by Renée Watson
I look into the mirror with Mom behind me waiting for me to change my mind. I stay silent until she sighs and says, “Well, take it off.”
I pull the dress off and reach for the other dress, which is now hanging on Mom’s left arm. She holds on to both dresses, like she is rescuing them from a dangerous place. “I’ll try that one on,” I say, pointing to the shirtdress. I think I’ll wear it to school tomorrow—to make her see I am willing to compromise. “I like that one.”
“No, it’s okay, Amara. I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do.” She folds the dresses. “You know most girls your age would love to have one-of-a-kind clothes designed especially for them,” she says. “When I was a little girl I loved wearing dresses. I’d sneak in my mother’s closet and play dress up in her clothes, strutting around in her high heel shoes. I don’t know whose child you are.”
When she says this I feel like what she is saying is that I am not girl enough, daughter enough, that I am nothing like her. I look at Mom’s belly, think maybe it’s a great thing she’s having a baby. Maybe she’ll have the daughter she’s always wanted. A girl nothing like me.
“You know, you used to like wearing the clothes I made for you,” Mom says.
That was in elementary school when I didn’t have much of a choice, when I didn’t mind being a mini version of Mom, her look-alike, real-life doll. But the older I get, the less I am like Mom. The more I am like me.
3
Weekday mornings usually start with Mom and Dad at the kitchen table reading the morning paper over hot cups of coffee. I am always awake before Mom calls out to me, but I like to stay in bed till the absolute last minute I have to get up. Today, my bedroom door creaks open before daylight rises and there’s no aroma of coffee floating to my room. I remember that today is not an ordinary morning. Dad is leaving for his trip.
Dad whispers, “Amara? Amara?”
I sit up in my bed, eyes squinting, trying to focus in the darkness.
“I just want to say goodbye before I leave.” He kisses me on my forehead.
“When do you get back?” I ask.
“Quick trip. I get back Sunday night.”
“Sunday night?” I am wide awake now. “But what about taking me to the Nike Employee Store?”
“Oh, I … sorry, sweetheart. Your mom will have to take you,” Dad says.
“Dad—”
“Amara, my flight doesn’t get in till Sunday night. Nothing I can do about that. Your mom knows how to get there.”
That is not the point. At all. New Nikes come out every Saturday at the Employee Store, and Dad and I go together whenever there’s a release that I really, really want. We get up at five o’clock in the morning, and our first stop is the McDonald’s drive-through. We order the same thing every time—two Sausage, Egg, and Cheese McGriddles and two hash browns. Dad gets coffee, I get orange juice. This is our thing. We eat breakfast in the car and then drive to the Employee Store to get in the line that—by the time we get there—is just starting to wrap around the building. The die-hard shoe lovers who’ve gotten special passes to come to the store usually get there around three o’clock in the morning. The store doesn’t open until ten o’clock. We’ve done this in summer heat, in the rain, during winter months when it is still dark out when we leave. Sometimes it feels like we are sneaking out of the house to go on a private, secret mission. There’s no way Mom is going to do this. She won’t want to wait in line that long, and by the time we go, there won’t be any shoes left.
Dad kisses me on my forehead again. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Before leaving for school, I check my weather app to see the forecast. The weather determines what shoes I’ll wear. It’s going to rain today, so I put on my all-black Jordan 1’s with the pink swoosh. I leave for school and meet Titus at the end of the block. As we walk, I tell Titus all about my plan to get Mom and Dad to change their minds about me going to Harlem. “I think I almost won them over when I mentioned the baby. I just need to keep bringing that up—that once the baby is here Dad won’t be able to travel much because Mom will need him, and me, I guess, but mostly my dad.”
“I don’t think that’s going to help your case. If it didn’t make her change her mind when you first said it, she’s not going to change it the second, third, or fourth time,” Titus tells me. “Plus, your dad travels for work. He’s always going to be traveling.”
“Well, thanks for the encouragement,” I say.
