A Star is Born (2 page)

S
ometimes things happen in this school that make me so proud of you all that every step I take becomes lighter.” Mrs. Maxwell, our principal, had her hands clasped in front of her as she addressed the assembly. “And if any of you read the
New York Times
over the weekend you will know what I am talking about. In their new column, About Town, a
Times
reviewer mentioned the play put on by the Cruisers and was particularly delighted by the costumes designed by our own LaShonda Powell.”

I don't know who started applauding for LaShonda, but soon the whole auditorium was on their feet. The review was already on Facebook, and parts of it had been tweeted a quadrillion times.

“And more good news is that the Virginia Woolf Society has stepped forward to offer LaShonda a scholarship to their academy. LaShonda, on behalf of the faculty of Da Vinci Academy, and from the bottom of my heart, I congratulate you on your designs and your wonderful talent. Please stand up and accept the school's appreciation.”

LaShonda stood up and we gave her another round of applause.

“Yo, Zander, I think LaShonda's smile just got two inches wider,” said Kambui, who was sitting next to me.

“It should be,” I said. “Did you see what the
New York Times
said about her costumes?”

The next thing on the assembly agenda was a bunch of boring announcements about stuff that everybody already knew. All I was thinking was that the assembly had been called at the last minute and the first class of the day had been canceled. I hated to have Algebra canceled when I had actually done the homework.

“Zander, the C man wants to see the Cruisers in his office.” Bobbi McCall pointed down the hall as we came out of the auditorium.

“What did we do now?” Kambui asked.

“He probably saw that all four of us were breathing at the same time,” Bobbi said. “That's enough to send our assistant principal into orbit.”

Me, Kambui, and Bobbi got to Mr. C.'s office first, and LaShonda, the fourth member of our merry band, came in a moment later. Miss Delgado, the new clerk, gave us a big smile and then motioned for us to go into the dreaded lion's den.

“Well, where do I begin?” Adrian Culpepper leaned back in his chair and adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses with the tips of his index fingers. “When you young people first came to my attention I thought you were a lost cause. But after several misadventures — so to speak — I see that there is a certain merit to your rather unorthodox methodology. I have called you here today not to admonish you but to encourage you to keep up the good work.

“I have not reached that stage of our relationship wherein I actually
like
any of you, but, as a group, you are not as reprehensible in my eyes as you once were. I thought you would want to know that.”

“Oh, thank you, kind sir,” Bobbi said.

“I must add that your attempt at journalism — if your pathetic little paper can be attached to that hallowed term — is still not my cup of tea, but it does show that you can spell most words. The important thing is that you occasionally bring a certain credit to Da Vinci Academy. The piece in the paper reviewing Zander's play and, of course, your lovely costumes, LaShonda, is the kind of positive press I always hope for.”

“Thank you, Mr. C.” This from LaShonda.

Mr. Culpepper stood and shook hands with each of us and smiled.

“That's the kind of smile that a crocodile gets on his face just before he eats you,” Bobbi said when we had left Mr. Culpepper's office.

“Crocodiles don't have faces,” Kambui said.

“Who told you that?” I asked.

“People have faces,” Kambui said. “Crocodiles do not have faces, and they don't have personalities, so they can't smile, either.”

“Kambui's been reading
National Geographic
again,” LaShonda said. “Once a year he comes up with something strange and you know he's been to the dentist and read
National Geographic
.”

Kambui started going on about how he lived in the world of ideas and intellect, and nobody wanted to hear that so we started on down the hallway.

“You people just don't appreciate an intellectual,” Kambui protested. “LaShonda appreciates me.”

“No, I don't,” LaShonda said.

“So who is this Virginia Woolf?” Kambui asked.

“She was all, like, ‘Hey, women can think and write and get it on if we have a chance,'” Bobbi said. “She was on the front lines for women when people didn't know there was a battle going on.”

“So what's that mean for LaShonda?”

“Two women came to our group home Sunday,” LaShonda said. “They were talking about how they would let me come to their academy and learn to dress cool and act cool. Things like that. And then maybe later they would help me get into a school.”

“They talking about serious money?” Kambui asked.

