Before, After, and Somebody In Between

by Jeannine Garsee

  Them people, huh? Well, he could’ve said worse. He usually does. “What? Am I not supposed to have any friends around here?”

  “You heard your momma.” His voice, muffled under the sink, still comes across loud and clear. “Keep your butt downstairs.”

  Oh, by the way, Wayne’s not too fond of me, either.

  “You can be friends with ‘em, sugar pie. Just not up there.” Momma’s all lit up and dreamy now that Wayne’s in the same room. “And don’t worry about that baby so much. Ain’t nothing wrong with a smack on the butt every now and then.”

  “But, Momma—”

  She points to my greasy wrapper. “You gonna eat that, or what?”

  I shove my half-eaten burger across the table. “No. I’m going to bed.”

  “Already? It’s only seven.”

  “I’m tired, okay? And I got school tomorrow.”

  I can tell she doesn’t remember that, but she tries to cover it up with, “Well, good. I hope you make some new friends. You weren’t all that sociable last year, were you, sugar pie?”

  How can you be sociable when your mom makes you move every time the rent’s overdue or when her latest boyfriend dumps her?

  “You got something to wear tomorrow? Didja check the box?” Momma means the Goodwill box, a treasure chest of mostly unwearable, smelly rags.

  I flutter my eyelids. “Yes, Momma, I checked it. And yes, it’s still crap.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” she says breezily, licking salt from her fingers. “Things’ll get better.”

  Yeah, I’ve heard that one before, too.

  3

  Two crummy minutes into homeroom the next morning and all I can think is: No way will I survive the next three years in this hellhole.

  Legs splayed in the aisles, spitballs sticking to my hair, a boom box in the back of the room blasting hip-hop. The teacher’s name is Miss Fuchs—“That’s Feeyooks, please. Feeyooks, Feeyooks.” She says it like nine times so we don’t mistake it for something else, then rattles off the cardinal rules of Jefferson High: No drugs, no cigarettes, no cell phones or pagers. No weapons of any kind including nail clippers, hair pins, and probably even toothpicks. Oh, and by the way, no inappropriate sexual conduct.

  What, is she blind? There’s a major grope-fest going on in the back of the room, and I can smell cigarette smoke from the john across the hall. So far no sign of any weapons or drugs, but the guy next to me—Jamal?—reeks of booze as he snores, facedown, into a puddle of drool on his desktop.

  Except for two scuzzy dudes off to one side, mine is the only white face in the room. I’m not surprised, but wow, how weird is this? I sneak another look around as Miss Fuchs rattles off names: Aiyisha, Monique, Kenyatta, TyShawn, and omigod, Chardonnay? Isn’t that some kind of wine? That poor girl’s mom must be crazier than mine.

  My sympathy fades as Chardonnay twists around to spread her lips in a demented grin. Her long yellow teeth probably haven’t seen a toothbrush in months. I take a chance and smile back, and what do I get? A pudgy middle finger jabbed under my nose.

  My next thought is: Shit. I may not even survive homeroom.

  “Martha Kolsky… um, Kro-waw-ski, um…” Miss Fuchs stammers cluelessly.

  I raise my hand to correct her with “Ko-wal-ski” just as a broken pencil zings off my lip. Some guys in the back chant “Yo, Maar-rtha!” while the idiot behind me hammers my chair with his foot. Miss Fuchs pounds on her desk, screaming for order, and a blackboard eraser whomps her in the chest. Too nosy for my own good, I glance around to see who threw it, and notice a boy picking his teeth with a wicked-looking penknife. He winks when he sees me, and I whirl back around, nibbling the raggedy pink stump that used to be my thumbnail.

  Oh-h-h, God, this is a dream. Or a movie. Or temporary insanity.

  As soon as the bell rings, I snatch up my stuff and join the mad rush while Miss Fuchs teeters near the door, whimpering with relief. Without any warning, a hurricane force hits me from behind and I’m half knocked off my feet by a single swing of Chardonnay’s massive arm.

  “Outta my way, bitch,” she snarls, plowing me into the wall.

  Face-to-face, I’m shocked by her mammoth size—torpedo boobs, WWE shoulders, and a butt big enough to plug up Lake Erie. I scream bloody murder as she grinds her heel into my sneaker, but she only smirks and lumbers out the door.

