by Earl Sewell
“What’s wrong with you?” Viviana asked with an evil smirk.
“Ahhh, damn!” I yelled and dropped my glass of ice water. It shattered on the floor near my feet. I began scratching everywhere. My hands could not move quickly enough nor could my fingers be all over my body at the same time.
“Ahhhh,” I screamed out again as I pranced around wildly like a cowboy trying to ride a bull at a rodeo.
“It doesn’t feel so good does it, Maya?” Viviana barked at me viciously.
“What did you do?” I cried out.
“The same thing you did to me, only worse.”
“I hate you, Viviana,” I screamed at her.
“The feeling is mutual,” she snarled back.
I ran back upstairs.
“By the way, we’re out of hydrocortisone. You’ll have to go to the drugstore to get more,” she said, snickering. As I took another shower, I realized that not only had she placed the powder on my bed, but also in my lotion. I knew right then that I had to get rid of all my personal care products and wash every item of clothing I owned.
* * *
Keysha and I had just walked into our history class. We sat across from each other and began talking. The teacher, Mr. Morgan, had not entered the room yet. Wesley walked in and sat behind Keysha. There were a few stitches at the back of his head that Keysha and I both took a look at.
“Hold your head down,” Keysha said to him as he sat. Wesley rested his head on his forearms. Keysha and I hovered above to get a closer look.
“Does it hurt?” I asked.
“No. It’s just a little tender and it itches,” he said.
“Please stop talking about itching,” I said, having a bad flashback. I had told Keysha earlier about what I’d done to Viviana and how she had gotten even with me.
“It’s a good thing you have a thick skull,” Keysha said. Wesley sat upright and lightly touched the back of his head. A few moments later Misalo walked into the room. He wasn’t there yesterday, but I had heard through the grapevine that he had been at the doctor’s office getting his annual physical. He looked at me briefly and said hello.
“Hi,” I answered. He walked past me and sat in my row all the way at the back of the room. Shortly thereafter, Viviana entered the room. She looked around, confused as to where she’d sit.
“Yo, Viviana. You can sit next to me,” said a boy named Red. Viviana looked around for another seat, but she didn’t have much choice since nearly all the seats had been taken. She walked over and sat next to him, and he stared at her as if he were undressing her.
Finally Mr. Morgan walked into the room. He was an older black man in his sixties. His hair was a mixture of black and gray and he had a protruding belly about the size of an inflated beach ball. He had to constantly pull up his pants. Keysha and I had joked that if he pulled them up any higher his belt would end up in his armpits.
Yesterday he had told the class a story from his years as an undergraduate student at Kent State University in Ohio and how he had protested the Vietnam War. He told the sad story of how several college students were killed by the National Guard. For the benefit of those who were not in his class yesterday, he retold the story.
“So when we get to that part of American history, I’ll be more than happy to share my thoughts on it because I lived through it,” said Mr. Morgan. I noticed that Viviana had raised her hand.
“What’s your name?” asked Mr. Morgan.
“Viviana,” she answered.
“Do you have a question?” he asked.
“No. I just wanted to say that my grandfather served in Vietnam,” Viviana offered.
“Really? What branch of the military was he in?” asked Mr. Morgan.
“Uhm.” Viviana paused. I could see that she was trying to remember. Then she slowly answered. “The army.”
“Did he come back home?” asked Mr. Morgan.
“Yes, but he passed away before I was born,” she said.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Mr. Morgan thought for a moment then said, “Okay, I teach history a little differently. I like to make it fun and interesting. Most of all, I don’t want to teach you how to retain information just to pass a test. What I want to do is teach you the information so that it stays with you all your life. So what I would like to do is determine how much history you already know.” Mr. Morgan walked behind his desk and pulled down the black-and-white projector screen. There was a cart with an LCD projector with a laptop computer hooked up to it. He turned on the machines and an image popped onto the screen.
“How many of you are familiar with a game called Jeopardy!?” he asked. Viviana and Misalo were the only people who raised a hand. Mr. Morgan looked around.
“I see. Only two people are,” he said. “Here is what I want to do. Viviana is going to represent the right side of the room, and what’s your name, son?”
“Misalo.”
“Okay, Misalo, you’re going to represent the left side of the room. I want both of you to come up front. What I have projected on the screen is the Jeopardy! game board. There are three categories. Civil War, American Literature and American Music. I’ve kept the game very simple. The questions are worth either one hundred points or two hundred points. Viviana and Misalo, if you don’t know the answer, you can ask a team member if they know. You’ll have fifteen seconds to provide me with an answer. If you give the wrong answer, you will be in the hole for the amount of points you attempted to get. Once you’ve had your turn, another member from each team will come up for a chance to play. Do you understand the rules?”
“So let me get this right. If I say American Music for two hundred, and I get it wrong, I’ll be two hundred points in the hole?” Misalo asked.
“You got it. But, if you give the correct answer, you’ll be up by two hundred points.”
