Lupa (Second Edition)

by Kimberly Odum Wells

I’m late. I’m always late. I walk the mile and a half to school like I have for the last three years. I go straight to the office to check in. I’m given my fortieth detention.

  “You know you’ll have to take care of those before you can graduate next year.”

  Savannah is a TA, teachers’ assistance, or as I like to refer to her; total ass. I take the yellow slip of paper from her hand. Okay—I may have snatched it, and walk out of the office.

  I’m one of those people that believe that once you’re late there’s no reason to rush so I stop by my locker and go to the bathroom before heading to my first period class. The bathroom is blessedly unoccupied and I splash water over my face. It’s my first day back since my grandmother passed. The two weeks I’ve been out has left me lazy and I wish for more time as I grab a paper towel from the white dispenser hanging on the wall. The chipped spots and carved words are still visible beneath the newer coat of white paint. It’s full of shit like TW + SE forever and Shirley is a big fat liar. What are we—in kindergarten—in nineteen fifty two? I read each and every line before throwing the wad of paper in the trash. I decide to leave my own contribution. Hey, I believe in supporting the arts. I take out my pen and draw a flower and a broken heart.

  “Good morning Miss Freeland. It’s so nice for you to join us.” Mr. Lewis says, but no one laughs like they do in the movies.

  “And it’s so good to be here Mr. Lewis. Sorry for being late. I’ll try harder next time,” I reply, as I hand him the slip of paper that I’d snatched from Savannah’s hand.

  Mr. Lewis and I are cool. He’s actually my favorite teacher. I take my seat towards the back of the room and take out my literature book. I doodle in the corner of it while listening to Mr. Lewis go over the assign reading for the week; Othello. I know he won’t call on me. My unofficial time of mourning is still in effect at school.

  The fifty minutes for the class pass, and I make my way to my second period. I pass groups of kids, couples, friends, buddies and pals. I have none of these. I walk with my head slightly down so I don’t make eye contact with anyone. Save them the trouble of having to pretend they want to acknowledge my existence or me theirs.

  The rest of the day pass slower then molasses in January and I sit through each class watching the clocks posted above the doors of each room. I wish I liked school more, it’d make the day go by faster. Every time I look at the clock only a few minutes have passed, sometimes not even a full one.

  School lets out and it’s a scorcher. It’s supposed to be over a hundred degrees today. With my books in my arms I get ready to make the trek home.

  “Hey Josette!”

  I turn, surprised to hear my name called. I’m the only Josette and I’ve only heard it coming from the mouth of a student a handful of times since I left elementary school. A completely unknown boy is walking towards me and I can’t help but look around because surely he’s not talking to me.

  The earth doesn’t shake and when he walks it isn’t in slow motion but there is something otherworldly about the boy flashing his pearly whites at me. Tall...check; dark...check; handsome...um, duh—check. He’s dressed in the summer uniform: baggy khaki shorts, t-shirt that hugs his upper body showcasing muscled arms and pectorals that promise nothing but six-packed abs. To hell with that, eight pack abs, white tube socks and a brand new pair of kicks.

  “Yeah I’m talking to you,” he says smiling down at me. He’s at least six feet tall, probably taller.

  “I’m sorry, who are you and what do you want with me?” I ask, trying to figure out the sequence of events that has led him so astray that he ended up calling my name.

  “I’m Maxwell Anderson, Max, I just moved in down the street from you. I’ve wanted to introduce myself, but my grandmother told me not to bother you. Your grandmother just died.”

  “Two weeks ago,” I say shading my eyes with the hand not holding my books to my chest.

  I have a backpack but a book is like an appendage, I feel naked without one in my hand, or in this case in my arms.

  Maxwell Anderson, or Max, is one of those people who carry heat. No matter how hot it is, their skin is hotter. Like they’re feverish, or their body takes an extra long time to cool off after playing hard. Maybe his last class was gym. Anyway, he’s close enough to invade my personal place. My grandmother would have called him a close talker. He smells good. Like soap and fresh laundry.

  “That sucks.”

  I wait for the two words I’ve heard no fewer than what seems like a million times but they don’t come and I think that’s why Max and I become instant friends, because he didn’t say I’m sorry.

