by Nikki Grimes
My best friend, Destinee, was my partner-in-crime for the day. We rendezvoused in the school yard near the basketball court, not hiding in the shadows, but in plain sight. After all, unless you risk being caught, ditching school loses a degree of its appeal. Having fulfilled this unwritten rule, we ducked out like the thieves we were, stealing time, and flew to the corner bus stop without letting our feet touch the ground.
We headed downtown to the projects on Madison where Wardell, a boy in my history class, had a cousin, who had a neighbor named Carlton, a guy in his twenties, who’s usually home—I don’t ask why—and who likes having kids around. Destinee and I hardly know the kids who hang out there, since we’ve never been before, whereas the other kids are regulars.
I knocked on Carlton’s zinc-plated door, the one smooth thing his apartment had going for it. His living room was a disaster of dirty dishes, empty pizza boxes, candy wrappers, crushed soda cans, and wrinkled clothing flung over chair arms, Lava lamps, or wherever else there happened to be space. An unmade sofa bed stood in the center of the room. No one seemed to notice the messiness, though. The haze of burning incense, hashish, and marijuana probably clouded their vision.
So much for Carlton’s apartment. As for the man, that’s another story. He was luscious looking and impossible to miss, which explained why the girls in the place outnumbered the guys. He was a six-foot-four chocolate drop with hazel eyes, and a bush of wavy hair that grazed his shoulders and reminded me so much of a lion’s mane, I half expected him to growl.
Carlton gave Destinee the once-over, which was no surprise. She’s got high cheekbones, a wide, flat nose, huge hazel eyes, and she fills out a sweater better than most girls, but it’s her height people notice. She’s five-foot-nine and all legs, born to race, or pirouette across a stage, or model women’s stockings, something that requires showing off the feature that guarantees her whistles wherever she goes. Her long, dark caramel legs end in long, narrow feet she considers an embarrassment, but she’d look ridiculous with tiny feet, and I’ve told her as much. I’d be jealous of her good looks, if she wasn’t my best friend. I was just glad that, when Carlton finished checking her out, he turned his gorgeous eyes on me.
I managed to look away from him long enough to notice that there were kids, wall-to-wall, spread out on the area rug, draped on the arms of the sofa, and lazing on the love seat in front of the gated window. Destinee and I joined the circle on the floor.
A tight knot of kids in the corner shared squares of aluminum foil covered with sprinklings of white powder. From the way they were snorting it, I knew it wasn’t talcum. And I noticed Carlton pop a couple of pills and swallow them down with a glass of sangria. But everybody else stuck to drinking wine and smoking grass. The good stuff, they said. Colombian. What is Colombian anyway? As soon as I sat, the joint was passed to me. What the hell, I thought. This is grass, not cocaine. Once won’t kill me. I took a drag and held it in as long as I could, imitating everyone around me. Then I passed it to Destinee.
I’m not sure when it hit me, but I distinctly recall surrendering to a bout of giggles, for who knows what reason, then wanting salt one minute and craving sweets the next. And when I tried standing, my legs were suddenly brown licorice sticks, bending every which way. I staggered to the bathroom, and when I got there, I saw a stranger in the mirror who had my face, except that her eyes were slits, and her other features seemed blurry. God, I thought, if CeCe saw me now!
I asked Carlton if there was somewhere I could lie down for a while, and he waved me to a back bedroom. If I rest for a minute, I told myself, I’ll be fine. So I curled up on the bed and closed my eyes.
I don’t know how long I slept, but I woke to the feel of another person’s weight pressed against me, and a hand traveling to places on my body marked no trespassing, and I was sure it was there without invitation. My eyes flew open and I rolled over to find Carlton staring back at me. Suddenly it occurs to me why he likes having kids around. Especially girls. He’s cute, I admit, and I wouldn’t mind taking his lips for a test run one day maybe. But not today. I shoved him hard to let him know it’d be wise for him to quit while he was ahead, but all he did was lick his lips and reach for me again.
