“It’s after seven o’clock. What project was so important that you couldn’t pick up the phone?” I hang my head as Mama continues, “Don’t act like crime doesn’t happen out here.”
The only thing to say besides “sorry” is the truth: No, I didn’t think to call because I just found out Dad doesn’t have a job! He’s been leaving the house every day, pretending to go to work. Forget not getting a job promotion, Dad’s NOT GETTING PAID AT ALL. He’s probably even lying about going to the meetings, too. But I’m not laying all that down yet—I gotta think.
“Don’t let another ‘project’ stop you from calling or coming straight home, you hear?” Mama continues to rant, her voice ringing throughout the house.
When Mama’s done, I quietly close my door. I dig the eviction notice out from my pocket. Dad’s nothing but a LIAR, talking about promises and job promotions. I should tell Mama and get this whole moving thing over with now. It’ll be way better than having our stuff sitting on the curb. I can’t get over it—DAD HAS NO JOB! Since when? If it weren’t for that note and me having the courage to go speak to Todd, then we would never have known till it was too late.
I can’t unthink this, no matter how many times I try to push it out of my head. I get the Ella Fitzgerald CD from my bag, find a song to match my mood, and relief comes in the form of woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo’s as Ella tells me to “Cry Me a River.” And now I will, thank you very much! But Ella doesn’t let me. She doesn’t sound at all sorry for me, and pretty soon I stop feeling sorry for myself too.
Ella can sing a sad song with a jubilant twist, and she secretly switches your mood. She’s smart and tricky like that.
Tonight I did something pretty dumb. But part of me feels kinda proud because I did something. And I made the talent show.
I did something. Twice in one week.
Take that, Dad.
And Dad . . . well, he ain’t here. Nine o’clock. Ten. Ten thirty. He’s still not home. And now my thinking is ramped up again. Where does he go all day, with no job to go to? What is he doing? How is he getting money? Is he even trying to get the rent money before Mama finds out? What else is he lying about?
twenty-four
Sophia and I walk together to Ms. Luctenburg’s class, or rather I lag behind her. She asks if I’m okay, and I tell her I’m tired. Which is partly true. I fell asleep late trying to wait up for Dad. I can’t stop thinking: What in the heck does he do all day? At my seat, a note rests on my desk. A note. My mind flashes back to Chyna and Porsche. I slyly glance around for the culprit. Only Jason watches me. He nods his curly head toward the paper. I pick it up and open it.
Hey, new girl, your audition was banging. How about singing a hook for me?
The words tumble around and around in my brain. Sing a hook? For him? I look back and he widens his eyes, anticipating a response. From me. I read the note a second time. Me, sing a hook for him?
Ms. Luctenburg enters the room before I’m able to write an answer back. As usual, she gets right to the point. “Our discussion question today will explore whether there is a difference between the Greasers and the Socs.” Hands spring up and kids talk, but they all say the same thing. “Ponyboy thinks the Socs’ girls are classier.” “Cherry says money and values.” “Ponyboy thinks the Socs are all right, driving Mustangs.” Everybody shares ideas from Ponyboy’s and Cherry’s observations. To me it’s all the same: Greasers versus Socs, rich versus poor, dark versus light, Grandma versus Dad.
I dare raise my hand, and she calls on me. “Well, the book says that Ponyboy thinks the main difference is money, but I think the two groups are different because they separate themselves, well, by their opinions. The Socs all look at the Greasers and think they’re better than them based on how the Greasers all look and what they’ve heard about them. The Greasers look at the Socs and say, ‘They think they’re all that.’ No one stops to think for themselves. No one sees the individual persons. They make a judgment based on the outside, without even getting to know one another.”
“Ms. Luctenburg?” Sophia raises her hand. “To piggyback off what Genesis said, each group thinks the same way: Look at a person, form a conclusion, and the conclusion is based on comparing them to yourself. I think both Ponyboy and Cherry knew they were the same, basically. Well, Cherry was just afraid to stand up and admit it or convince her friends.”
Ms. Luctenburg twists her mouth and says, “Good argument, ladies. Anyone else?”
I give Sophia the Go-head I see you look.
