Hallway Diaries

by Felicia Pride

  Vivica was more like Sheena’s personal assistant, tagging along behind, answering Sheena’s questions when asked but not adding much else. And well, I guess that made me the intern who didn’t speak at all. As we walked the halls, kids were parked in the middle, reenacting fight scenes, and shooting the breeze.

  After strolling around the entire school to see who she could see, Sheena called us heifers, told us she’d see us at lunch, and then departed.

  As Vivica and I went to homeroom, I asked her, “Why didn’t you tell Sheena you were in the college prep program?”

  “I don’t like to put my business on blast,” she said. How was telling a good friend the truth about your classes broadcasting your business?

  We reached room 215, which was about the size of my bedroom in Clearview. The desks seemed small for high school students. Especially for students who looked like adults.

  Vivica selected a seat in the fourth row and I plopped down next to her.

  Two guys walked in dressed for a basketball game, with headbands, sleeveless jerseys, and matching shorts. They were chatting loudly about whose Air Jordans were newer.

  Another girl walked in with a head wrap and several arm bangles that clanked when she walked. She smiled at the class and said, “Peace, everyone.” Her greeting was ignored. Another kid yelled out, “Right back at you, Sister Souljah.” She shook her head in disgust. Something told me that wasn’t her name.

  Ms. Jimu, our homeroom and fourth period English teacher, walked in. She was black! The only black people who’d worked at Clearview were Ms. Sheila, one of Principal Monroe’s executive assistants, a stern, heavyset woman who’d worn panty hose three shades lighter than her legs and Mr. Charles, the head of maintenance. Amy used to joke that they were having a torrid love affair, despite the fact that I told her they were mother and son.

  Ms. Jimu looked like she could have been my mother’s daughter. Maybe she was just one of those old women who had a young face because she used good skin cream. She wore a stylish pin-striped pantsuit and her hair was pulled back in a bun appropriate for a teacher.

  She greeted us warmly and began taking attendance. She asked the twelve of us to tell her one thing that we had done over the summer and the last book we’d read.

  “Angela Anderson,” Ms. Jimu called.

  “Here,” a girl sang. Seated, she looked taller than me standing. Most of her height came from her hair. It was intricately designed, with curls, ponytails, and knots stacked on top of each other. It looked heavy. I wondered if her neck hurt.

  She said she’d spent her summer taking singing lessons. She even sang the title of the last book she’d read, an unauthorized biography of Whitney Houston.

  “Ericka Brown.”

  “Here,” said Ericka. “This summer I helped my mother at her day care center. The last book I read was The Coldest Winter Ever by Sister Souljah.”

  “Oh, that book was off the hook,” Angela said. Vivica agreed.

  While Ms. Jimu continued calling roll, I jotted down the name of the book so that I could find out who Sister Souljah really was.

  “Vivica Lamont.”

  “Here,” Vivica said softly.

  “Nothin’,” was her answer to what she’d done this summer. A&I had told me that she’d completed an Upward Move program that allowed her to intern at a local advertising agency. That could have been her answer.

  “Last book I read was one for class last year. I don’t remember the title.”

  “Okay, perhaps you’ll remember sometime throughout this year,” Ms. Jimu remarked.

  “Jay Mason,” she called.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” one of the basketball dudes said in a deep voice.

  “Uh, I didn’t do much this summer but work at Foot Locker. That wasn’t too exciting. But I did get a crazy discount and bought mad sneakers. Um, last book I read was 50 Cent’s autobiography.”

  Ms. Jimu looked disappointed. She moved from her post behind her desk and stood in front of it. She pulled off her brown-rimmed glasses and did that bite-the-tip teacher thing with one of the arms.

  It wasn’t long before she called, “Nina Parker.”

  “Present.” A low rumble from the class.

  I hesitated before continuing. I looked down at my hands and covered my left with my right and then reversed them. I kept this up to keep me calm.

  “This summer I visited Italy with my parents for the first time.”

