Malcolm and Me

by Robin Farmer

  “I already know I’m never getting married. I want my own apartment, car, and career.” I get a bowl and pour in the dye. Mom removes eggs from the refrigerator.

  “I’m all for you having a career but I do want some grandbabies, and for that to happen I expect you to be married.”

  I shake my head as I add boiling water to the dye. “Maybe I’ll become a nun.”

  “Yeah, right,” Mom says, setting the carton down. Then she gets tickled again. Body rocking, she bursts into another round of glass-shattering cackles. This time I just watch, mesmerized at how happy she is. And because I am responsible.

  The next day, I sit next to Mom-Mom, who groans as she bends to touch the tip of the new kicks I am dying to buy. The slingback suede sandals with espadrille wedge heels are shoe heaven perfection. The clerk has already measured my feet, but Mom-Mom has her own sizing process, which requires pressing my big toes to gauge if there’s room—a half-inch exactly—for my toes to grow into. I study her cleavage—jeez, ’ll never understand what’s so desirable about big boobs.

  Mom-Mom pushes the top of my shoes and grunts her approval. Yay!

  “Promise me two things,” she says, sitting upright, slightly winded. “Always buy leather shoes and get the right size. Nothing like having bad feet. It catches up to you.”

  “Promise.” I giggle. If she had checked the last pair, I wouldn’t have gotten them a size too small. The sales clerk sidles over.

  “We’ll take them,” says Mom-Mom.

  The clerk boxes the shoes and heads to the cash register. Cash in hand, I rise to follow her. Mom-Mom tugs me back into the seat.

  “What’s this about you halfway talking to your daddy and not spending time with him? In my day, I could never tell my mother I didn’t want to see my father. Your momma done spoiled you all rotten. Who ever heard of such?”

  Mom-Mom’s words carry arrows aimed at Mom. Wrong target. I stiffen. “It’s not Mom’s fault he did what he did, and it’s not my fault I feel the way I do.”

  Mom-Mom rears back as if I’ve just tried to clobber her. Her pained expression confirms my words have done the trick. Her mouth forms a tight O and her eyebrows nearly touch. She leans in close, her lemony perfume tickling my nose.

  “We’ll discuss this when we get home,” she whisper-screams through lips that barely move.

  Ah jeez, do we have to? I will myself not to sneeze.

  “You hear what I said?”

  How can I not? “Yes, Mom-Mom.”

  I trail behind her to the counter, thankful she’s mad after I spent all of the Easter cash she gave me. I even have a new floppy hat she purchased in hopes I’d get my hair pressed bone straight and curled for church. No way, Jose.

  I’ve ticked off Mom-Mom so much that the entire time we ride the bus she is in a constant state of agitation. She disapproves of everything I point to out the window and say I like: tight dungarees with a crease sewn down the middle of each leg the girls wear, cute boys with huge afros, and colorful bubble graffiti. She says graffiti is a sign of the devil. If I was as fresh as she claims, I’d say, “Add your son to your devil list.” But I have good sense.

  I dread the upcoming lecture as we walk up the steep, narrow staircase to her apartment. Inside her apartment, the aroma of cinnamon and vanilla greets me.

  To my relief, Mom-Mom darts to the bathroom and maybe falls asleep. I’m glad I don’t have to use the bathroom anytime soon.

  I dial Mom several times to ask her to pick me up but the phone just rings. Mom-Mom walks into the living room as I hang up for the fifth time.

  “Who you on the phone with? That fast-behind girl? Is that why you so mouthy?”

  “Who? Bonnie? She’s not fast. When did you stop liking her?”

  “I never said I didn’t like her.” The plastic covers squishes as she sits next to me. “Forget Bonnie. You need to forgive your daddy. You know what Easter means, don’t you?”

  “Jesus died so our sins can be forgiven,” I say robotically. I slouch, and peer at a photo of Dad in his cap and gown perched on the credenza facing us.

  She pokes my side, and I sit up like I’m in school. “So Easter teaches you about what?”

  “Easter teaches us about resurrection and forgiveness.” Impatience coats my tone.

  “Do you understand the words coming out of your mouth?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then act like it.”

  “Can I be honest?

  Mom-Mom pauses then nods.