“Come on, baby,” he said, his voice husky. “I won’t hurt you, I just want to get close to you. Don’t you want to feel close?”
I was close to the wall, I know that. As a matter of fact, I tried pressing myself into it. “Now look, Carlton,” I said, “let me lie here for a while and rest, okay? That’s all I’m asking.”
Carlton inched closer, apparently hard of hearing.
I clenched my teeth, starting to fume, more mad at me than him, since being there was my bright idea, not his. What’s wrong with you, Jazmin? I asked myself. What are you doing here? My brain was way too fuzzy to form an answer. That grass had me half in, half out of my head, and I could hardly think straight, which I hated. I always try to be clear in my mind about everything I do, good or bad. That way, later on I can say I know I did it on purpose.
Carlton shoved a knee between my legs and pulled me to him. I tensed up, especially when I heard the moans coming from down the hall. I know those sounds. I hear them at school sometimes when I pass close to a guy feeling up his girlfriend in the shadow of the stairwell. And at parties where the parents are away, and couples slip off to a back bedroom when no one’s looking so they can crawl all over each other in private. I’m not ready for this, I thought. I know that much.
Roughly 200 pounds of flesh and bone, named Carlton, separated me from the bedroom door. I gave that serious consideration, then I relaxed in Carlton’s arms. I let him hold me for a minute, forced myself to breathe evenly. When his grip on me loosened, I looked up and grinned, rubbing the sturdy muscles of his arm. “You like those muscles, don’t you?” he bragged. I nodded, and murmured with mock appreciation. Then I started wiggling around.
“Ooooh! Oh, man,” I said. “I gotta go. That 7Up must be kicking in. Where’s your bathroom?”
“Down the hall,” he said. “But don’t stay too long.”
“I won’t,” I said, still smiling. “Keep my place warm.” Then I climbed over him. Not too fast, not too slow. I grabbed my glasses from the nightstand, slipped on my sneakers, and double-timed it to the front door. Thank God the bathroom was in the same direction.
I had a tough time navigating between the legs and feet of all the kids spread out across the living room rug, some kissing hot and heavy, others dozing. Destinee was one of the latter. I shook her awake. “I’m outta here,” I said. “You can stay if you want to.” Destinee rubbed her eyes and staggered to her feet.
“Wait up,” she said, “I’m right behind you.”
The cool, late-afternoon air helped sober me, and by the time we got to the bus stop, I knew I didn’t care how geeky anybody thought I was. “Destinee,” I said. “Remind me not to do this again.”
There’s no way she could’ve understood all I meant by “this,” but Destinee’s a good friend, so she nodded and said, “You got it.”
UNTITLED
Got a letter
from Mom today
but couldn’t read
her chicken scratches.
CeCe says
Mom’s medication
makes her hand shake.
No matter.
I’d rather not
decipher the message
just now.
Mom means well
but her words
are no help
when kids at school
give me
the usual quiz:
“How come you live
with your sister?
How come you don’t
live with your mom?”
What am I
supposed to say?
My mom’s away.
Not just her body
but
her mind.
Where does she go?
How should I know?
OCTOBER 20
Some people have no business being parents, legal age notwithstanding. I wish someone would tell them that.
My classmate Shawna is nine months pregnant with a belly to prove it, and everyone is quick to say she’s way too young to be a mother. No argument there. Not even from Shawna, who is less than thrilled with the prospect, especially since the boy who helped get her into the family way immediately helped himself to a bus ticket out of Dodge. When anyone asks, “Whatever happened to Tariq?” his mother says, “Tariq went to stay with his father for a while.” Then underneath her breath she mutters, “I am not about to have that boy bringing no babies into my house!” Shawna’s own mom threatened to throw her out, though Mrs. Marcus has finally come around and agreed to give her daughter a hand now that the baby is almost here. So.