  And my third brilliant thought of the day is: I am so-o-o freaking screwed!

  4

  Hugging my books, sneaking looks over my shoulder, I hobble through the halls in search of the biology room.

  Some old dude with a shabby suit and overgrown nose hairs flags me down as I wander aimlessly along the science hall. “Biology lab?” I nod, and he points to the door behind him. “I’m Mr. Finelli. Hurry up and find a seat.”

  Jerome waves from a black-topped table in the back, and I gratefully slide in. “Took you long enough,” is his unsympathetic greeting.

  “Not my fault. Some bitch in homeroom just stomped on my foot.”

  “Yeah, and I bet that bitch’s name begins with a C.”

  I stare. “How’d you know?”

  “Oh, she beats up anybody who pisses her off.”

  “I didn’t piss her off. She attacked me for no reason.”

  Jerome shakes his head. “Oh, she had a reason, that’s for sure.”

  “Why? Because I’m white?”

  “No, ‘cause you were there.”

  I rub my throbbing foot under the table while old Mr. Finelli starts yammering about some project I am so not interested in. All I can think about is Chardonnay, and that boy with the knife, and how much I miss all my little hick schools where the worst that could happen might be a wad of bubble gum in my hair.

  After biology, Jerome, who was here for ninth grade, too, acts as my guide dog and leads me easily to English without getting us lost in the crowded maze. We find two seats together near the front, and one girl from my homeroom, tall and skinny with a thousand long braids, throws herself down on my other side. I pretend not to see her. Nobody’s flipping me off again.

  “Martha, right?” She stretches long brown legs across the aisle, forcing everyone else to climb over them. She is thin, thin, thin with amazing cheekbones and slanted dark eyes that slice into your brain. Her bony wrists are covered with jangling bracelets, and she’s wearing a skimpy leather skirt, and tight black boots with bone-crunching pointed toes and stiletto heels. And all those earrings! My God, how did she ever survive the piercings?

  I nod curtly. Yep, Martha, the Amish farm wife. Martha, the Wal-Mart greeter. What I need is something classier, like Genevieve or Sophia or Lydia. A name that belongs to the rich and famous, to the order-givers, not the order-takers.

  “Ps-st! We gotta read Romeo and Juliet in here.” Like an old TV gangster, Braid-Girl mutters out of the side of her mouth. “You wanna buy last year’s test? I know somebody who got it.”

  “What for? It’s not like I don’t know the story.”

  “Well, ex-cu-use me, Miz Wonder Bread.” She crumples up a piece of notebook paper and pops it in my face.

  “Way to go.” Jerome sniggers on my other side.

  I glance at the girl’s rigid profile, sorry I said anything at all. I hate this day! I’ll never make a single friend.

  After English, Jerome and I have no more classes together. I say good-bye sadly, squint at my crumpled schedule, and then fumble my way through the halls of insanity, hitting the locker room of the gym at the same time as Braid-Girl. She pointedly ignores me. I ignore her back. Then, to my horror, I spot Chardonnay, looking meaner and bigger than she did two hours ago.

  “Hey, honky bitch. ‘Sup?” Not answering her back, unfortunately, only pisses her off more. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you!”

  I try to squiggle around her, but she pushes me up against the lockers. She’s a mile wide and about as big as a wild boar, so huge in fact that she could smother me with her chest by moving a single inch closer. The mere
idea of dying with Chardonnay’s boobs in my face, cutting off my light, my oxygen, and even my screams, seriously makes me want to pee down my leg.

  “Hey! Leave her alone.”

  Chardonnay ignores the voice—Braid-Girl’s, maybe?—and shuffles even closer. Our noses almost touch, and she has zits on hers, plus zits on her chin and on her forehead and on her thick, sweaty neck. I stare, morbidly fascinated.

  “Hey, Blubber Butt! You deaf? I said let her be.”

  Yes, it’s Braid-Girl, and I can see her inching over till she’s right within punching distance. Good! With any luck at all, Chardonnay’ll turn on her instead.

  Chardonnay sneers. “Who’s gonna make me?”

  Sweat spurts from my armpits like a busted hydrant because I’m positive I’m about to die here in this locker room. Then, incredibly, the voice of God booms from the other end of the room: “What’s going on back there?”

  No, not God. The PE teacher.

