And we both start to laugh.
Yeah, this must be home. The flickering inside me flares up, like when you blow on a fire and the flames leap. It’s as if I can see it, inside my chest. It’s awesome.
“Nina!” Saundra has me by one arm and she’s pulling me into her car, while she’s also punching a number into her phone with her thumb. In a minute I hear her yell, “Tell Maggie I’ve got Nina!” To me she mutters, as an aside, “Honey, your house was headquarters central all night.” Then back in the phone, “She’s inside my car. We’re on our way. Right now. I’ll be there in two minutes.” She starts to sob, and when I hear her, so do I. We’re driving, weeping, and the rap floats into me again while she’s bawling: “I be black, I be white, hey, if you my friend, you all right.” I can imagine how I’ll hold myself straight and tall, keeping that flame of knowing bright inside, while I stride around the school radiating the spirit of my rap. Even through my sniffles I’m shaking my head to the beat.
When we get home it’s one huge commotion. Two police cruisers slash the lawn, another’s pulling up, its lights flashing behind us, and five or six blue uniforms with guns are milling about on the porch. Mom and Dad and Jimi huddle on the steps with Lavonn and Tirza, whose baby is screaming, and a bunch of other neighbors are scattered around the lawn. When they see us, everyone shrieks and runs to the car, lots of them wailing—even Dad—and laughing.
“Oh, sweetie.” Mom leaps when I step out of the car and locks her arms around me, burying her head into my neck and pressing herself against me so I can feel her chest heaving with sobs. Dad’s right behind her, looking like I’m the best dessert he ever saw.
“Baby, where were you?” Dad’s squeezing me, reaching around Mom, and I see a dark, glistening line down his cheeks. He looks at my damp green suitcase and at me. “You’re the raggedyest …” With one hand he wipes his eyes. “Don’t you ever do us this way again. Ever! Please.”
“I won’t,” I say, before I let my whole weight fall into them.
Jimi grabs my hand, holding it tight like he’ll never let it loose. “Don’t go away,” he whispers, and when I peek out I see his eyes are shiny. “I’ll give you my allowance, every week. All of it.” He hands me two balled-up dollars. I don’t even pretend to not care about him, the way I usually do. Instead I pull him close. “I’m a by-your-side sister. Keep your money.” Later I’ll rip his butt for stealing.
Mom and Dad are leaning over us both now, making a tower like old times. Mom’s clinging, repeating, “Nina, thank goodness you’re home. Don’t ever run away again. Whatever’s going on, you can tell us. Oh, honey, you have no idea how dangerous—don’t ever …”
Soon—after they tell the police I’m okay and promise that the cops can “debrief” me in a few minutes—we all stuff into our kitchen. Everybody’s hugging me or hanging on to some part of my body, as if I might evaporate. Even Rolling Stone is sitting on my foot. At last, we unjumble ourselves, while Mom pours coffee and hot chocolate. She carries two steaming coffee cakes in her heavy cast-iron frying pans, and sets them down on the round dining table. I can tell the cakes are fresh from the oven, they smell so good—full of apples, vanilla, and cinnamon. “We’ve been up all night,” she says, starting to cry. Yet she’s still able to stay in Mom mode, telling Lavonn, “Pass the plates, please,” pointing with her knife.
Lavonn gave me a squeeze when I first got here, along with everybody else, but she hasn’t said anything. She’s staring with those big eyes, mascara running down one cheek.
“Baby,” Dad starts out, when we’re finally jammed around the table. “What happened? I rushed back—” But he can’t talk. He’s crammed in next to me, with one arm around my shoulder, and Mom is by him, reaching over to touch me. On my other side, Jimi’s holding on to my leg. It seems like everybody wants to keep their hands on me this morning. He breathes and gets his voice back, even though it’s choked with tears. “Where were you?” His voice is kind, but he sounds like he’s bleeding internally, that’s how wretched he feels. I’ve never seen Dad cry before. It’s scary.
“I don’t know,” I mumble.
“Yes, you do, sugar. Tell us.”
Silence.
“Where were you going?”
