Almost Crimson

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Almost Crimson Page 15

by Dasha Kelly

“So why was a police car here?” asked Jesse.

  “Yeah,” Scott said. Both boys followed CeCe down the hall. “Why are police at our school, Crimson? We never had police cars here before, Crimson.”

  “You niggers did something,” Jesse said. “My dad said you always do.”

  CeCe’s breath caught behind her tongue and felt the flood beginning to rise in her skull. She wanted to spin around and spit on them, throw her hard, dressy shoes, punch at their faces. Instead, she walked more swiftly. The boys did not continue to follow her, but their hollow laughter did. CeCe didn’t think she could get outside, down the block to her bus stop, and across town to her bed fast enough.

  “CeCe,” Mr. Markeweiz called. He was in the center of the hallway, in front of the guidance office door, gesturing for her.

  Reluctantly, CeCe walked over to Mr. Markeweiz. She felt worked up and worn out at the same time. She didn’t want to talk anymore. She didn’t want to listen anymore. She wanted to go home.

  Mr. Markeweiz placed a hand on her shoulder when she stood close enough and CeCe could see Ms. Patterson standing in her office. Her eyes softened at the sight of CeCe.

  “I have your pin and certificate,” she said, handing them to CeCe. “I’m sorry you had to miss your ceremony.”

  “You helped Michelle do a very brave thing,” Mr. Markeweiz added. “I’m so impressed with what a good friend you were for her tonight.”

  CeCe’s mind flashed to the pinched fury in Michael’s face.

  All her fault.

  Once one tear got away from CeCe, she couldn’t make the rest of them stop. Couldn’t temper her wails. Couldn’t stop her shoulders from heaving. Michelle. Michael. Ms. Johnson. Scott and Jesse. Even the fact that her mother hadn’t come to the ceremony tonight.

  “Talk to me, CeCe?” Ms. Patterson said, holding CeCe by one shoulder. “Tell me what else is going on for you right now.”

  “No!” CeCe said, hysteria beginning to tinge her voice. “They already think it’s my fault. That I told. But I didn’t. I promised I wouldn’t tell. Now they think I did. Calling me names. I didn’t tell!”

  “Who is calling you names?” asked Ms. Patterson.

  “Who said you told?” asked Mr. Markeweiz.

  CeCe threw up her hands and covered her face. She wanted to disappear from their close-range questions, remove herself from the linoleum hallway, undo the weighted conversations of this long, long evening.

  Mr. Markeweiz’s hand was on her right shoulder and, now, Ms. Patterson’s hand was on the left. CeCe fought to wrangle herself back under control. They all heard the boys’ dress shoes approaching in the hall.

  “I should’ve known,” Ms. Patterson said under her breath.

  CeCe turned from her wet palms to see Jesse and Scott stuck in their steps. Ms. Patterson moved toward them, demanding to know where they had been, why were they still in the building, what time were Scott’s parents expecting them to make the two-block walk to his house, and why were they attacking CeCe?

  “We didn’t attack her!” Jesse snapped.

  “Words can be attack weapons, too, Jesse,” Mr. Markeweiz called to them from where he stood holding CeCe’s shoulders.

  Grown-ups can be corny at the worst possible times, CeCe thought.

  “I didn’t call her a nigger! Jesse said that!” Scott said.

  The word ricocheted on the walls, the floor, the ceiling, and their stunned faces.

  “Let’s go,” Ms. Patterson said, gesturing the boys into the dark office. “We’re calling your parents now.”

  CeCe glued her eyes to her slick hands, although she felt Jesse’s flash in her direction as he and Scott walked past her. Mr. Markeweiz gave her shoulder a small squeeze.

  “Let’s skip the bus this time,” he said. “I can give you a ride home, if you don’t think your mother would mind. Should we call her?”

  CeCe shook her head. “She won’t mind,” she said in a small voice.

  Once at the apartment, CeCe felt she had just enough energy to drag herself through the courtyard and through her front door. She dropped her windbreaker on the arm of the couch and walked the short hallway to the bathroom. CeCe kept an ear peeled for her mother. Even though she knew better, CeCe waited to hear her mother’s voice croak above the rushing water to ask about her day, about the commencement ceremony, about how she was doing.

