by Nikki Grimes
Where are you? I’m writing this stupid letter and I don’t even know where to send it. I had to talk to you, tho, even if its only on paper.
I better go. Its my turn to set the table. (I have chores now, like you used to have at home before Mom—never mind. I don’t think about her anymore, or grandma who I’m still mad at.)
Oh! I almost forgot. I have a new friend. Her name is Ashley. She lives down the street.
Bye for now.
Paris.
Chapter 16
MARCHING TO ZION
Paris decided it was time to try out the family church. Mrs. Lincoln didn’t make Paris go when she first got to Ossining. Paris was left to decide when she was ready. “God won’t force you to visit his house,” said Mrs. Lincoln, “and I won’t, either.” That was fine with Paris because there was already so much new to get used to.
One Sunday morning, Paris woke up feeling ready to go.
Star of Bethlehem Baptist Church was lovely inside, with its beautiful stained-glass windows and rich wood accents, but it felt like somebody had forgotten to turn the heat on. The wooden pews were cold against Paris’ thighs. She couldn’t understand for the life of her why she couldn’t wear pants to church. She didn’t see David and Jordan freezing their legs off. Who made the rule that girls had to wear dresses to church, anyway?
Paris tried to express this point over breakfast, but Mrs. Lincoln stopped her with one of those deadpan stares, and said, “Paris Richmond, who told you life was fair?” And that was the end of the discussion.
Paris sat swinging her legs, pouting—until she heard the first chords of the organ. The sound sent an electric spark up one pew and down the next, and Paris forgot all about being cold. The melody flowed into her body like liquid sunshine, warming her as it traveled from the tips of her ears to the tips of her toes. Paris never knew that such a sound existed.
“Are you okay?” asked Mr. Lincoln. Paris, her lips slightly parted, nodded and went on listening. She didn’t know how to explain it, but as the music played, she felt herself waking up inside.
“All rise,” said a voice up front. The organist switched music and began to play “Marching to Zion.” The choir marched in from the back of the sanctuary, stepping in time to the music. When the choir loft was filled, the organist changed the melody once more. “Nothing but the Blood,” then “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” and “Give Me Jesus on the Line.” He played one song after another, and the choir rode the sturdy waves of the organ music, their voices piercing the rafters and raising the temperature of everyone in the room.
The music was all Paris heard that first morning at Star of Bethlehem. The prayers and sermon in between were merely interruptions. It was the music that spoke to Paris, the music she couldn’t wait to hear next. Mr. Lincoln couldn’t help but notice.
At the end of the service, he leaned down to Paris. “You know,” he said, very casually, “we have a youth choir here. Think you might like to join it?”
Paris all but leapt off the pew seat in response.
“Could I?”
Mr. Lincoln smiled. “Of course. Brother Wilson?” he called to the choir director. “I need to see you for a moment. I’ve got a new choir member here for you.”
Paris couldn’t stop grinning. The idea of singing in the choir put a sparkle in her eyes that lasted for days.
Chapter 17
JINGLE BELLS
Christmas, Christmas, Christmas. That was all anybody talked about at school. Paris couldn’t even get away from it during lunch. Take this afternoon, for instance.
When Paris and her classmates filed into the cafeteria, they found the walls plastered with paper snowflakes, drawings of Christmas trees, and pictures of Santa with a beard made from cotton balls.
“I can’t wait till Christmas break,” said a boy named Warren.
“Me neither,” said Ashley.
“You guys are lucky,” said Warren’s buddy, Brad. “You get to stay home for Christmas. My dad is dragging us to California to visit our cousins so we can have a Christmas barbecue on the beach! How lame is that?”
“Sounds like fun!” said Ashley.
“You gotta be kiddin’!” said Brad. “Who ever heard of Christmas without snow?”
“People in Hawaii,” said Lee Young. “And parts of Africa.”
“All I’m sayin’ is, Christmas is not the same without snow,” Brad continued to argue.
