Look Both Ways Page 10

  “What the… ? Where you get that?” he yawped, slowly relaxing his forehead.

  “Found this in my mother’s bathroom,” Candace explained as they walked up to the corner, where Ms. Post, the crossing guard, stood. Ms. Post blew the whistle, and they all walked across the street and to the left, heading down Portal Avenue.

  “Hold up so I can do this,” Candace said. “Can’t walk and lotion at the same time.” The boys held up while Candace pumped the lotion into her hand, jamming the plunger down over and over again until she had enough to turn sidewalk to Slip ’N Slide. “Let’s start with them paws,” she said, reaching out for Gregory’s right hand. She began with his fingertips, then worked her way up, making sure to give extra attention to the webbing in between, which made Gregory snicker. Then on to his wrist, up his forearm, and then she stopped. “Elbows are important.”

  “Elbows?” Gregory was confused.

  “Elbows,” Joey chimed in.

  “You don’t want Sandra thinking your elbows so dry that your arm is going to crack and break in half if you try to hug her, do you?” Candace asked, all kinds of serious.

  “I mean, that wouldn’t happen.” Gregory looked at Joey and Remy. They didn’t say a word, so he repeated himself. “That… wouldn’t happen, right?”

  Joey just dropped his chin. “Wow.”

  “What?” Now Gregory was really confused.

  “ ‘That wouldn’t happen,’ he says,” Remy scoffed. “Did everybody hear that? He said, that wouldn’t happen! Let me tell you something, Gregory Pitts. I’ve heard stories, horror stories, about dry boys who try to be romantic and they end up a pile of paint chips. You don’t want to be paint chips, my brother, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Then let me do my magic on these elbows,” Candace commanded. Then she went to work, first on his right elbow. Circles with center of her palm, then pincher-claw rubs with the tips of her fingers for optimal moisturizing. When his arm was as shiny as Mr. Davanzo’s bald head, she started over, this time with the left hand, fingers, wrist, forearm, and again… elbow.

  “Okay,” Gregory said, pulling away, a little embarrassed by the attention, plus, people were walking by watching Gregory get worked on like some kind of car. But he could feel the difference. His fingers felt like they’d been freed from casts. Lotion. Who knew?

  “Not done yet.” Candace pumped more lotion from the bottle.

  “Not done?” he squawked. “What good is all this if we don’t ever make it to her house?”

  “We will,” Joey assured him.

  “And the real question is, what good is it making it to her house when all she going to do is wonder why your hands and elbows glistening and your face looks like you just got jumped by seventeen giant pieces of chalk and they only gave you head shots?” Remy threw fake punches in the air.

  “Exactly,” Candace said, another glob of lotion piled in her hand. “Come here.” Gregory came a little closer as Candace rubbed her hands together. Then she slapped them on his cheeks. Gregory squirmed, but Candace wouldn’t let up, pressing at his face like she was trying to rub smudges off of fresh sneakers, getting the creases of his nose and the corners of his mouth. Oh, and his earlobes. Even Remy and Joey were a little puzzled by that one, but they figured Candace knew what she was doing.

  A school bus pulled up to the stop sign at that corner. The clack of a window dropping.

  “Hey!” a boy from the bus yelled. Candace, Remy, and Joey turned and looked, but not Gregory. Candace clasped his face in her hands. “You might as well give up. No matter how hard you try, that ug-mug won’t come off!” The boy spoke like his tongue was too big for his mouth, spit flying everywhere.

  “Thank God,” Candace shouted. “Because it might look like yours underneath!”

  “Then we’d really be in trouble!” Remy followed. Joey didn’t say nothing. Just started searching the ground for a rock or something to throw, but the bus moved on.

  Candace brushed it off, then went back to business, rubbing her palm on Gregory’s forehead, polishing it. “There,” she said at last, stepping back, admiring her work. “You look… not bad.” That was as far as she could go. Any compliment more than that was gross.

  “I’m ready?” Gregory asked, eyeing Candace’s backpack nervously.

  “Almost,” Joey said, now unzipping his backpack.

  “What now?” Gregory took two steps backward.

  “Well, here’s the thing. There’s only really one other thing you need to be ready for this. Something for your lips.”

