Eb & Flow

FLOW

I don’t hit girls.
I don’t even hit girls… is what I’m thinking
but I musta said it out loud because Mr. Warren,
our bald-headed principal, raises his eyebrows and says,
“You sure about that? Our cameras
show us something very different, De’ Kari.”
“It’s Flow,” I say. I always say it.
“Your name is De’ Kari Flood, and that’s
what I’m calling you,” says Mr. Warren.
Just like everyone else.
I roll my eyes, turn them to my shoes.
New shoes.
Shoes I’ma wear every day till they fall off my feet.

EB
“He called me the b-word.
And it was all just an accident!
Nobody was trying to mess up
his Stupid Ugly Shoes.”
My arms are crossed, and I’m giving Mr. Warren
the same look I seen Ma give my sister, Poke,
when Poke comes at her wrong.
Ma learned The Look from my granny,
who be givin’ it to all of us when we’re wrong.
I’m not tryna be no poet, but
Poke ain’t no Joke.
So she gets The Look a lot.
Guess I do, too.
Few more minutes of this with Mr. Warren,
and then my granny will be on the phone
listening to him tell her
allllllll about
how
Ebony
got to fighting
again.
“So you stepped on his shoes by accident?”
“YES!”
Sometimes I be thinkin’ Mr. Warren
can’t hear that good.
He asks the same questions
over
and over.
“And then he called you a name?”
“The b-word.”
Get it right. Mr. Warren.

“I slapped him in his ugly face.”
Yeah. I slapped him good, too!
Everybody in the lunchroom went
“OOOOOOOH!”
“Then he pushed you?” Mr. Warren asks,
lookin’ all concerned.
“And I pushed him back!” I say.
Loud.
“You seen the video why you wastin’ time asking?”
Mr. Warren ignores my question.
He good at that.
“What happened after you pushed him?”
I let the question
hang.
I glue my hand to my leg to keep from touching
my left cheek, which throbs.
If I wasn’t dark like Milky Way Midnights,
I’d be red right there.
Like that cinnamon gum Poke’s boyfriend loves.

Because that can’t-rap fool, who calls himself Flow,

swung
on
me.

FLOW
Mr. Warren’s the mean principal.
The one giving suspensions out like M&M’s
and making kids go to detention and stuff.
Mr. Porter’s the nice principal who talks
at assemblies and can actually dance.
If you’re student of the week, he buys you lunch, whatever you want.
And if you get on
“Principal Porter’s list,”
there’s a fancy banquet.
I ain’t on
nobody’s list,
and I don’t care.
Except…Mr. Warren pulls up my grades,
tells me I’m close.
Close to having them add my name to a list
but which one
is up
to me

EB
Third suspension of seventh grade.
Eighth since I been at Brookside Junior High.
Mr. Warren tells me this like I don’t know.
It’s a lot.
So?
Maybe if people stop messin’ with me…
“Did you apologize?”
“Huh?”
“You said it was an accident,” Mr. Warren says.
He leans forward. “Did you apologize to De Kari
for stepping on his shoes?”
“Yeah,” I say,
rolling my eyes…and the lie.

FLOW
“How come you didn’t get an adult?”
They always ask this.
C’mon, man. You got “war” in your name.
Don’t act like
You
Don’t
Know.
That’s what my shrug says.
“Look at me,” Mr. Warren says.
“Real men look eye to eye.”
I glare at him. Silent.
Oh yeah?
A real man also don’t get punked by no stupid girl.
I got scratches on the side of my face from that girl!
“Y’all gotta learn how to let stuff go.”
My brain screams,
That’s the problem, Mr. Warren!
Everything I have,
everything I love
already goes.