“Forget the snow,” said Brian. “I can’t wait to see what presents I get.”
“I love putting up the tree,” said Ashley. “And driving around town to see all the lights on people’s houses.”
“And the Nativity scenes,” said a girl named Lori.
“Yeah!” said Ashley.
“Last year,” said Warren, “my church had a living Nativity and my baby sister was Jesus.”
“Stop lying!” said Brian. “How they gonna use a girl baby to play Jesus?”
“At that age, it don’t make much difference,” said Warren. “Wrap them up in a blanket, and all babies look the same.”
Their lunch trays full, the group split off to find seats with their friends. Paris and Ashley found two free spaces and sat together.
“What’s the matter?” Ashley asked Paris.
“Nothing,” said Paris, pasting a smile on her face.
“You’re awfully quiet,” said Ashley. “Is something wrong?”
“No. I’m fine,” said Paris.
Except I miss Malcolm more than ever.
For Paris, the best thing about Christmas was being with her brother. And this Christmas, she didn’t even know where he was.
• • •
Paris ate her lunch in silence, nodding occasionally as Ashley chattered on about the holiday.
Christmas might as well be just another day, as far as Paris was concerned. Viola certainly didn’t seem to notice it. Either that or she didn’t care. Every afternoon, Paris ran to check the mail hoping to find a package, or at least a card from her mother. Every evening, Paris waited for the phone to ring, hoping to find her mother on the other end. But every afternoon and evening ended in disappointment.
It doesn’t matter, Paris would tell herself. Then she’d put Viola out of her mind for a while, because thinking about her hurt too much.
All the Lincolns were extra nice to Paris, making sure to include her in their family traditions. Like dragging her to the Christmas tree farm.
Paris didn’t want to go, but she didn’t want to make Mrs. Lincoln feel bad. Once she got there, out in the crisp pine-washed air, it wasn’t half bad. And the trees were worth seeing, taller and fatter than any Paris had ever seen at storefronts in New York City.
“Aren’t they great?” said David, grinning.
“They’re okay,” said Paris.
“Okay? Are you blind?”
David shook his head and ran down the rows of evergreens, Jordan fast on his heels. Paris could hear Jordan’s squeals of excitement as he and David ran from tree to tree, trying to decide which was the best. It seemed to take forever before they chose one.
Back home, everyone pitched in, decorating the tree while Paris watched from the sidelines. The one thing she seemed to enjoy was the Christmas music playing on the stereo. As long as that was on, she sat in the living room with the rest of the family, humming along with the record.
• • •
On Christmas morning, Paris found a few presents under the tree with her name on them, marked “From Santa.” Santa was as boring as her grandmother: he’d given her socks, pink earmuffs (Paris hated pink), and mittens. Paris said thank you to the Lincolns, wishing she had more than a card for them.
“The card is beautiful,” said Mrs. Lincoln. “But you know what else I want for Christmas that you can give me? A song.”
Paris didn’t think that was much of a present, but she sang anyway. “Jingle Bells” was the first song she could think of, so that was what she sang. There wasn’t much joy in her voice, t
hough.
The one highlight that first Christmas was trading gifts with Ashley, who’d come over that afternoon for a little while.
Paris was in her room, finishing a letter to Malcolm, when the doorbell rang.
“Paris!” called Mrs. Lincoln. “Ashley’s here.”
By the time Paris put down her pen and paper, a beaming Ashley lit up her doorway, a shopping bag dangling from one hand.
“Merry Christmas!” said Ashley.
“Merry Christmas.”
“I’d have come over sooner, but my mom made me wait. ‘Folks like to start their Christmas mornings off slow and easy,’ she said. I swear, I don’t know where she gets these ideas.”
Paris grinned. Ashley could always put a smile on her face.
“Anyway,” said Ashley, plopping down on Paris’ bed, “here I am.”
Ashley pulled a long, narrow box from her shopping bag. The box was wrapped in silver foil.
