“Sit here at Miss Haughton’s desk, Leonard,” he said. “She should be in soon.”
“Actually, it’s ‘Junior,’ sir,” Junior corrected. “Everyone calls me Junior.”
Mr. Levy gave him a dirty look.
“Fine. Junior, it is,” he conceded. “Just hang out here. She’ll be in. She’s my secretary.”
While seated at Miss Haughton’s cubicle, Junior went back to his inquisitive nature, finger-fucking the artifacts atop the secretary’s desk. He lifted the woman’s nameplate and fancied the pictures on her desk, admiring her exquisiteness. Dark skin with long hair. If Junior and Mr. Levy couldn’t agree on much else, they at least had the same taste in women.
By ten o’clock, Junior was still trapped at Miss Haughton’s cubicle. To pass the time, he switched between his latest book rental and writing inside his journal. Another staff member entered the office at that time and saw Junior sitting at Miss Haughton’s desk and began asking him questions. Junior kept his answers shorter than his poems, not sure who else would hear his words. Later, a school resource officer, a black man named Darcy, passed by the main office and introduced himself to Junior. As they exchanged words, the man looked down at Miss Haughton’s desk, over at Junior and rubbed at the skin on the back of his wrist.
“Stay alert, young blood!” he warned before shaking his head and walking off.
Junior knew exactly what the gesture meant. It meant that the photographs of the black beauty he’d been admiring on Miss Haughton’s desk was not Miss Haughton. The butterflies from earlier that morning returned to Junior’s stomach as he pictured a prissy, blonde-haired, blue-eyed white woman. Junior spent the next hour reminiscing about the cop who pulled over his daddy Friday night.
Well past eleven o’clock, then noon, and still no sign of Mr. Levy’s secretary, Miss Haughton. After waiting around for nearly two and a half hours, Junior took her absence personally. He lifted her name plaque and dropped it onto her desk before removing his gum and lodging it beneath Miss Haughton’s chair to teach her a lesson. When Mr. Levy came out of his office for lunch and saw Junior still sitting at Miss Haughton’s cubicle at 12:04 p.m., he flipped out, raising hell inside of his office. Minutes later, his secretary showed up to work.
Miss Haughton entered the building in a pair of phony movie-style shades with loose curls in her orange hair. She was whiter than white and about as pale as a junkie recovering from heroin addiction. She looked nothing like the photo of black excellence on her desk. Moderately obese with heavyset chunky legs, she had small, puffy hands like a newborn. She entered the main office, bypassing Junior with a quick “Yo!” as she rushed into Mr. Levy’s office and closed the door, bags dripping from her cattle arms.
With the door to Mr. Levy’s office closed, Junior listened as the two went back and forth, shouting at each other. It was nothing to Junior, who for the past fourteen years had been listening to Senior and Sandy fuss every day.
As the door to the principal’s office flung open, Miss Haughton went over to Junior, who was still seated at her desk.
“C’mon kid, we’re going to 206.” She rolled her green eyes, annoyed. On the way to the second-floor, Miss Haughton went off on Mr. Levy in front of Junior, calling him every name in the book from a pervert to a slob. She then apologized to Junior for being late.
At the door of 206, Miss Haughton reached into her purse for the room key, realized it was missing, and sent Junior back to Mr. Levy’s office to pick up a spare key. That fast, she’d lost the key. When Junior got back to the main office, however, Mr. Levy had left for lunch, forcing him to hunt down a janitor to unlock room 206. The janitor was all too familiar with Mr. Levy’s often unprepared secretary.
“Let me guess: Miss Haughton?” the man said before handing Junior one of his backups. “Man, I can’t tell you how many times she’s done that shit to me. Here. Take it.”
Key in hand, Junior returned to room 206, letting them both inside. Afterward, he took a seat at the back of the room as far away from her as he could.
For nearly a half-hour, Miss Haughton bloviated about Philly history, boring Junior to the brink of death. She went on from everything to Sir William Penn and the origin of their city’s name to “Smokin” Joe Frazier, Teddy Pendergrass, and other notable figures. She asked Junior all kinds of weird questions from his favorite color and food to his favorite subject at school. Hoping to deter her, Junior kept his answers short. “Blue. Pizza. I don’t know. I don’t like school,” he answered. Eventually, Miss Haughton got the message and left Junior to write inside his journal.
