CHAPTER ONE
Sidney Gets Checked!
D a Vinci Academy for the Gifted and Talented is one of those schools that’s always getting experimented on. This year’s major experiment was what Mrs. Maxwell, our principal (and a good lady), called the Independent Learning Project. Any kid who wanted to get extra AP credit could pick a subject, learn it on his or her own, and get the credit. The catch was that you had to convince a teacher that you really had something going on to begin the project and, after you learned whatever it was you had volunteered for, that you knew the subject well enough to deserve the extra credit. It sounded like too much work to me.
“But you will think about it, won’t you, Alexander?” Mrs. Maxwell asked me.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I was going to think about it, but if I could get out of it I knew I would. Anyway, a lot of kids were all gaga over the program (that’s why they’re at Da Vinci), and there were kids walking around school all day talking about how they were going to learn everything from Plant Biology to String Theory. It actually tired me out just hearing them.
We had basketball practice after school, and when I got home Mom was on the floor, stretching. I hoped it didn’t mean she hadn’t made anything for supper.
“You got a phone call,” she said, reaching over to touch the heels of her hands to her toes.
“What are we having for supper?”
“I thought we could order out for Chinese food,” Mom said. “Something to go along with my new job. There’s a salad in the fridge if you need something right now.”
“You’re going to work in a Chinese restaurant?”
“Marc got me a television spot,” Mom said. “They’re hiring me on the strength of my demo. I don’t even have to audition.”
“What are you going to be doing?” I had to ask because I liked Mom working on television but I didn’t want her doing underwear commercials or anything else that was sexy.
“Toothpaste,” she said. “I’m going to hold up a tube of toothpaste and say why I like it. The residuals aren’t that cool from Japan, but the up-front money is good. Twelve thousand bucks!”
“What’s Japan got to do with it?”
“That’s where the spot is going to run,” she said.
“If it’s going to run in Japan why are we ordering out Chinese food?”
“Because they don’t have any Japanese restaurants in Harlem,” Mom answered.
“That makes sense,” I said. I opened the fridge and found what was left of the salad. It was mostly lettuce and tomatoes with some cheese and raisins. I passed on the salad and grabbed a can of soda. “Who called?”
“Mr. Culpepper,” Mom said. “Said he wanted to talk to you about something.”
Mr. Culpepper, the assistant principal of Da Vinci, didn’t wear robes or anything, but I thought he could have been one of those guys in the Middle Ages who supervised torturing people. I could picture him sitting on a high stool as my ankles were being chained to the rack. I knew I hadn’t done anything particularly wrong, but that didn’t stop Mr. C. from being suspicious. Unless he had foundout about the homework. Kambui hadn’t done his essay on
The Red Badge of Courage
and had copied one from the Internet. I copied his, but I added some stuff to it so it didn’t look like I copied it. I hoped.
Mom asked me what I wanted her to order from the Chinese takeout place and then got mad when I said fried chicken.
“You don’t order fried chicken from a Chinese food place,” she said. “You order Chinese food!”
“Then order what you want,” I said.
“No, you have to tell me what you want,” she said. I was in my room and she was in the doorway. “If we’re going to order we might as well get what we want.”
“Then how about fried chicken?”
“Why are you being mean to me?” Mom asked. “What did I do to you?”
“So how about some egg foo yong?”
“You know you don’t like egg foo yong,” she said. “What is wrong with
Sidney Gets Checked!
D a Vinci Academy for the Gifted and Talented is one of those schools that’s always getting experimented on. This year’s major experiment was what Mrs. Maxwell, our principal (and a good lady), called the Independent Learning Project. Any kid who wanted to get extra AP credit could pick a subject, learn it on his or her own, and get the credit. The catch was that you had to convince a teacher that you really had something going on to begin the project and, after you learned whatever it was you had volunteered for, that you knew the subject well enough to deserve the extra credit. It sounded like too much work to me.
“But you will think about it, won’t you, Alexander?” Mrs. Maxwell asked me.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I was going to think about it, but if I could get out of it I knew I would. Anyway, a lot of kids were all gaga over the program (that’s why they’re at Da Vinci), and there were kids walking around school all day talking about how they were going to learn everything from Plant Biology to String Theory. It actually tired me out just hearing them.
We had basketball practice after school, and when I got home Mom was on the floor, stretching. I hoped it didn’t mean she hadn’t made anything for supper.
“You got a phone call,” she said, reaching over to touch the heels of her hands to her toes.
“What are we having for supper?”
“I thought we could order out for Chinese food,” Mom said. “Something to go along with my new job. There’s a salad in the fridge if you need something right now.”
“You’re going to work in a Chinese restaurant?”
“Marc got me a television spot,” Mom said. “They’re hiring me on the strength of my demo. I don’t even have to audition.”
“What are you going to be doing?” I had to ask because I liked Mom working on television but I didn’t want her doing underwear commercials or anything else that was sexy.
“Toothpaste,” she said. “I’m going to hold up a tube of toothpaste and say why I like it. The residuals aren’t that cool from Japan, but the up-front money is good. Twelve thousand bucks!”
“What’s Japan got to do with it?”
“That’s where the spot is going to run,” she said.
“If it’s going to run in Japan why are we ordering out Chinese food?”
“Because they don’t have any Japanese restaurants in Harlem,” Mom answered.
“That makes sense,” I said. I opened the fridge and found what was left of the salad. It was mostly lettuce and tomatoes with some cheese and raisins. I passed on the salad and grabbed a can of soda. “Who called?”
“Mr. Culpepper,” Mom said. “Said he wanted to talk to you about something.”
Mr. Culpepper, the assistant principal of Da Vinci, didn’t wear robes or anything, but I thought he could have been one of those guys in the Middle Ages who supervised torturing people. I could picture him sitting on a high stool as my ankles were being chained to the rack. I knew I hadn’t done anything particularly wrong, but that didn’t stop Mr. C. from being suspicious. Unless he had foundout about the homework. Kambui hadn’t done his essay on
The Red Badge of Courage
and had copied one from the Internet. I copied his, but I added some stuff to it so it didn’t look like I copied it. I hoped.
Mom asked me what I wanted her to order from the Chinese takeout place and then got mad when I said fried chicken.
“You don’t order fried chicken from a Chinese food place,” she said. “You order Chinese food!”
“Then order what you want,” I said.
“No, you have to tell me what you want,” she said. I was in my room and she was in the doorway. “If we’re going to order we might as well get what we want.”
“Then how about fried chicken?”
“Why are you being mean to me?” Mom asked. “What did I do to you?”
“So how about some egg foo yong?”
“You know you don’t like egg foo yong,” she said. “What is wrong with
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