Then, Miss Delores would knock and bring in a tray, balanced on her right arm. This was the woman my mother forbade me ever to call a “maid.” I wasn’t allowed to address her by her first name without a handle attached. It didn’t matter that she cleaned Nana’s kitchen and bathrooms. That she cooked the roasted chicken that she then cooled and placed on the tray, alongside water crackers, crudités, and thinly sliced cheeses, and walked the tray up the stairs to serve my grandmother and me. Miss Delores had babysat me as a toddler, my mother told me. I needed to give her some respect.
When Nana and I finished eating, I wouldn’t press the servants’ button that had been installed in the corner of the anteroom long before I was born. I’d take the tray down while Nana changed into her silk pajamas. When I returned, she would turn on the television and smoke a cigarette fitted into a jade holder. I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone she smoked, especially my parents. I would sit on the love seat at the foot of her bed, but it was hard to concentrate on the movie. When my grandmother talked, she expected me to turn and look at her.
On the television screen, Stormy Weather. Lena Horne sang next to a greasy-headed man playing the piano, an outrageous, feathered cap on her head. Now there was dancing, and Miss Horne shimmied in the middle of adoring men. Her voice was mediocre, but her presence carried the scene.
“Isn’t Lena Horne beautiful? There was a girl I went to school with who was even prettier than that. But it wasn’t Toomer when I went. It was the City Preparatory School for Negroes. Goodness, I can’t even remember that girl’s name. What was her name?” My grandmother took a puff of her cigarette and blew it out. “But I remember her face like it was yesterday. I was so jealous of that girl.”
“You, Nana?”
“Every woman has her insecurities, Ailey, especially if she doesn’t know a man’s heart.” She pulled on her cigarette. “God, I despise Bill Robinson! For the life of me, I don’t know why they cast him in this movie! He looks like an ugly monkey.” Puff. Puff. “Ailey, do you want to hear a secret?”
“Sure, Nana.”
“I first saw Stormy Weather over at the theater on Sixth Street, but I didn’t sit in the balcony. What do you think about that?”
“Um . . . okay.”
“Ailey, it was against the law back then. The theater on Twenty-First Street was for Negroes, so we could sit wherever we wanted. But the one on Sixth Street was segregated. Only whites could sit on the first level. If you were Negro, you had to sit up in the balcony. I could have been arrested.”
“Weren’t you scared, Nana?”
“Of what? Nobody knew. I’d leave your father at home with the housekeeper and pass for white all the time. I had plenty fun in those days, and your grandfather never knew a thing about it.” She winked. “Oh, here’s the best part! Watch.”
On TV, Lena performed her legendary song, and my grandmother sang along.
* * *
To me, Cecily Rester was as beautiful as Lena Horne, and when she began to pay me attention at school, I knew this was my chance. Not only for non-kin female companionship, but to be popular. I felt the euphoria of power, but also fear. In just a few weeks I’d seen Cecily turn ugly on one of the lunchtime crew. I didn’t want to be the flower withering beneath her gorgeous sun.
Usually everyone was safe, however, because the daily target of Cecily’s derision was most often Antoinette Jones, a girl who was in my second-period English class. Antoinette wasn’t popular in school. Word was her mother was a crack addict. She didn’t even talk to anyone except Demetrius Woods, a boy with whom she rode the bus to and from school. Her brother by a different father, some said. A cousin, others insisted, but everybody agreed that Demetrius and Antoinette looked in need of several pork-heavy meals, along with many biscuits and side dishes.
“That girl is so damned weird,” Cecily said. “Look at her. She makes my skin crawl.”
She pointed at Antoinette standing in line for the bus. The girl’s book bag was torn, and she was trying to keep the top closed with both hands. She climbed on the bus awkwardly, still holding on to the book bag.
“And what’s up with that damned hair? It’s not even two inches long. Antoinette’s, like, chronically baldheaded or some shit. I went to Wells-Barnett Elementary and Fauset Middle with that chick, and, like, in five years, her hair didn’t grow.”
