by Neta Jackson
Hakim, however, just sat and looked at his paper, as if he didn’t have a clue. My heart constricted. Why was written work so hard for him? He was obviously very bright—the balance-scale episode proved that. I motioned him to a table at the back of the room. He came reluctantly, like he might get yelled at. “It’s okay,” I said. “Look, let’s do it this way.” I covered up all the letters of the acrostic except for the J and asked him to make up a sentence beginning with that letter. “You tell me what you want to say, and I’ll write it down,” I said. That seemed to make a difference. Working this way he finished the acrostic poem.
J—Just the other day
O—On my way to the store, I
H—Hollered to the old man
N—Next-door . . .
Not bad. It actually rhymed. “It’s the written work that trips him up,” I murmured to Christy as we tacked the papers up on the bulletin board after school. “I wonder if he’s ever been tested?”
On Friday, Christy brought a couple of bags of apples to class, a big plastic bowl, and a roll of paper towels and let the kids “bob for apples” as the last activity of the day. I should have advised against it, but I didn’t want to squelch her ideas. The kids were already squirrelly, given that it was late in the school day just before the weekend, but it might have gone all right if Cornell hadn’t started acting smart by rocking the bowl. Before we could stop him, the bowl tipped over, and we had water all over the floor—which meant a trip to the janitor’s closet for a mop and bucket and a dozen disappointed kids who hadn’t gotten to bob for apples yet. Ramón yelled at Cornell for ruining their turn, Cornell slugged Ramón, and we ended up having to send both boys to the office.
“Sorry, Ms. Baxter,” Christy said sheepishly as she gathered up the remaining apples and the bowl. (The paper towels had paid the ultimate sacrifice mopping up the floor instead of kids’ faces.)
“Don’t be sorry, Christy. It was a great idea. Next time we’ll just nail down the bowl.” For a second there, I think she thought I was joking.
ON MY WAY OUT OF SCHOOL that Friday, I caught Avis on the fly and told her Yo-Yo would be twenty-three “in a week or so” but had never had a birthday party. “What do you think of celebrating her birthday Sunday night at Yada Yada? She’d really be surprised.”
“This Sunday?” Avis frowned. “Well, okay . . . but Natasha’s coming home from college this weekend—her high-school homecoming, I think—and Charette is coming up from Cincinnati with the twins. We’re all going to the South Side to see Rochelle and the baby. I won’t have time to plan anything. Not even sure I’ll be at Uptown on Sunday. Might go to church with Rochelle.”
“That’s okay. I’ll—”
“Where would we meet?”
“Meet? I thought we agreed on Nony’s at the last meeting. Haven’t been there since August.”
“Yes, but Nony called me last night and said she and the boys are leaving for South Africa on Sunday. Not sure how long she’ll be gone—several weeks anyway.”
Nony and the boys? I hadn’t said anything to Avis about Mark’s phone call to Denny. “Well, good for Mark.” Avis looked at me funny. Oops! Did I say that out loud? “I mean, good that our prayers were answered—you know, that they came to an agreement,” I amended hastily. I made a mental note to give Nony a call before she left.
But where to meet? Only about half the group was able to host a Yada Yada meeting. Stu lived too far away; Delores had too many kids . . . I shrugged. “Guess I’m next on the list, if it’s not too soon after the . . . you know.”
Avis raised an eyebrow. “We’re not going to let Satan rob us of anything, Jodi—not our joy, not where we meet for Yada Yada.” She looked at her watch. “Look, I’ve got to run. Let me know if you want me to bring something. I’ll be there.”
“Just a card for Yo-Yo!” I called after her as she flew out the door. By the time I crossed the parking lot to head home, her car was gone. Must be anxious to see her grandkids.
SURE ENOUGH, Nony had plane tickets for Sunday afternoon for herself, Marcus, and Michael. “I’m so sorry, Jodi, not to tell you sooner,” she said when I called, “but it’s been so hectic, getting passports for the boys, getting their schoolwork so I can home-school while we’re gone. I don’t know why Mark changed his mind, but God’s name be praised! Will you let the rest of the sisters know? And give them my love.”
Indeed. Just don’t stay too long, Nony.
I sent out an e-mail Friday night to Yada Yada, telling them about the change in location for Sunday’s meeting and Nony’s news. And since I knew Yo-Yo didn’t have e-mail, I broadcast my idea for a birthday surprise. “Just bring cards,” I suggested. “I’ll make a cake.”
