Jumped

by Rita Williams-Garcia

  This morning I’m not liking this class so much. For the first time, I draw a blank. Blank page. Blank me. It doesn’t happen often. In fact, it happens never, so I don’t know how to be. Silent. Still. Waiting. Nada. Blank. Damn.

  It is strictly hot-pink ink for the journal entries. My pen is used to rolling across the sheet, right, back to left, right, back to left, moving so fast the tip stays kissing the paper with no letup, no liftoff while I race to the clinker. The closer. The winner. Whatever they call the last line that’s so good it makes the room holler “Oh, shnikies” when you want to say “Oh, shit,” or makes you say “Deep” for “double damn.” No curses in Ms. Bauer’s class. She says, “There’s too many words to only use the same lazy three.” Ms. Bauer keeps a bar of soap for dirty mouths in her desk—what?—that’s for real.

  I always speed-write, rolling along the lines, breathing fast, smiling to myself because my journals are funny and the class is dying to hear me read. Ramón, Josh, Devlin, and them chant “Tree-na, Tree-na” when they catch me writing and giggling. I never disappoint. It’s always the “Oh, shnikies.” Never “That’s deep,” like when Nilda reads from her journal.

  Today the topic on the board is “With ________ I am complete.”

  In case you don’t know, Ms. Bauer is a Ms. She’ll tell you straight up: “Mizzz Bauer.” Don’t say Miss, Mrs., or Ma—like you don’t call your favorite teacher or your mean teacher ma. You know you do.

  Ms. Bauer smiles at the confusion on our faces. Ma says, “Fill the blank line with an item or a personal attribute, like a sense of humor if a sense of humor makes you complete. Maybe it’s a person or pet.” She tells us to write without stopping. Write without caring. Write naked.

  Who wouldn’t laugh at that? Even though Ma got a barbwire tattoo around her wrist and green soap in her top drawer, nobody is writing. Everyone’s riffing on writing naked. Ramón tells Michael and Devlin to put on some clothes. Devlin says, “Trina, you heard: Write naked.” But it’s not just me they say it to. Before you know it all the boys are telling all the girls, “Get writing. Get stripped.” Except Nilda. Something must have happened to Nilda because she is like a dead saint and you respect dead saints. Ramón and them don’t say “Write naked” to her.

  Ms. Bauer is used to us. She doesn’t panic, slam the textbook against her desk, or take out the soap. She holds up her right hand and says, “Pens up,” which means “Get serious.”

  All silliness stops. Twenty-two hands find pens. A few kids still dig for pens or beg to borrow. I roll my hot-pink pen against my lucky gold chain, waiting for a thought to come.

  When we are serious, ready, Ms. Bauer says, “This is private writing.” That means we keep it to ourselves. No sharing. For me that means no “Oh, shnikies.”

  Five minutes is all the time in the world to spill out what makes Trina the full, completed Trina. Or does she mean if I had fill-in-the-blank I would be complete? I just sit quiet. I stay blank.

  When the class is quiet like that, you hear everything. Hard breathing. The clock ticking. It’s weird.

  Start with the heading. Name, class, and date. I write the title. “With ________ I am complete.”

  Although I’m sitting still, there is crazy scribbling around me. I hear the pens tearing up paper. Lines of looping, crossing, dotting. They’re off and running like skinny greyhounds gunning the racetrack. They are writing naked.

  I play with my lucky gold chain and I remember how lucky I am. That I have talent pouring out of me and I’m always showing them, sharing them. I know why I’m not writing naked: My life is good. I am complete. I don’t wake up wishing I had clothes and money. What I have is good. I don’t say, “I need more this and I’ll be set.” What I have works. I don’t want green eyes, blue eyes, hazel eyes. These light brown eyes set me off just right in Picasso perfection—except my eyes aren’t painted on my tatas; they’re where they belong. It’s about the perfection. I’m like art.

  I don’t look at someone’s shoes and say “I want those.” I don’t see Malik, the darkest of dark chocolate, all smiles and muscles—what?—hugging Natalie and be jealous. Even when Malik licks his lips at me, I don’t start drawing our names together and plotting for him. I know what’s up. If Malik and I are supposed to be hugged up down B Corridor we’ll get to that. But I don’t have that hunger like I have to break open the Mounds bar to get to that coconutty smile. I can’t say biting into that would make me complete.

