by Amir Abrams
Well, he is.
Crystal grunts. “Oh, God. Not him. It’s too early in the morning for his foolery.”
“Oh, Crystal stop,” I say out of the side of my mouth. You know you like that boy. I keep that to myself, as usual. Daddy always says playing matchmaker is a bad thing between two friends you really like. Then if they break up, they’ll both be trying to pull you into their drama. So, because I value Daddy’s opinion, I’m keeping my Cupid’s arrow tucked away in my locker—for now.
Cameron and Nate are laughing and chest bumping each other, then quickly stop goofing off the minute they see an underclassman in a short skirt walk by. They start grinning at her and licking their lips.
“Just look at ’em,” Crystal snorts. “A bunch of horny toads. All testosterone-charged.”
I pretend not to hear her.
Cameron gives his teammates fists pumps, then heads are way when he spots us. He speaks first the minute he approaches us. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say back.
“Hey,” Crystal mutters, hardly moving her lips, as he sidles up beside us.
“Oh, you can’t speak, peanut head?” Cameron says, stopping. “Please don’t tell me today’s the day that you think you’re too cute to speak.”
She rolls her eyes. “Nia, please tell that freakazoid that I said I am cute.”
Cameron grabs her in a headlock and playfully rubs his knuckles over her scalp vigorously. Crystal pretends to be pissed, fakes protest, but I see something else in her face.
She likes it.
When Cameron finally releases her, her hair is now all over her head. She hits him. “Boy, you’ve messed up my hair. I can’t stand you.” She runs her hand through her hair trying to smooth it down.
Cameron laughs. “You look better with it tousled. Now you sort of look like a chinchilla instead of a mangy mutt. You can thank me later.”
She flicks him a dismissive hand. “Whatever, dumbass. I’m so done with you.” She stops at her locker, and I wait with her while she opens her locker and pulls out her calculus book. She slams it shut. “Ohmygod! Why is he still standing here?”
“By the way, Nia,” Cameron says, “you’re looking real pretty today.” Then he smiles. Flirtatious as usual, because that’s what he is.
A big flirt.
“So where are we hanging after school?” he wants to know when we get to my locker.
“I—”
“We’ll be hanging out without you,” Crystal cuts in. “You’re officially on a lifetime ban. We need a permanent break from you, boy.”
He laughs. “Nah, we need a break from your breath.”
Crystal sucks her teeth. “What a lame.”
“And you’re the fricking best,” Cameron answers back, turning his head to smirk at me and roll his eyes subtly in Crystal’s direction.
That’s when the bell rings. Dang!
“I have to go,” I say abruptly. “See you both fourth period.”
“Nooooo,” Cameron cries. “Don’t leave me with this man-eater. If I end up missing, check her stomach.”
Crystal plucks him. “Oh, shut up, boy. You’re the last thing I’d ever eat.”
Ugh.
I wish they’d just kiss and get it over with already.
* * *
When the last period bell finally rings, everyone gathers their things and quickly spills out into the hallways. As usual, I’m the last to leave Mr. Ling’s physics class. Most kids find Mr. Ling’s honors class to be extremely hard. I see it as a challenge. It pushes me to be more perceptive. It’s a whole-brain subject that really requires you to use both right and left-brain regions. Most people don’t know that. It really hones your thinking skills.
So I enjoy it.
I step out into the hallway and run smack into Cameron. “Oh, hey,” I say, surprised.
“Hey,” he greets me, walking alongside me. “I was waiting for you.”
“You were? Why?” I give him a curious look. Or maybe it’s a confused one. It’s hard to tell since I’m not exactly looking at myself in a mirror.
“I wanted to see if . . .” he begins. Then pauses, glancing around at students hurrying past in all directions.
“You wanted to see what?” I ask as we maneuver through the crowded hallway.
Cameron stops walking. He digs into the outside pocket of his book bag and pulls out a small tin of Altoids mints.
“Want one?” he asks, holding the tin out to me.