“Okay, I got it,” said Misalo.
“Viviana, we’ll start with you. Pick a category and a point amount.”
“I’ll take American Literature for two hundred,” Viviana said. I could tell she was hoping that she wouldn’t get a question that was too hard.
“Samuel Clemens is a beloved American author. However, he did not publish books under that name. For two hundred points, tell me the name he published his books under,” said Mr. Morgan. Viviana looked nervous. Then her eyes lit up and I could tell she’d come up with an answer. I was eager to laugh at her when she got it wrong.
“Uhm,” she stalled.
“She’ll never get this. I don’t even know why she’s trying,” I whispered to Keysha.
“Do you want to ask your teammates for help?” asked Mr. Morgan. She briefly turned and looked at Red to see if he could help. He shrugged his shoulders, indicating that he had no clue.
“Uhm, I’m going to say—” she paused and then slowly answered “—Mark Twain.”
“That is correct. Your team now has two hundred points,” said Mr. Morgan. She exhaled a sigh of relief. I chalked up her correct answer as pure luck.
“Misalo, your turn,” said Mr. Morgan.
“American Music for two hundred points,” he said. I could hear the competitiveness in his voice. “You’re going down,” he told Viviana.
“The inventor of rock and roll sang a song called ‘Johnny B. Goode.’ What is the inventor’s name?” asked Mr. Morgan.
“Aw, man, why are you giving out such hard questions? Can’t you give questions from this century?” whined Misalo.
“It’s called history, not today’s news,” answered Mr. Morgan.
“Uhm, a little help please.” Misalo turned toward me with pleading eyes.
“It’s Elvis Presley. Duh!” I said.
“It’s some guy named Richard Little,” I heard another student on my team blurt out.
“It’s Chuck, uh
m, uhm.” Keysha was popping her fingers trying to remember the person’s last name. “Berry.”
“Time’s up, Misalo. What’s your answer?” asked Mr. Morgan.
“Elvis Presley,” Misalo said with absolute confidence.
“Wrong,” said Mr. Morgan. Misalo’s chest deflated. “The correct answer is Chuck Berry.”
“I told you it was Chuck Berry,” Keysha barked at Misalo.
“Viviana?” Mr. Morgan looked at her. “You may sit down.”
“Oh,” she said. Apparently she had forgotten to let someone else from her team play. The next two players that came up were Keysha and Red. Keysha went first.
“I’ll take Civil War for two hundred,” she said.
“The Civil War had a general for the northern part of the country and a general for the southern part. Name the two generals.”
“Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee,” Keysha quickly answered the question. My team was now back to zero instead of negative two hundred.
“Red, it’s your turn,” said Mr. Morgan. Red brushed his fingers across his lips before he said, “American Music for one hundred points.”
“At the turn of the twentieth century, this music composer was known as the King of Ragtime Music. What is the name of the musician?” asked Mr. Morgan. Red dropped his bottom jaw to his chest and looked dumbfounded, as if Mr. Morgan were speaking a foreign language. Red didn’t bother to ask his team for help. He just blurted out what was inside his empty head.
“Drake,” he said.
“Drake is incorrect. Your team now has only one hundred points,” said Mr. Morgan. My side of the room battled back and forth with Viviana’s side. I was surprised that I actually knew the answers to several of the questions. However, there were plenty that I was clueless about. At the end of class, my side won because I had given the correct answer to an American Literature question.
When the bell rang, Keysha and I headed out the door.
“Maya, wait a minute,” Misalo called out. I waited for him in the hallway. Keysha couldn’t stay because she had to get to her honors English class on the other side of the school.
“Good job,” Misalo said as he came out of the room and smiled at me.
“Excuse me,” I said to Viviana as I looked over and noticed that Viviana was trying to squeeze past. Red was on her heel, attempting to put his moves on her. Misalo stepped out of the way so they could walk on by. He briefly glanced at Viviana. The expression on his face was a sour one.
“Thanks,” I said to Misalo and turned to leave. I was happy that he had finally taken off his blinders and seen Viviana’s true colors. I walked away and he followed me.
“Would you like to get something to eat after school?” he asked.
“I’ve got plans,” I said, wanting him to know that getting back with me wasn’t going to be as easy as asking me for a lunch date. Although I still had strong feelings for him, I wasn’t about to allow him to snake his way back into my heart so easily.
“Maybe some other time then.” He sounded pathetic.
“Not until I get a sincere apology from you, Misalo.”
“I’m sorry, okay. Is that good enough?” He stopped walking. I looked over at him and studied his eyes. I did not see sincerity anywhere. What I did see and hear was an attempt to appease me so I would let my guard down.
“No,” I said and walked away.
sixteen
VIVIANA
Admittedly, even though my team had lost, I had had fun in class. I particularly liked the game Mr. Morgan had us play. I knew that his class would become one of my favorites.
“What other things do you like besides school?” Red walked alongside me as I headed toward my English class, which was taught by Miss Shaheen according to my schedule.
