Love Me or Miss Me

by Dream Jordan

  Naleejah ignored my angry outburst and said, “Kate, don’t trip. I can do your hair free of charge.”

  Free of charge?

  My hard-boiled face suddenly turned sunny-side up.

  Okay … it’s my birthday!

  Of course, I was still pissed at Naleejah, but the streets didn’t raise no fool. Hey, if I wanted my hair done, I had to push my pride aside. Push this little incident wayyy in the back of my mind; I’m good at blocking things out anyway.

  Besides, fighting was first nature to me. Getting jumped, nothing new. The fight was over, and in my past already. So why harp on old news? Feel me? (And if you don’t feel me, your hair is probably already banging, so you can’t even relate to me.)

  “Are you free on Friday?” asked Naleejah.

  “Yeah, Friday’s good.”

  Naleejah threw her mini beauty parlor back inside her bag and said, “Come to my crib around ten o’clock. Cool?”

  “No doubt.”

  “And don’t worry about buying the perm,” Naleejah added. “I got you.”

  I got you. I got you. This theme was getting so freaking old. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t getting brand-new! Yes sir, on Friday, Naleejah would perm my hair free of charge, and on Saturday, I’d strut my butt to the Stuy Court with my hair bouncing and behaving beautifully. Charles would take one look at me and flip the freak out, okay?

  “What’s your cell number?” asked Naleejah, breaking into my delicious thoughts.

  “Don’t have a cell phone.”

  “You don’t have a cell phone?” Naleejah repeated, her eyes twice their size.

  “Is there an echo in the room?” I snapped.

  Naleejah raised her pencil-thin eyebrows and shook her head. “Well, I don’t know how you do it. I couldn’t survive without my phone.”

  The nasty look I shot Naleejah shut her up real quick. She jotted her number and address down on a napkin, and slid it to me. I stuffed it inside my knapsack.

  “Well, can I get your home number at least?”

  I gave her my digits and warned her not to ever call me past nine o’clock or else she’d be reading about me in the papers. She chuckled at this, and then suddenly grew serious. “Do you think it’s safe for us to leave now?” Worry lines ran across her forehead.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m leaving,” I said. “Can’t sit here all night. I have a curfew. Don’t you?”

  “Curfew?” Naleejah cracked up laughing. “Too bad for you. I come and go as I please.”

  “Lucky for you.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Okay then, I’m out. See ya.”

  “Hold up,” said Naleejah as she pulled out her cell phone. “I’m about to call my homeboy, Maxwell. Maybe he can drive us home.”

  “No, no, that’s okay,” I blurted out.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  No, I didn’t want Maxwell driving me home. I didn’t want anybody driving me home. The front of my house looks like it’s about to fall down. Crumbling brown stones. Rickety brown steps. Outside gate chipping black paint. The Johnsons owned the entire brownstone, but they couldn’t seem to keep any tenants upstairs. So the third floor looks abandoned: no curtains in the windows, dark and depressing. Nobody can tell the inside of the house looks better, much cleaner anyway, furniture always shining thanks to my own elbow grease.

  “Call me when you get to your crib,” Naleejah cried out.

  “Yeah, I’ll holler at you,” I said as I trooped out the door.

  The last drop of sun had already dipped below the rooftops. The sky had gone from blue to black in one snap. I heaved a deep sigh. Time sure flies even when you’re not having fun. Would I be late for curfew? I really hoped not. One word: Lynn. And there was another issue to worry about. Four words: the Raggedy-Braided Twins.

  * * *

  On my way home, you should’ve seen me walking down the block, twisting my neck to the left and right like a paranoid fool. I couldn’t help but wonder whether this buckwild duo would come out of nowhere, jump down from a tree, and bum-rush me.

  Sleep with your eyes open.

  As much as I tried to put Blondie’s menacing words in the back of my mind, the threat of payback kept ringing in my head like a million bells. And what if the Twins showed up at Saturday’s game? Of course, Charles would have my back, but why should I have to worry about that? My heart sunk at the thought of having to look over my shoulder like a gangster once again.

