Hallway Diaries

by Felicia Pride

  “It’s okay, Dad,” I said, using my eyes to trace the letters on his red Rutgers T-shirt. “I’m fine with the bus.”

  “Now I know something is wrong, because my little girl would love to spend extra time in the morning with her daddy,” he teased. “What’s going on, Mia?”

  I had to tell him something, otherwise he would get super worried. But I couldn’t tell him the whole story or he’d be so disappointed in me. I couldn’t bear that. Dad was always so proud of my smarts and he enjoyed matching wits with me. “She’s my little genius,” I’d overhear him telling his friends. What would he think if he knew I was struggling in school?

  “You know you can tell me anything,” he said, reading the cautious expression on my face. “Anything that’s troubling you, we can solve it together.”

  “I’ve just been having a tough time fitting in at school,” I told him.

  “Do you mean socially?” he asked. I should’ve known not to be vague with a guy like my dad. He thrived on details. “I thought you made good friends at the academy. Did something go wrong at your sleepover?”

  “No, no.” I didn’t want to mislead him. I sat on a carpeted step. “Everything with Bonita and Allie is great. I’ve just been feeling overwhelmed academically. The workload is just entirely different from City High.”

  He sat next to me.

  “I know it’s tough, sweetie,” he said softly. “And I know that you’d rather be with your friends at City High. You’re a strong person for making that transition so gracefully. But we wanted to make sure that you continue to be challenged so you can reach your brilliant potential. If things get to be too much for you to handle, you know you should never be afraid to come to me.”

  “I know, Dad.” I tried to give him a smile.

  When my dad hugged me, I closed my eyes and let my head rest on his shoulder. He always had a special way of bringing me comfort.

  Dad respected my wishes and just drove me to the bus stop instead. I didn’t have the energy to keep up the everything’s peachy façade for the car ride to school. He understood when I told him that I like to get reading done on the bus. Truthfully, it was my last-minute opportunity to play catch-up with my schoolwork.

  Once I got on the bus, my iPod tuned out the chatty passengers and I started skimming through my books. Strangely, Bonita wasn’t on the bus this morning like she usually was, so I had time to study. I reviewed the authors and scholars we’d been covering in humanities and wondered which historic figure I should focus my oral presentation on. What can I possibly teach that class that they don’t know? My classmates were all so bookish and well read. I couldn’t believe how many times something or someone they mentioned in class sent me running to Wikipedia. The thought alone had me feeling like things were hopeless.

  I felt my cell phone vibrating in my pocket. Someone had just sent me a text message. I flipped open my cell and read:

  Hv a gr8 day. C U @ rehearsal 2nite. Lucas.

  In spite of my sulky mood, I smiled. His text felt like a little reminder from above that no matter how tough life got, things were never hopeless. I texted back: Thnx. U 2.

  A few hours later, I was battling my demons all over again. My math teacher pulled me aside at the end of the class to issue a personal warning: “I don’t know how things worked over at City High,” she said with a piercing look. “But if you don’t get your grades up, I’m going to have to pull you from the winter musical.”

  By the time I got to my humanities class, I slumped in my seat, feeling defeated until Ms. Veltz asked the class a question that stumped everyone else except me.

  “In 1964, who became the youngest person to win the Nobel Peace Prize?” she asked.

  Mine was the sole hand raised.

  “Martin Luther King, Jr.,” I said when she called on me.

  My answer was brief, but I was left with a hunger to talk longer about Dr. King. There was obviously so much that the class should learn about the great man once referred to as the “moral leader of our nation.” The notable figures in history that Ms. Veltz covered in this class were fascinating and inspiring, but one thing that they were not was diverse. That was when it struck me—I would base my oral presentation on an African-American.

  Suddenly I felt excited and eager to get started on my project. I flipped through my notebook for a blank page, then started scribbling down ideas, Stacie style.

