I went right from school to the park. I asked Kambui to come with me but he had to take his grandmother to the Social Security office. I got to the park just at three-thirty and there weren’t many kids there. In the swing section there were some women with small kids and one fat lady with some rabbits and a serious little girl trying to get the rabbits to sit together.
LaShonda was sitting on a bench facing the basketball court and I joined her.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Just needed somebody to holler at,” she said. “See how the words sound when they come out of my mouth.”
“I know it’s hard,” I said.
“Do you?” LaShonda turned and looked at me.
“Yeah.”
“Look, here come the kids to play tennis,” she said. “Watch Chris play.”
I didn’t know any of the six kids, all about nine or ten, on the tennis court and I figured they must have all been from St. Francis. A bald-headed dude who was running things separated them into two groups of three and put them on different sides of the two nets. The kids on the right side were setting up a doubles match, and Baldy placed one near the net and the other one farther back. He tossed the ball over the net and the kids on the other side both ran to it and started swinging. They missed the ball, ran and got it, and tossed it back to Baldy. Then they went through the whole process again. They did it three times before the kids even hit the ball once. But after a while they would get the ball and throw it over the net, which seemed okay with them.
Baldy went on one side of the other net, away from Chris, then served the ball to him.
Chris Powell got to the ball in a heartbeat and pounded it over the net. Baldy got to it and lobbed it high. Chris let it bounce and then slammed it over again, past Baldy who was lunging for it.
“Yo, he can play,” I said.
“If he knows I’m here he can play, or do almost anything,” LaShonda said. “If he takes his meds he’s right in the game.”
“The tennis game?” I asked. “He’s, like, really into tennis?”
LaShonda didn’t answer at first and I turned back toward where Baldy was hitting the ball with Chris. Once in a while the ball would come to the other kid who would try to get it over the net, but it was Chris who was the athlete. I kept thinking of when LaShonda played basketball in the gym. She was ferocious and quick and I knew she would have been great on the school’s girls’ team, but she’d never gone out for it.
Meanwhile on the court, Chris kept getting to the ball and kept hitting it back across the net. But every once in a while he would look over to where me and LaShonda were sitting and I could feel he needed to have her there.
“When we were with my parents, my dad used to beat on my mom all the time,” LaShonda said. “He was so violent she had to go to the hospital at least once a month. He got locked up once or twice but when he got out she would let him back home. Then one day he was beating on her and I tried to get in between them.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t even know.” LaShonda smiled for a brief second and let it die. “I guess he hit me and knocked me out. When I came back around there was blood all over the place. She cleaned up everything before she took me to the hospital. I had nerve damage or something, I don’t know. I got over it, though. Eventually, he got involved in some street fight and cut a dude and got some prison time. When he got out the last time he didn’t even come around, but once in a while he would see my mother on the street and threaten her.
“She got messed around and started drinking and couldn’t control that, and they took us out of the house. She got arrested now and then for whatever she was doing in her life and we’ve been at St. Francis ever since.”
“Your father hit Chris, too?”
“No, he beat my mother up, and sometimes he would slap me around,” LaShonda said. “But he never hit Chris.”
“So, how come … you know?”
“The doctor said that Chris seeing all that violence, and being in the house with it and having it happen to people he was close to, was just about the same as him being hit. That’s just the way it is. I’m what he’s got, Zander. And he’s what I got.”
I watched Chris hit the ball, watched him move around the court and glance over to where LaShonda sat with me. Whenever he looked our way, she smiled.
THE CRUISER
A POEM THAT’S NOT A POEM
By Bobbi McCall and Zander Scott
This is a poem that’s not
A poem, but an enjambment session full
Of similes and strange words that
Come like yesterday’s news
Pretending to be history when
They know they are not history at all
But the story of a stranger
Living within his body
As some people are not
People but poems walking
In perfect irony
Pretending to be people
But we know that they are only
Sequences of our care for them
That flutter like butterflies
Around the heart
This is a poem
That is not a poem
As there are people
Who are not people
But with enough love
They come close enough
What happened last Thursday, conversation past.
Four o’clock in the afternoon, which is like one o’clock West Coast time, and things start popping off. First, the home phone rings and that means it’s either a bill collector, a junk call, or my father. Mom answers it and collapses into her lotus position. I can’t do that but she hits it like it’s nothing. Her knees bend out and she goes down in one motion. Very cool.
When her eyes roll up I know it’s Donald Scott, famous weatherman and long-distance father. Mom switched the phone to speaker.
“You’re public,” she said.
“So, how are things going?”
“Wonderful, I just got the Nobel prize for being sexy.”
“I guess ‘serious’ is still not in your repertoire. How’s Zander?”
“Zander, how are you?”
