“Dad,” I say, “you’re not alone. I’m right here.” And Dad, he takes my hand, and his levees break.
thirty-three
What’s not okay is that I’ve got to stay locked up in my room—with nothing but my bed, dresser, and a bunch of boxes. Mama was moved by my performance, but not enough to release me from my sentence. For breaking my punishment, she grounded me for even longer—shoot, I’m liable to sit here till my hair turns gray. I even pleaded my case and told her all about Dad opening up about his family and our long talk last night—which was the point of me breaking my punishment in the first place. You know what she said? “Good, I hope it brings him closure.” Then she sent me back to my room. Back to my room!
“Can you at least have pity on me . . . I didn’t win a thing!” I shout through my cracked door.
“Use this time wisely,” she calls back. “Think about how you can make better choices.”
“I have already,” I mutter. And I’m not lying; I really have. Like, I’ve worked on my novel study questions for English class, and I really thought about my answers, like for myself. I figure, it’s not like the books that Troy read, but it’s a start. And Troy, he won! If I had phone privileges, I’d call him right now.
I finish my homework, which doesn’t take long—even with me dragging it out. It’s only about two o’clock, and honestly, I’ve already learned my lesson. This is torture, I think, kicking a box. Dad’s not even around to—I don’t know, talk about what we talked about last night. He woke up about noon and told us that he won’t make any more promises, that his actions will speak for him. Not shortly after, he left. I kinda want to hear him tell me one more time that he doesn’t want to lose me.
I sit for another hour, reflecting on my choices until Mama knocks on my door. She comes in before I even answer. It’s not a good time to discuss how Sophia has privacy with a door lock, but whenever we move to a place of our own, I’m definitely bringing it up. “I’m not sure if you want this,” Mama says, holding out my list.
The List. “Not really,” I say, extending my hand to take it. My blotchy hand. I can’t believe I was so close to finally changing. No, no, no. I can’t believe I did this to myself.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“It’s just a list that some girls started . . . you can see what happened next.” Stupid girls. Couldn’t even count.
“You believe everything on there?” Mama asks.
I scan the paper, flipping it over, and, oh my gosh, this is another thing that I can’t believe that I did to myself. “I guess so,” I say, adding: “Some of this stuff was really lame, though. Like Number One: She smiles too much; Number Eighteen: She always trying to be somebody’s friend. Like I said, lame.”
Mama bites down on her lip, holding her words back. Finally she asks, “What about . . . Number Seventy?”
“Number Seventy?” Ouch.
She can’t stand being this black.
The words stab me. After last night’s talk with Dad, I realize one thing: Everybody’s in pain. Billie. Etta. Ella. Grandma. Mama. Dad. Me. Even Chyna and Porsche. And for me, it was trapped between the lines of this paper. I don’t even know why I kept it. It’s nothing but a reminder that I was one of the bad ones. And I added to it. Me.
I look at Mama and the darkness under her eyes; she’s been through a lot. Growing up with all the traditions and rules might not’ve been as rough as Dad’s mean mama, but it sure wasn’t easy. Dealing with Dad might’ve hurt her too, not to mention what I’ve done. I wonder if she now regrets marrying Dad, because if Dad was truly trying to marry up, and if, say, she married down to spite Grandma, then it hasn’t turned out too well for her. And since I didn’t turn out looking like her, then everything would fall back to #70 and that brown bag. So, I ask, “Why’d you marry Dad?”
“What?” Then Mama shakes off her shock. “That’s out of the blue.” When I don’t respond, Mama goes on. “I married your father for love. Yeah, I noticed his dark skin, but I wasn’t bothered by it. . . . I just wasn’t. To be honest, he was my type—tall, dark, and handsome.” Mama laughs, probably at her cliché. “My parents were mad, of course, but like I told you before, there was so much about him to love . . . funny, affectionate, caring, charismatic . . .” Mama trails off as if remembering the good old times. “I love who I love. And now . . . it’s time for me to forgive those I love, you know?” Mama then dips her head to me, reminding me of the list.
“Oh yeah,” I say, glancing back down at the paper. “Number seventy. I don’t know what to say.” I’ve been trying to lighten my skin for Dad, at least that’s what I told myself. Just had to look like Mama. But now I know, it was for me. I think about that night on the back porch, me asking Dad why he hates me, and I never thought to ask myself. Why? Why I hate me? Gosh, I feel stupid. Stupid for the cream, bleach bath, exfoliation, lemons—all of it. Troy’s right, I’ve been caught up in the hype and what everybody thought of me, and I’m tired of it. I just want to look in the mirror and be okay with myself, that’s all. “Ma, I can’t do this anymore.”
Mama gives me the what-are-you-talking-about face.
I don’t tell her that I’m talking about all the trying I’ve been doing since last October. So I tell her, “I’m done with this list.”
“Good,” she says, nodding. “Want to start another one? A positive one, like, what you love about yourself? I can help.”
“Naw,” I say, tearing up the paper over and over again until it looks like confetti. I laugh inside because we should really have a party after saying bye to this fancy house and hopefully starting fresh in a new one. I even have friends—real friends—to invite. But seriously, I say no because this list thing was never my idea. I want to figure out what I like about myself, but I want to do it on my own—no lists or help from anybody. So I tell Mama, “It’s a good idea, but I’m kinda done with lists for right now. I just kinda wanna start all over . . . begin again.”
“That sounds like a good decision,” Mama says in her thinking voice. “I love it. Just begin again.”
Then I think of something, and real sad-like I say, “But . . . I guess I can’t.”
