Public School Superhero Read online

  Yeah, that seems about right.

  Most of the kids at UMS get free lunch, including me, which is cool. But that means the food line is always a mile long. By the time I get my lunch, there’s usually about fifteen seconds left to eat it before the period’s over.

  And today, I don’t even get that far.

  I’m waiting in line with Arthur and our other friends, Dele and Vashon. We’re just standing there, minding our own business and talking about if you had to choose, would you rather be Batman or Iron Man. (Iron Man, no doubt. I’m all about the flying.) Then someone yells out—

  “INCOMING!”

  I don’t know what’s coming in, but I duck anyway. Then I hear this splat sound. When I look up, Quaashie Williams has a mess of mashed potatoes running down his front.

  I look behind me, and Quaashie Richter’s standing there looking guilty as sin. Something tells me those potatoes were meant for me, Arthur, Dele, and Vashon.

  “Oh, man,” Vashon says. “Let’s get out of here!”

  See, we’ve got two Quaashies in our class, and the funny thing is—they can’t stand each other. The whole thing’s about to go nuclear, you can tell.

  On the other hand, I’m finally near the head of the line. And I’m starving.

  Arthur, Dele, and Vashon don’t wait for me to make up my mind. They scatter. Quaashie W. comes after Quaashie R., and the next thing you know, I’m stuck—BAM!—right in the middle.

  This is what I was talking about before. I may not be fighting, but I am most definitely in a fight.

  Some kids start yelling. Other kids start throwing more food. It’s getting out of control, fast. I can even taste blood in my mouth.

  Wait—no. That’s raspberry Jell-O. At least, I hope it is.

  Then all of a sudden, our vice principal, Mrs. Freeman, breaks the whole thing up.

  “That’s enough of that!” she says. She pulls the Quaashies apart like a big grilled cheese sandwich—and I’m the cheese. Man, am I glad to see her! I think she just saved my life.

  “Thanks, Mrs. F—” I start to say, but she grabs me by the arm.

  “Let’s go. All of you, to the office. Right now!”

  “Huh?” I say.

  “You heard me. MOVE!”

  Before you can blink twice, she’s dragging me, Quaashie, and Quaashie out of the cafeteria and up the hall.

  The Quaashies are still yelling at each other. Mrs. Freeman’s yelling, too. I’m trying to explain what happened, but it’s like shooting a water pistol at a hurricane. Nobody really notices.

  Mrs. Freeman drops us outside the principal’s office, goes in, and shuts the door. And just like that, I’m in trouble. For something I didn’t do.

  Something I’ve never done in my life.

  How did I get here?

  TROUBLEMAKER FOR LIFE

  When Mrs. Freeman comes outside again, I try to explain—again. She just tells me to take it up with Mr. Diaw.

  “Who?” I say.

  “The principal,” she says. “Who do you think?”

  I’ve never met Mr. Diaw before. He’s brand-new this year. Union Middle School goes through principals the way the Cleveland Browns go through coaches.

  But that’s not what I’m stressing about. I’m wondering what Mr. Diaw is going to do when I get inside that office. I mean, I’m the victim here. This is all a big misunderstanding. I just need a chance to explain, and everything will be okay.

  Right?

  When the door opens, there’s a short, bald man standing there with a nasty-looking tie and an even nastier frown. I guess that’s Mr. Diaw.

  “Inside,” he says. “Let’s go.”

  When we get inside the office, he has three files out on his desk. I can see my name on one of them: KENNETH LOUIS WRIGHT. Now I start to sweat. Something about that file gives me a bad feeling. That, and the way Mr. Diaw is just… staring at us.

  “You know, it takes me ten seconds to size up a student,” he says. “Even less for the troublemakers. And in my book, that’s what you three are. Troublemakers.”

  Then he starts to scribble something in those files. Including my file. I don’t know what’s worse—the scribbling or the staring.

  “But I didn’t do anything,” I say. “No lie.”

  “Mm-hm,” he says, and keeps on writing.

  “Quaashie, man,” I say to Quaashie W. “Tell him. I just got caught in the middle. For real!”

