Ship of Souls

What do you think, D? Are you ready to go?”
    And that’s how I came to live with Mrs. Martin. Things were pretty good at first. I never had a grandmother before, but Mrs. Martin was just how I imagined a grandma to be. She cooked my favorite meals, baked cookies for me to have when I got home from school, and she even gave me an allowance! In exchange all I had to do was act grateful, and that wasn’t hard because I was grateful. Sometimes I’d think about Jimmy and wonder if he was still waiting for another foster home. There was no way I was going to give Mrs. Martin any reason to send me back. I wasn’t just good—I was better than good. I became Perfect-me, the best possible version of my true self.
    Then one day Ms. Ward came to visit us, and she mentioned a newborn baby who’d been abandoned by her crack addict mother. Mrs. Martin had been wanting to foster a little girl, so I guess she thought this was her chance. Ms. Ward came back the next day with a tiny little baby who makes a whole lot of noise. Her name’s Mercy, and it’s not really her fault. She was born addicted to the same stuff her mother was on. She’s going though withdrawal, and that means she needs a lot of time and attention. Not even Perfect-me can compete with a sad little crack baby, so I just plug my ears and try to help out with all the household stuff that Mrs. Martin no longer has time to do.
    I don’t mind going to the store on my own. Truth is, I prefer it. Somehow Mrs. Martin never heard of “white flight.” When all her white friends left because black people started moving into the neighborhood, Mrs. Martin just stayed put. Now she’s the minority, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. Where I live now is a lot like where I used to live before, except people sometimes look at me funny when I go out with Mrs. Martin. Everyone knows a black boy like me doesn’t belong with an old white lady like her. But it wasn’t like there was a line of black folks waiting outside of Children’s Services. None of them came forward when I needed a home, so I don’t need their fake concern now.

3.
    M y new school is about the same as my old school. Ms. Ward, my caseworker, made sure the principal knew I was a “special case,” and so all my teachers treat me that way. They know I’m a foster kid, but I don’t have to be Perfect-me at school. Just being quiet and smart’s enough.
    To the other kids, I’m no one worth noticing. I didn’t have a lot of friends at my old school since I was only there a couple of months, and I probably won’t have many friends here, either. I joined the math club because the coach invited me, and it’d be rude to say, “I’d rather be alone.” I like numbers because they’re constant. Predictable. Some numbers even go on into infinity. Numbers aren’t like people.
    On Monday during math club, a tall black man wearing a kufi comes into our room. He has a winter coat on, but it’s unzipped so I can see the gold embroidery on the front of his long blue shirt. Mr. Powell goes over to talk to the man, and after a few moments he turns and points to me. Then he says, “D, could you come over here for a minute?”
    As always, I do as I’m told. “Yes, Mr. Powell?”
    “D, this is Mr. Diallo. He’s looking for someone to tutor his son in math. The job pays ten dollars an hour. You interested?”
    “Sure,” I say, nice and calm like I make that kind of money all the time. “When do I start?”
    “As soon as possible,” says Mr. Diallo. “I brought my son—he’s waiting outside.”
    All three of us go out into the hallway. A tall kid in a red hoodie is leaning against the lockers. His back is to us, and that seems to anger Mr. Diallo.
    “Hakeem!”
    The kid throws a sullen look over his shoulder but says nothing. The hood partly hides his face, but I know this kid. He’s a star athlete who just happens to be two grades ahead of me. He’s in the regular middle school that shares the building with my magnet school.
    “I am talking to you, Hakeem. Show respect!” Mr. Diallo’s voice booms down the empty hallway. “And take off that hood—you look like a criminal.”
    Keem Diallo rolls over so that his back is pressed against the lockers. He pulls the hood off his head, and I see he’s wearing a kufi, too. I’ve seen Keem around school, and he never had a kufi on then. Keem sweeps his eyes over me but doesn’t say a word.
    Mr. Diallo turns his attention back to me. “My son has