All of the Above (2 page)
“Starting on Monday, here's the contest we are going to have,” Collins says to the class.
I don't even listen. Who cares about some dumb math contest?
“We are going to have a contest to build one of these.” Collins smacks his palm on the chalkboard pyramid and chalk dust flies up in the air. “A tetrahedron. Nobody has ever made one larger than six levels before. That's the record. So, our school is going to build a bigger one.” Collins looks around the classroom like he is expecting us to be excited about his crazy idea. “So what do you think? Who wants to give this a try?”
Not one single person raises their hand, because what kind of contest is that? Building a pyramid? How's that gonna make math class any better? But the teacher keeps going on and on. Telling us how some school in California holds the world record. How their six-level one had 4,096 pieces. How our school could get into the
Guinness Book of World Records
if we do this. How we could be on the news across the country.
Yeah, right. I just keep my eyes on the jumping clock.
“How about it, Terrell? It was your idea to have a contest,” Collins says, walking around trying to convince people. “Donte—how about you? Or Sharice? Rhondell?”
The teacher looks over at me again. “James—you have art talent. You could do this. Don't you want to be in the
Guinness Book of World Records
for something? Don't you want to see your name right there on its own page”—he draws a page in the air with his hands—“James Harris III?”
No.
Wish you would just get away from me, fool, that's what I wish.
Sharice, who's always kissing up to the teachers, says maybe. And Rhondell Jeffries, who's got brains but is nothing to look at, says she'll think about it, too. Nobody else agrees to help, except for Marcel.
He waves his hand in the air and says if they need somebody to sign autographs and take pictures with all the ladies, he'll be there. Marcel always thinks he's something, just because everybody in town knows his daddy owns Willy Q's Barbecue.
I could pound Marcel's face into barbecue with one hand if I wanted to.
“All right,” Collins says, just as the bell rings. “Anybody who wants to be part of this project, be here after school on Monday.” As I'm sliding out the door in the middle of the other kids, Collins holds up my notebook and calls out, “Detention on Monday or here, James. Your choice.”
Yeah, right.
Like I got any choice.
All the way home on the bus in the rain, I roll the word
tetrahedron
around in my mouth. I keep my face turned toward the steamed-up bus window, and I let my lips try the word over and over without using my voice.
Tetrahedron.
I wonder if this is one of those words that might get me into college someday. It sounds as if it could. Inside my mind, I keep a whole collection of college words for someday. Words like
epiphany, quiescent, metamorphosis…
My mom says it's okay to have dreams about going to college, but a person must face reality, too. Reality is that nobody we know has ever gone to college, and we don't have any money to go with, and you have to be very, very smart or very lucky to get in.
Sometimes I imagine college as a big wooden door where you have to knock and say the right password to get in. Only people who know big words like
metamorphosis
and
epiphany
are allowed inside. So, I think I try to save all the words I can because maybe deep down, I believe they will somehow get me inside college without money or luck.
But around here, if you talk and act like you have dreams, or as if you think you are better than everybody else, it only causes trouble. So, I keep most of my college words locked up in my head, and I try to make it through each day by saying as few words as possible. “She's quiet” is the way most people describe me, and I figure being quiet is just fine because it means you won't be bothered.
As the bus rattles down Washington Boulevard with everybody shouting and shoving past my seat because I'm one of the last to be dropped off, I draw a little tetrahedron in the window steam with my finger, and I try to decide if being in Mr. Collins’ contest will get me a step closer to my dream or not.
When I am asked why I started the tetrahedron project, I usually—but not always—give one of the following answers:
1. I don't know exactly why.
2. I had been reading an article about the California school and their math record.
3. I was frustrated with my teaching, my school, my students, myself.
4. I was approaching my limit—or in mathematical terms, convergence.
5. All of the above.
Sometimes I also admit that although starting the project was my idea, I never really expected any of my students to show up—and I didn't have a plan when they did.
Six people are already in the math room when I get there on Monday. This kinda surprises me a little. I take a look around the doorway first ‘cause if it's only me and Mr. Collins, I don't plan on sticking around. But then I see Ashlee and Deandra from math class. They are hanging all over Terrell (how desperate can you be?) and passing a bag of chips back and forth.
