Emako Blue

by Brenda Woods

  “It’s kind of early. I could call you back later.”

  “No. It’s okay.”

  “Happy birthday,” he said.

  “Who told you it was my birthday? Emako, huh?”

  “Yeah. . . . Are you, like, havin’ a party or anything?” he asked.

  “Just my mama and daddy and some cousins and stuff . . . nuthin’ special. I could ask if you could come over if you want to.”

  “I can’t. I have to work today in my father’s market . . . but maybe next week I could meet you at the mall.”

  “They might be cool with that.”

  “I’ll see you at school on Monday.”

  “Okay,” I replied.

  “Later, Monterey. Happy birthday.”

  “Later, Eddie,” I said, and hung up the phone. I was too happy. I put my head back on my pillow and tried to close my eyes. Sixteen was already feeling pretty good.

  Most of the day was boring. All my little cousins wanted to do was play video games on my computer. My nana forgot to put batteries in her hearing aids, so everyone was talking too loud. I was glad they went home early.

  It was 5:30 in the afternoon when Emako rang the doorbell and handed me a small box.

  “Happy birthday.”

  “You didn’t have to get me anything,” I said as she walked through the door.

  “But I did,” she replied.

  My daddy looked up from the TV. “Hi, Emako.”

  “Hey, Mr. Hamilton,” she said.

  My mama peeked her head out of the kitchen. “Hi, Emako.”

  “Hey, Miz Hamilton.”

  “I keep telling you, call me DeeDee. Everybody does,” my mother said.

  “DeeDee,” Emako repeated.

  We went into my room and closed the door.

  “I forgot a card,” she apologized.

  “Don’t matter.” I tore off the wrapping paper and opened the box. It was the silver bracelet I had wanted the time we had gone to Melrose. “I can’t believe this! You remembered!”

  “I remembered.”

  I put on the bracelet. “You my bestest girl.” I looked at the bracelet on my arm. “I cannot believe you did this! This is too sweet! You want some birthday cake?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “You could have gumbo if you want, but my daddy ate most of the shrimp.”

  “Not right now.” She got up and went over to my CD rack. “Could I borrow your Jay-Z CD?”

  “It’s there. Daddy said he’s gonna get me a CD burner. Then I’ll be able to make my own CDs.”

  She put the CD in and began to sing along. Then she stopped singing and sat down. She looked sad.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Some knucklehead came into my line at work today, lookin’ for my brother. You remember the little gangsta you said was fine? Who was drivin’ that Regal outside my house when you first came over?”

  “Who was in CYA?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “And I told him that he knew where Dante was and he needed to get out my face unless he wanted to order somethin’ to eat.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “So he looks in my eyes real hard like he’s tryin’ to scare the black off me and orders a Whopper with cheese and a large drink, pays for it, makin’ sure that I see all the ice on his fingers, and the Rolex on his wrist, you know, like blingbling, goes outside, and gets in his ride.”

  “Were you scared?”

  “I ain’t scared of nuthin’. Just sometimes I wish Dante would disappear and never come back.”

  “You love him?” I asked.

  “He’s my brother. I just hope Marcel don’t get caught up in any mess, cuz he’s a cool little dude.”

  “He is,” I said.

  “He ain’t nuthin’ like Dante. I think Dante was just born mean. But I love Marcel with his goofy little self. Always clownin’.” Emako had a little smile on her face.

  I couldn’t wait any longer. “Eddie called me,” I blurted.

  “Again?”

  “Yeah, this morning, to say happy birthday, and then he said maybe we could meet at the mall on Saturday.”

  “Eddie’s kinda cool,” Emako said.

  “He is,” I replied.

  Eddie

  One day at the beginning of January, I went to the school office to have my transcripts sent to the U of New Mexico, and there she was. Emako.

  “So what’s up, superstar?” I said.

  “Superstar?” she asked.

  “You know, what’s up with Aurora Records?” I asked, forgetting my vow of secrecy. “Oops. I promised Monterey I wouldn’t say anything.”

  “It’s okay. Everybody knows anyway. Can you believe it? But my mama says I can’t even go near a recording studio till I graduate.”

  “Maybe she’ll change her mind.”

  “No, she won’t, becuz she said someone is gonna graduate from high school and that someone is gonna be me. Plus, I wanna be a good example for my little brother and sister. It’s a responsibility thing, you know?”

  “Ain’t nuthin’, just two more years,” I said.

  “Can I help you?” the office lady said from behind the counter.

  “I need to have my transcripts sent,” I replied.

  “Again? And where to this time, Mr. Ortiz?”

  “New Mexico. They want to see my mid-semester progress reports.”

  “Didn’t you apply for early admission to Arizona State?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’ll know by January fifteenth, but just in case.”

  “It’s your life, Mr. Ortiz. Here’s the form. And you, miss?” she said to Emako.

  “I was absent yesterday, but I forgot to come to the office and get my slip, and Miz Warren said I could come and get it after school becuz I was almost late this morning and we had a history quiz and she didn’t want me to miss the quiz so—”

  “Enough . . . too much information. Reason for absence?”

  “I was sick.”

