Long Division(59)

“Girl, I lived in Jackson my whole life until we moved last year.”

“So what,” she said. “Jackson is way blacker than Melahatchie, dummy. You stay catching L’s, don’t you?”

“L’s?”

“Losses!”

“I feel like I’ve done all this before,” I told Baize. I wasn’t lying. Something about the words, the temperature, and the sound of what I thought was about to happen felt like it had all happened before.

“You haven’t done this before,” she told me. “You just read something like it before, or maybe you had a dream about it.”

While we walked down the hall, we had to shake hands with people. Well, Baize did. I had her dictionary in one hand and brushed my hair with the other. Soon as someone put their hand out for a shake, woman or man, girl or boy, I’d make a fist while gripping my book. I’d never seen that many white people on Old Ryle Road before, and I was surprised that all the white folks we passed knew to give me a pound. I knew it was the future, but white folks in 2013 acted way more familiar with you than white folks in 1985.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Baize,” said this white lady named Cynthia. “Who is your friend?” She took both of our dictionaries and said that there were no aids allowed beyond this point. Baize said hold on, looked up two more words, and gave it to her.

“This is my friend, Voltron.”

“Voltron what?” the lady asked. “Did you compete in the prelims? I don’t remember seeing your name.”

“Voltron Bailey,” I told the lady. “I was out of town during prelims.”

“He’s from Jackson,” Baize told the lady.

“West side.” “Well, bless your heart.”

“Yes ma’am. Well, he was born and raised in Melahatchie, but he went up to Jackson after the storm. He’s just back here visiting for the week because of all that gang violence up there. You know how it is.”

“Why’d he say he was outta town, then?” she asked Baize. “Is his mind right, Baize?”

“Yes, ma’am. His mind is fine. He’s one of the best spellers in Jackson. He won eighth place in the Jackson Spell-Off last year, didn’t you, Voltron?”

“Yeah, I umm, I made that Spell-Off tap out.”

Baize put her hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “Go ’head and chill with the ad-libs, Voltron. I’m working something here.”

The lady took off down the hall. She kept looking back, though, saying, “Don’t leave. I’ll be right back.”

“Why you lie to that lady?” I asked Baize while we walked into the room.

“Because now I know she’ll let you spell.”

“Why? I don’t even want to spell.”

“Because these folks think Jackson is a shark tank and you’re a black boy and they want to save you before you turn into a shark.”

“Wait,” I said. “Who is a shark?”

“Wow! I’m so glad I didn’t grow up in the ’80s,” she said.

The room we walked into was only thing I’d been in since I’d been in 2013 that felt like home. Everything else from the shiny hubcaps to the six-foot TVs to the music to how folks wanted me to compete in a Spell-Off seemed different. I guess I should describe the room or something since it felt like home, but there ain’t really nothing to say about it except it felt like home. Looking back on a room, you can make up all kinds of flowery stuff about it if you want to, but this room had four dirty walls, a high ceiling, and a dusty floor, and it was empty just like most of the rooms in 1985.

“Let’s do this,” Baize said, and we walked toward the stage.

Even though Baize and I were there together, I felt embarrassed. Embarrassed, I understood on that stage, was just another way of saying I felt alone. It was the first time I’d felt alone since I’d been in 2013 and that was mostly because of Baize.

Right there, though, I remembered that I’d forgotten about Shalaya Crump. Even though I’d dreamed about her, I’d forgotten how I needed her. If Shalaya Crump would have been there, we could have dealt with the cameras and the crowd together. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do on that stage in front of those people. And even more than that, I couldn’t believe I was on some raggedy stage in 2013 when the girl I loved was 50 years away from me, probably doing something fun and nasty with the ugliest boy I’d ever seen in my life.

I couldn’t see anybody in the crowd because the lights were shining so bright. I sat on the left side, third seat from aisle, and Baize was in the same seat on the other side.

The judge made us stand up for the Pledge of Allegiance. While everyone stood, I walked over to Baize, who stayed sitting. “Look,” I whispered in her ear. “I’m gonna go, okay? Shalaya Crump needs me. Thanks for everything. If I find your computer, I’ll bring it back to you, okay?”

“You can’t leave yet,” she said.

I started walking away from Baize when I heard, “Baize Shephard is our first contestant. I’m sure most of you know that Baize tied for fifth place in last year’s Spell-Off. Baize lost her parents and brother in Katrina eight years ago and she actually lives right down the road. In addition to doing her homework, Baize is an aspiring hip hop performer and entrepreneur. Sounds fantastic. She writes in her bio, ‘If you get it twisted, please tighten it back up, Boo Boo. My name is Baize Shephard, a.k.a. the Baddest Baize in Mississippi. I do not need to win the Spell-Off to know I’m special. This is Baize Against the World, not that Akeelah and the Bee life. Hashtag Baize killed swag hashtag my hood to your hood.’”