Black Boy Joy Read online

  “Are you sure you’re Cornell and not some sneak thief coming for my gold?”

  “The only gold you have is your tooth.”

  “Well, I definitely ain’t letting you in, then. Because if you a sneak thief, how I’m supposed to chew?”

  It was silly, and didn’t make a lot of sense, but they’d been doing it since Cornell was four years old, and it still felt a little funny. Cornell knew it wasn’t something they’d do forever. But it was fine for now, and that was okay.

  Cornell turned the knob, stepped inside, and immediately began coughing. His eyes burned. What was happening?

  “Close that there door for me, Nelly.”

  Cornell cupped his hand over his nose and mouth. “Are you sure?”

  “Yep. Need your opinion on something.”

  Sealing them in, Cornell adjusted to the weird scent his brain identified as spicy lemon juice ocean water.

  Pop-Pop said, “I got Bible study tonight and Miss Felicia down at the church sent me one of them text messagings with a winky face saying she liked the cologne I had on the other Sunday. Thing is I switch it up every Sunday because you got to be unpredictable.” He motioned to a silver tray on his dresser that was jam-packed with half-drained cologne bottles. “Remember that, Cornell. Never let ’em see you comin’!”

  “Who?”

  “So Miss Felicia missed a couple of Sundays ’cause she was visiting her grandkids down in Florida. And I’m so unpredictable, I done went and fooled myself. I don’t remember exactly which one I was wearing last time I saw her.”

  Pop-Pop held two fancy colognes for Cornell to see. One in murky blue glass shaped like a seashell. The other in a smoke gray bottle that looked like a test tube. Pop-Pop spritzed both nozzles at the same time and Cornell flinched away like bugs do when you shoot them with bug spray.

  “Which one you like best?”

  Cornell gagged. “Neither.”

  “Boy! This ain’t no time to be joking around.”

  “I just started wearing deodorant last month, Pop-Pop.”

  Pop-Pop narrowed his eyes, nodding. “I s’pose you have a point. You don’t know what you don’t know. I’mma get you started with a Tommy Bahama gift set from down at the CVS for your birthday, though. Every man needs a supply of Smell Goods. You hear me?”

  “I hear you, Pop-Pop. Can I ask you about something?”

  “Always.”

  “Okay…” Cornell recapped what he was facing in his superhero fight tomorrow, what he and Carter discussed, and how the discussion with Raven—who was very smart and pretty, the more Cornell thought about it—was better than the discussion with Carter, then what he and Dad discussed about Pop-Pop taking him and Grandma to see movies about Black heroes when Dad was a kid. Cornell finished with, “I wanna know who you think the best heroes are.”

  “Well,” Pop-Pop said, leaning back in his chair, really thinking it over, “the ultimate superhero is the Lord.”

  Cornell blinked.

  Pop-Pop scratched at his beard. “S’pose that wouldn’t be a fair fight, now would it? Hmmm. Explain this here debate to me again.”

  “I’ve got two potential picks—one from Raven, one from Dad. I need a third.”

  “I’ve always been partial to John Shaft.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s a complicated man. No one understands him like his woman!”

  The way Pop-Pop said it, Cornell figured it was supposed to mean something more than what it sounded like. Maybe?

  Pop-Pop huffed. “You kids today, I swear. That line is from Shaft’s theme song. The man had his own song, Nelly.”

  “That sounds cool.”

  “It was. Coolest thing ever. Look. When I was growing up you didn’t see a lot of us in the pictures. Then, in the 1970s, Black filmmakers decided enough of that, we gon’ be the stars of our own movies, and they made a bunch where we were detectives, and kung fu masters, and even vampires!”

  “Vampires?” That sounded even cooler.

  “Now, some of them movies were better than others, but people who name stuff named them all ‘blaxploitation’ films. And, for my money, Shaft was king of the blaxploitation bunch. Way better than them Captain Spider-Hulks y’all mess with. Such a shame you never really got to know your grandma. On our first date she picked the movie. Shaft in Africa.”

  Cornell perked. “He’s a king from Africa? Like Black Panther?”