I don’t want to tell, but I mutter, “To Fran’s.”
“All the way to San Luis Obispo?” His eyes widen and he looks scared. “We love you,” he says softly, when I don’t answer. “What is it, baby?”
“Everything …” Now I can’t talk. My eyes are leaking again and everybody’s looking at me. Then some of my trouble bursts out, after all these weeks of holding it in. “There’s a boy chasing—” I can’t implicate Jimi, so I rush on, hoping they won’t notice that part. “I don’t have any friends. You don’t know what it’s like in ninth grade, how the kids separate black and white and make you choose. And at home we’re not a family anymore. Everything changed, and no one wants to actually do anything about it!”
“We’re all family,” Saundra says right away. She’s passing slices of warm coffee cake topped with cut-up pears, and everybody’s chomping while they watch me. “You and Lavonn and Maggie and Silas and Jimi. And Paul.” Her husband. “And me. You have lots of friends,” she says. “Lavonn—” She looks at Lavonn, hard, her eyes glinting.
“I’m sorry,” Lavonn says. She stares down at her plate. “I wish you’d come to Black Nativity.”
“Cool,” I say, surprising myself.
“I’ll hook you up.” Her round face looks up, smiling, as if she never said all those mean things. That’s today—a special amnesty day, I guess, like the library has for overdue books. Today it’s overdue-friends-and-family day.
Then Mom tries. “Running away doesn’t solve—” She stops and pours a steaming cup of hot chocolate, hands it over, and we all sit quietly while I blow on the scalding liquid, until Dad breaks the silence. “We need to talk.” His face is kind of tight, like his old, stern self, even though he still has one arm draped on my shoulder. He reaches behind the table and jabs at my suitcase, as if he can’t believe it’s real. I can tell he’s about to cry again, but then a car pulls into the driveway, revving the motor. It’s Helane, in her yellow sports car. Why is she here?
She hops out and charges inside, and when she gets to the dining table, she acts the same as everybody else today: hugs me and says, “Welcome home, sister.” I freeze. Maybe this is a giant forgiveness day, but this is one person I’m not ready to welcome into my life. No way. Not yet. I look at Dad.
“Helane, honey,” he says, and that word rips along my skin. He shakes his head at her. “Not now.” I watch them exchange a long, complicated look, full of both tenderness and anger. Their gaze, even though it’s quick, is so intimate I look away. “This is not the time or place,” Dad says quietly. She shrugs, then waves good-bye in everybody’s direction, and I’m relieved to see her walk toward the door. When I hear her car start I know Dad’s right: today is not her day. It’s mine.
Pretty soon the neighbors leave, and then the cops, who sounded annoyed that I draggled home on my own instead of letting them find me heroically. Mom and Dad head for the couch. Rolling Stone stretches out on the floor next to Mom’s feet, waving his tail like Number Nine did on Market Street. It’s amazing how long our cat can stretch. Jimi and I are sprawled-crunched in the big chair, with him practically squashed on top of me, but instead of punching him I actually hang on. For a minute.
Dad breaks the momentary silence. “Listen, kids.” He sighs. “You’ve got to let us in on what’s happening with you. You know, we’re not your enemies.”
I catch Jimi’s eye. No way.
“You can’t surprise us like this. We can’t take it; we’re too old.” He tries to laugh but it comes out closer to the choked voice he had before. “I know this was a tough fall and your mom and I had a lot to do with that. I’m sorry.”
Wow. I never heard Dad say that word before. Jimi and I the ones who have to say it.
“Okay,” I say. I remember the feeling of confidence I had in Saundra’s car and decide to ask for something. “What about Thanksgiving this year? Can we have it like we always did, with Grandpa James and Grandma Bettye here, and G’a Milt and Granny Leigh?”
Mom and Dad glance at each other. They still have their silent way of speaking, because they both say yes at the same time.
