When I Was the Greatest (8 page)

I knew that this had nothing to do with Tasha liking Needles, or wanting him there. She was banking on us backing down, because she figured there was no way we would show up to a MoMo party with Needles. I wanted to look
cool, and Noodles definitely wanted to look cool, and Tasha knew we would think we wouldn't look as cool showing up with Needles. It's messed up, but it's true. This was about her tricking us into not coming. Luckily, Doris taught me to always stay a step ahead.

“Cool. We'll be there,” I said, calling her bluff.

I could feel Noodles on me, glaring at me hard enough to cave in my chest. I could feel Needles as well, wanting to cheese, but trying hard not to.

Tasha stared me down. She didn't think I meant it. Either that, or she was sure that Noodles wouldn't allow it, or I would lose my nuts and steer clear of trouble. And that would've normally been the case, but this was a pretty big deal. This was a MoMo party.

“When is it?” I asked. Noodles had totally backed out of the conversation at this point. I could smell his panic.

“Wednesday night. Eight, until. He likes to start early.”

“Wednesday night?” I asked. I couldn't believe it was on a Wednesday. Who has parties on Wednesdays? They're supposed to be on weekends. “No sweat,” I said, trying to recover.

Tasha stood there with “Are you serious?” smeared across her face. I guess she was waiting for me to yell “Sike!” and then we'd all laugh about it. But I didn't. Once she realized I wasn't going to back down, she just walked away. No good-bye, no see y'all later, no nothing. She just left, almost as if she was in some sort of trance—a she-just-couldn't-believe I-on-behalf-of-the-three-of-us-agreed-to-bring-Needles-to-a-MoMo-party trance.

5

Huge. Major. Insane. Supreme. Mega. Ultra.

“Bro, this is ginormous! Next-level large!” I said as soon as Tasha was far enough away, trying to use every word I could think of to convince Noodles that we had made the right decision. “I'm talking, freakin' Juggernaut!”

Noodles looked at me crazy. I figured throwing in a comic book character was worth a shot. I almost wanted to say, “Come on, bro, the X-Men would do it,” but I knew that would be pushing it. I was trying anything to convince him of how great this was—a MoMo party, and all we had to do was bring Needles. Nothing to it.

“What if he starts spazzing?” Noodles asked, giving me a dark look. We were still sitting on the stoop. Well, this was uncomfortable—Needles was sitting right there! Second step from the top. A few inches away from us.

“I won't,” Needles said lightly. Thankfully, he seemed totally unfazed.

“How you know you won't? You don't even know that,” Noodles said, cold. Real cold.

“Because I won't. I just know, man.” He looked over at me, his eyes bugging, begging me to bail him out. “Ali . . .”

“Because it's a party, Nood. Everybody will be partying and dancing and drinking,” I cut in. “Ain't nobody gonna be worried about none of us. Period.”

Noodles clearly wanted to talk to me alone about the whole situation, so he made up an excuse to go inside, telling Needles that we were just going up to their apartment to get something to drink, while giving me the signal to play along.

“Yeah, man, you want me to bring you something out? It's hot,” I said, trying to act normal.

Needles said he was fine, and then I realized that he had to have known we were lying because, long as I've known them, they've never had anything to drink in their house. Never. Except water. New York City's finest. And Needles knows Noodles don't drink water.

Their place was nothing like mine. There was no Jazz yapping on the phone to her girlfriends, convincing them not to have crushes on her older brother—me. No Doris at the kitchen sink covered in hard work. No pictures of old times and kids, bucktoothed cheesing. No boxing trophies (just for participating in Malloy's training, not for actually fighting and winning). None of that. Noodles and Needles's apartment was cold. Not cold like the temperature cold, but cold like the feeling cold. Like there was no life there. Like there was just a sad vibe all around. The air was thick and musty.
It was hard to breathe in there sometimes, especially on a hot day like that one. The paint was peeling off the wall. It kinda reminded me of a snake shedding its skin, but there wasn't nothing new underneath.

Whenever I came over, we never went to their room. We just stayed in the front and sat at an old card table they had set up in the middle of the living room. It was just big enough to fit a small TV on it and a few plates, but their apartment didn't exactly seem like a “sit at the table and eat” kind of place. The TV was connected to an orange extension cord that was plugged in on the other side of the room. It was on when we came in. A snowy Channel 1 News talked about something bad that they were being overdramatic about.

I've only seen Noodles and Needles's mother a few times. I don't really know what to say about her—plus, I don't like talking about folks' moms. All I know is, most of the time she's not there.

I assumed she was gone as usual, but then I started smelling smoke coming from the back.

“Roland, somebody here with you?” Her voice, rough but still sweet, came down the hall. It's always weird when I hear anyone call Noodles by his government name, Roland.

“Yeah, it's just Ali,” Noodles mumbled, shaking his head.

“Oh. Hi, Ali.”

“Hi, Ms. Janice.” She made me call her Ms. Janice. Actually, she'd prefer just Janice, but I always called her “Ms.” just because you never know when Doris might pop up, and she ain't play calling elders just by their first names. Ms. Janice
didn't seem to mind the “Ms.” as long as I didn't call her Ms. James, which was her last name, or “ma'am.”