Marcel is there, too, acting like his usual self. He's sitting on the edge of Mr. Collins’ metal desk, banging a rhythm on the side of it with his shoes. And James is in the corner near the windows not paying attention to anybody, with his head down on his desk and the hood of his gray sweatshirt pulled up.
Since I'm not crazy about Marcel (and definitely not James), I slide into the desk next to Rhondell and thunk my backpack on the floor.
“Hey, girl,” I say, trying to be friendly even though Rhondell is a real hard person to figure out. She's plain-looking, but not in an ugly way, and she's smart, but not in a lord-it-over-your-head way, and she's friendly, but not in a real friendly way.
“Hi, Sharice,” she says, glancing up quick from the book she's reading and then back again. To tell you the truth, it kinda surprises me that she actually knows my name, because Rhondell is one of those people who seem like they wouldn't be bothered with knowing people's names at all because they have too many other important things to think about.
I take a stick of gum out of my purse and unwrap it slowly. Mr. Collins’ math room isn't much to look at. First of all, it's on the third floor and the ceiling leaks, so there's always a couple of garbage cans in the middle of the room with the words DO NOT MOVE written on them in permanent marker. And the blank walls drive me crazy whenever I'm sitting in class. If it was up to me, I'd fix the ceiling and hang up something (anything!) and that would be a big improvement.
I can't decide if coming to the math room is going to be any better than hanging around the Washington Boulevard Public Library day after day with the librarians giving me their usual over-the-nose stares and asking me if I have some school stuff I should be working on.
You see, foster non-parent #5 (Jolynn) doesn't allow anybody at home when she isn't there, and since she isn't there most of the time, I'm not allowed to be there either. Which is why I mostly end up sitting in the blue plastic library chairs or in the mall food court, or riding around on the city bus (or wherever I can find a seat without too many weirdos or drunks around).
After I pop my gum into my mouth, Mr. Collins comes into the room. His face doesn't look real thrilled to see us. He goes straight to his desk and starts shuffling through his stack of papers and books like he always does before he starts teaching. This better not be a rerun of math class, I think to myself.
Finally, he looks up, clears his throat, and says, “So all of you are here to build a tetrahedron, right?”
“No,” a muffled voice calls out from the corner of the room. “Don't want to be here at all. Don't care about no stupid geometry.”
Mr. Collins doesn't answer James, but I notice his face gets a shade more red.
“Well, this is the first time I've tried something like this, so all of us are going to learn this as we go along,” Mr. Collins continues in a not very confident-sounding voice. “I'm going to put a chart up on the board and we'll get started.” Then he turns toward the chalkboard and takes about ten minutes to draw a big chart, using a yardstick to make every line perfectly straight and erasing any place where they cross over.
Mr. Collins is one of those white teachers who looks like he never gets out in the sun much. He's soft-looking in terms of muscles and kinda thin and his light brownish hair is always parted too far to one side in my opinion.
He writes the words “TETRAHEDRON TEAM” at the top of the chalkboard, and puts each of our names, first and last, on the chart. Of course, he spells my name with an E—Sherice, the same as he always does. I just shake my head and think Sh-A-rice. AAAAAAA. How come you can teach math and you can't remember a simple thing like that?
As Mr. Collins fills in his chart, I get the feeling that he doesn't have a clue about how to run after-school clubs. I've been in just about every club there is, because being in one means you don't need after-school daycare, and if you don't need after-school daycare, it means your foster non-parents can keep more of the money they get for you.
So, I've been in a spelling club, a cheerleading club, Brownies (foster non-parent #2 was Head Brownie), dramatics club, and even a hairstyle club. I'm almost an expert on clubs, you know.
When the teacher finishes our names, I put up my hand. “You gonna elect a Secretary and a President next?” I say. “Because I'm good at being Secretary.”
Mr. Collins rubs his nose and says, “Sure, all right, let's do that,” and he writes “Secretary” next to my name without even taking a vote. Marcel says he'll be President, and Terrell wants to be Vice President.
