Show and Prove (8 page)

N
ot even an hour with her new title, and Cookie thinks she's all big and bad. After Nike leaves me flat, I make my way across the gym for a quick pickup game. Although I pull my cap low over my eyes and try to creep past Cookie, she still spots me and digs her raggedy nails into my forearm. “Smiles, I have your assignment.” She unclips the registration forms and hands them to me. Today she has on a
RIDE, SALLY RIDE
T-shirt with an iron-on of that lady astronaut on it. So what she's the first woman from the United States in space? The Russians already beat us to it. “You've got Pedro Jimenez. He's ten.”

“I can read.” I snatch the forms from her, glance at the Woolworth's photographs stapled to them, and look for my kid.

“You're welcome, Raymond!”

This is cold, man. I'm a better counselor than Cookie because I have strong instincts and know how to handle the kids. Most counselors only have one way of dealing with them, and that's not enough to survive the summer. Take Nike. From the get-go, he barks at his kids like Sergeant Snorkel, but that only works for a spell. They'll realize he's all talk and no action, and come August, Nike's kids will be getting over on him left and right.

They call me Smiles because I'm always smiling. This is camp, not juvie. The kids come to have fun, and when they have fun, I have fun. But I know when the kid gloves should come off. Even the counselors know better than to test me. We might be around the same age, but they respect me as much as the kids do. That's why I should have been Big Lou's assistant.

I find Pedro sitting in the bleachers by himself, slowly washing down his blueberry muffin with chocolate milk. Most day camp kids are Saint Aloysius students or at least live in the neighborhood. They come to camp already having friends from school or the block. Since I've never seen him before, and he's alone, I deduce that Pedro must have just moved here.

“Pedro?” He looks up and watches me climb the bleachers toward him. He's a cute kid—dark spiky hair and big brown eyes—but small for ten. I would've guessed eight. Pedro's clothes also set him apart from the other campers. Even the poorest kids try to keep up with the trends, just like Nike did when he first moved to the neighborhood. If they can't afford the Pumas or Lees, they at least get the latest haircut or pull their pennies together to buy some “in” thing like a Rubik's Cube or rubber bracelets. Pedro has on a faded red T-shirt and shorts cut from discount-store jeans, the bluish white threads dangling toward his ashy knees. His sneakers are the fake Adidas with the fourth stripe they sell at Woolworth's, where he probably got his picture taken in the photo booth. I don't know how long he has lived here, but the kids must be crazy teasing him, like they did Nike. For five days a week, though, I'll keep the bullies in check.

“What's up, homeboy?” I sit down next to him. “I'm Smiles, your counselor.” He just blinks at me. Although his address is on the registration form, to make conversation I ask, “Where do you live?” He still doesn't answer me. I scan the medical section of his form to see if he has any problems, and it's empty. But in the box labeled
NOTES
it reads:
ESL.

I say to Pedro, “No English?” He shakes his head. Cookie trying it, yo!

And just as if she timed the entire scenario, she scampers up the bleachers. “He just moved here from Puerto Rico last month,” she says. Then Cookie turns to Pedro and says something in Spanish, including my name and a word that sounds like
counselor.
I take Spanish in school, but she's speaking so fast I can't follow. Probably doing that on purpose, too. Pedro asks her something that makes Cookie laugh. She then says to me as she starts her way back down the bleachers. “In fifteen minutes, we're lining up the kids to take them to the Central Park pool.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I say. If the weather's nice, we always take the entire camp to Central Park on the first day. I suggested it to Barb three years ago, and it's now our tradition. It's only four stops on the 6 train with no transfers—a good way to get the kids and counselors used to taking the subway as a group before we start venturing to the pools as far as Astoria, Queens, or even taking the ferry to the one in Staten Island. On Mondays through Thursdays, each of the three age groups heads someplace different in New York City. On Fridays the entire camp goes on a bus trip to a state park. The last week it's bus trips every day, including Bear Mountain and Coney Island. These kids get a lot for their five-dollar registration fee, including the orange camp T-shirt they have to wear every Friday. “You're not the only one who can read the schedule.”