  “I know what Easter is supposed to mean but it doesn’t mean that to me. It’s just another Sunday, and I really don’t want to go to church.”

  “’Cause you don’t want to go with your father?”

  “’Cause I’m not sure there is . . . a God,” I blurt.

  Mom-Mom freezes, squeezes her eyes and bows her head praying for my wretched soul. When she looks up, tears glide down her face. She cups my hand. “Roberta, you blaming God for what ails you is misdirected anger. You too young to be full of vinegar, child.” She wraps her arm around me, and I wish I could erase what I said. Mom-Mom taps my left breast. “Anger corrodes the vessel it’s carried in. Remember that.”

  Eyes glistening, she points to a crucifix hanging on the wall, near the photos of Jesus, John F. Kennedy, and Martin Luther King. “All of them martyrs. You’re upset that you’ve been lied to? They lied on Jesus! Nobody’s nailing you on a cross. Jesus forgave; why can’t you?”

  My body tingles. It’s like some of the darkness in me gets a little light. I bet anything that Mom-Mom prayed for the spirit to pinprick my vessel of hatred, which would be . . . my heart? “I’m sorry. I get so mad and confused sometimes. I know there’s a God. Mostly.” I look upward, feeling guilty. “I’m just not sure He hears me anymore. You know, Daddy . . .”

  My throat knots up, and I collapse in a nose-running sob.

  Mom-Mom strokes my hair. I bury my face in her warm bosom and hiccup-cry until my head thumps. Mom-Mom grabs a flowery tissue box off the side table, snatches a handful. Sniffling, I use half. She uses her stack to dry the river of my tears running down her blouse.

  I lean back, feeling lighter since I sprung a leak and let it all out. The anger, fear, guilt, jealousy, selfishness, and hate; all the stuff that cooks up confusion—it’s out now.

  “Were you trying to call your mother earlier to take you home?”

  “Yes, but I’m staying.”

  “Want some milk and cookies?”

  I nod, even though I’m thirteen.

  Mom-Mom gives me a knowing smile and rattles around in the kitchen while I search for the reason that turned me into a sniveling crybaby. The answer nags at me like a name on the tip of my tongue but out of reach. A shiver runs through my body when I realize the trigger for my crying jag: I had said Daddy like I used to. Before I had to hate him.

  I lay all of my new clothes on the bed, including my bra and panties. I take my time dressing, savoring the freshness of wearing something for the first time. I rub scented lotion on before sliding into my pants and matching combo jacket with the top that ties in the back. I slip into my four-inch wedges and admire my taller physique in the mirror. I shape my Afro one last time and float downstairs.

  “You look pretty in pink,” Mom coos.

  “You look pretty, too,” I say, admiring her purple dress with the red slash that accentuates her tiny waist and high, round booty. Men can’t help but rubberneck when Mom walks.

  Charles thunders down the stairs in his beige three-piece leisure suit. It fits him so well he could model in the husky section of a Sears catalogue. He’s beaming, Mom’s glowing, and I’m bouncing out of my skin with eagerness to get to Easter Mass.

  “Where are my keys?” Mom twirls, looking high and low.

  Charles scoops them off the top of the television.

  We file out of the house, heads high in our Easter finery. My mood is so good I don’t even argue with Charles about whose turn it is to ride up front. I ease
onto the back seat just as Charles turns to Mom.

  “Is Daddy meeting us at Mass?”

  Mom shakes her head. I catch her glancing in the rearview mirror at me.

  I hold onto my smile despite waves of disappointment.

  In the pew, I sit between Mom-Mom and Charles. Mom invites Bonnie to join us, and Mom-Mom gives Bonnie a warm smile and a thumbs up for her outfit, which matches mine except it’s blue.

  “Is your dad coming?” Bonnie whispers. I shake my head. Concern clouds her eyes.

  “Believe it or not, I actually hoped he would,” I murmur.

  Bonnie slides a piece of gum in my hand. I pocket it. She raises her eyebrow but I lack the words to explain. Today is full of surprises, including the peace I felt as soon as I entered and dipped my fingers in the holy water—the peace that fills me as I celebrate that Christ has risen, the peace that comes with knowing that I am changing. The fact that I wanted to see my father is proof of that. Besides, I’m tired of breaking commandments.