  When I made it to Bainbridge Street safe and sound, I wanted to jump up and kiss the street sign. And when I finally made it to my front door, I was ready to kiss the doorknob. I was so grateful to be home. Now I only had to worry about Lynn. If she detected any signs of battle, I’d be in trouble. “Absolutely no fighting” was her unbendable rule. So how could I explain my holey T-shirt? My missing hat?

  It was time for Operation Innocent. I plopped down on the front steps, pulled out my fresh white T-shirt, and threw it on over my holey one. I smoothed down my crazy ponytail as best I could. Then I got up, took a deep breath, twisted the doorknob, and hoped for the best.

  Chapter 5

  I slipped through the front door, skated down the long hallway, and when I heard water running and pots and pans clanging, I was relieved. This meant dinner was over, and Lynn would be going to sleep soon. On weeknights, I loved her schedule: come home from her volunteer job, eat, wash dishes (if I wasn’t around to do them), and take her strict old butt to bed. On the other hand, Ted, I never had to worry about. He was too cool to hound me.

  I didn’t bother to say hello to Lynn. I just ran up the stairs two at a time. I thought I was home free when I made it into my bedroom.…

  Well, to be exact, my bedroom is not my bedroom. It’s Lynn’s office (aka my spot).

  And actually, my spot is like a shoe box, but it could be cozy if Lynn would let me jazz things up a bit. Too bad she won’t budge on the subject, and neither will the furniture. So a futon, a file cabinet, and a computer atop a creaky wooden desk stay crammed in one row. Lynn won’t let me use her computer, so I can’t even holler at Felicia on MySpace. Can’t paint these bland white walls, can’t hang up a poster or a picture, can’t replace these corny white curtains with some Hello Kitty flavor. Basically, my room is mad boring, bare as a jail cell; all that’s missing are bars on the window.

  There is a bright side, though.

  My room is my room.

  Not another group home’s room.

  Not another foster home’s room shared with a bunch of other kids.

  My room.

  The last group home I stayed at before moving here tried hard to make the rooms feel like ours. The walls were painted pink, lacy white curtains on the window, but I was never fooled. I never got comfortable. Got shifted around way too much, having to change rooms when we didn’t get along with our roommates, or maybe there’s another leak that needs to be fixed, there was always some kind of drama going on to displace us.

  So like I said: my room. Not to mention, I have a fire escape. And on nights like tonight, I grab my bag of sunflower seeds, my extra-large pillow, and I climb outside, lean back and relax, taking in that warm summer night’s breeze.

  Well, I was lounging outside for a minute, leaning back, cracking salty sunflower seeds, and you know, really feeling that warm summer night’s breeze. Then all of a sudden, boom. Here comes Lynn, howling my name.

  I was tempted to jump down into the backyard jungle just to get away from her. What in the world did that lady want from me?

  Lynn tore open my curtains and stuck her big head out of the window. “Kate, didn’t I tell you no phone calls past nine o’clock?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I muttered.

  “Then why do you have your little friends calling here this late? It’s almost ten o’clock, and I have to be to work early tomorrow!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Please come back inside,” Lynn ordered.

&
nbsp; I climbed back inside my bedroom, fuming, knowing it had to be Naleejah who had called me. Now, I told her not to call me past nine o’clock. Why was she so clueless? Okay … true … I had forgotten to call her to let her know I got home safe, but still.

  I stood in front of Lynn, my head bent low, avoiding those big bubble eyes of hers. “And what time is your curfew, Kate?”

  This unexpected question took me off guard. “Nine o’clock,” I mumbled.

  “So, I guess you think I didn’t hear you coming in here at fifteen minutes past, huh?”

  “But—”

  “There’s no buts about it,” interrupted Lynn.

  I’m so glad she interrupted me. I didn’t have an excuse ready.

  “Kate, I have rules in this house for a reason. If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t care about what time you come in. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  But no, I didn’t understand her. If she cared about me, she wouldn’t be stressing me for no freaking reason. Fifteen minutes wasn’t a big dang deal.

