“What was that all about?” Claudette asks me, her cheeks burning.
“Are you kidding?” I’m shaking. “You knocked over the cards. You put something in your pocket.”
“No way. Are you crazy?” She arches her eyebrows. “He must have seen you steal something! What was it?”
I kick a pebble as hard as I can. “He’s a creep.”
“Come on,” she persists. “We won’t tell.”
“I didn’t take anything, Claudette. But you did.”
Claudette tosses her head. Jessica doesn’t say a word. I expect her to be furious at Alvin and to follow my lead in questioning Claudette, but she’s totally quiet. She and Claudette are walking next to each other, in step, hogging up the whole sidewalk. I’m dancing to the side.
Claudette looks at me long and hard, her eyes like slits.
I shrug and shake my head. The only kid I know personally who steals—well, before Claudette—is a girl a year ahead of us who brags. She says she uses her “honest face” to get away with it. It’s true: she looks like she’s in Swiss Family Robinson. She shoplifts cashmere sweaters and jewelry from the mall on weekends, stashing it in a giant leather tote she carries, then sells the stuff to kids at school for half price. I’ve heard of another kid too, who supposedly shoplifts on a regular basis, but I don’t know if it’s true.
While I’m thinking about this, Claudette starts talking about the movie she saw last night. Jessica talks with her, acting like we simply bought chocolate exactly the way we’d planned, and nothing else happened. But I can’t join in.
At school the next day, Lavonn’s caught up in the hall behind a mass of other kids. She’s ambling along—until she spots me. I see how much her movements are like her mother’s: they both have a style of walking that, even if it’s quick, looks relaxed. Once she’s with me she matches my long-legged pace, as much as she can, with the crowd pushing around us.
“My mom said you came over.” She pulls at her backpack strap, black like her jeans and boots.
“Yeah. I needed someplace to go and …” I rub my forehead, which is aching. I keep striding next to her, shouldering my way through masses of kids, and lower my voice. “My dad’s got a girlfriend, I think. And my mom’s clueless.”
“Your moms is kinda cool,” Lavonn says.
“I never see Jimi anymore.” Words are tumbling out. “And he’s in some kind of trouble. Big trouble, as in somebody’s after him.” I wonder, abruptly, if I’m imagining that, because of Sarah’s story. “At Fat Slices … Jessica and Claudette, they—” It would sound crazy if I told it all; there’s nothing I can prove.
Lavonn shakes her head as she pulls open a classroom door, but before she steps in she turns her head back. “The way I remember it, you used to complain about Jimi, that he was a pest.” And she flounces into the room, with her head high, leaving me standing alone. Even Lavonn doesn’t get it; nobody does.
I rush off to Biology and watch the clock, then at lunchtime, feeling totally lost, I wander over by the basketball court to see if Lavonn is there. This week she’s been hanging out there to check out the guys. Sure enough, she and Demetre, whose gold hoops are the biggest I’ve ever seen, are huddled on a ledge with a couple of others. “Hey, girlfriend,” they tease, wrinkling their noses when I unwrap my rice cake with almond butter and sprouts. “What are you eating?” They talk to me exactly the same as they do to each other. “What do you have?” they ask, peering into each other’s lunches, giggling and joking. “Did you catch the awards last night? It was so good.”
“Off the hook.”
“They were kickin’ it,” another girl chimes in. She jumps up, lifts her arms, and shakes her tiny body, real graceful.
“Hey, what about Algebra?” Demetre asks, squinting her eyes, and all of a sudden we’re discussing one of my favorite subjects: math. She brings up logarithms, and then we’re off, throwing around sets of new words: quadratic, polynomial, trigonometric, exponential, and rational functions. “Let’s get basic. What are real numbers?”
We all get into it. “They can be written in decimal notation,” Lavonn recites. “The set of real numbers includes all integers, positive and negative, all fractions, and the irrational numbers.”
“I’m scared of you!” Demetre says, lifting her index finger high in the air.
“Picture them as points on a line or something like that,” I tell them, remembering what Dad told me once. I draw a line on the back of a notebook and mark it up with negative and positive numbers. Soon my head is spinning with numbers, fractions, and ratios.
