by Dream Jordan
Finally, my eyelids got heavy. I made my way upstairs, feeling peaceful, maybe even a little hopeful about the rest of my stay at Common Grounds. From now on, I could write down all of my pain and frustrations, I reasoned. My Lifebook would be my lifeline to sanity. But three days later, bump a freaking journal. I was ready to choke a chick to death.
Chapter 2
The drama began brewing in the dining room.
I was sitting at the long wooden table, slumped over my plate, staring sadly at soggy scrambled eggs and cold sausage patties. I had gotten used to Lynn’s slammin’ feasts; I’m talking hot creamy cheese grits, juicy turkey bacon, and warm flaky biscuits with melted butter on top. And now this?
The girls were busy chomping away like this was the best meal they ever had. Meanwhile, all I could think about was how much weight I was going to lose while living here. Hungry as I was, I could only take one last bite out of my sorry sausage before finally giving up and pushing my plate forward.
“New Girl’s turn to do the dishes,” Makeba suddenly cried out as she jumped up from the table.
The other four girls looked my way, waiting for me to react. I shrugged, and said, “No problem.” But I wasn’t about to skyrocket out of my seat. I sat still for a minute, just to show them I had some spunk. Kate, a pushover? Please.
“You have to do them now,” said Ciara, a tall, beady-eyed broad. “We don’t let dishes sit in the sink.”
It was too early in the morning for some bull. To avoid a scene, I got up, gathered the rest of the plates, and quietly walked into the kitchen. I gently placed the dishes in the sink, soaped them up, and scrubbed them sparkling clean. Before drying the last dish, a random little mouse poked his head out of the nearby stove’s burner, as if to say, “Welcome home, Kate!” I wasn’t scared of mice, so I didn’t drop a plate; I just felt even more disgusted with my world. So this was my new life? Coping with bold rodents and silly broads? Wow, what a way to live.
From the kitchen, I had a clear view into the living room where the girls sat in front of the television, two on the floor, three on the couch. Then I glanced over at the far corner of the room where a large wooden bookcase filled with board games sat. I peeped a box of Checkers and Monopoly from where I stood.
A part of me wished I could bulldoze the barricade between me and these girls and just sit nice and pleasant with them playing games all day—I’m Queen of Monopoly, okay? But I knew I’d never get to reign here. The only game these chicks were interested in playing was: Let’s Make Kate Miserable. There was nothing I could do to be cool with them; they clearly had it in for me, no matter what.
To test my theory, I lingered in the kitchen in full view of them. Just chilling. Idling about. Would someone be strong and throw Kate a bone? Ask me a question? Crack a stupid joke? Something? Even in my baddest days, I used to interrupt my bullying agenda to make the new girl feel included every once in a while.
So let’s see. My kitchen location wasn’t working. I inched closer to the living room, leaned against the archway, and looked at the TV from a safe distance.
Still no luck.
The group was busy talking mad loud during the commercial break, paying me absolutely no mind.
“Yeah, the Fourth of July gonna be off the hook in my hood,” yelled Venus, a scrawny girl from the Bronx.
“You already know, ho,” said Makeba, laughing.
“Y’all so stupid,” cried out Asia, the flyest girl in the house. She reminded me of my foul-living, ex-friend Naleejah. Both chicks rock fake hazel eyes, silky long weaves, and slutty gear. “I’mma be flossin’ in my boyfriend’s BMW on the Fourth. Hair done, nails done, everything big!”
“You always bragging, B—” said Venus.
“Yeah, instead of bragging, come pick us up in the Beamer, trick!” cried out Makeba.
Asia laughed like it was a joke. They called each other disrespectful names all the time. Said mean things to each other for no reason. I quickly snapped out of wanting to be cool with them. I wanted to be out. Had to be out. Maybe not today. But at least for the Fourth of July. I hoped it wasn’t too late to sign up for the volunteer opportunity I had already turned down.
A week ago, my best and only friend, Felicia, had asked me to volunteer with her for the Bed-Stuy Community Garden’s annual July 4th celebration. A fund-raiser for the homeless. Now, I love a good cause, and you know I love The Stuy, so I told her I was in. But the next day, Felicia told me her man, Marlon, would be joining us. Oops, no offense; I’m out.
