“Did you tell anyone what happened?”
“Why?”
“It’s probably better if we keep things between us until we get a chance to do it the right way.”
I turn to walk away but he grabs my arm again, not as gently as the first time. “Where you going? Mmm. You’re still sweaty.” He licks the hand that he grabbed me with. “Now we definitely gotta do it right.” The way he said that, I can tell he’s grinning. I’m trying my best not to look at him.
“Let go of me, please.”
“When we finish talking. So you didn’t tell nobody, right?”
“Just let me go.”
“I said I’ll let you go when we finish talking. How long are your brothers in town for?”
“Why don’t you ask them yourself?”
He turns his head fast, I guess to see if they’re coming. “Smart move not saying anything to them. Those are my boys and they ain’t gonna believe you anyway. Nobody’s gonna believe you. Plus, if you really wanna go to Spain, it might be in your best interest to keep our little thing a secret. You know what I’m saying?” He starts rubbing my arm and then says, “So Monday, after school. We’ll finish what we started, right?”
I don’t answer him. My heart is racing and I don’t have the courage to say anything else.
“You want a ride home?”
I keep quiet.
“Alright then. I’ll see you at school.” He leans in and kisses my cheek.
When Greg drives away, I slump down onto the steps of the house I’m standing in front of. My legs feel like noodles and start shaking once I take my weight off them. Why didn’t I run? Or scream? Or kick him in the nuts again? Why did I let him rough me up like that? He’s cute and he’s so popular and all the girls want him. Maybe I wanted it just like they do. I did want it. Who am I kidding? I knew what was going on, and I should’ve known better.
A car pulls up in front of me. I guess Greg has come back to do what he wants with me. The horn honks, but my head stays down until I hear my name called.
“Niblet. Get in the car.”
The horn honks again, and then I hear the door open and slam.
“Martine. Get in the car.”
I look up at Kari, but I don’t move.
“Yo, what’s wrong with you? Get in the damn car.”
He grabs my elbow, drags me toward the car, and sits me down in the backseat. Wazi pulls off as soon as Kari closes the door. Kari swivels around in the passenger seat to face me and I can see Wazi looking at me in the mirror.
“Yo, why did you get out the car like that? You know Daddy would have a fit if we went home and didn’t know where you were.”
“Niblet, what’s going on with you?”
“I’m fine.” Just fine.
Chapter 23
There’s no more denying it. I officially miss my best friend. There’s not a thing I wouldn’t give to be able to talk to her and figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do right now. Even though I still think she’s a major B for treating me the way she did, part of me is worried that she might still be seeing that stalker Big Daddy.
I know I’m desperate, but it’s not like I have much to choose from. Of my friends, Garth is by far the easiest to talk to because he’s such a great listener, but what kind of advice could he give me? The guy fainted during health class last semester when the teacher said the word “testicles.” There’s no way in hell I’d tell my brothers. I don’t feel comfortable talking to any of the girls from the lunchroom. Sabrina would find a way to make me feel bad with one of her offhand comments, Sohmi would just look at me with her mouth wide open, and if I tell Malika, I’d basically be telling two people, because as sure as the sun comes up she would end up telling Tamara.
That leaves my mother. She told me that I could talk to her about anything, and she’s been telling me that since, since … well, ever since. No matter the subject, she told me that I could come and talk to her whenever I had an issue.
We have to get up early for church tomorrow, so I don’t have much time to sit with her. She got home at around eleven, and I know she has to catch up on some sleep. The door of my parents’ bedroom is closed. I raise my hand to knock on the door, but I hear noises coming from downstairs. I peek down the staircase and see them snuggling on the couch, watching some loud movie on HBO. As I walk down the stairs, I start to lighten my footsteps when I realize Beresford is talking about Cherise and her mother.
“That woman still ain’t call me yet to find out about she daughter. I tell you, these people don’t watch what their children doing and all manner of craziness does go on.”
