“No, you’re absolutely correct. She instinctively knew how to use her voice like an instrument. She could play with melodies and rhythms and add her emotions.” Mrs. Hill shakes her head as though in awe. “She was and will always be the only Lady Day. But—” Now she tilts her head, looks at me. “I bet with some help you could tap in to her style.”
Oh no. No way. The memory of me singing alone during that visualization exercise still flushes me with raw embarrassment. Maybe Billie Holiday could do that, but I can’t. “Me? Naw.”
“Yes, you . . . just listen to the radio. Erykah Badu . . . Jill Scott . . . I bet you could point out any number of singers Miss Day has inspired.” Mrs. Hill puts the last chair in place, goes over to her music library, and files the CD back in its spot. “Well, anyway, I hope you consider auditioning. Believe it or not, you have quite a gift.”
“Thanks,” I say, and scoot off. On the way to my locker, I tumble Mrs. Hill’s words over in my mind. Me? Audition? Gift? Mrs. Hill is a certified music teacher. She would know if I could really sing . . . but still . . . me?
“Hey, Genesis.” Yvette’s waiting at my locker.
“Yeah?” Yvette knows where my locker is? And she’s here waiting on me?
“This is Belinda.” Belinda waves.
As if their names haven’t been memorized since Yvette had my back against Terrance.
“So, you sing a lot?” Yvette tucks her stick-straight hair behind her ear. Relaxer, for sure.
“No.” My antenna goes up. This had better not be some kind of roast setup about my incident a few days ago. Still, I tell myself to chill.
“Oh, I thought you did because you’re always singing in class.”
“You mean singing with the class?” In that case, we’re both always singing. But I’m not about to correct her.
“Well, yeah,” Yvette says right away. “I’d be too shy to sing—even with a class—if I was new. Would you, Belinda?”
“I wouldn’t open my mouth.” Belinda shakes her head, and her hair swishes across her shoulders.
“You auditioning for the talent show?” Yvette goes on.
I swallow hard. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Oh. Well . . .” Something catches Yvette’s attention. Out of the corner of my eye I see Sophia speeding down the hall, heading straight toward us. “We were wondering if you’d like to—”
“Hey!” Sophia waves at me.
Just as I’m about to raise my hand, Yvette sucks her teeth. “You don’t know her, do you?”
“Her?” Hurry up and ask. Would I like to what? Sing with you in the talent show? Walk home with you? Sit with you at lunch? ASK!!!
Sophia calls my name. I wave, weakly.
“Never mind. It’s getting ridiculously noisy around here. Come on, Belinda.” Yvette and Belinda stroll away, huddling together, whispering.
Sophia reaches me, breathing hard. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Nothing.” Only two seconds ago I could’ve possibly been whispering with them.
“What did they want?” Sophia asks, glancing back.
“They didn’t say. Asked me about my singing, though.” I get my books for homework out of my locker.
“Oh,” Sophia says quietly as we head for the doors. “They didn’t say anything about me, did they?”
“Naw, just if I knew you, that’s all.” Yet, even though they didn’t technically say anything about her, there’s a ping of guilt recalling how they asked if I knew her. Then it dawns on me that there must be a reason behind Sophia’s question. I push the door open. “Why you ask?”
“It’s just that—” Sophia hesitates until I remind her that I told her my most embarrassing story today. “Well, the one with the bangs was in a class of mine last year. She wasn’t very, how should I put this? Nice,” Sophia says, letting the words hang there as if she’s waiting for me to ask her about it.
Here’s the deal. If what happened was bad bad, then I can’t be cool with Yvette and Belinda. That’s the code. Everybody knows that you can’t be friends with somebody who disses your friend—even if the dis was a long time ago. And I really want to be cool with Yvette and Belinda. But I have to have Sophia’s back. Arrghhhhh!
“You know what? Forget it, I’m being silly.”
“You sure?” I ask, crossing my fingers that she’s absolutely sure. Sophia says she is and lets it drop—which means it can’t be too bad. If it were too bad, she’d be like me, still reeling from when none of the girls—not even Tasha and their repossessed car—stood up for me when Regina called my folks bums. Called me Char. That kind of “too bad.”