The bell rings. We stand up, brush off our clothes, then Lavonn says, “Nina, come to rehearsal tonight. It’s hecka fun.”
I shake my head.
“You should try it out. And if you don’t like it, you don’t have to come back.” She tugs on my arm.
I’m tempted, I really am, but scared. What if I go and someone says, “Hey, you’re not really black; you don’t belong here”?
“Not this time,” I say and shake her off. “Thanks anyway, though.” I smile. “I’m gonna think about it.”
All week I bounce back and forth between eating with Lavonn and Demetre and with Jessica and her friends. Now I’m calling them her friends, because actually they are: Jessica follows Claudette like a puppy trailing its mother. She’s even begun to toss her hair back in the exact same way. On Thursday, after lunch, Jessica pulls me aside as we scamper to class. “Come here,” she whispers and jerks my arm, pulling me away from the crowd until we’re hanging precariously on the outside of the stair railing. It feels good to have her seek me out again and try to get us into a private space. Maybe I’ve been blowing everything out of proportion. Mom says that can happen in new situations, and everything around me sure is new.
“What is it?” I look around eagerly to see what she wants to show me.
She turns her back to the steps, so nobody can hear. “Nina, what are you doing?” she hisses. Her pale green eyes are cold, like a frozen lake.
“What are you talking about?”
“How come you’re eating with them”—she waves her arm toward the bottom of the stairs—”like every other day? Is that who you want to be friends with now?” Her face is getting red.
“Are you counting? I didn’t know you were keeping score. Can’t I eat with whoever I want to?” I’m mad too. “Since when am I your property? I didn’t think you’d give a …!” And I start cussing.
“Oh, now you’re talking like them too!”
“Them?”
“You know,” she whispers, “those … kids. Lavonn.”
“My mom is the one who swears, Jessica! You know that. My white mom.” I take a deep breath. Does this mean she does want to be friends? I’m too angry to care. The second bell is ringing and kids hurry by, so we push in too. The little bit of sturdiness in my world—the bits of the old Jessica that were left, the Jessica I knew—just collapsed.
That weekend I’m going to Dad’s again by myself on Saturday afternoon. The neighborhood that seemed so scary when I first came is familiar now; I know old Mister Hannibal with the shaky hands who hangs out on his step next door and tips his hat to me, and the little girl who jumps rope in front of the blue house on the other side of Dad’s. She’s a double Dutch whiz. Everyone knows who I am too—”Mister Armstrong’s girl”—and they stop to comment on how “mighty proud” my dad is of me, or the need for rain after all this smoky air, or sometimes, shaking their heads, people fuss about the “six foot” potholes pitting the street, “big enough,” they mutter, “to swallow a car.”
Once inside I’m getting cozy, curled up in Dad’s big brown easy chair, when the phone rings. “Hey, little sister,” a woman purrs. Her voice is syrupy, as if she knows me.
“Who is this, please?”
“Helane Douglass. We met last year. Over at … your place.” She sounds like she’s smiling so hard her face could crack.
“Oh, yeah, I might remember.” I try to
make my voice cold enough to put her in a deep freeze.
“Well, I’m going to be over soon, so hopefully I’ll have the good fortune to see you again, ma chérie. Is Silas there?”
“No.” And what’s this ma chérie crap?
“Would you please tell him I’ll be coming by about three?” If I were an ice-cream sundae, she’d be hot fudge, oozing all over me.
“Okay,” I mumble, whipping a chill around the word.
“Have him give me a call when he gets in, okay? Bye-bye, see you soon.”
“Bye.” I thought Dad and I were going to get a chance to talk about Miss Sarah Armstrong. Not Miss Helane.
Dad and Jimi burst in with a smell of sunshine and fresh air. Dad’s arms are full of grocery bags, and he’s sporting baby dreads, a new look since I last saw him. Jimi too. I stare until Dad says, “Nina, give us a hand, will you?” While I help put food away, lifting cans from the bag and handing them to him, he asks, “Any calls?”
“No,” I lie. No way am I going to give Dad that message from chérie herself.
Outside the window I catch a glimpse of someone who looks like Tyrone, slouching on the sidewalk across the street from Dad’s. Just standing there. What’s he doing in this neighborhood?
