It Doesn't Take a Genius

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  “It’s feeling music deep in your soul,” says a girl. “Always having rhythm, not even having to try.”

  “That’s a stereotype,” says another girl. “All Black people are not dancing all the time. White people try to portray us that way, we shouldn’t do it ourselves.”

  “Who cares about what white people do?” asks Natasha. “The whole point of this, of being here, is being … free within ourselves, like that Langston Hughes thing Charisse said. We can dance if we feel like dancing.”

  “Yeah, my brother came home from college and he went in on my parents after they told him he had to watch his step around white people,” says a boy. “He said that kind of talk is respectability politics and he’s not here for any of it.”

  “I get that they’d be worried, though,” says a quiet girl whose name I don’t know. “Old people have seen some things …”

  “Also, I know that I’m very Black, and I can’t dance at all,” says Charles after a pause, looking over at me. “And I’ve tried. I’ve really, really tried.”

  Everyone laughs.

  I grin. “That’s okay,” I say. “But we know he can play a mean bassoon concerto!” I turn to him and clap.

  “Blerds united will never be defeated!” someone yells out.

  I jump up and get a standing ovation going for Charles. Then he stands and invites the rest of the wind ensemble to stand with him, which is a very Charles thing to do. That night hike concert had been a hit with just about everyone.

  “Being Black is about revolution, liberation,” says one of the counselors I can’t see. It might have been Reggie. “If you’re talking economic freedom, I’m down,” says another. “Because the only color that really matters in this world is green.”

  “Money’s not necessarily green in most of the world,” starts Charles, but then he stops himself. “But that’s not the point, is it?”

  I high-five him.

  “All y’all are fake,” calls out Hannah. “Trying to talk serious and joking at the same time. It’s like when people post something on Photogram after a tragedy, like, ‘Oh police brutality got me in my feelings,’ and then five minutes later they’re posting a cat meme.”

  “But isn’t that life?” asks Charisse gently. “Comedy and tragedy can and do coexist. That’s real.”

  That starts a whole new wave of conversation. We talk and talk, and people bring up all types of stuff, but when Marcus claps us quiet, no one volunteers an answer.

  “Anyone?” asks Charisse. There’s a long pause. “I promise there’s not going to be a grade or anything,” she says.

  “Then what’s the point?” calls out a kid. More laughter.

  Then Natasha stands up. “The answer is that there is no answer. We have a lot of common experiences and things that can bond us because of the color of our skin and what that means in this world,” she says, sounding like Charisse 2.0. “And we are diverse, we are … multitudes. There’s no one way to be Black. We don’t need to put ourselves into boxes. One thing I love about being here is that I can just be. I’m going to try to do that when I’m not here too.” She sits, and after a minute, there’s a roar of applause.

  I turn around. “See, I was right? You really are amazing,” I say.

  “I know,” she says, smiling. “I’ve been knowing. But thanks for recognizing.”

  “Excuuuuse you,” I say.

  “I’m kidding,” she says. “We all have growing to do, right?” She smiles at me, a big, real one. “But if you want to work your way up to my level, you’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  And it’s funny because it’s true.

  “I work fast” is all I answer. “We’ll see who’s checking for who next summer.” And we both laugh, and it’s easy, not awkward.

  I decide that I’m still going to write that letter to my younger self, maybe on the train ride home. Maybe I can bring it back with me next year to help the new Lance—or the old one, since he seems like he has a little ways to go. Like me. I look back to where Luke is, and he’s already looking at me. He raises a fist, and I raise it back. Then I turn and talk to my friends.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “You’re a hard man to find,” says Luke, tapping my shoulder. One day left, we’re at the last BBQ Blast, and if they want us to leave with good food memories, they’re on the right track. I’ve just finished doing the “Jerusalema” dance with some people; we didn’t miss a beat or drop a crumb. My plate is piled high with chicken, yellow rice and beans, even salad. And Charles says there’s banana pudding for dessert.

