Ordinary Hazards

by Nikki Grimmes

  “Get out!” shouted the store owner, a wizened old Korean gentleman. The kids sauntered to the door, in no particular hurry. One boy kicked over a display of chips, then stomped on a few bags until they burst. The girl with them giggled. “I said get out!” yelled the owner again. “I’m calling the cops, right now!” “Yeah, whatever,” said one of the boys. He picked up his pace, barely.

  The girl grabbed a pack of red licorice. “I love these!” she said, tearing into the cellophane with her teeth. I stood open mouthed, mind racing. Why aren’t they running out? Aren’t they afraid the police will catch them stealing? One of the boys stopped a few feet away, backed me against a shelf of peanut butter and jelly. “What the hell you lookin’ at?” he asked with a snarl. That’s when I stopped breathing. My voice deserted me. I couldn’t have answered if I’d tried.

  When I was little, Carol taught me how to respond to a snarling dog, how to show no fear, but that didn’t seem to help here. The boy stared me down until the girl walked over and tugged his arm. “Let’s book,” she said. “Yeah,” said the second boy. “Come on, D. J. We’ve got better things to do.” “Fine,” said D. J. The three ducked out and vanished around the corner.

  Once I could breathe again, I raced back to the safety of the brownstone. Peter found me there, sitting outside on the top step, rocking back and forth, staring off into the distance. At first, Peter walked by, saying nothing, and opened the courtyard gate that led to his family’s basement apartment. Something made him come back, though, to check on me.

  “You okay?” He must’ve asked a bunch of times because I heard him yelling hey, felt a touch on my shoulder, and jumped. “Whoa!” said Peter. “It’s just me.” I worked to slow my breath and sat back down. “What happened to you?” he asked, stepping closer. I shook my head in silence, at first. Then, words and tears poured out of me in a rush.

  I told Peter about the candy store, the kids ransacking the place, the old man calling the police. “Then the boy slammed me against a shelf and scared me half to death. Nothing like that ever happened in Ossining. I didn’t know what he was going to do next.” “Never mind him,” said Peter. “What did you do?” I shrugged. “I just—stood there.”

  Peter was quiet for a moment, turned aside so I could wipe away my tears without him watching, then told me to stand up. “What?” “Stand up,” he repeated. I rose, legs still shaky. “Show me what he did,” said Peter. “Go on.” I shrugged, then nudged him towards the door of the brownstone and pressed him up against it, wondering if this was some sort of city game. “Okay,” said Peter. “And where were his hands?” Peter was inches taller than me, so I reached up to place my hands on the door, on either side of Peter’s head. He nodded. “All right. Next time, you just raise your leg, high, like this, and knee him, hard as you can.”

  “Knee him?” “Yeah.” “Really?” I could see Peter was becoming impatient. “Just do it!” I was thinking it over when Peter said, “Oh, forget it,” and pushed himself off the door. Just as he stepped aside, my knee sprung up. “Hey!” said Peter, jumping back. “I said kick him, not me! I meant for you to show me, you know, in, like, slow motion, or something. I wanted to make sure you knew how to do it to somebody else, like that guy in the store. Sheesh!”

  The whole time Peter spoke, he held his hands over his privates like they were still in danger, which made me giggle. “I’m outta here!” said Peter, racing down the stone steps. I stopped giggling long enough to say thanks, but by then, Peter had already ducked inside his family’s apartment. Standing steady now, I took a few puffs of my inhaler and went back inside.

  I took a second shower and put on another set of clothes so I could start the day again. I spent the rest of the afternoon in my room, reading and jotting down a few lines in my notebook until my mother got home. After hearing Mom go on last night about the lovely new neighborhood she had brought me to, I didn’t want to spoil her picture by mentioning my afternoon’s unlovely adventure.

  TAG

  I chase sleep,

  but she is hard to tag.

  Little Women

  leaves my suitcase

  to keep me company

  until my eyelids

  seal tight

  for the night.

  Notebook

  Where’s Daddy? He promised I’d see him more when I was back in the city. I haven’t seen him even once. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he doesn’t have our new number. Maybe he just forgot. Or maybe not.

  MIDTERM HUSTLE

  Four more days at the brownstone

  to familiarize the bay window

  with the curve of my spine

  as I lean against a wall

  finishing The Diary of Anne Frank

  without interruption.

  Four more days before

  I’m registered

  in the new school.

  Their term’s half over

  and, lucky me,

  I get to be out of sync.

  Ain’t nothing quite like

  starting off behind.

  Carol would understand.

  I’d call if I could,

  but kids in Dobbs Ferry

  don’t have phones.

