Before, After, and Somebody In Between

by Jeannine Garsee

  Finally Nikki pounces in and tosses me the phone. My pulse quadruples its speed when I hear Danny say, “Nat told me you were at the party yesterday. God, Gina. I’m so stupid! I can’t believe I forgot to tell you I wouldn’t be there. We’ve been planning this trip for weeks and there was like no way out of it. Honestly, Gina. I’m really sorry.”

  Oh—my—God. He didn’t dump me at all. He did forget! A totally honest mistake that anybody could make. Why do I always jump to the wrong conclusions? Do I enjoy making myself miserable?

  “You want to get something to eat?” he asks hopefully.

  “Oh, I guess.” A pathetic attempt to sound relaxed. “Give me an hour, okay?”

  One hour later he sweeps me into his arms. Once again he begs me to forgive him. Well, of course I do. How could I not? And I’m proud of myself for not asking about Caitlin. Maybe she was with him…but then again, maybe not.

  Maybe I’d rather not know.

  “Come home with me, okay?” he says, mouth warm against my ear.

  I don’t even think of saying no. His house is dark, and he lets us in with his key, and five seconds later we’re back in his room. This time I let him pull off my clothes, one piece at a time, and drop them to the floor. He dumps me on the bed, still whispering in my ear. I soak up each magical word as the mattress bounces beneath us, waiting for that “feeling” I hear so much about, the one that’ll make me gasp and shriek like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally.

  No such luck.

  “I love you.” Danny, when he can talk again, pants this through a mouthful of my hair.

  I wrap my arms around his neck, feeling his stubble on my collarbone, his breath on my neck. “I love you, too.”

  No, he couldn’t have been with Caitlin. There is just no way.

  …

  Nikki pokes her head out of her door when I make it back home two minutes before curfew. “See? You were all freaked out for nothing.”

  “Who said I was freaked out?”

  “Well, nobody saw you all day. I thought maybe you slit your wrists or something. You know, since Danny went to New York and all.”

  Am I imagining it, or does she seem pleased at this idea? Feeling my secret inner bitch begin to rear her ugly head, I toss Nikki one of her own go-to-hell hand flips and sashay into my room. If I say one word, we’ll both be sorry.

  Too dense to take a hint, Nikki follows me in. “Um, are you mad at me or something?”

  “Why?” I kick off my clothes and pull on my pj’s. “Oh! You mean because you told Natalie I already have a boyfriend even though you know it’s a total lie?”

  “What? No, wait, no, I didn’t, I mean, I—”

  And she’s a liar on top of it.

  “I’m not deaf,” I remind her. “I heard every word you said.”

  Nikki recovers faster than I expected. “Well, even if he is, it’s kind of cool, I think, hooking up with a black guy. Not that I’d have the guts to do it. But you’re so earthy, Gina. You kind of do what you want, and don’t even care what people think. Right?”

  Wrong. I care a lot. That’s my whole problem.

  “Do you mind?” I ask, because she’s blocking the bathroom door. “I’d like to brush my teeth.”

  Eyeing me nervously, she steps aside. “So what else did you hear?” Translation: Are you gonna rat me out for toking behind the garage?

  Ha! Now it’s Nikki’s turn to worry and sweat, and hope nobody finds out her embarrassing secrets.

  “ ’Night, Nikki,” I say sweetly as I close the door in her face. How did I ever think we could possibly be friends?

  35

  Question to myself: How would I feel if Shavonne disappeared from the face of the planet?

  Answer to myself: Exceedingly shitty.

  I mean, it’s not like I have to tell her where I am. All I have to do is let her know I’m alive. And since Mr. Brinkman just gave me a cool little cell phone of my own, I don’t have to worry about “Brinkman” popping up on any caller ID.

  But when I dial her number, her phone is out of service, so now there’s only one thing left for me to do. After finishing up with my cello lesson one day, I take the rapid transit to Public Square, then grab a bus to the projects. At school I told Nikki that I’d be stopping at a friend’s, and she asked, What friend? like I have no friends of my own. I gaze out the grimy bus window at a neighborhood that’s ten times worse than I remember, right down to the squished cat on the curb and some dude peeing on a dumpster.

