The day before Christmas break, me and John swap presents. We’re standing at the entrance of school, kids teeming around us. We tear open the wrapping, our boxes the exact same size. I draw mine out of the square of fluffy cotton: a silver bracelet with two snakeheads just barely touching. I’ve seen a lot of the South Jamaica girls wear them, heavy silver clinking maturely on their arms. I slip mine on, feel its cool, heavy weight. Something strong and serious lies between us. Even though we’ve kissed only once.
John takes his out—a plated bracelet too, the chained kind boys can wear—with a big “J,” for either John or Jamila. His grin is wide, and he latches his over his cuff and lets it jiggle. We’re suddenly shy with each other.
“Hey, you two love birds, bus is going!” Darren calls.
I can’t stop grinning and looking at my bracelet.
* * *
* * *
That week, slushy rain freezes the puddles into stiff peaks. We sleep late most mornings and Dad wakes us up whistling as he cooks fried eggs and toast. I keep twirling my bracelet, waiting for someone to say anything. But they don’t even notice. Mom lets me go shopping once the sales start since I’ve grown two inches and my new corduroy bell-bottoms are too short. I keep fantasizing that I’ll step on an escalator and John will come coasting down the other side, smiling.
For two days we visit Mom’s college roommate, Ellie Roesner, in Connecticut. She and her family live in a house that’s so old, it’s got one of those split Dutch doors. I hang out with their young daughter, Pammie, up in the attic while Daddy and Mr. Roesner go into the basement, where they build a chair. I haven’t seen him that relaxed in a long time.
We come back in time for New Year’s, which we spend at Josie’s place. Francesca’s parents have some business party in the city, but Francesca is with us, quieter than usual. Mr. Rivera has brought packets of sweets from Puerto Rico, and we tilt cardboard hats on our heads. At one point he flings open the patio doors and shows us how to dance until Mrs. Rivera calls out, “Come back here right now! This isn’t San Juan!” But Mr. Rivera swings out an arm and pulls Mrs. Rivera tight, the two of them swaying. Francesca watches closely, wiping the wetness from her eyes.
* * *
* * *
The first day back from break, Mrs. Johnson waves me into her office and makes me shut the door. She looks almost giddy. “I have some news.”
“What?”
“There’s a new program for students who have been identified as on the cusp academically. They can take a test at the end of the school year, and if they do well, they can enter the summer program.”
“And?”
“And then at the end of that, the board of ed will see about their placement.”
Sounds like a lot more door flaps to crawl through. But it’s something. And I know Josie can do it. I hope Darren can too.
All through February and March the two of them keep at it. One day the principal pops his head in and gives us the thumbs-up, declares the two of them are showing “perseverance.” When the door shuts, Darren leans back in his chair and comments, “You hear that? We have per-se-veeer-ence.”
Josie giggles.
“Not per-se-cuuu-tion.”
“Vocabulary word!” Josie chimes. “You get that one?”
“Last week.” He picks up his spiral notebook, which is all bent and creased, covered in ink scribbles. “My sentence was: Miss Daly, my math teacher, has a persecution complex.”
“How?” Josie asks.
“She takes it personally when we don’t do our homework.”
“That means she cares,” Josie replies.
“I get that. Why you always so serious all the time?”
“Hush,” I tell them sternly. “You’re not supposed to be talking!”
“Yes, Miss Bossy,” he says with a grin.
And most of the time they really do the work, since they’ve promised each other they are going to do the summer program. Darren has a way of glancing at Josie, mischief flashing in his face, and I can see her blush, smile to herself. She’s not as guarded. Darren is almost an extra brother—better than Karim, who is usually in a grouchy teenage mood, acting like any contact with his kid sister is as bad as catching the plague.
On another day—maybe because I got through a whole class with Mrs. Markowitz without a problem—after dance class I find myself tugging on my jeans next to Johanna, ready to talk to her. Of course in dance, Johanna is the best. For the concert she’s the one who stands at the top of our V formation, her long arms guiding us in our complicated number to the Mission Impossible theme song.
“So you know there’s this study club I created—”
She raises her eyebrows, skeptical. “You?”
“Yeah. With Mrs. Johnson—”
“And?” She’s already hiked her bag over her shoulder.
“I thought maybe the student council could create a couple more like that. Keep them small. People have buddies to work with.”
Surprise passes over her face. “You should be my campaign manager.”
I notice she doesn’t ask. “What does that mean?”
“Put up posters. Give out flyers. Get the word out.”
Be your lackey, I want to snap back. But then I realize: maybe it’s not such a bad idea. Johanna is popular in a good way. Kids actually listen to her, half the time because they’re in love with her, and half the time because they’re afraid. And maybe I can learn something from her too.
“Think about it,” she says.
And then she floats off, shoulders back, head tipped high. I wonder if she’ll take all the credit for what I created. I don’t mind. All I care is that I’ve done something good. And that I’ve begun to belong.