Less than a minute into his latest works, he noticed a pair of feet beneath his desk and looked up to see Miss Haughton standing there in his face. She was as commanding a person as Sandy was, looming over top of Junior as he wrote. If nothing else up close, she had sharp, pretty green eyes with dotted pink freckles around her face.
“Yo man, can I help you?” Junior asked, irritated. “I’m kind of busy.”
“So, what are you writing?” she asked him. “Ooh, pretty handwriting! Can I see?”
Junior wasn’t the type to willingly surrender his journal to anyone. After all, it was the reason he had got himself expelled from Franklin High in the first place. He didn’t trust Miss Haughton further than he could throw her. If not for her jade eyes, Junior might have thought of saying something mean or cutting, the way his father would. To get her off of his back, he handed over his journal to Miss Haughton as she pulled a chair beside Junior’s desk and took a seat.
She kept a poker face as she read Junior’s journal, flipping through his creation of works. Junior looked up at the clock on the wall, counting down a full minute before he decided to take back his journal from Miss Haughton. With each passing poem, Miss Haughton’s expression softened. Eventually, she landed a poem Junior had written that morning in her absence, “Silhouette”.
Foolishly, I fell in love with a silhouette
and waited for its owner to show.
LEONARD G. ROBINSON JR.
“Silhouette” made Miss Haughton do a double-take at him, Junior noticed, which softened his expression toward the bumbling secretary. Her face then straightened to a look of seriousness. She asked Junior how old he was. “Fourteen,” he mumbled, before asking for his journal back. Miss Haughton obliged him.
“You write very beautifully, Leonard,” the woman complimented him. “That was impressive. I’ve never read anything quite like that in my life.”
Junior softened some more, cheesing at her from ear-to-ear.
“Actually, it’s ‘Junior’, and thank you, ma’am,” he laughed.
“Junior, huh?” she asked. “All right then, Junior, I’m Casey – everyone calls me by my first name.” She extended her hand for a shake.
Casey’s hand felt nothing like Mr. Levy’s bear claw from earlier. The inside of her palm was an improvement, moist to the touch, soft and welcoming.
“Well, I must say, Junior,” she complimented again, “I was thoroughly impressed. So, how long have you been writing?”
“About a year…one long year,” he laughed.
You look nothing like what you’ve been through.
LEONARD G. ROBINSON
Casey
Casey’s energy was inviting to Junior. She had a serious, but cute Jersey-girl accent and wore a nose ring. As they conversed throughout the afternoon, he looked into her freckled face with admiration, laughing at her corny jokes and childish humor. Unlike Mr. Levy, she had a smile that lit up the walls of room 206. Her gutty laugh was infectious to Junior, making him laugh like mad whenever she did. Hanging on her every word, he gazed at Casey often and read her poetry from inside his journal, seeking more of her approval. Together, they spent the afternoon discussing life in Philly and reminiscing about lines from their favorite songs and movies. For Junior, it was the first time in nearly a year that he had had a real conversation with someone besides his parents. Casey said that she had just turned twenty-nine and
lived in an apartment building just outside of Brooke’s Rowe.
Junior couldn’t believe a woman as ghostly white as Casey favored some of the same stuff as he and Lawrence once had or that she lived near Brooke’s Rowe. Surprisingly, Casey knew more about black family sit-coms than any white girl Junior had met. She named every character on A Different World, Martin, Fresh Prince, Good Times, Living Single, Family Matters, and Hangin’ with Mr. Cooper. She challenged Junior line-for-line in Harlem Nights, Menace II Society, Boyz in the Hood, and Above the Rim. She told Junior she loved rap music and had a bigger crush on 2pac than Junior had on Whitney Houston. Junior didn’t believe Casey at first until she showed him the inside of her bag. Down at the bottom was nothing but the finest in cassette tapes: Biggie Smalls, 2pac, Wu-Tang Clan, Nas, Geto Boys, The Roots, A Tribe Called Quest, and every other artist Junior listened to. Junior then popped open the tape deck of his Walkman and showed Casey 2pac’s latest album, Me Against the World. Casey nearly fainted.
