We get to the cafeteria just behind Travis Beaker, and I groan. It means I might have to sit with him. But Kyla grabs me and Denzel out of line and does a quick silent count with her finger. The teachers like us to fill up the tables in a neat, even fashion. It sometimes means we don’t get to sit with who we want. Today works out, though.
“Excuse me,” she tells Caden matter-of-factly. With a little push forward, she says, “Go ahead of us.” Then she positions the three of us in line so we will not end up at the same table as Travis.
We eat lunch at the table next to Travis’s—Kyla, Jolie, Denzel, me, Jason, Erin, and Duke. They’re all excited about Mrs. Parkman’s anthology idea.
“I think I might put in my silver poem, but I think I want to add more to it!” Kyla says.
Erin chimes in. “I think I’m going to write my Aunt Lucy’s story, but this time with way more detail, and make it sound like it happened to me instead of her. I’ll have to call her again to ask tons of questions.”
Jason’s not super interested in the writing, but he is interested in Erin. How did I not realize this before? He’s hanging on her every word, and doing a little nod thing with his head to show her that he’s paying attention. She loves it, of course, and flips her blonde curls over her shoulder when she turns to answer whatever question he’s asked. They’re interrupted, though, when Travis Beaker slams his massive offensive lineman body into the back of my chair when he walks by. My milk carton tips and splatters all over the table.
“Hey!” Kyla shouts at Travis. “Look what you did!”
Travis shrugs, like, what?, and Kyla leaves to get some paper towels. Denzel’s looking at me to see what I’ll do, but I manage to keep my cool. “It’s fine, let’s just clean it up,” I say.
This makes Travis mad, for some reason, so he says, “Yeah, good. Good little Smokey, go ahead and clean it up. Everyone knows you’ll be a janitor someday, anyway.” He grins and looks around for any kind of approval, but he finds none.
Jason jumps up out of his chair and says, “You know what, Beaker? Just go. Leave him alone. You did your thing, whatever. Just go now.” Travis throws his trash down in front of me and slaps both hands on the table, making the milk pop up from everywhere it had spilled before walking back to his own table. Jason turns back to his conversation with Erin like nothing happened, and I hop up to help Denzel and Kyla clean up.
It doesn’t dawn on me until later that the trash Travis threw down was regular, run-of-the-mill cafeteria trash, not his usual Chick-Fil-A bag. Or that he has another bruise on the inside of his forearm. And it doesn’t dawn on me until much later that I haven’t seen his mom at lunch since the very beginning of the year.
I see Miss Stephanie’s car in the street when I get off the bus. She’s probably here to check on Mom, but that means she’s here to check on us, too. Maya and I push the front door open and see them on the couch, laughing like old friends. De-vine is eating a graham cracker and trying to talk at the same time, so she’s spraying crumbs everywhere.
“Say hello to Miss Stephanie,” Mom says when she sees us. She’s put out her cigarette, but the air is still a bit hazy.
Maya and I both mumble a hello, and Maya heads down the hall to our room. I stay right where I am, daring them to tell me why she’s here.
“I’m just here to check in on your mom, Dragon. Make sure she’s okay since the hospital. But everything looks good here! It’s a shame your uncle’s out again, though. How are you holding up?” Miss Stephanie asks me.
“I’m fine. We’re fine,” I say. It’s not a lie this time.
“Well, then, I’d better go,” she says, standing slowly. She hands Mom a card and adds, “Go ahead and give Joey a call, he’ll get you an interview!”
“Okay. Thanks, Stephanie.”
“Anytime. Y’all have a good evening.” I’m quiet as she walks out the door.
“Interview?” I ask Mom.
“She has a friend who works at the new big box warehouse store, Save More, just down the road. Said he could talk to his boss for me and help me find a job. I’d just be running a cash register or checking receipts, but it would be a job. And, I can walk there. It’s only a couple blocks.” I stare at her, still not used to it all. Before, she couldn’t walk down the hallway some days, let alone a few blocks.
“That’s great, Mom. Really. What’ll De-vine do if you go to work?” My voice is calm, but inside I’m panicking about all the change.
“The Washington’s neighbor watches kids in the neighborhood for cheap. So if I manage to get this job, I can ask her.”
I nod and head down to my room to grab my sticky notes. I do Ms. Luna’s breathing tricks, three or four times, until I can feel my heartbeat slow. Then I spend the next half hour scribbling down words and phrases that will help me write my story. I think about the smells That Night, and the sounds. I write down how much better things are now that he’s gone. I write about Miss Stephanie and her crazy frizzy hair and how she acts like she genuinely cares about us. I write about De-vine’s thumb that only leaves her mouth to eat and about how the water has stayed on for two months, the longest streak since I can remember.
Before I know it, I’m out of sticky notes.
Dang it.
The Friday before Spring Break, Mrs. Parkman pulls me aside. She’s eying the millions of sticky notes that are pouring out of my pockets, and she hands me a new composition book, the kind with the black and white squiggly pattern on the front.
