Which my stomach does right now—in an excited way, not a nervous way—when the doorbell rings.
I pause Connie, then race out of the kitchen. My bare feet slap-slap-slap on our hardwood floors. Halfway to the door, I slow down. I’m sweating like I just ran the 100-meter dash. I don’t want to be funky when Noah arrives.
Dad exits his “writing cave” to answer the door. He works from home as a comic book writer. It’s the coolest thing ever because it means he’s free to bake together after school. Mom’s busy a lot, being an obstetrician. Turns out a ton of babies are born on weekends or weird hours of the night. Who knew?
The doorbell rings again.
“I’m coming!” yells Dad. He’s dressed in his usual clothes: Atlanta United FC gear. He played soccer in college. Dad’s super tall, all big shoulders and even bigger leg muscles.
I kind of have his height thing going on. And his dark brown skin. But I’m scrawny, with Mom’s tangly curls.
Dad swings the front door open. “Ma! I told you to call me when you’re close.”
“I know, Junior. But I was listening to my praise and worship and couldn’t be bothered.”
“It’s not even Sunday, Ma.”
“So! Every day is a great day for gospel music.” G’Ma struts inside, arms filled with shopping bags. “Help me out, Junior, will ya?”
Dad unleashes his famous grin. It’s like vanilla ice cream melting on warm apple pie—perfect! He scoops the bags out of G’Ma’s hands and bends down to let her kiss his cheek. “Yes, ma’am.”
Then I rush in for the kill. I throw my arms around G’Ma, hugging a little too tightly.
“Von!” she screams, hugging me back. “Baby, you’re so tall.”
She always says that when we see each other. G’Ma lives in Macon, almost two hours away. She only visits on weekends because of the city traffic.
“Thanks for coming,” I mumble into her purple Lawrence Family Reunion T-shirt. She smells like spring flowers and those red-and-white peppermint candies.
“Anything for you, Von,” she whispers. When I lean back, she cups both my cheeks, her eyes glittery. She looks just like Dad with a few more wrinkles. Well, Dad before two months ago. “You’re gonna be the Lawrence family’s first all-star baker.”
I grin so hard, I’m afraid my cheeks will break.
“Now.” G’Ma wiggles free of me. “Let’s bake!”
“Gonna share your secret ingredient for Atlanta’s best cobbler with me and Jevon?” Dad asks, his voice booming from the kitchen.
“Not on your life, Junior!” G’Ma shouts back, winking at me.
We both crack up.
While G’Ma unpacks the bags, Dad sets up all the cookware we need on our kitchen island. It’s kind of crowded with the peanut butter cookie ingredients I forgot to put away. Dad doesn’t complain. He’s used to me experimenting with something new in here.
I scribble down every item G’Ma places on the island so Mom and I can go shopping before Tuesday, the day of the finals.
Flour
Brown and white sugar
Butter
Lemon
Vanilla extract
My eyebrows shoot up. “Frozen pie crusts?”
G’Ma winks again. “Trust me, Von, baby.” She unloads the final item: a giant can of sliced peaches.
“Von, set that oven to three hundred fifty degrees,” G’Ma instructs as she yanks her favorite orange apron from her purse. “Junior, we need nutmeg and cinnamon too.”
Dad and I move quickly. Once G’Ma is in cooking mode, it’s like she turns into one of those military generals. All bark, no play.
“Wash your hands. Saucepan on the stove. Medium heat.” G’Ma ties her apron as we rush around the kitchen. “And for the love of baby Jesus, someone put the AC on in here.”
I duck down to laugh quietly so Dad can’t see.
“It’s not even summer,” he grumbles.
“Mmhmm.” That’s G’Ma’s favorite response. It means she’s not with it.
“G’Ma, are you gonna mise en place first?” I ask.
“Miss-me-who?”
I laugh again. “Mise en place!” It’s a French cooking phrase for prepping our ingredients that Mr. Conrad taught us at the competition orientation. “Everything in its place!” he had shouted so excitedly, his glasses almost flew off his face.