  “Hey!” I say to my brother. And I’m happy to see him, and happy that finally, I didn’t need to.

  “I’ve got something for you,” he says. “Walk over to the art shack with me.”

  He’s quiet as we walk, and I notice once again how he commands respect; even the mosquito vampires seem to be deferring to Luke (and attacking me in droves). As we head to the art shack, I see Derek watching us out of the corner of my eye. He starts to get up, but then Luke waves at him and he just nods and sits back down.

  “Ta-da!” Luke says, flinging open the art shack door. On the opposite wall are hanging a series of collages, or maybe they’re collage and paint. I get closer to see. And each one has photos of Dad and Luke and Mom and me—at the fair, at home, there’s even a picture of Dad holding me in the pool. And there are fragments of newspaper clippings and some graffiti lettering, and I almost stop breathing, it’s so beautiful and so amazing and my brother made this. About my dad. For me.

  “Wow,” I breathe. “Just … wow. Luke, this is amazing.”

  “I was going for a Bearden-Basquiat effect,” he says. “What do you think?”

  “Once I know what that means, I’ll tell you,” I say, and he laughs.

  “I’ll show you some more of their work when we get home.”

  “Sounds good,” I say. “I do know that it’s amazing. Are these really for me?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “You’re going to have some extra wall space in the room next year, so I thought this might cover it nicely.”

  I keep staring. There are bits of photos from Dad’s childhood, his wedding photo, pictures of me in diapers. “I never realized how much I look like him,” I say. “Do you think so?”

  Luke nods. “Mom and I both think so.” He sighs. “E, I know you want to ask questions and talk about him and know more, and I’m sorry I haven’t been ready or able to do that. I guess I’m still not. But I can give you this. I want you to know always … I love Dad. And I love you. And this is the best, realest way that I can show how much.”

  “This is … How did you get those pictures?”

  “Mom’s been helping me out,” he says. “We’ve been talking. And we want you to know that we see you.”

  I see you too, I want to say. I wasn’t looking hard enough before, but I see you too.

  I hug him like I’m five again and we’re both crying and I’m not sure who’s supposed to be comforting who. I want to say that I’m sorry and that I know he’s always had my back and so many other things.

  “I’d like to know more about this Bearden-Basquiat thing” is what I end up saying. “And how you did this.”

  “Really?” he asks.

  “Yeah, really,” I say. “One thing I’ve learned, coming to DuBois, is that I have a lot to learn.”

  So he tells me about cutting and pasting techniques, and how Basquiat was this eighties artist who did street art and fancy gallery shows and how Bearden did collage but also designed costumes for dance companies. It all gives me a lot of ideas for next summer, but I don’t say anything. I’ll remember to write them all down later in the planner Charles gave me. Right now, it’s Luke’s turn to talk. And mine to listen.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Final night. Dr. Triphammer really went all out on the decorations in the main building for the Camp Showcase. Charles and I decided on jeans and polo shirts (Luke smirked when he saw the alligator on mine), and I’m n
ot sure if all the body spray we used will be enough; it’s already hot in here, and no one’s started dancing.

  The DJ is pretty hype; the rumor is that he used to be Hip Hop Harry on TV, which seems plausible because he keeps shouting, “When I say dance, you say circle!” Hip Hop Harry did that every episode. But we just kind of mill around and wait for the show.

  “It’s like this every year,” says Marcus. “After the show, we’re going to have to drag all y’all off the dance floor.”

  “Well, the prizes are pretty sweet,” says Michelle. “I know I’m trying to win that Broadway pass, it’s good for three shows of your choice! Speaking of that, E, can I have a word?” She asks me to go over a couple of combinations with the girl playing Amy Ashwood, who says she can’t remember anything, including which Amy she is. I start with deep breathing.

