by Hannah Weyer
So they did the scene, walking through the courtyard, the three girls from the movie, Crown Heights kids by the ice-cream truck, mad quiet, listening to the lines and waiting for their cue. And they only had to do it three times—Bobby walking backwards, the camera up on his shoulder, Albert there with his boom mic off to the side, giving her a wink and a thumbs up when they wrap that shit out, and she felt happy inside, sitting back eating her ice cream—Dean bought ice cream for all the kids out there that day and AnnMarie was about to tell him about Blessed doing the same thing a long time ago but she thought, Nah. I’m good. Right here, right now, staying in the moment with Sonia and Melody and all the other kids whose names she didn’t know but who’d come up with a scene about bleeding without spilling a single drop.
that’s a wrap
32
August came and went, another birthday gone. She turned fifteen that year and felt proud, opened up a bank account, first bank account for the Walker family. Put the movie checks in, signed her name on the back the way the teller said. Drew cash money out, paid down the Con Ed bill for her mother, bought a Rocawear outfit for Star—a all-white jumpsuit with button snaps and white booties, soft as velvet. Dressed her up and took her out in the stroller—she’d outgrown the infant one, pushing the new blue-and-white-striped Maclaren Techno up the block. To the grocery store or over to Niki’s—AnnMarie feeling certain that everyone who saw them pass would know she was a good mother, doing it right.
Yeah, she’d often think. Making the movie was fun. It was mad fun, like her life had finally sprang open and even when it came to an end, crew wrapping up cables, light stands returned to the crate, big-ass camera tucked back in its cushioned box, she held on to that good feeling.
It took her a month before she discovered the roll of film she’d lost in the bottom of her makeup bag. Got them developed and sat on the couch looking at pictures with Blessed. Her mother smiling as she pointed out Sonia and Melody. Angie, Maya, Dean, Albert—the last day of the shoot Albert shaved that Fu Manchu off. Looked like a entirely different person.
The new me, he’d said.
She’d call up the other girls, say Heyyyy, what up, what y’all doing, how you been. They’d ask about Star, and she’d tell them how she trying to sit up, grab on to every little thing, drooling, clapping her hands together. Melody started work full-time in a office and Sonia, right away that girl got cast in another movie. A movie about a white girl starting up at a all-black school. Sonia got the part of the new best friend. AnnMarie said, That’s nice, Sonia. I’m happy for you. You deserve it. And they’d reminisce about all the fun they’d had but she felt lonely sometimes, missing the rhythm of those days—missing Darius too. He slept over once in a while, keeping clothes in the closet but mostly he out. Telling her he busy doing this that the other thing—saying he getting ready to MC at this block party, that club, talking about putting a mixtape together for a record label. By now, she didn’t believe him. Knew it was mostly bullshit—things don’t go his way, he’d drop into one of his moods, coming over, wanting to mix it up. Like the time he popped up, wanting to get some. She said, I ain’t in the mood, Darius, but he pushed her down on the bed anyway, got a knee between her legs and spread her wide.
Other times he’d be his self, weed on his breath. Drifting in with takeout, or a new mixtape he said he made special for her listening pleasure. He’d say, Where my baby at? AnnMarie would turn and look at him. Check his face before she took a step. There was the occasional shopping bag. Pull the ribbon loose, she’d open up the boxes to find Puma and Baby Phat and Tommy outfits nestled inside. Tiny shoes made of real leather, little socks with lace around the ankles and beanie hats in baby pink and yellow and green.
Late October, she got a call from Ida B. Miss July said, Hello AnnMarie, we’ve been trying to reach you.
Miss July told her she ought to come by, get her records taken care of, think about her GED … She said they got a life-after workshop—like a reunion with the other young mothers, share stories, birthing stories and how to get by. AnnMarie said, Thank you, Miss July. I be there … But she never went. The idea of that place was like a step back instead of forward—picturing that long metal table and the sleepy feeling that had always crept into Room 5. There’d been the slow girl. Crsytal. AnnMarie tried to picture it. Do she want to sit next to Crystal? Hell no. She wanted to talk to Dean and Sonia and think about the movie and what was around the corner. She knew they was in the edit room, putting all the scenes together on a machine Dean called a Avid.
