I always answer “Hey,” even if he was mean to me when he was alive.
Every morning since I started my new school, Jermaine’s ghost waits for me on the school steps. He should be starting middle school with the rest of us. Instead, he sits on the steps, watching everyone pass by.
Jermaine used to skip school lots. His last skip, he was in a 7-Eleven buying a soda. He got a belly shot. Wrong place, wrong time. He never got to graduate. I always wave at him. Sometimes, he says, “You’re cool, Lanesha.” Other times, “Stay in school.” (As if I wouldn’t!) I don’t remind him that he used to make fun of my green-yellow eyes, and call me “Evil Eye” or “Devil Eye,” and make “OoooOooo Oooooo” scary movie sounds whenever I walked by.
Kids at school have always teased me: “Crazy Lanesha,” “Spooky Lanesha,” “Witch Lanesha.” I just try to ignore them. They make me feel bad and sometimes I even cry. Still, I don’t tell them that if they’re shot dead or drowned in the swamp or smashed by a car, they’ll be glad I can see them. I’ll remind them of home. Of being alive.
Sometimes the teasing is just too much, though, and I go in the girls’ bathroom to hide. When I’m most sad, I think of Mama Ya-Ya. I see her in my mind like she’s a ghost, and it comforts me. “You are loved, Lanesha,” she always says. “Lanesha, you are loved.”
TaShon, my neighbor from down the street, is in my English class. Every time I see TaShon, I get the feeling that we’re related. After all, Mama Ya-Ya helped birth us both. Except TaShon’s mother still lives. Mine died. And I was born first.
Mama Ya-Ya doesn’t birth babies anymore. Everybody goes to Charity Hospital. TaShon, the last baby she birthed, was born with extra fingers. Two little bumps growing out of the sides of his hands. Mama Ya-Ya tried to tell everyone it was a good sign, saying, “He’ll cling hard to life.” Before TaShon was born, another baby had died. “Born premature,” Mama Ya-Ya said. “Because of you,” said the pitiful mother. It was easier for everyone to believe the mother. To doubt the strength of Mama Ya-Ya’s roots and herbs.
Then, there’d been me. Born with a caul. The ignorant say, “Witch’s spawn.”
One baby dead, one born with a caul, and one trying to grow twelve fingers—it was enough for all the would-be mothers to go to Charity. No time for a midwife anymore.
When I see TaShon on our street, I wave. He’s a sad boy. Picked on all the time, even though his dad sliced off the extra skin on his hands when he was born. Now he has small stumps where his extra fingers used to be. His dad works hard all day at the wharf. His momma, Mrs. Williams, cleans at the Riverwalk Casino—daytime, nighttime, overtime. “Anytime I can get,” Mrs. Williams chuckles. Nights, when she isn’t working, she sings gospel at the New Life Church, a few blocks over.
TaShon keeps so quiet, and I think his parents forget he’s there. But I think he keeps quiet because, like a ghost, he doesn’t want to be noticed. He’s short. Shorter than all the sixth-grade girls. Every year, in every grade, he’s been the shortest kid. Every year, in every grade, he has a far-off look. Like he doesn’t see what’s up close, just what’s far, like treetops, or where the ground meets the sky. TaShon slides around the halls, keeps still on the school yard. The ghosts see him. I wish he could see them.
In class, TaShon doesn’t look at the blackboard. Sometimes, he plays tic-tac-toe, by himself. Other times, he hums, and when the boys hear him, they sometimes smack his head. Most times, he stares out the window past the safety bars to his own world.
At school, I don’t say, “Hey, TaShon,” ’cause I’d only make his teasing worse. It isn’t fair.
Whenever I see how sad and lonely TaShon is, it makes me doubt Mama Ya-Ya is right about him clinging hard to life. But I keep faith.
Like Mama Ya-Ya keeps faith in me.
“When the time’s right,” Mama Ya-Ya always says, “the universe shines down love.”
Mama Ya-Ya says, “There are more good signs in this world, Lanesha, than bad.” In school, I think my teachers count for more goodness than a trillion kids teasing me. Even though I’m teased, my new middle school feels good. Miss Perry, my Teach for America English teacher, is wearing yellow, and yellow means peace.