“I don’t know any miss-en-whatever-you-call-it,” G’Ma says, dumping the peaches and their thick, sticky juice into the saucepan. “In my day, we just threw it all together and prayed the Lord didn’t let us catch food poisoning.”
“Maaaaaa,” Dad drags out, but he’s grinning. I am too. We both love G’Ma’s “in my day” stories.
“Zest that lemon, Junior.” G’Ma shouts out more directions to Dad while tossing cubed butter in with the peaches, then adds flour. I watch from behind her, biting on my tongue, scribbling away. For an older person, my grandma moves like lightning crackles under her skin. I can barely keep up.
“Wait…” I wipe sweat from my forehead. “How much flour? Did you use the whole stick of butter?”
G’Ma shrugs. “I guess. I’ve made this so many times, I just go with the flow now, Von.”
“G’Ma,” I groan. “I, uh—”
“Baking is a science, Ma,” Dad jumps in. “He needs numbers. Measurements. It’s how he puts it all together.” He scrubs a hand over my curls.
I smile weakly. Dad always does that—explains things for me when other adults are around. It’s helpful, sometimes. But it also makes me feel like I’m five instead of twelve. Like I can’t stand up for myself.
“Looks like she used three tablespoons of flour, three-quarters stick of butter,” Dad says, waiting patiently as I write everything. “Half cup white sugar, half cup brown.”
I nod and nod, scribbling. He gives me measurements for the vanilla and lemon zest too while G’Ma tosses it all in the pan.
“You two make a good team,” she comments, dusting her hands on her apron.
I look up at Dad. He’s beaming at me, eyes scrunched up. I do the same, even if a little piece of me still remembers what his face looked like two months ago.
G’Ma slides the frozen pie crusts into the preheating oven. “To soften ’em up,” she explains. Then she asks me about the competition as she greases the baking dish.
I gush about making the Final Four. I go over the desserts Dad helped me create: no-bake banana-berry cheesecake, the s’mores cookies, root beer float cupcakes. Then I ramble about the other finalists: Farha, an eighth grader whose desserts are as pretty as the hijabs she wears every day to school. Eliana, a sixth grader who killed it with her chocolate tacos in the first round.
Dad stands back, arms crossed, grinning proudly.
“He’s gonna beat them all,” he says.
When I get to Noah, my voice gets all funny. I’m sweating more too. It’s like my stomach is swishing double-time and I can’t stand still. I show G’Ma Noah’s Instagram.
“Making friends with the enemy?” she teases, ruffling my hair. “He looks like a nice boy.”
“He is,” I squeak out. I tell her about when Noah helped me. I don’t mention the hand holding. I don’t know why. But my face gets super hot. Like keeping that from her is wrong.
She nods, smiling softly like she has a secret.
When I look at Dad, his face is blank.
That shame grows in me, branching out like a giant oak tree. My shoulders drop like leaves falling off limbs in November.
G’Ma hip-bumps me. I lift my chin to look at her, making sure not to blink so my embarrassed tears don’t spill out.
“You’re gonna make all the Lawrences proud, baby,” she whispers. Her eyes are a dar
k brown, but sometimes it’s like I can see a million, billion stars in them.
The stars never lie, Mom told me one night. Trust them.
I believe those stars in my G’Ma’s eyes.
“Now, add cinnamon and nutmeg to those peaches,” she says. “I’m gonna start breaking up the crusts, which we’ll layer in with the peaches.”
I turn away, scrubbing my eyes, then reach out for two spices on the island without looking at Dad.
“How much?” I ask, sprinkling the spices into the bubbling peaches. “Is that too much cinnamon?”
“Von, baby.” G’Ma spins around from where she was tearing the pie crust into strips. She clears her throat, then sings, “It’s never too much, never too much…”
And that sets her off. If there’s one thing G’Ma loves as much as her gospel music and cooking, it’s Luther Vandross. He’s a singer she grew up listening to. I’ve heard some of his songs. It’s mostly slow stuff, but this one song—“Never Too Much”—always gets the three of us going.
