P.S. Be Eleven

by Rita Williams-Garcia

  She gulped and nodded. “They picked the day.” The PTA hosted the sixth-grade dance. Last year the dance was held just before the spring break. Usually they waited until June.

  Shouts of “When?” came from all around.

  Lucy was in her carrot-dangling glory. “Guess!” she said. “It’s not on St. Patrick’s Day.”

  I cleared my throat. “Decorum. Decorum, upperclasswomen,” I said in Mr. Mwila’s African-English accent. “And the grade-six dance shall not be on Groundhog Day.”

  That got a few chuckles, but none from Lucy. She hated it when I stuck a pin in her balloon. That was fine because I hated it when everything revolved around what Lucy knew and said.

  “Har, har, Miss Too Cool to Care How You Dress. You won’t be laughing on Valentine’s Day when you’re going to the dance alone.”

  The whole table went, “Ooh.” She got me good. There was nothing I could say.

  But then Frieda said really quickly, “Valentine’s Day. That’s less than four months away.” Then everyone forgot about me and squealed as if the dance was happening tomorrow.

  Just when everyone was chattering about what they’d wear, Lucy said, “Maybe your grandmama could sew you something nice to wear.”

  So I said, “Maybe your mama could buy you some manners at Korvettes.”

  “Manners. Ooh,” Lucy said.

  “Korvettes. Ooh, Lucy Ray.” I made sure I said her name good and country like her mama would.

  Sooner or later Lucy and I were bound to go from hot to cold. We always did. Then we’d be hot-and-fast friends again. Frieda was always in the middle.

  Jack and the Giant

  Lucy was right about my clothes. They were stupid. Even Rukia Marshall looked like a sixth grader, and she wore a cloth on her head.

  Big Ma would probably sew my dress. She’d sew a dress that went way past my knees with ruffles and bows like a kindergartner’s party dress.

  No one would ask me to the sixth-grade dance. No one wanted to dance with a girl whose arms and legs were longer than theirs. No one wanted to dance with the tallest girl in the sixth grade. The tallest girl in the sixth grade, wearing a ruffled party dress with bows.

  There was only one boy in my class who was as tall as I was. Only one.

  I’d rather sit by the record player and watch everyone else dance before I danced with Ellis Carter. I’d rather stay at home and scrub the kitchen sink, the bathroom sink, the tub, and the toilet before I danced with Ellis Carter.

  The way Ellis glanced at me, then turned away, I knew the feeling was mutual.

  I pushed back my sweater sleeve, glad to have a ticking second hand I could rely on. Good old Timex. Eight seconds . . . the warning bell! Just another five minutes until dismissal.

  The only boy who would ask me to dance was on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge, riding down a hill on his go-kart.

  I wasn’t like Vonetta and Fern. I couldn’t go dreaming about Hirohito Woods getting on a plane in his Sunday pants, knocking on my door in time for the sixth-grade dance. I couldn’t go dreaming about a big white flower he’d put on my wrist, and him telling my father he’d bring me home by nine o’clock. I couldn’t go imagining that he was a really smooth dancer and we’d look good together and he’d get me punch and sit on the sidelines with me when Principal Myers played lame songs on the record player. I wouldn’t go imagining how my friends would all want to dance with him, starting with Lucy Raleigh, but he’d say he’d only dance with me.

  Hirohito Woods was like a make-believe boy, and not a real boy I knew. He wasn’t even my pen pal. You couldn’t be a pen pal if you didn’t write letters to each other. And you couldn’t write letters if you didn’t know where to send them.

  I closed my eyes and remembered that he and his mother lived on Magnolia Street near Mean Lady Ming’s Chinese takeout. The fourth house on the block. I sat on the steps in his yard reading my book. He chased Vonetta and Fern around his yard. There were plants like green rubber roses in clay pots, but they weren’t rubber. They were real and filled with water if you pinched their petals.

  I saw everything about Hirohito Woods’s house in my mind except the house number.