  “We all are!”

  Cornell got his list out, added to it.

  **Batman (perma-banned)**

  Spider-Man Silk

  Captain America

  Superman

  War Machine

  Wonder Woman Nubia

  Thor

  Iron Man Riri/Ironheart

  The Hulk She-Hulk

  The Winter Soldier

  The Flash

  Wolverine X-23

  Doctor Strange

  Thanos

  Black Panther Shuri

  Kazaam???

  Meteor Man

  Blankman

  John Shaft

  Pop-Pop said, “Back in the day, the best cologne was a brand known as Hai Karate. I bet that’s what John Shaft wore. They stopped making it about forty years ago, but I’ve saved the last little bit I had for a special occasion.”

  He rummaged through his dozens of cologne bottles and retrieved one that was green and glowing like the plutonium stick on The Simpsons. “Wanna smell it?”

  Cornell had already flung Pop-Pop’s door open and was halfway down the hall. “Maybe later. Gotta put my team together.”

  A daring escape. Made in just the nick of time.

  * * *

  That evening, when Mom called for family FaceTime, Raven had gone home, Dad had showered, and Pop-Pop had just a few minutes before he had to leave for Bible study. All four of the Curry men gathered around Dad’s iPad for a view of Mom’s face as it filled the screen.

  “All my fellas. Hey there!” she said.

  They sounded off. All glad to see her. Cornell hadn’t talked to the others much about it, but he missed her a bunch when she went out of town.

  “How’s the shoot going?” Dad asked.

  “Fantastic,” Mom said. “Might be the best adaptation of my work yet.”

  Mom’s job was writing mystery books. So far, Hollywood had made three movies based on them. She was visiting the set of the fourth. She asked, “What have y’all been up to?”

  Everyone told a messy, pieced together version of helping Cornell with his superhero team.

  Mom nodded through the explanation. “Okay. Cornell, have you settled on your heroes?”

  The truth was he’d wanted to ask Mom first. She had the best imagination in the house, knew all kinds of stuff about comics, books, movies, songs, history, science…everything. Dad always said Cornell and Carter were lucky because they got half their genes from a genius, and the other half from him. Cornell hadn’t wanted to bother her on her movie set, though.

  But since she’d asked…

  “I’m close,” Cornell said. “Do you have any ideas?”

  “Sort of. Why don’t you make up your own heroes?”

  “I—” The thought stunned him. “I think that’s against the rules.”

  “I used to think that too, sweetie. Then I did it anyway.”

  Someone on Mom’s side of the call yelled, “Janice, you got a moment? Mr. Peele wants to discuss some script changes with you.”

  Mom spoke over her shoulder. “Be right there.” Then, to her fellas, she said, “I gotta run. I’ll call back if it’s not too late. Love y’all.”

  “We love you too,” they said together like they’d rehearsed. Dad’s iPad reverted to the Washington Wizards home screen a
nd the call crowd dispersed.

  Carter got a text from Raven and ran upstairs goofy-grinning. Dad heard the guest bathroom toilet running and went to investigate because he might have to hit Home Depot. Pop-Pop rolled out because he didn’t want to keep Miss Felicia waiting.

  Cornell remained alone at the counter with his list. Thinking. About what he might do anyway.

  * * *

  The next day Cornell boarded his bus, ignoring Tobin’s taunting “I hope you’re ready.”

  Cornell felt good about it. He had his team picked, plus some extras.

  Amaya, with her hair in ribbons, smiled when he passed. He took the seat behind her and said, “Hey.”

  She twisted so they were eye to eye, looking somewhat surprised. “Hey.”

  “I wanna show you something.” Cornell unfolded a sheet of paper for her to see. Not the list—he was kinda over that—but a drawing. He was a decent artist, and after talking to Mom, he thought about what a cool hero of his own design might look like.

  Amaya gawked, then snatched the paper. “Oh my goodness.”

  It was a hero named Fan Girl, who wore Amaya’s favorite color—red, Cornell had noticed—and had her same long hair, with a matching mask and cape.