After a beat she says, “Hey, wanna come over for dinner sometime?”
“Like to eat and chill?”
“Well duh! But I have to warn you—if you come, you might think my family’s crazy.” We head across the street and down the sidewalk.
“I’ve gotta ask my mom first, but I’d like to meet a family that’s crazier than mine,” I say. Mama will just be happy that I have an invitation, I think.
“Ask if you can come this Saturday. We’ll have so much fun,” Sophia says as she breaks away toward her street. “And hey, stay away from stairs!”
“You got jokes,” I say, stifling my laugh because my scars hurt when I do.
As I watch Sophia walk away, I think, Yeah, I’d like to go to her house. We can sit in her room and tell corny jokes. I can teach her how to play Uno and Spades, and she can teach me some Greek curse words. I’ll ask about Yvette because now I do want to know. And I might even let her hear me sing ’cause that’s what real friends do.
This fantasy is good enough to revel in for the rest of the day.
sixteen
Our walkway looks like an artist created it. For real, it’s a zig-zag pattern of whitewashed and brown bricks leading to the steps, which are big flat slabs in a shape that would be great for hopscotch—but I’m too old for that. Anyway, it’s like I’m Dorothy easing down the road, but without all the yellow. I’m so lost in it till I get to the door and—no no no. A chill runs from one arm to the other. Please don’t let that paper be what I think it is. No no no, please. I take down the note, unlock the door, and run straight to my room. I close the door even though no one’s home. Then I tear open the envelope.
Emory,
I haven’t been able to catch you at work. It has been almost a month, and my office has yet to receive your first month’s rent. Our records show that you only paid the security deposit. Let me know what’s going on. Call me.
Todd
I place my hand on the wall to hold myself steady. This wall is the cleanest I’ve had in a bedroom. This bedroom is the biggest I’ve had in my life. And this letter means—I’m about to lose it.
I fold the note into as tiny a square as possible and stuff it way in the back of my sock drawer. Same drawer as my list. I pull it out. Me getting nearly all the way to #87, no problem, since I might have to add: Because her grandma’s right, her dad’s going to get them put out in front of all those white folks. 100 Reasons Why We Hate Genesis. Hah. No doubt I can make it to one hundred more.
I store the list next to the note, shut the drawer, and practically wear the tread off my shoes pacing around nervously—I should do my homework, but I can’t focus on anything but that stupid note. I should be putting more Neosporin on my scratches, but can’t because of that note. My pacing leads me to the kitchen. I search the pantry for something, but I have no idea what I want. There’s nothing in there to fill the hole growing in my stomach. I don’t expect to find anything in the cabinets, but I look anyway. And something at the top of the cabinet catches the light. I drag over a chair, and that’s when I find them—three gleaming bottles—Absolut vodka, Hennessy, and Crown Royal. Dad! Why?! I haul the bottles down and unscrew the Crown Royal. It stinks like medicine. How does he even like this?
“I hate you,” I say to the Crown Royal, with its fancy crown-shaped bottle, so much fancier than any place we’
ve ever stayed besides this one. Fancier than the off-priced food boxes. Way fancier for sure than my clothes. I take another sniff. I gag and close it fast.
“I hate you. I hate you!” I say again and again. And I swear, it’s as if mist swirls around the kitchen and I disappear and another Genesis emerges. This girl is full of unanswered questions and rage. I hover slightly above this other Genesis, watch her run to the sink, all three bottles in her arms. When she unscrews the caps, one by one, I want to stop her. I really do. When she holds up the bottles, one by one, I stretch out my arms. They don’t reach. When she tips the bottles over the sink, one by one, I should hold her back. I should. But—
I can’t.
I won’t.
When the last bottle is empty, when the smell of booze fills the air, the other Genesis fades away and I can hardly breathe. What have I done? I bend over the sink, trying to summon the liquor back up the pipes. It’s too late. Too late. Tears burst out before I can fight them back. Because only now do I consider the terrible things Dad’ll do once he finds out.
I hide the bottles in the backyard, under the deck. Then I run inside again and lock the door.
Stop. Think for a second. I sit at the kitchen table racking my brain for a way to get out of this mess. I can plead with Dad to understand, like he does with Mama.
