And that’s school.
Well, that’s school every day after the first day. But tomorrow is the first day. A day that counts. And you are ready for it. Ready. Your older brother has finally given you his favorite pair of jeans, which happens to be your favorite pair of jeans, but when you’ve asked to borrow them in the past, he’s always told you no and he’s always said it with bite and growl. Told you they already broken in. Told you the knees are perfect, and you might step in wild and rip the knee from a slash to a hole, and a hole ain’t fly. But now he can’t fit them, so now he’s told you yes. Yes. You can’t wait. A week ago, you turned them inside out, washed them in cold water, hung them over the shower rod to drip dry because the dryer would turn them into tights. And ain’t nothing wrong with tights, but they’d surely guarantee a hole. Somewhere. In the wrong place. At the worst time.
You asked your mother to iron them because she’s the best ironer you’ve ever known. Princess Press. Iron Woman. Can turn wrinkled fabric into something like thinly sliced pieces of wood. She knows how to steam and starch a thing to life. Make it look newer than it looked when it was new. But she said she ain’t your maid and asked if you thought the reason she taught you to iron at six years old was so that she could keep doing it for you. You almost sucked your teeth, but didn’t, because you love your life and would hate to lose it before the first day of school over a pair of hand-me-down jeans. Instead, you set up the ironing board, put water in the iron, and got to work. First the left leg. You set it flat and press the iron to it and push the button that triggers the steam, causing it to billow out like the ghosts of wrinkles being set free. You have no idea what it’s doing—what the steam is really for—but you know this is what you do to make wrinkled things straight. This is ironing. Left leg, right leg. Back and forth across the fabric, steam steam steam. You’re careful not to put creases in the jeans because no one should crease their jeans. No one. Not you. Not your brother. Not Mr. Sheinklin, who, for some reason, never got the no-crease memo. Should’ve been a geometry teacher because his jeans always have the wrongest right angles, and probably some hypotenuses, too. But he don’t teach math at all. He teaches…you don’t actually know what he teaches. But you have him this year for homeroom, and you figure this is your chance to show him what a smooth pair of jeans supposed to look like. Denim like a calm lake, not a rolling river, or a sharp iceberg. Creases are for church pants. And you ain’t wearing church pants to school, even if Jesus asked you to.
When you finished ironing them, you hung the jeans across the chair in your room. It’s been a week. They’re still there. You haven’t touched them. Haven’t even moved the chair, except for a minute ago when you grabbed the plastic bag from the seat. Something you bought yesterday. Always a tricky experience, moving through the store, past the jewelry counter through the jungle of women’s underwear where everything hangs in single pieces, to the factory of men’s underwear where everything is folded and packaged like cotton marshmallows. You push a finger through the packaging, puncturing the transparent skin of it, ripping it open before finally pulling a shirt from the strange plastic cocoon housing three of the most beautiful butterflies ever. The white is blinding. You shake the shirt free from its fold, lines cutting through it, a cotton tic-tac-toe board. But, like jeans, T-shirts also can’t be creased. Especially not a fresh white. They’re supposed to look like this is the first time they’ve been worn, but not your first time ever wearing them, if that makes sense. It makes sense to you. So you gotta get rid of the lines. But not by using an iron. Because it’s still just a T-shirt. An undershirt, as your mother calls it. You don’t want to take it too seriously. So you have to take it really seriously. You put it on a hanger, and hang it on the shower rod, right where you hung the jeans to dry. You close the bathroom door, lock it. Turn on the water. Hot hot. Then, sit on the toilet (not like that) and wait.
And wait.
