Malcolm and Me

by Robin Farmer

  “Can you hold on for one second, please, Miss Nelson?”

  Holding the receiver away from my mouth, I cup it with my hand and go for broke as a screaming human jumping jack.

  “Mom, Charles, come quick!” I grab the latest issue of the magazine off my bureau.

  Mom and Charles zoom up the steps and rush in. Worry lines crease Mom’s face. I hold the magazine up and mouth, “I won the essay contest!” When the news sinks in, Charles and Mom slap each other five.

  “Miss Nelson, can you tell me the prizes, again?” I share the phone with Mom. “I am so excited I can’t remember.”

  “You might want to sit down. You have quite a few.”

  Mom and I exchange grins, our heads pressed together as we listen.

  “You won a first-place engraved plaque with your name inscribed on it along with $100.”

  I make the sign of the cross, look heavenward and mouth, “Thank you, Jesus.”

  “We also thought a budding writer—and you are quite talented with a mature perspective—should have an electric typewriter.”

  “Ooh,” escapes my lips.

  Charles giggles. Mom’s eyes shimmy with pride.

  “You also won a set of encyclopedias and a year-long subscription to the magazine.”

  “Thank you so much!”

  “Wait, there’s more. We need you to send us a photo for the article announcing the winners. We need it within two weeks.”

  “You want a photo of me to put in the magazine?”

  Miss Nelson chuckles. “Everyone will want to know who won all these great prizes, right?”

  “I can’t believe it! First place,” I say. “Thank you. I love the magazine!”

  Miss Nelson laughs. “Keep writing. Can I speak to either parent for permission to use your photo?”

  “My mother is here. He name is Dora Forest.” I hand Mom the phone. I’m elated I’ve done something to make Mom swell with pride.

  After a short conversation, Mom hangs up. We scream and dance like Mom-Mom’s church people. Mom and Charles hug me, depositing wet, sloppy kisses on both cheeks.

  “This calls for a celebration,” Mom announces. “We’re going to dinner in a couple of hours. Let’s get dressed up, go somewhere nice. Invite Bonnie, tell her it’s my treat.” Then Mom’s bright eyes turn serious. “It’s okay if you want to invite your father.”

  “Okay, I’ll call him,” I say.

  “Can we order anything we want?” Charles asks.

  “Anything.”

  Charles dances out of my room. Mom turns to me with a proud smile.

  “You sounded so cool and collected. I was impressed listening to you.”

  “Can you believe the editor called me? If I acted professional, it was because I was pretending I was you on the phone.”

  A soft “Oh” slips from Mom’s lips. Her surprised reaction swells my heart, too. I see her nose turning pink, which means waterfalls are coming. Seeing Mom cry, even happy tears, bothers me to the tenth power. ’Cause, I’m immature.

  “Gotta call and tell Bon the good news.” I bolt out the room.

  I love Mommy to death, but unlike my dad, we’re not the real hug up type. And it’s okay. Cause we’re working on our own way of sharing feel-good vibes.

  I call Bonnie from the kitchen phone to share the news, thank her for encouraging me to enter, and invite her to dinner.

  “Wait, before you hang up, I just got to say I am happy for you but a little upset, too.”

  “Why?” I ask

  “You are not supposed to keep secrets from your best friend.”

  What does she mean? I think about never telling Bonnie about Sister Elizabeth possibly being Black or about my half-sister. “What secret?”

  “You never told me you even entered,” she whines.

  “Oh,” I say, heady with relief. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think I would win. Girl, I used your stamp to mail my essay. Get your butt over here.”

  “See you soon,” she says, chuckling.

  I hang up and think about when to disclose my other big secrets. Maybe in due time, as Mom always says.

  Back in my room. I lie on my bed fuzzy with happiness—the kind that makes your cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. I like that kind of discomfort. I look out the window at a sun-hugged day.

  I tuck my diary under my arm and scurry to the front steps to write in the sunshine. It feels glorious outside. I throw my head back and bask in the warmth dancing on my skin.

