Kenny Wright, Page 2

  So I’m not that surprised to see Ray-Ray Powell come sneaking around.

  Ray-Ray’s not like the other bullies. He’s not extra-big, or extra-strong, or even all that scary. He’s just extra-annoying.

  And he’s always—I mean always—begging for food.

  “What up, fellas?” he says. He already knows from fifth grade that I usually have something good for an after-school snack. So of course he’s here.

  Today it’s G-ma’s homemade chocolate chip cookies. I already gave one to Arthur, but I put them away the second I see Ray-Ray coming.

  “Go away, Ray-Ray,” I say. “Don’t you have detention or something?”

  “Not today,” Ray-Ray says.

  Meanwhile, Arthur moves his knight and takes one of my pawns. I don’t mind. I have a game plan. I always do. In chess, you have to think as far ahead as your brain will let you.

  “Why’s that piece bigger than the others?” says Ray-Ray, pointing at my king.

  “’Cause he’s the king,” I say. “Leave it be.”

  But Ray-Ray picks it up anyway.

  “Cool,” he says. “A black king. That’s what’s up!”

  “Put it back!” I tell him, which is a mistake. The second Ray-Ray knows you care about anything, it’s like he can’t get enough of bugging you about it. And I think—

  I reach for the king, but Ray-Ray doesn’t budge. He’s got my number. He knows I won’t step to him.

  “What you got to trade?” he says, looking at my backpack like he has X-ray vision on those cookies or something.

  It’s Arthur’s chess set. I don’t want him losing his king. So I pull out one of the cookies. “This is the last one. That’s all I have,” I say. Which is a lie.

  Ray-Ray hands me back the king and shoves that cookie down in one bite.

  “Dang,” he says with his mouth full. “You got it made, Grandma’s Boy. She hooks you up!”

  “Don’t call me that,” I say.

  “Man, stop getting all sensitive on me. You know what you are, fool.”

  “We done here?” I say.

  Before he leaves, he wipes some crumbs off his shirt and they fall on the chessboard. “See you, Wong,” he says. “See you, Grandma’s Boy.”

  Then he rolls out of there, all high and mighty like his poop don’t stink. But it most definitely does—literally. Dude is smellin’ foul! But then I look down at his kicks and notice that he must’ve stepped in a heap of dog crap. Somehow, he hasn’t noticed yet, and I don’t say a word. It’s karma, baby. If you treat people like poop, that’s what you receive. A heap of it.

  Doo times two.

  “You know, he’s just going to keep coming back,” Arthur says. “It’s like feeding a stray cat.”

  “Whatever,” I say. I’m not afraid of Ray-Ray. “One day I’m gonna snap on that fool. You’ll see.” But the truth is, I’m afraid of fighting. Nobody ever showed me how, and it’s not exactly the kind of thing you learn from your grandma.

  “If it makes Ray-Ray go away, that’s all I care about,” I say.

  I put my king back on the board where it belongs. Then I slide my bishop diagonally over three squares and look up at Arthur again.

  “Oh, man,” Arthur says.

  “Checkmate,” I say.

  AT 4:15, I MEET G-ma by the front door. She hands in her visitor pass at the security desk and we head out.

  First stop, Ricky’s Market, for some sausage, peppers, and onions. G-ma’s making my favorite subs for dinner.

  “So how was your first day, mister middle schooler?” she asks me while we’re walking.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Excuse me? That was an essay question,” she says, “not multiple choice. You can do better than that.”

  Here’s the thing, though. I don’t want G-ma worrying. The more she knows about Tiny, and Ray-Ray, and how I don’t stand up for myself, the more she’s going to worry.

  And the more she’s going to watch over me.

  And the more everyone’s going to keep calling me Grandma’s Boy.

  And the worse it’s going to be for me at school.

  You see how that works?

  So I just tell G-ma about my classes, and which teachers I have, and what was for lunch. That kind of stuff.

  Besides, G-ma already has enough to worry about. It’s just the two of us, and we don’t exactly live in the best neighborhood in DC. Straight ahead, there’s some shady dudes hanging out on the corner. I see them exchanging money and unidentified items in Ziploc bags so fast, they could be magicians. G-ma and I mind our own business and keep it moving.

  I know she wants to tell them to take their “hustle” somewhere else, but even she keeps her mouth shut sometimes. Not for long, though. Now that she’s seen Union Middle School from the inside, she’s got plenty to say about that.

  “They should take a bulldozer to that sorry building and start from scratch,” she says. “The library alone is a disgrace. And right here in our nation’s capital! I’d bet you a nickel if someone told the president what was down here, he’d want to do something about it.”

  And I think, Well, maybe. It’s not like Union’s invisible or anything. And the White House is only 4.3 miles away from our house. I looked it up on Google Earth once.

  But I don’t say any of that to G-ma. I just nod my head. To be honest, my grandmother’s more like a superhero than I am. Once she makes up her mind about something, you can bet more than a nickel it’s going to happen.

  Well…with a little help, maybe.

  A WEEK LATER, I get in a fight at school.

  But probably not in the way you think.

  First, let me tell you about the Sugar Shack. If it’s coated or loaded with sugar, they’ve got it. That’s what they call the cafeteria, because that’s pretty much what everyone eats there. But it’s not all sugar. No indeed. Everything else is deep-fried or comes from a box, or a lab, or something. Nothing meant for people to be eating, that’s for sure. Apple slices and broccoli bites? Nahhh… you’re on your own, kid.

  The Sugar Shack has everything that’s wrong with UMS, all in one giant room. It’s totally run-down, it’s crazy crowded, and it can be dangerous, if you’re not careful. There’s mad noise bouncing off every wall. A kid named Reverb is the resident lunch DJ. He hooks his smartphone up to two of those Beats by Dre Pill portable speakers. Every lyric being shot from those speakers is uncensored, and none of the teachers seem to mind. They just want to make it through the day without getting into it with any of the students. I don’t really blame them. I’d compare the vibe of the room to…y’know, I don’t even know what to compare it to. Maybe Lagos. That’s in Nigeria. It’s one of those megacities, with eight zillion people and the worst traffic jams in the world.

  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?

  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.

  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 to 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.

  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.

&nb
sp; “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—

  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.