  But I knew his name. That he lived in Oakland on Magnolia Street. Maybe that was enough for the telephone operator to help me call him person-to-person from a phone booth. I didn’t dare call the operator on our telephone in the kitchen. If Big Ma wouldn’t let girls from Uncle Darnell’s high school come calling, she wouldn’t hardly let me use the telephone to call a boy long-distance.

  All I needed was about a dollar and a half in change to talk to Hirohito.

  I found thirty cents. I needed to borrow one dollar and twenty cents in nickels, dimes, and quarters. No pennies. Most of the money in the Jackson Five Madison Square Garden concert jar was mine and now I needed to shake some of it out.

  I went inside Vonetta and Fern’s room while they did homework. The mummy jar was right on Vonetta’s desk.

  “I need to borrow money,” I told her. “One dollar and twenty cents.”

  Vonetta lifted her head. “We can’t spend that money,” she said. “Not a penny.”

  “Not a nickel,” Fern said.

  “That money is for—” and before I knew it, they were singing the Jackson Five’s “The Love You Save” but they changed the words so it was all about saving money for Madison Square Garden.

  I wasn’t happy my sisters had made up songs I knew nothing of, but I wasn’t about to poke out my bottom lip and pout.

  “I need that money for stamps to write to Cecile.”

  “And to write to Hirohito,” Vonetta said. “Your lover man.”

  “Your dreamboat,” Fern said.

  “Dear Hirohito, I miss you more than . . .”

  “I miss mosquitoes.”

  They congratulated each other on their rhyming.

  At first I meant to stretch the truth, but then I out-and-out lied to my sisters.

  “I’m writing to Cecile. I need airmail stamps.”

  “To send love letters to your kissy, dreamy lover man?”

  I hated that they were right. That I wanted the money for Hirohito. I hated that they were making kissing noises that smacked the insides of my ears.

  “I put more money in that jar than the two of you. If you want me to put my birthday money in there, you better shake out some of that money right now.” I called on Cecile for some of her meanness. And grown. I needed to sound good and grown.

  Vonetta took the jar and hugged it to her chest. Fern ran over and hugged herself around Vonetta and the jar.

  “That money is for Jermaine and Marlon.”

  “And Michael.”

  Then they started singing their own money-saving song, and Fern made up a part about how they had to save the money from me.

  I could have wrestled that jar from them in nothing flat. I felt my face burning and my throat choking. I wanted to cry but I didn’t want them to see me cry. Or know that they could make me cry. Maybe I didn’t have what Cecile had. I turned to go to my room and heard Vonetta say, “We killed the giant. Like in ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’” Then Fern said, “And we have the golden goose.” And they shook the mummy jar with all of my money in it and sang, “The giant is dead, the giant is dead, the giant is dead.”

  Twelve

  Most kids couldn’t wait for the end of October and filled their dreams with Halloween candy. I couldn’t wait for the last week of October because of my birthday. I tried to reach midnight with my eyes wide open so I would know when I turned twelve. Twelve was worth staying up for. Six different numbers went into twelve. There were twelve days of Christmas, although we only celebrated Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Twelve was equal to one dozen, and a dozen was a good amount for Oreos but not so good if you were on the losing side of throwing down the Dozens on the playground. I’d lost a round of Dozens to Danny the K last year when I’d said, “Yo’ mama,” and he said, “You don’t have a mama.” I tried t
o stand up to him as best as I could but he got me and all I could say was, “So?” Some things were good to add on when you turned twelve and some things were good to leave behind. Like playing the Dozens in the school yard.

  I tried hard to stay up but Papa knew I’d turned twelve before I did. Either late Friday night or early Saturday morning, he placed my birthday money and my allowance on my dresser next to my talcum powder and my Timex. Six dollars and fifty cents.

  I hoped a card from Cecile would arrive on my birthday. A made-up card with a “Turning Twelve” by Nzila poem printed on it that Big Ma would roll her eyes at. I wouldn’t have minded if it came without birthday money. I just wanted it to come. I wanted to know what she thought about me turning twelve.

  I just didn’t want to be propped in the window, watching for the mailman the way Big Ma used to wait on letters from Uncle Darnell. My sisters and I walked down to the candy store on Fulton without Uncle Darnell. I promised to spend some birthday money on them and to contribute to our Jackson Five concert savings. That was enough to keep them happy.

