by Renée Watson
“It’s not funny,” I say, “and don’t touch me.” Tears come to my eyes.
“Yeah, everyone is right about you and Jasmine. Always taking everything so seriously. And always making it about you.”
“Shut up,” I say, struggling to find a better comeback, but mostly just trying to walk away. I shut the locker door.
“Don’t worry, I won’t bother you anymore.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying to push past him. He’s standing so close to me that it’s hard for me to move away.
“You can go ahead and keep working on the next Feminist Manifesta,” Jacob says, starting to laugh again, and as soon as I turn around, he slaps me . . . on my butt . . . right there in the empty hallway, with no one around to witness. I don’t even turn around. My whole body feels like it’s burning, like I’m on fire, and I can’t catch my breath, and the tears are coming down for real now. I keep walking faster and faster.
“It was a joke, Spencer. A JOKE. Come on, lighten up,” he calls after me.
I make it as far as the bathroom at the end of the hall before I’m behind one of the stalls trying to control my sobbing. I lean against the door and start to take deep breaths. I know what I have to do, and I take a few more minutes before pulling myself together. When the end-of-lunch bell rings, I walk down the stairs and straight for Principal Hayes’s office.
“May I help you?” his secretary, Ms. Potts, asks.
“I’d like to speak to Principal Hayes, please. It’s important.”
“And remind me of your name, dear.”
“Chelsea Spencer.”
“Oh, yes, I have been hearing your name quite a bit,” she says, smiling, “and reading that very smart blog of yours and Jasmine Gray’s. Very smart indeed.” She nods in my direction like she’s in on a secret with me and lets Principal Hayes know that a student is here to see him.
“Well, to what do I owe the honor?” Principal Hayes says, standing in his doorway.
“I, um, I just wanted to talk to you about an incident,” I say.
“Okay, I’m all ears,” he says, “and Ms. Potts, could you go ahead and set up that conference call for me—it’s in about ten minutes.”
“Oh, um, well, it’s uh, I would like some time to talk, because it was a pretty big deal,” I say.
“I’ll decide on that,” he answers. “Because, Chelsea, you understand that there have been several issues that you’ve been involved in lately, correct?”
“Yes,” I answer, refusing to say correct, and feeling like I’m being talked down to for the second time today. He waits, looking from me to Ms. Potts, who is watching, trying to pretend she isn’t paying attention, even though it’s obvious that she is.
“Okay, well, I need to report that Jacob Rizer smacked me.”
“He smacked you? Jacob Rizer? Our senior class president, National Honor Society member, Jacob Rizer smacked you today?”
“On my butt,” I add, trying to keep it clean but hoping to get Principal Hayes to understand what actually happened.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, it happened, just now in the hallway upstairs. I was at my locker, and he came over and was asking all these questions and getting really close to me, and he just, oh, and he also patted my head too.”
“I see,” he says. “Well, I cannot imagine Jacob would ever do such a thing, but . . .”
“But he did. I am telling you right now that he did.”
“And I appreciate that. Who else was in the hallway with you?” he asks.
I don’t even want to think about why he’s asking.
“No one,” I say.
“And why were you both in the hallway during lunch?” he asks.
“Because Jasmine and I were selling shirts, and . . .”
“That’s one of the problems right there,” he starts. “Neither of you asked me if you could do that. You and Jasmine think you are above the rules, but you cannot sell your shirts on our property during school time to make a profit.”
“But the National Honor Society and the cheerleading team and the basketball team sell stuff all the time to support their clubs, so what’s the difference?” I ask.
“The difference is that it was approved by me, and it was clear what they were raising money for. There are protocols that you and Jasmine don’t seem to understand,” he says, obviously frustrated with me.
“Okay, well, that’s really not the point. The point is that he physically put his hands on my body, and I feel like we need to do something about it,” I say.
Ms. Potts interrupts. “It’s true. I have seen that young man be a bit handsy with young women in the hallways.”
“Uh, thank you, Ms. Potts. I will handle this, and could you please call up my conference? Chelsea, I hear your complaint loud and clear, and appreciate you coming to me with this.”
