The East Side Kid
Jermaine tapped his pencil eraser on his desk on the side of the classroom. He watched the clock, which seemed to slow down the longer he stared. The teacher stood at the front of the room, where she gave last-minute reminders about the weekend’s homework project.
Jermaine looked sideways to Olubowale, who pressed his face against the desktop, covering it with his thin dreadlocks. Jermaine rubbed his own shaved head to keep himself awake. The late spring heat filled the room, making Jermaine feel drowsy. Since the old school building had no air conditioning, the windows were open, which hardly alleviated the stagnant humidity. Jermaine thought about those high rise buildings he could see across the river. The ones that probably overlooked the whole city. The ones with air conditioning. What a life, he thought.
“So,” the teacher said, “first thing Monday morning, y’all need to turn your projects into the homework basket.”
She scanned the room to ensure that each student heard her message. When her eyes moved to Jermaine and Olubowale, she smiled.
“You got that, Jermaine?” the teacher asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, jolting to attention.
The teacher continued to scan the room.
“Now, I know that school is almost out,” the teacher said. “But I want y’all to finish fifth grade strong. You’re about to move into middle school, where things only get more difficult. You hear me?”
“Yes, Mrs. Morrison,” the class said in unison.
“Alright, now,” she said. “The bell is going to ring any minute. Pack up your things, and have a wonderful weekend.”
Jermaine stood up and grabbed his backpack from under his chair. He tugged on one of Olubowale’s dreadlocks to wake him up.
“Hey, man,” Olubowale said. “Watch the hair.”
Jermaine zipped his backpack hurriedly, while his friend packed his own with care and precision.
“Let’s go, O,” Jermaine said. “I wanna dip out as soon as the bell rings.”
“Why you in such a hurry?” Olubowale said.
“I just wanna get my weekend started, man,” Jermaine said.
The boys threw their backpacks over their shoulders and stood by the door. When the bell rang, they sprinted into the hallway and out the back door of the school. Once they reached the blacktop, they slowed their pace.
“Hey, bro,” Olubowale said. “There’s your girl.”
Jermaine looked across the blacktop and saw Isabella standing with her friends underneath a chain-net basketball hoop. Her dark hair seemed to shine in the afternoon sunlight. Her purple backpack hung loosely off one shoulder. She spoke excitedly with her group of friends.
“Man, Isabella is not my girl,” Jermaine said.
“Yeah, but you like her though,” Olubowale said.
“So what?” Jermaine said.
“So, go talk to her,” Olubowale said.
Jermaine dribbled his basketball skillfully, pretending to deflect his friend’s good-natured challenge.
“She doesn’t even know me,” Jermaine said. “She has a different home room.”
“Then why is she looking over at you right now?” Olubowale said.
Jermaine felt his nerves fire.
“Alright, bro. I’ll go talk to her,” Jermaine said. “Just don’t pressure me about it.”
“I won’t,” Olubowale said. “I’ll just wait right her and mess around on my skateboard.”
“Cool,” Jermaine said. “Then we can walk home.”
Jermaine picked up his basketball and strolled across the blacktop. He walked with a fabricated composure that he hoped would bring him real confidence. As he stepped within earshot of the girls, he heard Isabella speaking to them in rapid Spanish. He tried to listen in, but he didn’t understand what they were saying.
Here goes nothin’, Jermaine thought.
He stepped a bit closer and tried to act smooth. He pretended to walk by the group without noticing them, but at the last second, he turned toward Isabella and raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment.
“Hola, chicas,” Jermaine said.
The girls giggled at Jermaine’s bilingual attempt.
“Oh, hey Jermaine,” Isabella said. “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”
Jermaine smiled. He felt his face grow warm.
“I don’t, really,” Jermaine said, shying away.
“Well, it was a good start,” she said.
Jermaine looked nervously at the group of girls. He could feel their judgemental stares.
“What are you doing after school today?” Isabella asked.
“Uh, nothin’ really,” Jermaine said. “Just walkin’ home with O.”
“Cool,” she said. “I’m walking to my grandma’s house. We’re making dinner for my little brother’s birthday.”