“Why do you care?” I glanced at Red who seemed surprised by my coldness.
“I’m curious about you. Is that a bad thing?” he asked.
“I don’t know. You tell me. Is it?”
“Well, I hope not. When is your lunch hour?” he asked.
“Why?”
“Well, I thought we could sit together and talk,” he said.
“I already have someone I talk to during lunch.”
“Oh, you have a boyfriend? What’s his name, maybe I know him,” Red kept prying.
“Red, you should just give up now. I am not interested in you,” I said more directly.
“Oh, it’s like that?” he said. I could tell I had stepped on his ego.
“Look. I just got over a bad breakup, and I’m not interested right now.” I offered him a crumb of information as a gesture of kindness.
“He must be a real idiot to break up with a girl as pretty as you,” Red said, continuing his efforts to win me over.
“The relationship was complicated,” I said.
“What relationship isn’t?”
“So you’re a relationship expert?” I mockingly asked.
“I have older sisters who have gone through some nasty breakups.”
“Well, I am positive their experience was nothing like what I have been through,” I said as I opened the door to my classroom.
“So can we hang out after school or something?” Red asked as the tardy bell rang.
“Goodbye, Red,” I said as I entered the room.
I found an empty seat just as Miss Shaheen began taking attendance. When she called my name, she paused and asked me to come up to her desk.
“I wonder what this is about,” I muttered softly.
“You weren’t here yesterday,” she said.
“Yeah. I had sort of an emergency I had to deal with,” I said without explaining my whereabouts or what the situation was.
“There is a strict attendance policy for honors classes,” she explained. “If you miss another class without an excuse, it could impact your grade.”
“Okay,” I said, not giving what she had said any more thought. I was about to head back to my desk when she stopped me.
“Yesterday I gave out a reading assignment. We are reading Oedipus Rex by Sophocles. You’ll need to start reading it. This is not a class you can afford to fall behind in.”
I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Okay.”
By the end of the day, I was loaded with homework. The books I’d been given were thick and in my mind were equivalent to carrying a sack of boulders around. The load felt heavy enough to snap my spine, I thought. LaShaunda sent me a text message and asked me to wait for her after school. She had a meeting with her writing teacher. Yesterday she had mentioned that her writing teacher had ticked her off because she took a red pen to a paragraph she was asked to write. LaShaunda had said the teacher told her that she had poor speech and grammar skills that needed to be addressed.
I decided to multitask by going to the school library where I could get a start on my homework. I loved learning and had the ability to soak up information and retrieve it whenever I needed to. I loved reading, too. My grammar school library was filled with books, and I spent an enormous amout of time there, before and after school. My mother would drop me off an hour early sometimes so that she could go do whatever she had to take care of. She treated teachers as her personal babysitters. At least that is what I heard some teachers say about her in hushed whispers.
On days when it was raining or too cold, the school librarian took pity on me and allowed me inside the building before the school opened. She did it at the risk of getting in trouble. She told me that as long as I was quiet, she didn’t mind. I was just happy to be out of the miserable weather. I would sit Indian style on the carpeted floor in one of the book aisles and read at random. During those days, I loved the R. L. Stine books—the scary ones. When I got bored with those types of books, I began reading autobiographies. I read The Li
fe and Death of Crazy Horse by Russell Freedman. After that it was Surviving Hitler: A Boy in the Nazi Death Camps. Then I began to realize how limited my school library was.
When I stayed with Grandmother Esmeralda, we would go to the local city library for one reason or another. Sometimes she picked up tax forms. Another time she took a basic computer skills class, and later she took a memoir writing workshop. She had said that she needed to write her life story so that future generations would remember our history. While she did those things, I found something to read to pass the time.
I sat down at one of the large wooden tables and removed my English book. Just before I began reading, I noticed that Keysha was sitting at a table not too far from me. She was looking at me oddly, as if something about me had her completely perplexed. I ignored her and focused on my assignment.
Twenty minutes later, LaShaunda startled me by slamming her folders on the table.
“I hate this school and these damn teachers!” She was breathing heavily as if she’d been running from someone.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” I asked, concerned.
“This school, these teachers, everything. People around here are trying to treat me like I am dumb. I am not dumb. I’m smart. I know how to survive in the streets where real life happens. None of these dumb-ass educated teachers around here could survive one night on the streets. Girls like you and me, Viviana, we know what life is about. We know what it’s like to struggle and survive. You and I have street knowledge, and that’s the best teacher in the world. All of these teachers around here can stick it where the sun can’t shine. You know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I understand.” I agreed with her.
“I don’t see how knowing what a preposition does will help me make money. Like some employer is really going to interview me and ask me what does a preposition do. This place is stupid, stupid, stupid! What they need to be teaching is some real life stuff, you know what I’m saying?” LaShaunda continued her tirade. In my mind I thought about what a preposition does and recalled that prepositions are words that connect or relate nouns and pronouns to preceding words and phrases.