Teenie

by Christopher Grant

  I can feel hope swelling in my chest as he sits and listens to every word without interrupting. He even puts his spife down. I start having visions of fiestas, drinking sangria with my new friends Juan Carlos and Adriana—well, maybe a sip—taking a weekend trip to the beach in Majorca.

  “Why Spain?” he asks, revealing the slightest bit of interest maybe?!?!

  “It was either Spain or France, and aside from saying bonjour, I don’t speak a lick of French.”

  Beresford is going to let me go. I can feel it!

  “The program is all about cultural experience. We would be going on weekly trips to museums, Basque country, and, you ready for this? Here’s the best part. You know how you’re always saying that the media and history books never show the achievements of black people, right? Well, they’re even going to take us to Alhambra, the Moorish fortress in Granada.”

  He smiles and nods his head as he flips through the brochure.

  I’ve got momentum, so I keep pressing. “It’s very affordable, and I could even chip in and get a little part-time job to help with any spending money I might need.”

  “Affordable? How much is affordable?”

  “Well, there are some expenses that I would be responsible for.”

  My dad looks down and rubs his head in frustration. He brings his eyes back up and says, “How … much … does … it … cost?”

  I pause, then blurt, “Thirteen thousand dollars.”

  “No.”

  “But, Daddy. I can get a scholarship. I would just need spending money.”

  “Young lady, have you seen the exchange rate recently?”

  “But …” He picks his spife back up. That means stop talking. I’ll try my luck with my mother in the morning.

  • • •

  “Oh Lord. My belly gon burst,” Beresford says, leaning back in his chair in a glazed stupor.

  While I’m putting the food away, all I can think about is going back upstairs to start finding an outfit for tomorrow. I have no choice but to put YSSAP on the back burner until I can speak to my mother about it. It’s not like I could talk about it if I wanted to. Beresford is blabbing away full speed again. I feel like stuffing the sponge in his mouth, because I’m sick of the sound of his voice.

  My brothers used to watch Charlie Brown when we were small. The classroom teacher had this droning voice, like Wah womp womp womp. That’s what Beresford sounds like today. I usually try to listen a little more when he criticizes Priscilla, the “blasted half a idiot,” which in his eyes is ten times worse than being a regular idiot, because then at least you have an excuse. I’m still upset with how quickly he rejected me when I was telling him about Spain, so I see no point in listening to him.

  “Wah womp womp Priscilla. Wah womp womp womp.”

  “Oh no, that’s terrible, Daddy.”

  “Wah womp womp incompetent. Wah womp womp half a idiot.”

  “That sounds like it’s really frustrating to deal with.”

  I can’t push the scraps of food into the garbage fast enough. It’s my turn to wash the dishes. Hmm, let me see if I can weasel my way out of this. I turn the water on and soap my plate and the serving spoons that are on the counter. Here goes.

  “Wah womp womp …”

  I clutch my stomach and start to groan a little.

  “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

  “Cramps.”

  Beresford grabs the dishrag from me as soon as he hears the word. “Oh, oh! Go upstairs and relax. I will take care of the dishes.”

  Works like a charm.

  Chapter 11

  Young lady, have you seen the exchange rate recently? I’ve heard my mother call Beresford a stubborn jackass before, and I couldn’t agree with her more. He is so close-minded sometimes. If it’s not something he likes, it must not be worth trying. If he had said, “I’m too cheap to pay,” I wouldn’t be so pissed. How in the world did he bag a hottie like my mother? I hope Greg doesn’t get this way when we get older.

  Garth Vader: hey Teenie.

  Garth is the only one of my friends on Messenger. I was hoping to get a chance to talk to Greg and congratulate him for his game-winner, but he’s not online.

  I don’t feel like hearing about some new planet that has evidence of water or how chimps are more closely related to humans than other apes. Matter of fact, I’m getting even more annoyed that I remember him telling me that stuff. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.

  Garth Vader: you there?

  I log off and start looking for an outfit to wear tomorrow. I’m not wearing velour two days in a row, so I’m going to have my work cut out for me if I’m going to impress Greg. How did I ever wear half of this stuff? How many pairs of penny loafers can one person have? Who the hell wears penny loafers anymore anyway? I have the same style of shirt in five different colors, no variety at all.

  The TV is on. I have a slim hope that I’ll get some inspiration from it. Some of the shows I flip through are total garbage. How they stay on the air is a mystery to me. Anyway, everything these girls have on is tight, and after the tongue-lashing my mother gave me for wearing that Wade dress, that’s not a direction I want to go in.

  I shut off the TV and walk over to my closet again. The more I think about it, the more I realize I need to go up to the attic, though the thought of it scares the crap out of me. Wazi and Kari told me that our deceased sister Beresforda’s ghost haunts the attic. I’ve watched way too much TV to be messing around with that ghost stuff. Looking at the things on my bed, I know there’s got to be a ton more up there. One more glance into my closet, and my curiosity gets the best of me.