I hold a hand over my mouth and blow out a breath. “Wait. Does my breath smell?”
“Nah. Your breath always smells sweet,” he says.
For some reason, I feel my cheeks heat, and I blush. “Boy, stop.”
“Nah. I’m serious. Smelling your breath makes butterflies flutter in my stomach. Your breath makes my knees go weak, Nia.”
He says this with a straight face. But I can’t help but burst into laughter. “Ohmygod!” I cry, clutching my chest as if I’m on the verge of cardiac arrest from laughing so hard. “You are sooo dang silly, Cam!”
“Yeah. I’m silly for you, boo.” He waggles his eyebrows. Then smiles.
He plays too much.
For a split second we’re both just smiling at each other.
Awk. Ward.
I tuck hair behind my ear. And then Cameron frees us from this uncomfortably weird moment that passes between us and says, “So you want a mint or not?” He shakes the tin in my face.
“You just said my breath smelled sweet.”
“Yeah. It does. But it’ll smell sweeter with a mint.”
“Ohmygod! You’re so full of BS.” I take a mint. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” I eye him as he pops a mint into his mouth, then tosses the tin back in his bag. “Where’s Cruella, walking her Dalmatians?”
“Boy, leave Crystal alone,” I say, punching him lightly on the arm as we leisurely stroll the hallway. I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye from laughing so hard. “Why are you always picking on her?”
“On who? Crystal?”
I suck my teeth. “Yes, silly. Who else?”
“Oh.”
I sigh. “Well?”
He shrugs, shoving his hands into his front pockets. “She’s easy prey.” Hmm. Why can’t boys just be honest?
He likes her.
We walk in silence for a moment as he walks me to my locker. I suck on my mint, allowing the sharp peppermint to melt over my tongue as an idea of a poem slowly takes root. A boy having a crush on a girl, but doesn’t tell her until it’s too late. When she’s finally stopped holding her breath and moved on because she never got the memo.
Maybe I’ll call it “Secret Crush,” or something like that.
“So where is she?”
“Huh?” I say, confused, turning to look at him.
“Crystal?”
Oh. I smirk. “Why, you miss her?” I open my locker, tossing my physics book back inside my locker.
“Nope,” he says, leaning up against the bank of lockers. “I’m actually glad she’s not around. She’s annoying.”
I give him a look. “That’s the same thing she says about you.”
He grins. “It’s the one thing we have in common. Besides you.”
I playfully roll my eyes up in my head, shutting my locker. “Oh, lordy. Denial, I see.”
He gives me a puzzled look.
I tilt my head, shouldering my book bag, while giving him a critical once-over. “Cam, admit it. It’s okay.”
He frowns. “Admit what?”
Ohmygod!
So he wants to play stupid.
Boys.
I sigh. “Admit that you like her.”
He rapidly blinks his eyes, then pops them open wide. “That I like who? You?”
“I said her. Not me, silly. Crystal.”
“Crystal?” He bursts out laughing, clutching his stomach. “Hahahahahahaha. You’re joking, right?”
I frown, not seeing the humor in any of this. “No. I’m serio
us,” I say, arching my brows. “You can tell me. I promise. I won’t tell her.”
He gives me a serious look. One he rarely gives. “Nia. I hate to disappoint you. But I don’t like Crystal. Not like that.”
Now I’m confused.
“Are you sure you don’t like her”—I gesture with my forefinger and thumb—“just a teensy bit?”
“Not even.” His eyes never leave mine when he says this.
Still, I’m not fully convinced.
“But you’re always picking with her, like you do.”
He shakes his head. “I tease her because I like ruffling her feathers. Not because I like her, like her. She’s my amiga.”
“I’m your friend, too, but you don’t tease me.”
He shifts his stare from mine. “You’re different, Nia.”
Different?
How?
He quickly looks away, then glances down at his watch. “Hey, I gotta run. I have study group in the library. Big chemistry test tomorrow.”