I know how Thanksgiving will be. Before we eat, Grandma Bettye will read a long, sad poem about Native Americans, possibly about their Trail of Tears, and tell us how Thanksgiving is a day of mourning for them, like we don’t know by now. She’ll say a prayer for healing that goes on forever; it’s embarrassing. Then G’a Milt and Granny Leigh will lead us in some old Stick-to-the-Union solidarity song, which somehow at this moment doesn’t seem so bad. Kind of cozy, actually, like people caring about each other. This year Dad will probably announce his newfound African roots too and conduct a weird African ritual. Ugh. But my heart perks up anyway. It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without all of that.
“And, young lady—” Dad looks at me. “You are grounded until …” He turns to look at Mom again before he finishes. This time their eyes meet for more than a second. “Until you apologize to everyone in this family.” He adds, “For theft, for rudeness to me. And to your mother for giving her the fright of her life. Don’t you ever pull this kind of stunt again! And don’t you ever break in and steal—I can’t imagine—” He’s sputtering. “And where is the manuscript?”
Before I recover, or answer, he goes on. “You are grounded indefinitely, young lady, with the loss of every privilege in the book, until you demonstrate that you can show us all the respect we deserve. And can keep your hands on your own possessions.”
“Yes,” I say.
He raises his eyebrows.
“Yes, sir.” I squeeze Jimi’s hand. These are the words I’m going to use—Keep your hands on your own possessions—when I get him alone. I might make him write a letter of apology to Tyrone too.
“And until you demonstrate integrity. Which theft is not—”
“We’re trying our best,” Mom breaks in, “and we don’t deserve that snippy attitude you’ve got, either. We expect better from you—”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry, Mom,” I hear myself say. “I felt like Sarah was the only friend I had for a while. Dad, what happened? Did she ever find Esther and Albert?”
“We’ll talk about that later,” he says, looking grim. “We will be watching you very, very carefully. We’ll assess your attitude as the days and weeks go by, to determine when your privileges will be restored. You had best be on exemplary behavior, young lady.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, thinking, out of habit, yeah, yeah, yeah, you can’t make me do anything. But deep inside, I don’t know why, a happiness stirs around, the way it hasn’t since last summer. It’s a lightness that makes me want to do things again. I’m looking at my dad differently too, though I’d never admit it. If he could write about Miss Sarah that way—basing her on me, he said; wow—he must understand something.
There’s a long silence. “Can I go out and play now?” Jimi asks.
Dad laughs. “Yes, son,” he says, “you’re dismissed,” which I know he’s pretending to say all formal, but that’s the way Dad really is. Old school, like he tells us.
CHAPTER 15
On Sunday I stay home at Mom’s all day with Jimi, hanging out, fooling around. Late in the afternoon, when the sun’s fallen behind the trees, I grab the shovel and head to the backyard, to the farthest corner. Leaves and moss cover the ground, so I have to dig awhile to find it. The earth smells damp, with a strong musty smell. I dig up so much hard dirt it looks like I’m excavating a mine. And it’s slow in this clay soil. Finally, when I’m shivering like my bones are gonna break and I’m about to give up, I see the smudged corner of an envelope. My heart jumps. After I shove the spade around it to loosen a clump, I reach in, yank the dirty bundle, rip open the paper, and wipe the ring. Hey, if I’m big and bad and bold, who knows what could happen? Anyway, I’m trying to forgive and forget, the way Mom and Dad did with me. I slip the ring into my pocket; once inside I wash it, wrap a tissue around it, and stuff it into the secret compartment of my jewelry box under the crumpled money I put back.
That night when Lavonn calls I don’t tell her anything about Jessica’s ring, how I buried it and dug it up and who knows what will happen, but I do ask, “When’s the next rehearsal?”
“Saturday. I’ll text Michelle tomorrow. She’s the director. Michelle is bad. Wait ‘til you hear her. You’ll like her.”
“Thanks. Singing, that’s gotta be awesome. My parents probably won’t let me go since I’m grounded forever, but I’ll ask.”
On Monday morning, Mom lets me stay home for a couple of hours while she “supervises” and “helps” with my schoolwork. Really, she’s afraid I’m going to run away again; I can tell by the eagle eye she’s keeping on me, hardly letting me out of the room without watching. Finally I make my way to school and arrive right after 12:30, the beginning of lunch. The bell is ringing and kids are pouring into the halls. After I take my late note to the office, I run to Jessica’s locker and catch her by herself, without Claudette or anyone else. Just the way I imagined it. Other kids are milling around, pushing and talking and, as usual, the din is deafening. I tap on her back when she’s bent down in front of her locker.
