Hallway Diaries

by Felicia Pride

  It was 7:08.

  Okay, perhaps I was a little anxious. But I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss Vivica. Although I hated to admit it, I was nervous about taking the bus alone. I’d never taken public transportation before. Call it sheltered or call it what it was, Rainhaven was the quintessential small town in Suburbia, U.S.A. There were no buses. No subways. You were expected to be able to afford a car. My parents had had three of them, sold one, and now refused to use one of the remaining two to take me to school. I was to get the full urban experience.

  The heat crawled down to a more comfortable temperature, but I was still hot in my jeans. I looked around at the city I visited during the summer and always enjoyed. I’d hang out on Aunt Lena’s back porch and Sondra and I would rate the boys as they walked down the alley.

  But the city didn’t look as vibrant as it did when I’d visited before. The buildings cried out for attention, not like a needy child but like an abuse victim. Pain and misery drifted in the air, along with bus exhaust fumes and the pungent smell of aged garbage. A&I always said that Baltimoreans were built of strength. So in the last few days I’d looked for it in the old man who ran the corner store. I’d looked for it in the way his hand shook when he handled my money. I’d looked for it in his wife as she swept the store’s floor. I’d looked for it in the four dudes on the corner with brown paper bags. I’d looked for it in their lean against the store window. I’d looked for it in their dice game. I haven’t found it yet.

  A mother who wore a skirt and tennis shoes pushed a stroller past me as she held a toddler’s hand. Loiterers, this time old men with limps, circulated in front of the corner store. Little kids with book bags bigger than they were, laughed as they walked in the direction of the bus stop. Cars zipped by, happy to leave the neighborhood. I had just arrived.

  At 7:18, Vivica emerged from our building. I hadn’t thought about what I would say first. Would I thank her for the cruel advice she had given me on Saturday? Would I forget about all the black and white talk and start anew?

  After locking the door, she turned and paused on the steps. Her look was quizzical. Insecurity swept over me like a typhoon. I began chewing on my fingers like cookies. Before I left the house, my mother had told me to “go to my destiny.” What destiny was that? Humiliation? The bus stop? A personal hell called adolescence?

  Vivica’s pleated skirt bounced as she skipped down the stairs in ballerina flats. Her curls were held back by a purple headband. Her eyelids were also purple, her lips pink. Now she resembled a junior in college. She had gained two years in just two days.

  When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she told me I looked like a hot mess without saying a word. We walked silently to the bus stop.

  There weren’t any other students there yet, just an old lady with several large red, blue, and white plastic bags. She threw bits of bread on the ground and a swarm of pigeons flew over.

  “I can’t stand her,” Vivica said. “She always feedin’ those nasty pigeons. Don’t nobody want them over here.”

  Vivica wasn’t looking at me. We were just standing there. I started to do the awkward dance of swinging my arms, and considered whistling but thought that might be too much.

  “Wait until Sheena sees your hair,” said Vivica. “She might just have a heart attack. They ain’t have no hairdressers where you from?”

  I could wear my natural hair in an array of styles—twists, cornrows, braids—but I usually opted for a ponytail with a big Afro puff at the back of my head. I didn’t realize my hair was such a concern to other people.

  “And your wardrobe. Didn’t I tell you that at Maplewood you need to bring the hotness?” She stopped like she needed a break. She put her hand on her forehead like she was going to faint.

  I knew her question was rhetorical, but I tried to answer in defense of myself.

  “I used to wear a uniform to school.”

  “Whateva” was her response. “You’re black on the outside, but everything about you is white. How you talk, how you dress, how you act.”

  Tears were congregating in the corner of my eyes. I looked away as I tried to disband them.

  Other students started to gather. The girls were massive and flaunted their womanly goods. The guys had full beards and mustaches. They admired the womanly goods. Vivica was right, these kids were dressed. It would have been a fashion show if the block had a runway. The girls improvised and strutted down the sidewalk anyway.

  My stomach started to flip like a gymnast and I instantly grew uncomfortable. Was it because I was around so many black kids? That was crazy, I tried to convince myself. But I knew deep down inside that was the reason.