“Class,” she says, “today’s vocabulary word is fortitude. ‘Strength to endure.’ ”
I like the word. I like how when saying it, my tongue touches the top of my teeth.
I look across at TaShon. I’m surprised. He’s listening to Miss Perry, too.
Maybe, like me, TaShon loves words, too. Fortitude is three syllables. Three is a powerful number. It means life. It means making peace with your thoughts, words, and deeds.
I can’t wait to tell Mama Ya-Ya my new word.
Tuesday
The next day I keep thinking about all Mama Ya-Ya has told me. “Signs everywhere. Pay attention.”
And I do. Noticing that the flowers on the way to school seem thirsty. Noticing that our school is old and crumbling, but it always feels brand-new ’cause the blackboard changes. Chalk—red, blue, white, and green—is powerful, sending me signals.
I watch as my math teacher Miss Johnson tries to help Andrew understand her signs. Math signs. Miss Johnson explains again and again, ever so careful. Kind.
Andrew always gets stuck on questions like: “How come y = x + c? Why not z?”; “How come water boils?”; “Why didn’t Lincoln play cards instead of going to see a show?” Every year we’ve been in school together, they pass him—even though grown-ups say he’s slow. In school, he’s no trouble. Folks say, “School gives his mother a babysitter so she can work.” I don’t believe that. Andrew is just a different smart. Like if you say, “The world is flat,” Andrew’s mind cuts it up into squares. Like the way my eyes see things that others swear aren’t there.
Usually, I just don’t say anything. I do my work and keep my head down. But today, my third day being twelve, I whisper to Andrew: “I’ll help. At lunch, I’ll show you why numbers and letters mean.”
“Mean what?” asks Andrew.
His eyes are brown and curious. He acts as if I’ve been talking to him all these years. But I haven’t. Like TaShon, I don’t want him to get teased more for talking to me. At my new school, I see only popular kids hang in twos and threes, or in groups. Sometimes, they all wear short black skirts, or have their hair braided with the same color beads, or laugh at kids like me, Andrew, and TaShon.
“Mean what?” asks Andrew, his finger tapping my desk.
“Quantity. Numbers are signs for how much.”
Andrew smiles, polite.
The bell rings and I say, “Come on.”
Our school yard is nothing but concrete with an old handball wall and fading basketball lines. Most kids stand around, looking bored. Me, I usually bring a book to keep me company. Today, I have Andrew. Andrew who usually just stays inside.
We sit at a rusty picnic table. The sun is warming us good. I glare at anyone walking by, daring them to tease us. I must have an invisible sign that says, “Don’t mess with Lanesha.” Because no one says nothing.
Or maybe, everyone’s shocked to see Andrew outside?
“Math problems,” I say.
Andrew looks at me. He has freckles on his nose. His T-shirt has a hole, and when he shifts, I can see his belly button.
Behind Andrew I see a skinny ghost with a beard and bow tie. I wonder if it’s a teacher from long ago.
I draw the numbers 5 + 5 and 6 + 6 and 7 + 7. Then, I write 5 × 2, 6 × 2, 7 × 2. “Are these the same? Is 5 plus 5 the same as 2 × 5?”
Andrew blinks.
I think the problems are easy, but Andrew doesn’t answer.
I try again. “Here,” I say. “Count these.” I draw little sticks to add up to 10.
Andrew blinks again. “I don’t need math. Math doesn’t need me.” Then, he scoots closer, and leans in like he’s going to tell me a secret. He whispers: “Do you know why there’s air?”
“So you can breathe,” I answer.
He nod
s. “So we can live,” he says. “Can’t see it, but it’s always here.” He sucks in air, and his cheeks hollow like a skeleton. “Inside.” He points at his chest. Then, he opens his mouth wide, and blows his air out like he’s pretending to be the big, bad wolf.
He grins and laughs loudly.
Me and Andrew high-five. See, Andrew’s smart. Different smart.
The ghost puts up a hand for a high five, but I ignore him.
We sit, comfortable. Andrew shows me the ants crawling across the table. “Look at them breathe,” he says.
I answer: “Mama Ya-Ya would like you.” Then, I add, “She doesn’t need math, either.”
But I do, I think.