  Vonetta surprised me by saying, “Not too much money, Delphine. We don’t need candy. We need thirteen more dollars for the concert at Madison Square Garden.”

  Fern was quietly confused. She didn’t dot Vonetta’s words with agreement like always. A bag filled with wax lips, Jolly Ranchers, and Pixy Stix was the very thing that made Fern skip to the candy store. She loved her little Michael Jackson, but she hadn’t figured on giving up so much to see him.

  I hated to admit it, but I was looking at a whole new Vonetta. She was determined to be the best saver imaginable, determined to see her precious Jermaine and Marlon in person, and determined to prove me wrong about her being irresponsible. Normally I’d poke fun at her but she was doing so well, and I didn’t want to be the mean giant that she wished was dead.

  Fern yanked my jacket and said, “You’ll get us some candy, right, Delphine?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  Across the street I saw Ellis Carter and Danny the K kicking a soda can. They wore their baseball shirts and were on their way to the stadium at St. Andrews Playground. Danny the K poked Ellis, but Ellis pretended not to feel it. They must have seen me across the street with my sisters. I turned into the candy store as if I hadn’t seen them. While Vonetta and Fern charged to the counter lined with fishbowls of penny candy, I stood at the door and watched Danny the K push Ellis into the street and almost into a car. Tall and dopey Ellis flapped his arms like a bird and hopped back onto the sidewalk. He slugged the K, and the K laughed and danced around him. Before they could catch me watching them clowning around, I found the magazine rack.

  I refused to look at Highlights for Children because I was now twelve. Instead, I planted myself before the four teen magazines that Mr. Mack’s Candy Store carried. Seventeen, ’Teen, Young Miss, and Tiger Beat. Magazines that talked about first dates, the right clothes, teenage TV stars, singing groups, and acne cream, although I didn’t have a need for acne cream.

  In the lower right-hand corner of the Tiger Beat cover was a small photograph of Michael Jackson’s face. I grabbed the magazine and thumbed through the pages, searching for the Jackson Five. Something we’d all enjoy. Vonetta would change her tune about spending money if there was a big enough picture of Jermaine and Marlon.

  I leafed past pages of TV stars, rock-and-roll groups, and pop idols. At last, at the back of the magazine, I found a single black-and-white snapshot of Michael, but no Jackie or Tito. Not even Jermaine and Marlon. Michael was fine for my sisters, but I was twelve. And tall. I wanted a picture of Jackie, or one of Tito playing his guitar.

  Vonetta was right. If we wanted to see Jackie, Tito, Jermaine, Marlon, and Michael, we’d have to save our money for tickets to Madison Square Garden. I shoved Tiger Beat back in its spot and picked up Seventeen and fanned through it. Not one article about how to hot-comb without wearing that smoky hot-comb smell to school.

  When I paid for Vonetta and Fern’s candy, the store owner—the same one who’d been selling me pencils, pens, writing pads, envelopes, and erasers since I don’t know when—said, “I ought to charge you for reading my magazines.”

  “You can’t charge her for reading your magazines,” Vonetta said. “It’s her birthday.”

  I wasn’t about to let Vonetta come to my rescue. “Twelve” said, “I didn’t read. I looked.” Then “Oakland” added, “When there’s Afros and black faces on the cover, I’ll buy one.”

  “Power to the people,” my sisters said.

  “Free candy,” Fern added, instead of “Free Huey.”

  When we came home, there wasn’t any mail at all from Oakland. Wishing for a card from Hirohito would have been like wishing for make-believe. How would he have known it was my birthday? How would he have known where to send a birthday card? But I expected a card from Cecile. Even though I’d lost a round of Dozens to Danny the K, my mother wasn’t make-believe. She was real. And she knew where to send my birthday card.

  At least Big Ma had the house smelling like barbecued chicken and lemon cake. Enough to drown out the good-for-us stink of mustard greens. I threw my arms around Big Ma, happy that we’d be eating barbecue in late October when Big Ma only smoked and barbecued meat in the summer.