  I write: “Today is the happiest I’ve been since turning thirteen. Maybe the best day of my life. I won Right On!’s contest about Black awareness, which was about one of my worst days. How cool is that? Who knew something good could come out of that awful fight with Sister?”

  A honking car temporarily distracts me. I resume writing. “It’s so ironic that by calling Thomas Jefferson a hypocrite, my face will end up in Right On! Ironic that my own father is a hypocrite, too. But we all are. Good thing I didn’t know all that before I entered the contest. Try summarizing that in 800 words.” I draw a smiley face and close the book.

  I squeeze my eyes as the steps seem to transform. The air thins. On the cusp of ninth grade, I am floating on ribbons knitted with joy, gratitude, and faith. My heart beats smarter, stronger. Confidence and coolness ooze from my pores. Far from the loser kid I used to be, I know this: I feel ready to roller skate in the sky to whatever’s next.

  A car door slams and I turn my head to see Dad approaching, beaming his dimpled smile. His eyes flicker with pride. He carries a bouquet of baby roses, and his camera to take my photo for the magazine.

  We have a lot to work out as a family and as father and daughter. But still, he has a lifeline to my heart. Holding my breath, I wait to hear the one word that will take this perfect, sun-framed day over the moon.

  “Congratulations, Pumpkin,” he says.

  The last week of school is like a movie starring me. Mother Superior announces my win during morning announcements. My classmates applaud, and the next day, Sister Elizabeth allows my friends to bring in supplies for a party. Stephanie fixes homemade cupcakes. Donna brings cute party hats and napkins. Vietta picks out the prettiest card and has everyone sign it. And Raymond gives me Mallo Cups.

  Since school’s out by the time the issue with my photo hits the stands, Mr. Harvey, who knows reporters, has the neighborhood weekly interview me.

  “That way you have something to show around school before you leave,” he says. I suspect he did it because he was thrilled by my decision to attend East Catholic and he felt guilty for not fighting to keep me in the school essay contest.

  On the last day of school, I carry the article like a prized forty-five record. My story is only a paragraph and it’s buried on page 7, but to me it’s a front-page story above the fold, which Mr. Harvey says is reserved for the biggest news.

  I am in a newspaper. Huddling around me, my friends read it before the bell. Bonnie cleared out all of the copies from the newspaper box nearest school and handed them out to our jump rope crew.

  In homeroom, my article gets passed around, making me feel like a celebrity.

  Since it’s the last day, we remain in homeroom until dismissal, shooting the breeze, discussing summer plans and vacations.

  We take turns exchanging our colorful autograph books, where we write cheesy farewell messages to each other. This year’s notes will be more heartfelt. I won’t see many of them again. Most of my classmates are moving to the suburbs over the summer. About half will attend East Catholic for Girls or the Boys school, which is several blocks away.

  Stephanie wanders over. “Coming to my birthday party?” she asks again.

  “You know I am. Why are you acting like you won’t see me next week?”

  “I’m just going to miss seeing you every day.”

  I pull a pack of Now and Laters out of my pocket and hand them to her. I have an entire box, a graduation and farewell gift from the Hostetlers, my sweet neigh
bors who moved last month.

  “An early birthday present,” I say. She beams.

  Donna hands me her autograph book and takes mine. Thumbing through it to find a blank page, I write: “I will miss you, Donna, one of the coolest chicks I ever met. Cher has nothing on you! Have a great summer. Roberta ’74.” I draw a peace sign under my name.

  “Read mine later, Roberta.” Donna closes my book and lays it on the desk. “I could hardly find room to write something, Miss Popular.” She slings her hair back. “I hope we stay in touch. I know you will have some interesting stories to tell.”

  Donna’s beautiful eyes look shiny and sad. Why aren’t we friends outside of school? Why don’t we go to each other’s birthday parties?

  “Give me your book,” I say. She hands it over, and I add my phone number under my comments. “That’s my number. Call me anytime.”

  “Roberta, you have your own phone?”

  “Yes, how did you not know that I got it for my birthday?”

  She shrugs.

  I know. Outside of school we live in different worlds. Black and white.

  “Well, now you know. Call me sometime.”