And wait. As steam fills the room, and the creases slowly soften and fall away. Until your brother bangs on the door. He has to go. You tell him you’re almost done. He tells you he can’t wait. But you know you just need five more minutes, but he tells you he can’t hold it. Then you hear another voice, a harder bang. This time it’s your mother and she’s telling you that water, like money, don’t grow on trees, so if you ain’t washing your body you need to cut the shower off unless you want to see steam turn into smoke, and you have no idea what that means but you know it would be foolish to find out. Even though,
even though,
e v e n t h o u g h
she was the one who taught you the shower steam trick in the first place. Taught you how to make fresh look like you and not a first day of school costume. But she’s still your mother. So when she says turn the shower off, you turn the shower off. There’s so much steam you can barely see, but you know the shirt has to be at least close to creaseless by now. You open the door to find your brother bent in half. He’s angry but unable to speak. You know there’s a punch or something he’s saving for you, but you don’t have time to stress about it.
Because you still have to get your shoes together. Gotta unlace them, re-lace them, and make sure there’s absolutely no evidence of Big Foot Baker, make sure his smudge from last year is gone—gone gone—and the creases and wrinkles you’ve put in these shoes over the course of the last however many months it’s been since you got them on your birthday are at least clean, since they can’t be ironed or steamed out. You’ve cleaned them almost every day with toothbrush and toothpaste, rag and soap, and sometimes the sharp corner of a protractor, which is even more useful when it comes to picking rocks out the soles.
In your room, you stand in front of the mirror for the dress rehearsal. Because you can’t risk it on the day of. You have to run it through. Test it out. So you put the jeans on, pull them up and fasten them around your scrawny waist. They fit you how they used to fit your brother before he got grown. Before the knee slash became a thigh slash. You still got about an inch in the waist, and at least two inches waterfalling around your ankles—enough space to be comfortable. Enough space to wear them for a while if you take good care of them. Next the white tee goes on. Wrinkle-free, but not overdone. It looks like you ain’t trying too hard to be cool. To be fresh. You just are because you are. And then, the sneakers. The shoes. The crowns of the feet. Not new, but faithful and dependable when it comes to your fly. Yeah. And you look in the mirror. Like, yeah. And you think. Yeah. You fly. I’m fly. Gon’ be fly tomorrow. Gon’ put some fresh in that funky hallway. On the first day. A day that counts. Again. And you are ready for it. Again. You, newer than you looked when you were new. And tomorrow, the excitement in the morning will somehow keep you from washing your face. And you will suck your teeth as your mother shakes her head, licks her thumb to clean crust from your eyes. Because that’s how you bring things back to life.
Again.
You.
Smile. Because.
You.
know. You k n o w.
You.
Will be.
Fly. So fly.
GOT ME A JET PACK
BY DON P. HOOPER
“Aw, c’mon, Rod, you know you can’t jump that.”
I wouldn’t have to if Kev didn’t kick the ball right over Ms. Wallace’s fence—again. But it’s my turn to get it.
We always come to the alley off Cortelyou Road to play soccer. It’s a narrow, boxed-in space, but it gives us the freedom to practice when the park is crowded. Sometimes there’s a wild kick and the ball lands on top of one of the garages and rolls off. Other times it goes into someone’s backyard, and that someone is usually Ms. Wallace. She knows my mom and everyone else’s fam from church. She always has the biggest smile, especially when she squeezes my cheeks. Don’t step on one of her flowers, though, because that smile fades and every Caribbean in East Flatbush will be put on notice until that flower ge
ts justice.
And it looks like our ball rolled over four—nope—six red-yellow tulips.
I do the quick look around. It’s only ten a.m. on Saturday. The curtains over her windows are closed. I can get over the fence and back before she notices.
“Rod, lemme just do it,” Kev says. “I’m twice as fast as you, and real talk, you’re kinda clumsy.”
“Whatever, man,” I say. “I got this.”
“Don’t rip ya pants again,” Denton says.
Between the ball and me is an iron fence with a patchwork design that looks like it was made for climbing. My last pair of jeans knows different. I ripped them last month and nobody has let me forget it. My feet are a little big so it’s always hard to get a hold. Has nothing to do with me being clumsy.
I grab the top of the fence, stick my foot in, and two moves later, I’m over. Quietest landing ever. I could be a gymnast. The curtains are still closed and no one’s out. I rush over to the ball resting comfortably on top of the felled tulips, trying my best not to stomp too hard on the grass and leave more evidence. I grab the ball and toss it to Kev.
