CHAPTER 5

I’VE BEEN STARING AT THIS PICTURE OF Colin Kaepernick that Mr. James gave me for like twenty whole minutes and all I can think about is how the smell of Dad’s famous catfish is about to fill up our whole apartment. The way it hits the oil and sizzles and turns brown and how flaky it is when it’s fried just right. I stare at it a little longer and I start smelling crinkly fries. All I need is some bread to—

“Simon, baby, helloooooo.” Moms is leaned over the other side of the kitchen counter and she’s looking at me like she’s seriously worried. “For a minute there I thought I was gon’ have to pour some ice water on! You all right, son?”

I shake my head and snap out of whatever world I was in before Moms brought me back to reality: me and her at the kitchen counter with my protest assignment, Dad off to the side dipping pieces of fish in a bowl with headphones on, off in his own world. No bread to go with it in sight.

“Why don’t you take a brain break? You look like you’re working a little too hard over there.”

Parents are so confusing. Most of the time they’re going off about cleaning up around the house or reminding us homework comes before TV or any type of fun at all. Now Moms is telling me my brain should take a break like Mr. James does when nobody in class knows the answers to one of his deep questions. And I’m not even close to being done yet. I can’t keep up! At least it buys me some time before I have to think about what to say about this picture he gave me for homework. So far all I got is “He real mad at somebody and it look like football is the furthest thing from his mind.”

If by “too hard” Moms means “not at all,” she’s right. I put the picture down and see she’s already turned back around to dump the purple cabbage she made DeShawn chop for her into a huge pot of boiling water. She picks up an even bigger pot and pours chopped potatoes over a thing with holes in it and a big cloud of steam covers her head and floats up to the ceiling. I start to forget Dad is in here with us, till he laughs out loud to himself about something neither me or Moms can hear.

“These jokers is some fools!” The way he wheezes after he lets out the first part of his laugh would make you think he’s sick or something, but it’s never that. He just laughs harder than everybody else, which is kinda cool when I think about how serious everybody’s dads are. Dad bends over, slaps his knee, then stands up straight again, waving his pointer finger in the air. Ever since Moms bought him these fancy headphones to listen to his podcasts on, he almost always forgets anybody’s around. That’s why I give him something to do BEFORE he puts them thangs on, she always says to me while they’re cooking.

Moms dumps the potatoes into another bowl and puts the steamy bowl in front of me, handing me a masher. “I heard mashing things is good stress relief. Get busy.”

I use all the muscles in my arms with my fingers wrapped around the handle. I’m kneeling on the stool I was sitting on, leaned over the counter while she watches me turn the chopped potatoes into a thick, creamy, whitish fluff. The same steam that covered Moms’ head covers my face so much it looks like I’m sweating.

“That’s perfect,” she says, shooing me away from the bowl when she’s ready for me to stop. She probably didn’t want my face juice dropping into the bowl. Good call, Moms. When she hands me a paper towel to dry off my face, it reminds me of Maria’s face this morning.

“I think Maria is mad at me. I mean us. I mean…,” I start to tell her, feeling confused all of a sudden about who Maria is mad at.

“You think or you know?” Moms pushes, adding half a stick of butter to the bowl and lifting one of her eyebrows.

“I don’t know. She was crying this morning because she said her debate team won’t get to compete and she said I wasn’t listening. She was even mean to Lil Kenny at lunch and he didn’t even do nothin’ to her.” It’s true. It’s hard to tell who she’s mad at because none of us knows who did this to our school. “She just looked so sad, and Maria’s never sad.”

“Well, did she tell you why that happened to her team?”

“She said the school doesn’t have the money.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And… and then C.J. said the school is taking a lot of money away from people’s clubs. I feel bad.”

“Uh-huh.” I wish Moms would say something else besides Uh-huh.

“But not the basketball team, though! They’re not getting cut. And Maria was just so upset. It’s not fair, Mom. I don’t know how to help her.”

“Simon, you know where that cabbage and these potatoes came from?” she asks. This ain’t the time for one of your speeches about how you and Dad work hard to put food on the table for us, Moms. Focus.

“Um… from the store?”

“Before that.”

“Um… the ground?”

“Bingo. A lot of the vegetables we cookin’ right now and many in the fridge came from the Creighton Community Garden,” she says with a proud smile, pausing like she wants me to say something. I still don’t know what’s going on.

“What garden? I never saw any… Wait, what does this have to do with—”

“Behind the shelter. On the next block over on Claude Street is the garden me and your auntie Julia fought to have in this community. There was a time when me and your daddy had to go across town to get fresh vegetables cuz they weren’t delivering none to our grocery store. And they had the nerve to try to build another one of them liquor stores over there. We weren’t havin’ it.”

Just like I don’t know who Maria is mad at, I don’t know who the they is that Moms is talking about. “Mama. You was in a fight with the grocery store people?!”

She doesn’t even pretend to not laugh at me. “No, baby. We weren’t in a fight. We fought for our right to have fresh food.”

THAT CAN’T BE POSSIBLE, NO, THAT CAN’T BE RIGHT!  

MOMS WAS INVOLVED IN A BIG FOOD FIGHT?

  OH WAIT, SHE “FOUGHT,” BUT WHAT MAKES IT DIFFERENT?

WEREN’T PEOPLE OUT THERE PUNCHIN’ AND KICKIN’?  

VEGGIES ARE COOL, BUT ARE THEY WORTH THE PROBLEMS?

COULDN’T FOLKS JUST TALK, USE WORDS TO SOLVE ’EM?

WHY THEY GOTTA FIGHT OVER CARROTS AND BEANS?

  AND WHY WAS MY MAMA OUT THERE MAKING A SCENE?

I NEVER WOULDA THOUGHT MOMS HAD THAT FIRE

BUT I GUESS NOT HAVIN’ PEAS MAKES YOU A FIGHTER!  

NOW I KNOW WHY EVERYBODY’S PARENTS HATE…

… WHEN KIDS DON’T EAT THE VEGETABLES ON THEIR PLATE!

“Well, what did you do then?” She sprinkles the adobo bottle over the bowl of mashed potatoes and adds milk, garlic, and some shredded cheese. Moms never measures anything and somehow it still always tastes good. It’s wild to think a lot of our food came from the ground on the next street. She turns her back to scoop the mashed potatoes back into the pot on the stove right when Dad brings me the Ziploc bag full of battered catfish and tells me, “Shake it.” When I’m done, they trade places and Dad bops to a spot behind her where the hot oil is waiting for him in the frying pan. He must have switched over to his old-school jams, judging by the way he isn’t laughing anymore and is off-key humming every few minutes. The first piece splashes and sizzles, and the smell of fried fish makes me think of that night in the park delivering dinner to Sunny.

“Simon, listen to me. It sounds to me like your school is doing the same thing that they did to our community back then. They’re treating the after-school arts programs like they’re not important. The same way we didn’t let the Chicago City Council sleep until they did right by Creighton Park is the same way you can help your friend fight them taking away y’all’s funding.” Moms is saying so much at the same time. She’s telling me to help Maria by fighting. She’s saying stuff about funding. How are we supposed to do anything about all this? We’re just kids. Who is Them? “And I’ll find out who’s on the school board, okay?” The School Board.

Aaron walks into the kitchen from his room and sneaks a scoop of Moms’ mashed potatoes straight from the pot while she’s still leaned over the counter staring at me. I catch Dad winking at him as he comes around the corner to mess with my things. He lifts up the picture Mr. James gave me. Right, homework. Ugh, almost forgot. He stares at it for a while and looks down at me.

“No justice, no peace.” And he keeps his fist in the air until me, Moms, and Dad are all looking.