  There’s no things—no pets, no person—to make me complete. Just Mami. For a little woman Mami is big like a blanket. What? Can I breathe with all that Mami wrapped around me?

  When I’m racked up sick and have to stay home with her, we laugh at those stupid women who are 1,000 percent sure that Jerome/Julio/Jethro is the baby’s daddy, only to have their faces cracked on live TV, ten million people watching. Keisha/CoCo/Kaitlyn still brings her business to the people and now Jerome/Julio/Jethro’s mama is doing her dance around Keisha/CoCo/Kaitlyn’s body, wagging her finger while Jerome/Julio/Jethro raises his hands like he’s gone platinum at the Garden and Keisha/CoCo/Kaitlyn is down on the ground kicking and crying buckets and saying “I’m so sorry…” because you can’t deny the DNA.

  And after Mami and I have our laugh she feels under my chin and says, “Bueno. Getting better.”

  But she still doesn’t tell you who your father is and what he is.

  You still don’t know how your own DNA coil is wrapped. You still don’t know zip about that missing part of you or where he is.

  Mami says he isn’t important. And when you see yourself in the mirror and you look good and you have everything going for you, you know she is right. Whoever he is, wherever he is, at least he gave you the best parts.

  Then I start to giggle. Two minutes left and the hot-pink ink is rolling. “Can you imagine not looking like this? Not being like this? No. I’m complete. Life is good.” I make sure I write that: Life is good.

  13

  Get Involved

  LETICIA

  THE PA CRACKLING FIVE MINUTES into homeroom means one thing, and the whole class, including Mr. Adelman, knows it. Jessie and Turtle are already out of their seats to dance to fifteen seconds of “Get Up, Get into It, Get Involved.” It’s still too early in the day to hear James Brown screaming at you, telling you what you’re supposed to do. And it’s never the right time to hear Principal Bates coming in on the scream, telling you to be a solid school citizen, show school spirit, and get involved with service activities. Principal Bates is full of ideas on getting our attention, getting attendance up, and getting test scores up. Bridgette and Bernie love Principal Bates’s enthusiasm. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s Bridgette and Bernie’s Best of James Brown CD on loan, screaming through the PA.

  Even though the music plays for fifteen seconds, you know it’s JB. You can’t just shake JB out of your head. From now until the 2:45 bell rings I’ll hear JB, the hardest-working man in show bidness—according to Bridgette and Bernie—tell me to get up, get into it, get involved. The school shouldn’t be allowed to do that. Mess with your subconscious. Anyway, if my mind goes blank for more than five seconds and I want to daydream about Chem II James, JB is sure to grab the mike, the one right next to my brain’s ear, and holler, “Leticia! Get up, get into it, get involved, get involved.”

  What Principal Bates should do is find a song called “Mind Your Business.” If people minded their business everything would be straight. Contrary to popular opinion, “minding your business” is a misunderstood term. To mind your business is a good thing. A smart thing. More people should do just that. But tell someone to mind their business and they get hot. Instead, if you listen to what’s being said, your response should be “Thank you” when someone says mind your business. They’re just freeing your mind. It isn’t your concern. You don’t have to worry about it. Go on about your business.

  Leticia Corinthia Moore is all about her own business. If it concerns Leticia, then Leticia beco
mes the fact finder. Why? It’s a fact about Leticia and therefore it’s Leticia’s business to know. And by the way, Bea concerns Leticia, so Jay telling Leticia to mind her own business is void and nullified because what concerns Bea concerns Leticia and vice versa.

  Now, what is on Dominique’s mind is none of Leticia’s business. So if I, Leticia, tap Dominique’s broad shoulders and say, “What’s going on between you and Trina?” and she says, “Mind your business,” she would be in the right, and I would be in the wrong. Why? Because what’s going on between Dominique and Trina don’t have anything to do with Leticia Corinthia Moore. It’s a Dominique-Trina line, not a Dominique-Trina-Leticia triangle. Why? Because I’m not in it. It’s not my business. Therefore, I stay out of it. But if I pull Trina’s coat and say, “Trina. You know Dominique?” Trina will a) rustle up what crew she can get, b) cut out and run after lunch, or most likely c) confront Dominique and say, “Leticia said…”

  See, it’s those two words, Leticia said, that cause problems. Because what should Leticia have done in the first place? Minded her own business. Half the turmoil brewing happens because so-and-so didn’t do what? Mind her business.

