Chapter Five

Robin sat in the second row in English, not far from Sly and Kaykay. It was a big class—probably thirty-eight kids—and everyone was listening intently as Tyrone read the very end of his five paragraph essay about Bud, Not Buddy.

His essay, as in, my essay. As in, the one I wrote for him, Robin thought bitterly.

“In con-cluse—in conclusion,” Tyrone read, having trouble with the word conclusion, which Robin had spelled the correctly. “Bud, Not Buddy is a fine novel about a boy who is searching for family. He was lucky that Lefty Lewis found him walking by the side of the road. By the end of the book, Bud Caldwell realizes that without a family, a person is not a whole person. We all need family. How we make our family is a big part of what it means to be human. The end.”

Silence.

Robin looked around. His classmates stared at Tyrone in shock. Most everyone knew Tyrone, at least by rep. Tyrone always blew off his homework. That Tyrone Davis could write an essay like this was nothing but amazing.

The whole class broke into wild applause and cheering. Tyrone took an actual bow, and there was even more clapping, hooting, and hollering.

“You da man! Ty-rone!” Tyrone’s homeboy, Riondo Moore, another football player who everyone just called “Dodo,” shouted at his friend.

Tyrone encouraged the clapping. “Give it up fo’ me!”

Aw, man. I have to clap for this?

Finally, Robin clapped so he wouldn’t be the only kid not clapping. That was part of his school strategy. Stay under the radar. Do good on tests and reports. Go easy on the class participation. Don’t attract too much attention.

You don’t want to be “It.” Not at Ironwood Central High School. This place is a jungle!

Robin knew all about being “It.” He’d been “It” many times in grade school and middle school. He didn’t need to be “It” again: to be picked on, beat on, and jacked up.

Not interested in that. As Sly would say, “No way, no how.”

Tyrone pointed at Robin and grinned as the applause continued. Even the teacher, Mr. Simesso joined in. Finally, he held a hand up for quiet.

Robin liked Mr. Simesso a lot. The orientation on Friday had been with him. He’d come to America from Ethiopia for college and stayed to be in the Teach for America program. This was his second year. He had a good rep, and the girls thought he was cute. About five eight, oval face, scruffy beard, glasses, and a cool Ethiopian accent.

“Nicely done, Tyrone,” Mr. Simesso commented. “I know your teachers from last year. I can see that you’re turning over a new leaf.”

“Tryin’ to,” Tyrone responded. “Tryin’ to make me some straight As.”

Some of his boys in the back of the room cracked up, especially Dodo.

They must know he didn’t write that paper.

“Whatever you did, Tyrone? Keep it up,” Mr. Simesso advised. “Next assignment, class? Pick ten words you don’t know from Bud, Not Buddy. Write out the word, the definition, and use the word in a sentence. Don’t forget to note what page the word is on. Due Wednesday. Tyrone, you can sit down.”

As Tyrone strutted back to his seat, Mr. Simesso turned to Robin. “Robin Paige, do you have anything to add to our discussion of Bud, Not Buddy?”

Robin hated to be called on. Too much attention.

He shook his head.

“Is that a no?” Mr. Simesso asked.

Robin nodded.

“Because you have an excellent academic reputation, Robin,” Mr. Simesso went on.

Some guy in the back of the room called out, “Shrimp!”

Mr. Simesso whirled. “Who said that?”

Whoever it was, he was saved by the bell. The class streamed out. Robin’s friends were waiting for him outside in the hall. On Monday, English was right before lunch, and they always ate lunch together. That is, if you could call what got served in the ICHS cafeteria “lunch.” Robin had tried the food on orientation day. The fish sticks tasted like month-old shrimp guts.

“Okay,” Kaykay declared as soon as Robin joined them. “No way Tyrone wrote that. He doesn’t know any verbs other than ‘to be.’ If it’s over two syllables, forget it.”

“I was thinkin’ the same thing,” Sly agreed. “He be boastin’ how he gonna make all As? No way, no how.”

“Last A Tyrone made was in preschool,” Kaykay sniffed. “And that was with the teacher’s help!”

These are my friends, Robin mused. I can’t lie to them. If I don’t tell the truth, that’s the same as lying.

“Umm … that essay? He didn’t write it.” Robin said.

“How you know that?” Sly demanded. “You got the four-one-one?”

Robin edged closer to the wall as the tide of students heading to the cafeteria got thick. To save money, the city had closed a bunch of the other high schools, which meant that Ironwood Central was jammed.

