Piecing Me Together

by Renée Watson

  “Oh, it’s a last-minute thing. Maxine called and asked if I wanted to do brunch with her to celebrate my birthday.”

  “Do brunch? You mean go to brunch?” Mom laughs. “How does one do brunch?” Mom pours milk into her mug, then opens a packet of sweetener and sprinkles it in. She stirs. “That woman has you talking like her already, huh?”

  “Mom—”

  “I haven’t even met this girl, and she’s taking you out?” Mom sips her coffee and then puts two slices of bread into the toaster.

  “It’s for my birthday,” I say.

  “Your birthday isn’t until next weekend.”

  “She’ll be out of town and wanted to celebrate before she left.”

  “Well, you still have chores to do. And I don’t appreciate her not asking me. Tell her you can’t go.”

  “What do you mean, I can’t go?”

  Mom looks at me, telling me with her eyes that she is not going to repeat herself. That I heard her the first time.

  “But, Mom, she’s on her way.”

  “You are not going.”

  “Why can’t I go?”

  “Jade, the answer is no. You. Are. Not. Going.” Mom takes butter out of the fridge, gets a knife and plate, and waits for her toast. Once the bread pops from the toaster, she slathers it with butter and eats, standing. “You can go ahead and get that sad look off your face. I’m not changing my mind.”

  The doorbell rings.

  It’s Maxine.

  “I’ll get it,” Mom says. I wish she’d put on some decent clothes. At least take her scarf off. She opens the door, barely giving Maxine a chance to speak. “Good morning,” she says. “You must be Maxine.” Mom has her hand on her hip and won’t let Maxine through the door. “I’m sorry you wasted your time and gas coming over here, but Jade is not going with you today.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping to do an early b-day celebration with her and spend some quality time together,” Maxine says. “Is she okay?”

  “Oh, she’s fine,” Mom says. “I would appreciate it if you contact me first before you and Jade make plans. Jade is not grown. Believe it or not, she does have a mother. That’s me.”

  “I apologize, Ms. Butler,” Maxine says. “I didn’t mean to disrespect you. It’s just, well, I know you’re not home that often and so—”

  “When I’m not at home, I’m working. And what does that have to do with anything?”

  I wish Maxine would’ve apologized and left it at that.

  Mom says, “Please let this be the first and last time you try to take my daughter out of my house without my knowing and giving permission.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Again, I apologize.”

  Mom moves away from the door and lets Maxine in. She walks into the kitchen. “Now, you’re welcome to stay for a little while if you’d like. But she is not leaving this house. Jade has some cleaning to do.” Mom looks at me, because she’s already told me twice to clean my room and the kitchen. She takes her coffee and goes into her bedroom, mumbling the whole time about how I must think the kitchen is my art studio. “Got scraps of paper all over the place,” she says. She mentions the paint I spilled last night while I was working, but I don’t hear all of what she says because her voice has trailed off and is muffled behind the closed door.

  Once Maxine knows my mom is in her room, she says, “I’m sorry, Jade. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble or make your mom upset.”

  “No, I’m sorry. She’s so—”

  “Right,” Maxine says. “She’s right.”

  I cross my arms. “I really wanted to go,” I tell Maxine.

  “It’s okay. We’ll do a rain check. I’ll be sure to speak with her about our plans,” she says.

  “Okay,” I say. “You want to see the mess my mom was talking about?” I ask.

  Maxine smiles, and I take her into my bedroom. In the center of the room is my scrap box. All around it are patterned and colored paper, maps, and cut-up fabric. In the corner, on my desk, is the half-finished piece I started about York and Lewis and Clark.

  Maxine rubs her hands along the different textures. “This is beautiful,” she says. “So many details.” She stares at the piece, taking it all in. “I’m . . . I’m speechless. I mean, it’s one thing to see your sketchbook, but this? This is—this is, wow.”

