Stop making fart noises.
Stop dancing.
Stop dancing… like that.
Stop rapping.
Stop singing.
Stop laughing.
Stop acting like children, children.
“Mr. Cross, Mr. Thompson was just on your back yelling yee-haw while circling his arm in the air as if winding an imaginary lasso.” Ms. Wockley demonstrated, and it took everything in both boys to not crack up.
“That’s just how he talks!” Simeon said.
“I’m going to say this to you for the thousandth time,” Ms. Wockley steamed. “All feet should be—and stay firmly—on the ground.”
“But what about Pia Foster? Her feet be on a skateboard.” This, from Kenzi. It wasn’t snitching because everybody knew Pia skated through school. The one time anyone had ever seen Simeon hurt was when Pia skated over his foot.
“And I’ve told her not to do that, but we’re not talking about Ms. Foster, are we? No. We’re talking about you two.” Ms. Wockley folded her arms. “I’ve given you so many warnings, and you don’t seem to take me seriously, so—”
“Wait, wait, wait. Before you write us up, I think it’s important that we at least let you know why we do it.”
Ms. Wockley sighed. She’d heard their excuse—different versions of it—time and time again, but they were always so entertaining that she was game to hear it once more.
“See, here’s the thing, Wockley Broccoli. Can I call you that?” Simeon asked.
“No.”
“Got it. Here’s the thing. Kenzi here got a big heart. But that big heart happens to be in a small body. Now, I don’t know about you, but I would hate for that heart to be broken because that body was knocked around. That would be a tragesty.”
“Travesty,” Kenzi corrected him.
“Travesty,” Simeon repeated. “And so because I love Kenzi, I protect him. I make sure he can maneuver down these busy hallways without worrying about anything. I’m basically his bodyguard.”
“Tell me something, Mr. Cross. How exactly does Mr. Thompson get from class to class during the day when he’s not with you?” Simeon knew this was a setup.
“I know where you going with this, and I don’t know because I’m not with him, Ms. Wockley. But I can only imagine how scary it must be.” Simeon put his arm around Kenzi. Kenzi turned his face into a puppy’s.
“Is that true, Mr. Thompson, that the hallways are scary for you?”
“Oh, Ms. Wockley, you got no idea. Just the other day Joey Santiago didn’t see me standing behind him and just backed me into my locker.”
“Like… backed him all the way into it. As in his whole body was in—”
“I understand what he’s saying, Mr. Cross. He has a mouth.”
“Exactly, he does have a mouth.” Simeon was right there with her. “He also has arms and legs. Feet and hands. And in the same way you don’t want him silenced, you also don’t want him invisible, do you?”
“Yeah, you don’t want me to be invisible, do you, Ms. Wockley?”
Ms. Wockley’s tight face was still tight, but a little less tight than it was when Kenzi and Simeon had gotten caught—pulled over—by her.
“If I could just make one more point, Ms. Wockley—”
She cut Simeon off. “You can’t. Please just go home and come back tomorrow ready to follow the rules.” Ms. Wockley marched off, the sound of her chunky heels clacking loudly. She turned and added, “When you two grow up, I really hope you become more than horse and jockey, because people lose a lot of money betting on horse races.”
“Not if they bet on us,” Simeon zapped right back at her.
“Plus, I want to be a lawyer,” Kenzi said, trying to control the sting in his throat. “Because they’re smart and they know stuff like… jockeys don’t say yee-haw. Cowboys do.”
3. Getting to the neighborhood.
Outside was what outside always was—a spill-out of inside. It was like the main hallway was the river that led into the ocean of backpacks, ball caps, and braids. Energy and engines roaring the roar of school is finally over.
“Yo, you got old Wocka Wocka outta here with that cowboy line. Plus, I ain’t no horse. I’m a friend. Your brother,” Simeon said to Kenzi as they walked up to the corner. Ms. Post, the crossing guard, was standing there with her arms out.
“Hey, boys,” she said. Kenzi leaned in for a hug.
“Hey, Ms. Post.” That hug happened every day between Kenzi and the crossing guard. A walking ritual.
“Staying out of trouble?” she asked.
“Of course,” Simeon said. “Matter of fact, I’m going home to do my homework. Because we have homework. Not sure Canton here told you this or not, but there’s homework.”
Canton was Ms. Post’s son. He was sitting leaning against the stop sign on the corner waiting for her, like he did every day. Canton just shook his head, paying the big guy no mind because everyone was used to him being silly.
“And what about you, little man?” Ms. Post addressed Kenzi. “Staying out the street?”
“Trying,” Kenzi followed, holding the blue ball up, as if she could look into it and see the day’s behavior.
“What about you?” Simeon now asked Ms. Post, who had put a hand up to signal for other walkers to hold tight on the corner and wait for her whistle.
“Best I can,” she replied, popping the silver tweeter in her mouth and stepping back off the curb.
“Catch you tomorrow, Ms. Post,” Kenzi said, waving as he and Simeon turned right. Most walkers walked to the left down Portal Avenue toward some of the other neighborhoods, but to the right—up Portal Ave.—is where Chestnut Homes were. Where Simeon and Kenzi lived. It took no time, because there were very few of their classmates going that way. And the ones who actually lived there didn’t walk there. So the path was clear, laid out for Simeon the Grand and Kenzi the Great, like a runway to their kingdom. A kingdom where carrying a person on your back was allowed. Encouraged, even. A kingdom where kings are throned and dethroned daily. Where the crown jewels get dropped down sewers and flushed down toilets. A kingdom full of princes, like Kenzi and Simeon, princes no one ever bet on anyway.
“Anyway, like I was saying. We family.” Simeon nailed down what he was going on about before they stopped to talk to Ms. Post.
“Exactly. You my brother,” Kenzi confirmed, bouncing the blue ball as they approached Chestnut Street.
The way Kenzi and Simeon thought about it, Chestnut Street is a paradise. Light poles are like palm trees, bus stop benches like hammocks, and corner stores like island bungalows.
There’s a smell in the air. A mix of exhaust and exhaustion. Also cooked food and cooked hair.
There’s a feel in the air. A stickiness like walking through an invisible syrup. A thickness to life.
There’s a sound in the air. A shrill and chill. The scream and whisper of the world making a symphony of so good and so what. Also, the sound of Kenzi and Simeon, their voices still young, still sweet like flutes cutting through.
Most people tighten up when they walk down Chestnut. Tuck tails and tuck chains. But for Kenzo and Simeon, this was where they could let loose. Where they could run and slap the street signs pretending to dunk. Where they could stand on the blue mailboxes like pedestals or see who could balance the longest on the tip-top of a fire hydrant. Where they could open random doors of random shops and speak to the owners—Mrs. Wilson’s beauty supply store (Tell your mama I got new wigs!) or Mr. Chase’s hardware store (Your daddy get the sink to stop leaking yet?) or Sue, who owned the Chinese restaurant and was always too busy to speak to them. But nowhere was better than Fredo’s.