“This is for you,” she said, holding the box out toward Paris, looking as if she were about to burst. “Go on! Open it!”
“Wait,” Paris said. She went to her desk and pulled a small, flat package from the drawer.
“You first,” she said, a little anxious. Since Paris didn’t have any money, she’d made a gift for her friend. “I hope you like it,” she said.
Ashley tore the wrapping paper and ripped off the lid of the box. Paris held her breath.
“Oh, wow!” said Ashley, staring down at a square of denim.
“It’s a book cover,” said Paris, explaining in a tumble of words. “I made it from an old pair of jeans, Earletta helped me stitch the edges, I sewed the buttons on the front myself.”
“I love it!” said Ashley. She turned the cover over in her hands, feeling the smooth edges and tracing the metal buttons with a fingertip.
“The buttons are the best part,” she said. Paris beamed.
“Okay. Now it’s your turn,” said Ashley.
Paris picked up the narrow package, held it to her ear, and shook it, hoping for a clue to its contents.
“Open it! Open it!” said Ashley, bouncing up and down on the bed.
Slowly and delicately, Paris unwrapped the package, folding back each corner of the wrapping paper with great care.
“You’re killing me!” said Ashley, groaning.
Paris had never gotten that many presents at Christmas, so she wanted to make the most of every one. When she finally folded back the tissue paper, her heart skipped a beat. Nestled inside the box was a small wooden flute.
“I know how much you like music,” said Ashley. “So, hurry up and figure out how this thing works so you can play me something.”
Paris was speechless.
“Well, I gotta go now,” said Ashley in a soft voice. “I’m glad you like your present. I’ll see you later.”
Paris clutched the flute in her hand, gave her friend a long, hard hug, then walked her to the door.
Chapter 18
FORT FRIENDLY
The next day at church, Paris belted out the Christmas hymns with a secret joy. Singing in the choir was sweeter than hot chocolate with swirls of whipped cream. All too soon, the service was over and it was time to leave.
The drive home was treacherous. While Paris was in church, it was as if God had sunk his shovel into a mountain of snow and scattered it over the whole earth.
Snow continued to fall all day and through the night. When Paris woke up the next morning, the little house on the hill was an island surrounded by a silent sea of white.
Wow, thought Paris.
She had never seen so much snow.
Her bedroom door flew open, and David stuck his head inside.
“Snow day!” he said, grinning. “I’ll bet you anything!” Then he took off down the stairs.
Paris threw on her robe, jumped into her slippers, and went to investigate. She found the family sitting around the breakfast table, craning toward the kitchen radio, which was up full volume. Mr. Lincoln would have turned it down, had he been there. But he’d headed out the night before for a late shift at Con Edison. A short walk up the steep hill got him there, so his car was still in the driveway. The overnight snowfall had completely covered his tracks.
The radio crackled, catching Paris’ attention. “Ignatious Elementary: closed. McKinley Elementary: closed. Claremont Elementary: closed.”
“Wahoo!” sang David and Jordan in chorus. Mrs. Lincoln groaned. So did Earletta. Her school was also closed, and the thought of spending a day at home with her pesky little brothers wasn’t her idea of fun.
“All right, boys,” said Mrs. Lincoln. “Get your clothes on. You, too, Paris. I need you to clear the snow from the doorway, and clear a path down the front steps. Then you can play.”
“How come Earletta isn’t helping?” asked Paris.
“I am not climbing through anybody’s window,” said Earletta.
Paris was puzzled. “Window?”
• • •
A few minutes later, Paris opened the front door. That was as far as she got. The screen door was wedged shut by two and a half feet of snow. The only way out of the house was through a window.
“Climb on out, then make your way to the backyard,” said Mrs. Lincoln. “There are shovels in the shed. David knows where we keep them.”
The boys climbed out first to show her there was nothing to it. “Stuff your pant legs all the way inside your boots,” David instructed. “That’ll make it easier for you to walk.”
