A House Is Not a Home by James Earl Hardy Page A

Sidney is the breeze, and Monroe is the smoke and heat.
    And, since he burns rubber faster than the others, Fire always reaches the refrigerator first. “Hay, Mr. C, how you lookin’?” he announced as he pulled out the two thirty-two-ounce bottles of lemon-lime Gatorade.
    Mitchell was seated at the breakfast table. “I’m lookin’ jood.”
    â€œHay Mr. C,” repeated Sidney.
    â€œHay, Unc,” said Errol. He only calls Mitchell that around his friends.
    â€œHey. How was school?”
    â€œSame ol’, same ol’,” they all chimed as Sidney took three glasses out of the dishwasher and Errol grabbed three bananas from the fruit basket on the kitchen counter. If there’s anything they have in common, it’s food: they’ll eat just about everything.
    â€œOh, is that the article?” Monroe asked, peeking over Mitchell’s shoulder as he placed the Gatorade on the table.
    â€œYes, it is.” He, Errol, and Sidney have been Mitchell’s designated focus group the past two years: when he hears about some new trend, he quizzes them. This way, he keeps his ear to the street, always finding out what’s on top and what’s no longer hot, and earning his keep as a contributing editor at Teen People . Their reward is one of the complimentary video games or CDs Mitchell receives. This time, the topic was the increasing number of males on high-school and college cheerleading squads.
    â€œHow did it come out?” piped in Sidney.
    â€œVery jood.”
    â€œSee, told ya your sources would come through,” boasted Monroe.
    â€œMan, you ain’t do nothin’,” Sidney reminded him. Sidney provided an important contact for the story: an interview with his cousin in Chicago, who leads his high-school squad and was the lone Black male featured.
    â€œYo, it’s a team effort,” Monroe argued.
    Errol wasn’t buying it. “Yeah, someone else makes the touchdown and you take the glory.”
    Each has had his own glory, being quoted in different articles: Errol, on getting more students of color interested in science and math; Sidney, on steroids, which he does not and has never used (a pic of him at the school gym pumping up was also featured); and Monroe, as the child of a “multicultural” couple (not surprisingly, Mitchell had to fight to keep him in it since Monroe’s father is Jamaican and his mother is Filipina, and the editors only saw the concept through the very narrow prism of Black and white). Of course, Monroe was the only member of the trio to request a hundred copies of the issue he appeared in (he had to settle for ten).
    â€œYou got another assignment for us?” Monroe asked, eager and ready.
    â€œI might, next week. If I need your expertise, I’ll let you know.”
    â€œA’ight.”
    â€œThe Monica CD came today. It’s on the coffee table in the family room.”
    â€œJood.” Errol grinned.
    â€œYou gotta make us copies, yo,” Monroe reminded him.
    â€œI will.”
    â€œWell, before y’all disappear upstairs—” Mitchell began.
    â€œWe gonna hook it up, Mr. C,” Monroe assured him (the “it” being the basement).
    â€œOkay.” He turned to Errol, who was about to say something. “And no, I didn’t forget the colored bulbs.”
    Errol nodded. “Cool.”
    â€œDidja see the trial on CNN last night?” Monroe asked Mitchell.
    â€œThe trial” being the one for the Morehouse student accused of attacking another student with a baseball bat after he thought he was leering at him in the shower (turns out the other student was heterosexual and peeked into his stall because he thought he was his roommate). Mitchell did catch the report last night, but . . . “No, I didn’t. Has it gone to the jury yet?”
    â€œAny day now, they said. You still think he’s gonna get off?”
    â€œI