I shoo Jimi back into his bedroom, force him into the corner, and confront him. “What’s going on?”
“Going on?” He exposes his teeth in a gap-tooth smile, like Mister Innocence, except his silver braces shine like a gangster’s grill.
“No good,” I say, pushing him against a wall. “The red bike?” I take a gamble. “The bike I saw you riding. Where’d you get it?”
He blanches. “Bike?” he echoes, while his face crumbles.
“Jimi, tell me. Something’s going on. You haven’t told Dad, I see, since you’re still alive.”
But he doesn’t laugh. Instead, there’s silence, until I twist his arm behind his back.
“Tell me.”
“Okay, okay.” I feel his arm tremble. “I took it,” he whispers. “Don’t tell Dad. Please …”
“You took it?” I repeat numbly, hanging on to his arm, tight. “You stole it?” Jimi was never a thief.
“Uh-huh.” He nods. “I was only going to borrow it. But he saw me—” Jimi’s whimpering and tugging on his arm, trying to free it. “Dad says they owe black people!”
My body blocks his escape, and I tighten my grasp, twisting the skin on his arm. “Owe us! What ever happened to you that makes anybody owe you anything?”
“Dad’s telling me about it. It’s compen … compen …”
“Jimi, you can’t go around taking other peoples’ property as compensation. That’s ridiculous.” I stop for a minute, keeping my grip on his arm. “You’re in big trouble, boy.”
“I didn’t think …”
“You’re right, you didn’t think. That’s the problem. Where did you find it?”
“In a garage on Cedar Crest,” he says, quietly. “It was open, and the bike was in front, just laying against the house. With no lock.”
“Back in the old neighborhood.” I roll my eyes.
“The kid is going to kill me.” He starts to cry. “I didn’t know the bike was his. Last week he saw me riding it up by Martin Luther King.”
“So that was you. Do you realize what you did? The bike is Tyrone Jackson’s.” My heart thumps as the facts solidify. “The whole high school is scared of him, Jimi! He’s crazy.” I relax my grip on his arm and try to think. My head is pounding. “What was the point?”
“I wanted it,” he whimpers. “I didn’t know it belonged to Tyrone Jackson!” He’s shaking. “You heard Dad, the way white …” His snot muffles his words. “They owe—”
“That’s not about you, Jimi. Two wrongs don’t make a right.” I let go of his arm. “Besides, how did you know the owner was white? And didn’t you think he’d find you?”
He shakes his head no and lifts his arm to wiggle it. I see the burn mark my fingers left. “Tyrone doesn’t know where I live.”
“It’s not like you moved off the planet.” Even though it feels that way. “You’re still in Canyon Valley. In fact, he’s standing across the street!”
Jimi shakes again, desperately.
“Where’s the bike now?”
“In the yard.” Jimi points. “Out back.”
I cross to the window, but there’s no view of the backyard. Instead, what I see are shoulders, crouching, half-hidden by a pink azalea in the side yard. “Jimi,” I whisper, and duck behind the faded yellow curtain. “Is that Tyrone? Be careful he doesn’t see you.” I hold up a book and cover his face from the eyes down. “Here, peek for a second.”
His entire body shakes twice as hard. “Yes,” he whispers.
At that moment, we’re interrupted by the doorbell Jimi’s ringing, over and over, with a squawk. “It must be him,” I say to Jimi. “Let me go. You stay here.” I hurry into the front hall, trying to get there before Dad, who’s in the bathroom. I can’t let him find out about the bike. But instead of Tyrone, I see Helane strut in. She looks as bad as ever with her nappy hair, short skirt, and big grin.
“I used my key.” She smiles and walks into the living room like she owns the place. “Rang the bell to let you know I was here.” She calls out, “Silas.” In a flash, he’s by her side.
“Hi, honey,” he says. Honey? It’s one thing to see a photo, but this word cuts right into my soul.
“I was waiting to hear from you.” She looks puzzled.
I want to break in so she doesn’t tell Dad she left a message, but at the same time I’d like to ice her, to let her know she doesn’t belong here. My relief at seeing Helane, instead of Tyrone, wore off the second Dad called her honey. “Hi, Helane,” I say as coldly as I can.