  “It’s true, Mr.… um…” Quaashie says. “Wait. What was your name again?”

  Mr. Diaw just looks up, shakes his head, and pulls three pink slips out of his desk drawer.

  “Are those detention slips?” I say.

  “They’re not party invitations,” he says.

  I can hardly believe it. But Mr. Diaw isn’t looking at me anymore, and he doesn’t want to hear any lip. Or excuses. Or even what really happened.

  “First thing after school on Friday, you three will report for detention,” Mr. Diaw says.

  “But—” I say.

  “That’s it.”

  “But—”

  “Now get back to class!”

  “But, Mr. Diaw—” I say.

  “GO!” he says. “While I’m still in a good mood!”

  And that’s when I know I’m dead. G-ma’s going to skin me alive when she finds out about this.

  I mean… IF she finds out.

  Which I guess means one thing. I have to make sure she never does.

  Somehow.

  NO-GOOD, LOW-DOWN DIRTY DOG

  Mr. Diaw has me down as an official troublemaker now. That’s jacked up. And G-ma’s at the school three afternoons a week! Man, this is not going to be easy. If she hears about my detention, I’m done like Shaq’s short rap career.

  I guess I could try to explain. But look how that went with Mrs. Freeman and Mr. Diaw. Maybe G-ma would get it… or maybe she’d just come down on me even harder than ever. I’ll be getting called Grandma’s Boy for so long, they’ll have to start calling me Grandma’s Really Old Man.

  When I get home, I go straight to my room and hide my head inside a book. It’s not that hard to do. Our apartment’s like a library. G-ma’s got bookshelves in every room in the house. Even the bathroom—no kidding.

  At home, I have to read every day. That’s the rule. Even Saturday and Sunday. Even Easter and Thanksgiving. Right now, I’m holding my copy of Bud, Not Buddy in front of me like some kind of shield. We’re reading it for English, which I figure will make G-ma happy. She thinks it’s one of the best books ever. In fact, I already read it last year.

  “Kenneth!” G-ma says, and I almost jump out of my skin. “I called your name three times. Are you reading, or daydreaming?”

  “Reading,” I say.

  “Just so you know, we’re eating early tonight. Then we’ve got a neighborhood meeting,” she tells me.

  “Can’t I stay home? Please?” I ask, even though I know the answer. I always have to go to these neighborhood meetings of hers. It’s a whole lot of yakkety-yak most of the time.

  “No, sir,” she tells me. “In fact, I want you to say a few words tonight.”

  “What?” I say. “What kind of words?”

  “About what it’s like to go to that run-down school of yours. That’s what the meeting’s about.”

  G-ma’s all about words. She likes books. She likes conversation. And as you can tell, she likes talking. A lot.

  As for me, I’m all about saying as little as possible right now.

  “I don’t know, G-ma,” I tell her. “You really think people care about what I have to say?”

  The way she looks at me, I can feel the lecture coming on like a thunderstorm.

  “Kenneth Louis Wright,” she says. “Don’t you think a decent education is worth speaking up for?”

  “Well, yeah,” I say. “But—”

  “Words are our weapons against what’s wrong in the world.” She keeps going. “Why do you suppose Mr. Christopher Paul Curtis bothered t
o write that book in your hand?”

  “To tell a story?” I say.

  “Yes. But why?” she says.

  I think about it for a second. “Because he had something to say.”

  Now G-ma smiles like I made her proud. It’s kind of the best feeling in the world. But it doesn’t last long, because then I remember that I’m also a low-down, no-good lying dog of a grandson.

  “Tonight I want you to tell your story,” G-ma says. “Everyone has one. And every story’s valuable. You’re old enough to understand that now.”

  I want to say, I’m also old enough to stay home alone. But instead, I quit while I’m ahead. Or at least, while I’m still alive.

  “What time’s the meeting?” I say.

  YAKKETY-YAK… WHAT?

  When we get to St. Anthony’s Church for the meeting, there are a bunch of people there. Almost all adults. I guess G-ma’s not the only one who wants to talk about school stuff.