  A few minutes later, I see Charles, Michelle, Natasha, and Jeimy talking to Triple M, which is weird. Then he looks straight at me, which is scary. Charles starts doing something—I guess it’s dancing, and Michelle and Natasha are really animated. Jeimy points right at me, and I wonder if she’s asking him to give me more consequences for not doing my job. I’m about to swallow my fear of Triple M and go over there, when he starts walking toward me. Unfortunately about ten mimes are practicing on one side of me, and a jazz ensemble is on the other. No escape. As he gets closer, the Amy next to me gulps. “I’m good,” she says, and disappears.

  Triple M seems taller. “Did you send your friends to talk to me?”

  “About what?” I ask. “But no! No, I didn’t ask them to talk to you. They wouldn’t anyway, you’re too—”

  “Too what?” His voice gets dangerously low.

  “Too … too busy,” I say. “We all know how busy you are. Street Style opens and closes the show, right? I’m sure you’ve got a lot to do. Um, don’t let me keep you.”

  He looks at me for a long moment. “I do have a lot to do, so I’ll keep this short. I hope you return next year. You are a good dancer, and perhaps an even better choreographer. Keep working. And then work harder.”

  “I … I will.”

  “And you did come up with a fire routine.” he says.

  “Thanks!” I wish I’d been recording this!

  “And you’ve made some good friends. Some would say that’s even more important.” He frowns. “I don’t really understand those people, but there it is. Well. Enjoy the show.” He leaves, and I lean against the wall for a minute. My friends rush over.

  “What did he say?” asks Charles. “Did he give you back your solo?”

  “Are you doing the grand finale?” asks Natasha.

  “Huh?” I ask. “Are you kidding? No! Why would he do that?”

  Michelle groans. “Aw, I told you guys. Triple M doesn’t have changes of heart. He barely has a heart.” Charles laughs way too loud and long, and Michelle rolls her eyes.

  “That’s my Charles, always awkward,” she says.

  “Uh—your Charles?” he asks. “Do you mean your like the guy you know very well in a strictly platonic sense, or your, like, you know, your man?”

  “Did you just use the word like, like in a colloquial sense?” I say. “I didn’t know you could talk regular like that!”

  Michelle rolls her eyes again. “Seriously, Charles? You want to have this conversation now?”

  He gulps. “Uh, forget it.”

  “What did you mean, change of heart?” I ask Michelle.

  “We asked Triple M if he’d let you do your solo,” says Natasha.

  I look at Charles. “You told them?”

  “I didn’t have to,” he says. “Everybody knows. And Jeimy was saying she feels really bad for you, you’re not even in the big finale. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  I sigh. “I was embarrassed. You’re all … superstars, and I feel like I blew every chance I got to shine. I wanted to … show you what a big time genius I was, and I flopped.” I think about swimming. “Like, belly flopped.”

  “You’re right,” says Charles. He looks at Michelle. “Why have we been wasting time with this guy?”

  “I have no idea,” she says. “Since all we care about is … being superstars or whatever.”

  “You know what I—”

  “No, you know,” says Natasha. “I told you, you’ve been a friend. That means a lot.”

  “Group hug!” says Michelle.

  “I’m touched, you guys! Thanks,” I say. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Well, our pleas to Triple M didn’t work,” says Natasha.

  “It means a lot that you tried,” I say, looking directly at her. “And there’s always next year.”

  She looks back at me, then smiles. “Second chances. We all need them. Fred turned out to be great, by the way. He said you gave him a lot of opportunities to take the lead.” I can’t even look her in the eye, but then she adds, “Even if you did it for … reasons.” I look up and she’s smiling. “Anyway, you’re lucky,” she says. “It doesn’t take a genius to be a friend.”

  “Okay, but do you know my IQ, though,” I say, “because even if I didn’t show it, I’ve got skills!” We laugh, and then we all stand around not looking at each other.

  Charles clears his throat. “You know, E. B. White once declined an invitation ‘for secret reasons,’” he says.

  “Who’s E. B. White?” I ask. “And you are the king of non-sequiturs for real.”

  “He wrote Charlotte’s Web, Ernest,” says a voice behind me.

  “Oh, come on, Derek, you know his name is Emmett,” says Natasha. “Can you just relax and hang out? Stop trying to flex for no reason.”