“Roland, come close my door,” she said, coughing. Noodles disappeared into the smoky hallway. I peeked around the corner. I could see a mattress on the floor and brown skin, but I couldn't make out what part of her body it was. Then I sat down on a fold-up chair with the plastic torn off the seat part, so the yellow foam stuffing was out. The foam had gotten pretty nasty from all the butts that had sat on it.

I heard Noodles's mother's bedroom door click shut. Then I heard another door open. Noodles was digging around for something. A few seconds later I heard that door shut, and Noodles reappeared from the hallway. I don't even know how he could breathe with all the smoke back there, but I guess he was just used to it. He was holding a loose page of a comic book. Just like the first day I'd seen him. The colors were bright, and the edges were raggedy from the tear. He sat down on the other chair and pulled up to the card table. Then Noodles reached over and turned the TV off.

“What's that one?” I asked, nodding at the comic.

“Spawn,” he said, all serious. “Black superhero. Don't take no BS.”

He dug down in his pocket and wiggled out the mini notepad. He flipped through the sketched pages until he found where he had tucked another folded-up comic book page. He took the tightly folded rectangle from the notepad and set it on the table, and judging by the little bits of
cartoony blue and gray, it looked like Batman, but I wasn't sure. Then he started to fold up the Spawn comic as a replacement.

“Yo, so about Needles,” he reminded me. “Are you crazy? I just don't think it's a good look, man. You know how he is.” We plucked the folded Batman square back and forth—a lazy game of table football.

“He'll be fine, Nood. He's not dumb. The syndrome don't mean he's nuts. Just different, but not really even that much different.” I couldn't figure out a better way to explain it.

Noodles put one hand on top of his head. He scratched it only when he was about to speak.

“I guess you're right.” He dug his fingers into his scalp and conceded. “And it is a big deal. A MoMo party.” His turn to pluck.

“Right. It'll be good for him too,” I said, still trying to justify Needles coming with us. But I really did believe that he'd be fine and that it was no big deal. Needles had his yarn, so he won't be shouting nothing, and even if he did, the music would be so loud, no one would even care. Not to mention, Needles is such a shy dude, I figured he'd most likely find a corner to sit in and knit while Noodles and I scope the scene.

“Yeah, maybe you right.”

“Needles might find him a pretty lady. Who knows?”

“To do what with, knit?”

“To knit for. And to kick raps about!”

We both laughed.

“So we in?”

Noodles nodded while still scratching his head. “Yeah, we in.”

The fridge buzzed like there was a beehive in the freezer. And something was clicking. Not sure what. Then there was a bunch of horn honking coming from right in front of the house. Noodles and I got up to see what the fuss was, but before we could get to the window, Ms. Janice came dashing from the back, tugging at her shirt and buttoning her skintight pants. She carried a purse in one hand and an overnight duffel bag in the other.

“Aight, Roland, I'm off to work,” she said, scrambling around. She looked good but not good for a young woman, if that makes sense. “See y'all tomorrow.”

Noodles didn't say nothing.

“Bye, Ms. Janice,” I said to make it less awkward.

Her heels clicked on the wooden hall floor, out the door, and down the steps.

Me and Noodles watched out the window as she ran down the stoop, passed Needles, and into the black cab. She didn't even acknowledge him. I didn't say nothing. I never asked what work she was going to do because it was none of my business, and honestly, whatever it was, Noodles didn't seem like he liked it, which means he probably wouldn't want to talk about it.

Once the cab pulled off, we went back downstairs.

“Yo, Needles,” Noodles said in his usual gruff tone as soon as we got to the stoop, “you partying with us or what?”

Good enough, I thought. Actually, I was pretty psyched
because since Noodles asked, that meant he was now totally into the whole idea.

Needles smiled, and ticked a little, his left arm jerking just enough for the yarn to slip off the needle. “Sure, guys, I'm down”—he paused, then smiled and continued—“like the ground, from here to downtown.” Then he let out an “Ohhhhhhhh!” He was his own biggest fan.

I felt good. I felt like, somehow, we all were winning.

Now came the next problem. The party was only three days away, and the trickiest part about it was figuring out what we were going to wear, how we were going to look. I mean, it's not like we're girls or nothin', primping in front of the mirror for hours, but like I said, this was a big deal.

The issue was, Needles was sixteen, almost seventeen, and Noodles and I was fifteen going on sixteen. But MoMo was twenty going on thirty; his party was going to be jam-packed with a bunch of folks who broke out their best fits to show off. People were probably going to rent cars and spend a few hundred dollars on a slick pair of shoes. Every dude was going to have a haircut so fresh that he was still going to smell like the oil and the spray the barber always puts on your head afterward, to give it that shine and make the waves pop out. It was going to be quite a sight, and we couldn't be the only three lames in there looking like we still played with blocks.

First on the agenda: haircuts.

The next day, Monday, I went to do some work over at Malloy's early in the morning, wiping down all the boxing
equipment, taking out the trash, and doing whatever other little odd jobs he needed me to do, since he wouldn't let me do it the day before. It usually only took about an hour, and he always gave me twenty dollars for it. Twenty bucks, three times a week, can add up, and I wish I would've done a better job at saving some of it, because then I'd be able to at least buy some fresh kicks for the party. But who knew we would end up going to a MoMo party? Plus, I always used some of my cash to help out around the house, just to take some of the load off Doris.