“Wow, that’s a record for you,” Kev says.
Just as I’m climbing back over, my shoelace gets caught on the fence. “Aagh.” I topple backward. Kev sucks his teeth.
“Rodney Halfway Tree Clarke!”
The Jamaican accent is unmistakable. I turn around and there she is—Ms. Wallace is ice grilling me from the window. I swear, houses in Brooklyn have the thinnest walls.
I’ve known Ms. Wallace as long as I’ve known my parents. And she has just as much power. When she says my whole name, it’s trouble. There go video games for a week.
“Later, yo,” Kev and Denton say, making a quick exit. Leave it to my friends to break the minute trouble comes. And Kev was the one to kick the ball over the fence!
“Juss hold on a minute right de, suh,” she says, her accent magnetically pulling my hand away from the fence, reminding me of the tight network of Caribbean parents in the hood. “Come ere.”
I walk to the back door, head down, dreading the one thing I hate most. Lectures.
The door swings open. “Quick, come inside, nuh,” she says, doing the same look around I did before climbing the fence.
I can’t remember the last time I was inside her house, but the table is filled with grater cakes, gizzada, codfish fritters, sweet plantain, and fried fish. I always thought she lived alone, but she has a feast laid out. I am kinda hungry, but the lights are off, and the curtains are pulled like she’s a hermit. The whole setup here is horror-movie creepy.
“We nah haff much time,” she says, rushing around her kitchen. She starts dropping Tupperware on the table.
“Yeah,” I say, “I’m really sorry about your flowers. It was an accident. Won’t let it happen again.” I have this speech memorized for these moments.
“Mek yourself a plate to go.” She grabs a big black hoodie that looks three sizes too big for me. “You’ll need this.” She chucks the hoodie at my chest. “It’s gonna be cold up dere.”
“Really, I’m not that hungry—”
“Put it on!”
I figure I better put the hoodie on ’cause she’s already upset. It looked big before, but once I pull it over my head, it fits like it was made for me.
“My mom’s expecting me home.” No response. “Got math homework to finish.” I start reaching for every excuse possible. “And I’m supposed to pick up the laundry. The dry cleaning.” Still nothing. I’m pleading. “My dog’s been throwing up.” I don’t even have a dog! No laundry except the pile under my bed. And my homework, I don’t really have to finish it. My mom is a research scientist for some nonprofit group. I grew up around math, so algebra takes me like five minutes.
“Yuh mom’s already gone. She’ll meet us dere.”
“Meet us where?” I suck my teeth, groaning. “She said she was going to the supermarket but she’ll be back.” Pretty sure Ms. Wallace done lost it. I need to get out of here.
She grabs something that looks like a book bag made out of tinfoil and gives it to me. “Put it on.” For a moment, my eyes are fixed on the bag. It’s like liquid mercury, the kind the second terminator was made of.
This is getting weird.
“Look, I just wanna go.”
“Me nuh haff time fi explain. We don’t know what happened to yuh fadda.” She pulls out a large crystal that begins reflecting every color of the spectrum. “We lost track of him before di last race. Yuh mudda went off world to go an find him.”
Okay, I gotta get out of here. I lunge for the door. The handle slips through my fingers like air. I grab it again. Nothing. The floor begins to fade, the light from the crystal grows until it’s so bright, I can no longer see. Then—
We’re inside the crystal. Floating. I see Ms. Wallace’s house below me. Then East Flatbush, then Brooklyn, New York, Earth. My head is spinning and I’m happy I didn’t eat ’cause I wanna hurl. I don’t know if I can’t hear myself scream or if I’ve lost the ability to scream. I don’t think I’ve ever screamed before, but now would be the time. And I can’t.
Space. We’re in freaking space.
I stare around the glasslike spaceship that’s been transporting us. We’re zooming through a waterfall of starlight in the blackness of space. It’s beautiful: endless wonders and radiant colors that can never be captured in a photo. Every few moments the ship makes a gentle booming sound, like a wave crashing against the beach. There is a pulsating flash and we’re in a different part of space.