  CeCe turned out the lights in the bathroom and living room. She double-checked the doors and window locks. She unfolded her sheet next to the couch and folded herself into the cool fabric. CeCe tucked away the long day, her weary limbs, and an utterly broken heart.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  PANCAKES

  CECE LOOKED FORWARD TO SPENDING the summer with her new family in Decatur, but the ordeal with Michelle had shaken her. She wrestled with her guilt and counted the days until she could surround herself with aunts and uncles and cousins who might listen to her. Talk to her. Give her a reason to smile or laugh.

  CeCe climbed from the bus in Decatur on a Thursday morning and fell into an all-night movie marathon with her cousins. On Friday, they lazed around the house before meeting the entire family for dinner at Aunt Rosie’s. Fried chicken and catfish, beef brisket, green beans, cut spaghetti, homemade rolls, macaroni and cheese, pound cake, and peach cobbler. Only here could CeCe ever see so much food in one place.

  “Family” was still a fresh concept for her, this much family, anyway. CeCe tried to take it all in, testing every angle to see if she liked it as much as she’d hoped to. She put out the tableware and napkins with Aunt Rosie. She played tag and cards and checkers with her cousins. She read the liners of cassette tapes while the older cousins talked and shared their music. As she wandered in and out of the living room and porch, she caught snippets of the grown-ups’ conversations: Dazz Band concert, tuition loans, gas prices, Hill Street Blues, ET, test-tube babies, car trade-ins, office backstabbing, John Johnson on the cover of Forbes, shopping for a class reunion.

  “Girl, get outta grown folks’ business,” Coretta said, giving CeCe a start. Coretta laughed as CeCe sprayed playing cards across the dining room table. Apparently, she’d been doing more blatant leaning and “ear hustling” than card shuffling.

  CeCe opened her mouth to protest but Coretta twisted her mouth and cocked her head to the side in a comic “don’t even try it” expression. As Coretta passed through the dining room, CeCe grinned as she ducked her head, scooped the cards, and headed back outside with the other kids. Coretta playfully pinched at CeCe’s arm as she walked past.

  “Hey, CeCe,” Coretta said, before CeCe reached the screen door. “How about pancakes tomorrow, just me and you?”

  CeCe’s elation plummeted when the idea of being in trouble invaded her mind. Maybe it was the cereal bowl in the front room. Maybe it was the second slice of pound cake. Maybe they hadn’t wanted her back for a second summer. Maybe Coretta was going to give CeCe a list of restrictions, the way Mrs. Johnson had done once Michelle had started inviting CeCe to birthday parties and to spend the night. CeCe wasn’t allowed in this room and wasn’t allowed to touch that photo album and couldn’t eat from these dishes at the Johnson house. Michelle wasn’t, either, but Mrs. Johnson didn’t leave those instructions to chance or to her children. She reminded CeCe of the rules every time she came to play with Michelle.

  Michelle.

  “You don’t have to actually eat pancakes if you don’t want to,” Coretta was saying, concern contorting her expression. “You can eat what you want. I just wanted to have a girl time with you.”

  “I like pancakes,” CeCe said quickly. She didn’t want Coretta to uninvite her.

  Coretta relaxed her face. “Good. Me, too. We’ll go while the girls are at dance.”

  CeCe meant to merely smile, but knew her face was beaming. Coretta smiled, pinched at CeCe’s arm again, and returned to the living room with the other adults.

  Neither of them had been able to finish eating their tall stacks. CeCe and Coretta l
eaned back in their booths and made a show of rubbing their full bellies. CeCe liked the way Coretta fit all of her different pieces together, how the Fusser and the Fixer and the Funny Coretta were all different parts of her, but all the same. CeCe didn’t think her own parts—the Nice and the Angry—could share the spaces inside her.

  “So, junior high. Kind of a big deal,” Coretta said, sitting up to sip her coffee. “Anything you want to know?”

  CeCe hadn’t thought about it. Valmore was a magnet school for gifted students and CeCe had earned a lottery seat and a scholarship. Ms. Patterson had given her the application and Mrs. Anderson had helped her fill it out. They’d been more excited than CeCe when she showed them her acceptance letter. CeCe looked forward to attending a school filled with kids who liked to learn like she did. No one to tease her about good grades and enormous library books. She couldn’t know, however, what she didn’t know about middle school.