When Mrs. Luctenburg releases us, I grab my bag and bolt for the door.
“Hey, Genesis.” It’s Jason.
I move out of the way as everybody pushes out of the classroom. “Yeah?”
“You read my note,” he says with a smile. “So, whaddaya say? We could use you to sing our hook.”
Sophia eyes me, and I give her the one-minute hand signal. “What kind of hook?”
“Well, you’re from The D . . . and you know what they say about Detroit, you feel me?”
No, I don’t know, unless he means no-one-survives-the-hood-without-at-least-a-gunshot-wound or something lame like that. I’ve seen enough touristy I SURVIVED DETROIT T-shirts to assume what people think.
“It’s just real from where you from, and your voice is . . . dope, know what I’m sayin’? Only you can bring the hook that I need, you feel me?”
Even though Jason is flavoring in way too many you feel mes for a thirty-second convo—just for a moment I forget about Dad and his no job, and I picture myself onstage, singing while he raps. It’s exactly like my singing daydreams, except Dad’s no longer the man with me—Jason is. “Sure,” I say breathlessly—yeah, I’m that sad—“I’ll do the hook.”
“Sorry I’m late, it’s fish taco day, and that line was crazy,” I say to Sophia when I get to the library. She’s browsing the nonfiction books. She snags one and scrutinizes the cover, ignoring me. We’re having our first friend argument over the silliest thing—me singing for Jason. When I showed her the note in the hall, after Jason left, Sophia read it four times, and her response was “I didn’t know y’all were friends.” Duh, we don’t have to be for me to sing.
“Come on, Sophe,” I say. “It’s just one little hook. Do you know how small a hook is? Like five or six words.” It’s annoying that I have to go through this with her, when there are bigger issues going on—like Dad not having a job, or us getting evicted at the end of the month, and how to tell Mama before it’s too late.
Sophia places the book back exactly where she got it. “Don’t you think it’s odd that all of a sudden he’s writing you notes?” Okay, it’s sweet that Sophia is being protective of me. And I get that she’s not too trusting of other kids—heck, I’m not either. Even I questioned whether Jason was playing some kind of prank. Sophia practically rolls her eyes at me. “You didn’t hear yourself sing on that stage. I hate to say it, but he might be using you for your talent.”
“Well, thanks for bursting my bubble,” I say, and head for our usual spot. I sink down on the floor pillow, deflated, ’cause why not me? Can’t this one time a boy see something about me that is boss? And on the other hand, I do wonder, “Why me?” Jason could’ve gone to Yvette, Belinda, or Nia, even.
This is where I have to stop myself. And I really do try to. But I can’t help but measure myself to other girls—and I’m just being real—but when I rate myself to Belinda and Nia, I ain’t no stunner. And there’s no need to rehash my life and replay some of the things I’ve done lately, ’cause then I’ll get down. What I do know is this—I shouldn’t even have to wonder why Jason asked me, and there shouldn’t be doubt in Sophia’s mind either. And I wouldn’t wonder, if I were like Nia . . . like Mama. So that tells me one thing—
“Hey, I’ll be right back,” I tell Sophia.
“Where’re you going?”
“Gotta check something on the computers.” What I’ve been doing hasn’t been working, not fast enough. And, truth truth, I don’t
know what else I can try. So I google “how to lighten,” and “skin” instantly pops up. The sites offer the same old suggestions: lemons, baking soda, milk, yogurt, honey, etcetera. Just as I’m about to blow smoke out of my ears, I stumble on bleaching creams. Bleaching creams? I click on “images.” Whoa. I can hardly believe my eyes. Just about everyone’s done it! How did I not know about this? The websites show women all the way in Jamaica, Africa, India, and Korea, all using bleaching creams. Hundreds and hundreds of women, no, maybe thousands, all feel the same as me: #70: She can’t stand being this black.
“Hey, what’re you up to?” Troy stands behind me. “I wanted to show you this cool comic—”
“I’m coming.” I close the tabs, but the stupid computer’s slow, slow, slow.
“What’s that?” He leans over my shoulder, and I can feel my skin flushing darker.