“Wonderful.”
“What have you two been up to?”
“I’m up to five foot nine, and Zander’s up to six feet.”
“I mean, what have you been doing?”
“We’re planning a major robbery. Zander found an abandoned time machine and we’re going to use it to steal next weekend and sell it to the Iranians. What do you think?”
“What I think is that your sorry attempts at humor are not at all funny. I am concerned with my son’s well-being and I would appreciate it if you would not treat my phone calls lightly!”
“You’re not going to rat us out, are you?”
“May I speak to Zander?”
“Zander?”
“Yo!”
“So, how are things going?”
“All right.”
“And school?”
“All right.”
“I wanted to talk to you about an allowance. A boy your age needs to have a sense of responsibility about money. I was reading an article recently suggesting that fiscal stability often starts in one’s teenage years. (Mom is frantically writing a note.) If you learn how to manage money in your teen years you’ll probably retire in good condition.”
“So how much we talking about?”
“I want you to spend a few days thinking about the amount and then call me back with the amount and with a rationalization for that amount. Can you do that?”
“Yeah.”
“Fine, and Zander, I want this to be from you and nobody else. And I want you to be serious. Can I count on you?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I’ll wait to hear from you. And say good-bye to your mother for me.”
“Hey, Dad, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“You know, I have a friend, LaShonda, who�
��s worried about what’s going to happen to her and her brother in a few years. They’re living in a group home. You know what that is?”
“Yes, of course. It’s one of those places that children who are without parents live.”
“Or their parents can’t deal with them. Anyway, she’s only fourteen now but she says when she reaches eighteen she could age out. That means they only get funding for kids under eighteen.”
“I’ve heard about that.”
“Well, that kind of sucks, and I thought that if a lot of people knew about it — you know — if you got it on television then maybe we could get the rules changed so that —”
“It’s been done.”
“What?”
“It’s been done. There was a program aired about … two, maybe three years ago on the topic. They never repeat the feature story — and that’s what that would be, a feature — within a three-year period.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that if they air a story they won’t air the same story again unless there’s a dramatic new twist to it. It just won’t fly.”
“But it’s still happening.”
“So you’ll get back to me on the allowance, Zander. And remember, I respect your maturity and I look forward to a man-to-man conversation.”
“Yeah.”
All kinds of sadness started going on. Mom was crying, which she does after about half of my father’s phone calls, and I was mad, which I am after half his phone calls, and a whole bunch of things weren’t making any sense. We were taking Algebra in school and figuring out what x was or what y was and jumping all over the unknowns like they were lame and we just had to track their little unknown butts down. Once we tracked them down (x = y+2), the problem was solved. But in real life you could track down whatever x or y was and nothing was solved. Everybody knew about kids getting aged out, but nobody was going any further. My father even changed the problem from kids aging out to what would make a good television program.
Mom was down with the problem but after the phone call from the Friendly Weatherman she was all about what was bruising her cruising.
“I think that he thinks that if he gives you a fat allowance then you simply won’t need me anymore,” she said.
“He’s always thinking something” was my lame answer.
I couldn’t really feel their fights because I couldn’t see a reason for them. Pops had split, moved out to the West Coast, got a new wife and another kid (nasty little girl!), while Mom and me had stayed in Harlem and kept on keeping on. But if there was going to be a fight then I was on Mom’s side because she was my heart and he was, like, in the wind. Case closed.
“He asked what we were doing and I couldn’t think of anything!” she said.
“You don’t have to prove anything to him,” I said.
“I still feel bad,” Mom said. “We have to do more things together.”
That smelled like trouble. But it didn’t get to be real trouble until Monday.
“I ordered a cassoulet kit,” Mom said, smiling. It was the same smile she used for toothpaste commercials. “Do you know what that is?”
“Something that women use to clean their private parts?”
“Oh! Oh! No!”
Right away I guessed I was wrong.
THE CRUISER
OVERHEARD
By A. Nanny Moose
FOUR MINUTES TO AIRTIME:
HOTSHOT PRESENTER RONALD POTT
Okay, okay! What do we have?
REPORTER ONE
We have a fire in Seattle. A two-story —
HPRP
It’s been done. What else?
REPORTER TWO
A black kid was shot on —
HPRP
Same old, same old. What else?
REPORTER TWO
This kid was an honor student at —
HPRP
Yeah, yeah. It’s been done.
REPORTER THREE
Tsunami in Southeast Asia. Hundreds killed!
HPRP
If it happens in England it’s news. What else? Come on, people, give me something!
REPORTER ONE
A corruption indictment in Jersey City! Two prominent politicians indicted!
HPRP
It’s been done! It’s been done!
