he hears me, and I know that doesn’t matter.

  “Luke showed me these collages he made, about … about your dad. He lets me talk about my brother and how mad I get sometimes, even at him—and he never makes me feel guilty. Or like I’m a punk. So yeah, I guess I am all up in his face all the time.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, louder.

  “I just thought the film would be a cool project, and … a way to say thank you … Oh well. Stupid idea.”

  “I didn’t know—”

  But it doesn’t matter, does it?

  Derek shrugs. “Whatever. It probably sucked. You did me a favor, I bet. So, sorry if you thought you were going to make me cry or something. You lose, again.”

  “I … saw some of it. It looked good,” I say. “I … Was that really all the footage you had?” Derek doesn’t answer. I clear my throat. “Luke talked to you about our dad?”

  Derek nods and looks away. “Yeah, a little.”

  “He never talks about him to me, neither does Mom. Nobody does. And I was so little … I’m scared I’m forgetting. Luke doesn’t get that.”

  Why am I telling Derek all this?

  “It hurts for me to remember. Your brother got that. He let it be hard, didn’t try to cheer me up all the time.”

  All of a sudden I remember this time that Dad took me and Luke to this sorry little amusement park a couple of hours away. I was too little to go on the good rides, and I cried until he got me this cardboard kaleidoscope. I thought it was amazing, and while Dad and Luke went on this wild loop-the-loop roller coaster, I waited with the attendant, looking through my kaleidoscope and loving how I could turn it and it would go from the confusing mishmash into a picture, clear and true. Sometimes, in an instant, my brain does that, like now. I see Luke in my mind, all of him—the artist, the counselor tying shoes, the brother who saved
me from being Pee Pants, Mom’s chef … I hadn’t thought about how much Luke might be hurting. He wasn’t supposed to hurt, he was just supposed to be my big brother.

  Derek sits down. “I shot some footage right now. I can probably make something out of it.” He looks over at me. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to work alone.”

  “Maybe … maybe I can help. As a way of making it up to you?” I say. “I’m just … sorry.”

  Derek shakes his head. “No, thanks. But if you’re worried I’m going to tell, don’t. I’m not a snitch.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you. But that’s not why I want to help. I did this. It’s my fault, I should help. It’s the right thing to do.”

  Derek shakes his head again. “I said no. And to be honest, I take back the thanks. Just leave me alone, please? Why don’t you go swimming or something? Oh, right—you can’t swim.”

  I sit there for a while, waiting. But he stares straight ahead. I guess the best I can do at this point is … what he’s asking me to do.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. But I don’t feel better for saying it. And I guess sometimes, that’s how it goes.

  Chapter Forty

  I make the video for Michelle and her cast, going through the motions without even thinking. By the time I get to the studio, Triple M is there alone; the rest of the class is long gone. He’s standing and looking at his clipboard; he has all our placements laid out on sheets of paper on the floor.

  “You missed class,” he says, without turning around.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Micah McDowell,” I say quickly. “I truly apologize. There’s no excuse.” I think of all the things he says to us in class. “I hold myself accountable for my actions. I let my team down, and I’m sorry. I’ll get any changes from Trixie or Kelly. I can practice with the others during dinner, or after dinner, or whenever they’re available. I’ll make myself available. I have the whole routine worked out, and I can teach it to each person individually, whenever they want. And … the truth is, I’m officially withdrawing from trying out for a solo.” I take a deep breath. “I haven’t worked on it enough, and I don’t want to embarrass myself … or you.”

  He looks up at me. “Okay. Apology accepted. And your official withdrawal too.” He goes back to his clipboard. “Goodbye.”

  “Um, sir, I’m really, really sorry. I—”

  “I heard you,” he asks. “As you clearly know, class is over. I’m going to go work on some routines with the advanced ballet students, I have another class to prepare for. You are dismissed.”

  “But—”

  “Thank you for coming to apologize. Now, go.” He starts picking up his papers.

  “I’ve really been working hard!” I burst out. “And I’ve been trying to help everybody else with stuff … you know I’m the first one here every time—except this time—and I—” My voice breaks, and I have to stop for a second, because I am NOT going to cry. “I love this class. It’s my favorite. Can I just show you the solo? I know you’ll love it. Please, Mr. Micah McDowell.” I want him to at least know what I could have done.

  He walks over to his gym bag. “I said what I said. I am busy right now.”

  “You haven’t even said anything about all the work I’ve been doing!” I say. “You know how good I am, it’s why you let me in the class! I’ve been working so hard, doing all this stuff to—”

  “To what?” His voice is dangerously low. “I’m assuming that the next words out of your mouth are going to be ‘to help your team, your community.’ Right? Not for your own personal glory, yes? Because now, you won’t be dancing in the group number either. Now, please—”

  “But I made the whole thing up! That’s not fair!”

  “It wasn’t fair to your teammates for you to miss the final rehearsal.”

  I don’t look him in the eye. Not only am I not a good guy, I messed up my own chance to be great. I’ll be leaving this place the same way I came in—not able to shine on my own.

  “Feel free to cheer your teammates on at the Camp Showcase, even though you won’t have the spotlight you seem to think is so essential. Now I’m late for my appointment. So, since you haven’t left, I’ll go instead.” And he swoops up his bag, marches past me, and leaves.