Cookie tells Pedro, “Si él no te trata bien, búscame. Me llamo Carolina.” Then she smirks at me, motions toward Pedro, and says, “When you need help, you know where to find me.” And then she skips down the steps and back into the crowd.

Pedro asks me something, pointing to her as she crosses the gym to talk to Big Lou. I can't understand his words, but his sad eyes say it all. He'd rather have the crab for a counselor.

All things being equal.
I knew it. Barb did give Cookie the promotion because she's Puerto Rican. Just like Barb. Just like her husband Big Lou, the crew chief of the Champs. When push came to shove, Barb gave Cookie the job because she's one of her own. So why shouldn't I go work for Qusay?

Because Qusay doesn't have a job for me yet, that's why. And for all his
Whatever,
Nike would take it as another betrayal, like my decision to transfer to Dawkins. When I realized I could only be Smiles on the block and Raymond at Dawkins, Nike was the one person I thought I could be my whole self with. Now that I'm wondering if going to Dawkins is a mistake, I've got no one to talk to about it.

I can't quit. I don't want to quit, really. I love this camp, man. You'd think after three years, I'd be bored of going to the same places all the time. But every summer there's a Pedro who makes it feel like the first time. Riding the subway, visiting all the different parks and pools, and going to the zoo and movies through his eyes? I'm psyched! And who'll teach the boys to play skully and crack up the girls by playing Chinese jump rope with them? Ain't gonna be Nike.

I tap Pedro on the shoulder and start down the bleachers. “¡Vámanos!” I say like I'm the Rican Mister Rogers. It's corny, but it's the best I can think of now.

Besides, it works. After a second of surprise, Pedro jumps up. “Okai!”

“See!” I put my arm around him, and we head down the bleachers. “I knew you had to know some English.”

I
don't know why we have to take these Garanimals to the Central Park pool on the first day of camp. There be glass in that water! If we're getting on the train, we might as well go to Astoria. It's worth the hour and a half to get there, because the water's always perfect.

At least we're not going to the pool at Saint Mary's Park. Gloria and Vanessa are bound to be there. All I need is for Vanessa to figure out that Sara's going to be my new girlfriend and start trouble before I can even rap to her.

Cookie blows her whistle. “All right, Champions, let's motivate!” We file out of the church, and even though the Cypress Avenue station is only a block away, Big Lou marches us to the next one, on Brook Avenue, chanting like we're in the army.

Your left, your left

Your left, right, your left

Yourleftyourrightjustpickupyourstep

Your left, your right, your leeeeft

“Dude thinks he's that Black guy in
An Officer and a Gentleman,
” I say, taking a sip of my milk. “Sergeant Foley?”

“Nah, he thinks he's Jimmy Snuka.” Smiles imitates Superfly, growling and flexing his biceps like the Incredible Hulk.
“You're gonna pay, Don Muraco. I promise you this, my brother. You're gonna pay!”

I almost spit out my milk, 'cause Big Lou
does
look like Superfly, with all those muscles and that Jheri curl. “Oh, snap!” I wipe stray drops of milk off my chin. “He could go out for the WWF, word.” Now that's the Smiles I know.

Shorty Rock gets out of line and tugs at my shirt. “Yo, why we gotta walk all these blocks?”

I shove him back in line. “Some of y'all can stand to burn some energy.” If Big Lou thinks I'm such a bad counselor, why did they assign me the camp badass? This demonio traumatized his counselor last year until the sucker quit. Rumor has it the poor kid ended up at Bellevue Hospital, and Big Lou got stuck having to watch Shorty-Rock. Sometimes I think Big Lou likes having excuses to dock me. Maybe the money the camp saves by not paying me a full check for one stupid reason or another goes into
his
pocket. “Stay in line.”

“Stop beggin'!” Shorty Rock yells, bouncing out of the line and onto my new shell-toe Adidas.

“Watch it!” I shove him back into place and check my dogs for smudges. This kid don't know how lucky he is he missed me. I stick my finger in his face and say, “Keep it up, and see if you go on the bus trip to Rockland on Friday.”

Shorty Rock sucks his teeth but finally stays in line. I elbow Smiles. “Check, buddy. You saw that?” He's not the only one who has a way with kids.

“Yeah, let's see how long that works for you.”