“Yo! You gotta let me dub that, Junior! I’ll bring it back tomorrow, I swear to God!”
Laughing, Junior handed Casey his 2pac tape and asked to check out some of the cassettes in her bag. Reaching toward the bottom, Junior pulled out 2Pac’s ‘93 album Strictly 4 My N.I.G.G.A.S. He then raised his eyebrow at Casey.
“What’s that look for?” she asked. “I told you I was a 2pac-head.”
“Yeah, but what are you doin’ with this in your bag?” Junior chuckled. “I’m still surprised I haven’t pulled out a Garth Brooks album or some other country shit. I know there’s one in here and I’m gonna find it, Casey. You can’t hide it from me!”
Offended, Casey glared at him. “Wait a second, man. What’s that supposed to mean, Junior?” she asked.
“C’mon Casey, not too many white girls I know, know every line to Harlem Nights.”
“What makes you think I’m white, Junior?” she asked.
“Well, aren’t you?” he asked. “It’s nothing wrong with being white. I mean, some white people are racist – not all of ‘em – but I’m just sayin’. You’re not like most white girls from Philly I’ve seen around. That’s all. Nothin’ bad, you know?”
Smiling back at him, Casey gave Junior a dose of his own medicine. “That’s OK, you’re not like most young black men I’ve run across in Philly, either,” she laughed. “But look kid, I’m not like any white girl at all. First of all, I’m not white. I’m albino. It’s when there’s a defect during the birth process that causes an absence of melanin in the skin. So, I’m black just like you.”
Realizing the gaffe, Junior apologized. “My bad, Casey,” he apologized. “I guess I got too comfortable.”
“It’s all good, J.,” she told him. “So, what’s up man? Are you gonna let me dub that 2pac tape or what? What’d you bring to eat today, anyway?”
“Not much. Couple peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches.”
Casey looked into Junior’s paper bag lunch and laughed at him. “No wonder you’re skinny!” she said. “C’mon, there’s a Domino’s not far from here.”
“What about Mr. Levy?” asked Junior.
“Th’hell with Levy,” said Casey. “Let ‘em get his own. C’mon, let’s ride!”
Pizza was Junior’s love language – and the only language he spoke when it came to meals. In the freezer at home, Sandy kept a handy supply of microwavable pizzas. Nothing compared to Domino’s, though. Occasionally, she’d order Junior a large box to last him through the weekend. It didn’t make it through Saturday.
Out in the lot, Casey led Junior to her blue ’87 Toyota Camry station wagon. On the passenger side, he stood there contemplating whether to go.
“Man, c’mon!” said Casey, waving him on. “I thought you wanted Domino’s?”
“What about Levy?”
“What about him? Are you coming or not?”
Junior looked around in Casey’s car, hoping to find something credible to turn down her invitation to leave campus. Finding nothing but strewed junk throughout, he shrugged and opened the car door, and threw on his seatbelt. As Casey’s car left the lot, he prayed that he didn’t run into his parents somewhere in the city.
Leaving Medgar was treacherous for Junior. His mother was assigned to the south Philly mail-carrying route, and Senior’s handyman career meant he was often around these neighborhoods. Not to mention, Junior’s daddy was well-known in and around Philadelphia. If someone saw Leonard Sr.’s boy lurking around town during school hours, Junior would be on punishment. With pizza on the line, however, Junior took the risk.
On the way to Dominos, Casey spoke freely and candidly to Junior as if they’d known each other ten years. She talked about her struggles growing up as an albino girl in New Jersey and shot the shit with him as Junior ducked down into his seat at every tan Ford truck or gray Buick Skylark that passed. While at a light, Casey told him the story of how she’d got jumped after school in the sixth grade for being mistaken as a white girl saying the word “nigga”.
“Man, I got my ass beat, J.!” she laughed. “They took my coat and my shoes. And when they found out I was black; I still didn’t get back my things or an apology! Can you believe that? Kids are cruel, man – it’s crazy.”
“I know,” Junior exhaled.
When they got to Domino’s, Casey parked her car in front of a fire hydrant, darted out with the motor still running, and asked Junior to move her car if necessary. Junior looked down the street and saw a parking enforcement officer making his way up. As he ticketed cars along the way, Junior freaked out.
