Take Back the Block: Chapter 17–Epilogue

The thing I dreaded most about Ms. Hardy’s class was having my quiz paper returned.

She had this painful ritual where she walked the papers around to each student.

When will I ever need to know the volume and surface area of a rectangular prism, anyway?

When the sun was down, we started our trek around the Oaks.

I flipped through article after article about families being forced out of cities, only for their original homes to be taken over by younger, more affluent residents.

In a column written about local entrepreneurs, I read that Kensington Oaks and its surrounding neighborhoods were once called Pippin Village, after a man named Frederick Pippin.

The smell of soap, sweat, and wet dirt wafted from his body and hung in the air.

I rambled on and on about the mill, and how the city officials ran Mr. Pippin off, and how the Oaks should be named after him, not some royal people.

As soon as Mary J. Blige’s raspy voice filled the air, I knew it was time.

“Hi, Wes.” Alyssa interrupted me from my thoughts. The smell of cocoa butter and vanilla lingered around her.

At the end of his presentation, Brent dropped to one knee in front of the class to drive home the point. Of course, he got a standing ovation.

This was nothing new to me; Mom had preached this sermon before.

There was nothing but a raggedy fence and an overgrown oak tree separating our backyards.

I’d been so antsy lately; fixing puzzles was like a breath of fresh air.

I kept my eyes fixed on the puzzle. I painstakingly fit the pieces together one by one.

Erykah Badu’s voice drifted into my room, lulling me back to sleep.

I followed Mya through the museum-like front room, big and gray-white, with a colossal Christmas tree.

“What do you know about prosciutto?” Jas teased.

Mr. Cooper stared at us from across the room. He was fake-laughing with some white people who looked snobby enough to live in Mya’s neighborhood.

I got the feeling he didn’t like all these people in his house, stepping on his reflective tile floors, eating his extravagant food, and he especially didn’t like us kids joking loudly around his guests.

I got the feeling he didn’t like all these people in his house, stepping on his reflective tile floors, eating his extravagant food, and he especially didn’t like us kids joking loudly around his guests.

Today was the day we’d find out if Kensington Oaks had been approved for the historic place designation. That afternoon, me, Mom, and Dad were going to the Save Our City office to find out the verdict.

I was shocked at how plain the office was. I thought it would be on the fifteenth floor of one of those tall glass buildings downtown, with shiny windows and swanky furniture.

“Thank you for all your hard work. You have no idea what this means to us," he said.
“This wouldn’t have happened without Wesley and his stellar research,” Ms. Monica said.

Mom’s smile lit up the dingy community center.

“Thank you for showing up here tonight, and thank you for still being here, and a special thank-you to Monica Greene from Save Our City. I would like to call my persistent and sometimes stubborn son, Wesley, up here to join me.”

“Hello. I have had the pleasure of working with the Hendersons to take back your block,” Ms. Monica said. “The designation Wesley spoke of is very important, as it means any new construction or improvements to Kensington Oaks must adhere to guidelines established by the city.”

I paused a second to coax my breath to a slower pace. Drive slow, Wes.

“Wesley, I want to personally thank you for your hard work and impeccable research. Not only have you changed Kensington Oaks forever, you restored Mr. Pippin’s legacy,” Mr. Baker said.

Mya and Kari had actually made up. I’d staged an intervention to get them cool again.