Not that I had a problem with Marlon. He was mad cool. But whenever I hung around the lovey-dovey couple, I stuck out like a sore loser. So rolling with them as the third wheel had been out of the question. But now? Considering my current chaos? I was ready to roll in third place, fourth place, whatever it took to get me out of this place.
I ran upstairs, found the volunteer coordinator’s phone number in my backpack, and ran back downstairs to call the office. Our communal phone was located in the hallway, less than fifty feet away from the occupied living room, now under enemy control. No such thing as a private phone call, so I kept my voice low, trying not to call any attention to myself.
“Mr. King at your service!” the coordinator exclaimed. (Yes, this is how he really answered the phone. Mad extra.) And he sounded even jollier when I told him I wanted to volunteer. “Great to have you on board, Kate!” he shouted. Then he gave me a quick rundown of my duties.
“What time do you need me there?” I asked.
Before Mr. King could answer, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I spun around to face Makeba. “How long you gonna be?” she grumbled.
“I just got on the phone,” I said in my calmest tone.
“Well, I need to use the phone now,” she replied, clearly cookin’ up some beef to boil. But I decided to let the silly chick stew for a minute.
“Be off in a second,” I said.
Makeba huffed and sashayed away.
I got back down to business. “Mr. King, sorry for the interruption. What time do you need me there?”
“Ten o’clock sharp.”
“No problem. See you then.”
I hung up the phone softly so as not to get caught by the phone police. Then I picked it back up to call Felicia. We were allowed fifteen minutes for phone calls and my full fifteen minutes I would get.
“Hey, girl, can’t talk long,” I blurted, before Felicia could say hello. “So I’ll see you at the Garden, and—”
“Oh no,” Felicia interrupted.
“What do you mean ‘oh no’?” I asked.
“I had to give up my position,” she explained. “Marlon’s performing poetry at the African Street Festival tomorrow. He’s a last-minute addition to the show. I’m so excited. This is a big deal for him!”
“Um, okay,” I said, feeling deflated, like a stabbed balloon. I was really looking forward to seeing Felicia. Blocked from my best friend. Again. Bad enough our whole school year had already put a wedge between us.
Basically, our new high school is populated with more kids like Felicia, barely anybody like me. Felicia’s life is upper crust, while my life is crusty. So when Felicia made friends with this stuck-up duet, Brittany and Janette, I knew I wasn’t going to be hanging with my homegirl too tough anymore. I couldn’t stand these chicks. Black like me, but couldn’t relate to my world. They talked in fake high-pitched voices, shopped exclusively on Fifth Avenue, and bragged about their countless trips around the globe—I’m talking Africa, France, Italy, Japan. Meanwhile, the most exotic place I’ve ever been to is Staten Island.
Funny, though—aside from world travel, I had no idea what Felicia saw in them. And it was mighty clear these girls were confused about me, too. I could tell by the way they turned up their noses, frowning and sniffing at me like they smelled a hood-rat.
Well, I’m far from a hood-rat. But I couldn’t blame them for thinking that, since I got that Brooklyn swagger and I’m stuck with a C-shaped scar over my right eye.
No doubt Felicia and I looked like a serious odd couple: nerdy girl and gangster chick prancing down our school’s hallway.
But anyway.
I was seeing less of my homegirl because of Brittany and Janette. Now add Marlon to the mix, and you get a drifting friendship.
“Why do you sound so surprised about the festival?” asked Felicia. “I called the house yesterday to invite you.”
“Wow,” I exclaimed, shaking my head in disgust. “Nobody told me jack.”
“OMG, you didn’t get my message?” asked Felicia. “I called you around two o’clock.”
“I swear, I can’t stand these spiteful broads,” I muttered. “I gotta get out of here, for real.”
“See, that’s why you need to hang with us,” said Felicia. “I’ll be helping Marlon’s group all day, but you can lounge backstage with me while I work. You won’t have to lift a finger, I promise.”
“But I’ll be the third wheel … as usual.”