  “Like what?” CeCe asked. “Lockers? Algebra?”

  Coretta laughed, more to herself. “I was trying for a segue. So much for that,” she said. “Look, I wanted to talk with you about your body, CeCe. The changes that will happen soon. About your period. About sex. All of that. You up for it?”

  CeCe’s face grew hot. She looked at the tables and booths around them and shifted in her seat. Coretta laughed.

  “How about this? Tell me what you know about sex and I’ll tell you if you can opt out of this discussion,” Coretta said.

  “I know I don’t want any,” CeCe said, folding her arms across the buds on her chest.

  Coretta dropped her head in laughter. “Good,” Coretta managed. “You have plenty of time for that. Besides ‘not wanting any,’ tell me what you know. I mean, how does it work?”

  CeCe furrowed her brow, feeling her thick bangs tickle her forehead. Carefully, she cited the diagrams and definitions she’d found in the library and surmised from novels. She described the two genitalia, how they interlocked, the function of sperm and eggs, and even a sketchy overview of the stages of pregnancy.

  “You’ve done a lot of reading, huh?” Coretta said smiling. “So, what doesn’t make sense?”

  CeCe felt as if a cashier had invited her to shove a candy bar into her pocket. What CeCe knew most certainly about sex was how little she understood it. In her reading, CeCe knew she missed the core, like the back-story to an inside joke. In her head, she didn’t understand the allure of sex. Especially if it leads men to their own daughters. CeCe considered her questions. She didn’t want to sound like a thirteen-year-old.

  “How does it really work?” she blurted, cringing at herself as Coretta grinned another amused smile.

  “Well, when it ‘works’ right,” she began, “it starts with a kiss.”

  Coretta drained a small carafe of coffee while telling CeCe about what gets inserted where, how sex differed from intimacy, how to clean her privates, the lies boys tell to get sex, and how long CeCe should wait before trying.

  “The church wants me to tell you to wait until you’re married,” Coretta said, as they walked to the car. “And you should try. At minimum, no sex until you’re at least eighteen. By then, you’ll be mature enough to pick someone who’s special, smart, and knows how lucky he is to earn such a gift. Don’t rush just to say you’ve done it. So many girls do that and regret it. You only get one time to have a first time. Doesn’t it make sense to make that one time as perfect as you can?”

  CeCe nodded as she fastened her seat belt. All the way home, with the scent of maple syrup filling their conversation, CeCe imagined a humongous red bow underneath her sundress. She was also sad for her friend. CeCe turned to the open window and closed her eyes against the wind.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TONIC

  CECE SIPPED HER DRINK AND glanced at her watch. She hadn’t intended to arrive to the bar so early, but realized the cushion gave her time to safely return a call to Rocky. Rather, she logged into her voicemail and returned his message with a voice note. “Thanks for calling me back so fast,” she said. “I wanted your opinion on something, your advice, I guess, but I think I got it worked out. Well, I’m working on working it out. Anyway, you don’t have to call me back. I mean, you can. But if you can’t, it’s OK. OK. Bye.”

  CeCe slipped the phone into her purse, applauding herself and her timing. She pushed Rocky from her mind as Eric appeared in the restaurant window. Emerging from the rows of parked cars, his gait was athletic and graceful. As he approached, CeCe’s chest thumped harder and harder.

  This was her first date in more than a year. CeCe shifted on her barstool, spinning the wedge of lime inside her glass of tonic. She’d read online that ordering alcohol ahead of her date could send a negative subliminal. Perhaps she’d failed at dating prior to this most recent hiatus, she thought, because she hadn’t known about “subliminals.”

  Eric disappeared from the window’s frame to enter the building and CeCe pulled out her lip gloss for a quick, final swipe. In the closing second, she also reached into the bar well and popped a maraschino cherry in her mouth. The article also suggested subtle, fruity breath instead of overwhelming mint.

  Eric saw her right away, smiling past the hostess. He was handsome, not gorgeous—less like a movie star and more like an “everyday-guy” movie extra. CeCe liked that. She had enough to be self-conscious about. He offered a pleasantry to the hostess as he continued past her and toward the end of the bar where CeCe and her tonic waited. CeCe gave a little wave as he drew near, forcing herself to breathe.

