There was music in the background and interviews with teachers and students telling how smart and charming Shayla was. And that was nothing but the truth.
Her project was called “What Is Cellular Differentiation and What Are the Mechanisms Responsible for It?” I know, boring. But her and her dad had hired the same geniuses they’d hired last year and it was very sharp.
As I sat watching Shayla’s project and all the work she’d put into it I couldn’t help but feel proud and amazed that I’d actually tied with her. You know, the girl was beautiful and smart, kind of like a female version of me.
Lucas ended the presentation with a picture of my sweet Shayla smiling softly, kinda like she was thinking, “Oh, Luther! You are so funny!”
The whole auditorium applauded and gave Shayla much respect when the music ended and the stage lights came back on. Then the lights went back out and a giant picture of my head came up on the screen. Laughs and disrespect flowed through the crowd like blood pumping through your aorta.
Aw, no. This can’t be happening!
I know I look a lot better than how Lucas’s camera was showing me. That little clown had gone and digitally put a couple thousand more pimples on my face!
Mr. Cho narrated the piece. “Lead poisoning,” he started, “one of those problems from the early to mid-twentieth century that we thought was a part of our past, but a problem whose legacy continues to plague us.
“Normally a ninth grader isn’t what you think of when you mention the word ‘crusader,’ but that’s precisely what Flint, Michigan’s, Whittier Middle School student Luther T. Farrell has turned out to be.”
Like a bug’s eyes are drawn to a spider’s fangs I looked over at the Sarge. Her expression never changed, but her eyes slowly dropped from the screen and locked in on me. The cockiness that Mr. X had warned me about was all over my face, and that’s right where I wanted it to be.
Mr. Cho’s voice kept going. “Luther has combined the traditional science fair project with some top-rate investigative journalism and detective work to expose a horrible fact of life in twenty-first century Flint, Michigan; the continued, criminal plague of leaded paint in many of our inner-city homes and apartments …”
Branded moments.
One second I was looking the Sarge dead in her eye, kinda nodding my head up and down like I was saying all over again, “Oh yeah, how you like me now,” and the next second all the sounds and lights and even the oxygen in the auditorium went away with a giant swoosh!
I swear to God that that was the first time it hit me. Not in all the months I’d been working on my project, not in all the books I’d read, not in all the Web sites I’d visited, not with all the people I’d interviewed had I ever put one and one together and seen what I was doing.
That’s when it felt like another tile had jumped offa Taco Bell and smacked me right upside my head. That was the first time that my mind let me see what the basement of the house on Fourth Street was jammed with: about two hundred million gallons of stale leaded paint!
Darnell had told me that right after the government made leaded paint illegal a long time ago the Sarge had printed up some cards that said she was a paint disposal expert and had gone around to all the paint stores she could find and offered to get rid of their paint for a small fee.
And that’s what she’d been doing ever since, getting rid of the paint one gallon at a time on her houses and apartments.
Cho kept talking. “Through the clever use of archival footage, his project shows in heartbreaking detail the adverse effects of lead on the development of growing children.”
The Sarge’s expression was growing hotter and hotter.
Cho kept reading. “And here’s a surprise for young Mr. Farrell, the selection committee thought his project was so well done and so timely that they actually notified both the city manager’s and the mayor’s offices. It’s now my distinct pleasure to introduce the mayor, the honorable Richard Banks. Mayor Banks.”
The mayor came from backstage and pulled some notes out of his jacket pocket.
“Fellow citizens, it is with the greatest pride that I announce that my administration will aggressively work to look after the needs of the citizens of our wonderful city and will put an end to this problem.”
My science fair project was going to end up costing the Sarge a ton of cash or maybe even some time in jail!
The mayor turned around and looked at me. “Mr. Farrell, thank you for your great work. And while my administration has been working on this for quite a while we are grateful that a young citizen did care enough to reach some of the same conclusions that we will be releasing in a report very soon.
“Luther T. Farrell,” he said, “you have pushed this administration to do some very positive things and I have pushed the state legislature to promise that the allocation for inspection of lead painted housing in Flint will be tripled next year!”
People clapped.
The mayor said, “I’ve also instructed the prosecutor’s office to investigate what charges we can lay against the irresponsible, criminal landlords who have perpetrated this injustice on our youngest citizens.”
They might as well have tied me to a tree and said, “Ready, aim, fire!” Lucas had made the final shot of the film a clip of a little girl suffering from severe lead poisoning. She was trembling and making a sound like a Siamese cat that just got its tail cut off.
I didn’t even have to watch the screen, I could see the look of horror on the faces of everyone in the audience.
That genius Lucas Sorge had even put a reverb sound on the girl’s cry and it echoed through the auditorium, sounding like death itself, finally fading into a blood-bubbling silence.
The Sarge’s coffin smile never left her face but both of her eyebrows slowly arched at the same time! Wow! I’d never seen that before. All I could think of was that book Ms. Warren had made us read and the only line I could remember from it, “Ahh, and what fresh Hell is this?”