When I went to the store on Saturday to get a card for Yo-Yo, I couldn’t find anything that seemed appropriate. What could I say to encourage a young woman who’d once said about her name, “Oh, right. Yo-Yo—a spinning toy going nowhere.”
That actually gave me an idea. Back home I got on the computer, called up the Web site where I’d found the meanings of names for my Welcome Bulletin Board at the school, and typed “Yolanda” into the search. I blinked when the meaning came up on the screen.
“Yolanda. From the Greek: ‘Violet Flower.’ ”
Wow. If I were going to hang a flower on Yo-Yo’s name, I’d choose something hardy, sturdy enough to weather all sorts of conditions. Like marigolds or mums. But in the Bible, names had significant meaning. Maybe there was a meaning for Yo-Yo here that wasn’t that obvious.
I was just about to shut down the name site, when a curious thought popped into my head. What did Becky Wallace’s name mean? Immediately followed by:Why should I care? But I was curious enough to type “Becky” into the search bar and waited while that name page came up.
I stared. Was this possible?
“Becky. A familiar form of Rebecca. From the Hebrew: ‘Bound, tied.’ ”
Oh God.
31
I was so focused on trying to pull off Yo-Yo’s birthday surprise that Amanda’s request after church on Sunday almost didn’t register. “Invite who to youth group tonight?” I said absently, studying my recipe for red-velvet cake, wondering if I’d have to run out to Dominick’s for two bottles of red food coloring.
“José. Mo-om! Aren’t you listening?”
Well, she had my attention now. I leaned back against the kitchen counter and looked at my daughter. Okay. Should’ve seen it coming. After all, her two-week grounding had been for lying to us, not for being friends with José Enriques per se. However, I’d been hoping that the budding romance would wither on the vine for lack of attention—ignoring, of course, that “absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
I sighed. “Don’t they have a youth program at Iglesia?” Oh brother. That was lame.
She shrugged. “Sure. Some weeknight—Thursday, I think.
What’s your point?”
Watch it, young lady. I took a breath. What was my point? “I . . . is something special happening at Uptown tonight?”
“Kinda. The Reillys are gonna be talking about the music teens listen to—I thought José might be interested. They told us to bring friends. And our CDs.”
“That’s a long way to come—”
“Mom! Mrs. Enriques is coming to Yada Yada tonight, right? Here at our house? José could come with his mom, and we’ll take him to youth group.” She zeroed in for the kill. “Besides, isn’t that what you and the other Yada Yada women do? Visit each other’s churches?”
I hated it when my kids pointed the finger back at me to get what they wanted. The next item in her bag of tricks would be to remind me we’d told her that if she wanted to see José, to invite him up here.
I tried to back out gracefully. “Sure. Good idea.” Amanda disappeared with the phone before I even got the mixer out.
As it turned out, the idea spread, and Josh called Ruth Garfield to ask if she’d bring Yo-Yo’s brothers, “. . . since you and Yo-Yo are coming anyway
.” Chris Hickman came with Florida too. We didn’t have that many high schoolers at Uptown, so the “youth group” started at eighth grade. It was a bit hectic at first, with Yada Yada arriving and teenagers leaving, but eventually we got everybody sorted out. Denny decided to go with the kids and “learn something about teen music.” Poor guy.
I was glad to see Hoshi made it, since Nony was probably somewhere over the Atlantic by now. I made a mental note to take Hoshi back to campus after Yada Yada so she wouldn’t have to ride the el alone after dark.
By mutual agreement, nobody said anything about Yo-Yo’s birthday when we first started. Right after our beginning prayer and praise time, Avis asked for a report of the visit to Becky Wallace. Oh, help. I didn’t know what to say. Admit I was still hanging on to my mental mad, even after meeting B. W. face to face and seeing her as a real person?
Florida saved the day. “I know what happened here that night was bad news. But that girl—why she’s only a day or two older’n Yo-Yo here. Just a baby. Why, she—”
Yo-Yo loudly cleared her throat. “Just a baby, huh?” We all laughed.
“Oh, girl, ya know what I mean. She’s got her whole life in front of her, and if somebody don’t do somethin’, it’s gonna be messed up big-time.”