  Lynn turned to leave my room. Finally. But then she double-backed and stood over my threshold and said, “I need you to help me with the backyard on Friday.”

  “Friday?” I asked in disbelief.

  “That’s what I said,” Lynn replied.

  I wondered if she could see the steam coming from my head. Why Friday, of all days? My hair plans were heading down the drain … or maybe not. “Um, Lynn … can I work on the backyard tomorrow, or Thursday? I promise to do a good job by myself—”

  Lynn chased away my request with laughter. “Listen, you can’t be negotiating with me.”

  “But—”

  “No need for the sorry face. This is not a punishment. You’re just helping me pull a few weeds. End of story.”

  A sad story at that. Must be a conspiracy. It had to be.

  “Kate, did you just roll your eyes at me?”

  “No,” I lied. (Sometimes I can’t control my eyeballs, and I’m always getting caught rolling them.)

  Lynn wagged her pointer finger at me. “There’s no need for you to be giving me attitude. Do I give you any attitude? Don’t I treat you with respect?”

  I shrugged in place of an answer. Apparently, Lynn took this as being rude because she placed her hands on her hips and said, “Okay, I’ll give you something to roll your eyes about. You can help me with the laundry too. Friday is going to be a very busy day for you.”

  Now I quickly realized I had better cool it. Any more attitude from me, and Lynn would have me painting her whole freaking house.

  Lynn relaxed the scowl on her face and said, “Listen, Kate, I respect you, and I’m only asking for the same in return. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I muttered.

  Lynn made her way to my door and added, “I don’t want things to get to the point where I have to call Tisha, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Finally, Lynn left my room.

  Whatever, witch.

  Lynn was forever threatening to call Tisha for every little thing. But on that matter, who cared? Tisha always had my back. I couldn’t ask for a better social worker. In fact, if it wasn’t for Tisha’s earlier coaching, I would’ve been cursing Lynn’s crazy butt out. Back in the day, it didn’t take much for me to pop off. I don’t think I was born angry. But having bad experience piled on top of bad experience drove me down a long and rough angry path.

  * * *

  At age two, I was placed with Ms. Richards, a mean-as-could-be foster mother who treated her biological daughter, Brittany, with love—and me with pure disgust. Why did she bother taking me in? The money. Period.

  Ms. Richards always smelled like baby powder, and her kitchen always smelled like baking cookies, but there was nothing sweet and loving about living in her home. I remember the first time I tried to give her a hug, she pushed me away, said she was having a bad day. I remember the last time I tried to be nice by drawing her a picture of a flower: I had carefully colored the flower in red, orange, and yellow; then I put a big green tree in the background. I was so proud of my picture. When I gave it to Ms. Richards, she screwed up her face and asked, “What’s this?” then put it to the side. Later that day, I found my picture crumpled in the trash.

  I would call Ms. Richards “Mom” just like her biological daughter did. But the day I turned five, she flat-out said, “Listen, I’m not your mother.” It took me a long time to get over that—and there was so much more to get over. If I didn’t do something quick enough, she’d hit me. Not hard enough for me to bruise, but enough to hurt my feelings. I never told on her. I was too young and too scared to tell anybody what I was going through.

  But I ended up getting kicked out her house anyway—thanks to Brittany. Ms. Richards always bought Brittany dolls, and didn’t buy me any. So one day, I snuck one of Brittany’s dolls and Brittany caught me playing with it. When she tried to take the doll away, I yoked her. Kept her in a headlock for a minute. Her tears meant nothing to me. When I finally let her go, she yelled, “That’s why both your parents are drug addicts.”

  “You’re lying!” I screamed. “Shut up.”

  “No, I’m not!” she screamed back. “Go ask my mother.”

  I jumped up and kicked her butt up and down the living room. I was only six years old, while she was eight, and I whooped her tail until her mother came screaming for me to stop. Brittany’s face was badly bruised when I got through. Mess with me and get wrecked.