  By now, I’m freaking out about what I’m supposed to say. G-ma thinks I’m some kind of model student, but I’m sitting on this secret detention of mine. How am I supposed to “tell my story” now?

  Just when everyone starts taking their seats, I decide I’ve got to come clean first. She always keeps it real with me. Always. It’s the least I can do, you know, out of respect and everything.

  “G-ma,” I say. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Can it wait, Kenneth? We’re about to start,” she says.

  “I don’t think it can,” I say. “See, something happened today—”

  But then I get cut off. Mrs. Clark from the neighborhood stands up at the front and claps her hands to get everyone’s attention.

  “Thank you for being here,” she says. “But I’m afraid I have an unpleasant announcement to make.”

  G-ma’s not listening to me anymore. She’s looking at Mrs. Clark.

  “What is it now?” G-ma mumbles.

  My heart’s going fast and furious—yeah, just like the movies, but not so cool, and no Vin Diesel or pretty girls standing around in short-shorts. Just me with a pair of clammy, sweaty palms and an embarrassing case of cotton mouth. I know. Weak, right? I just want to bounce.

  “G-ma,” I whisper. “It’s not my fault, but today I got a—”

  But Mrs. Clark keeps talking. “We just received word that Principal Diaw will be leaving Union Middle School, effective immediately.”

  WHAT? I think.

  “WHAT?” G-ma says.

  “Mr. Diaw has been transferred to a different school outside the district,” Mrs. Clark says—and then everyone starts talking at once.

  I don’t really hear a lot of it. Mostly I just hear the parts about “Mr. Diaw” and “leaving.”

  And I’m pretty sure they won’t be getting around to me anytime soon. No more story to tell! I’m off the hook! Well… at least for now.

  I know this isn’t good news for the school. It’s exactly the kind of thing that makes G-ma so mad about UMS.

  Everyone in the room, G-ma included, is growling, fussing, and straight flippin’ out. So I just stay in my seat with my mouth shut and a serious mean-mug drawn on my face.

  But on the inside, it’s a little more like this—

  LIFE ON THE D-SQUAD

  It doesn’t take long for me to figure out that this is more like half a piece of good news. With Mr. Diaw gone, it gives me a fresh start at school—but I still have that stupid detention to worry about. By the time last period ends on Friday, I’m crazy nervous all over again.

  Still, I have an idea. And Arthur’s going to help.

  Right after school, G-ma shows up to do her tutoring like always. I meet her by the front door and get my half-healthy, half-junk-food after-school snack. She gives me a banana and then some kid gives me a pack of Oreos because he says he’s allergic to that creme stuff in the middle. Weird alien kid, right? I mean, who’s allergic to that classic cookie nectar?

  G-ma goes off to the library and I say I’ll see her in an hour.

  So far, so good.

  I run by the classroom where Arthur and I usually play chess. He’s got the board set up and ready to go, just in case. I give him half of my banana and two Oreos. Then I head over to the detention room down the hall.

  When I walk in, I see Quaashie, Quaashie, Ray-Ray, and a few other kids. They’re all on the D-Squad today. Just like me.

  “What you doin’ in here, Grandma’s Boy?” Ray-Ray says. “You take a wrong turn at the water fountain?”

  I ignore Ray-Ray and sit on the other side of the room. Then Mrs. Freeman tells us all to pipe down and get to work. Fine with me.

  For about ten minutes, nothing happens. I’m still mad about being here in the first place, but at least G-ma doesn’t have to know.

  Except then… I hear it. Someone’s whistling out in the hall. Darth Vader’s theme from Star Wars. That’s the signal Arthur and I set up.

  When I look over, he’s standing there staring at me. He puts two fingers up to his eyes, points them back at me, and then looks up the hall toward the library.

  Code red! G-ma’s looking for me!

  “Mrs. Freeman?” I say. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  She just looks at me like that’s the most tired thing she’s ever heard. “You can wait,” she says.

  “I don’t think I can,” I say. Then I ball up my fists and cram them in my lap like I’m stopping up a leak. A stupid, messy leak. Then I make the most painful-looking wince, like the Hoover Dam is about to burst and flood the valley.