“Right, because you said you didn’t want any more drama online, and so I figured I needed to come right to you with this. So here I am.”
“Yes, agreed. And thank you. And I will certainly be talking to Jacob to get his side of the story as well,” Principal Hayes finishes as he starts walking back into his office.
“His side of the story? What? His side of the story is that he smacked my butt and patted my head, as if he had ANY right to touch my body however he wanted,” I say, not moving anywhere.
“Allegedly,” Principal Hayes says, and it’s that word that tells me the fight is bigger than this moment, bigger than me, or Principal Hayes or Jacob Rizer. It’s bigger because not enough men listen to women, or believe women, or honor what we have to say. Ms. Potts is looking down at her desk. I don’t want to cry in front of them, so I gather my book bag and turn to walk out.
“Not even a thank-you?” Principal Hayes calls after me.
“Allegedly: used to convey that something is claimed to be the case or have taken place, although there is no proof,” I read from my phone, while taking a massive bite of a bacon cheeseburger, and coating the fries with our favorite ketchup and hot sauce mix.
“I cannot believe he did that,” Jasmine says, shock in her face. “And I can’t believe Principal Hayes just brushed it off. It’s as if we’re moving backward, you know?”
“Yup, exactly, and I feel like he did it on purpose, just to prove a point. And I would’ve gone to Ms. Lucas, but I feel like maybe she’s not all about it either, and I didn’t go to anybody else because I just don’t even have the energy. I don’t wanna go through a whole he said, she said. Why should I have to do that?”
“You shouldn’t. And it makes me feel bad for our teachers, who have to deal with him every day. He’s so cocky too, like he always knows everything. Ms. Lucas has to deal with Principal Hayes, and you know when you went to see him, he was already mad at us for wearing those shirts today.”
“And for selling them. He told me all about that. Do we need more food? Wings? Cheese fries?” I ask. “I’m starving.” We are sitting in The Uptown. It’s our favorite diner, and right on the corner of Wadsworth and Broadway, so it’s one of the best meeting spots.
“Listen, we had to skip lunch for the cause, and I’m thinking we have a lot more to do now,” Jasmine says, taking a bite of her BLT. “And yes, more food is a must, but I’m thinking we save some room for dessert. Chocolate cake would go so well with this meal.”
Jasmine takes her sweater off, revealing the slightly off-the-shoulder look that Nadine designed. Nadine cut the sides and added an extra panel from one of the other shirts, so it’s fitted and includes colors from the others. She also opened the collar, so it falls off the left side just a little.
“That shirt looks so good,” I say, looking down at my plain shirt, which looks pretty dumpy in comparison. “Maybe I’ll see if Nadine can fix mine up.”
Jasmine gives me a look.
“What? I can’t have a cute shirt too?”
“Chelsea, you can have all the cute shirts in all the cute stores, okay? Forever 21 should be called Forever E
xtra-Small, and Urban Outfitters? And Uniqlo? And Rubies and Jeans? Please. You can have all the cute shirts in the world. Leave Nadine to help me!” She laughs.
“You’re right. I didn’t think about that. Look, I’m really sorry. I messed up something that was supposed to be a big group action.”
“Don’t worry. It was still a big group action, and it worked. I mean, you definitely messed it up, yes, but thanks for saying that. And besides, I do look really good in this shirt,” Jasmine says.
We both bust out laughing.
Then Jasmine says, “But next time?”
“I know, I know. I’ll get all the right sizes next time,” I say. We order a chocolate cake with a side of vanilla ice cream.
“I still can’t believe what happened with Jacob,” Jasmine says, shaking her head, “or with Principal Hayes.”
“Me neither, and after it, I just kept thinking: Am I making too big a deal of this, or was it me that provoked it, and then I was pissed at myself for even thinking that. How could I think that?” I ask.
“Because this is complicated,” Jasmine says. “And it just shows us that we need to do more.”