“Yeah,” LaShonda said. “The way they ran it, all I had to do was to get busy with the grades and they could make it all happen. I got all excited and everything because I really hadn't put college on my map.”

“You're going to Da Vinci, a school for the gifted and talented, and you didn't have college on your map?” I asked. “I can't buy that.”

“Yo, Zander, I had it on my map, but I wasn't thinking it was a done deal or anything like that. You know, some people come in here with their father being a weatherman on television and their mother being a big-time model and they just know they're going to college. I was hoping, but I didn't have any guarantees. They're talking like they're going to make it happen.”

“Zander is one of these people who don't worry about money the way the little people do,” Bobbi said. “He just deals with the Big Issues, like world peace, global warming, and international terrorism.”

“Bobbi McCall, shut up!” I said. “The only reason I don't worry about money for college is that I'm better looking, smarter, and have more talent than you people.”

“Zander, if I shut up, where would you have to go to find wisdom in this small universe?” Bobbi said. “I am the heart and soul of the Cruisers, and you know it. That's why you always want to hang around me.”

“Don't say that, Bobbi.” LaShonda pulled an apple out of her backpack and started polishing it on her sleeve. “You don't want Caren to think you and Zander have something going on. She'll scratch your eyes out.”

I wanted to tell LaShonda that her remark about Caren Culpepper was sick, but she had already made a sharp left turn and was headed down the hallway toward her second-period class.

The truth was that I was as proud of LaShonda as everybody else. And I was proud that old stuffy butt Mr. Culpepper had to acknowledge that the Cruisers had their stuff together. When he first called us into his office he was ready to kick us out of Da Vinci Academy, saying we weren't the kind of students fit for a gifted and talented school. He got on our case for not being in any extracurricular activities, and we made up our own club, calling ourselves the Cruisers. That was supercool, but our newspaper, which Mr. Culpepper liked to refer to as our “adventure into the writing trade,” had found its place in our school. All the kids picked it up as soon as we published it, and Ashley Schmidt, the editor of the official school newspaper,
The Palette
, even said that it made that paper better.

Bobbi McCall was sharp. She was good at math and chess and was up on anything that dealt with women. Da Vinci Academy was in Harlem, but a lot of the kids at the school were white, including Bobbi.

Kambui Owens was my main man and into photography. Kambui was the kind of guy who had your back if things got wrong, but he would also let you know if he thought you weren't taking care of business.

LaShonda Powell did design, sewing, art, fashion, and anything connected with clothing. If you could wear it, she could hook it up. So when Mrs. Maxwell asked the Cruisers to do a short sketch of some kind for assembly, I wrote a one-act play based on
Romeo and Juliet
, and LaShonda designed the costumes. The costumes were smoking, too. She had everybody wear dark pants and then did individual tops for all of us. I liked mine because I looked good in it. The wide sleeves made me look like I was in an old movie or something, and I liked that.

Okay, I'm Alexander Scott. I think Mr. Culpepper likes me the least of any kid at Da Vinci because I'm the one kid he can't stare down. For one thing, I'm six feet and he's only five ten, and also because I'm good at staring people down. It's just something I can do. It's, like, a gift or something. What Mr. C. wants are kids who are grateful for walking in the door of Da Vinci and working hard every day to get a handful of A's. That's not me, and that's not Kambui, and not Bobbi, and not LaShonda. We cruise along, but we're smart and we know it.

Still, I was happy with the piece in the paper because LaShonda was right. College is a piece of cake if you have the money. My dad is a weatherman and pulls down good money, even if he is doing it out on the West Coast with his new wife. My mom is a model and sometimes an actress and we do okay. I would like to get a free ride to college just so I don't have to ask my father for anything. That's a different trip from where LaShonda is coming from and I know it, so I didn't say anything when she mentioned it. I know LaShonda's cool. She's all heart and fights better than Kambui.

On the way home I wondered what Mr. C. was thinking when he called us down to his office. Deep down inside of his stuffy butt I bet he was disappointed that he had to tip his hat to us.

THE CRUISER

I DON'T WANT TO BE NO LADY

By Bobbi McCall

I
was happy because Culpepper finally had to admit that the Cruisers were the real deal, but when I got home Mom was even happier.