  “She looks like me,” Amaya said, amazed.

  Cornell grinned the grin he’d seen Carter practicing, laughed like his father, trusted that the single spritz of Pop-Pop’s cologne (not Hai Karate) was just enough, and let her in on the secret his mom told him. “Apparently, that’s a thing we can do. I thought you should know!”

  As the bus pulled away from the curb, Cornell Curry felt like a winner. And the day was only going to get better.

  THE McCOY GAME

  BY B. B. ALSTON

  Ma steers the truck off the dirt road, parking in a grassy field. She takes a hard look at Uncle Ray’s cherry red Corvette up ahead and rolls her eyes. “This must be the place.”

  I press my face to the passenger-side window and frown. All these years, and Big Mac never said anything about having a whole extra house in the middle of nowhere. If you can even call it a house—it’s more like a small mansion. Type of place where fancy people live.

  Which didn’t exactly describe my grandad.

  But I’m not that surprised. Nobody in the family was, not really. Old dude loved his secrets. Almost as much as he loved calling me “youngin” whenever the family got together.

  Ma just shakes her head. “I don’t care what your grandaddy said in that letter, Jamal, I don’t like the idea of you going in there alone.”

  I shrug. “Dre will be there too.”

  “You mean the cousin who was your best friend in the world and now y’all act like strangers? That Dre?”

  I blow out a sigh. “Ma, it’s complicated.” I’m tempted to remind her that she and Dre’s dad, my uncle Ray, don’t get along either, but last time I did that Ma went on and on about how I need to stay out of grown folks’ business.

  “You’d rather let Dre and Uncle Ray have the house?” I say instead. “They don’t even need another place. Just don’t want us getting it.”

  She frowns at that. Didn’t think so.

  “Well, I’m gonna head inside,” I say quickly.

  Ma just nods. “I’ll be right here. Call if you need me.”

  The midsummer heat swallows me up as soon as I leave the truck. Even in the shade of the few trees between the road and the house, the heated breeze is like a blow-dryer pointed directly in my face. By the time I jog up to the front door, I’m already sweating.

  The door swings open before I can knock.

  “Took you long enough.” Dre towers over me in the doorway. He’s the tallest kid at our middle school, taller even than Uncle Ray, who used to hoop professionally overseas. If today were any other Saturday, Dre would be playing in some AAU tournament—competing against the best high school ballers in the state. He’s that good.

  But Big Mac’s funeral was a few weeks back. And Dre got handed the same black envelope that I did. There was a letter inside:

  Jamal—

  Look at all these people carrying on like I’m really dead. They must not know our secret, huh? McCoys don’t die!

  Hope you still remember what I taught you about reading coordinates because I got a surprise for ya! You and your cousin should come and see for yourself. ALONE!

  I’m putting the key to all my secrets in y’all’s hands.

  —Big Mac

  The coordinates were written on the back. Folks laughed when we showed them the letters Grandad sent. Typical Big Mac always playing his pranks, they said. Even Ma shook her head and grinned. “That’s my daddy, always got to have the last laugh.”

  That laughter got quiet after I tracked the coordinates to an old house way out in the country listed under Grandad’s government name: Gerald McCoy. And then things really got interesting the following week when the guy reading the will said the property could only be inherited by one of his grandkids, and only if all of the requirements are fulfilled.

  One of his grandkids.

  But while everybody else is worried about how much the house might be worth, I’ve been thinking about what Big Mac said in that letter. McCoys don’t die…Which, I know, sounds impossible, but if you ever spent a summer with Big Mac, you’d know “impossible” wasn’t a word he believed in. I can’t help wondering if the house isn’t the real surprise—maybe he’s still alive somehow.

  “You going to let me in or what?” I say, pushing past Dre into the small entryway of the house. Two more large wooden doors block the rest of the way. I reach for the knobs.

  “Already tried it,” says Dre. “Locked.”

  “Well, there’s got to be some way in.” I scan the space until I find a small sign that reads keys above an empty key rack. Just below it sits a pile of rusted metal parts.