  Swinging my cello case, I leap off the bus and race to Shavonne’s. “Hi. Remember me?”

  Shavonne’s mouth hangs open. “Wow. What the fuck?”

  I haven’t heard that word for so long, it makes me break into a grin. “I called you a couple of times, but your phone’s been disconnected.”

  “Well, that’s what happens ain’t nobody payin’ the bill.”

  I breeze in and proudly model my exquisite black coat, but she looks me up and down without any oohs or ahhs. Her un-braided hair fans out in a dark cloud, and she’s skinnier than ever. “You sick or something?”

  “Why?” she asks snarkily. “ ’Fraid you’ll catch something?”

  “Don’t be stupid. You just look …” Sick, I finish silently.

  “My mom’s in the hospital. And Aunt Bernice moved in with us, and she’s on my last livin’ nerve! Bitch even let my cat out and I ain’t seen her since. Yeah, I’m sick!”

  I remember, but don’t mention, the dead cat on the curb. “Sorry about your mom.”

  Shavonne shrugs this off. “So where you been, anyway?”

  I think each word carefully before I say it out loud. “My mom’s in rehab again, so I’m in a foster home now.”

  “Get out! Where at?”

  “Um, not far. It’s a nice place. Nice people, too.” I rush on before she can ask any questions about my new “family.”

  “And guess what? I got a boyfriend. And guess what else? We did it!”

  “Did what?”

  “You know—it!” Exasperated, I spell it out. “I had sex, Shavonne! Oh Go-od. I am so in love.”

  “You liar. You did not.”

  “Oh, yes I did. Shavonne, he’s awesome! We have so much in common, and he’s so-o-o good-looking, like a movie star or something, and he’s rich, and he’s got these amazing blue eyes, and—”

  Shavonne fakes a gag. “He that good-lookin’, he gotta be gay.”

  “What? He is not!”

  “Well, if he ain’t, then he gotta have some kinda anterior motive to be hangin’ ‘round you. You might be lookin’ pretty slick these days, but sister-girl? You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.”

  I can’t believe she’d try to use Elvis against me. “It’s ulterior motive. Ulterior! God, don’t even try to insult me if you don’t know how to speak English.”

  “Okay, okay. Ul-ter-i-or motive.”

  “You don’t even know what that means.”

  “You just come over here to piss me off?” she demands.

  “You’re pissing me off,” I shoot back. “Why are you being so nasty to me?”

  Shavonne leans forward to scream in my face. “ ’Cause I don’t give a shit about your faggot boyfriend! My mom is sick! She could die any day.”

  “Well, mine’s sick, too. She almost died herself. She OD’d on pills, okay? Why do you think I can’t go home?”

  “It ain’t like she got AIDS. And everybody knows about it, too, thanks to Aunt Bernice’s big mouth. I got people at school who don’t even want to sit down next to me. You think that’s fun? Gimme your crazy old lady any day of the week.”

  This is the stupidest argument I’ve ever been in.

  “You got something to drink?” I ask abruptly.

  “Help your own damn self. I ain’t no freakin’ waiter.”

  I find an Orange Crush in the back of the fridge, and then rack my brain to come up with a neutral topic. “You still painting and stuff?”

  “Not much. No money for
supplies, ob-vi-ous-ly,” she adds with a resentful glance at my coat.

  This is so not working out. “Um, is Chardonnay still around?”

  Shavonne relaxes a fraction. “Nope. After you sliced her up that day, they canned her triflin’ ass.”

  Canned mine, too, but no point in reminding her. “I didn’t slice her up. I didn’t even nick her.”

  “Ain’t what I heard.” Shavonne’s lips twitch in an almost-smile. “Hey, did ya hear she finally squeezed out that two-headed fetus of hers? Girl, that thing’s uglier than a busted boil. Kenyatta saw ‘em at Eagle Mart, and Blubber Butt was stuffin’ rubbers in the stroller.”

  Well, thank God for that.

  “And Jerome’s been by. He keeps asking about you, wondering why you ain’t called him. Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll give it to him?”

  Just what I need. My nonexistent black boyfriend calling the Brinkman house.

  I squint nervously at the clock. “I can’t stay too long.”