  “I’d like that,” she says as Geoffrey scampers over.

  “Yo, Roberta. Sign my book anyway you’d like.”

  I write: “To my favorite class clown, I hope you grow up to become a famous comedian and perform on the Johnny Carson show. P.S. Make peace not war.”

  “Don’t write anything crazy in mine,” I warn him.

  He writes: “Stay cool! Don’t fight any more nuns. I won’t.”

  I laugh when I read it.

  Out the corner of my eye, Vietta sits alone, watching everyone. I head over and in her book I write: “Thank you for standing with me to the end. Come over sometimes. Bonnie and me will teach you how to jump rope.” Her grateful smile makes me want to kick myself for not doing so when the weather broke and we started jumping rope again during recess.

  “Hey everyone, Vietta saved a page just for me so nobody better write on it,” I challenge.

  Soon a cluster of classmates wait to sign her autograph book.

  The class grows rowdier as the clock ticks toward dismissal. I peek at what Donna wrote. She’s right. I should have waited. I’m choked up.

  “Dear Roberta, I will be the first one to buy Angel Dressed in Black and the first one in line for you to autograph it. I learned a lot from you. Always your friend. Love, Donna.”

  The bell rings and the class cheers. Most of the students dash for the door. I hurry around a few classmates who stop to tell Sister Elizabeth goodbye, but when I get to the stairwell, I make a U-turn. I need to say a few things to Sister Elizabeth. I wait in the hallway until my classmates leave.

  The room is now empty except for her, and she is staring out the window.

  “Sister Elizabeth?”

  She startles, then searches my face as I wait in the doorway. “Did you forget something, Roberta? I haven’t yet checked all the desks.”

  I enter, unsure what I may say. This is not planned. “I just wanted to ask you . . .”

  Her smile fades. She forms a teepee with her fingers on her desk.

  “What answer did you expect when you asked the question about Thomas Jefferson?”

  “Ah, that. Let’s not revisit that day,” she says, her voice suddenly cheery. “That was a low point in my many years of teaching.”

  I wait, unsure of what I want. Deep down I know she would not tell me what I am dying to know. Suddenly a thought occurs.

  “Did you ask Sister Carol to meet with me?”

  “I did, with permission. Sister Carol will be a terrific mentor for you.” Her eyes soften and for a second I think she will finally apologize. She starts to speak, sighs, and then looks down at her folded hands. Her bare nails are rosy and shiny. I never noticed her nails before. Not even when she slapped me. We stare at her hands until she clears her throat, rises from her desk, and shoves them into her pockets.

  “Have a great summer, Roberta,” she says, winding up our awkward farewell. “Do well next year. I expect to hear great things about you at East Catholic.”

  I struggle with what to say, until it hits me that I am wrestling with the old Roberta. The part best left behind. “Bye, Sister. I hope your class next year is easier than ours.”

  Sister makes a squishy face and chuckles. “Me, too.”

  I look around the classroom that I will never forget. I wave at Sister Elizabeth, whose face is impossible to read. She waves back. I walk with a bounce out the door, elated to be moving on. I feel her eyes on my back, watching every step. I refuse to glance back. Sometimes you just have to let go what’s gone.

  CHAPTER 33

  Sprawled on a sheet I covered the sofa with, I snap my fingers to the beat as Soul Train comes on. I like this bouncy theme music, now a hit record by the Three Degrees, one of Philly’s female groups. Man, everyone digs TSOP (The Sound of Philadelphia).

  The doorbell rings.

  “That’s Lee Lee, I’ll get it,” Mom says, barreling down the stairs and out the door.

  Great, ’cause I’m not moving from such a comfy spot on Day 1 of summer vacation. Without its squeaky plastic covers, the sofa is perfect for daydreaming during commercials about upcoming splash parties at the swim pool in my maternal grandmother’s siditty suburban neighborhood. I’m old enough to go now.

  I sniff the lemony sheet, courtesy of the new fabric softener I picked out. I chuckle recalling Mom’s reaction after I told her I use the sheet to protect the sofa from my oily hair. She did a double take and said, “You are truly growing up.” I reminded her I’m nearly fourteen and proved it by not rolling my eyes at her surprised reaction.

