Keesha's House

by Helen Frost

to get me to come home. But when I said, It’s not safe

  for me as long as he’s there, she left the room.

  My choice is to be safe.

  This room is dark and musty, but it’s one place

  I do know I can answer no when someone knocks.

  PART II

  WHITE WALLS

  I HATE TO BE THE ONE STEPHIE

  It’s Friday night. When I left home this morning,

  Mom said, We need to talk.

  She noticed that I couldn’t eat my breakfast

  and she looked at me long and hard—that mix

  of sad and angry that I hate.

  I can’t face her. I’m not going home.

  They probably think I’ve gone home

  with Jason. I saw him this morning

  before school, talking to a girl we both used to hate.

  I walked away before he saw me. Let him talk

  to her. My feelings about him are so mixed-

  up right now. He used to be so sweet, eating breakfast

  with his tousled hair and sleepy eyes. Breakfast

  at their house is different than at home.

  They’re peaceful. If his brother mixes

  a can of juice in a saucepan and leaves it out all morning,

  nobody complains. And nobody expects you to talk

  to them if you don’t want to. Mom would hate

  it. She likes everything in order. Dad too. They both hate

  it if we haven’t cleared away our breakfast

  by eight o’clock, even on weekends. They talk

  about how kids should have a home

  where they know what to expect. Every morning

  Mom gets up first, makes coffee, gets out a mix

  of pancakes or bran muffins. Sometimes I watch her mix

  it, like it’s part of her job, like I hate

  this job, but someone has to do it. This morning

  she was saying, If I get up and make you breakfast

  I expect you to eat it. I go, Sure, Mom. Then she goes, I want you home

  after school today. We need to talk.

  I’m afraid of what she wants to talk

  about. I don’t want to mix

  her words about this baby with my own. Home

  to her and Dad means perfect, and I hate

  to be the one to shatter that. Only—where will I eat breakfast

  in the morning?

  Oh, Mom … it isn’t just the talk I hate.

  It’s how we have to mix it up with breakfast.

  Can’t we just relax at home some morning?

  SURPRISED TO HEAR MYSELF JASON

  Stephie’s gone. I went over Friday night

  after the game, and her brother seemed surprised.

  He said, We thought she was at your house.

  She used to do that sometimes. If it got late,

  we’d pull out the couch and make a bed

  for her, and then we’d go to school

  together in the morning. Friday she wasn’t at school.

  I didn’t think much of it, but that night

  I really wanted to talk. Maybe she went to bed

  early, I said. Her brother looked surprised

  again. He shook his head. I went home. Then late

  that night, her dad showed up at my house,

  frantic. Everyone at their house

  was out searching for her. They’d called the school

  principal at home and found out Stephie had been absent. And late

  a lot these past few weeks. Her dad said, Son, last night

  she seemed worried. Do you know why? I was surprised

  he called me son. And I was half asleep—he got me out of bed.

  He looked tired. Three a.m., he hadn’t been to bed

  at all, everything upside down at his house.

  I told him Stephie hadn’t talked to me all week. Surprised,

  he wondered why. Don’t you see her every day at school?

  I thought she’d been here every night!

  She’s been coming home late

  a lot, but we just thought she was with you! Later,

  I thought about him sitting there on our couch-bed

  in the middle of the night.

  He looked like his whole house

  had collapsed, like everything he’d learned in school

  turned out false where he’d put true. I was surprised

  to feel so sorry for him, even more surprised

  to hear myself tell him the truth. Her period’s late,

  I said. She’s afraid the kids at school

  will start to notice something. After he’d gone, I lay in bed

  thinking about them all at her house.

  And where was Stephie in the middle of the night?

  I got out of bed, drove around looking for her all night—

  past the school, back and forth past her house,

  surprised how much I want her back. Is it too late?

  QUESTIONS ABOUT JOE KEESHA

  When Katie came, she kept asking questions

  about Joe. Since he owns the house, she thought

  he’d tell us what to do. She kept saying, I can pay

  rent. I can buy my own food. I’ll work

  for what I need. There was one room upstairs with a bed

  and a window, but she said she’d rather stay

  in the basement room. We all stay

  out of there unless she asks us in. No one asks questions

  about why she keeps her door locked. The bed

  in there is just a foam pad on the floor, but Katie said she thought

  the room was heaven. We hardly see her, she’s at work

  so much. I think she’s worried Joe might make her pay

  some other way if she runs out of money. He says we can pay

  him if we want to, but not much. Me, I want to stay

  in school. I want good grades. So I just work

  twelve hours a week, enough for food. I hate the questions

  people ask though. Even my ex-boyfriend thought

  the girls here must be going to bed

  with Joe, or someone else. Not me—I won’t go to bed

  with anyone unless I want to. And I don’t pay

  for nothin’ with my body! At first I thought

  we should do something nice for Joe—he lets us stay

  here and he doesn’t ask too many questions.