“Yo man, I don’t have a license. I’m only fourteen! What do I say?” he asked.
“Neither do I! I’m suspended!” she said. “I don’t know, just…drive around the block or something. I’ll be right back. Don’t let ‘em ticket us, J.! Please! I can’t afford a tow right now.”
With his eyes wide, Junior watched as the parking enforcement guy made his way up the block towards Casey’s car. As the man got three cars away, he slid over into the driver’s seat of Casey’s Toyota, threw on her hazard lights, and got out to pretend as if the car had broken down. The guy gave him a nod and ticketed the car behind him.
Junior had known Casey for barely two hours and was already breaking the law. Not to mention, he had access to her car, pocketbook, and whatever else the bizarre, orange-haired woman had left behind in her vehicle. In the center console were Casey’s apartment keys. Above him in the visor was a check stub from the previous pay cycle. Based on the stub, Casey netted around $826 bi-weekly. In the glovebox was her Motorola cell phone and an empty bottle of Escitalopram – also known as “Lexapro”. Junior knew it was for treating anxiety, as Sandy also took the medication. The glovebox nearly exploded when Junior opened it: parking tickets, receipts, check stubs, doctors’ notes, lease agreements, and scraps of paper.
As Junior spotted Casey walking back from the side mirror, he repacked her glovebox and moved back into the passenger seat. Casey then slid into the driver’s seat and placed a large box of Domino’s pizza onto Junior’s lap. The heat from the box burned through his pants and onto his leg.
“Did they get us?” she asked. “You didn’t let ‘em get me, did you?”
“Not even close,” said Junior. “I saw the guy coming up the street, so I got out and acted like I was checking on the car. So, he kept going.”
“Aha, that’s straight – I saw that. I was wondering what the hell you were doing! I was watching from the window like, ‘fuck man, is this kid gonna steal my car?’ Thanks for helping me avoid that ticket.”
“Thanks for getting the pizza.”
Back at Medgar, Casey stole a television cart from the school’s library and with Junior’s help, rolled it down to room 206. Over pizza and a 2-liter Pepsi Casey stole from the teacher’s lounge, the two cackled with cheesy mouths at an episode of the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Their party was interrupted when Mr. Levy walked down to check on the two and saw the television cart and Junior with a slice o
f Domino’s pizza on his desk. He went right after Casey.
“May I see you out in the hallway, Miss Haughton?”
Out in the hallway, Levy gave his secretary the blues. Casey returned afterward with a disgusted expression, rolling her eyes at Junior.
“He said we gotta get rid of the TV,” she groaned. “What a dick!”
Junior helped Casey return it to the library, they finished up their lunch, then spent the rest of their afternoon inside Junior’s journal.
When the day ended, Casey wrapped the remaining slices of pizza with foil from the teacher’s lounge and placed the 2-liter Pepsi into Junior’s hand. Written on the plastic was the name “Mr. Washington.” When Junior showed Casey the name written on the side, she made sure the lid was tight and gave him a row of cups to go with his drink.
“Never did like that guy,” she winked. “Look, have a great evening, J. Come see me tomorrow morning when you get in. We’ll talk some more.”
Casey hugged Junior, as he hugged her back with one arm loaded. Afterward, she went into her pocketbook and handed him one crisp five-dollar bill.
“What’s the extra bread for?” asked Junior. “You’ve done enough already.”
“I’m an investor,” she grinned. “I’d love to read some more of your work, J. You think you can make that happen?”
“Yeah, for sure,” he said. “I’ll bring one of my other journals in. Shit, I’ll bring two!”
“OK then, Junior!” she chuckled. “Bring me two!”
As Junior pushed through the doors of Medgar Evers Secondary School and out into Philly, he skipped down the staircase to his mother’s car with a pep in his step, unlike anything Sandy had seen before. Friendship was on his mind, and love in his heart. It was the first time Junior had felt the euphoria of genuine friendship since Lawrence had died the previous summer. With five extra dollars inside his pocket, he thought of bringing Casey his entire collection of poetry. At the door to his mother’s Buick, with his arms full, he smiled and nodded at Casey as she waved back. Suddenly, the dark cloud atop Medgar dispersed and the City of Brotherly Love felt like a new world.
Beyond Poetry Page 9