  When you get down to it, we don’t even know what’s on Dominique’s mind. Just because she smacks her hand at 7:52 and says she’s going to beat that ass doesn’t necessarily mean she’s going to kick Trina’s ass. She might have been mad at 7:52 then forgot all about it by 8:52 and by 11:52 be smacking her hand declaring a beat-down on the lunch lady.

  A whole lot can happen in one hour. How many hours are we in school? Eight? Nine? That’s a lot of hours to be hot about trifling nonsense. And isn’t that the point? I don’t know what any of it’s about. I don’t know if Dominique is playing or not, and why is that? It’s none of my business.

  Besides, I have my own crisis to deal with. My own priorities. So I take my own advice and raise my hand to get the pass from Mr. Adelman.

  14

  End of Song

  LETICIA

  IT’S NOT LIKE YOU’RE MISSING an actual class when you miss homeroom. I have nothing to gain by sitting through the rest of homeroom, especially when I have more pressing matters to deal with. Mr. Adelman agrees with me. He writes out my pass to the guidance counselor’s office and I’m out the door.

  “Look, Miss Olenbach. You have to put me back in Spanish.”

  She sings, “Leticia-a-a…”

  I know all the words to the song. We’ve sung it so many times you’d think I’d be tired of her lyrics and mine.

  “I told you. Spanish classes are overflowing. We have more Spanish-speaking students this year. They need the classes. You know that.”

  “N-n-no I don’t.”

  She sings, “Leticia-a-a…,” in two rising notes and one sinker.

  I know my part and when to come in. I sing, “Miss Olenba-a-a-ach,” low, high, high, low.

  “Leticia, what can I do to make you understand?” Olenbach turns off the melody because I’m annoying her. I’m making her do her job—the one she should have done in the first place.

  “This is what you can do. Put the Spanish-speaking kids in French. Even better, give them extra English classes. That should count for their foreign language. Just let me have Spanish. It’s not too late to squeeze me into Señora Roberts’s third-period class. I’ll catch up.”

  “Oh, Leticia-a-a. Give French a chance.” And we’re back to the melody.

  “Have you had French, Miss Olenbach? It’s hard. At the end of class my jaw and my tongue be hurting. Feels like Madame LeCoeur reached in and twisted my tongue then socked me in the jaw. I hurt after that class. Really, Miss Olenbach. I hurt.”

  Miss Olenbach can’t stop laughing. She thinks I’m the airhead teenage daughter in a sitcom. By closing my folder she clicks the power off on the remote, signifying The Leticia Comedy Hour is over. She remembers she’s the adult here, excuses herself for laughing, and fixes her face.

  “Haven’t you ever felt good after doing something really difficult?” She has the nerve to ask me this, wearing a cashmere cardigan she didn’t buy on a guidance counselor’s paycheck.

  “No,” I tell her outright. “I avoid doing difficult things. Difficult doesn’t do me any good. And really difficult?” I don’t bother to finish. “Really difficult” isn’t up for discussion.

  “Come on, Leticia-a-a,” she sings. “When you do something really hard, you feel accomplished. You take pride in your work. Your potential. Think of how good you’ll feel when you pass this class after all your hard work. Don’t you want to feel good about your work?”

  “I honked like a goose in class today with Madame LeCoeur’s hand on my throat. Would that make you feel good?”

  She pushes out her chair, stands, and opens her arms. “You need a hug?”

  I say, “No. I need a class change. All you have to do is turn on the computer, pull up Leticia Corinthia Moore, sophomore. Click ‘no’ on French I, click ‘yes’ on Spanish III, third period, Señora Roberts.”

  She steps toward me, away from her desk, away from my file folder and the computer. I get the hint, get up, and say, “If my grade average goes down, it’s your fault, Miss Olenbach.”

  She says, “Your average won’t go down, Leticia. Not if you work.”

  “And if my schedule for next semester says zero-period French, I’m dropping out of school.”

  “Your parents won’t let you drop out, Leticia.” As if she knows Bridgette and Bernie Moore.

  She places her hands on both my shoulders and steers me out of her office, singing, “Leticia-a-a. What am I going to do with you?”

  It doesn’t matter how many notes she sings, if they’re high notes or sinkers. She wants me out of her office. End of song.