“That’s nice of you,” Jermaine said. “Well, maybe I’ll see you around the way this weekend.”
Jermaine waved to the group of girls, and then directly to Isabella. As he turned to walk away, he heard the group of girls giggle. He looked back at them and made brief eye contact with Isabella. He averted his eyes and felt his face flush. He tried to walk slowly and calmly, but he wanted to sprint away from the girls as fast as he could.
“How’d it go?” Olubowale said.
“Fine, I think,” Jermaine said.
“I saw them looking at you and laughing as you walked away,” Olubowale said.
“Damn,” Jermaine said. “They made fun of me?”
Olubowale slapped his forehead dramatically. His dreadlocks shook as he emphasized his point.
“No, dummy,” Olubowale said. “That means she likes you.”
“How do you know?” Jermaine asked.
“My older sister told me so,” Olubowale said. “She’s in the eighth grade. She knows.”
He dropped his skateboard and rolled away slowly, waiting for Jermaine to catch up. They moved along the school’s blacktop until they reached the opening through the chain link fence. Olubowale picked up his skateboard and walked down the short set of stairs.
The boys turned left and walked along Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. The old asphalt smelled hot as the afternoon sun cooked the street. Even the usually green grass was turning brown in the heat.
Jermaine loved his walk home from school. The street was always vibrant with life and people. He smelled the barbecue smoke that floated through the air from the restaurant across the street. He heard the heavy bass from a car stopped at the red light. He saw brightly colored graffiti that graced the otherwise dull brick exterior of the auto shop. He knew the Jamaican dance club would get loud tonight; it always did after dark. He heard laughter from his barbershop as they passed; its door was open to provide some relief from the heat.
One of his mom’s friends passed on the sidewalk, so Jermaine waved. Her husband gave Jermaine a supportive pat and smiled as he passed. As the boys stopped at the corner, an old green car with loud music stopped at the red light. The guy in the passenger seat nodded at Jermaine. He nodded his head in return. The light changed, and the car slowly rolled away. Jermaine and Olubowale strolled through the crosswalk. Their confidence built through the recognition and guidance they received from the older boys in the neighborhood.
“I wonder what kids on the Westside of town do when they walk home,” Jermaine said.
“What do you mean?” Olubowale asked.
“You know, we just have such a cool walk home from school,” Jermaine said. “We live in a fun neighborhood where we know everybody. We know who to talk to, who to stay away from, and where to go. I just wonder if those rich kids on the Westside have that same feeling when they walk home from school.”
“I doubt it,” Olubowale said. “You know those rich white boys don’t walk home from school. They have drivers.”
“Like a taxi?”
“No, like a butler or someone who comes to pick ’em up,” Olubowale said.
Jermaine frowned.
“Like those kids on T.V., I guess,” Jermaine said.
“Exactly,” Olubowale said. “Like those kids on T.V.”
Olubowale turned left to go to his house. Jermaine watched as he skated away. They planned to meet up later. After dinner, probably. Jermaine walked one more block and turned right. He walked across his front lawn. The dry grass crunched beneath his shoes. He jumped up the brick step and unlocked the front door to his one-level house, tossing his backpack to the side. It landed by the window; the hardwood thudded beneath the weight of the textbooks. Jermaine peeked into the kitchen.
“Mom!” He shouted. “You home?”
No one answered his call. His mom was working late tonight at the hospital; people needed nurses more frequently on Friday nights. His dad was volunteering at the community center, something he did a few nights each week as a way to give back to the neighborhood. His brother had practice after school. Jermaine would have to make dinner himself.
As he walked into the kitchen, he passed a photograph that hung from the wall; it showed Jermaine, his older brother, his mother, and his father. Though he wished they were home to greet him after school, he knew they were spreading positivity in the community.
And it meant that he had the television to himself.
Jermaine smiled and walked into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed the jelly. Pulling the peanut butter and bread from the cupboard, he made himself two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He put the sandwiches on a plate, grabbed a soda from the refrigerator, and dashed into the front room. He turned on the television and sprawled out on the couch.
“Just in time for after-school cartoons,” he said.