WHEN I SAY “GIVE US,” Y’ALL SAY “THE CLUBS!”  

GIVE US (THE CLUBS!), GIVE US (THE CLUBS!)

WHEN I SAY “GIVE US,” Y’ALL SAY “THE CLUBS!”

GIVE US (THE CLUBS!), GIVE US (THE CLUBS!)

MY BEST FRIEND MARIA IS SO SMART.

  SHE TALKS A WHOLE LOT, BUT IT’S ALWAYS FROM THE HEART.

AND SHE REALLY CARES FOR THE FOLKS IN CREIGHTON PARK,

SO YOU PROLLY WON’T STOP HER FROM DEBATIN’ IF SHE STARTS!  

JUST TAKE NOTES WHILE MARIA TAKES A STAND.

SHE HAS IT ALL MAPPED OUT, ALWAYS WITH A PLAN.

CHICAGO PUBLIC SCHOOLS TOOK AWAY THE PROGRAMS,

BUT IF ANYONE CAN GET ’EM BACK, I KNOW MARIA CAN!

DEBATE… KARATE… THEATER… AND ART,

  ALL OF THOSE THINGS GOT CANCELED FROM THE START.

WE NEED TO GET ’EM BACK SO KIDS CAN KEEP A SPARK.

BOOKER T. NEEDS CLUBS LIKE A DOG NEEDS A BARK.

SO WHEN I SAY “GIVE US,” Y’ALL SAY “THE CLUBS!”

GIVE US (THE CLUBS!), GIVE US (THE CLUBS!)

WHEN I SAY “GIVE US,” Y’ALL SAY “THE CLUBS!”

GIVE US (THE CLUBS!), GIVE US (THE CLUBS!)

  UP NORTH, THEY GOT IT GOOD, THAT’S TRUE.

BUT SCHOOLS OUT WEST NEED PROGRAMS, TOO!

IT’S NOT REALLY FAIR IF THE KIDS UP THERE

ARE THE ONLY ONES WITH MONEY AND SUPPLIES TO SHARE.  

  WE ALL DESERVE PROGRAMS, CLUBS, AND TEAMS

CUZ WE ALL GOT WISHES, HOPES, AND DREAMS.

WE FIGHT FOR OUR RIGHTS, WE THE KIDS WITH HEART!  

WE JUST ASK THAT YOU JOIN US AND PLAY YOUR PART!

  SO WHEN I SAY “GIVE US,” Y’ALL SAY “THE CLUBS!”

GIVE US (THE CLUBS!), GIVE US (THE CLUBS!)

WHEN I SAY “GIVE US,” Y’ALL SAY “THE CLUBS!”

GIVE US (THE CLUBS!), GIVE US (THE CLUBS!)

“AAAAAAYYYY!” Out the corner of my eye I see Aaron run up the aisle like one of those people who fall out at the altar in church. But he don’t fall out when he gets to the stage. He hops up and shakes my hand, still recording me while the rest of the room cheers loudly from their seats. Even though I’m done rapping, C.J.’s at the edge of the stage making drumroll sounds with his hands on the floor. Aaron turns the camera to himself, slinging his arm around my neck as I start walking off the stage. I’ve never seen Aaron this happy about anything I did. Maria takes the mic and squeezes my hand on her way up to the stage as Aaron pulls me into view on his phone’s camera. “MY BRO GOT BARS! MY BRO GOT BARS, BOY! WHO’S NEXT?! WHO WANT SOME?!”

Down the steps, and as I walk down the aisle Aaron just ran from, hands reach out to me to dap me up, squeeze my shoulders, pat my back, and give me high fives that pull into hugs. One of those hugs comes from C.J., who follows me with our notebooks after I finally get offstage to get ready to collect signatures. It’s kind of hard to believe all these people are showing me love after doing one of the scariest things, but at the same time it sort of feels right. Dad pulls both me and C.J. into his stomach and turns us to face the stage, putting his arms around both our shoulders. Ms. Wanda hushes the crowd to make sure we all listen to Maria. Dad slips the notebooks out of our hands and pulls us closer in.

“Why don’t you two go on back up near the front so y’all can watch and support your friend,” sounding more like he’s telling us than asking.

“But Uncle David, we have to—”

“Now, now, now. Don’t you worry about it, Cornelius. I got it covered, okay? Maria needs your support. She needs to see y’all up there. Go on,” Dad says, nudging our backs toward the front. We listen to him but I can’t help but look back behind me and see Dad whispering to DeShawn and Markus.

I don’t know about C.J. but I’m glad Dad made us go back to our seats. Sitting in the front row watching one of my best friends do her thing brings all the reasons we’re here back to my mind. I don’t know that many other fifth graders can stand onstage looking the way she does right now. She’s probably a little scared cuz Moms always tells us it happens to everybody. But what’s even wilder is that she doesn’t just look confident, she looks like she really likes being up there. She’s talking to a room full of mostly strangers like a G. No flash cards or heebie-jeebies in sight.

Next to the stage, Aaron kneels down where Maria can’t see and takes out his phone again, holding it up enough to get her on camera without noticing. He’s so tall it always looks funny when he squats down to our size. I see him hold down the record button and his mouth hangs open the whole time, moving into different awkward positions to get the best shots. I didn’t know he’d done the same for me until I was finished, and I bet it’s best that Maria doesn’t know he’s recording, either. She looks so calm and serious but cameras always change things.

“… We are growing kids who need things to do after school to help us keep learning. And clubs aren’t just something to do. They help us focus and make us creative so when we grow up we know how to finish things and solve big problems in the future. Please sign our petition telling the school board Booker T. needs our money back. Thank you!” Everybody stands up to cheer for her and when she walks down the stairs to sit next to me and C.J., I’m clapping so hard the insides of my hands sting and turn red but I can’t help it. The only thing that would have made her ending more perfect is if she’d dropped the mic, but I can already hear Moms in my ear. Does she have mic-dropping money? Sure don’t.