“Why?” Mama asks alarmed.
“Because . . . ,” I pause. “Because this punishment stops me from starting anything new.” Mama laughs, and I can’t help but to burst out laughing too. And we carry on like this so long that we forget what we’re even laughing about in the first place. I like when we laugh. And I like that I’m funny. And I’m sure I like a whole lot of things . . . and truth is, I can’t wait to discover ’em all.
Acknowledgments
In 2011, in my graduate school’s lecture hall, a speaker shared the good old adage: “Write what you know.” So, I sat in front of my computer and did exactly that. It was my first adviser, Claire Rudolf-Murphy, who informed me that I had to at least add paragraph breaks throughout my story. Thank you, Claire. I added them, as you’ll see.
And it was Jane Resh-Thomas who responded with focused questions that forced me to think more deeply about my story. What was it I wanted to convey? Oh, I had no idea. I was just writing what I knew. And thank you, Jane, for urging Laura Ruby to convince me to press through with the story. When Genesis was packed away and never to be explored again, Laura coaxed it out of the recycle pile and helped me to fall back in love with it. Thanks, Laura. And thank you, dear Marsha Qualey, for your wisdom in further developing the draft.
My writer’s group kept me accountable for getting my revisions done. Thank you, Andrew Cochran, Elizabeth Verdict, Jane O’Reilly, and Melissa Taleb.
The themes in this story went well beyond what I knew and experienced. And my girl Tracee Loran was always a phone call away for the in-depth analysis, long discussions, and shared venting of these issues. Thank you, Tracee.
In 2014, Anne Ursu asked to read Genesis. Now, when someone like Anne Ursu says, “I want to read your manuscript,” well, you had better say yes. But my manuscript was in shambles. However
, I knew that I couldn’t keep someone as busy as Anne waiting. That should’ve been motivation enough, right? But I needed a deadline—I work better with deadlines.
That’s when my friend Maria Blackburn set one and announced, “And we’ll celebrate with cake.” Cake! That did it for me. I wrote and wrote and met my deadline—and thank you, Maria, for bringing not just a regular grocery store cake, but a Suárez Bakery cake!
Finally I sent it off to Anne, who also gave me feedback and has been a mentor and major champion of mine. I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done.
I’d like to thank my agent, Brenda Bowen, and her then assistant, Wendi Gu, for pulling Genesis from the slush pile and recognizing its potential.
And a huge thanks to my editor, Caitlyn Dlouhy, for pushing me to delve deeper, staying true to the characters, and keeping the “voice” authentic. And thanks for using a green pen; it’s not as traumatic as a red one. I’m amazed at how Genesis has evolved. And now it’s as if we’re proud parents crying, “Our baby has grown up.” I’ve learned a lot from you—and am still learning—and on a brighter note, at least you didn’t have to send me a note about paragraph breaks.
Nailah, my daughter. My inspiration for Nia. You’ll never know how much it means to me when you say, “I’m proud of you, Mom.” Those words have gotten me through some rough patches—not only in my writing life, but life in general. Your encouragement has motivated me more than you’ll ever know. I love you. I love you. I love you.
My mother, Phyllis Williams, thank you for always being on my team no matter what. Thank you for spoiling me, cracking jokes, and being you. You make me laugh even when the world is tense. I love you.
I also owe a tremendous thanks to my #teamAlicia and #teamGenesis folks: Christine Stone for offering your beautiful mountain home so that I could write and revise in tranquility; and when I got stuck in a rut and was beating myself up, Debbie Kovacs said one sentence that has opened my eyes as to how we can support one another. She said, “Stop it. I will not let you talk about my friend that way.” Thank you; I now use that phrase to help others. Also, here’s an enormous THANK YOU for every individual who has emboldened me during this journey.
And lastly, I’d like to thank Detroit. Growing up in the city, I’ve learned one thing is true: Nothing stops Detroiters.
About the Author
Alicia D. Williams is a teacher. Her students created a list of what they wanted you to know about her:
1. Ms. Williams is Da BOMB.
2. The awesome thing about her is that she cares about all of us.
3. She makes me like history.
4. In her class we dance, sing, and unleash our own personalities.
5. She makes us laugh with all her jokes.
6. She won’t let us be unsuccessful.
7. She always brings her happy spirit.
8. She gets us.
9. She is funny, fantastic, bodacious.
10. She’s from Detroit, Michigan, and now she lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, with her daughter, Nay.
Visit us at simonandschuster.com/kids
Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Alicia-D-Williams
A Caitlyn Dlouhy Book
Atheneum Books for Young Readers
Simon & Schuster, New York
ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by Alicia D. Williams
Jacket illustration copyright © 2019 by Bijou Karman
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Interior design by Irene Metaxatos
Jacket design by Debra Sfetsios-Conover
Jacket illustration copyright © 2019 by Bijou Karman
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Williams, Alicia, 1970– author.
Title: Genesis begins again / Alicia D. Williams.
Description: First edition. | New York : Atheneum, [2019] | “A Caitlyn Dlouhy Book.” | Summary: Thirteen-year-old Genesis tries again and again to lighten her black skin, thinking it is the root of her family’s troubles, before discovering reasons to love herself as is.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018030079 | ISBN 9781481465809 (hardback) | ISBN 9781481465823 (eBook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Human skin color—Fiction. | Self-esteem—Fiction. | Family problems—Fiction. | African Americans—Fiction. | Prejudices—Fiction. | Moving, Household—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Prejudice & Racism. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Peer Pressure. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Bullying.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.W5456 Gen 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018030079
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