“You’re not going to be the third wheel,” she assured me. “There’s going to be tons of people there. Lots of cute guys in Marlon’s group, too. Don’t you want to meet some cuties?”
“You know I’m not thirsty like that,” I protested.
Meanwhile I was more than thirsty. Matter of fact, dehydrated. I wanted a boyfriend so bad I could drink him in my dreams. Seemed like everybody had a man, but me.
“.… Come on, Kate. Please? I really miss you.”
“Well … I already told Mr. King that I’d help him at the Garden. It wouldn’t be right for both of us to diss him.”
“But you can do the Garden and the festival,” explained Felicia. “Marlon doesn’t perform until five.”
Hmm … rocking both events wasn’t such a bad idea. The longer away from this madhouse, the better.
“Okay, I’ll call you around—”
Suddenly, I heard Makeba’s voice at the back of my head. “New Girl must think she running things ’round here,” she rasped. Next thing I knew, the receiver was snatched from my grip, and the phone was hung up with a bang.
“Your time been up,” Makeba snapped.
Oh. No. She. Didn’t.
My bottom lip hit the floor. I stood frozen in my spot. Did that really just happen? I was in so much shock, I couldn’t move a muscle.
Four years ago, in under sixty seconds, Makeba would’ve been drop-kicked flat on her back, with every silver piercing snatched from her stupid face. What? The Old Kate used to punch chicks dead in the mouth just for looking at her wrong. But this New Kate needed New Tactics.
So I locked my hands to my sides and mean-grilled Makeba for a minute. As angry as I was, I didn’t say a word. This was such a proud (and painful) moment for me. Proud because I was so smooth with my ’tude, the other girls didn’t even realize the craziness that had just gone down. Painful because I wanted to bash Makeba over the head with the phone, and I couldn’t.
A split second later, the phone rang. I knew it was Felicia calling back to find out what just happened. Makeba snatched up the phone and said, “Check for her later. I gotta make a call.”
Click.
I swear … if it wasn’t for Tisha’s voice in my head telling me to walk away, Makeba would’ve been calling 911.
So yeah, I walked away. Calm. Cool. Collected.
Before I had learned to walk away, I used to get into fights all day, every day. Some fights I would start, some I would not. It was all about maintaining my respect in any given situation. I thought I was the baddest chick in my school. Most kids agreed, and knew to steer clear of me. So imagine my surprise when Tisha called me a punk one day, straight to my face. I was sitting in the principal’s office, fresh from a fight, my face all scratched up in zigzags. The principal had nothing to say to me; he needed Tisha to “reach” me.
“So I guess you think you did something,” Tisha began. “Look at you!”
“Yeah, but I won the fight,” I stated proudly. “These scratches don’t hurt. I got the best of her.”
“So where’s your prize?” asked Tisha, cocking her head to the side. She wore a light brown curly weave that day, and it shook every time she moved her head. I wanted to laugh, but this was no laughing matter. Tisha was not playing with me. “Your face is all scratched up, and you’re about to be suspended from school … so I’m asking you: Where’s your prize for winning the fight?”
“But I bet that B— knows better than to call me out my name again.”
“What did I tell you about cursing in front of me?”
“My bad,” I said. And I only said, “my bad” to Tisha. No other grown-up had me in check like that. Tisha was the first social worker I had ever met who was real. From the hood and proud of it. The first day I met her she told me all about her wilding-out days and explained how she had to overcome a shipload of obstacles. I had much respect for Tisha because she wasn’t schooling me from textbooks; she was speaking from real life. And even though she sat opposite me in her rigid navy blue suit, I knew that underneath her business front was a bad chick who could get down with her hands if she had to.
But at that moment, she was getting down with me—verbally—and her ferocity was astonishing. “Dang, calm down,” I wanted to say. But I didn’t dare.
“Kate, you let that girl play you,” continued Tisha, her eyebrows knitted tight in anger. “And that makes you a punk. You hear me? A straight-up punk!”
I sat stock-still, staring at Tisha, blank-faced. The office was freezing cold from the air conditioner blowing on my back, and I just wanted to get the heck out of there.
