by Nikki Grimes
I don’t want to be mean, but when I saw Timothy today, I had nothing to say to him. As far as I’m concerned, he can shoot poison in his veins and chase Death down all he wants to, but The Grim Reaper’s gonna find me soon enough and, until he does, the only thing I’m chasing is tomorrow.
AUGUST
CeCe and I wait
in the welfare office
where the August heat
peels the paint
off the walls.
The caseworker
loosens his tie
curses the
unconditioned air
and shuffles papers
while we sweat
wondering if he’ll decide
to help CeCe out
with extra money
now that my stay with her
is permanent.
I hate this waiting
but what really
makes me crazy
is all this man’s talk
about the sin
of broken homes.
Inside I’m screaming
Don’t you get it?
The homes
are just fine.
It’s the people
who are broken.
SEPTEMBER 7
It’s the first day of school, and once again I’m the secondhand queen. I shuffle into class, with my head down, awkward in my mustard blouse and knee-length khaki skirt. Last year’s colors. Last year’s style. I pray no one notices, but fear the worst.
“There’s nothing wrong with clothes that are secondhand,” my grandmother loves to say, “as long as their design is first rate.” To prove it, she marches me downtown to the garment district every now and then for her own version of Fashion 101. We’ll go into an outlet that sells some European fashion designer whose name I can’t pronounce, and she’ll point out hand-stitching, and discuss the drape, and the cut, and the quality of the fabric. So, thanks to her, I fully understand the pedigree of my recycled skirts and jackets. I know that all my clothes are well-made, each seam smartly double-stitched, with the finest craftsmanship. Ya-da, ya-da, ya-da.
Well, that’s great. But my skin aches for the feel of never-worn lamb’s wool sweaters, or brushed suede, or even plain blue-jean jackets—so long as they’re straight off the department store rack. I try them on sometimes. But I’m quick to put them back once I hear CeCe’s voice in my head, loud and clear, saying, “Jazmin, you know we don’t have that kind of money.”
My classmate Chavonne Honeywood doesn’t have that problem. My question is, Why do girls with names that sound smooth as a 100-dollar bill always seem to have what I want? It’s not as though they deserve it more than me. After all, God don’t like ugly, and it is sheer meanness the way Chavonne and her friends look down their noses at everybody. They’re fashion pirates who parade through the school halls in bright-colored minis, and thigh-high lizard boots, with a treasure-chest full of silver bracelets jingling along the length of their skinny arms, and I hate it. They get all the cute clothes, and all the cute boys, and there’s nothing fair about it.
I won’t admit to being crazy-jealous. Not to them. But Alexander’s department store barely missed being the scene of a crime the last time I went shopping, and temporary insanity was definitely involved.
Black tights was all I was looking for, but Hosiery was next to Shoes, and a few yards beyond that was my favorite department. I can see it now, the neon lights flashing “57th Street,” the section where they keep the latest, and most expensive, styles for teens. Looking was my first mistake. From that point on, my body was taken over by an alien.
It was somebody else who passed through the narrow entryway of “57th Street,” someone else who drooled over clothes that smelled of money, someone else who floated into the dressing room to try on a dress so red, it burned her fingers. Once I was in front of the mirror, though, I had to admit, that someone was me. And, naturally, since I couldn’t afford the dress, it was a perfect fit.
I turned my back to the security camera, neatly folded the silky soft, double-knit mini into my oversized canvas shoulder bag. Then I stood at the dressing room door for about an eon or two, waiting for the good sense God gave me to return. It never did. But luckily, fear took over. The thought of being caught and sent to prison for shoplifting made me wet my pants, so I hung the dress back where it belonged, and ran out of the store. I’ve been going over that scene in my head ever since.
I still want that red dress. I think of it sometimes when I see Chavonne. I’m convinced she hangs around the school entrance longer than necessary, to pose in her new clothes, to torture me. And it works too. But that’s okay. One day I’ll have enough money to buy my clothes off the rack.
Meanwhile I’ve got more brains and talent in my pinky than Chavonne has in her whole body, and I’m not looking to trade places. Just clothes.
SEPTEMBER 13
I thought high school guidance counselors were supposed to help keep students on track, but last week mine tried putting me on a train going in the opposite direction altogether. Her name is Lillian Wise. She takes the meaning too much to heart, if you ask me. I didn’t realize that until I got my course schedule for next term, signed by her, which was filled with courses I’d never choose. Home economics was one. General science was another. There was no chemistry, no French or Spanish, but sewing for beginners was included in the schedule. Not exactly the kind of courses I need to get into college.
I went directly to her office to ask how this obvious mistake had occurred. Her desk, with its neatly organized stacks of papers and student file folders, gave me a clue. Everything seemed in its proper place, which is where she thought to put me. “My experience,” she said, “tells me that a person like yourself would be happier in the business world. Or maybe doing something with your hands.”
“A person like myself,” I repeated. “What exactly does that mean?” I didn’t honestly expect an answer, so her silence came as no surprise. At this point, though, I was tempted to search her office for mammy dolls.