  She filled the out the absence slip and signed it. “Bring this to homeroom tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” Emako said, and turned to leave. “Later, Eddie.”

  “I’ll bring this back tomorrow,” I said, holding up the transcript form.

  “Like I said, it’s your life, Mr. Ortiz. Just don’t come in here blaming me like you did last week because your grades didn’t get there in time and now your life is ruined forever because you have to go to the junior college down the street.”

  Her words made me think again. “Okay, I’ll do it now,” I said, watching Emako walk out the door into the hallway.

  The office lady sat back at her desk. “Like I said, Mr. Ortiz, it’s your life.”

  I scribbled in my info as fast as I could and she took it from my hand like she had won a victory.

  When I got outside, Emako was standing there with Jamal. “It’s your life, Mr. Ortiz,” she mimicked.

  Jamal nodded. “Hey, Eddie.”

  “Hey, Jamal,” I replied.

  “I hear you gonna hook up with sweet Monterey this weekend,” Jamal said.

  “She’s not sure yet.”

  “Her moms and pops?” Jamal asked.

  “Yeah.” I felt a little embarrassed. “I gotta go before I miss my bus.”

  “Bye, Eddie,” Emako said.

  “Later,” I said, and left them by the lockers.

  I stopped at the 7-Eleven and bought a Mountain Dew and some pork rinds for my ride home, then headed back to the bus stop. I was early, so I sat on the bench and started to eat.

  I heard them first. The music was loud enough to wake up a corpse.

  They were driving a Chevy with tinted windows.

  They slowed down and I felt the fear. I whispered a prayer, asking God to protect me. I didn’t want a bullet in my spine or head. I wanted to see my future. I was innocent. Innocence had to count for something.

  The Chevy came to a stop in front of me.


  The window rolled down and I took a deep breath.

  This is a mistake. I’m not Tomas.

  The passenger flashed a gang sign and I shrugged my shoulders.

  He looked at me and laughed as he rolled up the window.

  The Chevy roared away and I breathed.

  It felt like I sat there forever. Finally, I could see my bus in the distance coming toward me. I climbed aboard and sat down next to a little old lady, who nodded at me. She reminded me of my mother and I felt safe.

  I got off the bus at the stop two blocks from my house. I hurried home, staring straight ahead.

  I went around to the side of the house and came in through the open back door and locked it. My sister was in her room, watching TV. I headed for the kitchen, past the little altar with the statue of Jesus and the candle that my mother kept lit twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Behind them sat a picture of my brother, Tomas, when he was twelve years old.

  My mother was in the kitchen cooking. “Mijo,” she sighed.

  “You should keep the doors locked, even in the daytime! Something could happen!” I was almost yelling.

  “Twenty-five years, nothing has happened. You worry too much, Mijo.” She put the lid on the pot and wiped her hands on her apron.

  I wanted her to put her arms around me the way she used to when I was a little boy.

  “Sit down,” she said. “I made some soup.”

  I sat down.

  But the Chevy was still on my mind.

  Savannah

  Even if Gina didn’t blame Emako, I did, and so I was on her back when school started up again.

  Emako was in my public speaking class, and every time she got up to talk, I disrespected her from the back of the room, calling her the ghetto superstar and Emako the ho.

  I guess Emako got tired of it, because one day after class she followed me out into the hall.

  “Savannah!” she called.

  There was something about the way she said my name, and I thought twice before I turned around. I decided to play innocent and smiled at her. “Hey, Emako.”

  “Why you gotta be like that?”

  “Like what?” I replied.

  “Like every time I get up to talk, you gotta make fun of me like you still back in the seventh grade.”

  “I’m just playin’ with you. Don’t be so sensitive.”

  She got all up in my face and said softly, “I’m not bein’ sensitive. If you don’t like me, I’m cool with that. I mean, it’s not gonna keep me from sleepin’ at night, you hear what I’m sayin’?”

  “I got ears.”

  The bell rang and she walked away.

  After school, I got a ride home with this girl named Jo’nelle who sat behind me in history class. We weren’t really friends, but she lived around the corner from me and her mother sometimes gave me a ride home when my mother and stepfather were out of town. I sat in the backseat while her mother rattled on nonstop.

  Let me out of here, I thought.

  They dropped me off at the corner and I walked the rest of the way to my house. When I opened the door, Lillie started her dance around my feet, barking. She looked like an overgrown rat with long hair. I locked her in the service porch. If she’s lucky, I thought, I might feed her . . . later.

  My mother and stepfather were in Thailand and I was home alone, again. I called Pizza Hut and ordered a large pepperoni pizza. While I waited, I got a Coors out of the refrigerator and took a swallow.

  I looked in the small mirror that hung over the sink and toasted myself. Today was my sixteenth birthday.

  By the time the pizza came, I had finished two cans of beer and I was high. I stumbled to the door and paid for the pizza.

  “Today’s my birthday,” I told the delivery guy. “Keep the change.”

  “Hey, thanks,” he said, “and happy birthday.”