We get to the train station, and after Big Lou clears the way with the token clerk, I hold open the exit door so the kids can file onto the platform. Of course, Shorty Rock has to be a clown and leap over the turnstile like he's Mitch Gaylord. Now a whole bunch of other kids want to do it, too. Someone is bound to crack their head open, and then we gonna have some crazy mother in here tomorrow threatening to sue the city, the church, and maybe even me.

Smiles jumps onto the first turnstile to block the rest of the boys from playing monkey see, monkey do. “Y'all know better. Turn ya butts right around and go through the door.”

Always quick to copycat, Cookie leaps over the second turnstile and blocks it, too. “Y'all heard Smiley.”

Shorty Rock yells, “That's what y'all get for being biters.” He sidles up to Cookie like he's her boyfriend.

But she grabs his arm and whips him back through the turnstile like Wonder Woman cracking her golden lasso. “You too. Go back out and come in through the gate, the way you were supposed to in the first place.”

Shorty Rock mumbles under his breath but does as he's told. When he comes through the gate, I yell, “Yo, why you did that? Do that again. When you fall and crack your skull, see if I don't laugh.”

“You better not laugh if you don't want me to fly that head,” says Shorty.

I lift my arm like I'm about to backhand him, and Shorty throws his hands up over his head. “You better learn some respect.”

“Why?” Shorty scowls at me over his raised forearm. “You ain't my father!”

“Thank God for that.” Man, if everybody weren't looking…“If you was my kid, B, you'd be lying across that third rail, and I'd be going to jail!”

Shorty blows a raspberry at me, then runs off down the platform. Only reason I don't chase him and give him an oops upside his head is because Sara walks through the door, holding the hands of the twins.

“Thank you,” Sara says.

“Anytime, beautiful,” I say. Sara was the only one who thanked me for holding open the gate. All these other pooh-butts walked right by me like my name is Benson.

Now Big Lou barges through the gate. “Focus less on the girls and pay more attention to your kid, Nike.” With the 6 train pulling into the station, I'm hoping Sara didn't hear him put me in check. In that booming voice of his, Big Lou announces, “Counselors, we're getting off at 110th Street. Four stops.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” says Smiles. Homeboy's a walking transit map. Mr. King is a motorman for the MTA, so Smiles practically grew up on the subway. He be knowing off the top of his head which trains go to parts of the city he's never even been to.

“Yo, Smiles,” I whisper as I nod toward Sara.

“That's Sara,” Cookie barks in my ear, “and she's too good for a dog like you.”

“Damn, blow out my eardrum, why don't you?” Who asked her, anyway? “I know Sara. She lives down the street from me.”

“We've been like this since she moved here a few weeks ago,” Cookie says, crossing her fingers, “and she's never mentioned the likes of you.”

“Mind your business, Cookie,” says Smiles. I'd give him five for being my backup like he used to, but it ain't about me really. His beef with Cookie's over that dumb promotion I done told him not to get hyped over.

We pile into a car that only has a handful of other passengers on it. The rush of kids annoys a few, but most smile at us. One of the twins climbs onto Sara's lap, even though there are plenty of seats. “I think you might be a little too big for this,” Sara says sweetly. The girl smiles and shakes her head. I can't blame her. I'm going to be seventeen next month, and I want to sit on her lap myself. “I don't know. You sure? Are you sure you're not too big for this?”

The girl giggles and sticks a thumb in her mouth.

“Stop that!” her older sister yells. Then she yanks her hand out her mouth. “I'ma tell Mommy you be sucking your thumb.”

“Why would you do that?” asks Sara. “It's not
your
thumb.”

That's settled. Sara is going to be my camp girl this summer. And who knows? She's so fly I just might make her my block girl, too. We'll just have to keep our thing a secret until Vanessa chills out.

“Yo, Smiles,” I say, handing him my boom box. “Hold this for me. I think I got that new jam from Run-D.M.C. off BLS.”