Even Darnell Dixon was paying attention now. His toothpick was pointed at me like a little arrow, and he was sucking on the piece of food jammed in his teeth so hard and fast that his mouth sounded like one of those Cartoon Network time bombs getting ready to blow. He was going “tickticktick-tickticktick!”
Darnell smiled and mouthed something in my direction. I can’t be sure. I think it was “You’re mine this time, fool.”
The newswoman from channel 12 gave me the thumbs-up sign and the reporter from the Journal was nodding and writing real quick in his notebook. I could see tomorrow’s headlines: “FORMERLY CONFIDENT, HANDSOME YOUNG GENIUS FINDS TRUE LOVE AND WINS THREE-PEAT THE DAY BEFORE HE DISAPPEARS—FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED. PSYCHO MOTHER QUESTIONED.”
Brown shook my hand and gave me an empty rectangular box. If that wasn’t symbolic of a coffin I don’t know what is.
The adults in the audience started clapping and actually stood up! Most of the students did too, my first and last standing ovation all rolled into one!
It was almost like they knew this was about to be the final scene in the life and times of Luther T. Farrell. I looked at everybody standing and cheering for my project and thought, even though I wasn’t really ready to die, “I bet not even the most expensive package at the House of Patrick Mortuary would’ve been a nicer send-off.”
The Journal and channel 12 both interviewed me. I couldn’t believe how cool I was acting, I was saying mature junk like “… children growing without the added problems of developmental difficulties caused by lead exposure …” and “… no, I don’t really have any plans to go into politics, I’m just trying to do my best to help point out problems in the community. I’m just one of the little people doing the best he can.”
I think one time I even put my hand on my chin, stroked where the six little cat hairs used to be, wrinkled my brow and was nodding my head up and down.
It was like having the camera on you turned you into a genius! I wonder if a lot of those politicians and b
usiness folks and newspeople you see on TV are just as messed up as me in real life and only sound smart when the camera is on them.
A little line of people started coming up onstage to shake the winners’ hands.
Ms. Warren was first, she actually gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek! I guess she was so blown away by my project that she just said forget the zero tolerance on touching students rule.
She squeezed my hand and said, “I am so proud of you. But I’ve known you were special from day one.”
Then Old Lady Scott said, “Well, Luther, you really did deserve to win this time.”
Like she had to rub in the fact that I’d beaten her girl last year.
Then Mr. Moliassi from eighth grade: “Luther, I am shocked at the quality and depth of your work.”
Like he wouldn’t’ve been any more amazed if he found out that chimpanzees had designed the space shuttle.
Then Coach Williams said, “You know, Farrell, after seeing you play basketball I just knew there had to be something that you were halfway good at.”
So what if I can’t dribble? Besides, who wants to be good at something that’s called dribbling?
Then Mr. and Mrs. Patrick smiled at me and shook my hand.
He said, “Luther, you’ve got to stop by for dinner someday. You and Shayla have been friends for years and we don’t see enough of you.”
I thought, “Don’t worry, Mr. Patrick, you’re gonna be seeing a whole lot more of me soon, just wait until Darnell Dixon is done.”
Then I heard that Road Runner time bomb getting ready to blow. I don’t know what it was that was stuck in Darnell’s back tooth but he was going at it so tough that it seemed like if he didn’t ease up he’d be the first person to perform a root canal on himself.
I hadn’t seen the sadistic dog smile so big and real since he’d broke that dude’s fingers.
He slapped me on the back. Hard!
“My man! You really outdid yourself this time! Pointing out the dangers of leaded paint! Hoo-hoo! You’re gonna have to give me a private demonstration of your project. You watch, once I get back from D.C., you and me are gonna have a real deep discussion about what you done.”
He walked past me laughing.
I looked at who was next in line and wished I hadn’t.
The Sarge didn’t even look in my eyes. Her brows were both still arched way up on her forehead like someone had braided her hair so tight that it had lifted her eyebrows three inches.
She pretended she was fiddling around with something on my collar, then leaned in and pretended she was kissing my cheek.
She whispered, and it couldn’t’ve come through any clearer if she’d’ve shouted: “Oh yeah, hotshot, so I’m gonna surmise that you’ve already given consideration to the consequences. I’m gonna postulate that you’ve already made other living arrangements.
“Consider this your four days’ notice, that’s how long I’m gonna be gone. You keep your eye on my clients until I’m back, then you know what to do. Have everything ready to roll. Don’t take anything that’s not yours, which pretty much limits you to some clothes, some CDs, that private journal and those magazines you’ve got hidden under your mattress. Need I say more?”
I hated myself for answering, “No, ma’am.”
She squeezed my cheeks, smiled that death’s door grin and said loud enough for folks to hear, “You little dickens you, who else but you could do something like this? I can’t wait to get back from Washington so we can do something extra special to celebrate! You spend the next four days thinking about what it is you deserve and I promise you I’ll be doing the same thing.”
People actually smiled at this death threat, everyone but Mr. Patrick. He was staring at the Sarge, giving her a look like he knew there was something very wrong going on here but he just couldn’t figure out what it was.