* * *
* * *
Evening and another out of the ordinary experience: Me and Karim are actually sitting in the living room alone with each other. Our parents have decided to go out to the movies like teenagers on a date, Daddy guiding Mom into the car with his hand at her back. Watching them, I feel happy in a way I haven’t since I got in trouble at school. My parents are A-OK sometimes.
“What’s up, kiddo?” Karim murmurs as I drop down on the sofa next to him. His eyes stay on the TV, watching the news, while he runs a copper brush on his suede boots. I’m happy that he used his old nickname for me.
“Nothing much.”
“You liking your new school?”
“It’s better than before.”
He gives the boot a vigorous swipe before taking up the other boot. Walter Cronkite is giving the same old reports on Vietnam. It’s bad.
“How so?”
I pause because I’m not sure I know what I want to say. Karim always has to throw down a challenge. When he glances at me I feel his dare.
“So I did this cool thing,” I begin.
“Uh-huh.”
“In my school, there are a lot of kids that get in trouble. And my friend Darren, he’s one of those…”
His brush is making hard strokes; his eyes are on the TV. How can I make him see the importance of what I’ve done? And then I explain about the study club, and the bonus of Josie being willing to hang out with Darren, how he’s had such a crush on her and, before, she wouldn’t give him the time of day. I keep waiting for Karim to glaze over, or elbow me out with impatience. But I don’t stop talking. About how the school is really tough but now I’m going to be Johanna’s campaign manager. As I speak, I realize there are other ways to feel big.
When I’m done, he sets his brush down and says, “So you’re a wingman?”
“What’s that mean?”
“The side guy, who helps out the main guy.”
“I guess.”
Is that a bit of admiration shining in his eyes? “Not bad, kiddo. What made you want to do that?”
“You still mad?”
I pause. “I guess. But more about John. Not getting to hang out.”
“You should talk to Dad about your cowboy. Maybe he’ll let you see him.”
I look at him in horror. “He’d never agree!”
He shrugs. “You never know. Especially if you don’t try.” I wish I could talk to Karim more. Only he knows what it’s like, this weird mix we are, where we don’t know what people make of us. We’ve grown up with our parents’ stories of daring to get married. But what about us? At school they’re always talking about how we’re a great experiment, a new age. But they didn’t tell us about this. How we keep banging into a lot of the past.
And maybe this is what growing up means. I’ll be thirteen in a few months. Maybe it isn’t a Ferris wheel swooping down and going one way. It’s a back and forth. Some days you’re curled in eleven, playing with your best friend’s dollhouse, and other days you’re putting gloss on your lips and ignoring some boys staring at you.
He stands, stretches his arms. “How long I have to babysit you, anyway?”
* * *
* * *
“Daddy?”
“Yes?” My father looks up from the tiny desk crammed in a corner of their bedroom. His blueprints are rolled out on the bed.
I suck in my breath. “Can John and his friend come hang out?”
He sets down his glasses. Without them, he looks vulnerable, his eyes liquid and black.
“What’s your idea?”
Daddy is always very still. What I want to say is that when I look at John, the same wave of quiet comes over me. When Daddy talks, everyone listens because he carefully lays out his words, as if he’s building something. His way of speaking comes from a lot of considering. I wish I could explain how John is not so different. I feel hushed and good when he talks to me.
But I’ve lost all the bravery from yesterday with Karim.
“Go on.” Daddy’s voice is soft.
“Maybe they could take the bus and come visit.”
“When?”
I twist in my shoes. “The weekend?”
He nods. “With who?”
I panic. I hadn’t thought that far in advance. But my father is leading me. “With me and Josie. And maybe Francesca.”
“Does she know them?”
“No. But I don’t think she’s got a whole lot of friends at her school.”
“I imagine that’s so.” He pauses. “Still, I’d prefer if you had an activity. Just hanging around doesn’t sound promising.”
We could maybe bring them to Patty’s for our comic book and fried eggs ritual. Then I remember those boys on the roof, their ugly words.
The other day I was getting off the bus and I saw posters for the spring fair tacked on telephone poles. Every year there’s an amusement park outside in the church parking lot; in the basement they sell trinkets and homemade gifts, candied popcorn, and baked treats.
“There’s the spring fair. We could go to that.”
“Not a bad idea.”
“It’ll be great! I can get a gift for Mother’s Day and—” I want to say something more about John, but I stop.
He rubs the fold over his nose, slips his glasses back on. He’s back to being his usual self—no-nonsense. “That’s all you’re going to do, yes?”
“I promise.”
“All right, then.” His blueprint paper rustles as he turns around in his swivel chair. “But you make sure those boys introduce themselves first.”
We can see the Ferris wheel turning from a few blocks away, and the octopus ride waving its silver blinking arms. The tinny music threads toward us.