He’ll never listen.
Or, I could simply apologize.
But wait . . . what if I’m actually doing Dad a favor? He told us himself that drinking is a sickness. Why should we help him stay sick? It’s just like how Billie Holiday’s husband tried to help her. And if he asks me, I shouldn’t be scared to tell him, “I only wanted to help.”
Ughhhh. That’ll never work. Unless . . . unless Dad looks at me and sees more than Mama’s smile. The stupid lemons haven’t worked, so how? How? I’m dead. Think, think, think. I pull at my roots, stretching my brain. And my fingers get caught in my hair. Wait, my hair! If Dad sees me with straight hair plus my best “Mama smile,” maybe he’ll forget all about his vodka and Hennessy. Yeah, that might just work. I scurry to get the comb and hot comb. Then I section my hair in four parts, like Mama does. I set the stove to high, and place the hot comb in the middle of the burner. It gets so hot that smoke rises. Then I take the hot comb, grab a chunk of hair, and—I can’t.
I can’t do it. I can’t get the hand that’s holding the comb to move closer to my head. I’m too chicken of burning my hair all the way off. I cut off the stove and scream out in frustration.
“I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead,” I repeat my own, warped mantra. I gotta remember to add to my list, reason #88: Because she’s thirteen and too scared to press her own hair.
“Genesis,” Mama calls from the front door. “I’ve got bags.”
“Coming!” I rush to shut off the stove and put the hot comb back in the drawer and go out to meet Mama. “Hey,” I say, taking a bag from her arms.
“Thanks, hon.” I follow her to the kitchen, sniffing for vapors. If her nose is anything like Grandma’s, she’ll surely whiff out the scent of alcohol. “I’ll make dinner, but I need to get these put up first.” She starts unloading the bags.
“I’ll do it,” I offer quickly.
“Excuse me?”
“I got it. You must be tired. . . .”
“It’s all yours.” Mama pulls out a package of ground beef from one of the bags. “I was going to make meatloaf, but how about hamburgers instead?”
When she needs a spatula, it’s already in my hand. When Mama goes for the seasonings, I get them. One by one, she sprinkles the meat with them. Mama sneezes into the crook of her arm.
“Bless you,” I say, at her heels.
“Thanks . . . pepper got into my nose,” she tells me, and goes toward the sink.
I hover at her side, watching to see if she smells anything odd. She must not, ’cause she dries her hands and goes back to cooking. After we’ve eaten, I scrape the scraps into the garbage disposal, then sit back down across from her, trying not to think about what I’d done.
Finally, Mama catches my eye. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing,” I say, glancing at the cabinets. Stupid! I mean, she can’t read minds, right? But I’m even more worried about the note, Todd’s note, hiding in my drawer. Mama should know about it. But dang it, if I tell her, she’ll flip out and move us back to Grandma’s tonight. Especially since she’s been eerily chill about Dad taking her money. And double especially since Dad’s been MIA. These are arguments she’d usually hold over his head for weeks.
“Genesis?” Mama prods, “got something on your mind?”
I pull my sleeves down over my wrists. I’ve done this so many times today. Stupid exfoliation. Stupid brown bag. Mama’s waiting, so what pops out is, “Guess Dad’s missing dinner. His schedule, huh?”
I swear her shoulders rise. But she’s wearing her poker face, so there’s no telling how much worry she has inside. Still, I feel terrible for bringing it up, especially since the whole brown bag thing was on the tip of my tongue. But I can tell it’s not a good time to be asking anything surrounding that topic. So I go to the fridge, get the Sprite, pour her a glass, and set it in front of her.
“Thanks.” Mama drinks half of it and her shoulders settle a little. “How’s your chin? Been putting something on it?”
“Yes,” I say, forcing myself not to look to where the bottles had been. If I talk, Mama won’t get more suspicious. So I’m gonna have to talk about what I hate talking about—school. I tell her about Mrs. Hill’s vocal exercises, Troy and my tutoring, and how Sophia and all the other girls questioned my scars during PE. Of course, I wanna shut up. I wanna go in my room, turn on my music, and not think about anything. Not Dad’s liquor down the drain, his brother, marrying up, my scabby body, Todd’s note—I want to think about NOTHING.