  Maxine stays for about an hour. We talk about art, music, and movies. And I have to admit, just like Maxine is surprised that a girl my age can create this kind of art, I am surprised a woman like her can relate to the movies and music I like. Every time I say something I love, Maxine says, “Me too,” and I guess she sees the shock on my face because she says, “Why are you looking at me like that? You think because I went to St. Francis that I don’t know black culture?” Maxine says, laughing.

  I don’t say no, but I don’t say yes.

  “I have good taste,” Maxine says. “Plus, I’m not that much older than you.”

  Before Maxine leaves, she talks to Mom about taking me to a bookstore downtown. I hear her say, “I’d like to buy her a few art books if that’s okay with you. Your daughter’s got real talent.”

  “I know,” Mom says. “She’s very talented—and book smart, too.” Mom always makes it clear that I can do more than draw. Whenever someone tells her how good I am at art, she reminds them that I’m good at science and math, too. Mom says I can go. She tells me to write it on the dry-erase board so she doesn’t forget. “Nice to finally meet you, Maxine. I hope you know I wasn’t trying to give you a hard time. I just care about my child. This is the only one I got,” Mom says. “And at the end of the day, when this program is over, she’s not going to be anyone’s mentee, but she’s still gonna be my daughter.”

  14

  feliz cumpleaños

  happy birthday

  I wake up to the smell of pancakes and bacon. Mom is fixing my favorite breakfast. E.J. is at my door, banging like he’s the police. “Come on, birthday girl. These pancakes are getting cold.”

  I get out of bed and open the door. “Morning.”

  “Happy birthday,” E.J. says.

  “Thanks.”

  When I walk into the kitchen, Mom is standing at the stove, working her magic. Strawberries are cut and already on the table in the bowl she uses only on special occasions. “There’s my baby girl.” Mom smiles at me and kisses me on my cheek. “Hope you’re hungry.” She adds more pancakes to a pile that is already on a plate. E.J. sets the table and we eat.

  Mom asks, “So, what are your plans?”

  “I’m supposed to go out to eat with Lee Lee and Sam.”

  “Oh, that’s great, Jade. That’s really great,” Mom says.

  “Told you I had friends,” I tell her. I roll my eyes—just a little—then smile. “I keep telling Lee Lee about Sam, and Sam about Lee Lee, so they’re finally going to meet today.” I pour more syrup onto my pancakes. “And Dad said he was coming by tonight to drop off my gift,” I tell her.

  E.J. gives Mom a look. She puts a forkful of pancakes into her mouth.

  “What?” I ask E.J.

  “Your dad said he’s coming, huh? Said he got you something?”

  “E.J., don’t start,” Mom says.

  “That sorry—”

  “E.J.” Mom stares him down. “Don’t. Start.”

  “I’m just asking what is he going to buy you a present with? Wishes? Or is he going to use that white lady’s money?”

  “E.J.!” Mom is yelling now.

  I get up from the table. “She’s not some lady. She’s his fiancée. And my dad isn’t working right now because he got laid off—you never even had a job to get laid off from.”

  “He’s using her, Jade. They’ve been engaged for, what, three years? That man is not marrying her. He is living off her.”

  “And what if he is? You’re living off my mom!”

  “Jade!” Now Mom is yelling at me.

  I leave my half-eaten plate of pancakes on the table and go into my room. I d
on’t come out until it’s time for me to get ready to go meet up with Lee Lee and Sam. By then E.J. is gone and Mom is off to Ms. Louise’s house. As I am changing my clothes, the phone rings. It’s Lee Lee. She can’t go. She got into an argument with her aunt, and now she’s on punishment. As soon as I hang up, the phone is ringing again. This time it’s Sam telling me she is sick, so she can’t come either.

  I know I can’t blame Lee Lee and Sam for not being able to celebrate my birthday. I mean, Lee Lee’s aunt is always overreacting and fussing and putting Lee Lee on punishment for something. And Sam can’t help that she’s sick. But of all the days for them not to be able to hang out with me, why this one? I spend the rest of the afternoon watching TV and sleeping on and off.