“And I want to be Vice President to the Vice President,” says Smart Mouth from the corner of the room. The teacher doesn't even argue with James. He just writes “V.P. II” next to James’ name.
I keep trying to help Mr. Collins, even though I don't know why.
“Maybe we should make a list of supplies for the project,” I suggest, “and I can write them down.” Since I don't know the first thing about building tetrahedrons, I get out a sheet of paper and wait for the teacher to tell us what we'll need.
“Glue,” he says.
I look up. “What kind—Elmer's glue? Rubber cement? Or glue sticks?”
“I don't know. We'll have to see,” Mr. Collins answers in an uncertain voice. I don't think he does crafts very much.
“What else?” I ask, writing a neat number two on my list. I'm a very neat person because most foster non-parents don't like messy kids. So I keep my clothes folded in the drawers and my bed always made. (Hey, at least it gives them one nice thing to say about me.)
“A pattern. Some type of tetrahedron pattern.”
“From where?” I ask.
Mr. Collins rubs his eyes. “I don't know. I'll have to find one.”
All right, number three.
“Scissors,” Mr. Collins says. “And heavy paper.”
I write “scissors” and “paper” carefully on my list. “What color paper?” I ask.
Deandra shouts out, “Red, red, red!” like it's the last color on earth. White's cheaper than colored paper, I try to say, because I know a lot about how to get along on not much. For instance, nobody would notice that my shirt is about two years old and a hand-me-down from one of my old foster non-sisters. I always iron my shirts with Jolynn's iron so they will look almost new.
“What do we care about money?” Deandra shoots back at me. “If we're gonna be famous, who cares?”
From the back of the room comes James’ voice again. “Rainbow-colored,” he says, just being a smart mouth. “Why don't we get rainbow-colored paper?”
“All in favor of using rainbow-colored paper,” I say. (Because it isn't that bad of an idea, you know—why not use all different colors if money doesn't matter?) And everybody votes in favor except James, who doesn't vote at all. He tugs his hood tighter over his head and mumbles that we are a bunch of losers. Marcel tries to tell him to chill, but he gets a punch in the arm for being dumb enough to say that to James Harris. Mr. Collins shuffles through his papers and pretends not to see any of it.
Even with James Harris in the club and Mr. Collins not knowing much about running one, I have a good feeling about it as we get up to leave. I figure that working on something (even math) has got to be better than sitting in the mall or the Washington Boulevard Library, day after day, waiting on Jolynn. You never know—maybe I would turn out to like the math club so much, foster non-parent #5 would have to come looking for
me.
Now wouldn't that be a real change?
Marcel the Magnificent, that's me. After our math club meeting, I head on over to the Barbecue. Slap a big slab of ribs on a plate. Take fifteen orders at the same time.
“How you want your ribs done, ma'am, heat or no heat? Hot sauce or mild?”
“We got Blast Off to Outer Space Hot, Melt the Roof of Your Mouth Hot, Tar in the Summertime Hot, Red Heels Hot, Mama Thornton Sings the Blues Hot, and Just Plain Ol’ Hot. Which you want? Yes, ma'am. Two Singing the Blues coming up. Napkins and forks on the right side. Fire hose on the left. We aim to please at Willy Q's Barbecue. You have a good day, too, ma'am.” I slam the order window shut.
Ahhh. Feet up. Butt down.
My daddy, who everybody calls Willy Q, looks over from the grill, where he is sweating and melting like tar in the summertime. He mops his face with a towel. “Who said you could take a break?”
“Homework,” I say, pointing. “I got English. History. And a whole lot of math. Going for a world record in math.”
My daddy thunks the grill lid down and wipes his hands on his old blue apron. “Willy Q's Barbecue is going for the world record, too,” he says. “Three hundred dollars in sales today. Willy Q's Barbecue is hot, hot, hot. You sell two more Singing the Blues, Marcel, and we are set for the night. We can go home and eat a pizza.”
He points at the school stuff beside my chair. “Why you got so much homework? Ain't you been doing your work in school? And why you so late getting here to work today? You in some kind of trouble?”