  Mom and Lee Lee’s happy chatter about shopping specials and clipped coupons spill in from the porch, drowning out the theme song. The hippest trip in America requires a higher volume, but I’ll strain to hear it ’cause I’m not getting up to turn up the TV. Nope, not happening. All the nopers in Noperville say nah.

  Seconds later, Mom returns, tossing me a thick bag with our new blue dungarees.

  “Mom, can you hold mine up so I can see what they look like?”

  “You are spoiled rotten. I feel sorry for your husband,” she says, unfolding the pants. She holds them up by the waistband for my inspection.

  “Ooh, Lee Lee is nothing but the truth,” I say, referring to our new neighbor who runs a seamstress business from her basement. I had her sew a seam down the middle of each leg. Called “tracks,” every girl who considers herself impossibly hip—like me—wears the figure-flattering look. Mom even got a pair. “She did a good job. I’ll try them on later, okay?”

  Folding my pants, Mom shrugs off my Saturday sloth. “Lazybones, you don’t need my permission.”

  The word “permission” flickers in my head like a lightning bug on a summer night.

  I sit up in the Thinker position as Mom starts up the steps. “Mom, when I asked Sister Elizabeth yesterday about calling Sister Carol, she said she had permission. Did she get it from you?”

  Mom comes back downstairs and stands by the curio. “You and Bonnie went on and on when she spent the night about this mysterious Black nun. Your father and I thought you should meet a sister who is a sistah,” she says with a hint of a smile. “But I did not have a nickel in that dime regarding the Bridges Program. I can’t take credit for that.”

  “Wow. Until we spoke, I figured Mr. Harvey called her.”

  “He may have for the leadership group. He always saw your potential. It’s nice to have so many people watching out for you, isn’t it?”

  Her compliment reaches deep, all the way into my corpuscles. It ripples from my toenails to scalp. Mom removes Charles’s trophy from the curio and cradling it, stands in front of me. “And it’s nice to be a role model, isn’t it?” She holds up the trophy.

  “What?” I cock my head.

  “I didn’t stutter. Charles does his best because he sees you trying so hard.�
��

  I inspire Charles? I guess I dwell on my own problems so much that sometimes I don’t see anyone else. Looking at the trophy in Mom’s hand, one bigger than any I’ve ever won, I think it’s all my brother’s doing. Isn’t it? I look at the pride in Mom’s eyes. I recall in this same room one afternoon how tugging on one of Charles’s beloved rosary beads unraveled them all.

  I thought the first day of no school couldn’t get any better than lazing on the sofa and doing a marathon with the TV. Mom just took it over the top. I haul myself up and bear hug the best mom ever.

  CHAPTER 34

  Today feels even better than the last day of eighth-grade. The July Right On! featuring my photo with a roundup of essay winners will arrive any second in the mail. Since winning a subscription, I get the magazine a week before it hits newsstands.

  In the warmth of the sun, I wait for the mailman with my diary on my lap. Thumbing through it, I find the entry I wrote after Sister Carol asked me to consider making a speech when we go back to school. I wrote:

  Dearest Diary: I am a nervous wreck. Sister Carol wants me to speak at an assembly during the first week of school. But you know what? I’m going to do it anyway. I have a lot to say but the gist of my message will be we know we are growing up when we realize that truth isn’t always as simple as black or white. Or even people for that matter. What’s true and who we are can be complex. Sometimes we all take turns as walking contradictions. But I plan to do my best to be honest and focused as a member of the Bridges Program. Our city needs to improve race relations. There is no racial justice without racial equality. As high school students, we can make meaningful changes. I’ll share that Malcolm X said some of the best revolutionaries are teenagers. I’ll urge them to read his amazing book. Wow, now I’m getting excited about speaking!

  I underline Malcolm X and draw a heart above his name.

  The screen door squeaks. I turn around. Charles stands in the doorway, a comic book tucked under his arm. I pat the concrete space next to me. He bounds down the steps, my unspoken invitation lifting his chubby cute face with delight.