  • • •

  I stand at the bottom of the stairwell leading up to the attic. This must be the one part of the house that no one cleans or fixes. The stairs are all rickety and old-looking, like they lead to the lair of some evil witch. The paint on the wall is chipping. A musty, closed-up smell seems to be coming from the top of the landing. The rusty chain hanging from the light clinks against the wall after I pull it a few times. Of course the stupid thing doesn’t work. There are some cobwebs in the corners near the top of the stairs and a thin layer of dust on the banister. When I reach the top of the stairs, I push the door and almost turn around when I hear that creaky sound-of-a-door-opening-in-a-horror-movie noise. I stand still for a while and listen out for any more noises. If I hear anything I don’t recognize, I am not waiting around to see what it is. I take a deep breath and paw along the wall until I find the light switch.

  When my eyes adjust to the light, I realize that the attic is in much better shape than the staircase. I’d be willing to bet money that my mother has a big say in how things are organized up here. Come to think of it, I can’t ever remember seeing my father up here except when he’s carrying things up for my mother. He keeps all his tools and crap in the basement. It’s actually rather clean and orderly up here, except for that musty smell, kind of like a mix of burnt toast and mothballs.

  My mother has her things packed up in boxes, thankfully, with writing on the top detailing what’s inside. I push aside the box of miniskirts and drag the one filled with spring shirts back to my room. I go back up to turn the light off and spot a huge wardrobe off in the far corner. It’s so big I wonder why I didn’t notice it when I first came up the stairs.

  This is usually the part in the movie where I am screaming at the screen, trying to tell the character not to go near the closet so the monster can suck out her eyeballs, but I am drawn to this thing the longer I look at it. It just looks so mysterious and full of surprise, like the closet in The Chronicles of Narnia. From across the room I can see the detail that went into making the closet. There are small figurines carved into the framework and shiny brass knobs on the drawers. I’m having a hard time understanding why this thing isn’t in the hallway. That’s before I notice that it’s leaning toward one side. When I get closer, I realize that one of its legs is missing.

  I open the closet door, still afraid that somethi
ng might jump out and try to eat me. When I take a good look at what’s inside, I smile, because I know I’ve hit the jackpot. There’s a Peg-Board on one of the doors with a ton of costume jewelry, everything from earrings to faux pearl necklaces. A garbage bag full of scarves lies packed away on one of the shelves. On the bottom of the bag, there’s a funky, multicolored shawl that is definitely coming downstairs with me. I see a pair of Sergio Valente jeans folded on the top shelf and some Chuck Taylor Converses still in the box. The sneakers look almost new, and the jeans are ripped in all the right places. I start smiling at my haul, until the hairs on my neck stand up when I remember Beresforda. For a split second, I wonder if these clothes are hers, but my brothers said that she weighed like three hundred and fifty pounds. Still, there’s no sense lingering up here any longer than necessary.

  I yank at the shawl. It’s caught on something. I give one last good tug, and a pot falls from the top of the closet. I feel faint when I see a huge crack on the side of it, before realizing the crack was already there. Looks like someone did a pretty lousy job trying to glue the thing back together. Considering how far it fell, I’m really lucky it didn’t break.

  I reach to pick it up and I try to figure out what it is. It’s a pretty cool-looking vase with a top on it. I pull the top off and look inside of it. The dust inside is kind of grayish and chalky. There’s writing on the bottom.

  RIP BERESFORDA

  Oh my God! This is an urn! With ashes! Beresforda’s ashes! I toss the urn onto the top shelf, and luckily it lands on its base and stays put after a little wobbling. I grab the clothes and run back downstairs to calm myself down. Oh boy, I forgot to turn the light off up there. If I leave that thing on, Beresford will have a heart attack. I run up the stairs, flick the light, and run back to my room.

  “Martine. Why you keepin’ so much noise up there?”

  “Sorry, Daddy.”

  Chapter 12

  In the morning, my mother smiles at me as we go over the literature for the YSSAP.

  “Only the best students in my school get to participate in this program. Imagine how this is going to look on my record when I start applying for college.”

  “I think this is a great idea, Martine. This looks like it will be a wonderful experience for you.”

  “I know, right? They’re going to take us to the Prado and the Dalí Theatre-Museum. And look at the pictures of the campus!” This is working out even better than I expected. Madrid and Barcelona, here I come. I’ll be taking afternoon siestas and will be fluent in Spanish in no time. Beresford’s going down! He’s outnumbered on this one, and he knows better than to go against my mother.

  “So how does this scholarship thing work?”

  “Well, it covers everything but my spending money, and I only need to put my average up one more point, to ninety-four, to qualify for it. The only thing is Daddy. He didn’t sound too enthused when I talked to him about it yesterday.”

  “Don’t worry about your father. I’ll take care of him. You just worry about getting your average up to ninety-five.”

  “Ninety-five? No, no. I only need to raise it a point, so that’s ninety-four.”

  My mother looks over at me and repeats it again. “Ninety-five. Your actions have repercussions and, in this case, penalties.”

  I zone out while she goes on about what a great opportunity the program will be. I don’t need to ask her why she’s imposing the extra point. It’s a shame that I didn’t even get to keep the clothes from the mall. Now I get double screwed.

  My mother sees me thinking about it and asks, “Do you think that is unreasonable?”

  HELL YEAH!! “Uhh, a little.”