“Messy, schmessy,” Ruth huffed. “Seems like she’s already done a good job of that. What are we, the local rehab?”
Exactly what I was thinking.
Stu frowned. “Why would you say that, Ruth? You befriended Yo-Yo in prison, looked after her brothers, got her a job . . .”
Chanda wagged her head. “If dat what you tinkin’, don’t look at me. I canna give no reference to mi ladies on de North Shore. You wants ta go in dey houses, you gots ta be squeaky clean. No drugs, no rap sheet, no nothin’.”
I noticed Hoshi sat stiffly on her chair, twisting and untwisting a handkerchief with lacy edging.
Avis steered us back to center. “It’s rather a miracle that Becky Wallace agreed to let some of us come visit. One step at a time. Right now, the most important thing to do is keep praying, but before we do that . . . Yo-Yo? Or Jodi? Anything you want to share from the visit to Lincoln?”
Yo-Yo shook her head. “Glad I went, though. Reminded me I don’t wanna go back. Inside, I mean.”
My turn. “To be honest? Don’t know if I’m glad I went or not. I mean, it was probably the right thing to do, but . . . it’s kinda hard to give up my feelings about what she did, barging in here and terrorizing everybody and hurting Hoshi’s mother.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hoshi stop twisting the handkerchief and just stare at the floor. “Yet she didn’t seem like a monster when we visited her in prison. Just someone sad and pathetic and lonely. Which is hard for me to accept, because I don’t want to feel sorry for her. She really hurt us—all of us.”
Hoshi spoke, her voice low and intense. “Yes. I don’t want to feel sorry for her.Maybe that is not good, but that is how I feel.”
I was glad Hoshi had the courage to say that. It wouldn’t be fair to her if we were more concerned for the perp than for the victim. But even as I entertained those thoughts, I realized an unsettling truth: Visiting B. W. had taken away the sting of that night. I no longer felt the same fear when I thought of her. And maybe that was a good thing?
Tentatively I voiced this new realization.
Avis nodded. “When we hold on to our anger, we allow the person who hurt us to keep hurting us again and again, every time we think about what happened. That gives Satan way too much power! That’s why the ‘Jesus way’ points us to reconciliation and forgiveness. But”—she held up her hand like a stop sign—“maybe that’s something for us to think and pray about. God understands we need time. Why don’t we pray for Hoshi and her mom and all of us still struggling with the after-effects of the robbery? And pray for Becky Wallace too.”
Everyone seemed willing to get into the prayer time, also remembering to pray for Nony and her boys making their way to South Africa that very moment . . . for Mark Smith, home alone without his wife and children for several weeks . . . for all our teenagers at Uptown this evening. Edesa, bless her, prayed for Delores’s husband, still without a job, still drinking too much to drown his discouragement.
During a short lull, I said, “And, Jesus, I want to pray for Adele . . .” Yet I had no idea what to pray for, so I just left it hanging there. Others filled in the gap with “Yes, Jesus!” and “You said You’d never leave her or forsake her!”
When it seemed like Avis was wrapping up the prayer time, I slipped out to the kitchen to light the candles on Yo-Yo’s cake, smothered in whipped-cream frosting. I was realizing that twenty-three was a lot of candles when Stu slipped into the kitchen too. “Here, you need help with that.” She struck a match and started in on the other side.Humph. Not “Can I help you with that?” Just “You need help with that.”Which was true, but still.
We got all the candles lit, and Stu picked up the cake plate. “You go first and start them singing ‘Happy Birthday.’ I’ll follow with the cake.” She stood aside for me to go ahead of her.
Now I really was annoyed. Good grief! I made the cake, and I wanted to carry it in.
“Is that for Yo-Yo?” Stu nodded at the gift sitting on the counter, loosely tied up in lavender tissue paper and white ribbon. Darn if she wasn’t right. I couldn’t carry both the gift and the cake, even if I wanted to. I picked up the gift and started for the living room. Okay, God, I know this is no time to get all hot and bothered by Stu’s bossiness. Just keep me from smashing that cake in her face.
We made it to the doorway just as Avis pronounced the final, “In the name of Jesus!” Perfect! As people’s eyes popped open, I started singing, “Happy Birthday,” and everyone joined in—even Yo-Yo, looking around as if trying to figure out who we were celebrating. When we all sang, “ . . . dear Yo-Yo,” Stu carried the flaming cake across the room and stood in front of her. “Happy birthday to you.”