  I hightailed it to the music room as soon as the last bell rang. I didn’t even stop by my locker because I wanted to use the twenty minutes before rehearsal started to practice my extra numbers. Mr. Stewart wanted to know that I was up to that challenge. Just in case I wasn’t, Lin would be my musical understudy. She was learning the same three numbers.

  The music room was empty. I took my place at the keyboard and began by playing the pieces. I had enough time to play each one twice, which helped me to smooth out the kinks in my performance. With a few extra minutes left to kill, I started playing around on the keyboard. I began to play my grandma’s favorite, “Clair de Lune.”

  “That sounds nice.” Lucas was standing in the doorway watching me play.

  I lifted my hands from the keyboard.

  “Where did you come from?” I asked playfully.

  “No, don’t stop playing,” he said, and walked over with his guitar. He took a seat on a nearby bench and began strumming along. His acoustic sounds harmonized perfectly with my piano notes. As I played measure after measure, Lucas kept up his perfect accompaniment. It was like we’d been rehearsing together for years. When we’d played our last note, Lucas and I held each other’s gaze for a few moments. I felt a definite connection between us. It was a nice feeling.

  In the next moment, Lucas leaned toward me and—to my surprise—softly kissed the corner of my lips. He pulled back a little as if to make sure I was okay with his move. I stared back into his eyes until he leaned in once more. This time, he kissed me fully on the lips. When he pulled away again, I started babbling to hide my surprise.

  “You know ‘Clair de Lune’?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said. “I like classical music.”

  “Me, too,” I confessed for the first time to anyone other than my family and piano teachers. “That piece has always been my jam.”

  “Ah, early birds,” Mr. Stewart walked in saying. “I like to see that dedication.”

  A group of musicians followed him in. Lucas stood up and smiled a knowing smile at me.

  “I’ll see you after rehearsal,” he said before joining the musicians in the string section.

  I was still buzzing a half hour after rehearsal. Lucas and I were sitting on the floor in front of my locker chatting nonstop.

  “I never realized double Dutch could be such an intense sport.” He looked amazed.

  “You have no idea,” I explained. “Those competitions are so off the hook you’d be blown away.”

  “Well, let me know what you decide to do,” he said, shaking his head. “I know it’s gotta be a tough thing choosing between the musical and the double-Dutch tournament.”

  I took a deep breath, feeling nervous at the mere thought of that night.

  “There you are, Mia.” Allie rushed down the hallway to me. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “What’s wrong?” I stood up to meet her—I knew something was wrong because Allie never rushed anywhere.

  “You didn’t hear about Bonita?” She looked flustered.

  “No—what about her?” I asked, concerned. “I noticed she wasn’t on the bus today.”

  “That’s because she stayed home today.” Allie was even speaking faster than usual. “Jennifer Octavian confronted Bonita yesterday, saying that she knows Bonita is here on scholarship because she has a parent on staff.”

  Allie paused to take a breath. Unless Bonita had been adopted by a white family, I couldn’t think of who she could be related to at the academy.

  “Bonita is Mr. Rick’s daughter,” Allie continued. “The n
ews is being spread through the cast and crew. I’m sure by tomorrow everyone else will be talking about it.”

  My heart sank. How could Jennifer be so vicious?

  “Bonita must feel horrible right now,” I said almost to myself. “We’ve got to go see her. She needs our support right now.”

  “I tried calling her a few times already, but she’s not picking up,” said Allie.

  “She’s gotta come back here and hold her head up high.” Lucas looked as bothered by this as we were.

  “At least it’s Friday,” I tried to reason. “Bonita can regroup this weekend, and hopefully she’ll come back Monday feeling strong enough to face this.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” said Allie.

  I was the first to arrive at the dance room we’d reserved at the local community center. Stacie and the rest of the Rope-a-Dope crew were meeting me there for our first tournament rehearsal session.

  I was facing the mirrored walls when I caught the reflection of the newest Rope-a-Dope member walking in. I turned around to greet her.