  “You want to walk home together?”

  “Sure,” I answer, already a little nervous. What am I going to say to this stranger the forty-five minutes it will take us to walk home?

  “Bye Max, see you tomorrow.” Rusty Thomas calls out as he heads to the student parking lot. Rusty’s parents teach at the school and although he hangs out with the cool kids he’s okay.

  “Yeah later,” Max yells back throwing his hand up. “Ready?” He asks turning back to me.

  “Sure,” I say turning from a pair of eyes that are prying, not in a bad way, but it still makes me feel uncomfortable.

  Forty-five minutes never went by so fast. Max is from Battle Creek, Michigan. He’s been living with his aunt, but she recently married and sent him to live with his grandmother, Mrs. Anderson. I’ve always liked Mrs. Anderson. She wears too much makeup and too much old lady perfume. I bet in her day she was a real looker. She’s a sweet old lady. Max’s a senior and he’s planning on going to New York next year, one stop of many. He plans on traveling the world before deciding what he’s going to do with the rest of his life. He talks non-stop the entire way and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. By the time we make it to the curb of his house I feel like I’ve known him my whole life.

  “Man that was quick,” he says, looking like he wants to scratch his head in wonderment. “You let me hog the conversation all the way home.”

  “No problem, there’s always tomorrow,” I say shrugging my shoulders and hiking the books in my arms higher.

  “Hey, what are you doing tonight?”

  I’ve spent the walk home sneaking glances at Max as he told me his life story and what the future held for him. It doesn’t escape me that Max is kind of hot. In that All-American, boy next door kind of way. Dark brown skin, short cropped haircut, clear smooth skin, perfect white teeth, large hands with clean square cut nails. My heart races a little.

  “Homework,” I answer, motioning to the books I’m carrying with my chin.

  “After that?”

  I look at him wondering why no one gave him the memo. I don’t like people and they don’t like me.

  “Nothing I guess.”

  “Want to hang out later, maybe watch a movie?”

  “Maybe... I don’t know.”

  “Here.” He shifts his backpack more on his shoulder; grab a pen from his pocket and then my hand. I’m too shocked to snatch it away from him. He writes his number in the palm of my hand. The slight tickling is what keeps me from thinking the moment is a dream. “Call me or I can come to your house.”

  “Okay,” I say, refusing to gawk at the phone number and praying that my sweaty palm will not destroy it before I get a chance to write it down. Like he lives across town and not four houses from me.

  “How was school?” My mom calls from the kitchen.

  My hand is still on the handle of screen door, I haven’t even opened the door yet and my mom is out of sight. How’d she do that?

  “Fine, good, I met Mrs. Anderson grandson today. We walked home together.”

  I put my books on the table and sit next to my mom. She’ll leave soon for her second job. She works five to two at a bakery and then sleeps for a few hours before heading off to the grocery store she works third shift at. She’ll be home around ten.

  “Margaret told me he was her
e finally. Say he seems like a decent enough kid. Was he nice?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I pick up my pack of smokes. I don’t smoke at school. It’s not allowed and I don’t smoke on my walk to or from. My mom says that only trashy women walk and smoke.

  “He asked me to do something later, after homework.” I make myself busy with the stack of books in front of me as I say this to my mom but I can feel her looking at me.

  “He did, did he?”

  “Yeah, so you can call Mrs. Andersons if you don’t get an answer here,” I say, looking at my mom, who of course, has one eyebrow raised and is smiling.

  “I’m off to work. Lock up before going to the Anderson’s and don’ forget your keys. I can’t afford to have to come back to unlock the door for you.”

  It’s a habit of mine to forget my keys.

  “Got it,” I say. My mom stands and kisses the top of my head before heading out.

  I look at my hand and write down the number before it’s gone. I don’t have a cell phone. Why would I? I don’t have any friends, which leaves only my mom as the person who would call and since I don’t go out it seems like a waste. She can call on the landline.

  Getting my homework done takes longer than usual. No focus. I find myself reading the same question numerous times. When I finally finish the clock says five thirty. I grab my cigs and go outside to decide if I’m going to call Max after all. The day is still hot. I’ve changed from my school clothes into a pair of cut off jean shorts and a beater t-shirt. I’ve taken my braids down and my hair is a wild halo of hot mess. Who cares? I sit on the rusty lawn furniture in front of my house. T is the only one out braving the heat with me. She runs over as soon as she sees me. T thinks we’re friends.