  “What?!” Gregory took two more steps backward.

  “Relax. I’m just saying chapped lips—”

  “Are gross,” Candace finished. “Like… for real.”

  “I mean, seriously, what if we get to her house, you lay it all out on the table about how you feel about her and how you would like to get her phone number and blah, blah, blah, and she says, who cares about a phone number. Give me a kiss.” Joey bounced his eyebrows.

  “Hold on. Just so we clear, she won’t say that,” Candace clarified.

  “How you know?” Remy chimed.

  “Trust me. She won’t. But she might be like oh, he takes care of himself. Maybe one day I’ll give him a kiss.”

  “Your first smooch,” Remy teased like he’d kissed anybody, but he hadn’t.

  “But if your lips look like they look right now, which is white with that weird burn ring around your mouth—” Joey started, but Candace cut him off.

  “Stop licking your lips so much, bro. It’s gross and it makes you smell like spit, which when added to the underarm stench makes you smell like throw up, and as your friend and as a girl who happens to unfortunately like boys, I’m telling you it’s a deal breaker.” Candace’s words sizzled, stung.

  “Wow… thanks for your honesty… I guess,” Gregory said.

  “It’s ’cause I love you,” Candace said, shrugging.

  “So, with that being said…” Joey pulled his hand out of his bag. In it was a ziplock bag of goop. “Got this from my mom’s room. It don’t come like this. I just couldn’t risk taking the whole container out of there, because she would know, and ultimately, murder me. And I don’t wanna die before Gregory gets a kiss.”

  “Or before you get one,” Remy said.

  “Or before you get one,” Joey shot back.

  “Wait. Hold up.” Gregory got back to business. “I gotta use all that?!”

  “No!” From Candace.

  “Noooo!” From Remy.

  “Come on, man,” Joey said with a laugh, pulling the bag open, the scent of menthol wafting out. “Now, this is medicated stuff, so take it easy.”

  “Why? If it’s medicated, then it should be good for me,” Gregory said, dipping his fingers in. And before Joey could reply, Gregory slapped the glob on his mouth and started rubbing it in.

  Joey’s mouth dropped open.

  “What?” Gregory asked, and a nanosecond later said, “Oh.” And then, “Oh… wait. Oh. Ohhh.” He started fanning his mouth with his hand. “It… burns,” he said, his eyes starting to water.

  “What you mean, it burns?” Candace asked, hands on hips.

  “Joey, what you give him?” Remy snatched the bag, scooped out a fingertip of the slime. Sniffed. “Is this… ?” Sniffed again. Held out his finger for Candace to smell. “Is this—”

  “VapoRub?” Candace snatched the bag and took a big huff. It opened her chest immediately. Joey nodded sheepishly.

  “Why would you give him VapoRub?” Remy pretended to slap Joey on the head.

  “We ain’t have Vaseline, but this stuff got Vaseline in it, so I figured it’s basically the same,” Joey explained.

  “Dude, that’s the stuff my mother rubs on me when I’m sick, and it goes into my skin and makes the whole inside of my body cold,” Remy said.

  “And don’t your chest be greasy after she do it?” Joey asked.

  “I mean…”

  “Exactly.” Joey
gave one single hard nod.

  “Not the same, Joey.” Candace’s face was somewhere between amused and annoyed.

  “How was I supposed to know he was gonna treat it like pudding!”

  “Burning, guys. Burning, burning, burning,” Gregory panted. Candace and Remy began fanning Gregory’s mouth too.

  “Just imagine it’s the burning sensation in your heart for Sandra.” Joey pinched the bag closed inch by inch.

  Remy leaned in to Gregory’s ear, almost whispering in a fake hypnotic voice, “Sannnnnndra.” Then, because he couldn’t help it, he added, “Sorry, man.”

  And with that, they continued on, down Portal Avenue, until they got to Rogers Street, the whole way gassing Gregory up, trying to take his mind off his fire lips by telling him how much they believed in him and how Sandra will too.

  “What’s not to love?” Candace said, doing everything she could to keep a straight face. And when they finally got to Sandra’s house, Remy, Joey, and Candace hung back.

  “You ready?” Remy asked Gregory.