  So if he was tired when he got home from work

  I used to cook or do some kind of work

  like clean up the house. Once I made his bed

  for him, like Mama used to do. That raised some questions

  in his mind, I guess. He said, Keesha, don’t you pay

  me no mind. Everyone deserves a place to stay.

  So now I don’t give Joe much thought.

  I appreciate him though. If I thought

  I had to find a place to rent, I’d have to work

  full-time. I know I wouldn’t stay

  in school. This one thing—a free bed—

  makes all the difference. I can stay awake in school and pay

  attention to the teachers, answer almost all their questions.

  I go to school, I work, I eat okay and get to bed

  on time. I thought Child Welfare might ask questions,

  but as long as they don’t pay attention, I can stay.

  I CAN DO IT DONTAY

  Ain’t goin’ back there. If I go get my stuff

  they’ll yell at me for stayin’ out all night.

  I’ll yell back, and I know what comes next—

  they call my caseworker: This isn’t working out.

  She comes and gets me, lookin’ like she want

  to wring my neck. We head out to CYS again. I hate that place—

  all those kids waitin’ to get placed

  in a foster home or group home, all the stuff

  they hopin’ for, knowin’ they ain’t gettin’ what they want.
>
  Everybody act so hard all day, and then at night

  you hear ’em cryin’ like some cakes—not out

  loud, just quiet, hopin’ won’t nobody notice. Everybody wonderin’ what’s next.

  I been there five times, and I swore up and down, the next

  time they tried to take me there, I’d find my own place.

  I know I can do it. Rather live out

  on my own, take my stuff

  in my backpack, sleep outside at night

  when summer comes. Better that than findin’ out nobody wants

  me. Dad and Mama gonna want

  to know why I don’t go to visiting hours next

  week, but goin’ there just makes me mad again ’bout the night

  they got hemmed up. Five-O all over the place,

  flashin’ their badges, rumblin’ through our stuff,

  findin’ nothin’ and still pullin’ us out,

  sendin’ us all different places. When I go out

  to see them, Mama’s so sad, and Dad just wants

  to do that trial all over. He’s ragin’ about all the stuff

  the lawyer didn’t do. They’re innocent! And here I am. What’s next?

  I can sleep at Jermaine and Dan’s crib tonight, someplace

  else this weekend. I don’t mind sleepin’ on the floor a night

  or two. Three or four places I can spend the night

  a couple times before they figure out

  I got no place

  to live. Stay a few days, nobody want

  to know why I’m leavin’, nobody surprised the next

  time I show up. One good thing about all this stuff—

  ain’t nobody kickin’ me out one night

  to the next. Nobody actin’ like they want

  to make me change. Bad thing—no place to leave my stuff.

  WHITE WALLS CARMEN

  I wasn’t drunk. Just one beer a couple hours

  before. Never woulda got stopped

  if I was an adult. Or if I was white.

  That half-smoked blunt they found under the back

  seat—how would I know it was there?

  Coulda been there since Grandmama

  bought the car, five months ago. Grandmama

  wouldn’t think to look for that! Visiting hours

  is over, and she didn’t show up. Only one there

  all week was my probation officer. She stopped

  by for ten minutes, said she was so unhappy to see me back

  in here, got out a clean white

  notepad and asked me for an explanation. No little white

  lies, she said. I asked her to call Grandmama,

  tell her I’m sorry, see if I can go back

  there when I get outta here. That was hours

  ago, and I haven’t heard from either of ’em. Can’t stop

  thinkin’ about what’s gonna happen. If I can’t go back there …

  I don’t know. Could be a long ways, anyhow, from here to there.

  I talked to one girl today, a white

  girl that’s been here thirteen weeks. She stopped

  thinkin’ about home, she said. Forget about your grandma.

  If she don’t come to visiting hours

  the first week you’re here, she don’t want you back.

  I want my own clothes back.

  My music. The food I like. I see the cars go by out there,

  everybody goin’ someplace. In here, hours

  stretch out long, nothin’ but blank white

  walls to look at. I started a letter: Dear Grandmama,

  get me out of here … But then I stopped

  and ripped it up. I know I shoulda stopped

  drinkin’ that first time I got caught, back

  in seventh grade. I know everything Grandmama

  would say about all this. I keep thinkin’ there

  must be some way to make myself listen, some clear white

  light I could shine into my mind those hours

  when I can’t see my way back

  or forward, the hours I think even Grandmama

  won’t care if I stop livin’. These walls are so white.