  He scowls and stands next to her. “We’re setting up the screening room,” he mumbles. We don’t look at or acknowledge each other. He won’t be screening anything, and it’s my fault. I still can’t believe he hasn’t told anyone. I want to say thank you, but my gratitude is mixed up with some other complicated feelings. I’m not there yet.

  “Okay, see you guys later,” Natasha says. “Wish me luck in the Blackity Bowl!”

  As she leaves, I get another hug, which takes the sting out of the fact that she walks away with Derek. After a few minutes, Charles goes to warm up with his band, and Michelle rushes off to her actors. I stand near the wall and spend a few minutes slowly eating pretzels. The big feast will happen after the award announcement, and from what everyone says, all the chefs throw down on the last night. That way the last DuBois meal we remember is a phenomenal one. I see the Street Style team rehearsing, and I offer to help them go over some of the showstopper moves. Kelly comes over to me.

  “Thanks for helping,” she says. “Can you give me your honest opinion on my solo?”

  “You got this,” I say. “But sure.” She goes through her routine and it’s perfect. Maybe better than mine, and I tell her so.

  Triphammer lumbers up on stage and picks up the mic. “DuBois fam, I have an important announcement about the Camp Showcase competitions,” he booms, and everyone quiets. “That Reggie, Gordon, and Charisse are going to make,” he finishes.

  Charisse makes her way to the stage first. “To address our dear contrarian friend Hannah’s frequent concerns,” says Charisse, “we know that the summer is supposed to be about fun, and we do know you guys work hard. We’re proud of how much you stretched yourselves in Black to the Future. Dr. Triphammer has agreed that it will become a formal part of the summer program from now on.” She pauses while we all clap and cheer. “And we hope it has been fun.” She stops, a little choked up.

  “You got this, Reese!” a counselor calls out, and she smiles.

  Charisse takes a deep breath. “Toni Morrison said that the function of racism was distraction, keeping you focused on explaining your reason for being. That’s not what Black to the Future has been about. It’s about knowing that you matter, that you are more than worthy, that you are loved.”

  The crowd literally goes wild, lots of people are hugging and crying. I high-five a bunch of people around m
e that I don’t even know, then Jeimy and some of the Street Style crew come over for a group hug.

  Charisse goes on. “You all had so many ideas about what it means to be Black,” she shouts out. “And it all boiled down to being a community. A diverse, powerful, and beautiful community made up of individuals with different opinions, priorities, and gifts, but a community nonetheless.”

  “We see how you look out for each other,” adds Gordon, “How you know that in the face of all kinds of nonsense, you know that you’re even stronger when you big each other up. We are proud of each of you for speaking your truth, in your own way.”

  “We know that our silence will not protect us,” yells out Hannah, and we turn to look at her. “Audre Lorde. And as Martin Luther King said, ‘No one is free until we are all free,’ which is also attributed to writer Emma Lazarus.”

  Everyone is staring at her now, and a lot of mouths are open. “What?” she asks. “I still listened. And Google is my friend.”

  “Anyway,” says Reggie, “the announcement is that as of this moment, the Camp Showcase will no longer include competitions. It’s a chance to share and celebrate one another’s gifts!” A few people clap, most of just look at each other, confused.

  “So no more gift cards,” says the boy who said the only color that mattered was green.

  Gordon shakes his head. “Correct. DuBois will donate the ones that we bought for this year to purchases much-needed items for young people in a nearby juvenile detention center.”

  “So bougie,” mutters Troy, but he’s drowned out by cheers and applause.

  “What about the Black to the Future presentations?” asks Vanessa. “I spent a lot of time on mine.”

  Gordon grimaces. “Yeah, so, we didn’t actually clear that before we assigned it, and it turns out there isn’t time to share tonight.”

  I’m not mad, since I didn’t have anything to share, and it seems like a lot of people are in the same boat, but Vanessa looks like she’s about to dog walk somebody.