  “You just got here,” Shavonne points out.

  “I know, but I’ve got to get back before dark.”

  “Aw, Aunt Bernice can take you home when she gets back from the hospital.” Shavonne’s already scrambling for paper and a pencil.

  “Seriously, I gotta go—” I stop. “Where’s my purse?” Where’s my obscenely overpriced one-hundred-percent-calfskin, Juicy-freaking-Couture handbag? Did I leave it on the bus?

  “Got any money?” I ask, feeling horribly faint.

  Shavonne scoffs. “Yeah, millions, if I can dig up the combo to my safe.”

  I’m dead meat without any bus fare, and I thank God over and over that my ritzy new cell phone is still safe in my coat pocket. I dial the number with dread, praying Nikki doesn’t pick up. All I can do is tell Mrs. Brinkman the truth, that I’m stuck in the ghetto without a way home.

  Shavonne fixes me with a laser stare. “You didn’t give her the address.”

  “I didn’t?”

  “No. All you said was, ‘I’m at Shavonne’s.’ “

  I try to think of a way out of this. Like, duh, of course I gave her the address before I even came over here. That would be perfectly reasonable, perfectly believable. But it won’t keep Shavonne from finding out where I live now that Mrs. Brinkman herself is already on her way.

  I have no choice but to confess, and Shavonne blinks in astonishment. “The Brinkmans?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My mom’s Brinkmans? With the yappy little dog and the snotty daughter?”

  “Yeah.” I give her the CliffsNotes version. “And I didn’t tell you at first because it’s just so weird.” And I didn’t want you calling me! But how can I say that?

  “The Brinkmans,” she repeats. “Wow. I mean…wow.”

  “Yeah. And did you know they had another kid who died?”

  “I heard that once,” she says absently, still stuck on the idea of me at the Brinkmans.

  “So what happened to her?”

  “Ma never said. Probably she got her head sucked into that fancy bathtub of theirs.” Shavonne giggles. “Or maybe Nikki slipped her a poisoned apple.”

  “Not helpful, Shavonne.”

  “So ask them, why don’t you? I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

  The conversation dwindles, so Shavonne digs up a battered drawing pad and a tiny piece of charcoal. She sketches in silence, forcing me to stare at the wall—her cable TV has also been cut off—till Mrs. Brinkman shows up and toots the horn.

  Shavonne sneers through the window. “Oooh, a Jag-you-ah-h? What she do, make you ride in the trunk?”

  Ignoring this, I throw an arm around her neck. “I’m really, really sorry about your mom.”

  She hugs me back tightly, hanging on a couple seconds longer than necessary. “I know. And I’m sorry I’m such a bitch.” She bops me in the head as I duck out the door.

  Mrs. Brinkman attacks me before I get a single foot in the car. “You better have a good explanation for this, Gina.”

  “I lost my purse. I said I was sorry.”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean, what were you thinking? Riding a bus through a neighborhood like this.”

  A neighborhood like this? This used to be my neighborhood in case she forgot.

  “If you wanted to visit Shavonne, why didn’t you ask me? I could have driven you myself. My God, don’t you read the newspapers? Where’s your common sense?”

  “I couldn’t!” I burst out. “I was afraid—” I bite my lip.

  “Afraid of what?” She looks genuinely flabbergasted. “That I wouldn’t let you come?”

  “It’s not that, I just—” Dammit, Gina, say it already! “I didn’t want Nikki to know where I was.” Then, in a teeny voice, “You didn’t tell her, did you?”

  Mrs. Brinkman sighs. “Of course I didn’t.” I fall limp with relief, till she adds, “Let me ask you something. Don’t you find it tiresome, this cloak-and-dagger routine of yours?”

  “Huh?”

  “Pretending to be someone else. I mean, really, why bother? You’re smart, you’re funny, and you’ve got a very good heart. You shouldn’t have to lie to feel…accepted.” She says it as an afterthought, like it’s not important at all.

  “I don’t lie,” I lie.

  “No? Well, have you gotten around to telling Danny you’re not from Columbus?”

  Hell, I haven’t even told Danny I’m only fourteen. Like Nikki, he must think I’m fifteen because I’m already a sophomore. Going on sixteen, too, since I have a birthday coming up in March.