“Guess what happened today?” She looked at me all bubbly, like she was going to bring out a cupcake or something from behind her back.

“Yo, I don't know what happened today, and I don't think you should be throwing your television commercial smile at me,” I said.

“I am not throwing my television commercial smile at you,” she said. Then, with one motion, she flopped down into a cross-legged sitting position on the floor. “This is my television commercial smile.”

Mom's a model and knows how to act and look pretty. When she threw her television smile at me it was good. The woman was real good, and I could see why she was getting over on the tube. She had been working commercials for the past six months and raking in some heavy paper for a change. We spent it all real fast, but at least we had something to spend.

“So what happened today?” I asked.

“Two things.” Mom held up two fingers like I wouldn't have understood the words. “The first was that I tried out for the part of the Gecko's girlfriend.”

“The Gecko?”

“You know, the Gecko that sells insurance?”

“Yeah, but you're going to be his girlfriend?” I asked.

“It depends,” she said. “They're going to run it by some good-doing black organization to see if they object to the Gecko having a black girlfriend. If they don't, I'll be his girlfriend and make a gazillion dollars.”

I couldn't exactly wrap my mind around my mother being the Gecko's girlfriend, but the gazillion dollars sounded cool. I asked her what else had happened.

“Your father called me with an idea,” she said. Now she had on her wait-until-you-hear-how-stupid-this-is expression. “He wants you and him to have face-to-face meetings once a week so he can mentor you. He's going to send us some equipment and you can see him on the Internet every Wednesday evening.”

“I can see him on the net just by tuning in to the weather in Portland,” I said. “Why do I want to see him on Wednesday evenings?”

“He said he wants to have eye contact with you so the two of you can talk about man kind of things,” Mom said.

“What does he mean by man kind of things?”

“I don't know.” She shrugged. “Maybe his new wife has taught him something.”

That was cold. My parents have been divorced nearly five years and they're still sniping at each other. My dad, who is the super-duper black weatherman out in Portland, Oregon, is always trying to do
the right thing
. Sometimes I think he's got a book called
Corny Things That Fathers Need to Impose on Their Kids After the Divorce
. He's really all right, I guess, but if they're going to have a battle I'm always going to be on Mom's side. In any fight I always pick a side. That's just the way I am.

The Algebra homework sucked big-time. Mr. Manley (I should introduce him to my father), who was a substitute last year, is now teaching Algebra and he wants to make it a Black History class. Probably because he's black. The first thing he did was to waste an entire period with the big news that the word “algebra” is from some Arabic word, and we were supposed to get excited about that. Phat Tony, one of the Genius Gangstas crew, asked if the dude who invented algebra was from Africa, and Mr. Manley said he was either from Africa or the Middle East.

“Probably a terrorist,” Phat Tony said.

Everybody was agreeing to that, and Mr. Manley got really mad, which made the day a huge success.

Okay, I did the homework, checked my e-mails, ran through Facebook, checked out some blogs from Frederick Douglass Academy, answered some comments from Lower Canada Community College about American education, ate some meatball sandwiches (my mom's best supper next to mac and cheese), and was just about to hit the sack when Mom knocked on the bedroom door.

Usually when my mom wants to come into my room, she just throws the door open and bursts in, apologizing about how sorry she is to disturb me, et cetera, et cetera. She's never really sorry. She just doesn't care about my privacy, which she describes as an “issue” between us.

“The police are on the phone,” she said. “Your friend LaShonda has a problem.”

It was after eleven at night when we got a gypsy cab on the boulevard and took it downtown to the Port Authority building on Eighth Avenue and 41st Street. Mom stretched her legs out and told me what the police had told her.

“They found LaShonda and her brother on a bench at the Port Authority and the kids wouldn't give their names or address,” she said. “When the police told them that they would have to take them to a shelter, LaShonda gave them your name and number.”

“They have no idea why they were there?”

“No,” Mom said.

“Did they say that LaShonda was … you know … all right?”

“I think she is,” Mom said. “The police didn't sound angry or anything, just concerned.”

