by K L Going
“I got my period, Ma,” I said, breathless.
Ma shrugged. “It’s not unusual to have it again so soon. Girls your age can be irregular when they first start.” She rustled some quarters from the depths of her frayed purse. “Here’s some money for the machine. From now on, carry supplies with you all the time, just in case.”
The quarters felt cold and heavy in my hand. I wanted more from her, but I knew this was all I’d get. And that was my own fault. “Okay,” I said. “I will.”
I jogged back to the restroom and stood by myself, thinking about the way I’d once believed this moment would transform me into a woman. As if one day I’d be a little girl, and the next I’d be all grown up.
Now I understood. There was nothing simple about this transformation. No caterpillar bursting forth from the cocoon with beautiful, delicate wings, ready to soar across the open sky. That was the myth, but the truth was something different: messy, confusing, and full of mistakes.
But the truth was all I had.
CHAPTER 30
THE MORNING of the fund-raiser came up quicker than I thought. Ma was true to her word. She and Ms. Marion had been in touch with the Mortons, and they’d gone over to the foundation together to work out all the details of the Rainbow Choir’s performance. The meeting had lasted for three hours, and Ma said they’d been hard but good ones—that they’d talked about what my father did, and the pain of the trial, and all the long years afterward. She said in the end, Mr. Morton had hugged her, and Mrs. Morton had smiled, and she’d looked so much like Danielle’s picture that Ma had cried.
“I made a right fool of myself, standing there bawling in the foundation boardroom,” Ma told me. “Thank goodness Marion was there. It was good of her to go with me.”
I’d wanted to go too, but Ma had been hard as iron again.
You do not need to apologize, Tia Rose. I won’t hear of it. Not a single speck of what happened was your fault. You hear me? Don’t let me catch you dwelling on things that are not your responsibility.
The words had been familiar, but there had been something different when she’d said them. She’d reminded me of those pointed black fences in the Garden District, the way they protected what was theirs without hiding the beautiful mansions and colorful flowers behind their bars.
“Did they tell you why they invited me to sing?” I’d asked. It was the one question I still hadn’t been able to answer.
Ma had shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and I’d known she wasn’t entirely comfortable with what they’d had to say.
“Yes,” she’d said. “They told me we’re all victims of Lyle’s violence. You and me, Tia. Not just them.” Ma had shaken her head. “Seems too generous. But if you can do something to help them out by singing at their fund-raiser, and if I finally got up the courage to say I’m sorry after eight long years . . . well, I guess that’s the best we can do, isn’t it?”
I agreed. Mostly.
There was no doubt in my mind that I’d sing my heart out at the fund-raiser. I had the lead on ‘I Know,’ plus I was singing ‘Pyramid’ with Keisha and Kenny. We’d been practicing every day for the past week, even going in for extra lessons with Ms. Marion to set up the arrangement. Every time we sang together, our harmony got tighter. Now when I thought about performing in front of the Mortons, my heart still pounded, but it was a mixed feeling—part nervousness and part excitement.
I also knew that the Mortons having the courage to invite me would make an impression on everyone who heard me sing.
And that was an amazing opportunity, wasn’t it?
So why did I feel like there was an important piece of the puzzle still missing?
Maybe the most important piece of all.
That morning it was overcast, and I walked slowly, taking my time and feeling the rhythm in my feet as my sneakers slapped against the concrete of the sidewalk. The worst of the heat wave that had swamped New Orleans for the past weeks had moved on, and now the air was cooler, but the sky was still heavy and gray.
When I got to the baby’s house, I stopped. The memorial fence was gone, and someone had swept the sidewalk clean. I wondered what had happened to the teddy bears and candles, the poems and pictures.
What had happened to my father’s photo?
My chest clenched with a pang of loss, but I kept going, inside the gate and up the steps until I reached the front door and rang the bell.
I didn’t expect an answer. I waited a moment, then slipped the flyer for the fund-raiser in the mailbox. I’d written a note on top saying that I hoped their family would come, and I’d included the foundation’s phone number in case they couldn’t make it. I wasn’t entirely sure if they would be able to read my note, but I had to try.
As soon as I let the flyer go, I turned to leave, but then the door opened, and there she was, tall and beautiful, wearing a long patchwork skirt that had tiny silver bells at the bottom hem line.
“Hello,” she said, her dark eyes searching mine.
I chewed on my bottom lip. “Hi.”
She held up one long, delicate finger. “Wait,” she told me. Then she disappeared inside the house, and when she returned, she was holding the photograph of my father.
“Yours, yes?”
She handed it to me, and the photo felt smooth against my fingers. “Yes,” I said. “My father.” I traced the lines of his face with the pad of my thumb.
“Ahhh.” We stood in silence for a moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. “Sit?” she asked at last.
“Okay,” I said, sitting down on the steps. She sat beside me, one step up. Her skirt made a tinkling sound as she moved.
“Braid?” she asked, reaching out to touch my hair with gentle fingers.
I smiled, surprised. “Yes, please.”
Then she stroked my forehead, forming strands, and twisting each one carefully, intertwining all the pieces.
“What is . . .” She frowned. “Name,” she said at last.
“Tia,” I said.
“Aa’ida.”
I repeated the syllables after her, slowly and carefully. “Ah-ee-da?” I turned around to make sure I’d gotten it right.