“Maybe she got a bad perm. That’s kinda sad, don’t you think?” My mother had warned me about picking on people, even behind their backs. Did I want to be like Nana, thinking my farts were special? But I couldn’t tell my new friend that we were being mean. I wanted to sleep over at her house like the other girls who sat in the cafeteria with us.
“No, it’s not sad,” Cecily said. “It’s stupid. Why’d she keep going back to the same beautician who burned her hair out? Stupid, baldheaded heifer.”
She stretched out a shapely leg, picking a mote from her tights. Antoinette’s bus drove away, revealing a billboard illustrated with our First Lady’s solution to drug addiction: JUST SAY NO! Beside those words, someone had spray-painted rhyming lines: NANCY REAGAN IS A CRACK HOE!
I didn’t worry much about Antoinette, at the cruelty pointed her way. Not just by the students, either. The teacher of our English class constantly embarrassed her. Like the day Mrs. Youngley diagrammed sentences and asked Antoinette about the identity of a word on the board. Antoinette whispered her confusion, but our teacher kept prodding, “Don’t you remember? I told the class only yesterday!”
“No, ma’am.”
“Didn’t you even take notes?”
Antoinette shrugged.
“All right. That’s fine. I’ll give you a hint. It’s one of the eight parts of speech.”
She paused, eyebrows raised haughtily, but Antoinette only looked down at her desk. When our teacher called on others, they had adolescent loyalty. They didn’t know, either, but I raised my hand. I waved it enthusiastically and shouted that the word was a verb. I beamed when our teacher praised my intelligence, throwing a smug glance at Antoinette. Saving the memory of her stupidity to share with Cecily and the rest of the crew at lunch. But I didn’t have time to tell my story, because an hour later, Antoinette completely altered the trajectory of my short-lived social life and entire high school education.
When she appeared at my locker, it was like a scene out of a horror movie: I closed the locker door and there she was, shocking me into a low scream.
“You getting on my last nerve, bitch,” she said. “The way you think you so cute.”
“What did you say?”
I don’t know which shocked me the most: that Antoinette finally was speaking to somebody besides Demetrius Woods, or that I outweighed her by about fifty pounds and was inches taller, but she didn’t seem intimidated. A group of girls crowded around us and there was Cecily. She cautioned me in a loud voice to kick that heifer’s ass.
Antoinette repeated herself, pointing her index finger in my face. Before that I’d quickly planned to offer peaceful rhetoric, as our principal had counseled at assemblies, but now everyone was watching. Seeking peace would be a punk move.
“Uh-uh,” I said. “I don’t think I’m cute, neither.”
“Yes, you do, bitch,” Antoinette said.
“No, I don’t! And—and—don’t you keep calling me no bitch! And—and—you better get your finger out my face!”
“I’ma call you whatever I feel like, you siddity bitch. And you think you better than everybody ’cause you light-skinned and got that good hair. Bitch.”
My mother had told me that all hair was wonderful, no matter the texture, and that it was ignorant to separate hair into categories of “bad” and “good.” Furthermore, anybody could see I wasn’t even close to light-skinned. Even in the wintertime I approached mahogany—but it was too late to explain, because then Antoinette slapped me across my face.
The crowd roared: “Ooooooooooo!” She kept striking me until I fell, then she straddled my stomach, yanking my hair, u
ntil Malcolm broke through the crowd. He pulled Antoinette off me, and she kicked at the air, but he told her nobody was going to hurt her. Stop kicking. He set her on her feet, standing between us. Soon, a teacher arrived on the scene and marched Antoinette and me down the hall and to the first floor to the principal’s office.
I was surprised when my father showed up. He told me that my mother couldn’t take off from her job. So he’d told his receptionist to reschedule his patients’ appointments. In Principal Perry’s office, my father and I were informed that I was suspended. It was Wednesday, I couldn’t come back until Monday, and further, this was going on my permanent academic record.
“But Mr. Perry, that’s not fair!” I said. “Everybody saw that girl jump me!”
“Ailey. Please.” My father put out his hand, his signature, calming gesture. “Mr. Perry, I’d ask that you reconsider your decision. Look at those scratches on my child’s face. Clearly, this was not her fault or a fair fight.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Garfield.”