Finally Shayla’s drop-dead gorgeous mom pulled him away by his arm and hissed, “Harrison! What is wrong with you?”
Things got seriously blurred after that. What had I been thinking? I know how luck runs in the life and times of Luther T. Farrell, I should’ve known something as messed up as this would happen and I’d end up being homeless or living with Sparky and his crazy family. But even that was wishful thinking, I knew the Sarge was gonna sic Darnell Dixon on me and after that living in itself would be a great accomplishment.
The Sarge always said she could tolerate just about anything except someone messing with her pocketbook and I’d gone way past messing. My three-peat science fair project, Yes!, was gonna cost her big-time.
I don’t know exactly what a great philosopher would say about this, but it seemed even to me like I’d gone way out of my way to sabotage the Sarge, and I swear that that wasn’t what I’d meant to do.
I sleepwalked through the next half hour. I got patted on the back and hand-shooked a lot more times and still couldn’t stop wondering why I’d done something so stupid just to get that three-peat, Wahoo!, in a science fair?
But it was four days before payback time, and three gold medals, Hey, hey hey!, hanging on the wall might not be a real good price to pay for what was about to happen to me.
What am I talking about, “… three gold medals hanging on the wall …”? More like three gold medals rattling around in a cardboard box with my clothes, my CDs, my journal and my under-the-mattress magazine collection.
How did she know about those magazines? It’s a good thing I’ve had lots of practice being humiliated, that’s another shot that an inexperienced or nonphilosophical person would’ve fell apart after.
The crowd started thinning out and I saw Shayla and her parents heading toward the door. I guess now was the time to follow Chester X’s plan. I guess there wouldn’t be any other time to tell her that I loved and respected her even though I couldn’t keep myself from talking to her like a dog.
Before I could get to her the reporter from the Journal grabbed me again.
“Luther, I just need to check some details.”
When the Journal was done with me Shayla and her family had disappeared so I decided to head home and start packing.
I’d just gotten through the doors of the auditorium when the hair on my neck started tingling. I heard the sucksucksuck of Darnell’s jammed food.
He came up behind me and said, “Here you go, sport.”
He reached the weekly receipts briefcase toward me.
“Your moms says this here is time-sensitive and since we spent time at this lovely little ceremony we aren’t going to be able to get to the bank. You’ve gotta take care of this today, you know what goes where.”
I took the briefcase from Darnell.
He stuck his empty hand out in my direction.
“Hand ‘em over, sport.”
“What?”
“The keys to the ride. Your moms says you can call taxis for the Crew tomorrow morning. Welcome to the World of the Walking, my brother.”
“How’m I supposed to get home?” I was already twisting the bus’s keys off my ring.
“Well, sport, the way I see it you’ve got two options. Either call some of your new homies from the mayor’s office or wait here for a while and I’ll send your old friend Patton Turner over to get you.”
Darnell took the two keys I handed him, then snatched my key ring away from me before I could get it back in my pocket.
“Hey!” I said. “She told me I had four days before I had to get out.”
Darnell called himself imitating me but he whined way too much and my voice has never been that high, even before I had these major hormones surging through my veins. “‘Boo-hoo. She told me I had four days before I had to get out!’
“Relax, chump, I’m not taking the house keys from you, I’m just checking to make sure you don’t have any copies of your ride’s keys on here. I’m parking it at the home and I believe her orders were that you weren’t even to think about looking at it.”
What kind of an idiot would think you’d make
duplicate keys, then leave them on the same key ring as the originals?
I didn’t say a word. He threw my keys on the floor, then stuck his hand out again.
I said, “What? I don’t have any duplicate keys.” On the same ring, fool, but I know where the Sarge keeps them at the home.
He said, “The medal. She said since she supplied the paint that won that award it only seems right that the medal is hers too.”
“All they gave me was an empty box, I’m supposed to get the medal later.”
He snatched the box out of my hand, shook it twice, then threw it on the floor.
He stuck his hand out again.
I said, “I swear, Shayla got the only medal, mine’s coming later.” My voice really was sounding high-pitched and whiny.
He said, “Wallet.”
He didn’t think I was just going to hand over my wallet, did he? You can only push a man so far before something snaps in him.
I don’t know how it happened but the next thing I knew, there my hand was, putting my wallet in Darnell Dixon’s hand.
He pulled out all my credit cards and my fifty-dollar emergency money and tucked them in his front pocket.
He got ready to throw the wallet on the floor but said, “What’s this?” He ran his fingers over the zero on my wallet.
Oh no! No! Not Chauncey!
He laughed and ripped Chauncey’s package open and exposed him to the air.
I think the scientific word for what had happened to Chauncey is called vulcanization. He was powdery and stiff and you could tell there was no way he’d ever be unrolled. If this had been on the Cartoon Channel little moths would’ve been flying out.
Darnell shot Chauncey down the hall like he was a flour-coated rubber band.
He said, “Don’t worry, sport. Let me go out to your momma’s car for a second, she just bought three dozen of ‘em for our trip to Washington. Maybe I can let you borrow one.”