  “Vivica,” yelled a girl who resembled a black Paris Hilton. Blond. Tall. Thin. She glided across the busy intersection, not concerned about cars coming her way. She made them stop and wait.

  “What up, chick?” Paris Hilton asked as she approached us. She shoved a guy out of her way and then turned around and said, “What?” He put his arms up, and she said, “I thought so.” Then she kept walking.

  Paris gave Vivica half a hug so that she wouldn’t mess up her outfit. She was dressed for an awards show, with a short, tight, mini–black number that should have been accessorized with martinis. Instead, Ms. Hilton used a jean jacket as a cover-up and carried a large brown designer purse. Gucci or Fendi? I wasn’t sure which one. No book bag. Her heels were spiked enough to be weapons. A long chain with a diamond cross hung from her neck and she had matching stud earrings.

  “Ain’t nuthin’, Sheena,” Vivica answered.

  Sheena pulled off her big oval-shaped sunglasses that hid her narrow eyes and looked me up and down.

  “What the hell?” she asked.

  Vivica giggled and introduced me as the daughter of the people who owned her new building.

  “Honey child, your hair. What is goin’ on?” She circled me slowly to examine my mane. As she was trying to understand my nappy roots, I was trying to figure out what exactly was black about her. A few shades lighter and she could had gotten arrested with Nicole Richie.

  She patted my Afro like Amy’s mother used to do. Ms. Goldstein always preceded the petting with “In the sixties my Afro-American, I mean African-American friend Tashi used to wear her hair just like this.”

  Sheena said very plainly, “Only two types of black girls don’t have perms: Angela Davises or Oreos. Which one are you?”

  “Can’t you tell?” Vivica chimed in. “She’s definitely a white girl trapped in a black girl’s body.” She answered for me.

  “I just want to take you to the salon and give you a Bone Strait relaxer. But I don’t even know if that would take.” Vivica and Sheena laughed at their inside joke.

  “Where are you from? Africa?” Sheena’s laugh sounded like a car revving up. But in a higher pitch.

  “I’m from New Jersey.” My voice faltered. Could one person survive all this ridicule? I thought about walking away, but to what? To stand alone with the pigeon lady?

  “Oh, yeah? My cousins live in Harlem. You be goin’ up there?” Sheena asked as if answering yes would validate me as a real black girl.

  I had only been to Harlem once, to attend a benefit at the Schomburg Center that my mother was involved in for her book. But I didn’t think Sheena wanted to hear about that.

  “Yes, I’ve been but haven’t spent much time there. I would like to go back and explore the area. There’s a lot of history there.” From the screwed looks on their faces, I knew I’d said too much.

  “I don’t know about all that. All I know is that my babydaddy, Juelz Santana, live up there. You ever seen any of the Dipset when you in Harlem?”

  The puzzled look on my face said it all. Sheena looked at Vivica and telepathically asked, “What’s wrong with this girl, is she some sort of alien?”

  “Where’s Nessa?” Sheena switched subjects.

  “You know that girl’s always late,” Vivica answered. “I talked to her last night she said she
was comin’, though.”

  “Jeffrey’s lookin’ right,” Sheena announced loudly. We all set our eyes on a thinly built masterpiece the color of sand in Mexico. Curly hair framed a finely chiseled face in which every feature agreed with the other. He was hot.

  “Girl, I know, I saw him one Sunday this summer at Druid Hill Park rollin’ in somebody’s Navigator,” Vivica said. “That made him look even finer than he already is.”

  Jeffrey was much more attractive than Cole. He had on pearl-white tennis shoes that matched his bright smile. You could tell he kept up his visits to the dentist. He was slapping hands and waving at females like a politician running for office.

  “Looks like he’s bringing his fine self over to speak to me,” Vivica said. She adjusted her curls and pushed out her chest.

  “Hello, ladies.” In his baggy shorts and oversized white T-shirt, Jeffrey looked like a rapper, but he sounded like a college student. His West Indian accent lingered after he finished talking.

  Then he did something that almost sent me to the nurse’s office for fainting. He looked right at me, grinned like it was Christmas morning, and said, “Sak passé.”

  Instantly I replied, “N’ap boule.” It was what I always said in response to Mr. Bouray’s Haitian greeting.