  “I got to go, too!” Ray-Ray says.

  “Yeah, me too!” Quaashie R. says.

  Then Mrs. Freeman surprises me. “Kenny, you can go,” she says. “The rest of you I don’t believe.”

  That’s probably going to earn me a couple of jabs to the kidneys later, but I can’t worry about that right now. I take a hall pass from Mrs. F. and bounce.

  Arthur’s eyes look like two big moons when I get to him. I think he’s kind of afraid of G-ma.

  “I told her you were in the bathroom,” he whispers. “I think she believed me, but—”

  But whatever. I’m already running up the hall. I’ve got to make this quick.

  When I get to the library, G-ma’s got a bunch of kids sitting around a big table. “Oh, Kenneth, good,” she says. “Vanessa here has forgotten her copy of Bud, Not Buddy. May we borrow yours, please?”

  More bad news! See, that book’s sitting in my backpack. And my backpack’s hanging on a chair in the detention room. If I go back in there now, that’s it. Mrs. Freeman’s going to lock me down tight for the rest of the hour.

  And I think—if Steel was here, this would be no problem.

  Of course, Steel isn’t here. It’s just me. And I’ve got to think quick.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell G-ma. I walk out of the library, but as soon as I hit the hall again, I’m running like Whiplash is coming after me with ten million volts.

  The good news is Arthur has a copy of Bud, Not Buddy in his locker. The bad news is Mrs. Freeman must think I’m taking the world’s longest pee. By the time I deliver that book to G-ma and sprint back to the detention room, Mrs. F. is standing in the door waiting for me.

  “What took you so long?” she says. “I trusted you, Kenny. And why are you out of breath? Running in the halls isn’t allowed. I ought to give you another detention.”

  She lets me slide, though, and I head back to my desk.

  Maybe I should be relieved, but I’m not. All I can do now is sit here pretending to do my homework and waiting for my heart to stop doing backflips inside my chest.

  Is this what a life of crime feels like?

  Because those knuckleheads can have it. For real.

  GET READY FOR DR. YETTY

  On Monday morning, G-ma walks with me to school again. She wants to meet the new principal, somebody named Dr. Yetty James.

  I know that “Dr.” doesn’t have to mean like “stick out your tongu
e and say ahh,” or “you only have fourteen hours to live.” But still, I’m wondering if this new principal’s going to be good news, bad news, or something in between.

  When we get to school, there’s a lady out front saying good morning to everybody. She’s tall, and has this huge smile, and she’s even really pretty. I’m talking Beyoncé/Alicia Keys/Rihanna pretty. Like that.

  G-ma walks right up to her and says, “Dr. James, I presume?”

  “Everyone calls me Dr. Yetty,” the lady says, and shakes G-ma’s hand. “And whom do I have the pleasure of meeting here?”

  “I’m Kenny Wright,” I say.

  “And what are you good at, Kenny?” she asks me.

  I’m not really sure how to answer that one. It seems like a weird question, but G-ma answers for me.

  “He’s an excellent student,” she says. “And he’s quite the chess player, too.”

  “Ah, a kindred spirit,” Dr. Yetty says. Whatever that means. “We’ll have to play sometime.”

  “You play chess?” I ask her. I don’t mean it to be rude, but G-ma shoots me a look that says otherwise.

  “Kenneth, you go on inside,” she tells me. “Dr. Yetty, if you have a moment, I’d like to chat a little.”

  And I think, Uh-oh! This is exactly what I was afraid of. G-ma’s been waiting all weekend to fill the new principal’s ear. It also puts her one step closer to finding out whatever Mr. Diaw wrote in my file before he left.

  “G-ma, Dr. Yetty’s just getting started,” I say. “Maybe you should cut her some slack and talk later.”

  “Nonsense,” Dr. Yetty says. “What better way to start than by getting to know the people in the community?”

  G-ma smiles back at her like Dr. Yetty just won the Miss Black USA contest, or invented electricity, or something. So I slide on out of there, but even while I’m walking away, I can hear G-ma starting to ask questions.