  TWENTY-SIX

  SPECTACULAR

  CECE NEVER HEARD FROM MICHELLE again. Rumor had it Mrs. Johnson moved with Michelle and Michael to Milwaukee. CeCe never found out whether Mr. Johnson went to jail. She would never know if Michael had forgiven her.

  With time, she felt less guilty about the experience. She never told Michelle’s secret, but shared with Coretta how her friend had moved away without notice. Coretta would ask about Michelle during their phone calls for a while, and then the subject melted into bra cups, sanitary pads, hair grease, and Ronald Reagan.

  “He is the beginning of the end for Black people,” Coretta would say. “Remember I told you.”

  CeCe anticipated a beginning to several ends of her own that summer. She had completed middle school and braced herself for the ninth grade at Maclin High, one of the feeder schools for Valmore. She and Pam were already talking about their shared college dorm and bridesmaid dresses.

  CeCe planned ahead for her mother’s future, too. Dr. Harper assured CeCe her mother would be fine when CeCe went away to college. CeCe took into account the added chores and habits her mother had assumed over the past two years and realized she agreed with Dr. Harper. For the time being, CeCe was still the one to make sure their apartment had what it needed, when needed. She’d even forged a letter to the brokerage firm requesting an increase in their monthly disbursements. Even though they were petite, buying food and clothes for two women proved more costly than a woman and a child. The confirmation letter explained the restructured payments would exhaust her mother’s trust fund four years sooner than scheduled. CeCe calculated she would be out of college by then and capable of picking up her mother’s expenses.

  CeCe faced only two new significant stressors during her middle-school years. One was the changing landscape of her neighborhood. The county had converted their apartment complex into low-income housing for anyone, not only veteran families or seniors. On Kennedy Boulevard, Mr. Curtis' newsstand was long gone. The corner store replaced its bread and penny candy with liquor bottles.

  The second frustration was her father’s continued silence. They had started trading letters after her mother’s breakdown. For three years, he had penned CeCe long and winding letters, full of advice, glimpses from his past, affirmations for her future. In every letter, he proclaimed an undying love for CeCe and for her mother. CeCe asked why he didn’t write her mother, too. He wrote that he felt afraid.

  CeCe thought of th
at day sometimes, when she and her father had caught the bus together from the library to this apartment. Her father had found the listing by accident, he had told CeCe. Being drafted had made him eligible for the new housing just in time. He’d only slept three nights there, with his wife. CeCe calculated she had been conceived inside those three days. Inside a love so thorough between Quentin and her mother. She understood why her mother buried herself inside that bed every day.

  She’d waited in the courtyard for her parents to push open the screen door and step into the sunlight beaming down on their porch slab. She waited to see them hand in hand, or with her mother curled girlishly into Quentin’s one-armed embrace. Instead, Quentin had crashed open the door commanding CeCe to find phone numbers for her mother’s doctor and family.

  “One minute she had my face in her hands and the next minute she crouched on the floorboards, moaning,” Quentin repeated to the paramedics, the intake nurse at the mental hospital, Dr. Harper, and Aunt Rosie. To CeCe, he kept saying he was sorry. So, so sorry.

  CeCe’s letters to Quentin after her mother’s release described a vivacious recovery. She wanted him to feel at ease about returning to them soon. CeCe also wrote about Mrs. Anderson and training the new library assistant, as well as sleepovers with Pam, books she read, and all the places she hoped to visit one day.

  From the very beginning her letters outnumbered his three to one, but CeCe didn’t mind. Her father was busy getting better, just like her mother, without, she hoped, the mumbling, rocking, and staring. CeCe couldn’t call him because their phone didn’t have long-distance service. Her father placed calls to her on Christmas and her birthday. Both times, CeCe asked if he wanted to speak to her mother, and both times he said he didn’t know if that was a good idea.

  His letters came less consistently throughout middle school and to a complete stop before the end of her eighth-grade year. CeCe vowed if she didn’t find a letter or postcard before she went to Decatur for the summer, she would go back to pretending he didn’t exist. When she dragged her duffel bag from the house with no letter from her father, CeCe fumed for weeks, assigning every broken thing in her life to him. Their small apartment. Their fixed income. That she couldn’t play volleyball or basketball or be a fashion model because of the short genes he’d given her. That her mother was broken, almost beyond repair. That he’d broken CeCe’s heart.

 

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