  “Ain’t nothin’ going on, Miz Lopez.” Chardonnay keeps her voice pleasant, but her face twists with rage. She waits one last second before stepping back, and I gasp with relief at the blast of fresh air.

  “Then get your butt into the gym. I had enough trouble with you last year.”

  Chardonnay sends Braid-Girl one last menacing glare, and Braid-Girl bares her teeth in a taunting smile. With hatred hissing from her pores like some kind of secret biological weapon, Chardonnay flips Lopez the bird and plods out of the locker room.

  Lopez ventures over for the first time. In spite of her tough butchy haircut and bulging biceps, even she was smart enough not to get too close to old Blubber Butt. “What’s the problem here?”

  I open my mouth to explain, but my legs turn into pudding. I slide down the locker, hitting my butt hard on the floor, and Braid-Girl jumps forward as I let out a squeak of pain. “She’s sick! You want me to take her to the nurse?”

  Unconvinced, Lopez asks my name, and Braid-Girl answers for me while I sit there, trying not to cry, totally humiliated.

  “And who are you?” Lopez asks irritably as Braid-Girl crowds into her space.

  “Her friend.”

  “Yes. I see that. What is your name?”

  “… Aiyisha Simms.”

  “Okay, Simms. You can take Martha to the nurse, but I want you to come back here. Understand?” Braid-Girl lifts her hands and rolls her eyes, and I can see Lopez’s lid is about to blow. “Is—there—a—problem—with—that?”

  “No, ma’am,” Braid-Girl says sweetly. “I ain’t got a problem at all.”

  Lopez points a finger in her face. “You watch yourself, then. I’m giving you ten minutes.” Braid-Girl hauls me to my feet, and Lopez calls after us, “And take off some of that lipstick, Simms. You’re starting to look like a hooker.”

  “What a bitch,” the girl says calmly when we’re out of earshot. “Maybe I wanna look like a hooker, she ever think of that? Dumb-ass heifer.”

  “You’re not Aiyisha,” I manage to croak. “Aiyisha’s in our homeroom.”

  “Yeah, well, won’t this make her damn day?” She winks.

  “So who are you?”

  “Shavonne Addams.”

  “Well, why’d you lie about your name?”

  Shavonne withers me with a look of outrage. “Hey, I had that bitch last year, okay? She don’t know my name by now, that’s her own damn problem.” Ignoring my protests, she shoves me into a restroom, climbs up on the sink, and whips a mangled pack of Marlboros out of a purple lace bra. “Want one?”

  Nervous glance at the door. “You nuts? What if we get caught?”

  Shavonne lights up and inhales deeply. “Man, you always such a baby?”

  “No,” I lie.

  “Bull. You about shit your pants back there.”

  True. I fan away fumes as she sends a blast of smoke rings spiraling up to the ceiling. “Well, thanks. You saved my life.”

  “Just stay away from that psycho. She eighteen years old and ain’t even a junior, and guess what she done last year? Stabbed some girl through the eye with this little Bic pen, and got her fat ass thrown out the rest of the year. That girl got a glass eye now, and ain’t nobody seen her since.”

  “Why’d she stab her? Was she white?”

  Shavonne eyes me narrowly. “No, she wasn’t white. Chardonnay’s pure evil. Back in eighth grade she tried to kick my ass, too. Ain’t touched me since, though,” she adds with a vicious grin.

  “How come?”

  “ ’Cause now she knows I kick back.”

  I eye Shavonne’s long bony frame. “You kicked Chardonnay’s butt?”

  “Well, I broke her pinky finger. She couldn’t do nothing to me after that.”

  Impressed, I pull off my glasses, splash water on my face, then wriggle out of my shoe and peel down my raggedy sock. No blood. Guess I’ll live.

  Shavonne wrinkles her nose at the purplish bruise on my foot. “Damn, girl. You lucky that cow didn’t break every last bone.” Flinging back her braids, she takes another puff of her cigarette. “So, you’re new, right?”

  “Oh, how can you tell?” I demand, twisting the sock back over my aching foot.

  “Where you from?”

  “Spencer.”

  “Where the hell’s that?”

  “Cow country. Anyway, we move, like, twice a year. So far this is the first place that has sidewalks.”

  “So how’d you end up here?”