She jumps up and screams, like she’s happy to see me, “Nina! You’re at school!”
I nod, acting cool.
“The police were at my house and everything! Where were you?” She’s shouting, with an ear-splitting, high-pitched voice, and other kids stare. “Your mom called a hundred times. Your dad too. What happened?” She leans over to hug me, and for a moment it feels like old times, until I notice my friendship ring’s still not on her finger.
“I’m okay,” I say, looking her in the eye. “Jessica, you were my best friend.” Tears start to come into my eyes, but I am not going to cry in school. I bite the inside of my cheek.
“You’re hanging around with Lavonn now,” she says and pulls away, fiddling with her backpack. “She’s your new best friend.”
“I have lots of friends,” I say evenly. “But you were the best I’ve ever had. You and Fran.”
She stops and stares at me just like the old Jessica, not some hijacked fraud, but then she ruins it. “How can we be best friends anymore? I’m not going near those kids.”
“What?”
“They’re rough.” She laughs like she’s nervous. “Scary.”
“Scary?” I can’t believe this.
“Yeah. Susanna, she shoved me into my locker the other day and called me a slut.”
She looks frightened and for an instant my heart softens. I remember how afraid I was the first time I took the bus to Dad’s, when those guys were hanging out by their car and all I noticed everywhere were black people—the assumptions I’d had. Now I’ve gotten to know the guys, who look out for me, and I know the neighborhood. It’s all so normal. “Jessica, just ‘cause one girl pushed you—” I stop. “What did you do to make her mad?”
“Nothing.” Her face starts to fill with red blotches so I know she’s lying. But I decide to skip it.
“That was only one person, Jessica.”
“I’m staying away from—” She’s got her books pressed to her chest, as if they’ll protect her, and I understand how afraid she is. That’s part of what’s good about being friends for a long time: how well we know each other.
Right when I’m trying to keep open that place in my heart that’s warm, remembering how close Jessica and I were—no matter what she’s saying now—Claudette shows up and screams, “Nina!” like everybody else. I guess all the kids know.
I ignore her and keep my eyes on Jessica. I’ve never seen her like this, with her face so tight.
“You’re staying away from who?” I ask Jessica, but she turns away from me and toward Claudette, who’s tugging on her arm, saying
, “Come on, Tommie’s waiting.”
I still ignore Claudette and say directly to Jessica, “You said I’ve changed.” I don’t care who’s listening. “I have. Now I know I can be friends with anybody. Even you, except not if you’re gonna act like this. But if you change too, who knows?”
She doesn’t answer so I walk away, leaving the two of them standing in the hall. When I turn the corner of the hall, my confidence deflates. I feel myself flush. Dwight is standing by his locker fiddling with his backpack. “Hey, Nina!” he says, surprised. “You’re back.” He looks pleased.
What am I supposed to say to that? “Yeah” is the best I can manage. Even though I’ve been wanting him to notice me all fall, I’d like to be invisible right now, with some of that black-cat mojo Dad told us about that supposedly makes people disappear.
“Hey, I saw Tyrone’s bike at our house.” I must be staring at him in an odd way, because he stops tugging on his jammed backpack zipper. After a minute he continues, “Sorry he hassled you. And your brother.” He’s moving toward me as he talks. “You put the bike back, didn’t you? Thanks. That took guts. I’ve got a brother who gets me in trouble too. Big time. But I guess you know that.” He laughs lightly, so his dimples cut into his cheeks.
I must look awfully serious, not smiling back, because in an instant he stretches his neck, lifts one leg, and transforms himself into a stork—how does he do that?—flapping his arms, which suddenly seem like wings. He succeeds in making me laugh, but by the time I do, he’s sprinting down the corridor, calling back over his shoulder, “I’m gonna text you, and maybe we can get together.”
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