Tdiddy Smalls wants to be friends.
West Charleston, South Carolina
Blu McCants and 2 others are mutual friends.
“Please don’t tell me you thought I’d fall for that,” I tell him, laughing out loud. “You’ll have to do much better than that, Omar.”
“No, no, you got T-Diddy all wrong. I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I, uh—”
“Where were you going?”
“To Spanish class.”
“That’s back the other way, amigo. You should at least organize your lies. Here’s your picture,” I say, handing him back the tattered black-and-white of him in diapers and no shirt.
“So, whatchu think? Cute, right?”
What I think is: lame. Bush league. Amateur. The most popular, and supposed “coolest,” guy in school is trying to get at me, and the best he can think to do is “accidentally” drop his baby picture at my feet. So random. Did he really think I was going to pick it up, see how cute he was, and confess my undying love and lust for him?
The funny thing is, even if the picture was adorable, which it isn’t—okay, maybe it is, just a little—I still wouldn’t give him any play. Omar Smalls is only interested in droppin’ panties, and I’m not about to become his next victim, no matter how cute he was as a baby. Look at that watermelon head. LOL.
“Yeah, real cute. But why is your head so Brobdingnagian?”
“T-Diddy doesn’t know what that means.”
“I’m not surprised. Maybe T-Diddy should look it up.”
“Maybe T-Diddy will.”
“Stop speaking in third person. Ugghh!”
“Go out with me Friday night, and T-Diddy will.”
“Again, not interested.”
“If you’re still worried about Kym King, we broke up.”
“Yeah, I heard. Still not interested.”
He throws his long arms in the air, not like he’s fed up—which I am—but more like he’s reaching for something.
“Uh, what are you doing?” I ask him.
“Raising my hands to the constellation. The way you look should be a sin, ’cause you my sensation. Claudia, tell me what I got to do to be that guy?”
“First, be original.” Now he’s biting off Kanye. “Second, read. Third, change your whole identity and get a purpose and a plan besides trying to get between as many legs as possible.” He just stares at me with that diamond stud blinging from his ear. What, no comeback? I close my locker and head to the library to drop off a book. Don’t follow me, please.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t see you,” Eve says, bumping into me and knocking my books on the floor. I know you did that ish on purpose.
“Whatever,” I say, and bend down to get my books.
“Hey, T-Diddy, what’s really good,” she says, giggling. I guess he did follow me. Jeez.
“Keeping it really hood. You know how T-Diddy does it.”
Ugghh! I stand and turn to leave.
“Walk me to class—I got a message for you,” she says, and rolls her eyes at me.
“Yeah, do that,” I say, and head toward the library.
“I got to run, Eve. I’ll holla,” I hear him say. Leave me alone already.
The sign on the library surprises me: LIBRARY CLOSED.
“What the?” I say.
“What’s wrong?” Not-Kanye asks me.
“Read the sign,” I say.
“How is the library closed? That joint is always open,” Omar says.
Duh!
I totally ignore him and make my way to my first class so I can find out what the heck is going on. The bell rings, so I don’t expect him to still follow. Wrong again.
“Mr. W, what’s up with the library being closed?” I ask, walking into class.
“Yeah, Mr. W, what’s the dill, pickle?” Omar asks, laughing.
“I’m afraid the lumpenbourgeoisie is at it again,” Mr. Washington says, as only Mr. Washington can say it. I wonder if he talks like this to Mrs. Washington, at home.
“The lump who and the what?” Omar says, and some of the kids in class laugh.
“Mr. Smalls, shouldn’t you be in your class?”
“Fo’ sho, Mr. W, but I just wanted to make sure Claudia got to class.” I roll my eyes at him. “Seriously, what happened, Mr. W?”
“The school board passed the mayor’s arts funding cut legislation,” he tells us. “Dr. Jackson suspended the drama guild, the poetry club, the choir, and the marching band, and several teachers and staff have been laid off or reduced to part-time, including the librarian.”
“They fired you, Mr. W?” Omar hollers
“Not yet, but the writing’s on the wall. We’re all walking on eggshells,” Mr. Washington answers. “As for the library, it’ll be open on Mondays and Fridays. Ms. Stanley will split her time between two schools.”
“This sucks,” Omar adds, trying and failing at sincerity.
“Preposterous,” I say. “What about those of us who study in there?” I roll my eyes at Omar. “And need to check out books?”
“I was sad because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet. So I said, ‘Got any shoes you’re not using?’” Omar says. I turn around, and he’s got this stupid smile on his face. I hate how his upper lip curls when he smiles.
“Really, a joke?” I say, not looking for an answer and hoping he’ll just leave.
“What? T-Diddy was just trying to lighten the mood. My uncle Al says that it’s better to stop crying to keep—I mean, uh, to laugh to keep from crying, and whatnot.”