  “Hey—Yolanda, is it?” I wasn’t sure if I’d remembered her name right. “I met you at the street festival.”

  “Mia, I know.” She smiled and dropped her tote bag. “So Stacie says you’ll be co-choreographing the routines?”

  “Yup.” I wondered why Yolanda looked doubtful.

  “Oh. ’Cause you seem so-I don’t know, kinda…”

  “White?” Kendra’s obnoxious voice entered the room a full few seconds before she did.

  “Kendra, your jokes never get new, do they?” I was too annoyed to hold back.

  “Who says I’m joking?” In absence of her laugh-track crew, she started cracking up by herself.

  Yolanda looked uncomfortable, but not for long.

  “Oh, you got the new Lances, I see,” Kendra told her with admiration.

  “Yeah, this set me back a few chips, but I had to rock it.”

  I obviously wasn’t up on the latest gear, because I had no idea what Lances were.

  “Go ’head.” Yolanda offered her colorful hooded jacket to Kendra. “Try it on.”

  “That’s lookin’ tight,” Kendra said, wearing the jacket and checking her look in the mirror. “Too right.” She struck a pose.

  For a second I didn’t know if “too right” was the latest phrase or if Kendra was just making things up as she went along to make me feel out of touch. I’m overthinking everything, I thought. I told myself to chill and go with the flow. There was no way I was going to let Kendra make me feel like a stranger in my own community.

  Stacie walked in with three other jumpers, and I was glad for the distraction.

  “Oooh!” she squealed when she saw me. “You got your hair cut!” Stacie gave me a hug and then turned me around so she could check it out. “You look different,” she commented.

  I didn’t know if that was a compliment or not. I got the impression she meant that I looked suburban. Just shake it off, I told myself.

  “Let’s get straight to business, people,” Stacie announced. “What song do you think we should perform to?”

  “‘No Need’ by Jah-Nice,” Kendra called out.

  Most of the girls chimed in with their agreement. Stacie turned to me when I didn’t react. “What do you think of performing to that?” she asked.

  “I—I don’t know if I’ve heard that one,” I admitted reluctantly.

  “What?” Kendra exaggerated her disbelief. “You sure she won’t have us doing the running man or some old-ass move if she choreographs this? She ain’t even up on nothin’ new. Remember, this is double Dutch, not ballet—so no classical music selections and pirouettes, please.”

  I wondered what they would think if they knew that I and the boy I was dating liked listening to classical music now and then. Suddenly, I wasn’t as eager to tell Stacie about Lucas anymore.

  “Actually,” I heard myself say in a confident voice, “I was thinking that we should perform to True MC’s ‘True Life Story’ to represent East Orange.”

  Everyone thought this was a perfect idea—everyone, that is, except Kendra, who for once didn’t offer her opinion.

  At the end of our rehearsal, I left the center convinced that if I was to gain back any respect I’d lost, I had to come up with the best routine those girls had ever seen.

  CHAPTER 10

  I started off my Monday morning by having to run to catch the bus. My thighs felt sore as I dodged traffic on the main avenue to cut off the bus. Maybe I’d pulled a muscle the day before when I worked on choreography alone in the basement for four straight hours.

  When I stepped on the bus, I spotted Bonita blankly staring out the window, looking at nothing in particular. She got startled when I sat in the empty seat next to her.

  “Hey, gurl,” I said gently. “Are you all right? Allie and I were so worried about you.”

  She looked at me with bloodshot eyes. I could tell she’d been crying. I put my hand on hers.

  “I was so devastated that I couldn’t bring myself to come to school Friday.” She sniffed. “And I hardly ever miss school unless I’m really really sick.”

  I could understand the pressure Bonita felt to measure up.

  “It’s not that I’m ashamed of my dad. I just never wanted people to box me into some ‘underprivileged’ category and treat me differently because of it.”