“I’m just being honest. Let’s try to think of something else, something that will really tug at her heart,” Titus says.
I can tell he is thinking hard. We walk half a block without saying anything, and then he blurts out, “I got it!” Titus switches his backpack from his left to right shoulder. “What if you promise your mom that you’ll do a report or something on Harlem. Like, maybe if you go and visit all the famous places of the Harlem Renaissance you can—”
“I am not going to give myself an assignment. Not going to happen.” We walk down the hill and cross the street. “That’s the worst idea ever, Titus. Homework? I want to go and have fun, not do research.”
“Well, my idea is better than using your baby sister as a reason,” he says.
“Let’s just, let’s keep thinking,” I say.
Titus sighs. “I think that was my best idea. I can’t think of anything else.”
“Me neither,” I say. But I think Titus isn’t trying as hard because he visits New York all the time with his dad, so maybe he doesn’t realize what a big deal it is that I have never been.
The clouds shift and the rain begins to drip, drip. First a drizzle but by the time we make it to the end of the block, it is pouring. We usually cut through the small park to get to school, but Titus asks, “Can we go that way?” pointing to the sidewalk. “Can’t get these muddy.”
And Mom thinks I’m the sneakerhead.
We take the long way, with Titus walking more zigzag than straight to avoid deep puddles. We don’t say much until we’re about a block from school. As we turn the corner, I ask Titus, “Do you think it’s weird for someone to stop talking to their parent?”
“Are you that mad at your mom? I doubt the silent treatment will do anything but get you in trouble.”
“No, not me. My dad. I found out last night that he hasn’t talked to my grandpa for twelve years.”
“Twelve years?” Titus asks. “Whoa. Something really bad must have happened.”
We cross the street and pass the line of cars parked along the drop-off area. Parents are waving goodbye, and car doors are slamming shut. The younger kids wobble to their side of campus, on the right. The middle school students funnel into our building. When I enter the building, I take my wet coat off and stomp my feet on the mat at the door. Titus heads toward his homeroom. “See you at lunch,” he says.
I say goodbye and head to my humanities class. Mr. Rosen is at the door greeting everyone as we walk in. On the way to my desk I notice there are vintage suitcases all over the classroom: some on the floor under the dry-erase board, some lined up against the back wall, and a few on top of the file cabinets.
Mr. Rosen says, “Today, we’re starting a new unit, the Suitcase Project. You’ll be creating time capsules that explore your past, present, and future. At the end of the semester, you each will decorate a suitcase with personal artifacts, poems, and essays about where you’re from and what your dreams are for the future.”
As he talks, I set my eyes on the suitcase on top of the cabinet. It’s wood and leather with a cherry finish. That’s the one I want. It reminds me of a mini version of the chest upstairs in the attic, the one I’ve never seen Mom or Dad open.
The chest is a sacred thing. When I was younger, I used to pretend that it was a magic box and that if I opened it, it would take me to a faraway place. Once, when I had friends over on a rainy indoor play day, I realized it was the perfect spot for hiding during a game of hide-and-seek. I
bundled my legs under my body, ducked down behind it, and disappeared. But I got in trouble for that because Mom said I shouldn’t be playing around precious things. I couldn’t understand what the big deal was. If it is so precious why was it hidden in a cold, dark place? I still wonder what’s in it.
Mr. Rosen has given each of us a packet with prompts for writing about our family history. One of the pages has guidelines for creating self-portraits, timelines, and choosing artifacts and photos to include in the suitcase. “You’ll notice you’ll have to interview at least two important adults in your life and create an essay based off your interviews. I’d like you to be creative with this,” Mr. Rosen says.
Annabelle raises her hand and asks, “What do you mean by artifacts?”
“Think of it as family keepsakes, items in your life that have a special story to them.”
Annabelle asks, “You mean like my mother’s wedding ring?”
“It’s your mom’s ring, not yours. That wouldn’t count,” Benjamin blurts out.