“Hey, little sister.” She grins and raises her hand. “Ma chérie.”
I ignore her and turn toward Jimi’s room, so we can plan what to do about the bike. We’ve got to get rid of it. I could simply take it back and explain that it was a misunderstanding. But would that help? Not very plausible. My mind is calculating all this when I hear Dad’s voice before I’m fully out of the living room.
“Nina, you remember Helane.” A pause while he waits for me to return. “She’s consulting at the Oakland Museum during her sabbatical, and she’s helping me with the research on Miss Sarah.”
I don’t turn and I don’t say a thing. Instead, I stand still, with my back to them.
“Helane hasn’t seen you for a while,” Dad says, his voice rising.
I know, and why should she? I mutter words under my breath, wishing daggers could shoot out the back of my head, slicing her into pieces. At that moment Jimi walks out of the bedroom and bumps into me, but sails on past. I turn and watch while he runs to Helane, slaps her a high five, and stretches his arms to give her a … hug?
“Hey, my man,” Helane says, squeezing him back.
That’s it. Why should I help that little traitor? Who cares if he gets beat up? Killed, for all I care. I’ve had it with this crazy family. I march into the bedroom, throw my clothes into the stupid green suitcase I’m tired of living out of, pack my books, and stalk to the living room. They’re sitting, jawing, Helane blowing smelly smoke rings and Jimi watching as if those fading circles are the coolest thing. Yeah, we don’t know anybody else who smokes, but is it really that fascinating? He’s watching the smoke curl up like it’s the latest show, acting as if he hadn’t been crying to me one minute ago about how scared he was, as if a tough teenager weren’t outside waiting to attack him, as if I weren’t racking my brain to save his sorry butt. “I’m going home,” I tell Dad, not looking at anybody else.
“You’re supposed to stay ‘til tomorrow afternoon, until your mother gets back.” A frown descends until his face doesn’t look wide; it droops, all lines and creases.
“I’m ready to go now.” I hold my books tightly, wrapping my arms around them, trying not to scream.
“I’ll drive you over,” he says,
surprising me. I honestly never thought he’d agree to let me stay home alone. I don’t say anything while he slips on his brown leather jacket. “It’s getting nippy out, Nina. Where’s your jacket?”
“Dad! I think I’d know whether or not I need a jacket.” I’m so steamed I don’t even think about Tyrone outside. When we pass the front door I remember and jerk my head to the right. We make our way down the steps onto the sidewalk, where I force myself not to stare at the bush around the corner of the house, although I sneak one more peek. Yes, it’s fluttering. And it’s not the wind, because the air is dead still.
Once we’re on the street Dad takes my suitcase from my hand and drapes an arm over me. I harden my shoulders. “What is it, Nina? Something at school, baby—” His deep voice wraps itself around me, and I have to keep my body rigid so I’ll keep in mind what a rat he is.
“School?” I whip around. “No, it’s not school, even though nobody talks to me anymore, because who am I, a black girl or a white girl? School I can stand. What I can’t stand is that slut—” And I add a curse. It’s out before I can stop. I put one hand up to my mouth, but the awful word hangs in the air. I want to reach out to grab it and stuff it back into my mouth, but it’s too late. Dad hates swearing.
“Nina Armstrong. No, you didn’t—” He’s shaking his head, as if by shaking it enough, the word will float out of his ears and fly away. “You didn’t … don’t you ever, don’t you … ever—” His eyes are bulging, his teeth are clenched, and he’s turning the strangest purple-black, like a bruise. As we stand in the driveway a truck rumbles by and an old woman with a shopping cart hovers, bent over, waiting to cross at the corner. She’s watching us, scowling. Does she think Dad is going to hit me, which I wonder about too?
“Dad—” I start, but what can I say? Who does Helane think she is, coming in and saying hi like she knows me, and high-fiving Jimi, letting him hug her like she’s his mother. “Young lady, don’t you ever—” He’s so furious, I can tell that for a second he still believes he didn’t hear me right. Cursing’s always been a big deal for him. Dad used to reprimand Mom, “Not in front of the children, Maggie,” and throw her a dirty look. Now he’s sputtering.
Black, White, Other Page 7