“I love how you’re writing everything down, Dragon. This might help you organize it all.” She also hands me a brand-new roll of Scotch tape, like actual Scotch tape, none of that cheap knockoff stuff that doesn’t work at all.
It’s always better
to tell the truth.
I’ve heard this
over & over
from every adult
ever.
* * *
But are they right?
* * *
What about when
the truth is hard to hear?
When it’s ugly & dark?
When it hurts?
When it makes everyone sad?
* * *
Is it ever better
to just
stay silent?
* * *
Or will the truth
actually always
set you free?
25
My Mom’s (Real) Story
The first day of spring break is Mom’s interview at the store. She brushes her hair, puts on a nice pair of black pants and a button-down white shirt Miss Stephanie brought her.
“Well? How do I look?” she asks me. I pretend to look behind me and point to my chest like you talkin’ to me?, and when she rolls her eyes, I say, “You look great. I mean it, better than you have in a long time.”
“Well, I feel better.”
“Good luck, Mom.” There’s more I want to say to her—how I’m so glad she’s better, how I’m so confused about all the lost time that went by, how I hope she keeps taking care of herself, how I hope she keeps taking care of us. But instead, I watch her walk down the street, clutching a purse under one arm, fighting against the wind. Her limp is pretty much gone; she looks strong and capable, and pride swells in my chest.
De-vine and I watch cartoons all morning snuggled up on the couch. Maya’s out roaming the neighborhood, but she comes in the door when Mom does.
I try not to sound too hopeful when I ask, “Well? How’d it go?”
She bites her lip, and a nervous smile comes across her face. “Miss Stephanie’s friend Joey is real nice. And I start on Wednesday!”
Maya gives her a hug and De-vine hops off my lap to do the same, even though she doesn’t really get what’s going on.
I don’t get up, but say, “That’s great, Mom.” I’m hesitant, again, to be too hopeful. Even though it seems like she’s headed in the right direction, I know it can all fall apart, too.
On Tuesday, Denzel’s ma
ma takes Mom to get a few clothes for work and some groceries. Mom makes us her beans and rice for dinner, and a pan of sour cream enchiladas. I can’t remember the last time we had these. She pulls a chair to the counter and lets De-vine help, gently guiding her small, dark hands as she layers the corn tortillas and sprinkles the cheese.
Mom invites Mr. Reeves for dinner, and he’s so excited about the enchiladas he’s practically drooling.
I help her clean the kitchen after she puts De-vine to bed.
“Are you excited to start work tomorrow?” I ask as Mom hands me a chipped plate to dry.
“A little nervous,” she admits. “But this will be really good for us, Dragon. I’m excited, I guess, to do something new.”
I nod and keep drying the dishes until I put the last one away in the cabinet. Mom pours me a small glass of milk and sets a pack of cookies on the table, inviting me to sit. She lights a cigarette and takes a long drag, but she opens the window in the kitchen and stands near it to let the smoke out.
“I know you asked about my mama. I wasn’t ready to tell you then, but I think I could be now.”
Not wanting to mess up whatever is getting her to talk, I look up but don’t say a word.
“There was an accident. Mama, me, and Gloria, my younger sister.”
It takes all my self-control not to blurt out, You have a sister?
“One night it was raining hard,” she continues. “Mama and Gloria were arguing about Gloria’s latest deadbeat boyfriend, and Mama didn’t see the raccoon that darted in front of the car until it was almost too late. She swerved and the car went off the road.”
She puts a hand on her forehead, like she’s reliving it all again in vivid detail. Tears fill her eyes, but she keeps talking, her voice steady.
“We rolled five or six times, right into a ditch. I can still hear their screams sometimes. I was the only one wearing a seatbelt, and I was in the back seat. By the time the car stopped, they had both been thrown through a window, and they weren’t screaming anymore.” She tapped cigarette ash into the sink.
“Luckily, the car landed upright and I was able to unbuckle and stumble out of the car, but I was too dizzy to try and find them. When the ambulance came, the big paramedic guy shielded my eyes so I wouldn’t see their bodies.”
I’m still staring at her, not able to believe I didn’t know any of this before.
“That night was the one of the worst of my life. But it was also one of the best.”
I raise an eyebrow. “How?”
“Because that night, they took me to the emergency room ’cause I was pretty banged up. But before they took me in for an x-ray, they took some blood. I was in too much shock to ask any questions, so I did what they asked. A little later they rolled me into a room for x-rays but they took care to cover my belly with a heavy blanket thing. Do you know why?”
“Ummm… no?” I mean, I’m not exactly a doctor.
“Because I was pregnant with you.” She reaches out to touch my face with a warm hand. “I didn’t know it yet. After they casted my broken arm, they put some cold goo on my belly and I got to see you for the very first time. You looked like a teeny tiny little gummy bear, but you had a strong heartbeat. The nurse said, ‘That baby’s a fighter.’
“Your dad came then and took care of a few things. Carlos dealt with Mama and Gloria’s burials; we didn’t have money for any fancy funerals, just plain gravestones, the ones you saw that day. Even though your dad’s gone now, and Carlos too, they helped me a lot during that time.”