“It’s doctor.”
“Pardon me?”
“I’m not a mister. It’s Dr. Garfield.”
“My apologies. I have a doctorate, too, but the kids call me ‘mister.’”
“That’s lovely, but I’m a board-certified physician. General practice, though I am trained in surgery, in case someone gets seriously hurt. And you never know when that’s going to happen.”
“Oh, I see. How nice.”
“I think so.”
Mr. Perry cleared his throat. “Anyway, my decision is final. I think I’m being very fair. The other girl is suspended as well. We have a zero-tolerance policy for violence here. I’m sure you can understand.”
My father asked me to go outside to the reception area. He would come get me soon, he told me, but he stayed inside the office for another thirty-five minutes. When he emerged, he took my hand like when I was little. In the car, he turned the ignition, before turning it back off.
“Ailey, you know I’m always on your side, right?” His baritone was low, unhurried.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“And you know you can tell me anything, and I’ll treat you fairly?”
“Yes.”
“So give it to me straight: Did you do something to that girl to provoke her?”
“You mean Antoinette?”
“Yes, her. Your principal told me, that girl comes from a very disadvantaged background and some particularly cruel kids pick on her about her clothes and the way she looks. I know that sometimes, kids can get in groups—”
“Uh-uh, Daddy! I didn’t say nothing to that girl! We don’t even speak!”
“So you’re saying she jumped on you for absolutely no reason?”
“Yeah. She just, like, snapped. I don’t even know why. Maybe she’s got mental problems. Something.”
Daddy patted my arm. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, darling. I was just checking, but I already knew the answer. Your heart is too big to ever be mean.”
At home, he told me I was not suspended, but the principal had decided that I could stay home to calm down. When I returned on Monday, I wouldn’t have detention, either, and he thought that was a very reasonable decision on Mr. Perry’s part.
“Your mama will be here soon. Maybe she’ll make fried chicken. You can have both the breasts, if you want.”
“I’m not hungry. I just want to lie down.”
“Aw, darling. All right, then. There’re vitamin E capsules in the medicine cabinet. Go wash your face and start rubbing that oil on those scratches. Three times a day, okay? Don’t forget. You don’t want those marks to get permanent.”
If I hadn’t gotten my ass beat, the next two days would have been fantastic. My father stayed home with me, and we watched a talk show and three soap operas. He ordered pepperoni pizza with extra cheese and didn’t even hide the box in the trash. This was a special occasion, he said. We needed unhealthy food to make things better. Besides, my mother had given him permission.
That Monday, my cousin tried to hold my hand when we climbed out of my mother’s station wagon. If I hadn’t been too embarrassed—I was fourteen damned years old, after all—I would have let him. Instead I let go and walked behind him, my eyes on the ground as we entered the school. I could hear the whispers of There she go and Did you see Antoinette beat that ass? as I somehow made it through the hall and up the steps to my homeroom.
In English class, Antoinette wasn’t there. She’d been suspended, but the other students twisted their mouths my way. They felt self-righteous now: I was the villain. If anything was worse than getting beat down in public, it was snitching to the principal.
When Mrs. Youngley called on me, I told her I hadn’t read the assignment.
“That’s not like you, Ailey.”
“I know. I’m sorry, ma’am.”
I wasn’t hungry at lunchtime, but I filled up my tray. I wanted something to hold in front of me, a barrier between me and my shame and ridicule. I walked past tables and more whispers until I saw Cecily and the crew. I smiled in relief: here was my oasis. When I set my tray down, Cecily was holding court, telling a story. The other girls giggled, and I joined in.
I waited for Cecily on the steps, after school. I’d already brushed off her spot, because she didn’t like sitting in dirty places. She was careful with her clothes. She was late showing, but when she sat down in the clean place I’d made for her she greeted me warmly. Asked how I’d been doing since the fight. She moved into her usual derision of Antoinette: her lack of hair, her stupidity, and this time, I eagerly laughed. I didn’t feel sorry for Antoinette anymore. She deserved everything Cecily threw her way.