Ms. Wallace grabs my shoulders. “Yuh parents neva told yuh about what dem really do.”
“My dad works for the city.” The words barely squeak out. “My mom is in research.”
She laughs.
“Yuh fadda is a Sundasha and yuh mudda is one of di engineers. Him went off world for the tournament but we tink one of di udda teams nab him up.”
My father is a Sundasher? What??
“N—no, nah. He went to Jamaica to visit Aunt Di.” He just left last week. He travels all the time for work. Maybe I’m trying to convince her or myself. I don’t know.
“Yuh auntie is a Sundasha too.”
Ms. Wallace breaks it down. Apparently, my dad and aunt are part of some intergalactic racing team. Except, instead of racing for prize money, the Sundashers race to settle disputes between rival galaxies and planets. My dad’s team disappeared before the next race and if he doesn’t show up, Earth could get invaded along with some planet called Trilark and a few others.
And I have to stop it from happening.
I have to take his place in the race.
“Why me?”
“Intergalactic contracts are signed in genetic code. Only someone with yuh fadda’s genetic code can tek him place in di race.”
“I’m not even that fast.”
“Yuh nah haffi be fast, yuh juss haffi tink fast.” She points at the book bag I’ve been holding on to. “Dat is one a di jet packs yuh mudda design. The hoodie will keep yuh warm as yuh fly and will provide yuh with oxygen once we step out di vessel.”
I don’t know how long we’ve been traveling, but the spaceship narrows in on a planet with a blue and red atmosphere. We touch down in the middle of a sapphire canyon with blue rock spires that shimmer into the red mist sky. There are round tents everywhere like a pop-up village.
Kev and Denton would flip if they saw this.
“Put di hood over yuh head,” Ms. Wallace says. “It will help yuh breath.”
I pull the hood over my head and a light washes over my face like a translucent oxygen mask.
Ms. Wallace walks me over to a yurt that has these retro convertible cars on either side with no wheels. The flap of the yurt opens up and I’m engulfed in Mom’s hug. I’m shocked and comforted at the same time. She’s r
eally here. A small part of me still thought Ms. Wallace was crazy. I don’t remember the last time Mom and I hugged each other like this. But after space travel, a hug is kind of needed.
Mom kisses me on the forehead, seeing the apprehension engraved on my face. I remember when she used to bend down to kiss me. After this summer’s growth spurt, I’m nearly her size.
“Rodney, did Simone fill you in?” she asks me, referring to Ms. Wallace.
“Yeah,” I reply.
Two squid-like people with tentacles coming out of their noses walk out of the yurt. They’re about my height, leaking gelatin ooze as they walk.
“Dese are di Trilarkians,” Ms. Wallace says. “Memba what I told yuh. Dere planet is also in danger.”
I frown.
“Gurglurgg lurg drgg brugggurg,” the purple one says.
“Blugg rlg urg gurglurgg burg,” the green adds.
“Your hoodie is in tune with your biorhythms, same as your jet pack,” Mom says. “They’re speaking Trilarkian. Empathy drives the hoodie. You just have to want to understand their language, and you’ll understand it and speak it.”
I’d think this were a dream if each of my senses weren’t on fire. Despite the volcanic sky, the air smells like the eucalyptus plants my mom brings home. None of my dreams have ever been this vivid. The air, the canyons, my mom’s hug—they’re all real. Even these two squids. No, Trilarkians, my mom said. They’re wearing hoodies. They remind me of my friends back in Brooklyn. I wonder what Trilarkians are like?
“Whatup, yo!”
Did the green one just say whatup?
“Call me Kaz,” it says.
“Hey, I’m Turin,” the other replies.
They dap me up with their tentacles. Who knew aliens were this cool? But I guess my mom hangs with them so maybe they’ve picked up some things—and I guess if we’re in space, we’re all aliens.
Black Boy Joy Page 6