  Their house mothers do,

  but only for emergencies

  that don’t include

  missing your sister.

  Day #1 in my new homeroom,

  the teacher smiles,

  a lie that says,

  “You’ll be just fine,”

  but I’m nobody’s fool.

  In this new school,

  my grade is studying geography

  I’ve already been taught

  and being tested on history

  I haven’t.

  The mere thought siphons air

  from my windpipes,

  and experience tells me

  a full-blown asthma attack

  can’t be far behind.

  I scramble for my inhaler,

  count to ten,

  and pray to God

  I never have to

  switch schools

  midterm

  again.

  Notebook

  Okay, God. How do we fix this?

  School is all I’ve got going here.

  I have to do well.

  Any ideas?

  BFF

  Meet my new best friend,

  the library, where I spend

  afternoons playing

  a new game I have to win

  called academic catch-up.

  Notebook

  Born here? Yeah, but now I’m a small-town girl.

  This big city scares me. I don’t think I’m tough enough

  for this place. Guess I better learn how to be. And fast.

  I wish Daddy would call.

  He’s sure been scarce since I moved back from Ossining.

  ABSENTEE

  By this point in my life,

  I’d learned not to have

  expectations. Still,

  with my father only

  a few short subway stops away,

  his continued absence

  came as a surprise.

  I couldn’t have guessed

  it was Mom who made him

  keep his distance until,

  finally, one night,

  on the telephone,

  I overheard her begging him

  to stay away,

  something about

  wanting to give

  her “new family”

  a chance.

  Understandable,

  I suppose—except

  it was too bad

  she hadn’t bothered

  to give me
/>   the memo,

  didn’t let me know

  I wouldn’t be seeing him

  for years.

  OTHERWISE OCCUPIED

  As much in a hurry

  as Mom was to bring me home,

  newspaper articles about

  labor and education,

  A. Philip Randolph,

  campaigns of the AFL-CIO and

  the NAACP,

  plus memberships to

  half a dozen

  civic groups,

  stole most of her attention.

  Apparently,

  being constantly

  in the know

  meant having no time

  for me.

  A DAY LIKE THIS

  Clancy,

  on a day like this,

  I used to hide out with you

  in the backyard,

  tossing balls and sticks

  you could find or fetch

  long enough

  for my arm to feel so sore

  I couldn’t concentrate

  on my troubles anymore.

  Notebook

  I wrote a Christmas poem for Mom, put it in a nice card. I noticed the opened envelope on the kitchen table, so I knew she read it. “What did you think of my poem, Mom? Did you like it?” She said, “What?” like she didn’t even hear me, then, “Oh! The poem. It was nice. Have you seen my keys? I can’t remember where I put them.”

  Thanks, Mom.

  Mom B. would have said something.

  HAPPY NEW YEAR

  Castor oil and New Year’s Day

  have nothing to do with each other

  unless you’re me and the shooting pain

  in your right side has you writhing

  on the sofa, and your stepfather is tired

  of hearing you whine, since, according

  to him, you just have a little tummyache

  so he orders your mom to give you

  two spoonfuls of castor oil which only makes

  the excruciating pain radiate.

  In short order, we bundled up and braved the cold

  for an icy drive to the first hospital we could find,

  where we waited unattended till an Asian doctor

  noticed me. He didn’t like the way I looked,

  squatted in front of me, fired off questions like:

  “What’s your name?” “Where does it hurt?”

  “For how long?” Then he turned to Mom.

  “Did you give her anything for the pain?”

  The minute he heard castor oil, he bellowed,

  “Nurse!”

  The doctor explained

  my appendix could burst,

  and if the poison spread…His face

  said the rest.

  Clark, Mister Know-It-All, sat silent.

  The next thing I remember is waking in

  a sickly beige hospital room with stitches where

  the pain used to be, and a mess of bandages that

  kept me from feeling them with my fingers.

  I didn’t have enough energy to sit up yet. Besides,

  I was so groggy, the only sane thing to do was

  close my eyes.

  I woke again later, caught a few words whispered

  by my nurse, something about how lucky

  it is Mom got me to the hospital in time.

  Fifteen minutes more, and seeing a doctor

  would’ve done me no good. I kept my eyes closed,

  but I was thinking, Luck has nothing to do with it.

  My heart said it was God.

  Down in my bones, I knew I was one of the sparrows

  God keeps his eye on, and I was pretty sure

  he was saving me for something. I just didn’t know what.

  SOUVENIR

  Midwinter at the bus-stop, bare legs numb from the cold. Mom’s stupid rule: Don’t wear pants to school. I bounced up and down, desperate to keep blood flowing. At ten degrees below freezing, naturally the bus ran late. I graduated to a constant shiver, hopping from foot to foot.

