standing back a few feet, so Ms. Gibson doesn’t see him as he makes hand signals and mouths words to the girl. Cedric tries to make out what he’s saying—seems to be something about her going out with him after school. Or God knows what. All Cedric knows is that she’s very cute. And so is this other girl sitting in that group who’s leaning forward across her desk, whispering something to Phillip. She’s so close to him, her lips right against his ear, then she pulls back and they both laugh under their breath. She seems to like him. A lot of girls like Phillip.
Ms. Gibson spots Head and shoos him away, chasing him into the hallway. She returns to the class, checking gingerly on the groups, which should be almost finished with the assigned pages from theworkbook. Phillip, losing track of where she’s standing, flips to the answers in the back of the workbook. Ms. Gibson, who gives daily grades for in-class performance, is incensed. She gives his group an F.
Phillip is undaunted. “Help me, I’m taking the fall,” he yelps, clutching his chest and slipping from his chair. The class howls, and Ms. Gibson can’t resist a smile.
And then something dawns on her. She excitedly tells the class the name of a Ballou junior, one of those rare middle-class kids from Bolling Air Force base, who took the SAT in January and got a 1050—an unspectacular score out of a possible 1600 but noteworthy around here.
“Cedric’ll do better than that,” says Phillip, now back in his seat, in a tone that actually sounds a little awed. “He’s such a brain. If he don’t do even better than that, people’ll be shocked.”
In the back of the room, Cedric flips shut his workbook and again looks out the window, this time to avoid Phillip’s gaze.
The bell rings and Cedric leaves the class feeling tired. He lopes into the math class of Mr. Dorosti, an Iranian immigrant like Mr. Momen, who teaches Cedric computer science in an independent study program.
“Looks like you just lost your best friend,” says Mr. Dorosti, a youthful, effusive man, folding his arms across his linebacker-wide chest. “Want to talk about it?”
“Be nice if I had a best friend,” says Cedric, who slumps before a computer at the room’s rear and starts working the keyboard, showing the teacher he’d rather just stew.
The last thing Phillip said really hit home, but Cedric, curiously, doesn’t feel his usual swell of anger. He knows that Phillip is smart. You can tell, if you really get to know him. He’s made his choices, Cedric mulls, as he thinks a little about Phillip’s life—the girls, the friends he has from lots of different cliques at school, always making people laugh and have a good time.
When the school day finally ends, Cedric decides he’s not going to work on the acid rain project for the citywide competition today. He just doesn’t feel like it. He decides this in the stairwell and considers whether he should go tell Mr. Taylor. He’s sure the teacher is expecting him, but if he goes, Mr. Taylor will have him in there an hour, askingall sorts of questions about whether he’s feeling confident and if his faith is intact. He’ll be quoting Scripture; he probably has some passages already earmarked.
No way, Cedric decides. He sits down on a step, figuring he’ll wait for fifteen minutes until most of the kids are gone and the bus stop isn’t so crowded. He puts his calculus book on his lap, making like he’s reading it so he doesn’t have to look at the other kids as they pass on the graffiti-filled stairwell.
Ten minutes later, one of those kids happens to be LaTisha, on her way upstairs to visit a teacher. “Hey, what’re you doing here, Cedric?”
“Nothin’, ummm, just nothin’,” Cedric says, jumping up. The book thuds down two steps.
The stairwell is quiet. Most of the kids have already fled in the rush following the final bell. She leans on the railing next to him, as always picking up on his mood.
Ms. Gibson spots Head and shoos him away, chasing him into the hallway. She returns to the class, checking gingerly on the groups, which should be almost finished with the assigned pages from theworkbook. Phillip, losing track of where she’s standing, flips to the answers in the back of the workbook. Ms. Gibson, who gives daily grades for in-class performance, is incensed. She gives his group an F.
Phillip is undaunted. “Help me, I’m taking the fall,” he yelps, clutching his chest and slipping from his chair. The class howls, and Ms. Gibson can’t resist a smile.
And then something dawns on her. She excitedly tells the class the name of a Ballou junior, one of those rare middle-class kids from Bolling Air Force base, who took the SAT in January and got a 1050—an unspectacular score out of a possible 1600 but noteworthy around here.
“Cedric’ll do better than that,” says Phillip, now back in his seat, in a tone that actually sounds a little awed. “He’s such a brain. If he don’t do even better than that, people’ll be shocked.”
In the back of the room, Cedric flips shut his workbook and again looks out the window, this time to avoid Phillip’s gaze.
The bell rings and Cedric leaves the class feeling tired. He lopes into the math class of Mr. Dorosti, an Iranian immigrant like Mr. Momen, who teaches Cedric computer science in an independent study program.
“Looks like you just lost your best friend,” says Mr. Dorosti, a youthful, effusive man, folding his arms across his linebacker-wide chest. “Want to talk about it?”
“Be nice if I had a best friend,” says Cedric, who slumps before a computer at the room’s rear and starts working the keyboard, showing the teacher he’d rather just stew.
The last thing Phillip said really hit home, but Cedric, curiously, doesn’t feel his usual swell of anger. He knows that Phillip is smart. You can tell, if you really get to know him. He’s made his choices, Cedric mulls, as he thinks a little about Phillip’s life—the girls, the friends he has from lots of different cliques at school, always making people laugh and have a good time.
When the school day finally ends, Cedric decides he’s not going to work on the acid rain project for the citywide competition today. He just doesn’t feel like it. He decides this in the stairwell and considers whether he should go tell Mr. Taylor. He’s sure the teacher is expecting him, but if he goes, Mr. Taylor will have him in there an hour, askingall sorts of questions about whether he’s feeling confident and if his faith is intact. He’ll be quoting Scripture; he probably has some passages already earmarked.
No way, Cedric decides. He sits down on a step, figuring he’ll wait for fifteen minutes until most of the kids are gone and the bus stop isn’t so crowded. He puts his calculus book on his lap, making like he’s reading it so he doesn’t have to look at the other kids as they pass on the graffiti-filled stairwell.
Ten minutes later, one of those kids happens to be LaTisha, on her way upstairs to visit a teacher. “Hey, what’re you doing here, Cedric?”
“Nothin’, ummm, just nothin’,” Cedric says, jumping up. The book thuds down two steps.
The stairwell is quiet. Most of the kids have already fled in the rush following the final bell. She leans on the railing next to him, as always picking up on his mood.
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