She’d call him up. She’d say, How’s it going? Is it done yet? How do it look? Is it good, what’s happening? When’s it coming out in the movies?
Dean’d have to cut her short, saying Patience, AnnMarie. Patience.
In November she missed her period. She didn’t think nothing of it at first ’cause her periods had been spotty after she gave birth, sometimes blood, sometimes no. But when she went to the clinic for Star’s six-month checkup, the clinic lady asked her how she feel. Clinic lady said, Star is healthy but how are you, Mom? Anything you want to talk about? AnnMarie said, Everything good. Everything fine. Clinic lady said, Have you become active again? What you mean, AnnMarie asked. The clinic lady meant sex. Wanted to know if she been fucking again. AnnMarie hesitated before answering. She hadn’t been in the mood, felt no real desire for Darius so she said, No, I’m taking a break from that right now.
The clinic lady said, Okay, just make sure you use protection. Even if you’re not getting your period, you can still get pregnant. AnnMarie thanked her for the information.
When she left the clinic, she thought about the time Darius had made her fuck him. Yeah, he’d come inside her. She remembered that. She’d waited for him to leave before she got up, went to the bathroom, wipe his shit off.
Few blocks from Gateway, AnnMarie stopped and went inside Evelyn’s Pharmacy, pushing Star down the narrow aisle ’til she found the section for females, her eyes passing over the boxes of douches and tampons and maxi pads, finally spotting the tests. But she couldn’t bring herself to pick up a box. Not with Star only six month old. What they gonna think, She stupid, or something? So she backed down the aisle, past the counter where the sisters from 3D, Eve and Adrienne, sat with their matching sweat suits and crimped weaves—one a them saying, You didn’t find what you need, AnnMarie? Leaning over the counter, eyeballing her as she backed out the door with a clatter.
She left Star at home with Blessed, took the bus all the way to Five Town mall, went into the CVS, plucked the test box off the shelf, got in line at a register where the salesgirl was a stranger. Got home, peed on the wand, staring at the purple plus-sign slowly emerging. Yeah, she pregnant. Fifteen and pregnant again. She sat down and cried.
33
A week went by, then another. AnnMarie spent them chasing him down, going by his mother Darla’s house, walking over to Raymel’s or Dennis’, somehow missing him. Always just missing him.
She needed to talk to him, tell him about the anxious feeling, about the purple plus-sign and the nausea creeping in. His sister Vanessa’d say, Sit down, AnnMarie, let Star play with her cousin. His sister having given birth to a baby boy who she named Rocco James. His mother Darla panfrying potatoes in the kitchen, the onion and garlic smell wafting through the room, making AnnMarie’s mouth water. She’d say, He over at the studio, you want breakfast, AnnMarie? Why don’t you eat something … AnnMarie’d lift Star from the stroller, saying, Studio? What studio? Darla’d shrug. I don’t know. I just heard something … You know how he is. Crossing to the table with a plate of fried potatoes and AnnMarie’d feel the hollowness expanding so she’d set Star in her lap and eat.
Days went by. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, AnnMarie with the morning sickness, waves of nausea crashing. Star start up crying, AnnMarie’d look at her and groan. On Thursday Dean called. He said, The movie got into a festival. An important festival, AnnMarie, called Sundance.
He said, It’s great news.
Really great news.
What’s the matter, AnnMarie. Why aren’t you excited.
No, that’s great, Dean. I’m happy for you. I’m very happy for you.
No, AnnMarie, be happy for you. Be happy ’cause we’re all going. We’re going in January. We’ll go to the screenings, you’ll talk to people, talk about your experience, see other movies if you want to … It’s going to be a great time.
AnnMarie sat down and took a breath. She said, We going where?
Utah, AnnMarie. We’re flying to Utah.