Mama gives the glass of Sprite a swirl. “Gen, I know it’s been hard for you. But I’m so glad that you’re already making friends. I just hope this all works out.”
Her tone makes me quiver. All these different emotions are building up in me, and I’m ready to explode. Seriously, I’m on the verge of confessing everything when I realize that she actually looks hopeful, and I just can’t do it. I swallow it all back down my throat and agree, “It will.”
Then, to make her feel even better, I tell her that Sophia asked me over for dinner this Saturday.
“So that’s why you’re being so helpful?” she says, taking a sip of pop.
I laugh ’cause she has no clue. Then she laughs, which makes me feel better too.
“I’m joking,” Mama says, her voice suddenly bright. “Dinner sounds good, but maybe not this Saturday. I was hoping to rent Lady Sings the Blues. . . . Maybe next weekend, but I’ll need to meet her folks.”
“They’re crazy, she says.”
“Every family has some form of crazy, trust me.” Mama yawns and closes her eyes. She still has a soft face, like in her kid pictures on Grandma’s six-shelf case. I suspect it was screwy for her growing up with Grandma’s rules. Once, when I complained that Grandma never lets me play outside when it’s sunny, Mama told me that Grandma wouldn’t let her play in the sun either. She never told me why, but now I figured it out. Grandma ain’t want her—or me—to turn no darker than we already were. But still, that was cruel, ’cause even though there was no hope for me to ever match that stupid bag, Mama wouldn’t’ve gotten nearly as brown.
“Yeah, I guess there is,” I agree, because hidden behind our closed door is all kinds of crazy.
I wake up the next morning. Dad didn’t kill me.
Dad didn’t kill me because he didn’t come home. Again. Mama’s so mad that she looks like she could spit fire. So she keeps her mouth closed. Me? I’m glad I poured out his stupid liquor. That’s what he deserves for going back on his promise.
seventeen
That afternoon after tutoring, I slip over to the computers, leaving Troy and Sophia reading at the back table, and do a little researc
h about lemons. Last night I was lucky not having to face Dad, but I’m even more determined to find some way to make myself look as much like Mama as I can. Then maybe he’ll stay home more. But it turns out that you’re supposed to mix the lemon juice with honey and something called turmeric. Tumeric? Where in the heck will I get that? And what the heck is it?!
When I finally rejoin my peeps, Sophia’s reading her same book, Troy’s in his alternate universe, and I settle in with Billie Holiday’s biography. But it doesn’t take long before my mind drifts to other thoughts, like maybe I should’ve shown Mama the note. And man, do I wish my scrapes would stop itching. Then there’s Yvette—I’ve seen her twice, and she has yet to ask me what she wanted to yesterday.
“Genesis? You staring at me again?” Sophia asks, out of the blue.
Troy glances up from his Black Panther comic.
“Why do you always think I’m staring at you?”
Ever since Sophia’s bathroom episode, she’s been on edge and accusing people, i.e. me, of staring. Maybe somebody should tell Sophia that everything is not about her, and some of us have our own issues to deal with, like dads staying out all night at the casinos.
“I hate it when people watch me, that’s all,” Sophia grumbles, almost to her book.
“Girl, chill, I was staring off into space, thinking.” I add, fast, “Thinking how I forgot to tell you that I can come for dinner.” Dinner is what your dad hasn’t been to for the last two nights. Shut up, brain!
“Really?” Sophia says, sitting up in the floor recliner, suddenly switching moods.
“Hey, I like to eat too,” Troy pipes up.
“Girls only, sorry,” Sophia teases. Troy shrugs and goes back to his comic book. “I’ll tell my mom. She’ll probably start cooking the next minute.”
“Yeah, but tell her to slow her roll; I can’t come till the Saturday after.” I try to cheer myself up by picturing me sitting at Sophia’s table surrounded by her family—her all-white family. I’ve actually never been to dinner at a white person’s house. Now I’m worried about that stupid paper bag test—not that Sophia’s dad will put a bag to my face—but will they view me like Grandma’s family would? This is not a good thought to be entertaining, so I change subjects. “Okay, so, this talent show . . . everybody’s talking about it like it’s a big deal.”
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