  I LOOK AROUND AND WONDER HARRIS

  Another note in my locker today: Die,

  faggot. Scrawled in thick marker—red—

  on notebook paper ripped in half,

  folded to fit through those little slots.

  Then later, someone twice my weight shoves me

  into a table in the cafeteria. My lunch

  goes flying, hits this freshman eating lunch

  by herself. She looks like she’s about to die,

  like she thinks she’s the jerk, not him. I apologize; she ignores me,

  moves to another table, her face bright red.

  There’s so many guys like him—they have these slots

  they try to fit into; anyone with half

  an ounce of individuality gets crushed. Kids spend half

  their time just trying to fit in. You look around the lunch-

  room and you can see which kids are trying for which slots—

  jocks or freaks or “playas.” And everyone would rather die

  than be what I am. Even the thugs, wearing red

  or blue, with all their drugs and guns, have more friends than me.

  Do people think I’m contagious? That if they talk to me

  they might turn gay? Or are they scared that half

  the school would hate them too? I’ve read

  statistics: maybe one in ten kids in that lunch-

  room. I look around and wonder. Kids can die

  a lot of different ways if they don’t fit in those slots.

  Three more months of school. There’s lots

  of things I have to figure out. So far, Dad hasn’t found me

  and taken back my car. It’s old, but with any luck it won’t die

  on me. If I can find someplace to park and sleep, that’s half

  the battle. I’ll find a weekend job where I can get lunch,

  and try for dinner shift on weekdays. I read

  an ad that Pancake House is hiring. I can see myself in that red

  apron, pockets filling up with tips. Come summer, whatever slots

  they need I’ll work—graveyard one day, lunch

  the next, whatever. Only—how can they call to offer me

  a job? Can I clean up and look half

  decent for an interview? And not sound desperate, like I’ll die

  if they don’t hire me? I’ll go on Saturday at lunch

  and see what slots they’re trying to fill. I could work half

  time, busing their red tables. Okay, I’m scared. But I don’t plan to die.

  HOUSE OF CARDS KATIE

  Everything was going okay between

  school, work, and living here. Just

  time enough in every day, and no time

  left for me to think too hard.

  Then today, the city bus pulls up on schedule,

  I get on, and the driver has these cards

  he’s giving out. I take one of the cards

  and plunk down in a side seat between

  a lady and a kid. The lady says, New schedule,

  so I look at the card and I just

  want to cry. Now everything that used to be easy is hard.

  Getting to work takes twice the time

  it used to. After school I don’t have time

  to change into my uniform, and we can’t punch our cards

  until we’re ready to start working. It’s hard

  to change in the employee restroom in five minutes between

  when the bus stops at the corner and just

  exactly 3 p.m. when my shift starts. The boss won’t change my schedule.

  I can’t change my school schedule.

  So—I have three choices: get a new job and work a different time,

  quit school, or get a car. Which of course I can’t affo
rd just

  now. It’s like one of those house-of-cards

  games—if I pull one out, everything above, below, and in between

  collapses. I’ve worked really hard

  to get this all set up—it’s hard

  to think of doing it all again. Next summer, this schedule

  will be fine, but my boss won’t let up between

  now and then. I asked him for ten extra minutes to give me time

  to get from school to work, but he says that’s not in the cards.

  If I can’t do just

  what I’m supposed to do, just

  when it should be done, too bad. I know it’s hard

  for you, he says, but I’ve got a business here. Cards

  of sympathy are next door at Hallmark. My schedule

  is impossible. Barely time to sleep, no time

  for homework except at the bus stop between

  school and work. Report cards come out in two weeks’ time

  and I have to work hard just to pass. My schedule

  will be: school and work, work and school. No time in between.

  PART III

  ON THEIR OWN

  I KNOW THE VALUE JOE

  I know the value of a house like this.

  Old and solid, hardwood stairs and floor.

  But when I showed up at Aunt Annie’s door

  when I was twelve—bruised, scared, clenched fists—

  all I knew then was: I could stay.

  As long as you need to, Joe, was what she kept

  on saying, right up till she died and left

  the house to me. So now that’s what I say

  when kids show up and I know they can’t ask

  for what they shouldn’t have to ask for. They need

  more than I can give them. I know I’m

  no Aunt Annie. I ain’t up to the task

  of tryin’ to be their legal foster dad.

  But I can give them space—and space is time.

  ON HER OWN LAURA (STEPHIE’S MOTHER)

  It’s time to talk to Steph about the boy

  who could have been her brother—maybe is

  her brother. How can I describe the joy

  of holding him, the morning—cold—when his

  new parents—married, educated—reached

  to take him from me? I don’t know his name

  or where (or if) he lives. My parents preached

  at me. I listened. I won’t do the same

  to Steph. She has to do this on her own.