  “I… think so,” Gregory said, his lips still tingling. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, walked up the steps to Sandra’s house, rang the doorbell, then ran back down the steps because Candace had been telling him how girls don’t like when you’re all in their space.

  “You don’t gotta be this far away, fool,” she muttered, nudging him forward.

  The door opened. Sandra poked her head out, looking confused. She still had on the sweat shirt she’d worn to school. Light blue. Yellow rectangles. A pattern that through Gregory’s watery eyes (from his burning lips!) looked like a bunch of school buses falling from the sky.

  “Wassup y’all?” she said, cocking her head, clearly trying to figure out what was going on. Gregory said nothing. Just stood there, shiny, shaking.

  “Greg,” Remy prompted, put his hand on Gregory’s back. Another nudge.

  “Greg got something to tell you, Sandra. Right, Greg?” This was from Candace.

  Gregory nodded. Unfolded the paper. Started reading.

  “Sandra, you always get questions right in class, and I think that’s… good. And you never say nothing bad about me, at least not to my face, and so, I just wanted to know if I could have your phone number.”

  Candace looked at Joey. Joey at Remy. Remy at Joey at Candace at Gregory. They couldn’t believe he’d done it. They couldn’t believe he’d just asked her.

  Sandra walked down the steps, came right up on Gregory. Twitched her nose, squinted as if the light bouncing off Gregory’s shiny forehead was blinding her. He kept pursing his lips and blowing.

  “What you doing?” Sandra asked. “You ain’t… trying to blow no kisses, are you?”

  “No, no!” Gregory’s voice jumped an octave. Maybe two. Almost whistle-high. “I wouldn’t… It’s just… um… my lips are burning.”

  “Oh… uh… why?”

  “VapoRub.”

  “Why you put that on your lips?”

  “I don’t… It’s hard to explain.”

  “Why you so greasy?”

  “That’s hard to explain too.”

  “Why you smell like that?”

  “That’s—”

  “Hard to explain?” Sandra finished for him. Gregory nodded. “Can you try?”

  Gregory’s hands started shaking, the paper vibrating like dry leaves in the wind. He looked down and started reading his note of compliments again.

  Halfway through, he glanced up. Sandra was smiling. And Gregory thought maybe it was the kind of smile that came just before laughing.

  Then Gregory thought, But maybe not.

  THE BROOM DOG

  A SCHOOL bus is many things.

  A school bus is a substitute for a limousine. More class. A school bus is a classroom with a substitute teacher. A school bus is the students’ version of a teachers’ lounge. A school bus is the principal’s desk. A school bus is the nurse’s cot. A school bus is an office with all the phones ringing. A school bus is a command center. A school bus is a pillow fort that rolls. A school bus is a tank reshaped—hot dogs and baloney are the same meat. A school bus is a science lab—hot dogs and baloney are the same meat. A school bus is a safe zone. A school bus is a war zone. A school bus is a concert hall. A school bus is a food court. A school bus is a court of law, all judges, all jury. A school bus is a magic show full of disappearing acts. Saw someone in half. Pick a card, any card. Pass it to the person next to you. He like you. She like you. K-i-s-s-i… s-s-i-p-p-i is only funny on a school bus. A school bus is a stage. A school bus is a stage play. A school bus is a spelling bee. A speaking bee. A get your hand out my face bee. A your breath smell like sour turnips bee. A you don’t even know what a turnip is bee. A maybe not, but I know what a turn up is and your breath smell all the way turnt up bee. A school bus is a bumblebee, buzzing around with a bunch of stingers on the inside of it. Windows for wings that flutter up and down like the windows inside Chinese restaurants and post offices in neighborhoods where school buses are spaceships. A school bus is a book of stamps. Passing mail through windows. Notes in the form of candy wrappers telling the street something sweet came by. Notes in the form of sneaky middle fingers. Notes in the form of fingers pointing at the world zooming by. A school bus is a paintbrush painting the world a blurry brushstroke. A school bus is also wet paint. Good for adding an extra coat, but it will dirty you if you lean against it, if you get too comfortable. A school bus is a reclining chair. In the kitchen. Nothing cool about it but makes perfect sense. A school bus is a dirty fridge. A school bus is cheese. A school bus is a ketchup packet with a tiny hole in it. Left on a seat. A plastic fork-knife-spoon. A paper tube around a straw. That straw will puncture the lid on things, make the world drink something with some fizz and fight. Something delightful and uncomfortable. Something that will stain. And cause gas. A school bus is a fast food joint with extra value and no food. Order taken. Take a number. Send a text to the person sitting next you. There is so much trouble to get into. Have you ever thought about opening the back door? My mother not home till five thirty. I can’t. I got dance practice at four. A school bus is a talent show. I got dance practice right now. On this bus. A school bus is a microphone. A beat machine. A recording booth. A school bus is a horn section. A rhythm section. An orchestra pit. A balcony to shoot paper ball three-pointers from. A school bus is a basketball court. A football stadium. A soccer field. Sometimes a boxing ring. A school bus is a movie set. Actors, directors, producers, script. Scenes. Settings. Motivations. Action! Cut. Your fake tears look real. These are real tears. But I thought we were making a comedy. A school bus is a misunderstanding. A school bus is a masterpiece that everyone pretends to understand. A school bus is the mountain range behind Mona Lisa. The Sphinx’s nose. An unknown wonder of the world. An unknown wonder to Canton Post, who heard bus riders talk about their journeys to and from school. But to Canton, a school bus is also a cannonball. A thing that almost destroyed him. Almost made him motherless.

