Free Eighth-Grade Superzero by Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich

George. “Uh, thank you for doing this,” I start, remembering what Dave told us to say. I wish I had a tips sheet now. “Where were you born?” I ask.
    “In a hospital,” he replies.
    “Okay, thanks.” I pretend to write that down. “So … how old are you?”
    “Old enough to know you aren’t supposed to ask grown folks their age,” he says, raising his voice a little.
    Oh-kay.
“Excuse me for a second.” I get up and go over to Wilma.
    “I don’t think this is working,” I say to her. She’s watching the little kids play with blocks. Charlie’s on the edge of the group; he keeps looking at the door.
    “Then make it work,” she says, not looking at me.
    I point to Charlie. “I know that kid,” I say.
    “Good for you.”
    “Um, is his mom around?” I ask, still not sure of what I’ll do if she is.
    “She’s at work,” says Wilma, finally looking at me. “And don’t you have some to do, number seven?”
    Obviously she’s one of those doesn’t-miss-a-trick types. She walks away to check on a delivery from a van full of books and toys, and Charlie is so excited as he watches them unload, I wish I could put that look on his face every day.
    I walk back to George and clear my throat. “Uh, sorry … okay … So, I’m Reggie….”
    “I know.” His lids shut completely. He doesn’t look angry anymore, just bored.
    “Yeah, so.” I take a deep breath and sit up straight. That helps a little. “So let’s get started. First, I’d like to thank you for participating in this project. It’s a privilege—”
    “You don’t have to go into the whole routine, Regina. Just do the job you came here to do.” He points to the recorder. “You want me to use that?”
    “Yeah,” I say. I clear my throat again. “And my name is Re gg ie “
    He opens his eyes all the way. “And I’m George. So are we straight?” He smiles a little, and I nod. “Let’s do this, then.” We look at each other for a minute. He shifts in his chair. “Isn’t this supposed to be an interview? Do you have more questions prepared? Some notes, maybe?”
    “Oh, yeah. Okay, um …” I look at my list, thinking of how Dave told us to let the conversation flow naturally, not to just read from a list of questions. “Don’t interrogate,” he’d said. I read the next question word for word: “Where are you originally from?”
And how did you get here?
I think.
    And when I look at him I can tell he knows what I’m thinking, and he’s not mad. Not that much, anyway. He sits back in his chair, and so do I.
6:30 P.M.
    When I get home from the session at Olive Branch, no one’s around. Normally that means I can guzzle some chocolate milk straight from the carton and watch some music videos that my mom would call “less than empowering.” Instead I grab an apple and some chips, then head straight to my room and sit on my bed with my voice recorder. I remember everything George said, and nothing. What he told me sounded like a story I read by mistake. I need to listen to that growly voice again, right away, because it was real and I don’t want to let him down.
    There’s some scratching, and me saying, “Testing … test,” like a jerk, and then: “I had it pretty good,” says George in his rough voice that got less scary as he went on. “I was a quiet Carolina kid. Grew up in Raleigh with lots of fresh air and high hopes. My parents took us on vacations every summer. I was one of those honor roll guys too. Woulda topped your class, smart boy. Always standing up in front of the church to get some certificate or medal. My sister was a baller, got a scholarship to Chapel Hill. I had two years of college myself right here in Brooklyn.” Then he squeezes out a laugh, and I know it was in response to the surprised look that I couldn’t keep off of my face. “Yeah, college. I was going to be an engineer. I used to walk over the Brooklyn Bridge, man, and read all that stuff about how they built it. I had lots of