Tyler Johnson Was Here(8)

“You look like one,” G-mo mutters to her.

“Yeah?” she asks. “My chest is so flat, though. I hear that’s what the coaches look for.”

“That’s why you gotta get in there and bribe the shit out of the coaches. That’s what a lot of them did,” he says. “Like, one girl brought in blackberry pie.”

“Only white people make that shit,” Ivy says. We laugh.

Before I can say anything else, it happens. The fight. Today’s fight ends up being between two girls. One black, big, and mean girl wearing a short skirt against another black, tomboyish-looking girl. They go at it hard, flinging weave everywhere, slapping each other with lunch trays, and then the fight makes its way over to us. One of the girls slams the other right on top of our table, the wind of the motion blowing in my face, and from here, everything sounds like crunches and bones breaking.

G-mo, Ivy, and I jump back from the table, and then security and Principal Dodson run over to stop the girls from ripping each other’s heads off. After they go, all that’s left around us is a lingering waft of sweat and musty armpit and hair grease.





Later, after fifth period, I get called into Principal Dodson’s office. The tiny room is filled with coffee stains and spilled mustard trails and stacks of old papers and books, and it takes only a couple seconds for me to break into a sweat, beads falling into my eyes. The office smells and is as hot as the devil’s ass crack, and it makes me literally itch all over, to the point where I have to make a mental note to shower ASAP.

Principal Dodson looks like a fifty-year-old ex–football player: broad shoulders, a mean expression always on his face, a line of sweat running down his black forehead like he’s coming from the gym. Most of the teachers here are white, and I used to think Dodson and I would get along because of our shared culture. Nope. One time, he wore icicle-shaped cuff links just to prove he’s made of ice. He has a reputation of being a dick, so most try to avoid him.

“Mr. Johnson,” he says. “Do you know why you’re in my office?”

“No, sir.” My hands get a little clammy and sweat coats my palms thickly, like my hands got dipped in jars of Vaseline, so I wipe them off on my pants.

And then Dodson leans back in his desk chair, waving a packet in my face. “You know what this is?”

“No, sir,” I answer, unable to read what’s on the pages.

“Look closer.” He tosses me the papers.

It’s the paper I recently turned in for my English class. The one about my favorite show, A Different World.

“Why should I give my time to someone like you, who doesn’t really give a damn?” Dodson yells at me from across his cluttered desk, books and piles of paper covering the surface. His voice is loud and piercing, stabbing my ears.

“But I put a lot of thought into that paper. The assignment was to write about a piece of art I find inspiring. Dwayne Wayne is my hero, and this show actually paints my reality.”

Dodson just laughs in my face, like what I’ve told him is the funniest thing he’s heard in a while. A tear even rolls down his cheek—that’s how hard he laughs. And then when his laughter winds down, he glares at me in silence, waiting for me to take back my words. I stare at him, too. My hands get moist, and sweat beads my palms again.

“So, you really think some TV show counts as art?” Anger gleams in his eyes, like days of rage that have been building up are about to be unleashed on me.

“A Different World was—is—more than just… some TV show,” I shoot back at him, as confident as ever, pressing my fingers into his desk to emphasize my words. “A Different World shows blackness in a way not many other shows do. It taught me that I could be successful, even when people think otherwise. It taught me not to be afraid of daring to be different. The characters knew what it meant to be like me.”

Dodson laughs sarcastically. “So, a TV show taught you that, but not important writers like Langston Hughes and Toni Morrison?”

“Sir, that’s not what I’m saying,” I mutter, shrugging my shoulders. “Not to be rude or anything, but black people aren’t a monolith, and we’re allowed to be inspired by more than one thing or a handful of people. Hughes is my favorite poet, but that doesn’t mean he’s the only person who inspires me.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Wait, no—your paper is definitely more ridiculous.”

My heart sinks in my chest. And I remember what Dad wrote in his letter. It’s best to cry when it’s dark and I’m alone. So right now isn’t the time to cry, even though I feel like just busting out in a watery stream.

“You really have the audacity to think that MIT’s gonna accept somebody who doesn’t take school seriously? I’m going to be real clear with you. Unless you’re going to start treating your education with respect, you might as well keep MIT out of your vocabulary.”

“What?”

“This is real life, not the movies. Boys like you don’t have a place at MIT. Or any of the prestigious schools in America.”

“Well, Mr. Dodson, sir, I’d like to think otherwise. I think there’s plenty of room for boys who look like me. But people like you make it hard for us to see that.”

“Who do you think you are?” he bellows, getting out of his chair, leaning in toward me. “You go to Sojo Truth High School, one of the worst-rated schools in the state. To the admissions committee, your high-ability classes, your straight As, your inspiration—none of that means shit.”