“Nothing.” My coal-black knuckles stand out as I grip the mouse. Troy looks at me, and I know he’s seen it. “I was just messing around.” I laugh, trying to play it off.
“Yeah, sure,” Troy says, backing away, leaving.
There’s disappointment in his eyes, and I want to call out, explain. But then I get all fired up. I shouldn’t have to explain myself to him. Troy has no right to judge; his family is perfect, his dad pays the rent. He’s read all those books, but doesn’t know my reality. I reopen the tab and quickly copy the 1-800 number.
And as soon as I get home, I slip into Mama’s room, dig around in her drawer and find her emergency credit card. For a moment I feel awful, like I’m just like Dad when he took money from her purse. But I shake the guilt away as I find the 1-800 number in my notebook and dial.
The next day in the locker room, Yvette and Belinda approach me just as I’m pulling up my shorts. Can you say, awkward? But still, shorts up or down, I really want to know what they want.
Yvette sidles up to me. “Belinda and I were talking, and we both agree that we’re ridiculously worried about you being onstage all by yourself, with this being your first talent show and all.”
“Yeah, it’s not like you even planned for it,” says Belinda, eyes wide with concern.
“Anyway, we’ve decided that you should join our group. Isn’t that so stinking great?”
Really? I think, not exactly sure how I should react or what I even think of this.
“Really?” I say, ’cause should I be excited or not?
“Yeah, because if we were new to a school, it would make us feel ridiculously comfortable if someone did a huge favor like that for us.” Yvette rubs my arm, and I immediately tingle from this foreign, girly gesture.
“I have to admit, I am kinda nervous,” I say uneasily. At the same time, my head is exploding: They want me to join their group! And they’re so good!
“We got your back, girl,” Yvette says. It’s true, even when she didn’t know me. “And one more thing. I feel badly about the other day.”
“The other day?”
Belinda smiles hopefully. “Yeah. Yvette sort of mentioned your hair. I told her that was foul.”
“My bad.” Yvette shakes her perfect bangs out of her eyes. “So let me help you. I could do your hair for you. I’m good at it.”
“For real?” Dang. Maybe I’ve misjudged them.
“My mother buys a ridiculous amount of hair stuff, it’ll be no problem.”
Mama would never approve of a relaxer. “I don’t know.”
“You’ll want it done for the show. It’s like, in two weeks,” says Yvette.
There’s a tiny voice pestering me: What if they’re asking me to join them for the same reason that Sophia believes Jason is asking me to sing? But that pesky voice is fading fast because me shaking and slaying onstage with Yvette and Belinda—is a dream coming true—and there’s no way Dad wouldn’t be proud of me. But now that he doesn’t have a job, will it still matter? Then I think, no, it matters even more!
Yvette takes out her cell phone. “You know what, text me and let me know. What’s your number?” Then she glances over my shoulder and frowns. Sophia’s hanging around the gym doors, waiting. “Well, you can give it to me later,” Yvette says fast, tucking the phone away in her short’s waistband. “See you on the track.” Yvette and Belinda merge with the other girls, passing Sophia at the door.
Sophia doesn’t ask what they wanted, and I’m staying tight-lipped about it. That is, until I figure out what I’m going to do. Join them? Or not?
twenty-five
When Mama comes home I take a break from The Outsiders. And boy, does she look whipped. I can imagine what she’d look like if I broke Dad’s news to her. Or my own—me pouring out that liquor. There’s no way I can drop either bomb, just look at her. So, I tell her to take it easy, that we can eat leftovers or cereal. She says that sounds about perfect, and lays her head back on the couch and closes her eyes. She does perk up a little when I tell her about auditioning and making the talent show. I go back over to my homework spot by the big picture window, but end up gazing at the orange red of the sun bleeding across the sky. Not a second later, Dad rolls up the driveway like a madman. “Dad’s home,” I announce. Home from where is my question. Such a fraud. He sits in the car—that’s supposed to be parked at the Mumford Manufacturing Company.
“He must’ve gotten off early,” Mama says, pushing herself up from the couch. She’s beside me, watching too. He notices us. And it doesn’t take a psychic to read that he’s in a mood.