Ms. Wanda trades spots with Maria and we hear her repeat some of the things Maria said while she was onstage. It sounds a lot less cool when she does it. Ms. Wanda doesn’t at all sound like she’s got the juice like Ri-Ri. She moves on with the scheduled program, letting everybody know there’s a sign-up for the open mic near the stage so they don’t get it confused with the petition. Wait. The petition!

Right then, while everybody is told to take a ten-minute break, Dad taps me on the shoulder and tells us to follow him to the back, where DeShawn and Markus are sitting with our notebooks.

“Why do they—” Maria starts, and Dad holds up a hand.

“Hold on, baby girl, they were here to help. While you were up there talking your talk, these two got y’all started.” For a minute I wonder how much Dad promised them for this.

“Yo, you kilt it up there, bro,” Markus says.

“And Ri-Riiiii, I ain’t know you had the Michelle Obama–level skills. Okay, okay!” Maria blushes under DeShawn’s compliments. Before this, both of them pretty much spoke to her like they do me. To tell her to move, be quiet, or mind her business. Not this time, though. They’re even sort of treating both of us like celebrities. Feels kinda good but still weird.

“So here you go. You got a good jump start. Now all you gotta do is get the rest.” They hand both of the notebooks to us and point out the people who signed already and the people who didn’t. This time we agree that Maria will get kids’ signatures and I’ll hit up the grown-ups on purpose. C.J. will stick with me. Since a lot of people are using the break to get food, C.J. comes up with the idea to set up near the beginning of the food table so people can sign their names before making their plates. Genius. And they already know what for? Let’s go!

The last open-mic performer gets onstage just as me, Maria, and C.J. sit down, exhausted from talking to so many people. Moms comes out of the kitchen and puts three steaming plates in front of us, and for just a second it feels like we’re in Grandma Lucille’s dining room on Thanksgiving sitting at the kids’ table with grown-up-sized plates. All three plates look like we went back for seconds and thirds while still on the first plate, and none of us are mad about it. Aaron reaches toward my plate for a deviled egg, and Moms swats his hand away like a fly.

“These plates are for the activists,” she tells him, winking at me.

“But Ma! What about the cameraman?”

“Where was the cameraman when the activists were working the room just now?” Moms asks. Aaron drops his head and scratches the back of his neck as if to say Aight, you got me, then grabs a biscuit, stuffing the whole thing in his mouth. Moms is too shocked to even get mad. And I wasn’t gonna eat it anyway. “Boy, you a whole mess. Acting like you didn’t start eating the second you and your little friends walked in here. Yeah, I saw you. Got a stomach like a bottomless pit.”

I picture watching everything Aaron eats come out the other end like none of it was even chewed and I start laughing so hard grape pop squirts out my nose and drizzles on top of my candied yams. “Bet he won’t try to steal nothin’ from that plate now,” Moms says, looking disgusted. Aaron finally swallows the last big chunk of my biscuit and clears his throat.

“But nah, for real, bro. We gotta put this up on Instagram. When other kids see this online they gon’ go brazy! You had bars on bars on bars,” Aaron tells me, pacing around the table. None of us have any room in our mouths to say anything so he goes on. “And Ri-Riiiii. Sis. You too.” He pauses and looks over at our parents. They’re the ones who really get to say if Aaron’s footage can get posted or not. Ms. Wanda starts to close out the open mic, and two hands come reaching from behind Maria and wrap her in a hug. Before I see her, I know it’s Auntie Julia. When her and Uncle Edwin aren’t fresh off work she always smells like lemons. Maria turns around and almost leaps into her arms.

“Mamiiiiiii!” None of us knew they were coming.

“You did so good, mija! Look at you. My little activista.” Maria is crying. It’s a serious moment and all that, but all I can focus on is how different Maria’s parents look out of their work uniforms. Usually, they’re both wearing matching red T-shirts with the same logo that’s on the side of their food truck: a cartoon version of an empanada that has a face, floating down a lake with the city skyline behind it. Usually, Auntie Julia has her big curly hair stuffed under a hairnet, and Uncle Edwin’s hand tattoos are covered by gloves. Uncle Edwin wipes Maria’s tears with his thumbs and kisses her on her forehead just as Mr. James stops by on his way out.

“Aww, yeah, there they go!” He pauses to greet all the adults while keeping his eyes on us. “That was amazing, y’all. Real powerful stuff. We might have a young community organizer in the making, y’all. That was real leadership right there.” He daps all three of us up before shaking Aaron’s hand, pulling him into a hug. “Good to see you, man. You mind sending me that video?”

“I got you, Mr. James,” Aaron agrees.

“Y’all have a good night.”

“So as I was saying… I got videos of both y’all that I’m tryna put on my Instagram and TikTok. Can I?” This question is for all the grown-ups. Back when Aaron got his first cell phone Dad gave him a whole speech about asking permission before he posts pictures or videos of other people on his social media. He called it consent and said he better not ever see any pics or videos of me, DeShawn, or Markus floating around online without asking him and Moms first or Aaron’s social life is over. Me and Maria look up at our parents and wait.

“Only if you put some respect on my baby’s name. It’s Maria to y’all and Miss Maria Rivera, the activista, to the world!” Maria blushes even harder than she did when Mr. James called her a leader.

“So… is that a yes?”

Moms, Dad, and Maria’s parents look at each other and nod, and Dad answers for the whole group:

“You have our consent. Go for it.”