  After communion, I join the entire pew as it kneels to pray. It’s the first time I’ve been to church since confession. I have a lot of atoning to do. I know God is listening.

  I thank the Almighty Father for protecting Mom and Charles and helping us even when we forget to thank him. I thank him for my friends and family. I pray for his guidance, forgiveness and love. I apologize for doubting him like Peter and wishing hell and damnation on Dad. I get lost in my conversation with God. I am the last one to stop kneeling and sit.

  On the ride home, I think about how I initially wanted to attend church to show off my Easter outfit. Instead, I revealed my heart to God. Like Malcolm, I’m changing. I think God approves.

  CHAPTER 26

  When something juicy and forbidden happens in class, there’s an unmistakable buzz. If certain sounds are only heard by dogs, that’s true for kids, too. It’s a faint hum that happens all at once. Plus, you feel it.

  I pause from translating my poem into Spanish. I look up.

  Donna watches me with a sly smile. She nods at her textbook, which she holds upright on her desk and mouths, “Wait.”

  My row eyeballs me with goofy grins. Donna cranes her neck to check on Sister. Earlier, when I passed her desk, she was red-inking papers and adding scores to the grade book.

  Donna turns her textbook around to reveal what’s inside: an adults only comic book is making the rounds.

  Unlike clueless me, students sitting in my row have been waiting the entire period to get their grubby hands on the nasty drawings. Sometimes sitting in the last row stinks.

  Some classmates brag about fooling around. Not me. Nobody’s getting my cookie anytime soon. Bonnie and I pinky-swore to remain virgins until we graduate high school. Still, I’m eager to see what’s on the pages that’s causing half the class to blush.

  Apparently, through the grace of God, Sister looks up and catches Donna smiling at me and me smiling at what’s within her textbook.

  Busted, Donna begins erasing the spine of her book, which is a sure sign foolishness hides between its covers. “Erasing graffiti, Sister.” Donna scrubs imaginary ink.

  I pinch the underside of my arm to keep from cracking up at Donna’s bad acting. I imagine falling out of my desk and rolling down the aisle, cackling to the heavens only to be stomped on by Sister Elizabeth. I almost laugh out loud at the thought, then cough, and stare at my poem, waiting for the fireworks. This will be better than the Movie of the Week.

  “What are you hiding inside that textbook?”

  Squirming and squinting, Donna acts mute.

  “In the time it will take you to answer me I can walk the earth and cure world hunger.”

  “A magazine,” Donna whispers.

  Sister Elizabeth puffs out her cheeks and points her marking pen at Donna.

  “Are those teen magazines going to help you pass your weekly religion test, which you desperately need to do judging by your poor performance to date?”

  “No, Sister.”

  “Donna, come to the front of the room and show the class exactly what is preoccupying you and Roberta’s attention.” Sister returns to grading papers.

  Donna shuffles to the front of class with the X-rated magazine that will be included in dozens of upcoming confessions. Even though she’s known for having the best posture in the Etiquette Club, Donna slumps like a dry plant.

  Sister prods her. “Show us the long-haired heartthrob you two nincompoops are drooling over.”

  “It’s not that kind of magazine.” Donna tentatively shows Sister the cover.

  Sister cocks her head until it registers she’s looking at filth. She snatches it and thumbs through. Her face grows scarlet, and she clutches her crucifix. I bruise my arm to stifle my laughter and avoid being kicked to death by her.

  “This is the kind of filth you bring to my class? Is this yours?”

  Big-eyed Donna shakes her head.

  “Whom does this belong to?” Sister asks through clenched teeth.

  “It was passed to me.”

  Sister slaps her grade book closed. “I’ll wait.” She rolls up the sex magazine and places it on the edge of her desk like it’s radioactive.

  Grimacing, she walks up and down each aisle scrutinizing every face for a clue. After circling the class, she returns to her desk and claps her hands.

  “Alrighty then, class detention today.”

  Groans, teeth sucking, sighs, and other sounds of unhappiness erupt.