Flying. On a airplane? She didn’t know where Utah was but she heard the excitement in his voice, the enthusiasm like a dose of medicine. She pressed the phone to her ear, she said, I don’t got money for a airplane, Dean.
He said, Don’t worry, AnnMarie, all you need is a warm coat.
And she smiled then. ’Cause it was good news and what she’d been waiting for. She tried to picture it. A film festival. In Utah. Utah …? Where that at. She’d have to look on a map.
The next few days floated past, AnnMarie daydreaming, a little bubble of excitement knocking around inside, blocking out the image of the plus-sign. She called up Sonia and Melody, left messages on their answering machines. What you gonna wear, what you gonna bring. Can you believe it? We going on a airplane. The phone start ringing off the hook, calls back and forth. She went by to see Niki and Niki let her talk, going on and on about the news, AnnMarie bugging with excitement. Niki leaned back on the bed and grinned. Word—you a movie star now. AnnMarie threw her arms around Niki and squeezed, Niki laughing. She said, Dang, AnnMarie, calm down. AnnMarie let her go and said, I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. I never been on a airplane before.
Niki said, What you gonna do with Star. You bringing her with you? And AnnMarie realized she hadn’t thought that part out so there were more phone calls and messages left, waiting for Dean to call back and when the phone rang on Saturday afternoon, she ran across the room and picked up.
She heard a operator’s voice saying, Will you accept the charges from Darius Greene. She thought, Charges? Who this on my phone. Then she heard his voice thin and faint in the background, saying, AnnMarie! AnnMarie …
Darius?
The operator cut in, Do you accept the charges? No speaking unless you accept the charges.
AnnMarie said, Yes I do and get off the line. She heard the click and said, Darius? Where are you?
I’m in jail, baby. They saying I robbed a store. But I got mistook, you know how they do—I ain’t done it and these muthafuckas beat me upside the head with a book, tryin’ to get me to confess. And his voice faded a little at that point ’cause she was thinking about the movie festival and the plus-sign she hadn’t told him about and how she need to get Star on jar food and what did he just say, they beating him in the head with a book?
I need you, baby … Come get me out.
Come where, she asked. Get you out how?
Was he crying? The line start to crackle and his voice broke up but she’d heard him.
I need you, baby. You all I got.
AnnMarie stood there for a long while after she hung up the phone. Then she ran into the bathroom, brought to her knees by an upswell of nausea. Vomit from lunch turning into dry heaves and after she finished off, she rinsed her mouth, then walked back into the room where Star was, crawling across the floor of the Pack ’n Play. She watched her daughter lace her fingers around the lip of the playpen and pull herself up. Just like that. All in one motion, Star was standing, her eyes shining, smiling like she the Cheshire Cat. AnnMarie tried to be happy, scooping her up, smothering her with kisses. Deciding right then to keep the phone call a secret. She said, Ma, you know what Star just did? Ma, come out here and take a look at this.
34
On Monday morning, she went down to the bank and withdrew the last of her movie money. Closed out the account. It was exactly seventy dollars. Folded the bills and slipped them in her pocket. She’d called up Raymel. He told her how it usually went down. Probably a sentence hearing, he’d said. Bring bail money just in case. She made up an excuse and left Star at home with her mother, caught the dollar van and rode it all the way out to the Queens County Courthouse. Stood in line at security, then followed the flow of people up the stairs and into the building. Saw a window and a sign that said information, but the stool was empty behind the plexiglass. AnnMarie waited, peering into the big room with a low ceiling, tiles missing in places, a couple of women talking in a corner behind a desk. ’Xcuse me, AnnMarie said, pushing her mouth up to the slatted talk hole. ’Xcuse me, she said again. One of the women turned, moving her round ass mad slow across the room where she plunked down behind a desk, not the stool by the window, and pulled open a drawer, hunting for something. AnnMarie said, How can I find out about sentencing. Without looking up, the woman said, Window 5. Up the stairs, second floor. AnnMarie climbed the stairs and found the line of people, snaking all the way down the corridor, shoulders slumped, a dead feeling in the air, music blasting from somebody’s headphones.