“And you know that!” That's Smiles's favorite rap group. He lowers the volume while fast-forwarding the cassette. Meanwhile, I stretch my quads and watch Sara from the corner of my eye. She finally convinces the twin to crawl off her lap and opens up the newspaper. When Smiles reaches the perfect spot, he kicks the volume to ten, and then:

Bam, bam, bam, bam

Unemployment at a record high…

All the kids and the counselors yell,
Ho!
and bob their heads, rhyming along with Run-D.M.C. Everybody except Sara, who still has her nose in the
Daily News.
She won't for long.

I freestyle until I get a feel of the space. The 6 train be crampin' my style with these stupid narrow cars. That's another reason why I love our trips to Queens. The N train is crazy wide, with plenty of room to do some ill stuff. But everyone is watching me now, and some girl counselors are cheering me on.
Go, Nike, go. Go, Nike, go.
That's def. Nothing gets a girl's attention better than what other girls like. Sara finally looks up from her paper to watch me bust it out.

I uprock my way over to her, but slick—no eye contact—so it doesn't seem like I'm showing off for her benefit. Like instead I'm just in a zone and have no idea that I'm dancing right in front of her, close enough to touch.

But just as I'm in position to break fly, the cheering stops.
Go, Nike, go
becomes
Yo, Nike, look!
Sara taps my knee and points toward the opposite end of the car. Big Lou's arguing with this white dude in a suit while holding tight to Shorty Rock, who's flouncing about like a fish on a line. And if that weren't bad enough, Smiles shuts off the boom box so everyone can hear what's going down.

“I don't know what more you want me to do,” says Big Lou. “I've already apologized three times.”

The white guy says, “I don't want an apology.” He points to the dusty sneaker print on the shin of his pants. “I want a clean suit.”

Big Lou says, “Obviously, you want to be mad, so you know what? Stay mad then. Not like you can't just bend down and wipe it off.”

The man in the suit sputters, “That's not the point….”

“Yes, it is the point, because I'm making it the point.” And just like that, Big Lou grows another foot and towers over the white guy, who's turning pink. “I said I was sorry he accidentally kicked you and dirtied your suit. I made him say that he was sorry, and then I said I was sorry again. If that's not good enough for you, my heart bleeds.”

“What you want him to do?” yells Smiles. “Lick it clean?”

Everybody laughs, and a Black lady nods with approval. Now the white man has gone from pink to red, and I feel bad for him. It even crosses my mind to go over there and offer to pay to clean his suit. The man probably doesn't even want someone to actually do that. He just wants the offer and for it to be sincere instead of defensive. That's all I'd want. But embarrassment has me frozen in place in front of the last person I want to see me humiliated.

Big Lou pulls Shorty away, but Smiles keeps breaking on the man loud enough to hear. “Homeboy's confused,” he says. “It's 1983, not 1863. We're free.”

“Right!” Cookie says. “This isn't
Roots.
” Damn, why can't she mind her own business? Always instigating.

Smiles finally snaps directly on the guy. “Maybe you need to trade that
New York Times
for the Emancipation Proclamation.” And now everybody's keeling over with laughter.

“Enough, Smiley. Later for him,” says Big Lou. He's cheesin', though.

No one is happier than me when the man gets off at Third Avenue. Bet this ain't his stop neither. Somehow I unglue my shell-toes off the floor and make my way over to Big Lou. Shorty Rock's acting all big and bad now that the man's gone, hollering after him through the window like he's grown. “Later, 'gator! See ya, sucka! Adios, Mr. Morose!”

Big Lou gives his arm a hard yank. “Shut up and sit down! You move from that spot before we get to 110th Street, and you can forget about going to Rockland on Friday.” Then he turns to me and says, “You're docked. Two days' pay.”

“Two days?” I expected him to dock me, but two days? It's gonna take forever to get my Sergio Valentes off layaway.

“Wanna make it three?” Before I can answer—I mean, do I really need to?—Big Lou points to the bench and says, “You lucky I don't just send you home for the rest of the week. This ain't
Dance Fever,
and you ain't Deney Terrio. We pay you to watch your kid, not to show off your little dance moves.”

Big Lou doesn't pay me diddly-squat. The City of New York does, but I stay shut because I'm not trying to get dissed any more in front of Sara. I sit down, sensing all this pity for me in the subway car, sticking to me like a sheet of sweat. I don't need anybody feeling sorry for me. “Smiles, put the music back on.”