Eighth-Grade Superzero by Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich Page B
Authors: Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich
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say.
“I’m sure Reggie has a lot to do, honey,” says Mrs. Calloway.
I jump into the pause before it becomes significant. “Or hey, why don’t you sit with me at lunch one day. With us,” I say, pointing to Joe C.
Charlie opens his mouth so wide that I can see his uvula. “Will you show me more of those comic books you made?” His mom’s eyebrows rise; my role model status may have slipped with the mention of the
C
word.
“Sure. You know, Joe C. is the artist. He does all of the drawings.” Charlie looks at Joe C. in awe and I add, “But I made the whole thing up.”
There’s another pause, and then Charlie’s mom picks up her bags. “It was nice to meet you, Reggie, and thank you. Nice meeting you too, Joe-see,” she says, like she’s wondering what kind ofname that is. We mumble back, and she takes Charlie’s hand and leaves. Charlie keeps turning back to wave.
We finally check out and head downstairs. We’re still planning to hop the train to the comic shop for
Night Man
inspiration after we get our fries, even though I’ve got three tests to study for and a report on Larry Doby that I haven’t even started. But from the escalator, I can see the huge crowd of kids in McDonald’s. There’s no music playing, but it seems like there is; it’s bubbling over with energy and laughter and girls’ shrieks. More kids squeeze in as we get closer and everyone looks happy to see everyone else, but when we get off of the escalator I turn to Joe C. and say, “Forget it. Let’s just go.”
OCTOBER 17
12:33 P.M.
At church on Sunday, I try to listen to Reverend Coles, but licking my room clean would be more fun. I flip through
The Book of Common Prayer,
but then I drop it and Pops gives me a Look. Yeah, okay, Pops. Like I didn’t see you roll your eyes a few minutes ago. Monica brought Nana’s old giant Bible with her; I can see her looking at skirts in the catalog she has tucked inside. Mom snores a little, and Reverend Coles’s wife (who used to try to make kids call her “Mother” Coles) stares hard and long. I don’t think I’m holy enough to go up for Communion, but I don’t want to be the person everyone’s wondering about, like, “Oooh, look at that McKnight boy, got himself into trouble. Can’t even take the bread and wine.” Then I’d have to get some Cools Counseling, and my descent into Hell would be complete. So I whisper “sorry, God” three times and shuffle up with everyone else.
After the service, while Mom and Pops are telling Reverend Coles how great he was, Vicky comes over.
“Hi, Vicky,” I say. “I thought you didn’t go here anymore.”
“I don’t really,” she says, “but, you know … we have to show our faces a few times before the holidays so we look good, blah blah blah.”
“You should come to youth group sometime,” I say. “It’s not bad.”
“Yeah?” she says. “It seems like a … tight-knit group. I don’t really know that many people here.”
“Everyone’s cool. I’m sure the group would welcome you.”
Please God, forgive me for lying in church.
“Yeah, right,” she says softly. We stand there for a few seconds. “So I thought we could talk about the campaign.”
“Now?”
“Nothing else to do,” she says, looking around. “And while it may seem like a long time till the election, remember, there’s a lot of business to take care of. We need to start working on plans for that rally with the mayor. I’ve
got
to make a good impression on him; if I can win us that grant money, I don’t have to worry about Harvard.”
“I think you don’t have to worry about Harvard until at least next year,” I say.
She laughs. “I bet you do. Anyway. Have you handed out all of the flyers I gave you? I have some new postcards that I’d like you to laminate and turn into magnets. Hot idea, right?” She smiles.
“Um,” I say, and leave it at that. “Remember what I was talking about in homeroom that day? About the community
“I’m sure Reggie has a lot to do, honey,” says Mrs. Calloway.
I jump into the pause before it becomes significant. “Or hey, why don’t you sit with me at lunch one day. With us,” I say, pointing to Joe C.
Charlie opens his mouth so wide that I can see his uvula. “Will you show me more of those comic books you made?” His mom’s eyebrows rise; my role model status may have slipped with the mention of the
C
word.
“Sure. You know, Joe C. is the artist. He does all of the drawings.” Charlie looks at Joe C. in awe and I add, “But I made the whole thing up.”
There’s another pause, and then Charlie’s mom picks up her bags. “It was nice to meet you, Reggie, and thank you. Nice meeting you too, Joe-see,” she says, like she’s wondering what kind ofname that is. We mumble back, and she takes Charlie’s hand and leaves. Charlie keeps turning back to wave.
We finally check out and head downstairs. We’re still planning to hop the train to the comic shop for
Night Man
inspiration after we get our fries, even though I’ve got three tests to study for and a report on Larry Doby that I haven’t even started. But from the escalator, I can see the huge crowd of kids in McDonald’s. There’s no music playing, but it seems like there is; it’s bubbling over with energy and laughter and girls’ shrieks. More kids squeeze in as we get closer and everyone looks happy to see everyone else, but when we get off of the escalator I turn to Joe C. and say, “Forget it. Let’s just go.”
OCTOBER 17
12:33 P.M.
At church on Sunday, I try to listen to Reverend Coles, but licking my room clean would be more fun. I flip through
The Book of Common Prayer,
but then I drop it and Pops gives me a Look. Yeah, okay, Pops. Like I didn’t see you roll your eyes a few minutes ago. Monica brought Nana’s old giant Bible with her; I can see her looking at skirts in the catalog she has tucked inside. Mom snores a little, and Reverend Coles’s wife (who used to try to make kids call her “Mother” Coles) stares hard and long. I don’t think I’m holy enough to go up for Communion, but I don’t want to be the person everyone’s wondering about, like, “Oooh, look at that McKnight boy, got himself into trouble. Can’t even take the bread and wine.” Then I’d have to get some Cools Counseling, and my descent into Hell would be complete. So I whisper “sorry, God” three times and shuffle up with everyone else.
After the service, while Mom and Pops are telling Reverend Coles how great he was, Vicky comes over.
“Hi, Vicky,” I say. “I thought you didn’t go here anymore.”
“I don’t really,” she says, “but, you know … we have to show our faces a few times before the holidays so we look good, blah blah blah.”
“You should come to youth group sometime,” I say. “It’s not bad.”
“Yeah?” she says. “It seems like a … tight-knit group. I don’t really know that many people here.”
“Everyone’s cool. I’m sure the group would welcome you.”
Please God, forgive me for lying in church.
“Yeah, right,” she says softly. We stand there for a few seconds. “So I thought we could talk about the campaign.”
“Now?”
“Nothing else to do,” she says, looking around. “And while it may seem like a long time till the election, remember, there’s a lot of business to take care of. We need to start working on plans for that rally with the mayor. I’ve
got
to make a good impression on him; if I can win us that grant money, I don’t have to worry about Harvard.”
“I think you don’t have to worry about Harvard until at least next year,” I say.
She laughs. “I bet you do. Anyway. Have you handed out all of the flyers I gave you? I have some new postcards that I’d like you to laminate and turn into magnets. Hot idea, right?” She smiles.
“Um,” I say, and leave it at that. “Remember what I was talking about in homeroom that day? About the community
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