Next.
Next.
Step to the line.
Come to the line.
Come to the line.
Come to the line.
When AnnMarie’s turn came, she stepped to the window. What courtroom I go to for sentencing? she asked.
Name.
Ann Marie Walker.
The man behind the desk had his eyes on the computer screen, his finger tapping at a key. Tapping. Tapping.
There’s no AnnMarie Walker. What was the arrest date?
No, wait, AnnMarie said, confused, you want my name?
The man glanced at her. He said, Name of the defendant.
Defendant?
Who got arrested, the man said, impatient.
Oh. Darius. Darius Greene.
Arrest date.
I don’t know, he called me on Saturday but I don’t know—
Precinct.
I don’t know.
The man looked up again, his eyes on her like she stupid.
I don’t know the precinct. Maybe the 101 …? You don’t got his name in there?
He said, How old are you?
I’m fifteen.
He shook his head, went back to the computer screen, tapping on the key with his finger.
Come on, mister, you don’t got his name in there? Darius Greene. G-R-E-E-N-E. He said to come here and bring him bail money.
Courtroom B.
He looked past her then and said, Next. Step to the line.
AnnMarie stood at the back of the courtroom and scanned the half-filled benches. Right away she spotted Raymel’s dented-in head in the back row and knew she’d come to the right place. She excused her way past a old grandma holding a toddler in her lap, stepped over two women who’d fallen asleep, heads drooping into they chest.
Raymel looked up as she approached, then turned to the girl next to him and told her to scoot down.
AnnMarie said, What up, he come out yet?
Nah … We been here waiting.
AnnMarie glanced past him to the girl on his left—she was about AnnMarie’s age, with blue eye shadow and a mouth shiny with lip gloss.
How long you been waiting, AnnMarie asked.
Mad long, the girl said. A hour at least.
Raymel stretched. He said, I’m getting hungry.
Word, the girl said.
AnnMarie looked to the front of the room. The judge up there, his face patchy and gray, eyeing one black dude after another as each one shuffled out the green door in city-issue jumpsuits. Landing at the table where a white man stood in a loose-fitting blue suit. AnnMarie couldn’t see his face, only the way he stood, like he needed a iron and a press to straighten his back, communicating with the judge.
Who that? AnnMarie whispered.
He the lawyer, I think, Raymel said.
Say what? He look mad sloppy.
The girl laughed softly. AnnMarie glanced at her and their eyes met.
Drug possession. Domestic violence. Illegal weapon. Resisting arrest. Disorderly conduct. Disorderly conduct. Disorderly conduct. Robbery. Attempted Robbery. Resisting Arrest. Assault. Hearing dates passed out. Bail set. Bail denied. But no Darius. Then the judge was standing, scooping up his robe from around his ankles. Smacked the gavel on wood. Lunch break. Raymel stood up and stretched. He said, I be back. And then he was scooting past the girl and gone.
Where he going, AnnMarie asked.
The girl shrugged. They sat for a moment in silence as people started to file out the courtroom. AnnMarie wondered what she should do. Others had stayed put, lingering by the benches, standing and stretching, then taking a seat again.
She glanced at the girl.
Where you from? You live in Far Rockaway?
The girl said, Yeah … I live with my aunt.
How you know Raymel, you his girl?
The girl shook her head. She said, I’m CeeCee.
Okay. I’m AnnMarie.
The girl said, I know who you are.
AnnMarie looked at her.
Darius told me about you.
AnnMarie frowned. Darius?
And her heart buckled right then, hearing the words come outta that lip-gloss mouth, saying, Yeah, he my boyfriend.
Excuse me? What you mean he your boyfriend—you know I’m his baby mother …
I know, he told me all about you. He said y’all ain’t together anymore.
AnnMarie stared in disbelief but CeeCee kept smiling, sitting there like it ain’t no thing.
No, we’re still together, AnnMarie said. He lives with me at my mother’s house.
CeeCee ignored that. She said, Did you like the clothes I got for Star?
