by Renée Watson
Dad hugs Ava and asks, “Where’s your sister?”
“Doing her hair,” she says.
“What’s today’s adventure?” Dad asks.
Ava shrugs. “Haven’t decided yet.”
I look at Dad. “Are you sure you can’t stay? We could all go somewhere together. Please.”
“Amara, sweetheart, not today. But—Friday, I’m all yours, birthday girl. We’ll do whatever you want, and then in the evening the family will get together for dinner. The Slam Dunk Contest is on Saturday and the All-Star Game is Sunday. You’ll be with me all weekend,” Dad says. “And Ava—you, Nina, and your mom are invited, too.”
“Thanks, Uncle Charles.”
Dad says, “Well, thanks for spending time with Amara.” He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and hands me some money “Just in case you need some spending money.”
“Thanks.”
Dad kisses me on my forehead and leaves.
As soon as he closes the door, Ava says, “Does he always treat you like a baby?”
Nina shouts, “Ava! Leave Amara alone.”
“I’m just asking a question. You seem spoiled. What are you going to do when your sister comes?”
“I’m not spoiled,” I say.
Just then Nina comes out of her room and I am so relieved. Maybe Ava will stop being so rude now. “Ready?” Nina asks.
I nod. “Where are we going?”
“I was planning on going to the movies and then maybe—”
Ava lets out the biggest, most dramatic sigh. “Do I have to go?”
“Yes, Ava. We’re all going.”
Ava mumbles, “I don’t want to babysit my entire break.”
“I’m not a baby,” I say.
“Um, yeah, you are. Grandpa Earl and Uncle Charles treat you like you’re some fragile piece of china. And you’re spoiled—you have it all, don’t you? The latest phone, every Nike ever made, designer clothes,” Ava says.
Nina tries to say something, but Ava keeps going.
“You’re so rich you don’t even know how privileged you are. Your dad just throws money at you so you can splurge while you’re sightseeing—”
“It’s not my fault I have a dad who cares for me,” I say. And as soon as I say it, I regret it.
“My dad cares for me. Just because he’s in jail doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me.”
“Enough!” Nina yells. “Both of you stop talking. Just stop.”
Ava walks away to a room at the end of the hallway, slams the door.
“I’ll be right back,” Nina says. I hear Nina telling Ava, “You two need to apologize to each other.”
Ava says, “I am not apologizing to her. She’s a spoiled brat who thinks she’s better than us.”
I sit in the living room waiting for them to come out. But then I get to thinking, the only way to prove I’m not a baby is to not act like one, and if no one wants to spend time with me or take me around to see the city, that’s fine. I’ll figure it out myself. I stand up, put my coat back on, and leave.
I’m going to find the Nuyorican Cafe. Going to find out more about my dad.
I look up the directions on my phone and follow the map, which is guiding me to the D train at 125th and St. Nicholas.
Walking down 125th Street all by myself makes me feel powerful. I wish Ava could see me walking and making my way down the block not looking like a tourist or a person who doesn’t belong. I walk on the left side of the street. It’s still early enough the streets aren’t crowded. Some of the vendors are just now setting up. The man at the corner, the one who sells shea butter and oils, is blasting Bob Marley out of his speakers. The woman behind me sings along until we walk too far and can no longer hear the music.
I walk all the way down 125th until I reach the subway station. I still have the MetroCard Nina bought me, so I don’t have to get another one. Once I get to the top of the entrance, I hesitate to go down. This is different from walking around Harlem, this is going underground all by myself. A crowd of people run down the stairs, and a whole nother line of people are walking up. I can’t just stand here in the way. I go down.
When I get to the turnstile and swipe my card, the metal bar pushes against my waist. I swipe again. I’m still stuck. A woman in back of me sucks her teeth. “Here,” she says, reaching for my card. She swipes it fast and I go through.
