I hold up my iPad and George leans over, almost tipping his desk. “Yo, see that in the background? The little dude there on top of the fridge!” He scrolls and laughs, slamming into the seat so hard it crashes into the desk behind it. If you sit near George, it’s highly recommended you wears a helmet too.
Teacher Man glares at us. He is annoyed because our ignorant asses broke the school firewall again to check social media posts, but we can’t even pass a daily quiz. Right now we’re supposed to be doing a historical analysis between suffrage and civil rights, but I got to know if my friendship with Alma is history first. We haven’t talked in two weeks and I’m in serious bestie withdrawal.
History is the only class the three of us have together anymore. The only reason Alma is in a regular class—and rest assured there’s nothing regular about the cray-crays in this class—is because all her other classes are AP and she needs a breather. Alma’s not here today though. She’s on another field trip in this program called Tomorrow’s Leaders Today. (See G for Gifted and Talented.) George and I are not in this program because nobody appreciates our gifts or talents today—or any other day. Currently George is displaying his talent for appreciating my jokes. Every time he laughs he bashes into desks like bumper cars. Any minute he’ll start wheezing and get sent to the nurse. George has the asthma.
Me: “Alma always never posts pics of herself. Even her profile pic is of one of her kids. Check it out. This girl is Alma’s mini-me. She always never—”
“Macy! George!” Teacher Man is staring us down. “Let’s talk about why we cannot use the words always and never in the same sentence.”
“What do you mean by we?” I lean way back in my seat. People are always talking like that to me. Saying our and we.
Our plan for Macy is . . . I think we can all agree that . . . We don’t want THAT to happen, do we?
Teacher pops a cap off a black marker and writes the sentence I said on the whiteboard in Caps Lock.
ALMA ALWAYS NEVER DOES THAT.
He’s trying to turn this into what he calls a teachable moment. Like that time he made us proofread all the graffiti in the bafroom.
With a red marker, he crosses out the word always and rereads it. He says, “See, always is what we call superfluous. It’s clutter.”
Clutter? Like he knows my life.
“You’re pissing me off,” I say. I stay seated. I don’t get in his face. Yet. I stay in my circle—draw a imaginary one around my desk. (See C for Circle.)
Teacher turns his back. “I hear you, Macy,” he says. “I’m sorry you’re angry.”
“I didn’t say I was angry,” I shout. My circle is bursting with flames. “I said I was pissed.”
The teacher turns on the projector. He’s got a PowerPoint with GIFs. He’s got Vines. He’s got everything but a top hat and a cane. He is ignoring my behavior. This is a time-honored teacher strategy that also royally pisses me off.
I reach into my desk. Take out History of the American People Volume 1 and clean house. Cross out all the pages about shit that’s got nothing to do with me. What’s left? Not much. The teacher keeps clicking through his slideshow until he hears the silence of the other kids. Until he hears the slashing of my pen.
“Macy!” he whips around, blinking in the light of the projector. “What are you doing?”
I guess he is no longer ignoring my behavior. “Are you angry?” I crack my knuckles. “Or are you pissed?”
If he were a cartoon, smoke would be pouring out his ears. A kid coughs as if he can smell it. “Put the Sharpie down, Macy. Vandalism will not be tolerated. You—”
“Vandalism? I’m not vandalizing any more than you. I’m just deciding which words count and which ones don’t. Which words mean something and which don’t. That’s exactly what you do.”
“Macy! You can’t argue two plus two is three, and you can’t argue that always and never should be used in the same sentence. You’re not in middle school anymore.” He slams his marker on the lip of the board. It rolls onto the floor. “I expect—”
Me: “You dropped something.”
His nostrils twitch.
Yeah. He’s pissed.
“What you’re not picking up on is how much is at stake here, Macy. Nobody’s gonna give you a lollipop anymore just because you throw a tantrum.”
“What did you say, motherfoe?” I throw my desk.
The other kids hide under their desks like it’s a tornado drill. Teacher Man pushes the office button. I’m going. Don’t even need to give me a lollipop. It’s a violation of my civil rights, though. Depriving my ass of a education. I walk out and slam the door.
I sit outside the principal’s office and take out the dictionary you’re reading right now. (By-the-fucking-way, you’re reading this because I’m missing or dead or in a nuthouse, or CPS stole it, and maybe you don’t know I’m standing right behind you, motherfoe.)
Back to Always/Never. Miss Black, my English teacher, says that to prove your point you have to give many examples. Here’s mine: Mothers always never leave.
I remember the first time my mother left. She thought I was asleep, but I saw her packing her bags. I don’t know why she left the house that night or what made her come back, but she did. I mean I guess she’s got enough reasons to leave, but what I always never get is what brings her back. Is a bad mother the one who leaves or the one who stays even though she should go?
I checked what was inside those bags. In one bag was a ratty old stuffed dog missing a ear. Her honey-bear bong and a dime bag. (And let me share my disappointment that a dime bag don’t actually got no dimes in it, believe me.) Pictures of herself at the beach. Queen Helena hair gel. A lock of my brother Zane’s hair. (See B for Burner and G for Gas.)
She always leaves a note. It says: I know you’ll never forgive me. But you’ll always love me. I know it. I still love my mother. The bitch. (The bitch is crossed out, but I can still read it through the scribble.) All my love, Yasmin.
But she always never leaves. Always acts like those bags aren’t still in the back of her closet, waiting. In the morning, I always look for the piece of tape hanging on the front door where the note was. Always find all the empty kitchen cabinets open like she wants us to know there’s nothing left for us here. The stuffed dog is back in that bashed-up box of hers. She got it from the group home when she left at thirteen. The bong and the dime bag are back in her panty drawer. The gel is on the kitchen sink where she does her hair when somebody’s stunk up the bafroom. The pictures of me on the dresser have never left.
About the Author
Raised in the Boogie Down Bronx, NoNieqa Ramos is an educator and literary activist. She wrote the young adult novel The Disturbed Girl’s Dictionary. She believes Halloween is a lifestyle, not a holiday. If you’re in Virginia, you might catch NoNieqa getting motorcycle lessons from her soulmate, Michael, or going indie bookstore hopping with her preciosos, Jandi and Langston. Connect with her works on www.nonieqaramos.com or on the Latinx collective www.lasmusasbooks.com.
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