Christopher Paul Curtis (20 page)

By fourth hour it was getting hard to breathe.

Then right in the middle of Ms. Warren's class an announcement came on the PA: “Luther T. Farrell, please report to the main office immediately.”

I went down to the office and Mrs. Vickers said, “Go right on in, Luther. How's your mom doing? Tell her I asked after her.”

I walked into Old Man Brown's office.

“Mr. Farrell, please have a seat, I'll be with you in a moment.”

Sure enough, Brown started right in on the mind games with me. He pointed at the chair that faced his desk. It was one of those little kiddie chairs, nothing but a tiny metal h-shaped frame with two pieces of thin plywood attached to it.

No matter how hard you tried to be, no matter how tough, after two minutes of squirming around on that little chair you felt like the biggest idiot in the world, which was the whole point.

I squatted on the chair and waited.

He hung the phone up and said, “Now, let's see, what do I owe the pleasure of this visit to?”

I shrugged.

He said, “Here's a surprise, this is good news. It's about the science fair.”

What?

“I won?”

They'd never called me down to let me know I'd won before, but what else could this be?

“I won!”

“Congratulations. You won. Sort of.”

Uh-oh. “Sort of?”

“Actually you tied for first place. You and Patrick, you know, the undertaker's kid.”

“Shayla.”

“Right, you and Shayla Patrick tied for first.”

“I still get the medal, though, right?”

“Sure, both of you will. That's why I needed to see you. We only have one first-place medal on hand for the ceremony, and since you've won two already I'd hoped you wouldn't mind if we gave the actual one we have to Ms. Patrick this afternoon. I promise yours will be here by the end of the week at the latest. Is that all right?”

“So, will my medal say ‘tied for first place’ or just ‘first place’?”

“Other than the year it'll be identical to the last one you won.”

“And it will have only my name engraved on the back of it?”

“What'd I just say?”

“OK, I don't mind waiting.”

Brown reached his hand across the desk. I leaned forward and shook it.

“Good work,” he said, “proud to have you three-peat.” He actually almost smiled.

He picked up the phone and pretended he was busy again, letting me know I could leave.

“Oh yeah, Mr. Farrell, I nearly forgot, since no one has ever won the science fair all three of their years at Whittier, we thought we'd surprise you.

“We're pretty sure there's going to be a camera crew
from channel twelve and a reporter from the
Journal
at the assembly. They're both trying to do some positive stories on Flint youth and I guess things have gotten so bad that they thought you'd be a good place to start.”

“I'ma be in the paper?”

“Seems so.”

“And on TV?”

“From what we've heard.”

Snap! This would prove to the Sarge how wrong she is about the sucker path. Hard work can get you some good things, you don't always have to scheme and cheat.

He said, “Oh yeah, one last surprise. Your mother might be at the ceremony this afternoon. We called her and she said she was planning on flying out of town and would have to juggle some things but if she could she'd come.”

That was even better! She'd have to be right there when I got all my glory!

As I walked back to Ms. Warren's class I tried to be real when I thought about this. Chances were pretty good that the Sarge wouldn't come. She and Darnell Dixon were leaving today for that Adult Foster Care Conference in Washington.

When I walked back into class Ms. Warren said, “From the look on your face I'd have to say that this wasn't the typical visit to the principal's office, Luther.”

I was feeling very confident. I looked at Shayla, winked and said, “Sometimes, Ms. Warren, the cards just fall right!”

Shayla looked at me like I was crazy.

I couldn't keep all the cockiness out of my eyes when I
thought, “Oh yeah, baby, I'm crazy all right, crazy in love with you and crazy enough to be the three-peat champion of Flint, Michigan!”

Ah, it's good to see that the universe is still in order. It's got to be reassuring to some folks that the earth is still revolving around the sun, that birds are still flying, that roaches still run when you turn on the light, and that somehow Luther T. Farrell is still always first in line when somebody asks, “Who wants to get their butt royally whipped?”

I didn't even have to look as I followed all the other fools going to the auditorium, I could feel her in the air. I didn't know exactly where the Sarge would be sitting but I knew she was here!

