her head. “How do you know that the girl doesn't have mental things wrong with her?” she says, looking at me. “That girl's been in foster care and social services most of her life; think about all the burdens she could be carrying. You ready to deal with all those things?”
“Maybe,” I answer, standing up and sticking the box of doughnuts under my arm. “Maybe I am.”
MR. COLLINS
A math problem to solve:
If four students and their math teacher begin the tetrahedron project again in February and they work five days a week, making and adding 150 pieces a day to their structure, how many weeks will it take to rebuild the tetrahedron with 16,384 pieces? Extra credit: What if four hairstylists, one Vietnam vet, and a custodian named Mr. Joe also take part?
MARCEL
“Nothing hard about making those little pyramids,” Willy Q says, once I show him how you fold the three triangles up to a point, glue the sides together, and hold the sides for about a minute until they stick, and you're done.
Willy Q insists he could do a hundred fifty pieces by himself. One hand tied behind his back. Blindfolded.
When business is slow, me and Willy Q sometimes have races at making the pieces. We don't bet money. We bet who has to clean the public bathroom that's outside the Barbecue, or who has to scrub the greasy cooking pans, or who is gonna mop the kitchen floor.
I win, you clean the bathroom. You win, I clean. That's the way we bet.
Or—you win, I wash all the greasy pans. I win, you gotta mop the kitchen floor. On your hands and knees. Twice.
We race making ten at a time. Or twenty. Tetrahedrons go flying across the counter and floor. Willy Q is fast. His fingers don't look fast, but they can move. Sometimes we gotta crawl across the floor and gather up the ones that have flown all over the place.
I win more often than Willy Q. But not much.
Most of the time we have to glue our pieces all over again, or take them apart and refold the sides. “Fast don't always mean good,” Willy Q says. “That's a lesson to keep in mind for life—and for working here, too,” he adds, giving me a look.
A few days into March we get a warm spell. One of those Pretending-It's-Spring-But-Then-Hit-You-With-a-Blizzard warm spells. Business starts picking up again because people think it's spring even though it isn't. We gotta make tetrahedrons in between ribs and barbecue sandwiches and Singing the Blues wings.
Some people see the bowl of shapes on the counter and ask, What's that? Some kinda new barbecue sauce packet?
Then Willy Q tells them how they are called tetrahedrons and how my math class is trying to get in the
Guinness Book of World Records.
For real? they answer, wide-eyed.
Me and Willy Q start handing out pieces for other people to make. Help Washington Middle School get in the records book, Willy Q tells them.
You can always figure out the ones that come from the barbecue. Hold them up to your nose and you can smell the charcoal and wood smoke and barbecue sauce. Better watch your fingers with these, I tell the math club when I bring them in. They're hot, hot, hot.
All the pieces have little Q's written on them, too. “Why you always drawing a little Q on every tetrahedron we make?” I ask Willy Q one afternoon.
He squints at me. “How long you been my son?”
“Thirteen years.”
“And all that time, you haven't noticed my name is Willy—Q?”
I grin and pour one of the little sugar packs into my hand. “Stands for Quincy, right?”
Willy Q smacks my arm. “Don't you go telling nobody my real name, unless you want to be scrubbing the public toilet with a toothbrush till you're twenty-one—and stop messing with the sugar packs.”
“But why put a Q on the tetrahedrons?” I ask.
“Advertising.” Willy Q grins. “For the Barbecue. Willy Q. Williams don't do nothing for free.”
JAMES HARRIS III
Way back in elementary school, when my brother DJ was in third or fourth grade, he won a basketball
“Maybe,” I answer, standing up and sticking the box of doughnuts under my arm. “Maybe I am.”
MR. COLLINS
A math problem to solve:
If four students and their math teacher begin the tetrahedron project again in February and they work five days a week, making and adding 150 pieces a day to their structure, how many weeks will it take to rebuild the tetrahedron with 16,384 pieces? Extra credit: What if four hairstylists, one Vietnam vet, and a custodian named Mr. Joe also take part?
MARCEL
“Nothing hard about making those little pyramids,” Willy Q says, once I show him how you fold the three triangles up to a point, glue the sides together, and hold the sides for about a minute until they stick, and you're done.
Willy Q insists he could do a hundred fifty pieces by himself. One hand tied behind his back. Blindfolded.
When business is slow, me and Willy Q sometimes have races at making the pieces. We don't bet money. We bet who has to clean the public bathroom that's outside the Barbecue, or who has to scrub the greasy cooking pans, or who is gonna mop the kitchen floor.
I win, you clean the bathroom. You win, I clean. That's the way we bet.
Or—you win, I wash all the greasy pans. I win, you gotta mop the kitchen floor. On your hands and knees. Twice.
We race making ten at a time. Or twenty. Tetrahedrons go flying across the counter and floor. Willy Q is fast. His fingers don't look fast, but they can move. Sometimes we gotta crawl across the floor and gather up the ones that have flown all over the place.
I win more often than Willy Q. But not much.
Most of the time we have to glue our pieces all over again, or take them apart and refold the sides. “Fast don't always mean good,” Willy Q says. “That's a lesson to keep in mind for life—and for working here, too,” he adds, giving me a look.
A few days into March we get a warm spell. One of those Pretending-It's-Spring-But-Then-Hit-You-With-a-Blizzard warm spells. Business starts picking up again because people think it's spring even though it isn't. We gotta make tetrahedrons in between ribs and barbecue sandwiches and Singing the Blues wings.
Some people see the bowl of shapes on the counter and ask, What's that? Some kinda new barbecue sauce packet?
Then Willy Q tells them how they are called tetrahedrons and how my math class is trying to get in the
Guinness Book of World Records.
For real? they answer, wide-eyed.
Me and Willy Q start handing out pieces for other people to make. Help Washington Middle School get in the records book, Willy Q tells them.
You can always figure out the ones that come from the barbecue. Hold them up to your nose and you can smell the charcoal and wood smoke and barbecue sauce. Better watch your fingers with these, I tell the math club when I bring them in. They're hot, hot, hot.
All the pieces have little Q's written on them, too. “Why you always drawing a little Q on every tetrahedron we make?” I ask Willy Q one afternoon.
He squints at me. “How long you been my son?”
“Thirteen years.”
“And all that time, you haven't noticed my name is Willy—Q?”
I grin and pour one of the little sugar packs into my hand. “Stands for Quincy, right?”
Willy Q smacks my arm. “Don't you go telling nobody my real name, unless you want to be scrubbing the public toilet with a toothbrush till you're twenty-one—and stop messing with the sugar packs.”
“But why put a Q on the tetrahedrons?” I ask.
“Advertising.” Willy Q grins. “For the Barbecue. Willy Q. Williams don't do nothing for free.”
JAMES HARRIS III
Way back in elementary school, when my brother DJ was in third or fourth grade, he won a basketball
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