“Did you try to call her?”
“Me call she? Come on, Glory. If somebody did leave me a note concerning my daughter, you think they would have to contact me again?”
“That’s true. Well, maybe Cherise never left the letter in the first place.”
“That could be true, you know. I tell you, that girl fast, and she mother ain’t no better. Running all over the place with them young fellas.”
“She’s not even thirty yet, Beres. She had Cherise when she was fifteen. But I agree with you. She should be more involved in what her daughter is doing, because if someone tried to take advantage of Martine like that …”
“One of us would be in jail for sure, ’cause that man woulda get chop up. But that little girl should know better than to be putting sheself in situations like that. Thank God Martine don’t get on like that. I tell you something, though. I worry sometimes about Martine hanging around Cherise.”
“You place too much weight on Cherise’s influence and not enough on your daughter’s common sense. They’ve been friends for ten years and we haven’t had a major problem yet.”
“You’re right. We’re lucky we don’t have to deal with her doing foolishness and crap.”
“Martine? You need something?”
Oh, shoot! How did my mother know I was here? “Yes, Mommy. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute.”
“Come.”
I continue down the stairs and see both of them smiling at me. My parents think so much of me. How would they feel if I told them about what I did after school yesterday? Or about what happened to me today?
“What is it, dear?”
I am trying to think of a nice way to tell Beresford that I want to talk to Mommy alone, but as usual, my mother reads the situation. “Beres, I bought some cookies-and-cream. Can you please make me one of your famous sundaes?”
“You did buy ice cream? I didn’t see it in there!” My dad jumps up off the couch and runs straight for the freezer like the ice cream is trying to escape or something. He’ll be in there for a few minutes, so my mother and I will have some time alone.
“I don’t want you to be disappointed with me, Mommy.”
“I will try my best, darling.”
“Mommy.” She’s smiling at me and stroking my hair out of my face. I can’t do it, not after listening to my parents talk about what a good kid I am. I can’t tell her, I just can’t. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to handle all the laundry. I didn’t expect the twins to bring home so much stuff. I’m not going to have time to study.”
“I figured that. No problem. Well then, you know what you gotta do.”
“Yes, Mommy.”
“I want to be clear. It’s a ninety-five average that you’re going to get, right?”
“Yes, Mommy.”
“Okay. I spoke with your father, and he agreed to let you go. BUT … you have to make sure that you stay out of trouble in the interim. I don’t want to see any of this mischievous behavior, young lady. Keep your nose clean.”
“Yes, Mommy.”
“Glory, you want sprinkles on it?”
“Yes, Beres,” she calls back before returning her attention to me. “Is there anything else?”
“Martine, you want one too?”
“Okay, Daddy. But a small one.”
“Is there anything else, sweetheart?�
� my mother asks again.
“No, Mommy.”
“Okay then. Guess you better go upstairs and hit the books. You have a lot of work to do.”
“Yes, Mommy.”
I wish I could say I feel happy at not having to wash my brothers’ clothes. I have to study twice as hard to raise my average two points. With all this crazy stuff going on, how in the world am I going to manage everything? I’m willing to bet something else will go wrong now. I’ll just sit here and wait for the phone to ring telling me that my grandmother is dead. Or better still, go digging through my parents’ stuff and find out that I’m adopted. Who cares anyway? Not like I could feel any worse.
What sucks the most is that I’m working on what should be the easy stuff, my paper for American studies. The only thing I’m able to concentrate on is the blinking cursor in my Word document. At this rate I’m going to be up all damn night. I can already feel my eyes starting to burn. Maybe if I grab some caffeine, I might be able to get this stuff done. For there to be any hope at all, I have to finish this paper tonight.
I open my bedroom door and hear the TV still on. When I reach the bottom of the stairwell, I see my parents snuggled together asleep on the couch. I put a sheet over them and smile. They actually look kind of cute up until my dad stirs and busts a big old fart. Nice.