Brown was at the door of the auditorium and pulled me and Shayla and Jeff Sudbury and some seventh-grade girl aside. He led us up on the stage and pointed at four chairs.

Shayla had put her African junk on again this year, you'da thought that might've jinxed her last year but she was as fine and evil as ever. She'd put three beads on each of her locks and was making a clickity-click sound every time her head moved. She'd tucked her locks on the left-hand side behind her ear and even her ear took my breath away.

You know you're in trouble when someone's ears start looking good to you.

If she'd've looked at me I would've smiled and nodded to let her know what Old Man Brown had told me, but she sat with her hands resting in her lap and her eyes closed.

She'd put a dark, dark lipstick on those thick, beautiful
lips. They looked like some kinda luscious living fruit out of the Garden of Eden and, snake or not, baby, I was ready to take a bite. Chester X was right, with this new confidence I was off the hook!

I looked out in the crowd to see where the Sarge was sitting, and there she was, front row, center seat, between Darnell Dixon and Shayla's dad, Mr. Patrick. Shayla's hot mother was sitting next to him, as bad as ever.

Mr. Patrick had on one of his Off to the Graveyard suits and was proud as anything.

Darnell Dixon was bored even before the thing had started. He sat with his legs crossed, his eyes half drooped closed and a toothpick hanging by a hair out of his mouth. He was close enough that I could hear the suck-suck-suck sound he made every few minutes trying to get a piece of something out of one of his back teeth.

And then there was the Sarge.

She was sitting stiff as a board, with one of those just-about-a-smile things on her lips. Our eyes met and I tipped my head at her.

Her eyes rolled.

Whatever.

Brown tapped twice on the microphone and said, “Testing, testing.”

All the noise and movement in the auditorium stopped.

“All right, Whittier's mighty Mourning Doves, thank you for that quiet entry. We have both channel twelve and the
Flint Journal
here this afternoon and I know we'll all be proud of the way the world is going to see Whittier Middle School today. Right?

“As you're well aware, this is our fiftieth-annual science fair and a very special one it is. Something that has never occurred in the history of our school is about to happen on this very stage.”

He introduced the new judging committee and told all this splah-splah about Whittier Mourning Dove pride and the seriousness of developing new minds, and on and on and on.

Brown finally said, “And now, the awards presentations. But before we begin I'd like to remind everyone not to leave any trash or candy wrappers on the auditorium floor. If you've been wondering why these four students are on the stage it's because they've been volunteered to clean the auditorium afterwards and we hope you'll be considerate.”

Big joke. The only one who didn't get it was the seventh grader who was onstage with us. She leaned over to me and whispered, “What? I thought this meant my project won. I ain't cleaning up nothing!”

I guess being around dead people all day makes anything seem funny 'cause about the only person who laughed at Brown's lame joke was Mr. Patrick. He roared like a lion and even gave the Sarge a little nudge with his elbow. But then he looked at her counterfeit smile and her smoking deathly-looking eyes and quit laughing. I bet with the Sarge looking all stiff and unnatural-like that he was afraid that people would think she was a sample of his undertaker work that he'd brought along and propped up beside him to drum up a little business.

Brown nodded at the camerawoman from channel 12. She switched on her bright spotlights as Brown started to
give his version of the Let's Pretend the Losers Aren't Losers speech:

“… very, very difficult to judge …”

“… everyone's a winner here today …”

“… you should all be very proud of what you've done …”

Then came the most important word, “However …”

“However” or “But” or “Sadly” or even something as whack as “Alas” is the dividing line in all these speeches. If your name comes before the “however” you might as well stand up and get your capital “L” for “loser,” 'cause pretty words aside, that's what you are.

Brown kept talking. “… So here we go. In third place we are thrilled to give a seventh grader this year's award. Enid Torres, please accept our congratulations and come get your bronze medal.”

I don't know if it was the cameras or what, but quite a few people clapped and cheered for the kid. She looked dazzled by the lights and the applause.

Brown shook her hand and gave her the award. The kid leaned into the microphone and said, “Thank you, very much. But we don't have to really clean the auditorium, do we?”

