Allegedly
Page 27
And a mother always protects her child.
The end is much like the beginning. That is what they call the circle of life, like in The Lion King. My circle isn’t smooth though. It’s bumpy, full of hills and valleys, on repeat. But one thing remains constant: there was a baby at the start and there will be a baby at the end. New life has a funny way of changing your old one. Whether it wants to or not.
And so here I am, on bed rest. In a couple of weeks, there will be a baby. Ms. Cora didn’t drop the case, and I don’t blame her. No one wants to give up on their dream. Even if that dream is a nightmare like me. She may win, so I don’t know what is going to happen to Momma or me. Maybe it’s better we both be locked away. The world doesn’t deserve to have us in it, screwing it all up for poor people like Mrs. Richardson. I can’t believe I’m not from Momma’s womb. Maybe I was born from her soul. That would explain so much.
I’m reading The Great Gatsby. It’s on Ms. Claire’s reading list. I’ve decided to switch my major to pre-law, so I can be a lawyer like Ms. Cora. Then I’ll represent all the kids like me, after I get Bean back. I know they’re going to take him. They’re not even going to give me a chance. And that is okay, because I need to get on my feet first. I need to take my pills, so I don’t turn into Momma. I don’t want to hurt Bean the same way I hurt Alyssa.
Allegedly. Well, sort of.
I’m not lying when I say I have no clue what happened that night. My blackouts are like blank pages in the middle of a book. All I remember is checking on her the same way I used to check on Junior, but she wouldn’t keep quiet. So I gave her my pills. Ray used to say them pills were to shut me up so I figured they’d actually work on her. But she wouldn’t stop . . . she wouldn’t listen . . . next thing I knew Momma was fighting me. She wouldn’t let go of her . . . she tripped over my pill bottle . . . I wasn’t holding on tight enough and Alyssa flew. I didn’t mean to throw her! But damn, if Alyssa would’ve just kept quiet, like a good baby supposed to, then I would’ve proved I could take care of her. Then maybe Mrs. Richardson would’ve wanted me and would’ve taken me away from Momma. She always said she wished she had a daughter like me. She meant that, I know she did.
But Momma . . . she was calling the police, snitching on me to Mrs. Richardson. After everything I’d done for her! I was already in trouble because of that stupid crystal rabbit she broke. Always saving her, she couldn’t save me just once! So I hid the cross and didn’t say nothing. I was waiting for Mrs. Richardson to come, so I could tell her all the awful things Momma had done to me. And she’d forgive me, because after all, Alyssa wasn’t being a good baby. But she never came to baby jail like Momma said she would. My heart, all big and swollen from her love, shrunk down to a raisin. There was nothing left to live for. Until now.
But I didn’t mean it though. No one misses her more than I do, they couldn’t. I loved Alyssa like a sister and . . . ah, there I go again, Alyssa-ing. I shouldn’t feel guilty. Alyssa was being a bad baby and I deserved to have a momma like Mrs. Richardson. Doesn’t everybody? Because that’s all this was about at the end of the day, doing anything to get away from Momma.
Even killing a baby.
There is a knock on the door. Winters walks in, glancing at my backpack and the bag of clothes Ms. Cora gave me in the middle of the floor.
“You ready?”
I nod and close my book, leaving it for the next girl. Maybe she’ll be different, smarter than me.
“How long is the drive?”
“About three hours,” he says. He looks confused and a little disappointed. He doesn’t think I killed Alyssa. No one does now. That’s what happens when you’re a good liar.
I slip on Ms. Claire’s coat, still smelling like her. Winters carries my bags out while I thump slowly down the steps. The girls, Ms. Reba, and Ms. Stein are huddled in the living room, watching TV, pretending they don’t know this will be the last time they’ll ever see me. They don’t say nothing. Am I really supposed to say bye to these people? My tormentors, cheerleaders for the devil? No. It’s not necessary. In a houseful of convicts, no one is capable of emotional good-byes. We’ll just consider each other dead, killed off somehow. It’s easier that way, familiar circumstances.
I slam the door behind me, letting it be the last thing I say to them.
The sky is dark gray and misty. Fog so thick you can barely see the houses up the street. Winters helps me into his truck and I look at the house for the last time. The same way I did when I left baby jail. I want to remember the details. The scuffs on the walls, the creaks in the floor, the bars on the windows, the stench of corn chips and bleach. The same bleach I poured into Ms. Stein’s coffee this morning. I want to remember it all so I’ll never miss it, wherever I go next.
“We got to stop at the precinct first,” he says.
“Why?”
“Detective Rodriguez wants to take a DNA sample. Match it against any missing children in the database. You know, just in case.”
They’re still looking for answers to questions that no longer matter.
“Just in case,” I repeat, and hold on to Bean.
He clears his throat.