  “That ain’t gonna help,” said a boy, approaching fast, three more kids in tow, looking none too friendly. “My name’s Catch. Who you with, little girl?” The trick, I told myself, is to ignore him. I walked to the curb and craned my neck looking for that bus. That’s when I’m hit with “You hear me talkin’ to you?”

  I whispered, “Sorry,” which I suddenly was, and turned away, praying he’d just vanish. “I axed you, who you with?” Like he couldn’t see I was alone. “Come on! You gots to be with somebody. The Third Street Gang? Fourth Street? Sixth Street? They’re all a bunch of pussies, but still.” The P-word made me flinch. “I’m not in a gang.”

  “You gotta be shittin’ me. Girl, you live ’round here, and you wanna keep on living, you gotta choose a gang for protection. What say you join us?” he asked. “We’ll look out for you, won’t we, Dee?” I figured she was the one who answered, “Yeah.” Like that was good enough for me. “No, thank you,” I said, voice like honey.

  “Y’all hear that? ‘No, thank you.’ ” He mimicked me, but so what? “Look here,” he said, “Me, West, Rashad, and Dee, we’ll just leave you a little souvenir to remember us by. Then maybe you can think about joining us later. How’s that sound?” Certain I’m about to get off easy, I nod, never noticing West and Rashad coming up behind me.

  West held me steady while Rashad kneeled down on the concrete. I wondered what he was doing, my limbs so frozen stiff, it took half a minute for the pain to make it to my brain. My scream should’ve shattered glass. I tried breaking free, but three against one is bad arithmetic.

  I looked down through tears to find Rashad holding a lit cigarette to my calf. He grinned, pulled it away for a second, let Dee blow on it till the embers glowed, then jammed it back into the newly singed skin. When Catch saw I was about to faint, he said, “Okay. That’s enough.”

  Rashad let the cigarette stub sail to the sidewalk, then stomped it out. He joined the rest of his friends already halfway across the avenue, laughing their asses off. “You have a good day, now,” Catch yelled over his shoulder, and left me at the bus stop shivering, only not from the cold.

  I balled my fists and wiped away my tears, mad at myself for being so easy to pick on, for saying sorry and no thank you like some stupid fool. I should’ve acted tougher. I should’ve been ready to fight back. I should’ve—“Stop it!” I said out loud. “It’s over. Just make sure you’re ready next time.” The crosstown bus finally came and took me to school.

  I made straight for the nurse’s office, got the burn cleaned, filled with ointment, and covered up with gauze. I never told the nurse who did this to me because, as far as I was concerned, those kids were nobodies, not worth the spit it took to say their names. I thanked the nurse for bandaging my wound, went to class, and chalked the whole thing up to one hard lesson learned.

  Notebook

  Clark wondered about my bandage. I never hid my hurt. So why didn’t Mom ask me what happened? What is it about dark and ugly things? She never wants to know.

  Who taught her to play pretend?

  God, why does Mom refuse

  to see, or understand

  the way things be,

  the way things are

  sometimes black-and-blue,

  sometimes plain old ugly?

  INITIATION

  A gang on every corner

  my mother chose not to see.

  Those streets rumbled with danger

  for me.

  LIBRARY CARD

  A magic pass

  I used to climb into

  other people’s skin

  any old time

/>   I needed.

  Notebook

  I wrote a new poem today.

  Tried to read it to Mom, but she just grunted

  and changed the subject. Again.

  I can’t count the gin bottles in the trash. No more blackberry brandy. That’s a bad sign. Any day now, Mom will start talking to people who aren’t there, claiming she’s seeing the Messiah.

  One more week,

  she’ll be seeing Satan everywhere she goes.

  Hey! Maybe if I put Satan in one of my stories, she’d read it!

  Could be worth a try.

  CONTAGION

  Not quite eleven,

  I was struck with the terror

  of red, some steady issue

  flowing from my body

  inexplicably, unless somehow

  I’d cut myself down there,

  but on what?

  Were there tiny blades

  embedded in

  the toilet tissue?

  Were there razors

  embedded in the stool?

  Or maybe I’d contracted

  some deadly, incurable disease.

  God, please! No! I thought.

  I’m too young to die.

  When I went to my mother

  to confess this bloody horror,

  she sputtered up a laugh.

  “It’s your period,” she said,

  speaking a foreign language.

  I was obviously perplexed,

  so she explained,

  but only after

  more laughter.

  And just like that,

  my abject fear

  morphed into fury.