Mr. Rosen says, “Well, that would count actually. I’m sure there’s a special story behind it, right, Annabelle?”
“It was my grandmother’s ring, and my great-grandmother’s, too. It’ll be mine one day because I’m the first granddaughter.”
“This is a perfect example.” Mr. Rosen bends over, picks up one of the suitcases, and opens it. “Now, I wouldn’t expect you to put the ring in here, but a photo of it or even a poem about it is what I’m looking for,” he explains. “You could paste your poem on the inside and make your own lining.”
Annabelle looks all proud, like she already has a plan for her suitcase. But me? I don’t have any stories to tell about my family. I raise my hand. “But what if you don’t have any special artifacts to take a picture of?”
“Yeah,” Benjamin says. “It’ll be impossible for me to get a good grade.”
I’m glad I’m not the only one who feels like this assignment is impossible. Mom is an only child, and both her parents have passed away. Dad hardly ever talks about his family. So I don’t know how full my suitcase will be.
“First, let me say that I think you’ll be surprised at what you’ll learn about your family just by asking for the story behind a photo, or blanket, or something as simple as a chair,” Mr. Rosen says. “Everything and everyone has a story, a beginning.” Mr. Rosen closes the suitcase and latches the lock. He looks at us, and I think he can see that most of us are anxious. “There’s no wrong way to do this. You just have to ask questions of your loved ones and document what they tell you.” Mr. Rosen tells us that our suitcases will be on display at the school-wide spring festival. “And the more creative, the better. Maybe your suitcase carries actual, tangible items. But some things you won’t be able to put in your suitcase; some things are intangible, and yet, you carry them with you. Think about how you will represent the places you come from, the people who are important to you.”
I look through the packet and read some of the prompts: Interview a family member about their childhood. Make a list of family traditions. Write a poem about all the places you are connected to.
I can do this. Maybe it won’t be so bad after all.
Mr. Rosen ends class by telling us, “This project isn’t about who can make the coolest suitcase display. It’s about the question, not the answer. The journey, not the destination.”
The bell rings, and Titus meets me in the hallway. We head toward Ms. Sutton’s math class. Ms. Sutton is one of my favorite teachers. She makes math fun and interesting. This is the first year I’ve actually felt confident doing math and not anxious or intimidated. As we walk down to Ms. Sutton’s room, Titus goes on and on about the Legends event at the Nike campus and how we should get there early if we want to hear Michael Jordan speak. “Are you even listening to me?” Titus asks.
I am. Kind of. But mostly I am thinking about the Suitcase Project. All that talk about family and history, journey and destination has me thinking about Dad and Harlem. Dad and Grandpa Earl. I am thinking about how amazing it would be to go to Harlem so I can work on the assignment there—collecting keepsakes for my suitcase, interviewing Grandpa Earl. Maybe if I tell Mom about the Suitcase Project she’ll let me go.
“Uh, are you really going to act like meeting the Michael Jordan isn’t a big deal?” Titus says.
“Sorry, yes—of course. It’s the biggest deal.”
“Well, you sure aren’t acting like it.”
I tell Titus about Mr. Rosen’s assignment and my new plan to convince Mom to let me go to New York.
Titus says, “See—homework is the way to change her mind.” He’ll never let it go that he was right the first time. “If that doesn’t work, nothing will.” Then he tells me: “You could even ask to get extra credit. I mean, you’ll be one of the only students who can literally say what your suitcase carries.” As we enter math class, Titus adds, “Plus your parents will have to answer all your questions since it’s for homework. You can ask your dad what happened twelve years ago.”
I sit down, take my math book out of my backpack. I already know the answer to that question. Twelve years ago, I was born.