  15

  Turn It Around

  DOMINIQUE

  “HEY, TINY. Why ya cut out last night?”

  “Yeah, Tiny. What’s up?”

  Only teammates call me Tiny. Not Shayne, not Viv, not Scotty. Reese slugs my shoulder. Bishop slaps my butt. Power center and star forward. Both seniors. Both stars. I’m good but they’re trees skimming the rim. Six-one and six-two. Big, broad shoulders. One going to UConn, one going to Rutgers. Next stop, no stopping. They could go pro. I could turn on ESPN2 and be watching them battle. They’re just like me. All-ball girls. See, I’m good. Real good. But without them there’s no team. No wins. Without Reese and Bishop we’re just girls in shorts running up and down the hardwood.

  Even though I fight it, I’m smiling like a bitch in love. I tell them, “You all don’t need me. You got Ellen.”

  They start slapping me around. Just playing like we do. Reese says, “Ellen’s all right, but Tiny, you’re a guard.”

  That feels good, real good, but I don’t suck it all down. They’re starting this Thursday and every game this season. I’m benched.

  I say, “Tell Coach that. Tell Coach to put me back on the floor.”

  Yeah, see. One minute I’m a guard. Big love for Tiny. The next second there’s silence. No one says a word.

  “Come on, Reese. Bishop. You know I feed you. I take care of you on the court. The ball in my hands means the ball’s in your hands. Come on.”

  Reese says, “You know Coach.”

  Bishop adds, “And Coach’s rules.”

  You’ll break before I bend the rules. Yeah. Heard it a thousand times. Coach’s thing. Her saying.

  Reese gives me a nice little shoulder slug. She says, “Just fix it, Tiny. You can do it. Turn it around.”

  I see him through the door’s window. All alone in his hole. Little brown mouse. Hunched over in a curve, grading papers. Red pen up and little blue books in stacks.

  I just want to talk. Just want Hershheiser to let me in. Hear me out. Understand that it’s not just a science grade. It’s not about lab work. I’m not trying to go to college when I get out. I’m not trying to be a doctor. A teacher. A lawyer. Colleges don’t want shorties. Five-eight guards. They want trees. Trees to grow a cha
mpionship on. They want Reese and Bishop to win big, and Ellen because she’s Miss Who’s Who. What does Coach call Ellen? An all-arounder: scholar-service-athlete. That’s who colleges want. I get it. I’m not that.

  I’m just a baller. A guard. A floor general running the show. Making plays happen on the court. That’s from having eyes on the court; seeing where to be; beating the ball for the steal; reading the D; getting the ball in the hot hands, the open hands; charging into the paint or taking a charge; shooting from the high post.

  All I have to do is make him understand that I need my minutes. My ball time while I can still get it. I’m not dumb. This is it. This and Fourth Street is what I got. I have to fight grown men just to be picked to play. They be knocking me down just to make me sit down. Ride the bench. Know my place. So this team is all the shot I get. I’m done once I’m out. So this can’t come down to five points in science. This isn’t “Do better next time, Dominique.” This is “Fix it now.”

  I turn the knob but it won’t move. It’s locked. I’m on the outside and the little brown mouse is safe. I knock on the glass. Rap/rap/rap.

  Little brown mouse looks up. He’s way over by the window but I know those whiskers are twitching.

  I use hand signs and say, Mr. Hershheiser, let me talk to you. I’m loud enough. He sees my hands motioning Come here. Open up. He hears me but he shakes his mouse head No.

  “Come on, Hershheiser. I just want to talk. Make you understand.”

  He won’t get out of his chair. He lifts his red pen and waves No, or Shoo, or Go away, or I’m scared.

  Come on. Let me in. Let me talk. I just want to talk.

  16

  Like a Dead Saint

  TRINA

  NORMALLY I SIT THROUGH HOMEROOM and draw in my little notebook or chat with the guys to give them hope, but I can’t sit myself still. I’m all shaky-shaky on the inside, my feet and my chair legs quake against the floor, Shakira-hip-shake fast. I can’t sit still for another fifteen minutes. Not when I know Mr. Sebastian is hanging my artwork. None of my classes are near the gallery so how would I get there to see the mural? I’ll have to wait until lunch or until seventh and eighth period when I have Art. But I’m sorry. That is too long a time to wait. I just have to see my work and how Mr. Sebastian is hooking it up.