Eighth-Grade Superzero by Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich Page A

into the air. We cough and sniff.
    “Not bad,” says Joe C.
    “You think girls really like this?” I wrinkle my nose.
    “Girls are always into smells and scented everything. Maria wears this watermelon lip gloss that you can smell a block away.” Joe C. makes a face. “And it’s all sticky.”
    “Yeah, okay,” I say. I get ready to spray a little body spray over my head when I see Monica with Tatia and Renee. She looks like their bodyguard. “Let’s get your dog food,” I say to Joe C. “We can hit up McDonald’s and then go to the comic shop.”
    The lines at the registers are all long and barely moving. Joe C. points to a magazine with a cover story about the latest celebrity cause — homelessness.
    “Those public radio people were sure happy you’re doing that project,” he says.
    “Uh-huh,” I say. “I guess most people aren’t really checking for the homeless.”
    “Are you scared?” he asks.
    “Of what?”
    “You know, the whole shelter thing,” he says. “I mean, those homeless people. They’re not … My dad wouldn’t let me get near a place like that.”
    He says “a place like that” like it’s another planet, full of living nightmares too horrible to describe. And “they’re not …” what? Most of the homeless people that I see have skin closer to mine than his, and I wonder if he would talk about me the same way. I say, “A place like what? What are you talking about?”
    “Forget it,” he mutters, picking up the magazine.
    Good. Because we need to leave this conversation alone.
    I feel a tug on my jacket. It’s my Little Buddy Charlie.
    “Hi, Big Buddy Reggie!” he says, grinning so hard it must hurt. I’ve been looking out for him at school, but I guess I keep missing him. “I got a new Thomas train! And a coal car!”
    “That sounds great,” I say. A woman in the next line waves Charlie over. “You can just call me Reggie. Is that your mom? I think she’s calling you.”
    “Do you want me to bring the train to your house today?” he asks. “You can be my first friend to play with it.”
    “Um, yeah, well … maybe another time.” It’s like I just told him that I was canceling Christmas and birthdays forever; his whole body droops. “I promise, another day real soon, okay? So, um, how’s it going?”
    “Okay,” he mutters. His mom comes over.
    “Hello, Reggie,” she says, smiling. “I’m Beverly Calloway. Charlie spotted you right away. He said you were the really tall, smart guy in line.”
    I shrug and smile and try to look responsible.
    “Did he tell you about the trouble he’s having at school?” she says, looking at Charlie.
    “No,” I say. We both wait; Charlie concentrates on his Cookie Monster sneakers.
    “Charlie, Reggie might be able to give you some advice,” his mom says.
    Yeah, maybe, if he wants How-to-Be-Humiliated lessons. Charlie doesn’t say anything, and his mom gives him one of those little hugs I remember. “I really appreciate what you’re doing,” she says to me. “You must be quite a student to get picked for this program.”
    “Uh, my parents signed me up.”
    “Well,” she says. “I’m sure we’re fortunate to have you as Charlie’s buddy. Our boys need positive role models more than ever. Our people need to work together to rebuild ourcommunities.” She looks at Joe C., who’s looking around for another magazine.
    “Oh, sorry — this is my friend Joe C.,” I say. For a minute, I want to add,
Don’t worry, he’s my only White friend. I’m still rebuilding and keeping it real.
    “Hey,” he says.
    “Hello,” she nods.
    “I want to go play with Reggie, Mommy,” says Charlie. “He lives in a house!” Mrs. Calloway stops smiling for a minute.
    “Uh … yeah, maybe one day soon, Charlie,” I say. “We have to plan it … or maybe I can come to your house.”
    “I don’t live in a house,” says Charlie, looking down. “I’ve never even been in one.”
    “Okay, your apartment, then,” I