I planted myself in front of Miss Wise’s desk and started counting. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Images of stimulating talks at the college snack bar, discussing politics and God and the state of the state, flash before my eyes. I have visions of sheepskin diplomas, and gold-tassled, three-cornered graduation caps and gowns. Dreams of escaping The Garden of Eden and poker parties, Amsterdam Avenue and days of making do rush by. I see myself dazzling university professors with my perfectly articulated Black brilliance. I’m an A-student, so it’s not as if I were completely delusional. And then it hits me: All this could be blasted away by the strategically placed bias of one Miss Lillian Wise, who stares at me and casually asks, “What seems to be the problem?”
But I was cool. Downright cold, in fact. Think dry ice.
“Miss Wise,” I said, my voice a whisper, “I’d appreciate it if you’d revise my course schedule immediately, as I have every intention of going to college.”
“Well,” she said, huffiness personified, “I was simply trying to help.”
I stared at her for a minute, my eyes, twin suns, burning through my magnified eyeglass lenses. “Well, Miss Wise,” I said as she fanned herself, “don’t.” I banged her door on my way out.
I could’ve told CeCe what happened when I got home that day, but I decided the apartment was too tiny to contain both my outrage and hers. I’ll tell her one of these days, I suppose. In a year maybe.
There’s not much you can do about a person like Miss Wise, except to be glad that not everyone in the world is half as bad as she. My English teacher, Mrs. Vogel, who did double-duty as my guidance counselor last year, couldn’t be more different. She nudges me toward Shakespeare, and slips copies of novels by James Baldwin and Gwendolyn Brooks in my book bag when she thinks I’m not looking.
I stopped by her homeroom this morning t
o say hello, and was rewarded by her smile. She wanted to know how my classes were going, and asked about Mom’s recovery, as she often does.
“You need to see her, Jazmin,” she said, her eyes holding mine. “It’s time. No matter what she’s done, she’s your mother. Remember that.” Yeah, well, I thought, somebody should’ve told Mom that before she shipped me off to my first foster home. Still, I know Mrs. Vogel was right.
“If you need an ear,” said Mrs. Vogel, “you know where to find me.” I’ve talked with her before about my problems at home, past and present, and about Mom. I don’t remember half the things I say. There’s so much anger mixed in with my words, clear thoughts and muddied feelings are impossible to separate. But Mrs. Vogel’s a great listener. She lets me let off steam.
We talk awhile, discuss the finer points of studying Spanish over German, and weigh the usefulness of French in my future study of English literature. She points out the payoff of pounding my head against the brick wall of geometry, and higher mathematics. And she says, “Jazmin, I’ll be very disappointed if you don’t do great things with your life. You’ve got real talent. Don’t waste it.” Then we hug, and I go to my next class.
I’ve been assigned two different counselors so far, Miss Wise and Mrs. Vogel, and between the two, I know whose advice I’m taking.
SEPTEMBER 17
Today was my birthday. I’m glad it fell on a Saturday this year, so I could concentrate on me. Birthdays should be personal holidays anyway.
No card from Mom. Not that I expected one. She’s so out of it, I wonder if she’ll remember her own birthday this year. Still, I was hoping . . . .
I wish I could have a normal birthday, where Mom throws me a surprise party and everybody sings “Happy Birthday” off-key. But I guess I’m just being silly.
CeCe bought me the cutest radio. It looks like a miniature TV. We saw it in a store window. I drooled over it, then sighed loud enough for CeCe to hear. She told me not to bat my big eyes at her, which I did immediately, so I knew she’d put the radio on layaway. CeCe’s such a pushover.
Happy Birthday to me!
DAYDREAMING
Yesterday
I visited my favorite spot
at Macombs Park
three blocks away.
I crept as far down the bank
as my leather loafers
would let me
without slipping
then I pulled up
a slab of rock
and sat beside
the Harlem River.
I couldn’t see
the mouth of the river
from where I sat
but I could hear it talking.
It told me I’d be
a famous author someday
that my arm’ll be worn out
from signing autographs
everywhere I go,
and my fans will beg me
to name the characters
in my next book
after them.
I’ll smile
promising nothing
and say
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Which just goes to show
that even though
the Harlem
is not as old
as the Nile
it’ll do
for dreaming.
SEPTEMBER 21
Miss Warren, the high school art teacher-slash-sculptor, has been rhapsodizing about my profile for a week now. What is with her? She says my profile has “character,” but even a child knows that character is what you want to have, not how you want to look. I’m usually referred to as cute-without-the-glasses, and that’s exactly the way it’s said, run together, as if it’s all one word. I despise the description, ordinarily—however, even that sounds attractive by comparision. But who am I kidding. There’s nothing cute about my hooked nose. Mom’s got one too, so I know who to thank, especially since nobody else in my family has been blessed with this noble feature, I’ve formed a theory to explain its origin.