  I stand in the studio alone. After a few seconds I start doing my solo routine without even thinking. I watch myself in the mirror—it’s fire, just like I knew it would be. I run through it a few more times. Then I lie on the floor and stay in the studio until the bell rings for dinner.

  ***

  “Where’ve you been?” asks Charles. Tonight is make your own pasta and he’s trying to decide between the cauliflower gnocchi and the sweet spaghetti.

  I shrug. “Just … nowhere. I had to talk to Triple M.”

  “Oh yeah, did you show him your solo? What did he say? Remember, a Triple M blink is like a hug. And if he said okay, then you’re gold.” The server gives him two plates so he can get both the gnocchi and the spaghetti. “Thanks!” he says, like he just won a million dollars. I get bowties but forget to get a topping, so I have a heaping bowl of plain bowties and a milk carton. When we get to the table, my plate looks like a toddler’s.

  “Super appetizing,” says Michelle, looking at me. Troy is asking her about her next project, and she’s telling him that she’s already started researching someone named Funmilayo Kuti.

  He acts all proud when he says, “Oh yeah, Fela’s mom?” And Michelle chews him out about saying “Fela’s mom” instead of her actual name, which makes Charles happy. I just sit and poke at my bowties.

  “I am so ready for this night hike,” Charles loud-whispers to me. “I’m going to do the thing there. I even got permission from Dr. Triphammer. The rest of the ensemble is primed and ready. They didn’t even laugh at me that much. Thanks, E. I owe this all to you.”

  “Huh?” I ask. He gives me a look and elbows me so hard I almost fall off the bench. “Oh—yeah.” His Michelle concert. I forgot all about that. “Wait, why’d you talk to Dr. Triphammer?”

  “I’m going to play for everyone around the campfire,” he says. “You gave me the confidence to talk to some of the other kids in wind ensemble, and we put together a whole mini-show. A few other people have their own compositions to perform too. Gabby is going to do a saxophone piece, and Brianna is bringing out her tuba! A bunch of us are going to have to help carry it.”

  “Oh, that’s … great,” I say. “But I thought this was supposed to be a thing for you and”—I lean my head toward Michelle—“you know who.”

  Charles shrugs and scoops up a spoonful of each of his pastas. “Yeah, well, camp’s almost over, and it’s kind of fun to do it as a group thing. And the strings always do concerts—this is our chance to really blow, and shine, so to speak. Blow, get it?” He lowers his voice to a real whisper. “And the truth is, I don’t know if my nerves could take it. This way, she’ll still hear it. And she’ll still be my friend. I can live with that for now.” He smiles. “And by the time I’m ready, I’ll have this smooth Jeffrey Osborne piece all worked out on the keytar, so watch out, Michelle.”

  “Who?” I ask. “Never mind, actually. You and your keytar know, that’s enough.”

  “Ha, you’ll come around. And you know, Jeffrey Osborne, “On the Wings of Love’? It’s a classic! Timeless!” He starts singing it,

  “Got it, got it,” I cover my ears. “That’s an uncle and auntie staple,” I say. “Great-uncle and auntie! You can stop now.” We both laugh.

  “Thanks for helping me work that out, E. You really had my back. We make a good team.”

  “Uh, yeah, okay, you’re welcome, I guess,” I say.

  Natasha comes over, with her food in a to-go container. “Hey, guys, I just wanted to say hi. My film group is going to eat over at the studio, we’re finishing up a few things.”

  “I thought you were done,” I blurt out. Oops. I probably wasn’t supposed to know that.

  She gives me a funny look. “We had time to do a d
ocumentary about our process, what we learned about each other, from working together.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I say.

  Natasha nods. “Cool, cool. Okay, I gotta go, we don’t have much time.”

  “Should I come too?” I ask weakly. “Maybe I can help Fred?”

  She shrugs. “Nah, he’s good.” She doesn’t even sound mad, and somehow that makes me feel worse.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again.

  “You’ve been under a lot of pressure,” says Natasha. “You’re new, you’ve been helping all of us, you’re like the star of Street Style …” I open my mouth, but she goes on. “I’ve learned a lot about pressure and expectations this summer.”

  “Y’all are so bougie, talking about lessons learned—” starts Troy from across the table, but Natasha stops him with a look.

  “Okay, I really have to go,” she says. “I’ll see you at the hike!” She smiles a small smile and leaves.

  Charles and Michelle look from me to Natasha and back again. Natasha catches up to a few other people in the film group, including Derek.

  “That was …” says Charles. “I feel like there were parts of that conversation that I missed, even though I heard every word.”

  “Emmett messed up somehow, and Natasha was stressed about it but trying to act unbothered,” says Michelle. “Not that difficult.” She looks at me. “Don’t worry, she doesn’t hold grudges. She probably won’t even be thinking about you in ten minutes.”

  “I’m no expert on this stuff,” says Charles, “but I don’t think that made my boy E feel any better.”

  I eat some of my bowties while Charles pats me on the back.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Charles is very talky as we get our stuff together for the night hike. He’s got this huge backpack, and his bassoon in his case, and another bag with bug spray, granola bars, flashlight, Chapstick, sunscreen, a poncho, a mini pillow, and water bottles.