But it’s not only kids my age who should stay away from parenting. Lisann Ramsey, who just turned 30, was so busy flirting with J.D., who was posturing in front of The Garden this afternoon, that she failed to notice Deyona, her two year old, toddling off the curb and into traffic. I ran to the corner, grabbed that sweetie by her denim jumper strap, and scooped her up. She giggled, figuring that we were playing airplane, and having no idea whatsoever that I’d probably saved her life. I finger-combed her tight red curls, made sure she was okay, then took her over to her mother.
“You might try keeping your eye on your daughter.” I snapped. Lisann snatched Deyona from my arms.
The girl was decked out in an electric-blue hot-pants suit, silk no less, and who wears silk hot-pants on a weekday, in the middle of the afternoon, to take a baby out for fresh air? No one, which is why I shouldn’t have been surprised when Lisann went right back to batting those silly lashes of hers. But not before she cut her eyes at me to let me know she didn’t much appreciate having her flirtation interrupted.
This is exactly the kind of thing that makes me wonder if mothering is all in the genes. Take Destinee’s mom. Children are first with her—her kids, and everybody else’s. She gathers me up in her arms as if those arms were made for hugging, and I’m not even her child. Yet this seems to be no strain on her affections. She makes time to talk, to listen, to kid around with me, and this all comes naturally.
My mom, on the other hand, is not strong on communication, or affection. She never was. When CeCe and I were little, she’d pull away from our hugs as if they made her uncomfortable. Grandma was the same way, but CeCe and I hug our friends and each other all the time, so maybe the need skipped a couple of generations.
Mom often preferred work to home. She never said so, but it’s pretty hard to miss. While Destinee’s mom itches to get home from her job every day, so she can spend time with her family, Mom is the first to raise her hand when her boss wants volunteers to work overtime. Overtime, double-time, time and a half—if you want her, she’s there. Meanwhile, I had to get used to checking my own homework and eating meals alone. She said we needed the extra money, and that might’ve been partly true, but it didn’t explain how relieved she was to be anywhere but home. Unless there was a man around, and that usually spelled trouble.
Most of the men Mom brought home had a tendency to lick their lips and leer at me when they thought she wasn’t looking, which I hated. And sooner or later they’d encourage her to drink, which I hated even more. The appearance of alcoholic beverages in the house generally signalled the beginning of a downward spiral I was painfully familiar with. First would come the casual drinking, then the serious binges, where Mom would take off for days at a time. Eventually the pressure of trying to work in an alcoholic haze would push her toward a complete nervous breakdown. When she’d start talking about hearing voices, or whispering about strangers spying on her day and night, I’d call Grandma and say, “It’s time.” And someone from Bellevue Hospital would come to take Mom away.
I’d seen the pattern so often, I could mark its stages. So why couldn’t I do anything to stop it? It’s a question I often ask.
While Mom was away, I’d be shunted off to an aunt, or a cousin, or to foster care. It all depended on who was willing to make room for me the longest, because Mom’s hospitalization usually ran up to three months. Which pretty much left Daddy out of the picture.
Daddy was tender, and gentle, and loved CeCe and me so much, sometimes he looked as if he’d burst. He spent as much time with us as he could, when Mom didn’t keep him at a distance, that is. But he never felt qualified to raise kids on his own. When we were young, a week or two of bunking with him in Brooklyn, scrunched up on his sofa (neither of us liked his lumpy bed) was all we could ever count on from him. CeCe and I are too old for that these days. Besides, Daddy’s gone now, so we don’t even have that.
CeCe gave up on Mom being a there-for-you kind of mother long ago, and moved out when she was sixteen. She lived with a guy for a while, until she could find a job waitressing, save up salary and tips, and get her own place. Then, soon as she was settled, she said, “Jazmin, you’ve got a place with me if you want it. When you’re ready, say the word.” The last time Mom surrendered to alcohol and a nervous breakdown, I took CeCe up on her offer.