Paris did as she was told, then hoisted herself through the living room window. She sank into a mound of cold, then stood a long while transfixed by the alien landscape.
The entire street was smothered in snow, right up to the doorways of each house. Gone were streets and sidewalks. Driveways were invisible. Telephone wires hung heavy, looking every bit like clotheslines draped with wet, white laundry. Mailboxes and telephone poles were skinny islands in a sea of powder. The house across the street looked like a gingerbread house with powdered sugar on the rooftop. She’d never seen anything like it in the city.
Does our house look like that, too? Paris wondered. She closed her eyes, smiling at the hushed sound of it all, rocking in the waves of white silence.
“Hurry up,” said David, bringing her back to the task at hand. “We have to get the shovels.”
Paris thought it was a shame to disturb all that perfection, but she planted her boots into the snow, one step after another, creating a trail of fat footsteps even the man in the moon could see, all the way to the back of the house. David had the shed open by the time she got there. He handed out shovels and work instructions like a foreman. The littlest shovel went to Jordan.
“Jordan, you help Jet clear a path around his doghouse. He’s already gotten started, so it shouldn’t be too bad. Paris, you’re with me. We gotta clear the porch.”
Paris nodded, grabbing the shovel he held out to her. She followed David back to the front of the house, surprised when he came to a halt a foot short of the porch steps.
“What?”
David looked down at the snow, then off into the distance. “I got an idea,” he said. “Help me.”
David walked to about where the end of the sidewalk should be, to the right of the house, facing the downward slope. He sank his shovel as deep as it would go, then started shoveling. But instead of shoveling in a straight line, he worked in a semicircle.
Paris stood watching him. She had no idea what he was doing. “What about the stairs?” she asked.
“The stairs can wait. You gonna help me or not?”
Paris didn’t want to get in trouble, but David sure looked like he was having fun. He began to shape the snowdrifts into a wall, pressing the snow together to pack it tightly.
Paris finally jumped in to give him a hand. She pressed handfuls of snow together like rough bricks, and stacked them atop one another until her part of the wall was finished. Then she and David stepped back to admire their work.
&nb
sp; “This’ll be the best snow fort ever!” said David. Now all they needed were a few more kids to play with, and their first snowball fight of the season was on!
“David Allen Lincoln,” said his mother, arms akimbo behind the screen door, “if you don’t clear the snow away from this door in the next five minutes, you won’t be able to sit down until summer. That goes for you, too, Paris.”
Paris and David looked at each other, biting their lips to keep from giggling. David gave Paris a wink.
“Yes, ma’am,” said David.
“Yes, ma’am,” echoed Paris.
Then the two of them got busy shoveling and salting down the front steps.
Threat or no, Paris liked having a new partner in crime. And if she did get a spanking, it would be for something she’d actually done, this time. And she wouldn’t be the only one getting whipped, either. That was a difference she could live with.
Chapter 19
WHAT HEARTS
Paris checked off the items on her bedroom desk. Scissors, glue, gold stars, red and white construction paper, white paper doilies, red ribbon, crayons, Red Hots, and newspaper.
She got busy making valentines for her teacher and for Ashley, the one close friend she’d made so far.
One friend’s better than none, she told herself.
Paris cut a big heart out of newspaper print, then a smaller one of red paper to put on top of it, then a smaller one out of a white doily to put on top of that.
Paris fingered the newspaper and smiled, knowing Ashley would laugh when she saw her valentine. Ashley must have told Paris the same joke a million times: “What’s black and white and red all over? A newspaper! Get it?”
To make the valentine even more special, Paris counted out seven Red Hots to glue around the edges. Red Hots were Ashley’s favorite candy.
“Paris,” called Mrs. Lincoln, “dinner.”
“In a minute!” said Paris. But one minute quickly became fifteen, because Paris was already lost in the sticky world of cut paper and Elmer’s glue.