“Oh, okay.”
He hoists his backpack onto one shoulder, then turns and scurries away without a backward glance.
Hmm.
What’s up with that?
Then it dawns on me.
He never told me what he wanted to see.
11
Saturday morning.
Six-thirty a.m.
I’m in the kitchen.
Apron on.
Hair pulled back.
Hands and face covered in flour.
Watching a homemade buttermilk pancake-making crash course on YouTube, for the third time.
I’ve been up since the crack of dawn trying to figure out how to make these stupid pancakes for Daddy.
And I only have—I glance up at the clock—another hour and a half before Daddy comes down for his morning coffee. He usually sleeps in late—until eight—on weekends.
Anyway, I’m scrambling.
And there’s probably more baking powder and baking soda and sugar and salt all over the counters than in the bowl.
Dry ingredients in one bowl.
Wet ingredients in another.
The recipe says it makes six six-inch pancakes.
I keep cracking eggs and getting the shell pieces into the bowl. So I have to keep trying until I get it right. So far, I’ve gone through six eggs because I keep pouring them down the sink and starting over.
Oh, no!
I’m supposed to separate the egg yolks from the egg whites.
The YouTube host says adding the egg whites later makes the pancakes light and airy.
Umm.
Is that same as being light and fluffy?
God, this is awful.
Cooking is surely not going to ever land me a husband. Then again, if I’m fortunate enough, I’ll marry a man who loves to cook.
Or eat out.
Or, maybe, if I’m really, really lucky, I’ll hire a cook.
Yeah. I like the sound of that even better.
Who needs to cook when you have a cook?
Exactly.
Not me.
But in the meantime, I need to get these pancakes made.
Wait. I know what I need.
Music.
Walking over and turning on the kitchen’s stereo, I start humming Bob Marley’s “One Love” as his voice seeps through the speakers.
By the time Kem finishes singing, “You’re on My Mind,” I finally get it right. The egg cracking, that is. Now I’m mixing the wet ingredients in with the dry ingredients. I whisk, being sure to leave some lumps in the batter.
I forget why.
I just do.
Now comes the moment of reckoning.
Pouring the batter onto the girdle. I mean griddle.
The griddle’s hot. Greased. And ready.
I scoop a half-cup of batter out and pour it onto the griddle, then watch it bubble.
Oh, wait.
Blueberries.
I race to the refrigerator and pull out fresh blueberries bought from the farmer’s market, then quickly rinse them, but I’m not fast enough.
Something’s burning.
Oh no!
My pancake is smoking.
And now the smoke alarm starts going off.
I open the windows and slide open the glass door that leads out to the deck, then glance over my shoulder to make sure Daddy isn’t coming into the kitchen holding a fire extinguisher in his hand.
I look up at the clock. It’s five minutes to seven, and I still don’t have the grits—which I don’t know how to make—cooked. Not one egg is scrambled and the turkey bacon is sitting in the sink, soaking in water.
Bacon is supposed to be washed, right?
I take in the kitchen. It looks like a war zone.
Oh boy, Ms. Katie’s going to have a fit when she sees this mess. She’s our part-time housekeeper. But I can’t think about that right now. I have to get Daddy’s breakfast done. A deal’s a deal.
Right?
Right.
I dump blueberries into the batter and stir.
Then try again.
And again.
And again.
Until I finally get it all done.
Seven fifty-eight on the dot!
Whew!
I’m exhausted.
I never knew cooking was so much work. But I’ve survived my first kitchen experience. And I’m pleased—okay, okay, half pleased—with my results.
Fresh coffee brewed.
Grits done.
Eggs scrambled.
Bacon cooked.
I’ve really outdone myself.
I set everything on a serving tray, covering Daddy’s plate with a silver cover. Then I make my way up the stairs.
“Rise and shine!” I sing, opening his door and walking across the threshold.
Daddy is coming out of his bathroom, drying his hands with a hand towel, when he sees me. “Good morning, Butterfly.” He walks over and kisses me on the cheek. “What’s this?”