“I’m gonna go finish my homework,” I say, picking up my books and escaping to my room.
“Go ’head, it won’t take long to make cereal,” Mama jokes.
I keep my door open a smidge. When Dad comes in, I recognize his tone even before I register the words—it’s the rock stuck in his throat voice. Not a drunk voice, but a mad voice. When I hear Mama ask, “How do you know?” and Dad responds, “Chico,” that’s when my stomach clenches.
I have two choices. One: Wait for Dad to come for me. Or two: Go out on my own. Neither sounds good, but I know what I have to do—even though every muscle in my legs are resisting it. Slowly I step into the living room. They don’t notice me—how can they not feel the electric pulses sparking from my body?
“Wait, wait, wait,” Mama is saying. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me she caught the bus all the way to your job? That’s simply impossible, Em.” She’s staring at my father as if he’s said I flew to the moon.
I try to speak. I have to. Say it! I swallow real hard and say, “No, Mama. I did it.”
Mama spins toward me. “What? How? Why on earth—?” With each word she charges a step forward. I back up, suddenly afraid.
Dad: To get me fired, that’s why.
Mom: How’d you get all the way out there?
Dad: What the hell were you doing snooping around my job?
Mom: How do you even know the route?
Dad: It doesn’t matter how she knew.
Lord, please let the floor crack open so I can fall through and disappear forever.
Mom: What were you thinking?
Dad: She wasn’t thinking. I tell you what she was doing. . . .
Mom: This happen when you came home late that day?
One lie out.
It takes all my energy, but I force myself to say, “I wasn’t snooping.” My voice is shaky. “I . . . I wasn’t trying to get you fired.” I want so badly to call Dad out on his secret, but I don’t have the nerve.
“Then what were you doing?” Dad demands, towering over me.
I struggle to meet his eyes. I give up.
“I said, ‘What were you doing?’ ” His nostrils flare.
“I was trying to save us. Trying to save you.”
“What? What the hell does that mean?” Dad’s voice is so loud that the crystals on the chandelier shake. “Save me? Sharon, she’s talkin’ crazy. You hear her?”
“Emory, calm it down!” Mama cries out. “Genesis, what do you mean?”
When people say they break ou
t in a sweat when they’re scared, it’s true. I’m proof. But somehow, I calm myself.
“We’re gonna get evicted again. If we get evicted again, you said you’re gonna leave. If we leave, then we’ll live with Grandma. So I . . . I took the bus and, I don’t know. I thought if I could just speak to the landlord and convince him to . . .” My voice cracks, but I don’t stop. I tell her about Todd’s notes, and yes, it was wrong for me to hide them, but they are what made me go to Dad’s job. “I’m tired of coming home and our stuff’s on the lawn waiting for crackheads to steal it! I’m tired of staying in people’s basements! Why can’t you just pay the rent? Just stop gambling and pay the rent?”
We all stand in a triangle, letting the words settle. “Wait, wait, wait wait wait!” Mama squeezes out through gritted teeth, “You haven’t paid the rent? You mean to tell me—”
“No, it’s not what you’re making it out to be. . . . I mean, yeah,” Dad stutters, getting tripped up on his tale. “Listen, I’ll tell you everything, but . . . but we gotta deal with Genesis.”
“Don’t tell me what we gotta do. I know what we’ve got to do—and paying the rent is one! So, don’t think we’re not gon’ talk about it.” Mama turns to me and with that same strong voice she says, “And Genesis Anderson. You had no business going to your father’s work, traveling across town like that. You should’ve come to me, let me handle it.” I want to say, And then what? She’s only threatened to leave too many times already—and two weeks ago when we did leave—we were right back before he even had a chance to be sorry.
Dad doesn’t say anything at all. And stupid, stupid me, I’m still hoping. Hoping he’ll say the magic words, “Everything’ll be all right.”
Something flashes in his eyes and now it is he who can’t meet my gaze. Even though I’ve broken into a full sweat, I go on, “Why don’t you just tell the truth, Dad?” I take two steps forward, praying that he takes two too.
Genesis Begins Again Page 18