Mama Ya-Ya never went to school. Her mother taught her and her mother’s mother taught her mother.
I need everything Mama Ya-Ya teaches me. And I need everything that school teaches me, too.
I need all the signs. Dreams. Words. Word problems. Math.
Like air, they make my mind breathe.
The bell rings. I pat Andrew’s hand. “You’re smart, Andrew.”
He ducks his head like a baby bird.
“Like me!” I say.
“Like me,” he crows.
We walk back to the classroom and nobody—I swear!—bothers us.
After school, my teacher, Miss Johnson, teaches me. On Tuesdays, I try and stay late so we can work on harder problems.
Miss Johnson says, “Lanesha, you’re like a sponge.”
Sponges are ugly, but I think I know what Miss Johnson means.
I try to work hard. Mama Ya-Ya says, “Just ’cause you’re smart doesn’t mean everything’s gonna be easy. You have to set your mind to learning, Lanesha. Each and every day.”
When I can’t solve a problem, I get frustrated, but when I do solve it, I feel like singing, like I don’t have any worries in the whole wide world.
“You could be an engineer,” Miss Johnson says.
“Engineers build things,” I say, feeling happy, strong.
“Yes.”
“Like houses, apartments, and such?”
“More like dams. Bridges. Wait.” She gets up, digs in her purse. “My friend sent me a postcard,” she says, handing it to me.
A beautiful red bridge rises out of the mist over water.
“The Golden Gate.”
“Why’s it called that?”
“I don’t know. You could find out. It’s a suspension bridge.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Look it up.”
“You sound like Miss Perry.” I will, too. Look it up. I know what suspense means. But what does it mean for a bridge? What does it mean in math?
My fingers trace the bridge over the Pacific Ocean. It’s got to be the Pacific because the front of the card says “San Francisco.” I stare at the photograph. My heart races, and I feel tingly inside.
The bridge is beautiful. I could do that, I think. Build bridges. I love how they look—like strong steel butterflies, soaring high. My first bridge would be from lower Ninth Ward to Uptown, New Orleans. If I built a beautiful bridge to my family, maybe they’d walk across? Or else let me?
I walk home slowly from school. Miss Johnson’s postcard is in my jeans back pocket. She let me have it, even though the card had writing: “Dear Evelyn, You should be here. Love, Jim.”
I didn’t know her name was Evelyn.
The sky is bright blue like marbles with cloudy eyes. The end of summer is hurricane season, but the weather feels just fine. It is like that sometimes—calm, then rains hit. I stop and smell. I smell fish, brine from the Gulf, algae from the Mississippi, and somebody frying catfish. I smell something else—old, sorrowful. I don’t know what it is—I must ask Mama Ya-Ya. She says, “Senses tell you everything. See, touch, smell, feel. Trust your senses and you’ll never lose your way.”
Only difference is Mama Ya-Ya’s lived a long time. Her senses have told her so much and I know so little. I’m only twelve and still have a lot to learn.
I keep walking. Sniffing the air. Imagining bridges in the sky. I can already picture metal and wires, making marks, shapes against the sky. I think fitting the pieces together would be just like a jigsaw puzzle, except it wouldn’t be cardboard pasted together and hung on a wall. It’d be useful with patterns, shapes that did something—helped people and cars cross the street, over water, or a deep hole in the ground. Making bridges would be magic. Math would be my special trick. I’d only make beautiful bridges, I think, strong and as delicate as butterflies.
I hear cursing, and crying.
“Hey,” I shout. Some boys are dragging someone into the alley. Taunting, kicking. Punching.
A dog barks.
I hear: “Stop it.”
I hate bullies.
“Hey.” I push at one boy. He turns, but when he sees it’s me, he doesn’t hit. I am Mama Ya-Ya’s crazy girl.
“What y’all doing?” I know these boys—Eddie, Max, Lavon.
“Mind your own business,” says Max. He puffs out his chest, acting tough. He has always been a thug. I go toe-to-toe. I puff my chest out, too. I still don’t see who they’ve been picking on. I keep my eyes focused on Max.
“You want to fight me,” I say. No boy likes to be dared by a girl. If he takes me up on it, I’m dead. I hear crying and I know whoever they’ve been picking on is gonna be no help.
