Free Eighth-Grade Superzero by Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich Page A

ideas, and I was talented too. Damn, I’m
still
talented. I had dreams, you know, like I’m sure you do…. I was dreaming big. Living big too.”
    I can’t picture the man I just met getting medals in church or going to college. I can’t even picture him having a family. I don’t get it; he sounds like he used to be me. I sit there and forget to eat and listen to George talk about pressure, and dreaming, and being scared, and being a Black man. I don’t even open my notebook to transcribe everything like I’m supposed to. His voice gets oily and soft when he talks about drinking, and drugs I never heard of; it’s like he misses it at the same time he’s telling me how bad it all is. I listen to myself saying “yeah” and “uh-huh” and “um” in a squeaky voice like I’m four years old, and right now I
do
wish I were four years old and playing with my train set and thinking Super Grover might actually come to my house. I even wish I only knew about people likeGeorge, not that I actually knew them. Then I wish I didn’t wish that.
    There’s a knock on my door. I don’t answer, so of course Pops just walks in.
    “You okay, son?” he asks. He’s wearing his good suit, and I notice that it doesn’t look so good anymore. “I left you some dinner on the stove, but it looks like you didn’t touch it.”
    “How poor are we, Pops?” I ask, stuffing the tape recorder under my pillow.
    “Yes, sir, I’m fine, and it’s good to see you too,” says Pops.
    “Sorry,” I say. “So … are we going to stay in our house? What will we do if … if we run out of money?”
And if you don’t get a new job?
    He laughs, which I guess is a good sign. “We’ll be fine, by God’s grace,” he says. “You don’t need to worry about those things. Your job is—”
    “I know, I know, keep up my grades and stay out of trouble. But … sometimes things happen, right?”
    Pops stops smiling. “Is there something you need to tell me?”
    “No, Pops,” I say. “But I need you to tell me some things … please.”
    After a while, he answers. “Your mother and I have been prudent, we have savings. And her income is keeping us afloat. I know that … it’s been difficult, with my layoff and everything. But it’s temporary. Nothing for you to worry about.” He looks like he’s wishing he’d never walked in. “Er, but if you still want to drop your piano lessons …”
    “I do,” I say quickly. “That would be great.” I’ve never liked piano anyway. He pats my shoulder and half-smiles. “Dave has usdoing some work at a shelter,” I start. “With homeless people. They all just looked like … like they used to be regular people, Pops. Some of them probably had savings too, right? And jobs. And lives. And now …”
    I hear George’s angry voice.
I thought that I was going places, man. And I was going to take people with me. I had a girl, real cute. Was going to start up a company with my little brother. I haven’t talked to him in ten years.
    “I thought it was going to be different, somehow. Not so … scary. I mean, there were all these people, and kids, and whole families … and I talked to this man, and he was kind of harsh, and …” I stop. I can’t say
and I’m scared that that’s who you’ll become.
    “And?” says Pops.
    “I want … I feel guilty or something. There was even a kid there that I … know. It’s like I’m about to mess up, and I don’t want to. I just want to know what I should do.” My throat hurts. This is more than I’ve talked to Pops since forever. “What should I do?”
    “I don’t know, son,” he says. And he hugs me. Longer than he’s hugged me in a long, long time.

OCTOBER 21
7:42 A.M.
    I walk to school thinking of those people at the shelter looking like they’ve got no reason to keep going … but they were still moving forward. By the end of our interview, George was talking about going back to school to get a master’s degree. In our meeting at