4
When I get home after school, I look around my house and think about what Mr. Rosen said. Everything and everyone has a story. The more I think, the more I realize there’s so much I don’t know about my family, this house. I look around the living room, wondering what more there is to know about the photos caged behind the frames. Those photos have a story, and so do the curtains, and the Crock-Pot in the kitchen. I do not know the story of Mom’s china. Was it a gift on her wedding day or something she splurged on? Is the knitted blanket I’ve seen tossed over the armchair my entire eleven (almost twelve) years handmade by someone special?
All this stuff holding memories, all these unspoken histories around me. I sit on the sofa and look at the oversized Bible in the middle of the coffee table. None of us ever read it. But it is always open evenly down the middle, just sitting there untouched. Hannah dusts around it, handling it like it is made of glass.
That Bible has a story, I’m sure.
For the first time in my eleven (almost twelve) years, I pick it up. It isn’t something that can be held in one hand. I carry it in my arms and sit on the sofa and flip the thin pages to the beginning. The first page says Holy Bible King James Version, and then there are blank pages until I turn to a page that has gold lettering at the top that says Presented To. My parents’ names are written underneath in black ink. The handwriting swirls and curls like the ringlets in Mom’s freshly washed hair. I turn the page, and there’s more gold lettering that says Family Record. There’s space to write down marriages, births, and baptisms. Mom’s handwriting has filled out some of the lines. Her birth date, Dad’s, and mine. The date I was baptized is written down, too. But there are so many blank lines just waiting for the names of my baby brothers and sisters.
At the bottom of the page, the last section is for recording deaths. If it were up to me, no names would ever be written on these lines. But it is already too late because Mom has written down the names of her mom and dad and the dates they died. Under their names, I see Grandma Grace’s name. I am not surprised to see her name there, but what startles me is the date beside it.
My birth date.
Grandma Grace died on the day I was born.
I put the Bible back on the coffee table. Maybe it’s good I don’t know everything about our family. Maybe Mom and Dad don’t talk about the past for a reason. I walk upstairs, head to my room. I can tell that Hannah has been here. The house smells like lemons, and I can hear the chug, chug, chug of the dishwasher. I go into the nursery and notice that Mom has added more to it. The crib and changing table are dark brown, and the blanket that drapes the old-fashioned rocking chair is a soft gray and yellow. Mom and Dad said they didn’t care what they had as long as the baby was healthy, but I see the joy in Mom’s eyes every time someone asks her what she’s having and she says, “A g
irl.”
My mind shifts from one thought to another—Will my baby sister capture Mom’s heart, making Mom love me less? Why did Dad and Grandpa stop talking? Was it because of me?
I leave the nursery and go to my room. I’ve got homework, and I know when Mom gets home from the boutique, the first question she is going to ask me is have I finished it yet. My bedroom is reorganized—not that it was that messy or anything. It’s just that Hannah likes everything in its place. She’s rearranged my books and shelved them by size on the bookcase, and my bed looks so perfect, so neat, that I don’t want to sit on it.
I try to focus, get started on my math. I am on the third equation when Mom gets home. She calls to me, and I go downstairs. She has takeout from our favorite Thai restaurant. I unpack the bag and dish out the massaman curry and white rice while she grabs silverware. Mom must be really hungry because she isn’t even at the table yet when she prays, “Lord, thank you for this food. Bless it in Jesus’s name. Amen.” She gets two glasses out of the cabinet and pours the large Thai tea into both until they are even.
I start eating. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she mumbles with her mouth full. We chew and swallow, sip and repeat for a while without talking, then Mom puts her fork down and does this thing she always does where she asks me a question she already knows the answer to. Like when the doorbell rings and she says, “You want to get that?” when she knows I don’t feel like getting up from the most comfortable sofa. Or when she looks at my unfinished plate of food—with everything eaten except the vegetables—and she says, “Are you finished?” That’s how she is, so when she asks me, “Have you thought about what you want to do for your birthday?” I don’t even answer. She knows exactly what I want for my birthday.
“I was thinking you could have a sleepover, and we can ask Sierra’s mom if she can come over and give you girls manicures,” she says. “I know she does home spa parties for special events. Would you like that?”