“Why would I fight a girl? Waste of time.”
“Yeah,” says Eddie. Max scowls at him to shut up.
Max hasn’t moved and his black eyes look me over. “Go home, Lanesha,” Max says. “It ain’t Halloween.”
Eddie and Lavon coo, cackle with laughter. Max is giving high fives.
“Your momma,” I say. Everyone goes quiet. Max looks fierce. Like he wants to punch me.
“Say it,” I say. Max is supposed to say, “Your momma,” back. But no one messes with Mama Ya-Ya. She may cast a spell on him. Of course, she’d do no such thing. She doesn’t do spells. Wouldn’t hurt a bug. But Max doesn’t know that.
“You have skinny legs, skinny butt, skinny everything,” he says. “No wonder no boy likes you. You ugly.” He stretches out uhhh-glee like a moan. I don’t mind; it’s part of the game. Max keeps a little pride, and I get what I want.
I turn my back and look to see who’s been picked on. TaShon! His eye is swollen and he has his arms wrapped about a dirty dog.
“Go on,” I say to Max, Eddie, and Lavon. “Pick on someone else.”
“They was kicking the dog,” screams TaShon. “Dog didn’t hurt nobody.”
Kids, at school, whisper Max once set a cat on fire.
“You’re just a girl. Not worth my time.”
I ball my fist. “And you’re just stupid, dumber than a rock.” I want Max to fight me.
“Go on, hit her,” says Lavon.
“Yeah,” says Eddie, his eyes bugging out like a balloon.
Max blinks. His eyes are superblack. Mean.
“Come on,” Max says. “Waste of time.” Him, Eddie, and Lavon walk away, trying to be cool.
I can finally breathe.
“Thanks,” says TaShon. He pats the dog and the dog licks him. It’s the first time I’ve seen TaShon smile. A big wide smile that shows his teeth!
The dog looks at me, its tongue lolling. It’s a mess, matted hair—more black than brown—big paws, but its body is still small. It’s still a pup, with bulging brown eyes and short, rangy hair.
TaShon is loving the dog like there’s no tomorrow.
“He tried to save me, did you see?”
“He should’ve stopped you from getting that black eye, then. What is it? Some kind of lab-terrier mix?”
“German shepherd,” says TaShon, defiant.
I think, No way, but let it pass. “Come let Mama Ya-Ya fix your eye.”
“I’ve got to get home. Start the rice.”
TaShon’s mother gets home at six.
“Later,” I say.
“Can you keep Spot for a w
hile?”
“Who?” I say.
“Spot. My dog.”
“Your dog doesn’t have any spots.”
“So? Please, Lanesha. Can you keep him? My momma won’t let me keep him. ‘Another mouth to feed,’ she’ll say.” This is the most I’ve ever heard TaShon say!
“Well, how did you find him?”
“He found me. See,” says TaShon, grinning, getting up. His pants baggy and scratched; his face bruised. “He’s got no collar, no tags. He’s a stray and he found me.”
I think TaShon is a stray. Like me, he doesn’t have friends. I read books, do homework. TaShon just walks the neighborhood in his own world. Or sits on his porch staring out. Once I saw him trying to make an ant colony, filling a mason jar with dirt. I asked him if he needed help, but he said, “No,” turning his back to me. So, in the neighborhood, I pretty much leave him alone.
“Please, Lanesha. Help me. I know he’s not a German shepherd. I just always wanted one.”
I look at TaShon. Hard. Really see him. His eyes are brown just like the dog’s. He’s nice looking. Kind, I think. He has a kind face. He’s tiny, though, smaller than most girls.
Patting the dog, he seems happy.
Seeing TaShon’s feelings on his face, I see him.
“Please.”
“All right. But Mama Ya-Ya might say we should call the dogcatcher.”
“No, she won’t.”
“How you know?”
“I just do.” He is one happy boy and I smile. Then, I whistle and call, “Come, Spot,” and the dog does, trailing beside me, his stump of a tail high. I have seen much prettier dogs. But Spot doesn’t seem to mind being ugly.
“Lookee, here,” says Mama Ya-Ya as we walk through the door. “Is that Spot?”
I am exasperated. I learned that word from my dictionary. Exasperated as in annoyed.
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