“Thank you,” I tell her, but she’s already halfway down the platform. I see the two signs for the D train. I go to the side where there are less people. I take my phone out and look at the directions again. I count on the map how many stops there will be before I need to get off and transfer for the F train. Three. I need to transfer when the train stops at Rockefeller Center. I do exactly what I did when I was with Nina and Ava—step back away from the edge but not close to the wall. No matter how hard I try not to stare at the tracks where the rats are running around, I can’t help it. There’s a man leaning against the green pillar in the middle of the platform holding a sign that says, I Ain’t Gonna Lie, I Just Want a Beer. He has a cup on the ground next to him. I don’t see anyone dropping money in it.
The D comes and I get on. It isn’t as crowded as the train was when I was with Nina and Ava. I sit down next to the door and count each time the train stops to make sure I get off at the third stop to transfer.
145th.
155th.
And then the conductor says, “The next stop is 161st Street, Yankee Stadium.”
I double-check the directions to make sure I got on the right train. The D. Yes, this is the D.
But it is the D going uptown. I need to go downtown.
I didn’t even notice signs for uptown or downtown. I just followed the big orange circle with the letter D in the middle.
When the subway stops at Yankee Stadium, I get off.
I don’t know what to do. I can’t let on that I am lost. Can’t look like a stranger who has no idea where they are going. I try to look normal, even though inside I am crying and thinking how Mom always says New York is no place for a girl like me. My hands are sweating, and I am biting the insides of my cheeks to keep from letting these tears fall. I walk over to the man who is working inside the booth.
“Can I help you?” he says.
“Um, yes, I am trying to get to the Nuyorican.”
“You gotta speak louder, hon. I can’t hear you.”
I step closer to the glass window and speak into the tiny holes. “I am trying to get to the Nuyorican.”
“The what?”
I pull out the directions again. “Broadway-Lafayette. Does this train go to Broadway-Lafayette?”
“Well, yes. The D goes to Broadway-Lafayette. But you’re on the wrong side. You want the downtown train.” He points across the platform at a train whizzing by. “This is the Bronx.”
“The Bronx?”
The man steps out from the booth. “Where you from?”
“Harlem,” I tell him. He doesn’t need to know I’m not from New York.
“All right. Well, you got on the wrong side. Walk up these steps right here, cross the street, and go downtown at the other entrance.”
“Thank you.”
“You got a ways to go. You know that, right?”
“Yes,” I lie. “Thank you.”
I walk up the stairs and stand at the corner looking for the right way to go. There’s an entrance for the D train on every corner. I see the one that says Downtown & Brooklyn and cross the street. I can’t believe I took the wrong train. Ava would definitely be shaking her head at me.
My phone vibrates in my pocket; I take it out. There’s a text message from Nina that says, Where are you? Are you going back to Grandpa’s? And then another that says, Please call me. She’s called three times, and there are five missed calls from Grandpa Earl.
I think, Maybe I just need to go back. Especially if Grandpa Earl knows. I put my phone back in my pocket. I’ll call them when I get off the subway. I walk down and wait on the
platform, checking three times to make sure the sign says Downtown.
I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
No train.
The platform is full, and the man standing near me keeps walking back and forth to the edge and looking down the dark tunnel. “Man, come on. Where is this train?”
I take out my phone. We’ve been waiting for an hour. I try calling Nina, but I don’t have any reception underground. We wait and wait, and finally a train comes but it is so packed no one can get on.
We continue to wait, and the next train that comes is full, but not as crammed as the other one. I get on and hold on to the silver pole in the middle of the car.
155th.
145th.
And then we stop.
At first it doesn’t seem like a big deal at all. We’re only stopped for a minute. But then the minutes keep passing and passing, and people are starting to get restless. A voice comes on the loudspeaker, saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are experiencing delays and will be moving shortly.”
More people murmur and sigh and huff and puff.
“Ladies and gentlemen, due to a health emergency on a train ahead of us we are experiencing delays and will be moving shortly.”