  “Italy,” Jay Mason repeated. “Damn, I didn’t even go over West all summer and she said she went to another country. What, you rich? Can I be down?”

  The class laughed at Jay. Or were they laughing at me?

  “Okay, class, that’s enough.” Ms. Jimu looked down at the attendance so she would get my name right and then said, “Nina, tell us a little about your trip.”

  At that moment, I decided to downplay one of the best vacations I’d ever been on.

  “We really didn’t do much. Just visited a few museums and other tourist sites. That’s all.” My voice was cracking. My accent was strong. My confidence was diminished.

  “Museums?” Jay asked. “That’s what you did on vacation? Shoot, I’d be chillin’ eating some pasta somewhere.” He was officially the class clown in my book.

  I think Ms. Jimu could sense that I was uncomfortable, so she switched to the next topic about the last book I had read. Technically, it was Horrible Girls That Are Rich, a quick tale in the vein of the movie Mean Girls. Amy had recommended it, and I understood why. It was superficial, not too complex, but entertaining. Instead, I said the one that I’d read before that, Chronicle of a Death Foretold, by Gabriel García Márquez. Ms. Richardson, my last English teacher, who stuttered but still loved to read aloud in class, introduced me to his work and I was on a mission to read any and everything by him.

  “Oh, I’m impressed,” said Ms. Jimu. “What did you think about it?”

  I looked around at the class and all their faces shouted, “No! End the discussion here. Give a short answer!”

  “I liked it.” When she didn’t ask me anything else, relief flushed away the class’s indignation.

  There were only a couple of students called after me. Ms. Jimu took a long breath when she finished and said, “Well, it sounds like many of you need to do more reading. But don’t worry about that. We will be doing plenty of that in English this year.”

  A collective moan.

  “Now, has anyone heard of Malawi?” Ms. Jimu asked next.

  Without thinking, I raised my hand. She called on me to tell the class what I knew.

  “It’s a small East African country near Tanzania and Zambia.”

  When the words fell out of my mouth, my accent was so strong that even I heard it. The class burst out into laughter. Even Sister Souljah was grinning.

  Vivica pursed her lips and pouted at me and shook her head, right before she turned away from me.

  “That’s right, very good,” Ms. Jimu congratulated me.

  “That’s where I’m from.” She went on to tell us that she had arrived in the United States when she was ten years old and had lived in various cities on the East Coast. She had two master’s degrees: one in English and one in education. She taught because it was the best way to give back.

  Vivica whispered, “And the best way to be broke.” But I admired Ms. Jimu’s conviction. She reminded me of A&I.

  Our teacher went on to describe the college preparatory program as a cutting-edge curriculum that was one of a kind in Baltimore. We were expected to graduate at the top of our class, with numerous college acceptances, and well prepared to tackle university life.

  When the bell rang, Vivica warned, “You better watch tryin’ to be the star of the class. That ain’t a way to make friends. You want people to makes jokes about you for bein’ a nerd?”

  “But aren’t we all nerds? Isn’t that why we’re in the college prep program?”

  “I ain’t no nerd. I already regret that I’m not in the regula
r classes with my peoples.” She fought back.

  “But you had to pass advanced placement tests to get in here, so I know you’re smart.”

  “Whateva,” she said as she rushed to walk ahead of me to her next class.

  Although she wasn’t the nicest girl, I was disappointed that we didn’t have second period together. Mainly because it was better to know someone, anyone, than to know no one, even if said someone was unfriendly. I walked to gym and she went to her career exploration class.

  CHAPTER 6

  Ms. Johnson fulfilled the female gym teacher stereotype. She was short, built like an adolescent boy, and it was obvious that she chose barbells over makeup.

  The class was huge, probably thirty-five girls. Suddenly I was alone.

  “Ladies, let’s get some things clear.” A few girls rolled their eyes and picked at their fake nails the same way Vivica did. Some didn’t even bother to get changed. One girl sat on the side in her skin-tight jeans and tank top with a neck full of expensive jewelry. She told Ms. Johnson she’d take a zero before she took her chains off.

