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What Happened at the Mall by Fatima Shaik It’s happening again. Every time I visit the mall, the security guard follows me. If I go into a store, he nods to one of the workers and they watch me while I look at clothes or sports gear or anything. It’s like they’re a tag team and I’m the baton. I’m just about sick of it. In fact, I am way too sick of it, so I decide to go home. “Man, forget that,” my friend Leon says when I call him from the bus. “Me, I would have jumped in his face and told him, ‘Who do you think you are, targeting me!’” That’s easy for Leon to say, since he’s a good foot shorter than I am, and he wears loafers, shorts, and plaid shirts his mama buys. Leon’s my man, but nobody ever looks at him twice. Me, I’m more like Tyson—Beckford, not Mike. My grandmother says I remind her of Eddie Kendricks when he was a Temptation. She calls me “a tall, cool drink of water.” And yes, I am a sleek 6’2,” and yes, when I walk into a room, I can feel people paying attention. But that's just the problem. Everybody pays attention—and people think they know me when they don’t. They nickname me “gangster,” “big baller,” and “player.” I’m not any of that. I want to be a writer. I like to walk around, observe, and then jot things down. Maybe that has something to do with why I always end up with surveillance on my tail, but it’s a buzzkill when I go somewhere, anywhere, and people follow me like I’m a thief. That’s what these security people think of me. They assume I’m a thief. They don’t even know my name. Maybe Leon’s right—maybe I should show the mall security guy how angry his behavior makes me. I could walk around in circles real fast and see if he still follows me, or I could lead him into all the lamest, most random stores in the mall until he gets the picture. Or maybe I should be straight and simply say, “What’s up, man?? ?” I just know I have to do something.The next day, I decide that I’m going to go back to the mall after school and prove they can’t treat me this way. I will stand up for myself, and get in the guard’s face like Leon suggested. Moments later, Leon shows up, and says, “I got my phone, so when you get over there by the guard, I’m going to take a video, and we’re going to put it all over the net.” “Bet!” I say. “We’ll put it up with a caption: Racial Profiling is Real.” That will show everyone what’s going on here: that I’ve been treated like I’m doing something I never intended to, and treated like a criminal. So I stand looking at the store windows while Leon has his phone out, and then, sure enough, the security guard is about 10 feet behind me.“Get real, man,” I want to say, but I’m feeling unsettled and not sure what to do. I silently hype myself up: What is a person supposed to do when he is constantly harassed, treated like a criminal, for no real reason? You become it or you fight it, right? I spin around and stride up to the guard, my fists balled with anger and frustration. Leon is videoing the whole thing. “What’s your problem, man?” I say to the security officer, my words coming out in a loud rush. “What?” he asks, surprised. “Every time—because I am a teenager? You have to follow me?” “Look here, you don’t have a right….” “To what,” I ask, “to walk around and take nothing?” I wave my empty hands in front of his face to drive home my point. I can see the guard is getting nervous, pulling out his walkie-talkie. Leon is laughing a few feet away. What’s up with that—he’s supposed to be my guy!Suddenly, I hear my name being called. “Markus? Markus Johnson?” I turn and see the principal from my last school, Ms. Jameson. “What,” she asks, “are you doing, putting your hands in Mr. Walter’s face?” “Ma’am?” I ask. Ms. Jameson turns to the guard. “Mr. Walter, I’ve seen you following Mr. Johnson. Why are you doing that?” The security guard puts his walkie-talkie away, looking flustered, and burbles, “I… uh, I’m just… doing my job, Ms. J.” Our former principal gave a little hmph. “I had both of you in my school, and I know that you are good people. Now, introduce yourselves,” she commands us. Is she for real? The security guard looks at me. “Charles Walter,” he says with a nod.“Markus Johnson,” I mumble, reluctantly. Ms. J turns to the guard and announces, “You know, Markus is going to be a writer.” I smile, thinking, “How does she know that?” “And Markus,” she tells me, “you should know that Charles has a big, beautiful family. In fact, two of his children are in my school now. Isn’t that right, Mr. Walter?” Mr. Walter nods. “Sure is, ma’am.” “Now listen close, both of you. I’m going to tell you what I tell every student who comes through my school: You need to learn to talk to people instead of jumping to conclusions.” Well, I think, surely that’s how I want people to treat me.Well, I think, surely that’s how I want people to treat me. “All right, now just say hello, and start again—this time on the right foot,” she adds. Then she calls out over her shoulder, “And you, Leon Jackson, put away that phone before I put you up on my Facebook page for a fool.” Mr. Walter and I chuckle: Ms. Jameson sure knows how to deliver a funny line. But neither of us emit a real real laugh; we’re not there yet. I might need to see Charles Walter a few more times to check out whether he remembers my name or not. But at least he’ll probably get off my back, so I can shop in peace. “Now both of you, get me to my car.” She hands her shopping bags to Mr. Walter and me, but he can’t bring them past the door; he has to keep his yoke. I carry Ms. J’s packages to her car, and she offers me a couple of dollars. “Get something for yourself,” she says. “Thanks, Ma’am,” I reply, “but that’s really not necessary.” I don’t have to buy anything at the mall, I realize, because this trip I got pretty much everything I needed. tell me when your ready for the questions?
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What is the main conflict faced by the narrator in the text?
A Dealing with being followed by the security guard
B Trying to prove that discrimination is real
C Deciding whether to become a writer or not
D Standing up for himself against the principal
A Dealing with being followed by the security guard
How does the narrator feel about the attention he receives from people?
He enjoys it and embraces the attention. He wishes people would stop paying attention to him. He feels misunderstood and wants people to know the real him. He is indifferent and doesn't care about the attention.
He feels misunderstood and wants people to know the real him.
What does the narrator mean when he says, "I’m just about sick of it" ?
He is physically ill because of the attention he receives.
He is tired of the security guard following him.
He is annoyed by Leon's suggestions to confront the guard.
He is frustrated and fed up with being treated like a criminal.