  Big Ma pushed me off of her and said, “Go on and wash up so you can help me with this mixing bowl.”

  I had to race my sisters to the bathroom but Fern managed to squeeze past Vonetta and me.

  “It’s my cake batter,” I said. “I get the first lick.”

  “Not if I beat you,” Fern said.

  “Surely won’t,” I said, pushing her away from the sink.

  “I’ll beat you both,” Vonetta said, and just dashed her hands on top of ours in the sink, wiped them on the towel, and ran.

  “Stop that clonking!” Big Ma hollered. And when all three of us stood before her, grinning and ready to lick the bowl, she declared us “a bunch of wild hyenas running loose in the jungle.”

  I took the wooden spoon. Vonetta and Fern used their fingers.

  Every now and again, I checked the window to see if the special delivery mail truck had rolled up to our house. Then I stopped checking.

  That night we had more of a birthday celebration than I was used to. Uncle Darnell seemed like his dimpled, jokey self. Like he wasn’t war tired and like he hadn’t had a fitful night. He put Fern on his feet and danced around with her, although she had grown since he’d last whirled her around while Nat King Cole sang. He said he might have a job at the post office. Just waiting on a call. That made Pa happy, but honestly, Pa was happy to have his Miss Marva Hendrix sitting next to him, flashing her perfect teeth. Everyone sang the regular birthday song to me and then my sisters and I sang our version just before the wishing and cake cutting began.

  Happy birthday,

  Eat cake

  Leave room for ice cream, too!

  Happy birthday,

  Eat cake

  Leave room for ice cream, too!

  Happy birthday, Delphine,

  Happy birthday to you.

  Happy birthday,

  Eat cake

  Leave room for ice cream, too!

  Our song was easier and snappier to sing than the “Happy Birthday” song we sang at parties and in school. And you could do the cool jerk while singing it. Then all of us were dancing except for Big Ma, who yelled, “Cut this cake before the candles melt all over it!”

  Uncle Darnell said, “Make a wish.”

  There was a world of wishes but I knew the one I wanted. And I knew it couldn’t be. Not even if it was my birthday. I knew my mother would never be here. That my mother and father would never make our house happy together. Knowing these things came with having twelve candles to blow out, plus the extra candle to grow on.

  “I want to see the Jackson Five at Madison Square Garden,” I said. Then I gave Vonetta my five-dollar bill. I didn’t pass it under the table, but gave it to her so Miss Marva Hendrix could s
ee.

  Vonetta ran to her room, got the mummy jar, and pushed the five-dollar bill down the slot. “You just want to see Jackie Jackson at Madison Square Garden.”

  “And Tito,” Fern said.

  Uncle Darnell leaned over and said, “Is that who you’re digging on? Jackie Jackson and Tito?”

  I knew my uncle was back to being himself. Dimples and jokey. I felt warm but I refused to sink my face down, embarrassed like I would have been back when I was eleven.

  I said, “Yeah. I like Jackie and Tito.”

  “Only one you should like is your pa,” Big Ma said. “And your uncle.”

  “Band of singing hoodlum boys,” Papa joked. I knew my father. He’d only half joked about the Jackson Five. I’m sure he didn’t appreciate Vonetta, Fern, and me screaming over a group of boys, no matter who they were. Miss Marva Hendrix must have known Pa almost as well as I did. She felt sorry for him and took his hand.

  That night Fern got out of her bed after she’d been tucked in. She came into my room while I was in the middle of reading Johnny Tremaine. “You weren’t supposed to tell your wish, Delphine.” She stood there with her tiny fists balled and banging at her sides. To her, I had broken the rules on wishing. To her it was serious. Fern still believed in all those things.

  I told her to go to bed. I sounded grown.

  Hee Haw Square Dance

  Ellis Carter slid into his chair. He turned toward me, about to speak, but then his face went dopey and reddish. Then he turned away, hunched himself over, and dropped his head on his desk. That didn’t last very long.

  “Head up, Mr. Carter.”

  He reluctantly rolled his chest and head to sit up straight, face forward.

  “Much better,” Mr. Mwila said as if Ellis had done something stupendous. “Now you look alert and ready.”