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not to hear him.
    “Sure, okay, why not?” Mr. Collins answers, breaking into a big smile (which you don't see very often from him in class). “Let's have a Christmas party.”
    So we start planning who will bring what—the food, the dessert, the decorations, the plastic plates and cups, the drinks, the music. James is the only one who doesn't offer to bring anything, because he says he isn't coming. We try to convince him that the president has to be there, but he says a Prez doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to do. A Prez has got better ways to spend his time than going to girlie Christmas parties, he says.
    The rest of the day, I can't keep my mind from thinking about the party. I plan about a hundred different ones in my mind. The last real party I remember being at was one that my Gram had for me when I was six or seven. She brought home a cake from the grocery store. It was a Snoopy cake because I loved Snoopy back then, and she gave me the silver necklace with the little cross that I still have (way too small to wear now), and some of the kids from her church came.
    That night, as I'm riding around and around on the city bus waiting for Jolynn to get home, I spend so much time thinking about the party that I almost forget to get off the bus when it passes by our stop for the fifth time at about eight o'clock, and I have to jump up and tell the bus driver to let me off at the next stop. Walking back to Jolynn's house in the slushy snow and the pitch-black winter darkness, I've still got “Holly Jolly Christmas” playing in my head.

MARCEL
    I wait until Willy Q's in a good mood to tell him about the Christmas party. The Lots-of-Orders-Making-Us-Lots-of-Money good mood. This time of year, that's Friday and Saturday nights. I wait until after he's counted up our money and he's cleaning up the kitchen.
    “My class is having a Christmas party after school next week,” I say real smooth. Don't mention a word about the math club being the reason.
    Willy Q doesn't look up. “What's that got to do with me?” he says. Like he knows exactly what I'm gonna ask next.
    Maybe I shoulda waited for the Saturday good mood.
    “They were wondering if Willy Q's Barbecue could send over something. Just for the party. Something little to try.”
    “Ain't a charity,” Willy Q answers, scrubbing the pans harder.
    I give Willy Q my best Turn-on-the-Charm-and-Big-Pearly-Whites smile. “They heard we got the best barbecue in the whole city,” I say.
    “We does.” Willy Q shrugs. “So what?”
    The Slow Burn Sauce starts bubbling inside me again. I think about answering, so what would you do if I told you I ain't working for you anymore? Or what if nobody ordered your tasteless old barbecue—not on Friday night or Saturday night or any other night?
    Instead I say, “So maybe we should show them we do.”
    Willy Q crosses his arms and turns toward me. “Bet they haven't tried some of our new barbecue wings, now have they? Or some of that good Southern cornbread I've been making?”
    I don't tell Willy Q that his cornbread ain't all that good. Cannonball Cornbread, that's what I call it. Too heavy. Shoot it out of a cannon and a chunk of Willy Q's cornbread could wipe out half the city of Cleveland.
    Willy Q reaches for one of the order pads. “How much food you need and when?”
    Even though I tell Willy Q that the party's only for about five or six people, he says he'll go ahead and send food for ten. When the math club sees all the food Marcel the Magnificent is lugging to the party, they ain't gonna believe their eyes. Cornbread. Wings. Short ribs. Cake—
    “Don't want folks to think we're stingy,” Willy Q insists.
    Take my advice. Don't try to figure out Willy Q. Just grab what he gives you and run. That's what I do.
     
     
    W ILLY Q' S C ANNONBALL C ORNBREAD
    1¼ cups flour
    3/4 cup yellow cornmeal
    2 tablespoons sugar
    ½ teaspoon salt
    1 tablespoon baking powder
    ½ teaspoon dry mustard
    dash of nutmeg
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