  “Well?” She waits, and I can hear the humming of her bullshit detector.

  “Not yet,” I finally admit. “You didn’t say anything, did you? To his folks or anything?”

  Mrs. Brinkman tugs on her leather-gloved fingers. “No. But only because, to be perfectly honest, I didn’t think you’d be with us this long. Now don’t get me wrong,” she adds quickly. “I’m glad you’re here, and you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. But if you’re going to be part of our family, you need to be honest. And the longer you wait, the harder it’s going to be.”

  I twist a button on my coat.

  “Gina?”

  “I heard you!” It comes out kind of snarky, so I quickly add, “Okay. I’ll do it. I just have to, um, figure out what to say.”

  Mrs. Brinkman nods, satisfied. “And I think now might be a good time for us to have a talk about you and Danny. I know you really like him, and he certainly seems to like you. But he’s what, three years older? And boys, if you don’t already know it, can be, mmm, a bit pushy at times. I’m not saying Danny is, but—well, I’d hate to see you in a situation you don’t feel you can get out of.”

  I nod with the seriousness of any fourteen-year-old virgin. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  “I know, and I trust you. I just wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t get on your back about this.”

  Okay, I believe her, but I’m getting sick of the lecture. “Shavonne’s phone got disconnected. She says they can’t pay the bill.”

  Mrs. Brinkman throws me a look. “Are you changing the subject?”

  “No! But doesn’t that suck?”

  She thinks for a moment. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

  “You will?”

  “Of course I will. It’s the least I can do. Mrs. Addams was with us for five years and, well, I feel terrible I didn’t think of helping them out before this. Anything else you think they need?”

  “Everything,” I say, elated that Mrs. Brinkman’s not going to kill me after all, and on top of that she really wants to help Shavonne!

  “I’ll talk to my husband,” she promises, smiling now, which makes me smile, too. “We’ll do whatever we can.”

  “Thanks! And I really am sorry, you know. For sneaking off, and—” Being my usual snotty self. I really do have to watch that.

  She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I know. Just please, please, Gina—”


  “I know. Be honest.” I make a face. “Okay, I’ll tell Danny.”

  She squeezes harder, with an edgy glance in my direction. “This isn’t just about Danny, Gina. You need to start being honest with yourself.”

  36

  On Valentine’s Day, I have my first counseling session with Zelda because that’s the one thing Judge Monaghan refused to throw out. First she bulldozes me with what she considers good news: Momma finally made it to a halfway house, so it’s just a matter of time before they dump her back into society—after she finds a job, of course, and some place to live. Not with Wayne, Zelda assures me. Momma decided that for herself.

  That’s about the only good thing I’ve heard so far. “Well, if she’s so much better, then how come I can’t see her?”

  “She’s recovering, Martha. She needs to concentrate on herself.”

  “Well, maybe I don’t want to see her. Anybody think of that?”

  “I understand,” she says.

  Understand? Ha! It wasn’t her mom who OD’d under her nose, never mind that I would’ve been the one to find her cold dead body.

  “So,” she continues, “how are you doing, hmm?”

  “Well, I’m playing the cello again. I’m in the school orchestra now, and I’m taking private lessons. And—!” I pause for effect, saving the best for last. “I’m auditioning for the Great Lakes Academy of Music.”

  Yes, it’s true. I’m officially signed up, and my audition’s in April. Mr. Brinkman was thrilled when I told him I want to do this, got me the paperwork and stuff, and made a big deal out of the whole thing. Even Professor Moscowitz says I should give it a shot. Funny, since he’s the one who’s been telling me I’m about as coordinated as a gorilla.

  Zelda seems pleased, too. “Well! Congratulations.”

  “Yeah, isn’t it cool? I’m even composing my own piece.” Not from scratch, exactly—I’ve based it on some old seventeenth-century tune Danny dug up—but still, it counts.

  “Wonderful, Martha. I’m sure your mother will be very proud of you.”

  “Man, I can’t believe you said that with a straight face.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  I ignore this. “Look. The Brinkmans think it’s cool I play, and they’re, like, spending all this money on my lessons, and—well, they expect me into get into that school. It’s just different here, you know?”