Francesca and Josie and I had waited at the bus stop for John and Darren, hands jammed into our new spring jackets, nervously stamping our boots. Francesca complained, “I’ll be a fifth wheel!” “Oh, stop being so dramatic,” we told her. “It’ll be fun with you.” She was grateful, I think. Someone had scrawled Francesca = Slut on the bathroom door at her school, which made her stuff her face into a pillow and cry all last weekend.
We had stopped at home. Darren was shyer than usual, and I couldn’t help noticing the dirty fur on his parka hood and too-short sleeves. A smiling Daddy shook their hands, interviewed them briefly, offered us sodas, and then sent us on our way, with a firm deadline of five o’clock so the boys could be home by a safe hour.
“Your old man’s all right.” Darren laughed as we left my apartment.
“He’s strict,” John says. “Like my nana.”
“Yeah, but your nana know how to cook. I listen to anyone who cooks like that.” Darren punches John’s arm. I knew from John how often Darren was over at his house, scarfing down Nana’s roast chicken and beans.
We dawdle in the courtyards, getting to know each other in a new way. Darren gives John a shove so he goes crashing into a hedge, the last of the frost shaking loose. Josie and Darren walk together, about a foot between them, Darren making goofball jokes. But it’s easy, since they’re used to each other now.
Then we stop in our old playground and take turns on the swings, even though the cold chains bite our palms. I feel like a visitor to my own childhood, remembering me and Josie and Francesca pushing our knees into the air for hours until our mothers’ voices urged us home in the dwindling light. But with boys, this place has a new sparkle. It’s everything I want—to feel normal with them on my own streets.
We head to the fair, which is spread out in the big parking lot next to the church. A banner flutters over the entrance: WELCOME TO THE SPRING FAIR!
After we waste five dollars in a shooting gallery, we start to wander the noisy stalls. We run into Manuel and Karim, who say hello to the boys. As we move away, my brother pulls me aside, and says quietly, “Watch yourself here.” I nod, and shake him off. Karim can be so annoying.
Francesca points to the Ferris wheel, which casts its silver mass against a bright blue sky. “We have to do that!” she cries.
“Not me,” Darren says. “That stuff makes me sick.”
“Me too,” John adds.
So the three of us climb onto a swaying seat, feel the hard metal bar clang down across our laps. Terrified, I shut my eyes. But I am wedged between Josie and Francesca, our thighs pressed tight together. We’re shaking and breathing as one.
“Ready?” Francesca asks.
“Yes!” Josie says.
“Come on, Jamila, you have to look!”
And I do. Because it’s the three of us, dangling at that perfect spot at the top. And then the plunge down. Over and over, the wheel sweeps up and around.
* * *
* * *
When we return to the ground, the boys are waiting but their faces seem a little clouded.
“You okay?” I ask John.
“Yeah, fine,” he mumbles.
But something shut down in him. We get some cotton candy and walk, scooping it into our mouths.
Why hadn’t I noticed it before? We might blend but John and Darren stick out. My mother never goes anywhere without doing a scan of a room on my father’s behalf. I set my hand on John’s wrist, feel the bracelet I gave him in December, cool and solid.
Then I spy a little striped tabby stuffed animal at the Ball and Basket game—small basketball hoops. “Get me that?” I ask sweetly, taking John’s arm.
“I don’t have much of a shot.”
Francesca chimes in, “You can do it!”
Just as she gives him a teasing nudge, I have a weird sensation. As if someone is tracking the backs of my legs. I swivel my head and get bumped by a bunch of kids streaming past. Then I see them next to a ticket booth. Those boys. The ones from the roof.
One of them grins and c
alls out, “Go on! Bet you got a killer dunk!”
I don’t like the way they say that. I’m not sure the others heard.
“Let’s go inside.” I try to keep the strain out of my voice.
“I want to see John shoot!” Darren says. “And what about that cat?”
“It’s okay. I don’t want it.”
Darren shrugs. “Whatever.”
We pause on the stairs leading down to the church basement. I can hear a crush of voices below. Downstairs there’s so much stuff, my eyes hurt: baskets of sugar cookies, stands of beaded necklaces, a vintage table with beaded purses and lace doilies, another of cigar boxes pasted with pictures.
We’re hungry, so we head to the food booths, buying a bag of fried dough balls dusted in confectioner’s sugar. Then we stroll the aisles, the powder making rings around our mouths. More tables: candlesticks, felt cushions, pale pink and blue blankets, and baby socks. Crocheted vests in rainbow colors. “These I have to have!” Francesca exclaims.
“We’re not here to shop for us,” Josie reminds her.
“Just a sec.”
I can’t help but see in Francesca what’s always been there: She’s hungry—for things, and more things. She can’t wait for anything—growing up too. It makes me sad, wishing Francesca would just slow down.
“Come on, y’all. This is boring,” Darren complains.
“One more!” She twirls. “What do you think?”
“How much that granny thing cost?” He goes to touch the dangling label.
The Long Ride Page 10