  I’m about to turn back to the door when I notice a button on one of the metal pieces. I lean in closer. Big Mac always said, “You’re either a doer, or a spectator. And the world already got enough spectators.” So I reach out and press the button. I mean, what’s the worst that could—

  The stack of metal moves and I stumble backward into Dre.

  “Ay! Watch where you going,” he grumbles and shoves me away. We glare at each other until a loud whirring sound gets our attention. Those rusted pieces begin to shift and spin until they’ve rearranged themselves into a short robot with glowing silver eyes. “KEY DROID OPERATIONAL…”

  I glance back at Dre, slack-jawed. He shrugs.

  “I ASSUME YOU TWO ARE JAMAL AND ANDRE?” the robot squeaks.

  “Y-Yeah, that’s us,” Dre stutters. “The heck you supposed to be?”

  The robot rolls its silver eyes. “HAVE YOU REALLY NEVER SEEN A KEY DROID BEFORE?”

  “Um, I’m gonna say nah…,” I reply.

  “WELL, IT’S REALLY SELF-EXPLANATORY, ISN’T IT? A KEY DROID OPENS DOORS…I DARESAY IF YOU FIND ME CONFUSING, YOU’RE IN FOR QUITE A SHOCK…”

  Dre and I just stare at the thing. Are we really talking to an actual robot right now?

  “OH BOY. I’M IN FOR A LONG AFTERNOON, AREN’T I?” The key droid waddles past us to the locked door and extends a finger that also happens to be a small key. The droid pushes it into the lock and two clicks later the large door creaks open.

  The great room beyond is huge, like huge huge. The polished hardwood floors shine even in the dim light, and tall, very old-looking paintings hang from the walls. Rising from the center of the room are twin staircases that bend away from each other and meet on a higher floor, overlooking where we’re standing.

  But nice as all that might be, it’s not what holds my attention. The ceiling overhead is covered in twinkling white shimmers, like a starry night sky. A great big fireball burns ferociously in midair while golden spheres zip
around orbits and burning meteors streak across the room. It’s incredible….

  “It’s a model of the solar system,” says Dre. “Those gold orbs are the planets, and see that cloud of dust floating between Mars and Jupiter? I bet that’s supposed to be the asteroid belt…”

  “AH, SO YOU DO KNOW SOMETHING!” the key droid exclaims. “I REALLY WAS BEGINNING TO QUESTION THE OLD MAN’S JUDGMENT. HONESTLY, TO NOT EVEN KNOW WHAT A KEY DROID IS…”

  “Man, Big Mac loved anything to do with outer space,” I say. He taught Dre and me to care about it too. Each summer we’d spend at his trailer, he’d take us outside whenever the night was clear and we’d stare up at the stars. And then he’d tell us stories about all the crazy made-up space missions he’d had when he was younger. Those tales were wild enough to be a Netflix series.

  “Old dude had to be sitting on some serious cash for a room like this,” says Dre.

  “See, I knew that’s all you cared about. You didn’t even spend last summer with Grandad. Shouldn’t even be here.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” says Dre. “You just worry about yourself.” He turns to the droid. “So how we doing this? Deciding who gets the house, I mean.”

  “IT’S SIMPLE,” the key droid explains, pointing to the opposite side of the room. “WHOEVER PASSES THROUGH THAT GOLDEN DOOR INHERITS THE HOUSE.”

  Dre and I both take a long look at the golden door at the back of the great room—and the oversized keyhole at its center.

  “Is Grandad behind that door?” I promise I didn’t mean to say that out loud.

  Dre bursts out laughing. “You really dumb as you look, aren’t you? What you think the funeral was for? The old man is gone.”

  I ball my fists. “Call me dumb again!”

  “Or what?” Dre taunts.

  “SAVE YOUR ENERGY!” shouts the key droid, shutting us both up. “NOW THEN, SHOULD WE HAVE A LOOK AT THE GOLDEN DOOR OR WOULD YOU RATHER COMPETE FOR A KEY?”

  “That key is about to be mine,” says Dre. “Lead the way, metal dude.”