  E.J. comes home as the sky settles into its blackness. We don’t speak to each other. He has a Safeway bag in his hand. He goes to the fridge and puts away whatever it is he bought.

  Dad hasn’t come, hasn’t called.

  Once it’s eleven o’clock, I go into my room and dress for bed. I can feel the tears trying to come, trying to work their way out, but I distract myself by listening to music. I put my headphones on, find the playlist E.J. made for the end-of-summer BBQ at the rec center. Nothing but fast songs, some of them I don’t even like that much, because they were overplayed during the summer, but I listen anyway. Because a fast song you kind of like is better than a slow song you love when you’re trying to keep your heart from exploding. I turn the volume up and lie on my bed.

  I’m almost asleep when E.J. starts banging on my door. I take out one earbud. “What?”

  “Come here for a sec,” he says.

  I step into the hallway and follow E.J. He walks to the kitchen. On the table he’s placed two slices of cheesecake. One has a candle in the middle. “Can’t go to bed without some birthday dessert,” he says. He pulls me into him. “We good?”

  I nod and hug him back tight.

  “You know I love you, right? You my favorite niece.”

  “I’m your only niece.”

  “Details, details,” E.J. says.

  15

  el pelo

  hair

  No braids today.

  My black cotton hovers over me like a cloud.

  I’d never wear my hair like this to school, but today is Sunday and I’m home. When Mom comes back from work, she sees me and smiles. “You’ve been in my closet?” She tugs at the scarf tied around my head as a headband.

  “You never wear this.”

  “Humph,” she says. She takes her shoes off, sits on the sofa, and lets out a sigh. “I guess you can have it. Looks better on you, anyway.”

  I laugh and mumble under my breath, “I know.”

  16

  regalo

  gift

  The weekend is over, and Monday has come with wind and rain. I hold my umbrella in front of me, like a warrior’s shield, to keep the rain from hitting my face. I hold on tight to the top so it doesn’t blow away.

  When I get on the bus, my shoes squeak and slide as I walk to the back. Someone must have set their umbrella in the seat because it is wet. I find another seat. Sam isn’t at her stop this morning, so the second half of the bus ride is quiet and slow. Like it used to be last year.

  Once I get to school, I head to my locker. Josiah is walking toward me. “Hey, Jade. Happy birthday,” he says.

  “Thanks.” I didn’t even know he knew it was my birthday.

  I turn the corner and walk past Mrs. Parker’s office. When she sees me, she walks to the door and says, “Hope you have a great birthday, Jade.”

  “Oh, it was Saturday. But thank you.”

  “Well, happy belated,” she says.

  I keep walking toward my locker. I see Sam standing at the end of the hallway. She is at my locker—only it doesn’t look like my locker, because there are balloons and an oversize card taped on it. I walk faster, and when I get to her, she holds her arms out and hugs me. “I’m so sorry I missed your birthday lunch. I really wanted to go.”

  “Sam, this is so—wow, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she says.

  For the rest of the day, whenever I’m at my locker, someone calls out, “Happy birthday!” to me. Even people I don’t even know. Having balloons taped to your locker brings a lot of attention. Usually I don’t like attention put on me. But today it doesn’t feel too bad.

  17

  mi padre

  my father

  After school I go over to Dad’s. He can’t keep secrets at all, so as soon as I walk through the door, he says, “I have something for you, but I haven’t wrapped it yet, so don’t go into my bedroom.”

  “Dad, I never go into your bedroom.”

  “It’s something you’ve wanted for a long time. A really long time,” he says. “I don’t know why. You don’t ever frame the photos you take. You just cut ’em up or change them.”

  “Well, no need to wrap it now,” I say. I laugh when he looks at me, all confused, like he has no idea how I figured it out.

  Dad goes into his bedroom and brings out two boxes. One has a digital camera in it, the other a mini photo printer.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Anything for my baby girl,” he says. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry I couldn’t see you on your actual birthday. Something came up.”

  “You could have called,” I tell him.