I feel bad for being so irritated; after all, someone is sick—and on a subway. That must be awful. But I have to get back to Grandpa Earl’s before he gets too worried. I only have one stop to go. We wait and wait, and finally, without a voice even coming on to warn us, we start moving again.
When we get to 125th, I forge my way through the crowd and get off. There are so many stairs to climb that by the time I am back out in the cold, I am out of breath and hot. I stand to the side and take my phone out so I can check the time. I touch the Home button and nothing happens; it’s still a black screen. I tap it again. Nothing.
My phone is dead.
I don’t know why, but of all the things to make me melt into a puddle of tears today, this does it. I know Grandpa Earl probably called my dad, who is probably calling me, and my phone is going straight to voice mail, which is probably making him panic. I walk as fast as I can down 125th to Lenox. I turn left at Lenox and make my way to 129th. It is cold, but I am sweating and sweating. When I turn on my block, I see Aunt Tracey’s car parked outside.
Not good.
I walk up the steps and hear Nina screaming, “She’s here, she’s here!”
Before I make it up the steps, Dad is at the door. “Amara! Are you okay? Baby girl, are you okay?” He grabs me in the tightest hug, and I can feel his throbbing heartbeat. Before I can tell him I am okay he pulls away from me, looks me over, then says, “What in the world were you thinking? You just left? Just up and walked out the house and didn’t think to tell anyone where you were going?” Dad is yelling, and there is no more concern in his voice. Just anger. Just disappointment. “I can’t believe you, Amara. You know better.”
Grandpa comes to the door, says, “Come on, you two, let’s bring this inside. Come on now.” He ushers us into the house. I take my shoes off and go into the living room, but I don’t sit down.
Ava, Nina, and Aunt Tracey are all looking at me, like they expect me to say something, but how can I when Dad is yelling at me.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” he asks.
I don’t have anything to say, so I just keep quiet. I have never seen Dad look at me this way. I can’t bear to look at him. I turn away, study the grains in the hardwood floor. The last thing I want to do is cry in front of Nina and Ava, and that’s exactly what’s about to happen if I keep looking at Dad and his I-Am-Very-Disappointed-in-You eyes. “Young lady, you better do some explaining. Where were you?”
For a quick moment, I think maybe I can come up with some story that won’t be as bad as the truth is … but then I decide on telling the whole truth, because lying might just send Dad over the edge. His face is red, and he looks like he’s at that point balloons get to when they have too much air in them. I sit down on the sofa, next to Grandpa Earl. “I went to the Nuyorican,” I tell Dad. “Well, I tried to go to the Nuyorican.”
“The what?” Ava asks.
Aunt Tracey gives her a look. Ava sits down on the arm of the sofa.
“What made you think that was a good idea?” Dad asks. “How do you even know what the Nuyorican is?”
“I, well, I found your old poems and journals, and I read through them, and you wrote down that you hoped to perform there one day, so I—”
“Amara, this is unacceptable! You know better than to go snooping through things, and then to up and leave and have everyone worried about you?”
“Well, maybe if you’d spend time with me and actually talk to me, I wouldn’t have to snoop around and sneak out.”
When I say this, Aunt Tracey stands and tells Nina and Ava to get their coats. “Let’s let them sort this out in private,” she says. She hurries them to the door, barely giving them enough time to hug Grandpa Earl goodbye. “We’ll talk later about these two,” Aunt Tracey says to Dad, eyeing me and Ava. Ava won’t even look at me.
Once they are gone, Dad doesn’t waste time getting back to fussing at me. “You knew I was here for work, Amara—”
“But, Dad, I’m here to learn about you, your childhood, and what it was like growing up in Harlem,” I say. “We haven’t talked about that at all. You aren’t showing me—”
“Amara, you can’t put this on that school assignment—no amount of research should have caused you to be so reckless.” Dad is pacing around the living room.