CeCe is convinced that she’s my real mom anyway, which is kind of funny since there’s barely six years between us. She often took care of me when I was in diapers, she says. She’s got no proof, but considering how she fusses over me, and has a heart attack if I come home late without calling, I’m prepared to take her word for it. But I do wish I could get her to quit referring to me as her “baby,” especially in front of my friends. There are worse things, I keep telling myself. Like having nobody love you.
I’ll say one thing, though. I’m in no hurry to have kids. It’s obvious that marriage is risky business, and I refuse to put a kid of mine through the hell of divorce and foster care, and all the rest, I’m not saying I’ll never get married, or that I will, only that I’ll take my own sweet time, find someone who’s ready to go the distance.
Meanwhile, I’ll try a baby-sitting job, see how that goes. It’s not the same as being a full-time mom, of course, but maybe it can help me figure out if I have the parenting instinct. That sort of thing might be hereditary, and if I’m missing that particular gene, I’d rather find out in advance.
OCTOBER 25
Iran into Aunt Sarah on her way from the beauty parlor yesterday, her hot-curled silver hair gleaming with coconut oil and plenty of style. She took one look at my unruly strands and said, “Child, it’s time for you to do something with that head of yours.” My mirror told me she was right. After dinner I called Destinee to see if her father, who owns Bill’s Barber and Style on Amsterdam Avenue, was home. His name isn’t Bill, it’s Abraham, but it seems the place has been called Bill’s for as long as anyone can remember. Abraham—Mr. Joysmith, that is—was home, and told me to come right over.
I may be a girl, but I don’t see much point in going to the beauty salon, considering the way I wear my hair these days. Besides, Mr. Joysmith cuts my hair for free. He says he needs the practice. Right. Am I supposed to believe he’s suddenly going to get a run of ladies who wear naturals, crowding into his barbershop for haircuts? I don’t think so. It’s more like he knows that free is the only kind of haircut I can afford. Not that I’d pay him, even if I could.
Yesterday he did his usual. He sat me in a chair in the middle of his living room, wrapped a towel around my shoulders to protect my shirt, and laid out the spare clippers he keeps at home. Then he begins the ritual. “So, how do you want your hair cut today?” he asks.
“A little shaggy in the back,” I tell him, “short on the sides, and a little longer on top and in front.”
“Okay,” he says, nodding. He switches on the clippers, tilts my head back, and says, “Let’s see what we can do.” Then he proceeds to cut my hair one-inch thick all over, front, back, and sides, as if I’d never said a word. I
t’s the same routine every time.
I believe my teachers at school would call that an inability to follow instructions. Fortunately I don’t mind too much. I like to keep my hair short and simple.
Miriam Makeba is the one to thank for that. She proved there can be a connection between short, natural hair and Black beauty. Daddy used to talk about her, and her South African music. He had an entire collection of her records. And he had pictures of her, and other African women, on album covers, and book jackets, and posters plastered on the walls of his apartment.
My father loved Miriam Makeba. And it wasn’t the music alone.
If Daddy were alive, that’s one thing he and Mr. Joysmith would have in common: finding Miriam Makeba beautiful, and believing that, when I wear my hair like hers, I am too. So, after giving it careful consideration, I’ve decided to adopt Destinee’s dad as my honorary second father. I doubt he’ll have any objections, but for now I’ll keep the information to myself.
A girl can’t be too careful.
I do wish he’d cut my hair on top with less enthusiasm, though. And he could leave enough in the back for me to grab hold of. But free is free, and you have to make exceptions for fathers who mean well.
OCTOBER 29
I tried writing Mom last night, but it was no use. What am I supposed to say? I miss you? I’ve been missing her half my life. Hope you’re feeling better? Half of me hopes she does, but the other half keeps thinking, Serves you right, choosing booze over CeCe and me. But that hospital can’t be much fun, and I do feel sorry for Mom, mostly. I’ll wait a couple of days. Maybe I can come up with a few lines then.