“Breakfast,” I say gleefully.
“Aww,” he says, grinning. “You didn’t forget.”
“Nope. Now get in bed so I can serve you.”
He rubs his hands together, smiling in anticipation.
“I made your coffee just how you like it. Dark.” Well, it looks more like mud, but that’s okay. It’s nothing a little—okay, a lot—of cream can’t fix.
“You’re spoiling me already,” Daddy says, climbing onto his king-size bed. He props two pillows in back of him.
“Hope you enjoy,” I say, my smile widening.
He looks at me. Really looks. Then points. “What’s all this?”
I glance down at the apron he’d given me to wear. It’s covered in caked-up batter and egg yolks.
I giggle. “Oh, it’s not as bad as it looks.” I thrust his tray in front of him. “Here, eat up.”
Daddy doesn’t lift the cover from his plate right away. He lifts his mug, and takes a slow sip of his coffee. He makes a face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing, Butterfly. It’s a bit strong; that’s all.”
“Oh.”
“But that’s fine,” he says. “Let’s see if you’re going to be the next Top Chef.”
He lifts the cover and blinks. Then he narrows his gaze down at his plate. “Umm, sweetheart?”
“Yes?”
He takes his fork and sticks it into his grits. “Um. What’s this?”
“Grits,” I say proudly. “With cheese.” Okay, they’re a bit lumpy. Well, a lot lumpy. But they’re real cheesy, the way he likes them.
His fork points at his eggs. “And this?”
I giggle. “Daddy, stop. They’re eggs. Scrambled hard.” Okay, okay, they’re looking kind of crazy. But I get an A for effort. Don’t I?
“I see,” he says. “And these I’m guessing are blueberry pancakes.”
“Right again, Daddy.” They sure are, even if they do look like little round hockey pucks.
> He picks up a piece of bacon. “And . . . ?”
“That’s turkey bacon.” Okay, okay, okay... the bacon is rubbery. How was I supposed to know you don’t soak it in water?
“This was a really sweet gesture, Butterfly. But . . .”
Uh-oh.
Here comes the ax.
“What? You don’t like what I’ve cooked?”
“Well, sweetheart,” he says, clearly choosing his words carefully, “let’s just say you won’t be winning any cooking awards any time soon.”
And with that I am laughing.
And so is he.
12
I am on the open mic list, waiting my turn.
Poets talk and laugh and prepare to peel back layers of who they are.
Pour open their hearts and souls up on one single stage.
The energy is high.
But I am eerily calm.
Anyone who knows me knows I live and breathe poetry. It is the key to my soul. It lives inside of me. Sometimes I think it’s more real than my own existence.
More real than the air I breathe.
So it’s no wonder that I am floating from the energy in the room tonight.
The Poetry Barn is flooded with positivity.
And it’s one of my favorite places.
Not only do I love the atmosphere, the décor is so chic. The Barn—which looks nothing like a barn in the traditional sense, but more like an upscale lounge—has sleek white leather sofas and large square white leather coffee table ottomans that double as tables or extra seats. There’s also a glass DJ booth in the back. And a bar that serves all nonalcoholic beverages, named after some of the world’s greatest poets.
I sweep my eyes around the space, my gaze landing on the Wall of Poets—black-and-white framed photographs of many of the great African-American poets, past and present, that line the wall.
Audre Lorde.
Nikki Giovanni.
Gwendolyn Brooks.
Maya Angelou.
Paul Laurence Dunbar.
Countee Cullen.
Sonia Sanchez.
Langston Hughes.
Alice Walker.
James Weldon Johnson.
This place is filled with the souls of poets.
I smile when my eyes lock on the black-and-white framed image of Phillis Wheatley.
“Who is the first African-American poet... ?”
The emcee calls up the next spoken word artist, one of the regulars: Legacy. He’s like twenty-one, twenty-two, I think, but he has a presence of someone with much more life experience.