  I closed the door, went back into the kitchen, and let Lillie out of the service porch. I opened another can of beer and poured some in her empty water bowl. She lapped it up and I started to laugh. I sat down, took out a slice for Lillie and a slice for me. She jumped in my lap and licked my face.

  “Happy birthday, Savannah,” I said as I hugged the little dog.

  The phone rang and I jumped. I smiled as I picked up the phone, thinking it was my mother. “Hello?”

  It was Gina. I wanted to cry. “Hi, Gina.”

  “Happy birthday, girl,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I replied.

  “You don’t sound too happy. What’s up with you? It’s your birthday. Did you get a car?”

  “No. My mother and the man are in Thailand.”

  “Oh. Maybe they’ll get it for you when they come back,” she said.

  I knew she was trying to make me feel good. “Yeah, maybe,” I replied.

  “You want me to come over?”

  “No, I’m cool.” I didn’t need anyone feeling sorry for me.

  There was a long pause. “How’s Jamal?”

  “Is that why you really called, to ask about Jamal?”

  “I called to say happy birthday. Why you gotta be nasty?”

  I took another gulp of beer. “Sorry. Jamal is fine.”

  “Oh . . . ,” she said, and hesitated. “Is he gettin’ tight with Emako?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think I should call him?”

  “Do whatever you want, but don’t come cryin’ to me again if he hurts your feelings, okay?”

  There was silence.

  “I won’t,” she replied. “Bye.”

  “Later.”

  Jamal

  I was in my room, trying to study for a math test. I had my headphones on and I was listening to the music, staying out of trouble, staying off the streets. Every time you turned around, someone was getting shot in L.A., and I didn’t want my name added to the growing list. There were times when it made me jumpy. Not scared—just jumpy.

  It was like you could just be out in your ride with the music bumpin’, thinking you had a bright future as a music producer or something, and then a car rolls by slowly and Bang! Bang! Bang! The lights go out and you ain’t going nowhere except to the emergency room in the back of an ambulance or to the morgue in a zipped-up black body bag. People left standing around talking to the media who claim you were “gang related” when the only thing you were related to were your moms and pops, who now only have your picture to look at for the rest of their lives. It made a young brother tense.

  As for me, my life was smooth, and I wanted it to stay that way.

  It was 10:15. I had promised to call Emako. I closed the book, took off my headset, and picked up the phone. It rang four times before her little brother answered.

  “Hello?” Marcel said.

  “Is Emako home?” I asked.

  “Yeah, she’s home,” he answered.

  “Can I holler at her?”

  “Just a minute,” he said, and yelled, “Emako!”

  I sat and waited.

  “Gimme the phone,” I heard her say. “And get your little butt in the bed. . . .” A pause. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Emako,” I said.

  “Hey.”

  “What you doin’?”

  “Nuthin’,” she replied.

  “You wanna do somethin’ on Saturday?” I asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Whatever.”

  There was a very long pause. “Jamal?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you really break it off with Gina?”

  “Would I lie to you? You wanna do somethin’ on Saturday or not?” I asked.

  “Or what . . . you gonna call Gina and ask her?”

  “Why you gotta be like that? I told you I’m finished with all that.”

  “I got a question for you.”

  “Okay.”

  “When’s that last time you talked to Gina?”

  “Last night.”

  “Why you tryin’ to be a player?”

  “I’m not tryin’
to be a player no more. I’m just tryin’ to keep it real. Besides, she called me.”

  “G’night, Jamal.”

  “So, I’ll see you Saturday?”

  “Maybe. . . . G’night.”

  “G’night.” I hung up the phone, looked one last time at the math book on the floor, and turned off the light. Emako wasn’t the type to sit around and be played, I thought. She just might be the one to make me change my ways. I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

  Monterey

  “I’m gonna take these braids out this weekend. I’m tired of ’em. I’ve had ’em so long, I forgot what I look like without ’em. I think I’ll get it cut real short and dye it platinum blond like Eve,” Emako said one day after chorus.

  I tried to picture it. “That might look dope.”

  “Dope? Why don’t you just talk like the square that you are? You worse than that girl on BET slingin’ ghetto slang.”

  “Why you always gotta criticize me? Like you’re tryin’ to make me feel bad. I’m gettin’ tired of it.”

  “Don’t get all mad,” Emako said.

  “That’s what you always say. I’m gettin’ tired of that too.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry. Talk any way you wanna talk. Ain’t nuthin’.”

  “Besides, I gotta talk like that. You never know. One day it could be me. 106 & Park. Live from New York,” I said.

  “I said sorry.” She looked at me like she was sincere. “You know it could be like that,” she added.

  “For real, huh?”

  “For real,” she replied.

  Her bus came and I watched her hurry away. She turned around and waved at me and I felt better.

  My daddy pulled up a few minutes later.

  “Your mother has her night class tonight, so I was going to cook,” he said as I crawled in.

  “Please don’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Becuz you can’t cook.”

  “I can’t cook?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well then, maybe you could cook, Monterey.”

  “I can’t cook either. Can’t we just stop and get KFC?”

  “Okay, but don’t tell your mother. I promised her that I would make you eat healthy food.”

  “I won’t tell her.”

  “How was school?” he asked.