“Yes, I got straight dope. Tyrone didn’t write that essay.” Robin’s mouth felt dry. “I did.”

“You did what?” Kaykay was shocked.

“I wrote Tyrone’s essay. ’Cause I didn’t want to get my ass kicked!”

“What happened, Robin? I got to know.” Sly was as upset as Kaykay.

Robin sighed. “Let’s eat. I’ll tell you everything.”

In the crowded, noisy cafeteria, the kids sat at the end near the teachers’ lounge, far away from the jock table where Tyrone and his football buddies were hanging out. Robin and Sly got baloney sandwiches, milk, and bananas. Sly added a brownie. Kaykay always brought her lunch from home in a reusable “green” container. Today, it was bean spout salad, a small apple, and a few organic crackers.

“You eatin’ hamster food,” Sly told her after his first big bite of the sandwich.

“Not like two people I know,” Kaykay retorted as she opened her salad. She looked at Robin. “You. Tyrone. Spill!”

Robin did. He told them everything, from what happened with Tyrone after leaving the Center on Friday to writing the essay for him last night.

When he was done, Sly drained his milk and shook his head. “You know when it start with a boy like Tyrone, it don’t stop. You in for a bad year, Robin.”

“Well, what do you want him to do?” Kaykay demanded. “You want him to get his butt whipped? Know what, Sly? Why don’t you go over to Tyrone right now and tell him you gonna be his homework boy?”

Sly pursed his lips. “Kaykay, back yo’ ass off. I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.”

Kaykay nodded. “Damn straight you get it.”

The kids ate silently for a few minutes. Not that it was ever quiet in the cafeteria. Lunch was in two shifts, six hundred kids each. ICHS was an old school, built decades ago, with six hundred kids eating in a cafeteria built for half that many. The mix of talking, laughing, and yelling was anything but quiet. Robin was so upset about how he’d helped Tyrone cheat that the noise felt like punches against his eardrums.

“I’ll figure out something to do with Tyrone,” he finally told his friends, hoping his voice had more courage than he felt. “Meanwhile, what are we going to do about the Center? My grandmother made about a hundred extra dollars on shrimp yesterday afternoon. That ain’t gonna be enough.”

Sly swallowed down a bite of the sandwich. “Maybe it’ll be better today.”

“Maybe,” Robin allowed. He didn’t feel confident.

“If only there’s a way to get everyone to give a dollar, not just folks buying shrimp,” Kaykay said, then closed up her container so she could use it again.

Robin got a faraway look in his eyes. He had an idea. It might even be a good idea.

“Know what, dudes?” he asked his buds. “Maybe there is.”

Four hours later, Robin, Kaykay, and Sly had Miz Paige surrounded in the Shrimp Shack.

“I just gave you kids a hundred dollars I made for the Center!” she declared. She loosened her apron. “Now you kids want to sell raffle tickets?”

“A hundred bucks ain’t gonna put no new roof on the Center,” Sly told her.

“We need more money,” Kaykay insisted. “Lots more.”

Robin looked right at his grandmother. “We stopped at the Center on the way home and talked to Sarge. There’s just two days left, and they’ve only raised about two thousand bucks. So we were thinking, we go out and sell raffle tickets for five dollars. Each ticket gives the buyer a chance to win a fifty dollar dinner here at the Shrimp Shack. Who wouldn’t take that chance?”

Miz Paige frowned. “ ’Bout a million folks I know.”

“Can we try it, Gramma?’ Robin asked.

“I’ll think about it,” was all Miz Paige would say. “Okay, you kids go on now. I need to talk to Robin.”

His friends took off. As soon as they were gone, his grandmother handed Robin a sealed yellow envelope. He got a sinking feeling in his stomach. He knew what this was about.

“Hard to talk about free dinners when I’m givin’ money away. You know where the Ninth Street Rangers hang out?” she asked.

Robin nodded.

“Take this to ’em. Tell ’em it’s from me,” she said softly. “Tell ’em there’ll be the same every week; just please leave my shop alone. You understand me, Robin Paige?”

Robin nodded again. “Yes, Gramma.”

“You understand why I’m doin’ this? You play with fire, you get yo’self burned. I don’t want us to get burned again. We been burned enough, don’chu think?”

Robin understood very well. But that yellow envelope he was holding and the reason he was holding it still made him mad as hell.