  “First of all, I want you to give Cherise back the money. Where she getting all that money from anyway?”

  I frown and shrug my shoulders, hoping she won’t press the issue. I zone out. How in the world am I going to raise my average to a ninety-five? I might as well just give it up, because there’s no way I can do that.

  “Are you listening to me, Martine?”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  “What did I just say?”

  “Uhh … I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

  “Pay attention because I’m not going to say this again. I got a card with store credit. You are to give the card to Cherise immediately. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  “I don’t like this one bit, Martine. I left a message with her mother, and I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

  I hope Cherise doesn’t get in trouble.

  “And since you place such a high value on clothes, how about you do all the laundry and ironing for a month?”

  A month, hmm, I better take it. “Okay, that’s fine.” I’d much rather do that than have to kill myself with the schoolwork. We agree, but then it feels like someone dumped a bucket of ice-cold water over my head. Now I have to wash Beresford’s underwear. Ugh.

  Three trains rumble in and out of the station before I give up waiting for Cherise. I would’ve gotten on the third train if not for a dusty, butter-toothed hobo who kept bothering me for my number. I tried to be nice and say, “No, that’s okay” to whatever he was offering. Still, he kept moving closer to me, overwhelming me with his hot-garbage body odor. Cherise would have known exactly how to get rid of him, but as annoying as he was, I just want to know that she’s okay.

  I get on the fourth train, knowing I’ll probably be late for school. I can’t believe she stayed out with Big Daddy. Fun or no fun, I’d be way too chicken to take all of that risk. There’s so much that could go wrong. What if something did go wrong? What kind of friend am I to let her go out that late? It’s all my fault for not trying harder to convince her not to go.

  • • •

  The first fifteen minutes of Mr. Speight’s class are pure torture. The things that I’m imagining are happening to Cherise get scarier with each passing second. What if she’s hurt, or kidnapped, or lying in the middle of the woods somewhere crying out for help? I should tell someone in case any of those things are really happening.

  I let out a huge sigh of relief when she walks into class. There aren’t any visible bruises, and when she gives me a quick smile, I start to feel a little better. As soon as Mr. Speight turns around, I pass her a note.

  Where were you? Are you okay?

  She grabs the note and starts writing. She’s writing a lot, and I keep glancing over at her, waiting for her to finish. She reaches over to pass it to me but doesn’t see Mr. Speight walking up behind her in the aisle between our desks. He grabs the note from her and throws it in the garbage without breaking stride or sentence.

  “Biological warfare at its finest.” He’s talking about how the Spanish killed thousands of Incans by giving them blankets laced with smallpox.

  When the bell rings, I pack my bag and hustle outside. “What happened?” We only have a minute to talk, because our classes are on opposite sides of the building.

  “Where’s your next class?”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t make me wait, Cherise.”

  “I can’t mess around with my bio teacher! He fails you if you’re late more than three times, and I have three already. So where’s your class?” She’s walking and talking, moving in the opposite direction from my next class.

  “Fifth floor, other side of the building.”

  “What?”

  “Fifth floor!” Our voices have to get louder and louder as the hallway swells with students.

  “Take a bathroom break and meet me in the northwest staircase on the third floor!”

  “Okay. I have something to give you, so make sure you come!”

  She stops and shouts, “What?”

  I pull the store card from my pocket and hold it up.

  She smiles, then raises an eyebrow, her face showing confusion. She frowns at me and shakes her head when she realizes that I’m returning the clothes money to her.

  I wait five minutes after Spanish class starts, ask for a bat
hroom break, and run full speed to the stairwell.

  “So he stood you up again?”

  “Yeah. I wasted two outfits for nothing.”

  “Well, how come you didn’t meet me in the train station this morning?”

  “I just got in late and overslept. I like those jeans, Teenie.”

  “Thanks.” Cherise’s stamp of approval puts a smile on my face, because I spent all of last night trying to get my clothes just right. I’ve got on a white wifebeater with a jeans jacket, the Sergio Valente jeans, and the Chuck Taylors. “So did you hear from him at all?”

  “On IM. He said he was too nervous to talk to me. He said that he saw me and that I looked really nice in my dress but—”

  “Wait, wait, hold up. He saw you? So that means he was there?”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “So what? Umm … I know you like watching movies and stuff. Think about this for a second. Right now, you and I are in the scene right before the naive girl”—I pause so she understands that she is the naive girl—“gets her skin peeled off.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Who are you, Steven Spielberg now?”

  We both laugh. “Well, I guess that’s the end of that, huh?” Cherise will finally come to her senses and realize this guy is bad news. He stood her up twice AND, even worse than that, was watching her like some kind of predator.

  My heart starts beating normally until she says, “The end of what? He’s gonna take me on a shopping spree after school tomorrow to make up for the past two days.”

  “Hold up. You’re gonna go out to meet him again?”

  “Yup. He’s taking me to Macy’s.”

  I’m waiting for her to smile so I know she’s joking. Please smile, Cherise. I’m still a kid, but now I see why parents beat their children. I wanna kick her in her butt so hard! “What is wrong with you? Aren’t you concerned at all about what’s going on?”