Chapter 24
All I want to do is sleep—lie down in my bed and never wake up. I hardly got any work done last night. Every time I started writing a sentence for my paper, I kept thinking about what Greg did to me. It was pointless to keep trying. Before I slunk into bed, I took a couple of dark sheets and hung them over the blinds. I didn’t want any light to seep in and disturb me.
My eyes pop open and I stare at the alarm clock until the numbers come into focus. No matter how hard I try to go back to sleep, I can’t relax. Any minute now my mother will push into my room and wake me for church. If I had it my way, I would stay in bed for the whole day.
My mother comes into the room singing a song by Luciano called “Lord Give Me Strength.” It’s a song that I hear maybe once every two months or so. When she does sing it, it’s always on Sundays, but I’ve also heard her hum it under her breath when Beresford starts getting on her nerves.
She’s halfway through the second verse, and I haven’t moved a muscle. My eyes are slammed shut, and I do my best to pretend I’m still asleep. The release of the sickly groan I’m holding in has to be timed just right. I know it’s perfect when I hear my mother say, “Oh, sweetie, you still not feeling well?”
I shake my head. There’s genuine concern in her voice. This might just work. She puts her hand on my forehead and neck. I’m trying to will myself to feel hot, but when she shakes her head and says, “Okay, Martine. Up, up. In the shower,” I am disappointed yet again.
“Wait, why in here so dark?” She flips the light switch on. I hear her gasp when she sees my clothes dumped at the foot of the bed and three empty cans of Coke on the nightstand. “Martine, what’s going on here? Why does this room look so messy?” My mother snatches the sheets off the blinds and opens the windows. “In here smells closed up. When we get home from church, straighten up this room. I didn’t raise you like this.”
When she walks out, I get up and turn the lights off and go right back into the bed. I don’t want to get up, I’m not going to get up, and I don’t care who comes in here and tells me different.
About fifteen minutes later, Beresford knocks but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Martine. Come on, sweetheart, get up. Time for church.”
I close my eyes and pretend that I’m sleeping again.
“Martine. Get up. It’s time for church.”
I try to use the groan again and say, “Daddy, I don’t feel well.”
He doesn’t have nearly the level of patience that my mother has, so I’m not surprised to hear him suck his teeth and say, “Girl, get up and go in the shower now. Sloth is a sin, yah know.”
I try to stay quiet and hope that he’ll disappear. It’s a trick I’ve seen Wazi and Kari use. My father usually gives up trying to wake them after a couple of minutes.
“Martine! You ain’t hear what I tell you? Get off yah tail and go in dee blasted shower now!”
He’s going to stand at the door until I swing my legs out of the bed and I get into the shower. When I finally make my way out to the hallway, I peek into the twins’ room and see Solwazi’s crusty foot hanging off the edge of his bed.
“Why do I have to go if they don’t have to?”
“Those heathens are in God’s hands now. You’re still in mine.”
I knew he was going to say that.
“But wait. Martine, where all this back talk coming from?”
I close the bathroom door without responding.
“Come on, Martine, hurry up.”
My parents are walking so fast that I can barely keep up with them. Because of my little mini-tantrum this morning, we’re late to church. It usually takes about ten minutes to find a parking spot, so my dad likes to get here nice and early to beat the crowd. We end up having to park about four full blocks from the church, and Beresford is not happy about that at all. He’s grumbling about missing the offering. I wish he took so much pride in giving me my allowance.
My father tried to explain tithing to me, but I don’t think I’ll ever understand why I have to give ten percent of my money to a church whose coffers are overflowing. With the way my parents give to the church, they probably paid for at least two of the Persian rugs hanging on the walls.
According to Beresford, this is where we belong. I was relieved he finally figured it out, because it took us a good six months to find the “right” church. My father’s take for all the searching was “Why must I sit in a boring church and listen to a preacher that don’t know he elbow from he backside?”