I have so many questions, but I swallow them down. This is the most Mom’s ever said to me in one sitting, and I don’t want it to end. She only says one more thing before kissing my forehead, putting out her cigarette, and heading to bed.
“You were my little miracle, Dragon.”
I get my composition book and scribble down every last word I can remember. It’s sloppy and misspelled and mostly unreadable, but it’s all there.
When I read it over one more time, I realize how brave she was. It was brave of her to crawl out of that car not knowing what she’d find. It was brave of her to keep going when she was sad about her mom and sister. And it was brave of her to tell me.
It’s the first night I go to sleep without any anger towards Mom for all the things we’ve been through. Somehow, she seems like a real person to me now, like she was just Mom before, but now she’s Mom with a story. And just knowing her story melts away any lingering anger or shame I felt toward her before. I guess Mrs. Parkman’s right; stories do have a lot of power.
26
My (Second And Third) Acts Of Bravery
Monday’s morning meeting is full of beach vacations and bowling and movie theaters. A couple of months ago this would’ve bothered me, and I’d have spent the entirety of the meeting thinking about all the things I disliked about whoever was talking. Call it jealousy, call it resentment, call it an intolerance for bragging, call it whatever; it would’ve bothered me.
But today it doesn’t. I don’t know if it’s because I’m preoccupied with my mom’s revelation still replaying in my head, or if I’m ready to hurry up and get to English. But as I listen to my classmates, I find that I’m feeling happy for them.
“Me and Dragon spent four straight days playing Madden,” Denzel says, trying to make it sound cooler than it is. “We ate microwave taquitos and those popsicles that hurt your mouth on the edges.” A collective “mmmm” makes its way around the circle.
This leaves me with nothing to share, but Ms. Luna says my name and I blurt out, “My mom got a job!”
No one says a word, most of them are looking at me like, so? our moms have jobs. But all of a sudden I can’t stop talking.
“This is a huge deal, guys,” I say, the energy from before leaving, my voice quieting. “She used to be really sick. Like not-getting-out-of-bed-for-days sick. But now she feels lots better and she works at Save More. She even gets us a discount there.”
Ms. Luna smiles. “That’s wonderful! Does she like it?”
“I think so. She’s never had a job for very long. I just hope she doesn’t get sick again.”
Kyla’s hand is on my shoulder. “I’m really happy for you, Dragon.”
Erin, nosy as ever, asks, “How’d she get better?”
So I keep talking. I tell them about the ambulance showing up at the house and how she almost died and how the doctors figured out how to help her. I tell them how she’s been so different since she got home from the hospital. I tell them about her insulin pump.
“That must’ve been so scary,” Caden says.
“It was,” Denzel pipes in. “But Dragon saved her; he got there just in time.” He says this proudly, like he’s my dad or something. I can feel the heat in my cheeks.
“Wow,” Erin says. “I’m really glad she’s okay, though.”
“Me, too,” Millie says. “I don’t know what I’d do if my mom got sick. She does everything at our house.”
Looking around at my classmates, I find compassion in every single pair of eyes. No one is looking around the room or picking at their fingernails.
“Thanks, guys,” I say.
At the beginning of the year, I didn’t even want to be here. School was a prison and the people in it existed to make me miserable. But now, I feel like they actually care about me. About what happens to me.
So I make a decision.
After we talked last night, I thought maybe my mom’s story might make a decent entry for the class anthology, but my friends have unknowingly given me some courage. Instead, I’m going to tell mine.
As soon as Mrs. Parkman finishes her “how to add good dialogue to your writing” lesson, I grab my notebook and find my regular writing spot in the reading library. I settle back onto a plush purple pillow and start to jot down anything that comes to my mind. Mrs. Parkman comes and sits next to me.
“Hey, Dragon. Ms. Luna told me about your mom. That’s really cool.”
“Yeah,” I sa
y.
“Can I see what you’re writing?”
“Is it okay if I don’t show you just yet?” I ask. “It’s kind of a surprise. And I barely have anything done yet.”
“Sure,” Mrs. Parkman says, smiling.
“But,” I add, “you can read this. I wrote it over break.” I flip in the notebook to the page where I wrote Mom’s story about the accident in neater handwriting and with better spelling and grammar than my usual work.
I watch her carefully as she takes in my words. When she gets to the part about the accident, her eyes fill and she puts a hand up to her mouth. I can tell the exact moment she reads about my mom finding out I’m in her belly because a single tear rolls down her cheek and she looks up at me like I truly am a miracle.
“I wanted my mom to be the person whose story I told after Christmas. But she wasn’t ready to tell me yet.”
“Dragon, the way you wrote that all down. I felt like I was right there with her. Your writing has come so far this year. I cannot wait to see the surprise you have for us. I know it’s going to be incredible.”
Hearing her say it makes me want to write something incredible, so her words will be true.
I spot Travis Beaker in the cafeteria again, eating the crappy chicken rings that for some reason all the teachers think we kids love. He’s not talking to anyone, even though his regular gang surrounds him at the table. Before he can see that I’m watching him, I turn my attention back to Kyla and Jolie, who are laughing about something.
My Storied Year Page 14