  “Gym is a serious class,” our teacher continued. “It’s not a class that you will breeze through. It will not be an easy A, as some of you think.” I guess this is what Napoleon would have been like if he’d been black and female.

  “Young women your age do not exercise the way they should. But this class will change that.

  “You will work!” Her voice became scary.

  “You will push yourself!” she yelled. She walked past me and a smell of onions and smoke invaded my nostrils. It was a nauseating combination.

  “You will sweat!” she roared.

  “In fact, your grade will depend on it.” The class sucked their teeth. That gave Ms. Johnson a weird satisfaction.

  She told us to head outside and get prepared to run a mile. I was excited, because running always cleared my head, and my group in Rainhaven ran triple that amount in one session. But it was far from no sweat.

  It was about eighty-nine degrees outside. While most girls walked and talked the entire time, neatly divided into cliques, I ran, because I had no one to talk to.

  I should mention now that I inherited overactive sweat glands from my father. After the mile, sweat occupied every crevice of my body, even the hard-to-reach places. My hair was monstrous after escaping the rubber band that tried to hold it hostage.

  I figured that Maplewood would have clean showers and fresh towels like Clearview. Wrong again.

  Maplewood had one stall that smelled of polluted mop water. The dirt on the tiles seemed comfortable and didn’t look like it was leaving anytime soon. Ms. Johnson laughed when I asked for a washcloth. No shower. No deodorant. And no comb, brush, or oil to smooth the edges of my hair.

  If I had looked crazy when I’d arrived at school, now I looked plain ridiculous.

  I arrived at English class before Vivica and picked a seat in the back of the classroom in the outermost corner. I was still sweaty, and my deodorant had slowed down tremendously. Vivica took a seat next to the girl with the midget on her head.

  Ms. Jimu arrived as the same students from homeroom trickled in.

  “Okay, today we’re going to go over the class syllabus. We’re going to discuss what’s expected of you as well as what we’re going to cover during the school year.”

  She passed out the syllabi while the class groaned.

  I was surprised to see that we’d be learning about so many writers of color. I’d attended private school all my life, and at the most, we had studied a little Toni Morrison and Langston Hughes.

  Ms. Jimu’s syllabus included writers like Gwendolyn Brooks, Zora Neale Hurston, James Baldwin, Nikki Giovanni, and Ralph Ellison. All names I recognized from A&I’s efforts to supplement Clearview’s black-writer reading list deficiency.

  After she went over the syllabus and no one had questions, she said, “Okay, I want to tell you about a new extracurricular activity that I’m spearheading. I finally received the approval to start a poetry club and slam-performing group. The group will perform several times throughout the year as well as compete against other schools, and hopefully compete nationally. I’m looking for poets, lyricists, MCs, and spoken-word artists. I want a well-rounded group. On Wednesday I am having a meeting where you can find out more information. I hope to see many of you there.”

  I glanced at Vivica and she had an excited expression on her face. She did a dance in her seat.

  I was a little excited, too. This was something I could get involved in and maybe carve a little space for myself at Maplewood. I’d been in a poetry club at Clearview, although there had been only four of us. Carl Smith liked to write poetry about Star Trek, Jenny Tupelo wrote depressing sonnets, and Leslie Mint thought she was the second coming of Emily Dickinson. I had a black and white composition book filled with poems, and thought about which box I had stashed it in so I could pull it out when I got home.

  By the time lunch came, I was ready for a break. The cafeteria was complete mayhem. Any bottled-up energy that Maplewood students had held on to during the morning classes was released and recharged here. There were about three hundred too many students in the cafeteria, I didn’t care that it looked like a ministadium. I was sure some fire codes were being broken.