Uggghhh!
“It’s still not fair. Or right. They can’t just get rid of our activities and close the library and fire people. We have to do something about this.”
“Oh, snap, I just realized he said they sacked the band. B is going to be pissed. What are y’all gonna do during halftime next season?”
“Is everything always football with you?” I ask, getting more frustrated by the minute. He tries to put his arm around me.
“Get off of me.”
“I was just trying to console you.”
“Console yourself. I bet the money for the new stadium didn’t get cut.”
“It didn’t, but it’s not his fault, Claudia,” Mr. Washington offers. “You want to blame someone, blame our governor. Blame the school board. Blame our whole community for not taking a stand for what matters most. Words, music, and visual melody. Somehow we’ve forgotten the power of art to make us better; better students, better parents, better people.”
“That’s the triple truth, Ruth.” Omar’s even lamer than I thought. “Real talk, Mr. Washington,” Omar adds, looking at me.
“Don’t even act like you know or care about anything but scoring touchdowns. You’re a fraud.”
“Oh, so now I’m a fraud ’cause I play football. That’s ridiculous.”
“You’re ridiculous.” What’s even more ridiculous is that during this whole conversation about the well-being, the frickin’ future of our school, the other kids in the class could care less. They’re in their own little worlds, where the only things that matter are who’s wearing what, who’s doing who, and who’s having a party on Friday.
“Tami,” he says.
“Huh?”
“Tami Hill, she’s throwing this Friday’s party,” he says, pumping his fist at the students echoing him.
“Like I said, immature, shallow, fraud.”
“Whatever, Claudia. Mr. W, this is an atrocity, and we shouldn’t stand for it. Because if we don’t stand for anything, we’ll, um—”
“Fall for anything,” Mr. Washington finishes. “Omar, I never knew you were this passionate about the arts.”
“Me either,” I add sarcastically.
“The arts are important,” he offers.
That’s the best you got. Jeez!
“Indeed they are, Mr. Smalls. The arts inspire innovation by leading us to open our minds and think in new ways about our lives.”
“I don’t know about all that, Mr. Washington, but I just think we need to fight back,” he says, winking at me. What a jerk.
Mr. Washington’s phone vibrates, and he glances at it.
“I need to take this call. I think a quiz is in order,” he says to a slew of Boooos. “Mr. Smalls, thanks for stopping by—now off you go, lad,” he adds, walking into the hallway.
“Yeah, be gone, Mr. Small,” I say.
“I think we ought to . . . ,” Omar says, and then pauses, as if he’s trying to figure out what to say next. “Have a protest.”
“A protest? You mean like shutting down the school? Who are you, Usher now, trying to ‘Light It Up’?”
“Hole up, hole up! Cut me some slack, homegirl. I’m being straight up.”
I am so not your homegirl.
“A small protest and whatnot. Real talk, Claudia.”
“It would definitely be a very small protest. Just you and me. If it was a free Rick Ross concert, sure. But a protest. Good luck with that,” I tell him.
“I got a plan,” he counters.
“Omar, I hate to tell you, but nobody cares about the arts funding being cut. The students here are clueless. You’re clueless. Why am I even talking to you?”
“My boys were right, you are a stuck-up bi—”
“Go ahead and say it. Show your true colors like the rest of your thug friends.”
“For somebody who claims to be a writer, you’re the clueless one. I’m just trying to be creative, think outside the box.”
“Like there’s anything creative about throwing a ball?”
“The Super Bowl is like a movie, and the quarterback is the leading man.”
Uggghhh!
“Look, T-Diddy has a master plan. You on board or what?”
“Or what.”
“Tomorrow we’re going to put on a rally,” he says, like it really is a concert. “We’re going to galvanize the streets.”
“What streets?”
“Look, trust me. Let me call the plays. I got you!”
“No, you don’t. But, yeah, we’ll see.” If there’s a chance it’ll help save a teacher’s job, I’m down. I guess.
“Can I call you tonight, Claudia Clarke?”
“You mean, can you call me a B tonight, like you just did a few seconds ago.”
“I’m just saying, if we’re gonna do this protest, shouldn’t we, uh, you know, uh, discuss the plan?”
“Just let me know what time your little rally is, and I might be there.”
The way he said plan was suspect. I knew all he wanted was to score with me, like he had with every other girl at West Charleston High School. Thank goodness the bell rang.
“Dang! Mr. W, since I was here on official biz, can I get a pass?” Omar says to Mr. Washington, who’s walking back into the room.
“Don’t try me, Mr. Smalls,” Mr. Washington says, putting his phone back on the desk.
“So I’ll call you tonight, Claudia?” he asks on his way out the door.
His protest idea does kind of intrigue me. Even though he is still a jerk.
“Text me.”