It was a safe, beautiful half hour, and then I saw the Volvo nudge forward in the line of cars. My aunt beeped the horn.
Cecily touched my arm. “Look. I really like you.”
“Thanks. I like you, too.”
“You’re super cute and you dress really nice. And that’s important, because I can’t hang with anybody tacky. But it’s like this. Even though that heifer jumped you, you snitched. And I can’t have snitches around me. I got a reputation to protect.”
My smile dropped. Blood thudded in my ears.
“No, Cecily! I didn’t snitch, neither!” I didn’t care about lying. There had been only two witnesses in the principal’s office. She couldn’t check out my story.
“Yeah, you did. Otherwise, how come you’re here and Antoinette got suspended? Not that that heifer didn’t deserve it.”
“I don’t know! I just, like, wasn’t suspended.”
She gave me a pitying look. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
“Cecily, please.”
“I’m sorry. But me and my girls voted. For what it’s worth, I took your side, but you lost. You can’t sit with us no more.”
Behind me, my cousin called my name, and my voice trembled with urgency when I told him, just a minute, okay? One minute, and he walked down the school steps. My breath came heavy as I tried to figure out something to say that would save me.
My aunt beeped the horn, longer this time.
“Your ride is waiting on you, girl,” Cecily said.
She picked up her book bag, unzipped it, and began looking inside for something. She didn’t look up when I spoke to her, and when my aunt laid on the horn, I picked up my own bag and headed toward the Volvo. In the back seat, Veronica was napping in her car seat. On purpose, I bumped into her with my arm. Her eyes opened momentarily before her head rolled to the other side.
* * *
For two months, I’d called Lydia’s dorm phone every Sunday evening, to talk about how I’d finally made a friend. When I lost the companionship of Cecily, I called to tell my big sister I was lonely again. However, I hadn’t been able to catch her. My mother told me not to worry—Lydia was a junior in college. She had her own life now, but I kept calling. Trying. The young women who answered the phone would shout down the hall.
“Lydia Garfield, telephone! L
ydia Garfield!” A long pause. “Sorry, she’s not in.”
One evening in early November, my big sister rang the house after dinner.
“Lydia, I’m mad at you,” I said. “I tried to call last week for your birthday.”
“Aw, baby, I’m sorry. Will you forgive me if I tell you a secret?” She gave a squeal and I forgot my irritation.
“What?!”
“Baby sister, I’m in love!”
“Oh my God! Tell me everything!”
“His name is Dante Anderson, he’s from Atlanta, he goes to Morehouse, and he’s super cute!”
“Dante? Like the Inferno? What kind of name is that?”
“It’s a great name. The best name there is. And you be nice, because I’m bringing him home. I’m asking Mama for permission.”
My sister and her beau appeared the day before Thanksgiving. They made a striking couple. Dante was much darker than she was and flagrantly handsome. He was polite, too, giving a submissive “yes, ma’am,” when my mother banished him to the basement let-out sofa. She told him this was an old-fashioned household.
The next afternoon, the rest of the family gathered. Of the younger generation, Malcolm was our only boy. He sat on the floor with Veronica, pretending to drink from her tea set. Coco was quiet, answering questions about college in monosyllables, but Lydia was our butterfly, keeping everyone laughing with her stories, like how somebody in her college dormitory had accidentally set a small fire with a hot plate, and Lydia’s dorm mother had run outside in a fancy silk negligee—but had forgotten to put her wig on. On my boom box, she played a mixtape with her favorite holiday song on a loop, “This Christmas,” by Donny Hathaway. It was Thanksgiving, she said. The season had started.
Right after dessert, she disclosed truths in segments. She was going to transfer to Spelman in January. The paperwork had gone through, and Dante was graduating from Morehouse that next year. Then she hit us with the rest.
“We eloped, y’all! We’re married! Me and Dante got an apartment in Atlanta!” She pointed a finger at Mama. “And before you ask, I’m not pregnant. I’m still on the Pill.”
The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois Page 6