“And I . . . I spoke to a Mrs. Richardson. She contacted that lawyer of yours. Said she is going to write a letter on your behalf . . . for the baby.”
Nerves twitch a smile on my face as he starts the car. Mrs. Richardson. She still loves me, I knew she did! Yeah, I may never see Ted again, but I would trade the love of a thousand Teds for one Mrs. Richardson. Funny how things don’t always work out the way you want them to, but so long as you get what you want in the end, the other things don’t seem all that bad.
Winters drives off and I watch the house disappear in the side-view mirror. For the first time in months, I relax, knowing it’s behind me.
“Also, I talked to the director at Brinwood. She said they are going to give you your own room . . . with a crib. You know, just in case.”
“Just in case,” I say with a smile so big it hurts my face to hold it. He huffs and turns down another street.
Mrs. Richardson is going to help me keep Bean. And this time, I’ll prove everyone wrong. I’ll show them that I know how to take care of a baby. This time I’ll do everything right because Bean will be a good baby. He’ll never cry and then everyone will see how good I am, especially Mrs. Richardson. She’ll remember who I used to be, the little girl sitting under a Christmas tree, reading to a baby. She’ll remember when she told me she loved me and said she hoped her daughter would grow up to be just like me.
I’ll be the daughter she lost. She won’t miss her or anyone. Bean and I, we’ll be her new family. It’s what I wanted. It’s all I wanted. I’ll take my pills too, like a good girl. I’ll be good. I’ll be better. She’ll see. You’ll see.
The mist turns into heavy raindrops and Winters clicks on the windshield wipers. BUMP BUMP. BUMP BUMP, the sound of my heart coming back to life.
“You thought about names yet?”
“Benson.”
He nods with a small smile.
“Benson. Good, solid name for a man.”
“What’s your first name?” I ask.
“Kain. With a K.”
“Benson Kain Addison. That’ll work. For now.”
acknowledgments
Be prepared. This is my first rapper’s award speech.
First, I want to give thanks to God for this adventure called life.
To my amazing agent, Natalie Lakosil, thank you for picking me out of the slush pile, for easing my fears and insecurities, and for fielding my endless questions.
To my editor, Benjamin Rosenthal, who stepped up and took this challenge (the challenge that is me)! You were kind and nurturing throughout it all. I am immensely grateful for your patience. Harper is a lucky little girl.
To Anica Rissi, thank you for choosing this book and seeing my potential. Sad we didn’t have the opportunity to work together but so happy you’re following your dreams.
&nb
sp; To Raquel Penzo, my writing sister, the one who reads through the first drafts and fields my monthly meltdowns without being stank, I share this success with you completely, mi amor. (That’s the extent of my Spanish, no thanks to you!) To Leah Campbell, you helped shape this book when I was about to throw in the towel. Thank you!
To my parental unit: Mom, thank you for loving me so unconditionally. You were born to be my Mother. Dad, thank you for being Daddy. Nothing I could do could ever repay you both for supporting me, your weirdo daughter. To man-child brother, Duane, I am beyond proud of you. To my extended family, my aunts Kacy and Peaches, Godmother Justice, uncles, cousins, and all honorary members . . . it takes a village. To my loveable pup, Oscar, for forgoing walks and playtime so Mommy could finish her novel. Everything I do is to keep food in your bowl.
Big ups to Brooklyn, Jamaica, Howard University, my blueberry sister Tara, Malik for being my person, Jihaad for sharing your Grandparents, Mount Olivet Baptist Church, P.S. 261, Ms. Fulford, the Brooklyn Writers’ Crew, and all the friends that have encouraged my madness. Big ups to my girls—Bison Babes, Travel Baes, Crazy Ladies, High School Crew— MY GOD! What would I do without our group texts, shenanigans, and unconditional love? Thank you for being a friend!
Lastly, to the girls from juvenile detention centers, group homes, and foster care willing to share their experiences with me . . . I am in awe of your perseverance. You are not forgotten; you are not a lost cause. Keep pushing.
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about the author
Photo by Rayon Richards
TIFFANY D. JACKSON is a TV professional by day, novelist by night, awkward black girl 24/7. She received her bachelor of arts in film from Howard University and her master of arts in media studies from the New School. A Brooklyn native, she is a lover of naps, cookie dough, and beaches, currently residing in the borough she loves with her adorable Chihuahua, Oscar, most likely multitasking. You can visit her online at www.writeinbk.com.
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credits
Cover photography © 2017 by Sven Hagolani / plainpicture
Shoot coordination by Marcus Benkwitz / plainpicture
Cover design by Erin Fitzsimmons
copyright
Katherine Tegen Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
ALLEGEDLY. Copyright © 2017 by Tiffany D. Jackson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2016935938
ISBN 978-0-06-242264-4
EPub Edition © January 2017 ISBN 9780062422668
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FIRST EDITION
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