Yo-Yo’s mouth dropped open, then her eyes darted this way and that. “Me?” she finally said. Man! Why didn’t I remember my camera? The look on her face was priceless.
By now everyone was clapping and hollering. “Hey! Happy birthday, Yo-Yo!” “Blow out the candles! They’re gonna drip all over the cake!” and “Make a wish first!”
“But it’s not my birthday.”
“When is it?” Ruth demanded.
“Uh . . . Tuesday.”
“So? What’s two days? Blow!”
Firelight from the shrinking candles danced on the blonde tips of Yo-Yo’s short, spiky hair. “Okay, okay,” she said and blew— spraying wax all over the frosting. But who cared. We all cheered.
Stu started to hand off the cake platter to me, but I held up the gift in my hands. “Oh. Could you cut the cake, Stu?” I asked sweetly. “But don’t go yet. Got another presentation here.”
“Hey, hey! Quiet, everybody,” Ruth ordered.
I sat down on the floor in front of Yo-Yo’s chair. She hunched forward, elbows on her denim knees, chin in her hands, staring at the toes of her sneakers. “Do you remember,” I started, “when we were talking about what ‘Yada Yada’ means, and Avis or Nony— somebody!—said God calls us by our name? Well, I looked up the meaning of Yo-Yo’s name—Yolanda, actually—and here it is.” I held out the tissue-wrapped gift.
Yo-Yo stared cautiously at the lumpy gift. “Bite you, it won’t,” Ruth grumbled, waving her hand at her. “Open it!”
Yo-Yo let me place the gift in her hands. Hesitantly, she untied the white ribbon and the tissue paper fell away, revealing a large African violet with small clusters of bright purple flowers. Yo-Yo looked up. “I don’t get it.”
I smiled. “That’s what your name means: ‘Violet flower.’ ”
“Now dat nice,” Chanda murmured.
Yo-Yo nodded. “Oh. Thanks. It’s nice. Though . . . don’t think that describes me very well.” Leaving the plant on her lap, she held her arms wide, as though reminding us of her shapeless, sa
me-old denim overalls.
I gave her a hug. “Oh, I don’t know about that. My mom raised African violets all the time. And they’d just sit there growing leaves for months, then we’d get up one morning, and those gorgeous flowers seemed to have burst out overnight. Personally? I think there’s a lot of beauty inside you that you might not see, but the rest of us do.”
“You got that right,” Florida crowed. And the clapping and cheering started all over again.
“Me tinks it be time to party!” Chanda jumped up, waving a CD she’d brought with her. “Go! Go! Cut dat cake,” she said to Stu, who was still holding the cake platter, waving her away toward the dining room. “Jodi! How dis player work?”
In moments, Chanda had popped in the CD, turned up the volume, and was pushing furniture out of the way. The words to “Shout Hallelujah!” filled the house, while a tidal wave of drums, keyboards, and electric bass rumbled from the speakers.
Come on and shout! hallelujah
It’s the highest praise!
Dance! the devil is defeated
He’s under my feet! . . .
It was impossible not to dance to that music. Chanda pulled Yo-Yo to her feet, and pretty soon the two of them were doing a step-shuffle-and-shake number in sync. Avis and Florida were each “gettin’ down” too. Ruth, Delores, and Edesa joined in, with results that looked a cross between a Jewish line dance and the Macarena. Me—I didn’t really know how to dance, but I tried to copy Chanda and Yo-Yo’s steps. The results were pretty sloppy, but nobody seemed to care. Even Hoshi clapped along from the sidelines, a smile cheering up her face.
Shout! . . . Dance! . . . Clap! . . .
The CD was full of good “dance” songs, but it didn’t take long for my left leg to start aching. Feeling guilty that Stu was off cutting the cake, I slipped down the hall to the dining room and took the cake knife from her. “Go on, I’ll finish up. Go dance.” I smiled at her and actually meant it.
We ate cake, gave Yo-Yo our cards, laughed, played music, and danced till the kids and Denny came back. They stood in a ragged line in the living-room doorway—Chris, Jerry, Pete, Josh, Amanda, and José—staring at their mothers and friends like a freak show. “C’mon, c’mon,” Chanda waved at them. “Show us!” She put on the “Shout Hallelujah!” song again.