G’Ma sings, mostly on-key, grabbing my hands so we can two-step around the kitchen. I think every Black grandma has a two-step living inside of her, dying to get out at weddings and family reunions. Dad joins us, even though he doesn’t have half the rhythm G’Ma does. I hope I didn’t inherit his bad dance moves. I’d never live that down!
We move around in a circle. Then we do this thing called the “Soul Train line” that I see in all the old Black movies. Dad does the running man and G’Ma shimmies and I just hop around on one foot. We laugh our heads off. It’s another thing I love about the Lawrences’ Kitchen Time—bad dance breakdowns, music, and nonstop laughing.
After we’re all sweaty and breathing hard, G’Ma lets me pour and layer the baking dish with syrupy peaches and broken crust. Dad sets a timer on his phone as G’Ma loads the dish into the oven.
“Fifty minutes,” she says.
I write that down under all my messy instructions. Mr. Conrad, the eighth-grade science teacher and baking competition host, made it very clear we only have one hour and fifteen minutes to complete our dishes. Usually, we only get an hour. Since it’s the finals, he extended it, so “You can produce your best dessert ever!”
I do the math—that means I only have twenty-five minutes to prep everything before it goes in the oven on Tuesday. I need to be perfect.
While Dad and G’Ma are cleaning up and putting away dishes, I spot the chili powder on the island. It’s uncapped, next to the nutmeg. I freeze.
Where’s the cinnamon?
Did I accidentally use chili powder instead?
I was too busy worrying about Dad’s reaction to me talking about Noah. I didn’t look at what I was adding.
My heart pounds like a thousand drums. My vision goes blurry like a bad dream. I’m shaking hard.
“Von, baby?” G’Ma calls out, worry in her voice.
But I can’t stop the tears once they start.
I hear Dad’s voice. “Jevon? Son, what is it?”
I don’t answer. My voice won’t work, but I’m choking out noises.
Dad tries again. “Jevon Kenneth—”
“It’s ruined!” I finally scream. “I used chili powder, not cinnamon. I have to get this right. And I messed up. Noah will be here soon and I’m going to fail everyone.” I spin to face Dad. “Especially you.”
Dad steps back. I can barely see the shock on his face through all the tears.
“Von, baby.” G’Ma’s hands grab my shoulders. She gently twists me until we’re face to face. “You won’t fail anyone.”
“Yes, I will.” I sniff hard. “Because I like boys and if I don’t win, then Dad will—”
“Will what?”
I can’t say not love me. But it’s what I think.
G’Ma frowns. “Baby, you liking boys ain’t got nothing to do with how much this world is gonna love you. When I had a girlfriend—”
I gasp, my legs turning to jelly. “G’Ma, you had a what?”
Her whole face glows, those stars in her eyes exploding. “Yes, baby. I dated a wonderful girl in college.” She opens Facebook on her phone, then shows me some pictures of her and another girl, hugging and smiling. G’Ma looks at her the way I look at Noah sometimes. “I love boys and girls, Von. Understand?”
I nod.
“Before Papa, there was Liana. I didn’t tell anyone about her for a long time ’cause I thought no one would understand or love me. In my day, things were different.
“But you know what? I told your papa…” She grins sadly. “And he loved me with every breath. Your daddy—” She points at Dad, who’s rubbing his face, looking worried. “He knows about Liana and he’s never, ever stopped loving me.”
I blink and blink.
G’Ma, the strongest Lawrence I know, is just like me.
“Jevon.” Dad kneels in front of me, rubbing my hair. I think about pulling away, but I stay put. “I don’t love you any less because you like boys just like I don’t love G’Ma any less for who she’s loved.”
“But—”
He shakes his head, his bottom lip wobbly like he might cry. More tears slide down my face.
“You’re everything to me. I haven’t said anything to you because I’m scared I’ll mess up when I do,” he says. “That I won’t be enough when you need me to be.”
“Dad.” I hiccup. “Fear is just Forgetting Everything’s All Right.”
He laughs. G’Ma does too.
“You’re right.” He kisses my forehead. “The only thing I need to fear is how much more awesome my son’s gonna be than I ever was.”