  His mother is the crossing guard at Latimer Middle School and has been the crossing guard there since before he was born. He grew up running around their house wearing her neon vest, blowing her whistle. He learned to say “stop” before he learned to say “potty.” Hand up to halt. Then hand out for the wave-through. To Canton, crossing guards, especially his mother, seemed to have special powers. They were able to stop moving things. Able to slow traffic. Able to make a safe way for people to cross from one side to another. Their vests were like capes, and their whistles blew some kind of magic tone that forced drivers to hit brakes.

  That’s what Canton always thought. Until a year ago when a little blue ball went bouncing off the sidewalk into the street. And a boy, the size of a big baby, named Kenzi Thompson, went running after it. Canton’s mom had turned her back just for a moment, a split second, and by the time she realized what was happening, Kenzi was charging across the crosswalk, a school bus heading right toward him. There wasn’t enough time to
blow the whistle, so Canton’s mother, Ms. Post, went chasing after Kenzi, who, once he realized a bus was coming, froze in the middle of Portal Avenue. The bus hit the brakes. The scream of metal and smoke kicking up from the burning rubber filled the air as Ms. Post threw her entire body into Kenzi, knocking him forward, the bus turning just enough to avoid hitting Kenzi but not enough to avoid slightly bumping her.

  But a slight bump from a bus ain’t so slight.

  But a broken shoulder and a bruised hip is much better than a burial.

  But the whole thing was completely devastating to Canton.

  Canton always waited for his mother after school, killing time by helping Mr. Munch, the custodian, do custodial things. Actually, mostly Canton just sat around the front of the building listening to Mr. Munch complain about things like the school bathrooms.

  “Why can’t y’all hit the toilet, Canton? I mean, the hole is huge and somehow y’all figure out how to get pee all over the seat. All over the floor. All over the walls. How?”

  But on the day Canton’s mother was hit by a bus, the conversation about why kids throw pennies on the floor like pennies don’t spend was cut short by Jasmine Jordan and Terrence Jumper, who came running back into the school screaming about it.

  “Ms. Post got hit by a school bus!” A sentence Canton never expected to hear. Never wanted to hear. And hearing it was like hearing the world’s longest whistle blow, shrill, shredding his eardrums. His skin was crawling, felt like it was changing color, from brown to yellow. School bus yellow. By the time Canton and Mr. Munch got outside, sirens were already blaring down Portal.

  Ms. Post was back to work in a week. Whistle in mouth, vest strapped on, altered only by the sling holding her shoulder in place. She went back to normal. She had to. Said it was just part of the job.

  But not Canton. He didn’t go back to normal.

  The afternoon his mother returned to the corner to guide students across the street, Mr. Munch found Canton in the bathroom after school, sitting on the nasty tile floor in the corner. His head pressed against his knees.