“It takes a real woman to walk away from a fight,” explained Tisha. “But you’re always running to one. Are you going to throw up your hands every time somebody says something stupid to you?”
“I gotta do what I gotta do.” I shrugged.
“And now you gotta get suspended. So like I said, Kate, you’re a punk.” Tisha pointed at me with her long fingernail to emphasize her point. “So go ahead and get left back in the sixth grade if you want to. You’re the smartest girl in your class, yet you act so dumb! Always bragging that you never lost a fight, but there’s always somebody out there bigger and badder than you. Remember that.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said.
“And if you ask me, I’d rather be a living punk, than a dead hero any day.”
“But I didn’t ask you,” I wanted to say. Instead I just said, “Can I go now?”
“Not until you understand what I’m telling you.”
“Yeah, I understand what you saying.”
At the time, I was lying, I didn’t understand jack. But during my weeklong suspension, I had a lot to think about. Tisha’s words started ringing in my ears, oh so loud and true. And after reflecting on my countless battles with chicks over nonsense, I realized there were no trophies to show, no medals to wear. Where was my prize? What was my point? I had to face the fact: My life was a vicious cycle of violence for no good reason. It was high time for a change.
* * *
“Bawwwaaahhaa!”
The girls’ loud guffaws brought me back to the reality that I was a “living punk” right now. Makeba had probably just told her telephone takeover story, and the girls were probably loving every detail of my humiliation. So despite my calming thoughts about Tisha’s words, every step I took up the stairs caused my heart to skip three beats in my chest. Hearing their laughter rubbed salt into my wounded pride. I felt so disrespected, clowned on … forced to walk away? Oh man, I was tight. Nothing I could do but run upstairs, grab my Lifebook, and write.
I swear on my life, I better keep myself in check because Makeba is itching for me to snap her neck. She may be taller than me, but I’ve been known to knock down bigger broads flat on their backs. They used to call me “Rocky” for a reason.
And then there’s Felicia. I’m happy Felicia wants to include me all the time. I know most girls would get a boyfriend and be like, Kate who? But homegirl needs to really fall back with this third-whee
l crap. It’s always pitiful, single me, hanging with a couple of lovebirds. Bird-watching just ain’t my thing. I’m saying, when will I find a boyfriend to call my own? When will these spiteful group home chicks leave me the hell alone? I can’t even lie. I’m feeling so hopeless these days. Every time I turn around, another smackdown comes my way.
Growing tired of my own pitiful words, I stopped my pen in its tracks. If I had continued writing like that, I was sure to start crying, and my Lifebook ain’t waterproof.
I stashed my Lifebook in my duffel bag and covered it with a towel to conceal it. Then I sat on my bed and leaned my head against the wall and tried to think good thoughts. First thing that came to mind was the upcoming Fourth of July celebration. Not even a week spent at Common Grounds, and already I couldn’t wait to return to my old hood. As sad as it would be, knowing Ted and Lynn were no longer there, I was still dying to return to Bed-Stuy. My present sucked so bad, a little touch of my past couldn’t hurt … at least that’s what I thought at the time.
Chapter 3
On Saturday morning, I jumped out of bed higher than a bunny on crack. I was so excited about getting out of the madhouse. But then I remembered my roommate, and calmed my happy self down. Tracy was knocked out cold with the sheets over her head, and I didn’t want to wake her crazy butt up. She was not going to hold me back from hitting up my old hood.
I quietly rummaged through my drawers and pulled out a plain pink V-neck T-shirt, a pair of black baggy jean shorts, and laid the items out on my bed. My gear was corny as could be, but I didn’t care; I was getting the freak outta here!
I took a cold shower—not by choice, there was no hot water in the joint—and raced back into my room, shivering cold. I silently got dressed. Finishing touches were my black dollar-store flip-flops, and then I dug up my beautiful silver bracelet from the bottom of my knapsack (carefully hidden from sticky-fingered bandits). Felicia had brought me this bracelet from South Africa and it meant a whole lot to me. The only genuine jewelry I ever rocked. Probably cost more than my entire outfit.