“It’s not about the homework, Dad. It’s about you. I want to know you.”
Grandpa Earl says, “Hear her out, Charles. Listen to her—”
“Dad, please stay out of this.”
Grandpa Earl walks over to Dad, puts his hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be like me, don’t push her away.” He walks to his room, closes the door.
It takes me a moment to swallow my tears and talk without crying, but finally I say, “I’m sorry, Dad. I was just angry at Ava and—”
“Go to your room. I just—I need a minute.” Dad sits on the sofa, his bowed head cupped in his hands.
I walk slowly up the stairs, sit on Aunt Tracey’s bed looking at the walls wondering what they were once covered with. Did she have posters hanging? What happened to them? What makes a person keep certain things and throw other things away? I’m in the room for a whole hour just thinking and thinking. I know I’ll be on some kind of punishment for this. Dad is probably talking on the phone to Mom right now, the two of them deciding if it should be losing phone privileges or doing extra chores.
There’s a knock on my door. “Amara, it’s me,” Dad says.
“Come in.”
He opens the door, but he doesn’t come in. “Get your coat, let’s go.”
16
Dad and I walk on Houston Street and turn left onto Avenue B. “This is the East Village,” Dad tells me. “Alphabet City, to be exact.”
We turn right on Third Street, and then we walk to a building that has a mural painted on it. One half is of a man’s face. His eyes look heavy, like they are holding worry and pain but also passion. “This is Reverend Pedro Pietri. He was a Puerto Rican civil rights activist and cofounder of the Nuyorican.” Dad stares at the mural for a moment, and I wonder if his mind has taken him someplace else. “This place is legendary for welcoming playwrights, poets, and musicians of color whose work isn’t always accepted by the mainstream industry,” he tells me. “That list you saw was something I wrote my senior year of high school. Back when I was a kid, my parents wouldn’t let me come down here.”
“Why?”
“It just wasn’t a place for a kid. At all,” Dad says. “Plus your grandpa was not a fan of me being a poet, remember?” Dad touches the mural and begins to walk away. I haven’t held his hand since I was little girl, but right now, under the New York sky, I reach out and place my hand in his.
We walk down the narrow blocks, hand i
n hand. The sky is winter gray, and already it is getting dark even though it’s not evening. “Did you ever get to read there?” I ask.
“A bunch of times. When I went to NYU, I was there all the time for the open mic. Your mom and I used to walk this route from our dorm. You want me to show you where I went to college?”
“Yes.”
We walk for about twenty minutes, and then we get to a park that has a square white arch at the entrance. “This is Washington Square Park. Our dorm was just a few blocks away,” Dad says. “But this was one of our hangout spots. Your mom loved coming here—and Central Park—any green space in the city reminded her of Portland.” We sit down on a bench. There are couples holding hands walking through the maze of people. A dark-skinned woman is pushing a stroller and singing to a crying baby. Across from us a photographer is taking pictures, pointing his camera down at the ground and up above his head and every other direction.
“So Grandpa Earl never heard one of your poems?”
“Not for real. Never a formal reading at school and not even if I just tried to read him one at home,” Dad says. “My mom did though. She loved poetry, she loved my poems.”
When Dad says this he sounds like a little boy, like how I must sound when I brag to Titus whenever Mom or Dad tells me how proud they are of me, how smart I am.
“Writing poems wasn’t what Baker boys did. My pops wanted me to play sports, be like him. There were very clear expectations of what I was supposed to be, and it had nothing to do with art, writing, cooking—”
“Girl stuff?”
“Right.”
“So he was like Mom?” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know, Mom … well …” I stop talking, but Dad wants to know what I have to say.
“Talk to me, Amara. What do you mean?”
“Sometimes I think Mom wants me to be a Baker girl. I think she wishes I was more like her and into girly things.”
“Well, I don’t know that there are girly things or boy things. You just be who you want to be. We love you for you. It’s not based on if you love wearing dresses or not.”