I want to call him out. Say that isn’t true. But when Dad looks at me, there’s a million, billion stars—or maybe tears—in his eyes.
Lawrences never lie.
The timer finally goes off and it’s like we’re all holding our breath. Dad’s the first to move. G’Ma grips my hand with her bone-crushing strength. Dad pulls out the bubbling cobbler and rests it on the island.
It looks delicious. It smells great too. But I can’t fight that ugly feeling that it’s still ruined.
“I’m gonna try it,” says Dad.
“Junior, no!” G’Ma gasps. I try to protest too but Dad’s already got a spoon in hand, standing over the steaming cobbler like he’s ready to face a monster.
Then Dad shovels a dripping spoonful of peaches and crust into his mouth. He winces, then mumbles, “Itshot!” as he chews. Eyes squeezed shut, his face shifts from pained to saddened.
“It tastes…” He pauses to inhale. Then he chews more, mashing the cobbler around in his cheeks. He peeks at me from the corner of his eye. It’s torture, the waiting, but then Dad finally shouts, “Spicy! Son, this might even be better than G’Ma’s recipe. The chili powder gives it a real kick. I love it!”
I cover my mouth with both hands, but my body slowly relaxes. I’ve—accidentally—created my own new Lawrence family recipe.
G’Ma says, “I told you. The best Lawrence baker ever!” before doing her two-step.
This is what it means to be a Lawrence: dancing around the kitchen and arguing over the best pairing with the cobbler, which Dad and G’Ma immediately start debating—vanilla ice cream, obviously—and just being ourselves.
The doorbell rings and we all freeze.
That washing-machine feeling in my belly starts up again. But only for a moment.
Dad drops a hand on my shoulder, squeezing, then says, “Noah’s here.” I swallow, waiting for him to go quiet again, but he doesn’t. “I think it’s time he officially met the Lawrence family. And he needs to taste this legendary, first-place-winning peach cobbler!”
I smile so hard, even Chef Connie’s TV-bright grin can’t compete.
FIRST-DAY FLY
<
br /> BY JASON REYNOLDS
There are only two days that matter to you. Two days that count. Your birthday, which is like a million days away, and tomorrow, which is the first day of school. And normally you don’t like school. Because there’s not much to like about it. The hallways always smell funny, and they don’t do nothing but lead you to teachers. And teachers don’t do nothing but remind you that they already got their education and now it’s time for you to get yours right before telling you to head back down the hallway to the principal’s office because you can’t stop talking about how Thomas Baker stepped on your foot with his dirty boots and turned your sneaker into a construction site. Thomas Baker got feet like surfboards. But he don’t surf to school. He apparently hikes through a forest that you’ve never seen around here. Hikes through ditches or something. Swamps, maybe. Anyway, you weren’t even talking to no one about him. You were just murmuring Big Foot Baker under your breath, bending over at your desk, licking your thumb and scrubbing the brown crust from your babies, scratching the dirt off gently with your nail just like how your mother wipes sleep from your eyes on the mornings you’re too lazy to wash your face. You know this is how you bring things back to life. But when it doesn’t work, when Thomas Baker’s boot mud proves itself to be gold medal boot mud, you decide to attack it with one of the pointy corners of a protractor.
How were you supposed to know geometry is apparently more important than your drip? How were you supposed to hear anything Mrs. Montgomery had to say about triangles and diameters and whatever a hypotenuse is when your sneakers are practically bleeding to death? Bleeding! I mean, can’t she see what kind of stress you’re under, dealing with such an emergency while also trying to figure out how to use a protractor (who knows how to use a protractor?) and then the rush of hallelujah that comes over you once you realize the protractor is the answer to really scraping the leather clean (that’s how you use a protractor). Ain’t she ever had her fresh ruined? Had her fit downgraded and dismissed because some little boy ain’t learned how to use his grown man feet yet? Ain’t she ever been through this kind of pain? Maybe she has, but she’s forgotten. So Mrs. Montgomery sends you to the principal’s office. Again. And everybody moos like cows because they’re all immature. Again. And you suck your teeth, but in a mature way.
Black Boy Joy Page 5