  “I expect to hear a pin drop,” Sister says, glancing at the clock. “Sit up straight with your hands folded and your feet on the floor. We may be here for a long wretched time.” Sister Elizabeth grabs the magazine and zips to the trashcan. “This is where it belongs.”

  Geoffrey raises his hand. “Sister, that’s my father’s. Please don’t throw it away. He’ll kill me.”

  Sister Elizabeth hovers above Geoffrey. “It’s time we had another meeting with him. I will return it then, and not a moment before.”

  Geoffrey palms his face.

  Sister grabs his ear. “Face your classmates and apologize for speaking up too late.”

  “I’m sorry,” he mutters, looking like a cross between Dopey and Grumpy.

  The bell rings. But not for us. We slump in our chairs, listening through clenched jaws to the hallway echo with the sounds of joy and freedom that come at the end of the day.

  Some students, like me, get a head start on homework. Others daydream. Sister resumes grading papers. The class is beyond quiet.

  After fifteen minutes, a miracle occurs.

  “Sarah, lower the window shades.”

  “Yes, Sister Elizabeth.” She bounds up and grabs the window pole.

  All that’s left is to clean the board and erasers. Five minutes and we’re out of here. Yay!

  “Cut it out!” shouts David Green, a pimply-faced boy who has yet to experience his growth spurt. He sits across from Geoffrey, who enjoys picking on him. David finally decides to stop suffering in silence, but at the wrong freaking time. Apparently, Geoffrey beaned him with an eraser.

  Sister stares at Geoffrey as if he is two-headed. “Boys and girls, thank your class clown,” she wags her finger at Geoffrey, “who has the audacity to misbehave mere feet from me for adding another thirty minutes.”

  Our unhappiness fills the air.

  “I have a stack of logic-defying essays to wade through, and since many belong to this class, it makes sense for you to suffer with me. Another outburst? I’ll add thirty more minutes.”

  I lower my head onto my desk, then bolt up before she accuses me of napping. Sighing, I picture myself clobbering Geoffrey, who’ll keep me from seeing the After School Special. I glare at the back of his sweater dotted with lint balls and hope he can feel my disgust long distance. I pity his freshmen teachers and classmates.

  Twenty minutes later Sister Elizabeth says the magic words. “Class dismissed, starting with the first row. No running,” she says without looking up.

>   The last person out of class, I race to the end of the hallway and into the stairwell where a commotion below echoes. Taking the steps two at a time to the second-floor landing, I arrive as Geoffrey shoves David. A circle of kids egg the fight on.

  Geoffrey turns, sees it’s me, and continues his bullying. “You sissy, you had so much to say in class.”

  “I’m reporting you,” David shrieks.

  He heads for the steps, but Geoffrey blocks him. Geoffrey pops him in the jaw. David’s head snaps back.

  Rather than fight back, David bends over and covers his face as Geoffrey beats on his back like it’s a human drum. David tries to run. Geoffrey grabs his shirt tail, and David’s buttons fly.

  “I only have three school shirts,” David shouts as buttons skip down the steps.

  Attacking his shirt fires David up. Head down, he charges into Geoffrey, who wrestles him to the floor. I hope David kicks Geoffrey’s behind.

  Geoffrey straddles David, who lets out a horror movie scream as his classmate pummels him.

  “Better let him go,” I tell Geoffrey, whose radar for teachers often malfunctions.

  I want to pull him off David, but if he accidently hits me, I’d have to give him the Batman to Robin punch I already want to. Obeying Mom and avoiding trouble trumps everything. I look over at Donna to join me, but she won’t meet my eyes. I walk away as everyone else from detention instigates a fight.

  I head down the stairs and am about to push open the door to the yard when I hear Sister’s heels. The taps on her shoes sound like Click-Clack balls.

  “Get up off that floor.” Sister Elizabeth’s growl fills the staircase.

  A few students jet past as I tiptoe upstairs to peek at Geoffrey getting a well-deserved smack down from Sister. On the landing above me, Sister peers down at both boys. “Geoffrey, on your feet. Now!”

  As Geoffrey starts to rise, David elbows him. Geoffrey wrestles him back to the floor and they roll dangerously close toward the steps. Sister leans over and grabs the back of Geoffrey’s sweater just as David accidentally grabs the folds of Sister’s habit, knocking her off balance.