seemed third grade at Kimball consisted of capping or fighting, so I decided to major in capping and minor in fighting—knowing that I could switch it up later, should my left hook improve. My classes were crowded and rowdy, which meant I could use class time to come up with new caps. My teacher/warden, Mrs. Delgado, was a mean Filipina who thought
I
was retarded because
she
didn’t understand sarcasm. Which was fine, because no one expected much from a retard. She stood at the front of the class writing down our spelling words while I sat in the back of the class thinking up fresh caps for recess. I covered my Pee Chee folder with notes on how fat the fat kid was, or how many times he was dropped on his head as a baby as I waited for the recess bell to signal one thing—it was on!
I was getting better at fighting, too. I wasn’t strong, but I found that I was fast, which is important, especially in a running-away situation. And when all else failed, I had long nails that, when Dad didn’t force-trim them, I filed into sharppoints inspired by the X-Men character, Wolverine. And Fat Jehovah’s Witness Naomi had given me beautiful cornrows with butterfly beads, which prevented easy access to pulling my hair. I was becoming a machine—or at least I thought I was. All I know is I had purpose:
1. Me ruling.
2. You sucking.
I had aspirations. I had goals. I had a lot of friends, and a lot of bruises.
About two months into the third grade Mom showed up one day to pick me up from school. Weird. I wasn’t supposed to see her until that weekend, and in the afternoons she was supposed to be driving her bus, not picking me up at school. As I climbed into her car she said, “How would you like to go to Red Robin?” That was when I started to get a bad feeling. Red Robin was my favorite restaurant, so something was up.
“Sounds good,” I said nervously, and I climbed into her VW beetle, “but um . . . what’s going on?”
“Oh nothing much,” she said. “I just thought we’d sit down and talk.”
“Talk about what?” I asked.
“Well,” she said. “Let’s get some food and I’ll tell you all about it.”
I spent the rest of the car ride bracing myself for whatever “talk” inspired a trip for burgers.
Maybe we’ll just talk about sex,
I thought.
Or maybe Grandma died
.
When we sat down in our booth and Mom said, “Just go ahead and order whatever you want,” I almost wet my chair. Someone must have cancer.
As our waiter set down my strawberry and chocolate milkshakes, Mom started, “Honey, I have felt for a long time that we could do better for your education, that you aren’t really being challenged at Kimball.”
That was crazy—I had many important challenges on the horizon. I couldn’t get anyone into a headlock or anything. Secondly, what did that have to do with my cancer? And as I switched from chocolate to strawberry I told Mom, “You can tell me if it’s bad news.”
Mom stroked my face, which I liked a lot, and said, “No, I have good news, not bad news. Do you understand?” I decided to put my fears aside and hear what the woman had to say.
“Sweetie, you’re moving schools!”
“What?” I asked. “Why?”
“Well,” she said. “Remember all those tests you took?”
“No.”
“At Marshall?” she reminded me.
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Those were tests? You told me they were games!”
“Well,” Mom said. “You tested very high, sweetie.”
“I guessed on some questions. And I like my school.”
“The program is called ‘IPP.’ ”
“You want me to tell Zwena that I am going to pee-pee?”
“It stands for ‘Individual Progress Program,’ ” she said.
“I don’t care, it’s embarrassing.”
“Well, you’re going.” She said. “Your new school will be a chance for you to have experiences you wouldn’t have at Kimball. Plus you’ll meet new kids—all different kids, from
all different neighborhoods
.”
“Listen,” I said,
Judy Angelo
David Stacton
Daniella Divine
Lara West
John Twelve Hawks
P. M. Thomas
Elizabeth Foley
Laura Fitzgerald
Sahara Kelly
Ed Chatterton