My mother was not happy about the size of the Christian Center of Worship and Praise, and seemed somewhat intimidated. The church she grew up in back in Grenada was much smaller and didn’t have “all this pageantry and grandeur.” She was resistant right up until she heard the dynamic preaching of the pastor, Dr. N. Nathaniel Bailey. I would never think to use the word “dynamic” to describe the pastor, but that’s what it said on the back of her book. Oh, and my mother also loved that Pastor Bailey was a woman. I actually liked the church we went to before CCWP and hoped that we would have stayed there, but once I saw my mother’s face, I knew there was no hope.
According to Pastor, Sunday is supposed to be a day of rejoicing, a day to feel great and go into the week feeling unstoppable. Not today. When the usher greets us at the door and asks me if I’m blessed and highly favored, I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying no. My dad starts to give me looks when I don’t return the good-mornings of the other churchgoers. What’s so good about this morning? What in life is good enough for me to smile and talk with someone who doesn’t even know my name and would probably knock me over if I sat in their seat today?
My dad is fed up with my attitude. Before we walk to our seats, he pulls me aside. “Look, I don’t know what is going on in that head of yours, but you better get yourself settled. This is a house of worship, and I will not tolerate you being rude and unmannerly. Is that understood, young lady?”
I roll my eyes at him and say, “Yes, Daddy.” I just rolled my eyes at my father. I don’t think he noticed, because he starts walking toward the door to the auditorium. It didn’t escape my mother’s attention, though. Just the look on her face makes me regret it immediately. “Sorry.”
She shakes her head and walks after my father.
Normally we sit in the front of the balcony, but since I took my “sweet time” getting ready, we have to sit in the second-to-last row. Pastor Bailey comes out onto the stage and greets everyone. “Good morning, CCWP. How are you feeling today?”
“Blessed and highly favored,” the congregation responds as one, pretty much everyone but me.
“Yes, we are, aren’t we? Let us stand and
pray.”
I never pay attention during this prayer and usually spend the two or three minutes looking for the worst-dressed person in church. This morning, it’s a toss-up. There’s a man at the end of my row who’s making my eyes hurt with his green and yellow pin-striped suit and shoes to match. His competition is a woman, shorter than me, with a giant black lampshade hat. Pastor Bailey finishes the prayer and says, “Now turn and give about three of your neighbors high fives and tell them ‘God is awesome!’ ”
My hands are at my sides, and I’m staring into space so I don’t have to look at anyone. I can feel both of my parents looking at me disapprovingly. When we’re given permission to sit, a feeling of sleepiness takes over immediately. I am having trouble getting into the lesson, something about God changing Abram’s name to Abraham. Pastor Bailey has called out a bunch of verses, but my Bible is on the floor between my feet. My dad taps my elbow when I start to nod off. Every time I try to concentrate, my eyes start to cross and my head drops. My little naps don’t last long, because my dad keeps waking me up. I wish he would stop doing that. It’s really annoying.
My mother passes me a Halls, and the menthol hits me right away. I roll my head around a few times and try to listen to Pastor Bailey.
“I remember one sister telling me that she was having problems with her husband. She said, ‘Pastor, I can’t take him no more. I’m going on vacation.’ I know this sister very well. Whenever things aren’t going right with her husband, she’s on the first plane to Aruba. She’s so busy running that she won’t sit still and listen. God doesn’t yell, He whispers.”
I always expected God to have this booming voice that would shake a room. In reality, the few times in my life that I have prayed, the answers usually came to me during quiet time.
Pastor continues, “I told her, ‘Sister, you can’t run away from your problems. You’ll run out of money first.’ ”
That draws laughs and applause from the congregation.
“Aruba is expensive,” she says, chuckling a little.
When the laughter dies down, she continues, saying, “God doesn’t give us more than we can handle, people. He is testing your faith. When things are going good, most of us don’t give thanks for that.”
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