  Before reaching the line, I could smell the pizza and French fries on today’s menu. Vivica had secured a table and thankfully Sheena waved me over. Vivica looked angrily at her friend. Another girl was seated with them. She had on a cap twisted to the side with two long braids extending beneath it. Large gold hoop earrings weighed down her ears and I could see her bright pink lip gloss from across the room.

  “Hi, ladies,” I said in the most cheery tone I could muster. Sheena offered her usual “What up, chick?” and Vivica just gave me a blank stare.

  “Hi, I’m Nessa,” she said to introduce herself.

  “I’m Nina. Nice to meet you.” I meant that. She seemed normal.

  She extended a fist and I extended my hand. She banged my hand with her fist.

  “I was giving you a pound.” She threw her head back in laughter and her braids flew up and knocked her cheeks. She had on a white tank top with graffiti artwork that spelled her name. Her jeans were stylishly ripped, unlike mine, which were just the product of wear and tear. She had on colorful high-top tennis shoes.

  “I’m feeling the wild Afro puff,” she said. “If you get another one you could be like The Lady of Rage.”

  “Thanks,” I said. Even though I didn’t know who that was, it was the best compliment I had gotten all day.

  “But you ever thought about getting dreads?” Nessa asked. “They’re hot right now. LilWeezy, Lil John. I mean, Busta cut his off, but he was rocking them for a minute. And of course, the queen of hip-hop, Lauryn Hill, had hers.”

  “Nessa is a serious hip-hop chick,” Sheena explained. “She spins on her head and all that crazy mess. Personally, I only like the fine rappers. If you ain’t fine, I don’t need to listen to you.”

  “Well, welcome to the hood at Maplewood.” Nessa smiled and put her arm around me.

  While we walked to the lunch line, Sheena asked why my hair was bushier than this morning.

  “Why you look so crazy?”

  I told the Big Three how I had run a mile in gym and thought that I’d be able to take a shower but was wrong. Thus, I was left sweaty, and my hair always got curlier anytime it received more moisture.

  They went on to tell me how being a star in gym was “wack” because it wasn’t a real class. Other students walked past me and stared at the greasy Brillo pad on top of my head.

  “That’s a hot mess,” Sheena said.

  “My hair?” I asked.

  “No, the entire situation is a hot mess.” That’s when I learned that the term could describe anything.

  “Who were you tryin’ to impress by gettin’ all sweaty?” Vivica asked. “Ain’t no dudes in that class.”

  “I didn’t want to get a zero.” I
knew my explanation was weak.

  “Please, when’s the last time you heard about someone failin’ gym?” Vivica asked.

  The line to purchase food curved around the front of the cafeteria. It took ten of the thirty minutes reserved for eating just to purchase food.

  We returned to the table with three identical orange plastic trays that carried a carton of milk, a small packet of fries, and a greasy slice of pizza cut into a rectangle.

  Sheena took the pepperoni off her pizza and gave it to Nessa. She gave her fries to Vivica and pulled out a water to substitute for the milk she wasn’t going to drink.

  As I stared at her, she explained, “I’m on a diet. These lunches are all fat.” She and Amy could have been sisters. They were both very high maintenance.

  “Oh, Nessa, tomorrow’s the interest meeting for the spoken-word joint,” Vivica said with excitement in her voice. “You know we up in there. Ms. Jimu says she’s lookin’ for MCs and spoken-word artists.”

  “Oh hell yeah. I was working on some stuff in class this morning. Check this out.”

  And right after swallowing a bite of pizza, Nessa rapped:

  Sometimes I wonder

  If living is for me

  ’Cause apples don’t fall

  Far from the tree

  And my father ain’t

  What he supposed to be

  I wish there were more

  Dads in the sea

  That I could choose

  ’Cause I hate to lose

  But I ain’t won yet

  In the land of bul-lets

  Some grab tecs

  ’Cause death they already met

  I wanna give life a chance

  But you’ll never see me

  Prance like Cinderella

  I’m a helluva chick that

  Even your strongest

  Can’t mess wit