  “Hey Josette,” she says.

  “Hey T, what’s up?”

  “Nothing, no one will come out to play with me, said it’s too hot. But it’s hotter in the house.”

  I bet it is. When the clan from next door all come out it’s like watching the clown act at the circus. You know the one. Once I wondered where everyone slept but didn’t care enough to ponder on it too much.

  “Yeah?” Is all I say.

  “Have you seen Mrs. Anderson’s grandson? He’s hot.”

  I look at the eight, maybe ten year old, with my eyebrow raised. “What do you know about hot T? How old are you?”

  “Ten,” she answers and sits down next to me. “I like your hair,” she says changing subjects.

  “Thanks, hey, want some water?” I decide I do like T and if she wants to be friends than maybe we can work something out. She can be my little protégé.

  “Sure, thanks Josette.” The girl’s eyes light up like I’ve offered her something other than what she can get in her own home.

  The inside of my house is hot too. There are only two houses with central air in our neighborhood. The Anderson’s and the Bentley’s on the other side me, but I imagine that it’s cooler than inside T’s house.

  “Hello.” It’s Max. “Josette?”

  Shit. I’d decided not to call him, or at least call him later to tell him I didn’t want to hang out with him. “Come in,” I call from the kitchen. T is smiling a big dopey grin as I sit down next to her.

  “Hey,” Max says entering the kitchen, “You didn’t call and I didn’t have your number so I thought I’d come down to see if you wanted to watch that movie.”

  Max has changed into a pair of jeans and a brand new white v-neck t-shirt. I always thought v-necks could go either way on a man. A man could look either sexy or gay in one. Max is definitely sexy. But looking at him in those jeans made me hot. I guess he hasn’t acclimated to the South yet.

  “Ain’t you hot in them jeans,” T speaks up. “Boy you gonna pass out.”

  I can tell T is smitten by Max, who wouldn’t be. He is literally and figuratively, in T words and my thoughts, HOT.

  “What some water? I think the temperature just got ten degrees hotter since you came in here with those jeans on,” I say.

  Max sits down next to T, opposite me. If he’s put out or offended by our words he doesn’t show it.

  “I’m Tabitha, but everyone calls me T,” my little protégé tells our new guest.

  “Please to meet you T,” Max says smiling at the girl, probably making her day that much better. “Yeah, I’d like some water,” he says to me.

  I get up and grab another glass from the drainer in the sink. T and Max talk as I pour his glass of water. It’s all I have to offer in the fridge in regards to refreshments. On hot days like this it’s really the only thing that can quench a thirst anyway, that or a beer. But I’m too young to buy alcohol, even from the corner store. There are some things a small country towns frown upon, and getting underage kids wasted is one of them. Black lungs—okay. Drunk driving—not okay. So water it is. I sit as I pass the glass to Max, who drinks half of it.

  “Man, that’s good. How about that movie, I thought we could catch a show, which is why I’m in jeans. It’s always cold in movie theaters,” he says in his defense with a smile.

  “There’s nothing out I want to see right now.”

  T is looking between the two of us, her head whipping back and forth. She looks like she’s watching a tennis match.

  “Oh,” he says, leaning back in the chair, throwing his arm over the back of it. He looks comfortable, at home even. I envy him that. I’m always nervous being anywhere but my own home.

  “I’m gonna get home before Granny calls me. Nice meeting you Max. See you later Josette.” T politely excuses herself. Yes, I like T and I see the beginnings of a beautiful friendship unfolding.

  “Yeah, nice meeting you too T, be seeing you around.” You would have thought he proposed marriage from the look on T’s face. I can’t help it, I laugh out loud.

  I look at this boy sitting across from me trying to get a take on him. I’ve never had to “read” a boy before. Does he want to be friends, more than friends, is he looking for sex? I finally decide I’m over thinking it and to play it by ear. We’ll see where the chips fall.

  “Smoke,” I offer.

