D
a Vinci Academy for the Gifted and Talented is one of those schools that’s always getting experimented on. This year’s major experiment was what Mrs. Maxwell, our principal (and a good lady), called the Independent Learning Project. Any kid who wanted to get extra AP credit could pick a subject, learn it on his or her own, and get the credit. The catch was that you had to convince a teacher that you really had something going on to begin the project and, after you learned whatever it was you had volunteered for, that you knew the subject well enough to deserve the extra credit. It sounded like too much work to me.

“But you will think about it, won’t you, Alexander?” Mrs. Maxwell asked me.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I was going to think about it, but if I could get out of it I knew I would. Anyway, a lot of kids were all gaga over the program (that’s why they’re at Da Vinci), and there were kids walking around school all day talking about how they were going to learn everything from Plant Biology to String Theory. It actually tired me out just hearing them.

We had basketball practice after school, and when I got home Mom was on the floor, stretching. I hoped it didn’t mean she hadn’t made anything for supper.

“You got a phone call,” she said, reaching over to touch the heels of her hands to her toes.

“What are we having for supper?”

“I thought we could order out for Chinese food,” Mom said. “Something to go along with my new job. There’s a salad in the fridge if you need something right now.”

“You’re going to work in a Chinese restaurant?”

“Marc got me a television spot,” Mom said. “They’re hiring me on the strength of my demo. I don’t even have to audition.”

“What are you going to be doing?” I had to ask because I liked Mom working on television but I didn’t want her doing underwear commercials or anything else that was sexy.

“Toothpaste,” she said. “I’m going to hold up a tube of toothpaste and say why I like it. The residuals aren’t that cool from Japan, but the up-front money is good. Twelve thousand bucks!”

“What’s Japan got to do with it?”

“That’s where the spot is going to run,” she said.

“If it’s going to run in Japan why are we ordering out Chinese food?”

“Because they don’t have any Japanese restaurants in Harlem,” Mom answered.

“That makes sense,” I said. I opened the fridge and found what was left of the salad. It was mostly lettuce and tomatoes with some cheese and raisins. I passed on the salad and grabbed a can of soda. “Who called?”

“Mr. Culpepper,” Mom said. “Said he wanted to talk to you about something.”

Mr. Culpepper, the assistant principal of Da Vinci, didn’t wear robes or anything, but I thought he could have been one of those guys in the Middle Ages who supervised torturing people. I could picture him sitting on a high stool as my ankles were being chained to the rack. I knew I hadn’t done anything particularly wrong, but that didn’t stop Mr. C. from being suspicious. Unless he had found
out about the homework. Kambui hadn’t done his essay on
The Red Badge of Courage
and had copied one from the Internet. I copied his, but I added some stuff to it so it didn’t look like I copied it. I hoped.

Mom asked me what I wanted her to order from the Chinese takeout place and then got mad when I said fried chicken.

“You don’t order fried chicken from a Chinese food place,” she said. “You order Chinese food!”

“Then order what you want,” I said.

“No, you have to tell me what you want,” she said. I was in my room and she was in the doorway. “If we’re going to order we might as well get what we want.”

“Then how about fried chicken?”

“Why are you being mean to me?” Mom asked. “What did I do to you?”

“So how about some egg foo yong?”

“You know you don’t like egg foo yong,” she said. “What is wrong with you today? You’re getting to be just like your father.”

“Mom, we’re ordering Chinese food to go along with your Japanese commercial,” I said. “Like, we left authentic about ten minutes ago.”

We settled on some General Tso’s chicken for me and something with beef for her and steamed dumplings. She went to order and I called Kambui.

Kambui is my main man and a cool-headed dude. If Mr. Culpepper had found out about him copying the homework he wouldn’t rat me out. Then I thought about Mr. C. getting Kambui on the rack and torturing him a bit to make him talk.

I dialed Kambui and his voice came on saying he wasn’t home but then he answered.

“Yo, Zander, what’s up?”

“I got a call from Mr. Culpepper saying he wants to talk to me,” I said. “Did he find out about the paper?”

“I don’t think so,” Kambui came back. “Miss Ortiz said she wasn’t going to tell him.”

“I didn’t know she could just scan it and tell it was ripped off the net,” I said. “Anyway, I meant to write it myself; that should count for something.”

“She said if we get a new essay in by Friday — all six pages — she’ll give us a grade,” Kambui said. “Otherwise we get a no-grade, and that gets averaged into our final marks.”

“Six pages? It was supposed to be three,” I said.

“So what you going to do, go complain to Mr. Culpepper?”

I liked
The Red Badge of Courage,
the book I was supposed to do the essay on, but six pages was definitely foul. On the other hand, I didn’t want Culpepper involved. I told Kambui to hang loose while I called our assistant principal, and I would let him know if Miss Ortiz squealed on us.