  “My cell died. I need to figure out what’s wrong with the thing. Make one call and the battery is drained.” Dad starts rubbing his head. “Don’t give me that look,” he says.

  “What look?”

  “Looking like your mother.”

  I conjure Mom—what would she say? “The point isn’t your phone dying. Why did you need to cancel, anyway?”

  Dad opens his mouth to give me his reasons but then closes it, sits back, and says, “No good reason, Jade. I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to hurt my queen. I’m sorry.” He walks to his room and comes back out. “I forgot about these.” He hands me a new pack of batteries. I put them in the camera and start taking pictures right away. “Come on now, not of me,” Dad says. “I didn’t get you this thing so you could take pictures of me.”

  “One more,” I tell him.

  He doesn’t smile, but at least he sits still.

  As I take the photo, I am reminded that we have the same eyes.

  “Okay,” Dad says. “That was your one more. Now get out from behind the lens and come join me in here. He walks into the kitchen and takes out leftovers from the fridge. Three containers of Chinese food. He puts the rice, shrimp and broccoli, and egg roll on a plate and heats the food in the microwave. “How is school? What are you into these days? Besides art.”

  “School is okay, I guess. I love my Spanish class.”

  “What do you like about it?” Dad asks. He never lets the first answer be the only answer.

  “It makes me feel like I’m learning a secret code or something. I don’t know. It’s powerful.”

  “Powerful? Really?”

  “Yes, all language is. That’s what you used to tell me.”

  Dad puts his fork down. Leans back in his chair. “Me? I told you that?”

  “Yes, when I was little. When it was story time and I didn’t want to stop playing to go read and you would tell me I ought to take every chance I get to open a book because it was once illegal to teach a black person how to read,” I remind him.

  “I told you that?” Dad asks, smiling.

  “Dad, I’m serious. You told me that knowing how to read words and knowing when to speak them is the most valuable commodity a person can have. You don’t remember saying that?”

  “Yeah, sounds like something I’d say.” Dad laughs. “Didn’t realize you were really listening.”

  “Of course I was. And ever since then I’ve wanted to be a black girl who could read and write in many languages, because I know there was a time when that seemed impossible.”

  “So you’re saying your passion is my f
ault.”

  “Yep.”

  “I wish I could take all the credit for you. But you know you get that big dreaming from your momma,” he says. “Back when we were in school, she talked that same way. You just like her.”

  18

  fotografiar

  photograph

  On the way home from Dad’s I take as many photos as I can:

  Naked branches and tree trunks.

  Fallen leaves.

  A little girl falling asleep in her mother’s arms on the bus.

  The hands of a man holding on to the pole.

  The blur of buildings and houses as we drive by.

  Frank’s Corner Store.

  Lee Lee’s house.

  The street sign at the corner of my block.

  The door to my house.

  And before I go inside, I turn the camera on me.

  19

  libros

  books

  “This place feels magical,” I say to Maxine. When she first told me she was bringing me to a bookstore, I wasn’t that excited to go. But Powell’s isn’t just any bookstore. It’s a massive haven that sells any book you can think of. There are so many rooms and floors, they give you a map. I’ve never ever heard of a bookstore giving you a map so you can get through it. We go to the art section, which is not a section but a whole room.

  A short tan woman with a kinky Afro walks over to us. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Hi,” Maxine says. “This is Jade. She’s an artist—a collagist—and we’re looking for some books for inspiration that show the work of black collagists.”

  Afro Woman says, “Oh, so you’re an artist?” She starts walking fast through the aisles. “What do you make art about?” She turns down an aisle, starts slowing down, and then stops when we get to the middle.

  I tell her all the things I love making art about.

  “Well, I have the perfect books for you,” she says. She pulls a book off the shelf. “Have you heard of Romare Bearden? He’s one of the greats. You’ll love his collages.” We walk to another aisle, in search of more books. Afro Woman scans the shelves. “Ah, here we go.” She pulls out another book. “This is a small collection of work from the artist Mickalene Thomas,” she says. “She does mixed-media collages.”