  Sigh. “My mom’s shacking up with some dude. We live down on Ninety-third.”

  “He black?”

  “Who?”

  “Your mom’s dude.”

  “No, he’s a hillbilly slumlord.” Shavonne giggles, and I ask, “Where do you live?” because, with any luck, we might be neighbors.

  “You know those projects down by the hospital?”

  Hey, I thought you had to be on welfare to live in the projects. Shavonne doesn’t look poor. Her clothes are stunning, her hair and nails perfect. Even her skin is flawless, smooth and dark as the bottom of a Hershey bar. I feel drab and juvenile next to her in my fugly glasses and South Park T-shirt, my long, frizzy brown hair springing madly out of a scrunchie.

  “We have roaches,” I say stupidly for no particular reason.

  “Roaches?” Shavonne sticks out her tongue. “That ain’t nothin’. I got junkies in my building and you can’t even call the cops ‘cause if they find out who done it, they come blow your damn brains out. They be pissin’ all over the hallways, too. Girl, I got to jump over puddles when I leave outta there in the morning.”

  She smokes in silence, and I begin to get nervous again. “Um, maybe we ought to go see the nurse?”

  “What for? All she gonna do is tell you to take a load off. You already done that.”

  “Maybe she’ll send me home?”

  “Nope. Only way she’ll do that is if you puke on yourself. Or if Aunt Flo shows up and messes up your clothes.”

  I haven’t met Aunt Flo yet. I must be physically retarded.

  A bell rings and both of us jump. I ease my shoe back on as Shavonne jams the Marlboros into her bra and buttons up her blouse. “I got lunch next. How ‘bout you?”

  I consult my schedule again, and almost collapse with relief. “Me too!” And I follow her swinging braids out to the hall, pushing my way semiexpertly through the noisy, jostling mob.

  So far today, one enemy and one friend. Now all I have to do is make it to the last bell alive.

  5

  Jerome and I wade home together through broken glass, litter, and empty beer cans. Halfway there, I remember something. “You pissed me off yesterday, I hope you know.”

  “What’d I do?”

  “You didn’t do anything when your aunt smacked your brother.”

  His guilty gaze slides away from me. “She only smacked him one time.”

  “He’s a baby, okay? You shouldn’t let her smack him at all.”

  “So you want me to fight with her so she can beat my ass, too?”
<
br />   “Well, why do you let her? I’d never let anybody beat me up.” Aside from Momma’s occasional whack upside my head.

  Jerome stops short in the middle of the sidewalk. “You know something? You just running your big mouth and you don’t even know what you’re talkin’ about.” He struts off, leaving me to wander home alone, wishing he weren’t so touchy and my mouth weren’t so big. But if Bubby were my brother, nobody’d lay a finger on him!

  Momma greets me in the kitchen, a bit brighter than usual. “Well, how was your first day?”

  “Sucked. Big time.”

  “I sure wish you wouldn’t use that word, sugar pie.”

  “I’m not kidding, it really did suck. Some kid brought a knife to school.”

  “Did you tell someone?”

  “No-o-o…but then there’s this girl, Chardonnay? And she, like, shoved me into a wall, and then she stepped on my foot, and—”

  “Well, I hope you shoved her back.”

  “Momma, she’s humongous! She’s about as fat as a—” Oops! I clamp my jaw shut. Weight’s a touchy subject where Momma’s concerned.

  “You gotta learn to fight back. Can’t go through life letting people knock you around.”

  Ha, easy for her to say. She probably could ram Chardonnay through a brick wall.

  “I don’t suppose,” I say, oh so casually, “I could go to a Catholic school or something.”

  “We ain’t Catholic,” she announces, in case I don’t remember.

  “So? I’ll convert.”

  “Those schools cost money. You’re staying right where you are.”

  “For how long?” I whine. “Momma, this house sucks, this neighborhood sucks, that whole school sucks, and everything sucks, sucks, sucks!”

  “Stop saying that word!” she roars, spinning around as fast as somebody her size can possibly spin. “You oughta be grateful Wayne took us in like he did. You wanna be livin’ in a box under a bridge somewhere? You know, the problem with you is, you’re just like your daddy was. Spoiled rotten, always puttin’ on airs, always actin’ like you’re so much better than anybody else—” And on and on, blah, blah, blah. Everything I’ve heard a thousand times before.