Miss Ortiz was hot, maybe the best-looking teacher in the school. Her only fault was that she expected everybody to do the work she assigned all the time. English was my thing, the reason I had gotten into Da Vinci. I was supposed to be able to write, but I didn’t know I was supposed to be able to write so much.

Mom had written down Mr. Culpepper’s number on her appointment pad right under Marc’s name. Marc was her agent and she had written
Marc — Japan — finalized — 12K — Yes!
Twelve thousand would carry us for three months even if Mom didn’t get any other gigs. I liked that. I was always worried that if we got too far behind she would have to do some stupid gig with her just wearing a bra or something.

“Hello?”

It was Mr. Culpepper’s daughter. I hated her.

“Hey, Caren, this is Zander,” I said. “Is your father around?”

“You in trouble again?” she asked.

“That’s not your business,” I said. “And anyway, I don’t talk to seventh-graders after three o’clock, so go find your father.”

“I think I’m going to recommend to him that he gets tougher on the hoodlum element at Da Vinci,” she said.

“You do that and I’ll put itching powder in your training bra,” I said.

“Alexander Scott, that is a sexual reference and that is not allowed at Da Vinci!” she said. “You can be
expelled
for that remark.”

“Yo, Caren, you have to have boobs before it becomes a sexual reference,” I said.

“So, should I tell my father what you said?” she asked softly.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Caren, lighten up.”

“Tell me one thing and I’ll go get my father,” she said. “Are you going out with LaShonda?”

“No!”

“She told Tyree that you were crazy mad in love with her,” Caren said.

“Caren, get your father. Wait — do you know what he wants to talk to me about?”

“He mentioned something about your impending doom,” Caren said. “You know, the usual stuff. I’ll get him.”

Adrian Culpepper could have been a horror movie all by himself. I had never met a kid who wasn’t afraid of him. He came to school every morning looking for kids who might do something to mess up the school’s reputation. He didn’t talk about us as students but as “Da Vinci material.” After two years he still wasn’t sure that I was Da Vinci material. When me and three other students formed a group we called the Cruisers and started our own alternative newspaper, it was like waving a red flag in front of Mr. Culpepper. As far as he was concerned we were just slackers looking for an easy out. But all the kids at Da Vinci were into smart, and the Cruisers were no exception. We didn’t do the same kind of smart that some kids did, but we definitely weren’t slackers.

“Alexander?” Mr. Culpepper’s voice came on the phone.

“Yes, sir?”

“I have a problem that I don’t quite know how to handle,” Mr. Culpepper said. “And I was wondering if it might not be better if some students handled it. And when I thought of a student group that might be just out of the mainstream enough to deal with this particular problem I, quite naturally, thought of you and your merry little band of incorrigible miscreants. What do you call yourselves again — the Losers?”

“The Cruisers, sir.”

“Ah, yes. Well, are you willing to take on another problem? You did manage to handle the school’s Civil War project without too much bloodshed.”

“You mean that Independent Learning thing that Mrs. Maxwell was talking about?”

I could hear Mr. Culpepper exhale over the phone. He then let out a
mmmmm,
which he does sometimes when he’s thinking about how to make our lives more miserable.

“No,” he said. “To put it bluntly and quite directly, one of our students was detained for attempting to buy a controlled substance. This is obviously a very serious matter for both the school and the student involved. The faculty, of course, can offer the usual guidance, but I was wondering if you and — yes, the Cruisers — could be of help.”

“A controlled substance?”

“A tranquilizer that’s normally only available through a prescription.”

“You kidding me?”

“Mr. Scott, I do not spend my time frivolously!” Mr. Culpepper was back to roaring.

“Who?” I asked.

“I am going to give you his name, but I do so with the understanding that confidentiality is something that you understand. If Sidney has a problem — and we’re not sure that he has — we would like to help him.”

“Sidney Aronofsky?”

Nothing else that Mr. Culpepper said came through. Sidney Aronofsky was school chess champion and one of the best players in the city. He had even been written up in
The Village Voice.
There was no way that I could picture him buying any kind of drug. But then again, I knew Mr. Culpepper wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. Especially to somebody from the Cruisers.

THE PALETTE

As part of
The Palette
’s ongoing commentary on school activities, the Editorial Board is issuing an opinion on the new Independent Learning Project. The board feels that one logical conclusion to the project is to do away with schools entirely. We have extended an invitation to the other newspaper,
The Cruiser,
to also weigh in on this issue.

Are Schools Necessary?

The Editorial Board of
The Palette
believes that schools are necessary because they do more than teach. They provide opportunities for poorer children that would not be available otherwise. Rich people could always have private tutors. Schools also facilitate the learning process by guiding students through the curriculum and offering help to those students who need it.

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