  Normally, it takes ten days to be removed from a foster home—but I was taken away two days later. Ms. Richards lied on me, said I was a troublemaker and she could no longer handle me. I guessed hurting her precious little Brittany was a deal-breaker; I was considered a threat to the household. But actually, I was a threat to myself, feeling suicidal and wondering why I was brought into this world only to be abandoned by drug-addicted parents. I felt so ashamed. Hopeless. Helpless.

  For the next four years, I never lived in a foster home longer than six months. I spent most of my days sitting in lobbies and offices waiting for my next foster home placement. Every school year I had a different “parent” picking me up. The words mother and father never meant anything to me. I always wanted a family of my own, but I had nobody to raise me but the system. Sometimes I thought about my parents with nothing but hate in my heart. Sometimes I wished they had loved me enough to keep me.

  By the time I turned ten, I was out of control. Frustrated. Bitter. Fighting in school every day, cursing out my teachers, my foster parents, and whoever else dared get in my face. One day, after a big fight and another whole day in the principal’s office, my social worker at the time, Mrs. Lawrence, came up to my school and threatened to send me to a residential treatment center. A huge threat to me. If I thought a group home was strict, please, an RTC was even worse. She called it “structured living.” I called it “jail.”

  Mrs. Lawrence stared at me through her thick bifocals and said, “Fighting all the time and talking back to teachers.… If you don’t like being told what to do, then do the right thing! What’s wrong with you?”

  I shrugged. “Apparently everything is wrong with me. I’m a foster child, right?” The facts were clear to me. I was at risk, hard to place, and basically unwanted.

  Mrs. Lawrence drew her chair closer to mine and said, “Listen, Kate, there’s nothing wrong with you, and it’s not your fault you’re in care. You don’t have to carry around the ‘foster child’ label for the rest of your life. But if you end up in a crazy house for acting up all the time, it will be your own fault. You know better than this.”

  I sucked my teeth, a bad habit of mine.

  Mrs. Lawrence poked me in the shoulder. “You better let that anger go. It’s not getting you anywhere, little girl.”

  I rolled my eyes at her. Another bad habit.

  “Keep acting up if you want to,” said Mrs. Lawrence, shaking her head so hard, I thought her wig would fall off. “They�
��ll put your wild behind on medication. Do you want to be put on medication?”

  This question sounded mad funny to me, so I busted out laughing.

  Mrs. Lawrence banged her desk to get my attention. “It’s not funny!” she snapped. “It’s real out here. They’ll put you away and forget about you. You think this is a game?” Mrs. Lawrence stared at me for a while. “Listen, I see something in you, Kate.… You don’t even realize the gifts you have. But keep acting up this way, and you give me no choice. I’ll put you away in a heartbeat.”

  Her voice was so cold when she said this, I shivered. And at the drop of this threat, I sobered up. Even started behaving for a little while.

  Unfortunately, a year later, I was bored with behaving and joined the Lady Killers. Beating up broads and stealing from stores gave me such a rush, like, Yeah, what? I’m bad. And even after I left the gang, I kept their “I don’t give a f—” swagger. It wasn’t until Tisha came into my life that I finally started to come around.

  But on the day I met Tisha, I gave her nothing but attitude and my behind to kiss. As soon as she stepped inside the commons room of my old group home, I greeted her with a scowl. She wore a serious face and a serious black suit; she was two heads taller than me. Seemed kinda snobby, like she came from the sunny suburbs and couldn’t relate to me.

  I slouched in my chair with my arms folded tight against my chest, my eyes rolling up to the ceiling every other minute.

  “Kate, why you keep giving me the screw-face?” Tisha suddenly asked in a “hood” voice. Then she clapped her hands twice, as if about to throw down. “Listen, best believe we can get it cracking up in here!” she said, then rolled up her sleeves, pretending like she was ready to fight me. This was so random, all I could do was bust out laughing.

  Tisha looked about thirty years old, and didn’t look hood, so I couldn’t believe she was coming at me hard-core. I was so caught off guard, I didn’t know how to fix my face after that. Before leaving me that day, Tisha confided, “Listen, I used to run the streets too, boo. So you ain’t showing me nothing new.”