“Look at the face on you,” she says. “You sick or something?”
He pauses a moment. “It’s time I got a life, you know?” he says quietly. “I mean, what kind of life is this? Me killing myself, getting ridiculed, and for what? I’m not gonna make it anywhere special.”
He tells LaTisha that a few days ago he asked his mother for a pair of extra-baggy, khaki-colored pants, a style made popular by Snoop Doggy Dogg. “But my ma said no way, that it symbolizes things, bad things, bad people, and murder,” he says. “It’s just a pair of pants. I mean, I’ve gotta live.”
“You
are
livin’,” she says in feigned exasperation. “You just don’t see what I see. You
got
something special. Something you got from your ma. It’s a thing. I mean, I wish I had it. It’s this thing where you know what it’s going to take, and then you get it done. You push yourself and you get there. For whatever reason, I didn’t get it, that thing. Maybe, you know, my home life didn’t give it to me, with my folks splitting and me always fighting against my mom rather than hearing what she has to say. I don’t know ….”
LaTisha looks down the stairwell, distantly. Cedric doesn’t say anything, mindful that LaTisha is confessing things, opening herself up to try to help him.
“It’s really simple,” she says, looking up and right at him. “You’veworked too long, too hard, to give up now.” She puts a pudgy hand on his forearm. “You’re a special person, Cedric. It’s not like you’re so much smarter than everyone else, necessarily. It’s just that you know in your heart that you’re gonna make it—and that’s the key.”
He looks back at her for a long moment and, suddenly, they hug. He feels the warmth of her face against his chest but keeps his chin up so—good God—they don’t start kissing or something.
They separate, and Cedric, flushed, tries to nod her a smile to let her know he appreciates her being around for him. But he just feels quiet and kind of sad, like some fire has gone out of him. There’s nothing more to say. He lifts his bookbag, heavy with homework, and walks slowly down the steps, not bothering to look up at the message scribbled with thick black Magic Marker high on the plaster wall, a proclamation he’s walked by a thousand times—“HEAD LIVES!!!”
I t works! Phillip Atkins marvels as he turns up the volume on a tiny transistor radio. He bought it for a buck out on Martin Luther King. All it needed was a new battery.
He finds an oldies station he likes, puts the radio to his ear, and drops his jaw in astonishment: “Elvis, my man …. Oh yes, it’s a sign!”
The hallway is crowded between periods, and Phillip, always mindful of his audience, begins to twirl and sway to “Love Me Tender.” A passing girl, tall with braided and beaded hair, asks who he’s listening to. “Elvis—the King,” says Phil, all charm, looking her up and down. “You know, he met me for lunch just yesterday—and he ate like a damn hound dog.”
Teachers here, looking for ways to praise and motivate poor achievers, will pick any characteristic and try to inflate it into a career path. So the school is full of kids who are told they’ll be the next Carl Lewis or Bill Cosby or Michael Jackson. That Phillip is tagged as the next Richard Pryor and rarely as a student who could excel academically is testimony to how effectively he hides so many parts of himself.
He gets a laugh out of the girl, and he turns as she passes to watchher walk away. He has at least five minutes before he needs to be in his next class—which he may or may not go to—so he scans the crowd. What next?
At the far end of the hall, he spots his favorite foil opening his locker. Cedric!
Phillip dodges through the crowd currents, shoving the radio in the pocket of his low-riding jeans, and flies by in a twirling leap, snatching a small book off the locker’s top shelf above Cedric’s head.
Cedric spins and
He pauses a moment. “It’s time I got a life, you know?” he says quietly. “I mean, what kind of life is this? Me killing myself, getting ridiculed, and for what? I’m not gonna make it anywhere special.”
He tells LaTisha that a few days ago he asked his mother for a pair of extra-baggy, khaki-colored pants, a style made popular by Snoop Doggy Dogg. “But my ma said no way, that it symbolizes things, bad things, bad people, and murder,” he says. “It’s just a pair of pants. I mean, I’ve gotta live.”
“You
are
livin’,” she says in feigned exasperation. “You just don’t see what I see. You
got
something special. Something you got from your ma. It’s a thing. I mean, I wish I had it. It’s this thing where you know what it’s going to take, and then you get it done. You push yourself and you get there. For whatever reason, I didn’t get it, that thing. Maybe, you know, my home life didn’t give it to me, with my folks splitting and me always fighting against my mom rather than hearing what she has to say. I don’t know ….”
LaTisha looks down the stairwell, distantly. Cedric doesn’t say anything, mindful that LaTisha is confessing things, opening herself up to try to help him.
“It’s really simple,” she says, looking up and right at him. “You’veworked too long, too hard, to give up now.” She puts a pudgy hand on his forearm. “You’re a special person, Cedric. It’s not like you’re so much smarter than everyone else, necessarily. It’s just that you know in your heart that you’re gonna make it—and that’s the key.”
He looks back at her for a long moment and, suddenly, they hug. He feels the warmth of her face against his chest but keeps his chin up so—good God—they don’t start kissing or something.
They separate, and Cedric, flushed, tries to nod her a smile to let her know he appreciates her being around for him. But he just feels quiet and kind of sad, like some fire has gone out of him. There’s nothing more to say. He lifts his bookbag, heavy with homework, and walks slowly down the steps, not bothering to look up at the message scribbled with thick black Magic Marker high on the plaster wall, a proclamation he’s walked by a thousand times—“HEAD LIVES!!!”
I t works! Phillip Atkins marvels as he turns up the volume on a tiny transistor radio. He bought it for a buck out on Martin Luther King. All it needed was a new battery.
He finds an oldies station he likes, puts the radio to his ear, and drops his jaw in astonishment: “Elvis, my man …. Oh yes, it’s a sign!”
The hallway is crowded between periods, and Phillip, always mindful of his audience, begins to twirl and sway to “Love Me Tender.” A passing girl, tall with braided and beaded hair, asks who he’s listening to. “Elvis—the King,” says Phil, all charm, looking her up and down. “You know, he met me for lunch just yesterday—and he ate like a damn hound dog.”
Teachers here, looking for ways to praise and motivate poor achievers, will pick any characteristic and try to inflate it into a career path. So the school is full of kids who are told they’ll be the next Carl Lewis or Bill Cosby or Michael Jackson. That Phillip is tagged as the next Richard Pryor and rarely as a student who could excel academically is testimony to how effectively he hides so many parts of himself.
He gets a laugh out of the girl, and he turns as she passes to watchher walk away. He has at least five minutes before he needs to be in his next class—which he may or may not go to—so he scans the crowd. What next?
At the far end of the hall, he spots his favorite foil opening his locker. Cedric!
Phillip dodges through the crowd currents, shoving the radio in the pocket of his low-riding jeans, and flies by in a twirling leap, snatching a small book off the locker’s top shelf above Cedric’s head.
Cedric spins and
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