Brown pulled the mike back.

“Next, in second place, taking this year's silver medal, we have Mr. Jeffrey Sudbury. Jeffrey, congratulations on a very strong piece of work, great job.”

Jeff strutted over to Brown, got his hand shook and took his award. He leaned into the mike and said, “First I'd like to give all thanks and all glory to my savior, Jesus Christ,
'cause without his help and love I wouldn'ta been able to stomp all you losers. Then I'd like to dedicate this to my moms. Moms, you been there for me from the beginning and this is all because of you. Then I want to give a shout-out to all my dogs from the south side, Too-Too, Bay-Bay—”

Brown grabbed the mike back.

“I'm sure Mr. Too and Mr. Bay will be happy to accept your thanks later, Sudbury. Take a seat.

“Finally,” Brown said, “history is about to be made. And in honor of this history we have invited the special parents of two special students to join us today. First, two of Flint's most outstanding citizens, Harrison and Saundra Patrick.”

Shayla's mom and dad stood up and waved. From looking at her mom it was easy to see why Shayla was so fine. Good thing, too, 'cause it was real obvious that Mr. Patrick's genes needed some serious neutralizing.

“And,” Brown said, “one of our community's busiest and most successful businesswomen, Ms. Carol Farrell.”

The Sarge didn't move, no standing and waving for her.

Shayla still had her eyes closed and her hands folded in her lap. Those Garden of Eden lips were moving just the littlest bit, you'd have to be paying real close attention to notice and that's just what I was doing.

When things are going your way you kind of look at what's really important, you don't want to get knocked out of your mood by thinking about any kind of nonsense. That's why the only thing I was thinking about was Shayla Patrick. But I guess philosophy must be real important to me too, because I was thinking in a very philosophical way about the time that me and Shayla had spent together.

I knew I'd done a lot of things wrong to her, right from the minute I'd first met her and I'd stole a kiss off her kneecap. Chester X had been right, I oughta apologize or explain for the stupid, mean things I'd said to her for all these years and how I hadn't been honest about the way I feel for her. I knew I oughta—

“Actually,” Brown said, “two pieces of history are about to be made today. One is that for the first time in the fair's fifty years we have a tie for first place in the science fair!”

Eloise Exum screamed, “Yes! I told you you were gonna win, girl!”

Sparky yelled, “That's my boy!”

I stared at Shayla. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes and smiled at me!

I smiled back and stuck my hand out to her.

The Garden of Eden lips spread even more and she showed those teeth that I'd once told her looked like a row of tombstones. She reached both of her hands out and squeezed mine!

If I was about to die this wouldn't exactly be my last request, but like I said, I like to keep it real, and this was close enough for me right now! Besides, I've had lots of practice improving these kinds of times in my fantasies.

Brown said, “Ms. Shayla Patrick, it gives me such pleasure to award you first place in this year's science fair!”

Shayla pulled away from my hand and clickety-clicked, clickety-clicked over to Brown.

I noticed a wonderful smell and brought my hand to my nose. This was too much. Shayla was wearing some real classy African perfume, I think it's called Jungle Gardenia.

Brown said, “Since the winning entries were both such works of art this year we've decided to do something different to honor them. Lucas.”

Lucas Sorge knew his computers. The lights on the stage dimmed and a screen dropped down behind us.

Brown said, “Lucas and Mr. Cho have put together a special PowerPoint presentation detailing your winning projects. And we have given each of your parents a DVD copy to cherish forever!”

It's too bad Lucas had already made this little flick, it would be a lot more interesting if it showed how the Sarge reacted to my winning. Her heart must be getting ready to bust from jealousy because I was showing her that her philosophy didn't work, that mine was what was important. This was probably the most bitter moment of her long bitter life!

They showed Shayla's project first. It started with a shot of Shayla laughing and covering her mouth with her hand in slow motion. Lucas made the film so good that you'da thought Spike Lee had put it all together. And there she was on the big screen, my Nubian goddess, Shayla Patrick, profiling like a movie queen.