She nodded and her dark spiraling hair fell over her shoulder. She reached into her shirt and pulled out a small locket. When she opened it, I recognized the baby’s photo with his sweet, toothy smile.
“Aksander.”
I ran my finger over the baby’s face.
“Ak-zan-der,” I repeated. “He’s beautiful,” I added, and—Aa’ida’s eyes filled with tears.
“Love of mine,” she said. “Always.”
She said the word always so that it sounded like two words.
All ways.
“You come see me,” Aa’ida said. “Some . . . times. O-K?”
“Okay,” I said, closing my eyes against the gentle tug of her hands. “I’d like that.”
“Is good to see . . . child.”
I wasn’t sure if she meant me or children in general, but it didn’t matter. I’d visit as often as I could even if all I ever did was sit on the front step to get my hair braided. Maybe I’d ask her about Aksander and I’d listen the way Kenny had listened to me, without trying to make things better.
We were quiet for a long time, and then Aa’ida began to hum as she worked her long fingers through the tangles in my hair. She wove a French braid, then two smaller braids on the sides, but each time she let the strands fall and began all over again. Felt good. When she started to sing softly—lines of unfamiliar music in minor keys—I hummed along.
The sky grew darker, but it didn’t rain. The air was still. The streets were quiet save for Aa’ida’s voice. Sometimes, I sang a line after her, fumbling over the strange words, and she’d nod and sing the line again more slowly, so I could repeat it. Once I’d learned a certain line, she�
�d add the harmony while I sang the melody. Then we sang together, two quiet voices pushing away the darkness.
It was more than I’d hoped for.
It was enough.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Reader,
As an author, one of the questions I get asked most often is whether my books are based on real events. Are the characters similar to people I know? Did the idea for the plot come from something that happened in my own life? Are my main character and I alike?
Every book is different, but the answer is always the same. All of my writing is infused with real life. While no character, place, or event is ever an exact replication, the heart of a story comes from things that have meaning to me.
Like Tia, I once sang in a gospel choir. I also lived in New Orleans for a time and fell in love with that beautiful city and all its color, flavor, and music. But most important, like Tia, I struggle with the question of why bad things happen. Even as a young girl, I wanted answers. My parents tried hard to protect me from the tough parts of life, but I still heard about what was happening on the news. I still lost a friend in the fourth grade who passed away too young. And years later, like Tia, I still heard the gunshots that killed a child.
Now I’m a mother, and even though I sometimes wish my son could grow up in a great big bubble where nothing bad ever happens, I also know that as he grows older, he’ll have to face his own struggles, heartaches, fears, and challenges. So, what I truly wish is that he’ll feel love surrounding him even when life is hardest. I hope he’ll know that it’s okay to question why and even if the answers aren’t as simple as he’d like, he’ll know he’s not alone in asking tough questions. I hope that, like Tia, struggling with the hard stuff will help him find strength, give him empathy, and help him feel more connected to the people around him who might be struggling too.
I wish these same things for you, my wonderful reader. No matter what’s happening in your life, remember that connecting to people you trust can make you stronger. Whether it’s a parent, sibling, friend, teacher, or guidance counselor, there are others who can help you through difficult times. And like Tia, I hope you’ll find lots of love, hope, and joy in the end.
Peace,
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There is so much to be said about the process of writing this novel, which was an emotional journey from start to finish. I have depended greatly on the patience and grace of my editor, Kathy Dawson, as well as her incredible skill. I’m also indebted to my amazing agent, Ginger Knowlton, who buoyed me up each time I thought I couldn’t go any farther. You both have my infinite gratitude for not giving up on this book.
A story that takes four years to write doesn’t happen without the tremendous sacrifice of one’s family. Thank you to the two loves of my life, Dustin Adams and Ashton Adams. I adore you.
To Brenda Zook Friesen, Suzanne Southard, and Julie Litwiller-Shank: our time in New Orleans infused every page of this book. I can’t imagine my life’s journey without you. Thank you as well to my parents, William and Linda Going. My father’s involvement with prison ministry was an inspiration to create a balanced portrayal of Tia’s father. I hope I’ve succeeded. Thanks to my grandmother Jillian Bedard, who provided her expertise in speech therapy, and to Donna Jones, who (way back in college!) asked me to join The Angels of Harmony and encouraged me to share my voice. Thanks to Marileta Robinson, Clara Gillow Clark, Claire Evans, Regina Castillo, and so many others who read drafts of this novel and gave me their valuable feedback. I’d also like to thank The Port Jervis Free Library and The Highlights Foundation, who provided me with quiet space to write.
Finally, I’m so grateful to the parents, grandparents, teachers, librarians, and mentors who share my books with kids. It’s not easy to help children deal with the tough parts of life, but it’s essential, because in the end, there aren’t any answers to why, only the circle of love and support we create as we ask the question.
K. L. GOING is the award-winning author of several books for children and teens—everything from picture books to young adult novels. She received a Printz Honor for Fat Kid Rules the World, which was subsequently made into a feature film directed by Matthew Lillard. Her beloved middle-grade novel, The Liberation of Gabriel King, was an IRA Notable Book for a Global Society, a CBC Children’s Choice, was nominated for eleven state awards, and is taught in classrooms across the country. K .L. continues to write books for children of all ages, and lives in Glen Spey, New York, with her family.
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