Nadine and Isaac walk in. “It’s sooooo cold out there,” Nadine says, squeezing next to me in the booth, leaving Isaac to awkwardly sit next to Jasmine without getting all up on her. It’s awesome to watch. They both order coffee and load it up with cream and sugar. “Today rocked,” Nadine says, hugging my shoulders.
“Yeah, y’all made everybody start talking,” Isaac says. “And I’m really feeling this new design on the shirt,” he says, eyeing Jasmine.
“It looks so cool, right?” I ask.
Isaac blushes then changes the focus off Jasmine. “My dad asked me to make a bunch for our family reunion, with all the women’s faces from the Rodriguez family.”
“Oh, I love that,” Jasmine says.
“So then what’s next?” he asks, eyeing both of us.
“We’re figuring it out. Something really big has to happen,” Jasmine says. We tell Nadine and Isaac about Jacob.
“Are you gonna fight it?” Nadine asks.
“Yeah, I’m gonna fight it with you all, with something we decide to do. I don’t want to have to bring a teacher into it, and I definitely don’t want to talk about it with Jacob Rizer—he’s just gonna totally deny it anyway,” I say.
“Yeah, something’s gotta change here. But if I were you, I totally wouldn’t let Jacob off the hook,” Isaac adds.
“You’re right,” I say, sitting back. “I know you’re right. We gotta come up with something. What. Is. Next?”
“We can wear the shirts to the next open mic at Word Up. Maybe poets from the other schools will want to get some,” Jasmine says. “Chelsea, before you perform your poem, you can talk about why we made these shirts.”
I tell her, “You can talk about the shirts, too, after you perform one of your poems.”
“Yeah,” Isaac says. “You’ve been writing a lot lately. I want to hear some of your words.”
Jasmine doesn’t say yes to our idea, but she doesn’t say no either.
Nadine says, “I can film the performance so you two can post it online. This can be our next action.”
“And we need a statement or a list of demands. What was that you said earlier, Chelsea?” Jasmine asks. “Something about listening to women, and . . .” Jasmine grabs a pen and motions me to start talking. We spend the whole afternoon coming up with a plan.
It’s the week before Thanksgiving, and we’re all together at Word Up. I usually sit back to enjoy the open mic. I love seeing Chelsea up there mesmerizing everyone with her words, how she is so bold and confident. Sometimes I get nervous with her. I know her poems by heart as much as she practices them with me. So when she is reciting them, I move my lips along with her, sending her all the good vibes I can muster. It’s one thing to be in a play and have a whole cast of people supporting you, but standing alone on stage in front of a mic? That’s a whole nother talent. One I am not sure I have, but still, I am going to do this anyway because I promised Chelsea I’d read one of my poems.
I am good at pretending to be someone else, of getting in their skin and finding their voice, mannerisms. But tonight, I am standing here in my own brown skin, no costume, no stage makeup. Just me. Just me and my words, no playwright’s thoughts or director’s notes.
I am standing in front of the crowd, and this is the worst stage fright I’ve ever had. The audience here in this tiny bookstore is closer than they’d be if I were on a stage and they were sitting in the audience. They can probably see every roll in my belly, my thick legs shaking, my chubby hands holding the mic.
I don’t want to do this.
I look out into the crowd and see Chelsea on the edge of her seat looking at me like, You got this, you got this. And Isaac is doing the same. I clear my throat and begin.
This Body
SKIN: NOUN
1. Sensitive. Dry.
See Dove soap, Oil of Olay, shea butter.
See middle school pimples plumping up
the night before picture day.
Always on the chin or nose.
2. Dark. See slave. See Negro.
See age 7. See yourself
playing on the playground
when a white girl says,
you must eat a lot of chocolate
since your skin is so brown.
HAIR: NOUN
1. See assimilation.
See smoke from the hot comb crocheting the air,
burning a sacred incense.
Your momma parting your hair, bringing iron to nap,
“Hold your ear, baby,” she tells you.
So she can press Africa out.
When black girls ask, “Is it real?” Say yes.
When white girls ask, “Can I touch it?” Say no.