  Jeffrey smiled at me and I smiled at him. We smiled at each other.

  He continued to converse in Creole, but I had to interrupt him and inform him that I wasn’t Haitian and couldn’t speak the language.

  “Really? I saw the Port-au-Prince T-shirt and just assumed you were representing. How did you know how to respond to my greeting? From Wyclef?” I laughed. It was a joke that I actually got.

  “My father’s best friend is Haitian and he taught me. Actually, this is one of his T-shirts that his company makes. The proceeds go to people in need in Haiti.”

  “That’s very cool,” Jeffrey said. For a few moments, it was just us, and I forgot that I was a hot mess Oreo.

  Vivica and Sheena tried to break through our force field with their intense stares.

  He turned toward them and asked about their summers so they wouldn’t feel left out.

  Vivica stepped in front of Sheena and me like she was Diana Ross and we were The Supremes.

  “My summer was crazy. I was at the park every Sunday. I saw you one time in someone’s rimmed-up Navigator. Who was you rollin’ wit?”

  He looked bored. “That was my cousin.” He shifted his attention back to me.

  “Are you new? I’ve never seen you before.”

  “I’m from New Jersey.” After I said it, I could hear that I sounded tremendously different than my three schoolmates.

  “Oh, what part?” he asked.

  What should I have said? Rainhaven? Which I knew he’d never heard of? Or should it be a more notorious place, like Newark or Camden?

  Before I answered, Vivica bulldozed her way into the conversation.

  “You know, my cousin cuts hair in the shop off the Alameda. You should come and get a shape-up. I could get you a hookup.”

  “That’s okay. I cut my own hair.” I felt a little bad for Vivica. It was obvious she was trying too hard. But then again, so was I.

  “I have family in Jersey,” Jeffrey said. “It’s a cool place. Well, welcome to Maplewood. I’ll see y’all around.”

  I smiled, although I wanted to say, “Not before I see you.” But I figured that would sound silly. His pleasantries and mesmerizing smile gave me hope for the rest of my first day at Maplewood.

  “That boy is too fine for his own good,” Sheena said. “He just don’t know.” She emphasized know.

  “What doesn’t he know?” I asked. They ignored me.

  “Why didn’t y’all hook up again?” Sheena asked Vivica.

  “He wasn’t ready for me. Plus it’s obvious he don’t like light-skinned chicks. He’s always goin’ after some dark-skinned girl.” Vivica directed her comment at me. “You was grinnin’ hard in his face. You want a little chocolate, don’t you? You probably used to skinny white boys with long hair.” Vivica chuckled.

  I thought about my skinny Matt with the long hair.

  “I remember when Jeffrey first moved around the way. He was all weird and foreign, but he cool now. He grew up nicely.” Sheena licked her lips.

  Moments later, a middle-aged Latino man who was lugging a big trash bag behind him said, “Qué pasa, mami?” to Vivica. He had a thick mustache and his pants were covered with dirt.

  “I ain’t Spanish, I’m black,” Vivica snapped with a venomous tone. She stuck her finger in his face and almost poked his eye out. Her demeanor flipped like a coin. I was officially scared of her. Didn’t her father tell my mother something about Vivica being a nice, ambitious young lady? Parents lie too much about their kids.

  He muttered an apology as he threw his hands up. Then he grabbed his bag and hurried on his way.

  “I hate that mess,” she spat. “People always wanna talk Spanish to me. I ain’t Spanish. I don’t even look Spanish.”

  “What’s wrong with being Latino?” Sheena asked. “They got some fine men. I mean, you are pretty light.”

  “Whateva,” Vivica said. She flicked her fingernails.

  “You could be J.Lo’s little sister,” Sheena added jokingly.

  “People act like they never seen a light-skinned black person before,” Vivica said defensively.

  The bus finally pulled up to the curb. There was a big rush to the door and I got pushed around. Sheena and Vivica took the calm route and waited patiently.

  Before I got to the door, I pulled out the monthly bus pass that A&I had bought for me. When I stepped up, I inserted it into the machine.