  “Don’t smoke,” he answers. He looks at me smiling with beautiful perfectly straight and whitest teeth I think I’ve ever seen.

  “Let’s go outside,” I say looking away as I stand up.

  I need some fresh air, even if it is hot air. Max seems to be taking up all the air in the tiny space. I almost want to shake my head to clear it. What the hell? Am I so out of touch with people that I don’t know how to act around them one on one. The thought is almost enough to stop me in my tracks. Am I going to end up the crazy spinster cat lady?

  “Since you don’t want to go to the movies do you mind if we walk back to my house so I can change?”

  “Sure,” I put out my cigarette. No trashy women in this house.

  I think I would have gagged inside of Mrs. Anderson’s home if it weren’t for the air conditioner. The smell of moth balls, pressing powder and old lady perfume is eye watering. It’s only a matter of time before Max starts to smell like it.

  “Hello Josette,” Mrs. Anderson says when we walk in. Her front room has a television and she’s sitting in a large recliner facing the door.

  “Hi Mrs. Anderson, how are you?” I ask sitting on the couch next to her. She’s watching a game show.

  “Fine dear, how’s your mom holding up?” Mrs. Anderson is old school. No sad, depressing looks from her, just genuine concern from a woman the same age as my grandmother. They’d been friends and I know she misses her.

  “She’s doing okay. She’s back at work.”

  “That’s good,” she says nodding. “Oh, I have something for you.”

  Mrs. Anderson is always giving me jewelry. She has since I was a little girl. Once, when I was about four or five, I showed interest in the gaudy costume jewels and she’s given me pieces ever since. It’s not really my style but I never turn it down. Mrs. Anderson grabs hold of the arms of her cha
ir and rocks to get the momentum needed to get out of her recliner and leaves me in the front room alone.

  I’ve known the Anderson’s my whole life, but I’ve only been in the house a couple of times. The furniture is probably as old as the house, but Mrs. Anderson has taken care of it. It’s not old enough to be antique; I guess people would call it retro. It strikes me as funny that she’s had her furniture so long it’s come back in style again. Like afros and hip hugging bell bottom jeans. The couch I’m on is about seven feet long, boxy and burnt orange. The dark wood coffee table has matching green and clear glass candy dishes on it. I open one to find candy that’s stuck together and probably as old as the furniture. The recliner and the television are the newest things in the room.

  “I found these the other day,” she says unwrapping a wad of tissue paper she’d put my trinket in.

  I look down to find a pair of silver teardrop earrings. They’re pretty.

  “Thanks Ms. Anderson,” I say and put them on.

  “Those are lovely on you.” She grips the arms of the recliner, lowering slowly and then falling the last few inches into the chair.

  “Ready?” Max has put on a pair of cut offs too and a pair of flip flops. He has very nice feet.

  “Boy, I told you not to put on those jeans. You’re not in Michigan anymore. Gonna give yourself a heatstroke.”

  “I know grandma.” Max kisses his grandmother on the cheek and she smiles at him.

  It’s enough to make my vision blur. I blinked fast several time to clear the tears. I miss my grandmother. What I’d give to be able to give her a simple kiss on the cheek.

  “Nice seeing you Mrs. Anderson,” I say smiling at her, “Thank you again for the earrings, they’re really pretty.”

  “You’re welcome baby, and tell your momma I said hi.”

  Back outside it’s getting cloudy and a breeze is blowing, making the previously unbearable day nice. Max and I walk back to my house and sit down in the front yard. T’s brothers and sisters are outside now and their grandmother is sitting on the porch.

  “Hello Mrs. Denton,” Max calls out waving at my neighbor.

  “Hey Max, hey Josette.”

  Mrs. Denton has on a flowered house dress. She also has homemade rollers in her hair; strips of brown paper bag held in place with rubber bands. She’s fanning herself with a piece of newspaper. My grandmother had been beautiful. Even at eighty-six she was stunning. Mrs. Anderson wasn’t too shabby looking herself, although it was a little harder to tell since she wore enough makeup to hide her real face. Mrs. Denton is what my mother calls unfortunate looking. Sweet as pie; the woman would give you the shirt off her back, but that didn’t make her any more attractive. The patch of grey stubble on her chin didn’t help either.

  Chapter Three