  “Bonita.” I chose my words carefully, not wanting to say the wrong thing while she was feeling so vulnerable. “You can’t control what people decide to think of you. The only thing you can focus on is how you feel about yourself. And from where I’m sitting, you are a sensational person who’s driven, intelligent, sweet, and very talented. How can trifling things like gossip and small talk hold you down when those amazing qualities have you soaring so high?”

  “Wow.” Bonita exhaled slowly, then smiled. “Did you just make that up or have you been reading Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul?”

  “You think you’re shocked,” I joked along. “I’m over here thinking, Why can’t I follow my own damn advice?”

  We both starting cracking up. At that moment, the laughter felt like the best medicine our souls could ask for.

  I realized why I loved being in my piano teacher Nadine’s company so much. For one thing, she made no apologies for her quirky taste in clothes and furniture. And to me, she was like a guardian to pianos. Having worked at the prestigious Steinway & Sons for some time, she knew everything there was to know about pianos. She even seemed to treat pianos like individuals. I enjoyed hearing her draw links between pianos and people.

  “Any piano that’s played at length over a long period of time begins to lose its unique pitch and needs to be tuned,” she told me. Nadine could see how burned out I was becoming. I was working hard to keep going. Besides, my talk with Bonita had hit home.

  Even though it felt like my world was crumbling down, I couldn’t afford to break down with it. I had my grades to think of. Doing well in this new school was just too important to me. I was spending too much energy trying to prove myself to everyone. Acing my academics was my way of proving something to myself.

  It was time to stop playing everyone’s song but my own.

  I set out to give myself some much-needed fine tuning.

  “Mia, I don’t know how you came up with those moves so fast, but we all love them,” Stacie was talking so loud that I had to hold the receiver a few inches from my head. “Even Kendra let it slip that she thought the choreography was tight.”

  “Thanks,” I said sheepishly. I didn’t think Stacie would be so complimentary when she heard what I had to tell her. “Stace, I have some bad news,” I started.

  “Oh, it can’t be that bad, gurl.” Stacie hadn’t stopped smiling since she got the tournament admissions letter.

  I swallowed. “Well, remember the winter musical I told you about?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The opening night is at the same time as the tournament.”
<
br />   There was silence on her end. And then she snarled, “So, whatchu sayin’, Mia?”

  “I’m locked into playing the piano, and can’t back out this late in the game,” I said. “But that’s one reason I worked so hard to give the squad a tight routine and—”

  “Kendra was right about you,” Stacie’s voice sounded constricted and angry.

  Before I could ask what she meant by that, Stacie hung up on me.

  Instead of calling her back, I set out to do the next unpleasant thing on my list. I walked out of my room and down to the den, where my mom was reading a magazine. When she watched me walk in like a zombie and then plop down next to her in a heap, she knew something was up.

  “I know I haven’t been the greatest daughter to you recently,” I started before she could ask me what was wrong. “I was angry that you expected me to just find my place at a new school when it took me so long to feel like I belonged in my old school. I’m not as socially graceful and likable as you, Mom. What comes easy for you is a struggle for me,” I said.

  “Mia, honey.” She put her arms lovingly around me. “I think you’re mistaken. Look at how quickly you made friends with Allie and Bonita. Beyond that, anyone who’d rather shun you than get to know you isn’t important anyway. And without you, Stacie couldn’t have gotten Rope-a-Dope as far. I watch you get up on stage and perform with the other jumpers and you shine. Now, you achieve these things in your own unique way, but no one—not even me—can take away from the fact that you do achieve them.”

  Tears rolled down the sides of my face. For the first time in a long time, I could see that my mother was proud of me, just the way I was.

  “I need help, Mom.” I broke down. “I’ve been trying so hard to fit in that I messed up—big time.”

  She listened without judgment as I told her about the extra musical numbers, the tournament conflict, and my advanced algebra and humanities classes. For once, I was glad to have a mother who thrived on being a problem solver. We put our heads together and decided that I should start intense tutoring sessions with my dad right away. It was also clear that I had to scale back my musical numbers in the show. The sooner I could tackle the problem, the better.