We got to the Port Authority and it was crowded with people just milling around. Some looked as if they might have been waiting for buses, some looked homeless. The police are on the second floor, all the way back toward Ninth Avenue and in a corner. We went there and a round lady sergeant met us at the door.

“This is not the place for young kids to be by themselves,” she said. “You know them?”

Mom said we did and we went into a room where LaShonda was sitting on a bench. Her arms were around her brother and he had his face turned away from us.

“You okay, baby?” Mom asked LaShonda.

LaShonda's head shook yes, but her eyes were saying no. Mom sat down on one side of her and I sat on the other, next to her brother. When Mom put her arms around her shoulders, LaShonda began to cry. I didn't know what to do except feel bad. I tried to take her hand, but her brother pushed me away.

Mom cradled LaShonda for a while, not saying anything, just patting the back of her head as my friend leaned against her shoulder. Sometimes — maybe most of the time — I didn't think much of just having a mother, but I was appreciating her as we sat there in the police station.

LaShonda and Mom talked quietly. I heard LaShonda saying how foolish she had been to think things were going to change so easily for them. Mom wasn't saying a lot, but she was comforting LaShonda. Most of all, I was looking at Chris.

Chris was, like, really good-looking. He had soft brown eyes and a nice mouth that made him look younger than I knew he was. He looked around the precinct room at the cops who passed by or at the clock on the wall. Occasionally, he glanced at Mom, but only from the side, as if he didn't want her to see him looking at her. What got to me most was his hands. They were always busy, moving from his chest to the tops of his thighs, and then to his knees before returning to his chest. The moves were merely touches, as if he had a thing — a ritual — he had to go through. And LaShonda, talking quietly to Mom, also moved with her brother, keeping his hands in the tight pattern he had set up, and away from Mom.

Once, a bell went off, and I watched Chris quickly put his hands over his ears. To me the bell hadn't been that loud, but I could see that Chris was in a different world than I was.

“You okay?” I asked him.

He looked away from me, down toward the floor.

“He's okay,” LaShonda said, interrupting the sentence she had started to Mom.

LaShonda and Chris together, he going through a secret dance that only he knew about, she silently dancing with him, keeping him within the small space that only they understood, was something I had never seen before. It pulled at my gut, and I felt helpless and a little stupid.

LaShonda and Chris had been living in group homes for children — first Little Flower and then St. Francis, where they were now, and I wondered how long they had been going through this bit of her trying to keep him calm, and how much it was taking out of her.

“You need us to arrange transportation to a shelter?” the round sergeant asked. “The best we can do tonight is a shelter or have them sleep in the back of some precinct until morning.”

“LaShonda goes to school with my son,” Mom said. “Can we take them to our house?”

The sergeant knelt down in front of LaShonda and smoothed back my friend's hair.

“Baby, you haven't done anything wrong, but I don't want you to go anywhere you don't feel safe,” the sergeant said. “Are you all right with going home with these people?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“How do you know them?” the sergeant asked.

“Zander and I go to school together,” LaShonda said. “He's good people.”

Yo, that got me all teary eyed.

The sergeant got my name and Mom's name and address and then said that LaShonda could go home with us. She asked how we were going and Mom said we'd take the train, but the sergeant went into another room and came back with enough money to take a taxi back uptown.

“What they said was that if I went into the Virginia Woolf program, then me and Chris would have to be separated,” LaShonda whispered. “I can't let that happen. I just can't let that happen.”

She said that her brother was autistic. I didn't know what that meant other than he was different. I was hip to not dumping on people who were different or who had things like autism or stuff like that, but I didn't really know what it was about.

But I saw the way LaShonda's brother clung to her. It looked like he was trying to get into her, to bury his head in her chest.

And she just held him. Like a mother holds a child. That's what I thought of when I looked at them in the darkness of the cab going through the streets, a mother holding a child.

Mom called the group home, and they were relieved. They said they would send somebody over to pick up LaShonda and Chris, but Mom said no, that they would stay with us overnight. She said that like she meant it, too. When the chips were down, Mom could man up with the best of them.

THE CRUISER

A GUEST EDITORIAL

By Phat Tony Williams