2. See natural. Reference Angela Davis,
Dorothy Pitman Hughes.
Comb yours out. Twist yours like black licorice,
like the lynching rope
used on your ancestors’ necks.
Let it hang
free.
HIPS: NOUN
1. Reference Lucille Clifton and every other big girl
who knows how to work a Hula-Hoop.
See Beyoncé. Dance like her in the mirror.
Do not be afraid of all your powers.
2. You will not fit in
most places. Do not
bend, squeeze, contort yourself.
Be big, brown girl.
Big wide smile.
Big wild hair.
Big wondrous hips.
Brown girl, be.
For the past week I have been replaying my performance over and over. How nervous I felt before I did it, how when the audience clapped for me it sounded like a rainstorm moving through the room. How Isaac looked at me like he wanted my body, wanted me. The way Chelsea hugged me so tight afterward. We haven’t seen each other for the past few days. It’s Thanksgiving, and both of our families are serious about holidays. Mrs. Spencer doesn’t even like for Chelsea to use the phone to call friends when it’s family time. Mom agrees. “You see Chelsea just about every day. You can give your family one weekend,” she said to me this morning when I asked what time dinner would be done. Mom assumed I wanted to go over to Chelsea’s, but I was asking because Isaac wants to go to the movies. We don’t have school tomorrow—maybe she’ll let me out of the house then.
The whole brownstone smells like bread. Mom’s buttermilk biscuits are baking in the oven, the last thing she’s making before she calls us to the table. Every year she cooks a feast, and every year she says, “This is the last time I’m doing all this cooking. One of you needs to come in here and learn the recipes so I can retire.” But every time I ask her to teach me how to make stuffing or how to bake her perfect peach cobbler, she never has the time. I don’t think Mom will ever stop cooking. The kitchen is her favorite place in the house. When she cooks, she kicks us out, telling us
, “I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
But today, she’s at least letting me sit in the kitchen with her. Which feels like a privilege since she kicked Jason and Dad out because they kept asking to taste food as she was cooking. They are playing video games in the spare room upstairs that’s basically Jason’s game room. Mom doesn’t let me help though. I mean, she tries to let me help, but she can’t stop looking over me as I chop the onion. She took the knife out of my hand and said, “No, sweetheart, like this,” and pretty much cut the onion in the same exact way I was cutting, so I just finished and didn’t ask for anything else to do because I know cooking is Mom’s way of taking care of us.
She is standing at the oven, peeking in at her biscuits to see if they are browning when I say, “Mom, do you ever feel like Dad makes you cook, like he expects you to be the one to prepare all the meals?”
“Of course not,” she says. She opens the oven, letting the heat escape. Now that the biscuits are out and sitting on the cooling pad, the kitchen smells even more like fresh bread. “Your dad and I don’t make each other do anything. I like to cook, so I cook. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t.” Mom spreads butter on top of the biscuits.
The doorbell rings, and she motions for me to get it. It’s Grandma Gray and Aunt Yolanda. They are always the first to arrive because Grandma does not like to be late, so she shows up about thirty minutes early to everything.
By the end of the day, our home has been visited by too many people to count. Mostly family, but a few members of our church stop by to check on Dad. One of his colleagues from the Schomburg Center comes by with a sweet potato pie from Make My Cake. “Couldn’t come empty handed,” he says. He’s the fifth person that’s come by today, bringing food with him but not staying to eat it. “I just wanted to say hello and see how you were doing,” the man says.
Mom takes the pie and goes into the kitchen, mumbling, “What am I going to do with all this food?” Then, even quieter and with more venom in her tongue, she says, “All these people visiting like this is a wake. He’s not dead yet.”
Chels, wake up,” Mia calls. I’ve been taking my sleeping- and downtime seriously, and since all the drama happening at school, I feel like I’ve just needed a break—from everything. “What are you doing in here?” Mia asks, pulling the covers away from me. “It’s Christmas Eve—we have stuff to do. And dinner tonight. Grandma’s already on her way. Get up!”