  “Wrong way,” the bus driver, who had a Santa Claus beard but a Scrooge smile, barked. I turned it around, and my card was rejected again. “Other way,” he snarled. I could feel the impatient breathing of the kids behind me on my neck. The people already seated on the bus looked at me with mild annoyance.

  In a huff, Vivica stepped up and asked, “What, you never rode the bus before?” She took the card from me, showed me the little diagram on the machine, and positioned the card accordingly. Then she stamped idiot on my forehead.

  The entire bus was full. Well, let me correct that. There was half a seat available next to a very large man who was wearing a neon green shirt and pants as bright as the sun. I thought about squeezing into the small space, but when I moved toward the seat and smiled, he looked at the empty spot, maneuvered a little, and covered the remaining area with his leg.

  I turned around and saw Vivica and Sheena standing while holding on to some metal bars. I grabbed a spot next to them while the bus was picking up more riders.

  “You never rode a bus in that white town you from?” Luckily, people couldn’t hear Vivica’s question because the dude next to her had on explosively loud headphones that swallowed his ears.

  What was her deal? She didn’t know anything about me but had already pegged me as someone she didn’t like. Maybe I’ll be lucky today, make some friends, and not have to depend on Vivica and her clique for company.

  It was hard to keep my balance. The bus had to be speeding. The guy next to me, the height of a basketball player, knocked his elbow into my head. But I was too nervous to say “ouch.”

  I watched Vivica and Sheena. They were like pros maneuvering all the bumps, lane changes, and abrupt stops. I personally felt nauseous.

  The ride to school felt endless. Every stop, we picked up more kids who were the same color as me but nonetheless made me uncomfortable. They were all much bigger, stronger, and more aggressive than I was.

  Some were rowdy. Some were outrageously dressed. Some were pretty. Some were athletic. Some were audacious. None, though, were nerdy like me.

  I caught a glimpse of Jeffrey at the front of the bus. His profile put me at ease. It was like a sliver of sunshine in a dark tunnel.

  CHAPTER 5

  “I’m hyped,” Sheena announced as we finally unloaded
. “Did you get that brochure about that new college prep program?” she asked Vivica as we walked toward the school.

  “Yeah, I applied,” Vivica whispered in a tone so low, I could hardly hear her.

  “It looked like a complete waste of time,” Sheena added without acknowledging Vivica’s answer. “I mean, why go to college and pay all that money when I can make money right when I graduate by doing hair?”

  Vivica paused and then lied, “Yeah, I know.”

  The bus stopped in front of Maplewood, and the building didn’t look anything like it had when I’d visited early in the summer. A&I had wanted to assure themselves that it wasn’t a backward move to take me out of a prestigious private school and enroll me in a public one. Then, the school looked fairly harmless. Now it looked menacing. Three large pillars guarded the doors like a trio of Goliaths.

  There was a party going on in the parking lot that I didn’t want to be invited to. Shiny cars were mobile boom boxes, blasting music from their trunks. Several Clearview rules were being broken: 1) No loud music, 2) No loitering, 3) No littering, 4) No inappropriate clothing. Even our uniforms had to be worn in a specific way.

  Inside, Maplewood was like the neglected stepchild of Clearview. I’d eaten candy off the floors of Clearview. They were that clean. Maplewood wasn’t a dump, but it looked like it had received one of those cleanings you do quickly, without expending genuine effort to get rid of the dirt. My mother always told me that I cleaned only for appearance, never really to make it sparkle.

  Clearview was bright. Maplewood was dark. Clearview’s lockers were miniclosets, where I kept my gym uniforms, tennis shoes, books, and an extra pair of jeans and a tee. These lockers were thin gray metal slivers that couldn’t fit books horizontally. The hallways of Clearview were filled with plaques and pictures of celebrities, past presidents, actors, and CEOs who’d visited the school. Maplewood’s hallways were noticeably vacant except for the twelve hundred students clogging the corridors.

  Sheena was one of those popular girls who didn’t mind knowing everyone because in the end she always thought she was superior. She was ultimately put on earth to make everyone a little more fabulous but not as fabulous as herself. That is, as long as you didn’t piss her off. She walked the hallways like her parents paid for them. I wasn’t sure what preceded what, her brassy personality or her strikingly gaudy appearance.