“I must have Jewish blood in me,” I tell my friend Sophie. Sophie’s skin is thin and white as the fine china bowl CeCe found on one of her secondhand store shopping binges. Sophie’s hair and lashes are black as mine, but that’s our only real resemblance. Except for the round, nonprescription granny glasses she wears for show, something I’ll never understand.
We were taking a breather in the gym locker room after P.E. I studied my nose in the mirror on the locker door. I tried willing it to shrink, but no luck.
“I’m telling you, I must be from one of the Lost Tribes. How else can you account for my hooked nose?” I say.
Sophie turns her startling blue-gray eyes on me, cracks a smile, but just barely, and says, without missing a beat, “Then maybe you should think about getting a nose job.”
Sophie’s quick, which is precisely why we’re such good friends.
“Seriously,” I say. “There’s something to this. For instance, how many Black people you know can sing “Hava Nagila,” hmm? What about my propensity for guilt? And let’s not even get into how wild I am for knish!” Sophie turns her silky black brows into question marks, and shakes her head.
“You are hopeless.”
Sophie knows I love her, and never takes offense.
All jokes aside, I honestly believe Jews and Blacks have a lot in common. We’re both familiar with ghettoes, and we both know about discrimination, that’s for sure. And when it comes down to it, pain is pain. Doesn’t anybody get that, besides me? Besides Sophie?
My mom’s best friend, Esther, is a Black Jew. She converted when she got married, I think. I remember going to the celebration of her son’s bar mitzvah, and suddenly being an alien, lost in a sea of yarmulked men, and beautiful women hiding their beautiful hair under plain-woven scarves. And the food! Everything was delicious, but I couldn’t wrap my tongue around the names of half the things I ate. Mom could, though. She seemed at home with it all, seemed to fit right in. She even tried out Judaism for a while. She brought home a Jewish prayer book once, CeCe says, and she studied books on Hebrew grammar. She was pretty serious about converting at one point. Her temple days didn’t last long, though, but her friendship with Esther did. Will my friendship with Sophie?
“How is she, by the way? Your mom, I mean.”
“How do you do that?” I asked Sophie. That child is forever reading my mind. “She’s okay, I guess.”
“You still haven’t been to see her. Chicken.”
What if I go and see her and start crying? Or what if she looks through me as if I’m not there? Am I supposed to act like I don’t care? God, I wish I didn’t!
I shook my head and looked down at the floor, thinking, Sophie, I really don’t want to get into this now. Fortunately for me, the school bell rang.
“Oh, joy!” I said. “Math!”
“Here,” said Sophie, handing me a record. I looked down and smiled at the title: How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You), by Marvin Gaye. I loaned her the 45 a week ago. She’s got eyes and ears for John Lennon alone, and I’m trying to broaden her musical field of vision, but these things take time.
“Listen, Jaz. A bunch of us are going out for fish-’n’-chips at lunch. Want to come?”
“I wish,” I groaned. “I’m brown-bagging it.”
“Knowing your sister, I’ll bet it’s something gourmet.”
“Not exactly,” I said. Then I hit her with the gory details.
Money is scarce in our house at the moment, but have no fear! CeCe’s favorite supermarket has a sale on eggs. Lucky me!
Let’s see, so far this week, we’ve had scrambled eggs, poached eggs, deviled eggs, eggs and grits, eggs and hash browns, egg salad, and, for an exotic change of pace, eggs Benedict! The French toast was a tasty twist. And lest I forget, last night we dined o
n egg-drop soup. Whoop-di-do!
“CeCe may be a wonderful cook,” I said to Sophie, “but geez-Louise! I used to think the Israelites were pretty ungrateful, griping to God about all that manna.
“There they are after the Exodus, wandering in the desert with no food, and Boom! God sends them some. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly pizza. It was more like oatmeal maybe, or grain for baking bread—something without a lot of taste. Even so, how many people are lucky enough to get food from heaven every day? And for free? But all they could think about were the leeks and onions back in Egypt.
“Well, I finally understand. The manna was probably fine—for the first two or three days. But after a while you start thinking, No offense, God, but I wouldn’t mind liver and onions right about now. The change would do me good.”
Suddenly there was this sly twinkle in Sophie’s blue eyes that wasn’t there a second ago. “Oh! I almost forgot! My mom said to invite you over tonight,” she dead-panned. “We’re having omelettes.”
Then Sophie threw her head back, and laughed.
OCTOBER 7
I didn’t expect to start losing brain cells until I turned 30, but I must be getting an early jump on it because I ditched school today for no other reason than to be able to say I did. And I happen to love school. Not the rules, of course, or the mystery meat served in the cafeteria, but finding out about other centuries, other cultures in far-off places, discovering new ways to stretch my mind, and reading, which I can’t get enough of—those things I love. What I hate is being called “geek” and “Goody Two-shoes” because every kid I know has skipped at least a day at school, except for me. Until today.
CeCe has this annoying saying she frequently tortures me with, ostensibly to make me think. “If everybody jumps off a bridge,” she says, “will you jump too?” Then I answer on cue, “What’s that got to do with anything?” And I wave her off, amazed that she sometimes forgets I’m smart enough to know my own mind.