ONE MINUTE TO AIRTIME:
REPORTER TWO
A jailbreak in Crown Point, Indiana.
HPRP
Who cares? C’mon! C’mon!
REPORTER THREE
A nuclear meltdown in India! It could be the end of the world!
HPRP
Not sexy enough. What else you got?
FIVE SECONDS TO AIRTIME:
REPORTER TWO
Lindsay Lohan got arrested again. For shoplifting!
WE’RE ON!
HPRP
Good evening, America! I’m sad to report tonight that Paris Hilton is deeply depressed over the arrest of her friend Lindsay Lohan on what appear to be trumped-up charges. WPOP has an exclusive interview with Ms. Hilton.
MS. HILTON
I am deeply depressed over the arrest of my friend Lindsay Lohan on what appear to be trumped-up charges. I can’t say anything more at this time as I am much too emotional.
Sunday night, and the whole world fell apart. I was watching Night of the Dancing Zombies in HD on the television and the same movie on my netbook in Korean. They came on at the same time but the television version was ahead of the netbook version and I was trying to warn the dudes on netbook what was about to go down. It was like I could see into the future (about six seconds into the future) and come almost close to ruling the world. Then Mrs. Jones called and told Mom that Mr. Lord was on television bad-mouthing Da Vinci. Mom switched channels (without saying anything to me, which she would have been pissed if I had done!) and I saw Lord running his mouth as usual.
“If they are supposed to be specially gifted, what are they doing for the community with their alleged gifts?” He was about an inch away from the camera. “I don’t see anything that they are accomplishing!”
Then there was a cut to the time we were all in Mrs. Maxwell’s office and I saw the Cruisers standing there. On-screen my head looked like a giant cantaloupe with braids. The only voice that was heard on the tape was Mr. Lord’s, and he looked like he was getting madder every moment.
As soon as the news clip ended the telephone started ringing. Jody called, Kambui got on the horn, Kelly Bena, LaShonda, and then Mrs. Maxwell.
“I spoke to a reporter this afternoon but I wouldn’t allow myself to be photographed,” she said in that cool, calm voice she has. “I told them that one thing we had in mind to do for the community would be to present a play in the school auditorium. I did mention an evening performance a week from this coming Thursday. I hope that sits well with the Cruisers.”
Yo! She called us the Cruisers. That sat well with me already. It meant we were getting props from our main lady. But then I thought about what play she was talking about and I knew it was Act Six and I wondered if LaShonda was going to go for it. She had done the costumes and I wanted them to be used in the play really bad. In the first place I looked good in mine, and in the second place I wanted LaShonda to get over it. She was really an angel and she needed to get her glow on despite what bad things came her way. I believed that. Truly. Mom and me had been living it even though we weren’t always talking it. We were always going for the glow and hoping for the best.
“I can’t speak for all of the Cruisers tonight,” I said to Mrs. Maxwell, “but I’m going for it big-time and I think they will, too.”
I called Bobbi and told her what the deal was.
“I’ll set up a conference call and we can discuss it,” she said.
“Are you down for it?” I asked.
“If we put on the play for the community we might get some television coverage,” Bobbi said. “If we get television coverage then we blow ourselves up and our argument gets louder. If it gets
loud enough, maybe somebody will actually listen to us when we talk about LaShonda’s situation and anything else we need to say.”
“You thought of all that just now?”
“Yeah, what were you thinking?”
“How can you think that fast?”
“I’m a girl, we think faster than boys!”
“Whatever.”
Bobbi set up the conference call and Kambui was down with putting on the play. LaShonda wasn’t sure.
“I think I just want to lie low for a minute,” she said. “Maybe go back to just being plain old LaShonda.”
“You’ve got talent, girl,” Bobbi said. “You can’t walk away from that. It’s going to stay with you, and you’re either going to work it or it’s going to eat at you until it messes you up.”
“The Cruisers are behind me?” LaShonda asked.
“I’m here,” Kambui said.
“I’m with you, girlfriend,” Bobbi said.
“I’ll lay it all down for you, LaShonda,” I said. “For you and for your brother. Whatever it takes, I got your back.”
“Okay,” LaShonda said. “Let’s do it.”
After we hung up I put on the tube and stared at some reality jam. Only it wasn’t really reality because it wasn’t touching anything that I was feeling. I was happy and proud that the Cruisers showed strong for LaShonda, but I wasn’t sure of myself. In the movies when a crew got together the background music started to play and they all got these cool looks on their faces and everything worked out fine. We were all still hoping things were going to work out and I was a little scared. Okay, a lot scared.
Also, how come Bobbi had got on top of things so fast? She had thought it out before I could even spit it out. I didn’t know if girls could really think faster than boys, but that girl sure smoked me!
A Star is Born Page 5
