Okay, it made me mad. (But mostly it made me jealous.) All I do know is a week later, just when everybody forgot about the whole thing, Girl with Two Different Shoes is wearing a matching pair of Mary Janes and Alma is wearing the cutest pants. Even Alma forgets about it. But I don’t.
Not when I see Girl with Two Different Shoes getting slipped a bag of clothes from one teacher and then another. Not when I see her holding a brochure with a sewing machine on it from the vocational school. Not next quarter when I see that Girl with Two Different Shoes all sudden don’t need no free school supplies no more.
Blow
Noun and verb. Rhymes with know, like in “You don’t know my life.”
Alma sings Happy Birfday to me on the phone. Alma not speaking to me was hell, but all that matters is that she is speaking to me now. I want to ask her to hang up and sing on my voicemail so I can keep her voice.
(Wait, what?—you think I’m corny? Just because you a lonely-ass motherfoe with 500 Fakebook friends and not a single real one ain’t my problem. See D for Dear Reader and shut your face.)
“Happy fifteenth birthday,” Alma says. “I would have called you no matter what, you know. I wish I’d gotten you more than a regifted apple!”
“I know you would have,” I say. I think, This apple is the best present I’ve ever gotten, but I don’t say it because I’m too busy crunchin on it.
“So did you get a phone for your birthday? That’s what you asked for, right?”
“No. This is another one I jacked from one of my mother’s guests. I—”
“Wait a minute,” Alma says. “Willy is in the dishwasher again!”
Alma puts her phone down hard. Alma is always throwing her phone down to pull kids out of the dishwasher. (Her mother uses the dishwasher to keep the bread and chips fresh so the cockroaches don’t get them.)
“I’m back. I—wait! Now Willy’s at the—STOP! Mijo!!! No, no outlet!!! Outlet NO NO!!”
The kids over Alma’s house have been electrocuted so many times they all have hair like Sideshow Bob. I think about my convo with my mother as Alma wrestles a kid off the kitchen table: “Ba aba baba!!!” One of Alma’s babies accidentally hangs up on me.
I wait: 5, 4, 3, 2—Ring.
“Sorry,” Alma says, out of breaf. “So what are you going to do tonight, Macy? You have to do something special on your birthday.”
“I am. I’m talking to you.” I curl up on the couch with the phone. “Tell me about your birfday. Was it the best you ever had?”
“It wasn’t because you weren’t there.”
“Oh, yeah, you’re so over it. Jesus, STOP . . . Was your dad there, Alma?”
“I think he was. The DJ. I swear he had the same nose as me.”
“Shit. I would have been able to tell. I know exactly the way your nose is—”
“I know, girl! That’s why I will never forgive you!”
“Let’s change the subject . . . Tell me about your best birthday when you were a kid.”
Alma does. It was her fifth, when she danced standing on her daddy’s shoes. She saw a picture of it.
“So,” I say, digging in the couch cushions for crumbs, “your best birfday is the birfday you can’t actually remember?”
“Sometimes it’s better that way. So I can fill in the blanks the way I want to. A picture keeps the best parts of a memory and leaves the rest out. What’s yours?”
“I don’t have a best—or worst. For me those two things is always mixed together. I only have the one I remember the most. It was my twelfth. Before I met you. I had the whole thing planned out. My mother said, Seriously, a piñata, Macy? I thought last year was your last kiddie party. Don’t you want to have a dance party? We can get Dance Dance Dance on the Wii. You can have a girls-guys party. Well, I did not want to have a dance party. The school dance was enough. Guys rubbing up their sweaty junk all over you. Why, just cause Pit Bull is playing, is that all right? So anyway I said, No, I want a fucking piñata. My mother always chose the biggest piñata in the warehouse at Party Town. You know the place, Alma?”
“Yes,” Alma says, adjusting the phone with her neck so she can change a diaper. “It’s right near Lucky’s Lotto behind the pregnancy testing center.”
“Right! She and Daddy always strapped the piñata to the hood of the car. The neighbors clapped as we pulled into our house. They were all invited—except for 3211, of course.”
Alma and I both say: “3211. They is ghetto.” We laugh.
It gets quiet.
“Don’t stop, Macy.”
I don’t. I can’t. I tell Alma about the bags and bags of candies that filled up the trunk. Cherry bubblegum pops, wax candy tubes that turn your teeth blue, taffy that once stuck Zane’s teeth together. My mom had to pry his teeth apart with a butter knife! Stay away from the Choco Tacos—they give everyone the runs—but there was fruit punch sugar straws that you could use to suck up your caramel soda, and don’t forget the Cry Babies! Anytime I got hungry later, I’d just pick up a couch cushion. From one birfday all the way to the next, I could still find a chili-pepper chocolate buried in the seat.
And that’s just what went into the piñata. Never mind the three-layer chocolate crunch cake. After it’s gone, you’re digging in the back of the freezer like a dog just to get a taste of one more chocolate crunchie.
“I had tiramisu this year,” Alma says. “So much of it, we’ll be eating it until next Christmas. And yes, I saved you a piece.”
“I don’t know what the hell that is, but I know I want to eat some. I love you, Alma!”
“You lie,” Alma says. “Now get back to the story.”
“Right. I was just telling you about the cake. As good as the cake was, it was cardboard compared to the barbecue. Daddy was the master chef.”
Everybody always said he should have his own cooking show. His show would go against Hell’s Kitchen sort of like Batman vs. Superman. Daddy would drop his brisket on the table like a bomb, and nobody talked until nothing was left. Cops came by in a cruiser once because it was too quiet on the block. Everybody was too busy chowing down to talk.
“Yes,” Alma said, and sighed. That sigh was her trying to think back to a time when she could remember her own dad. Trying to remember a smell or a touch. A dad is maybe the only thing I have that Alma don’t. The only thing she envies me for. Even though he’s in prison, he’s still mine. She isn’t ugly about it, though. (See B for Bestie.)
“But back it up,” I said. “We ain’t even covered the outfit or the getting my hair done. No hand-me-downs or flea market buys or Goodwill. My mother used to take the bus and come back with the type of outfit you’d wear, Alma. A sweater, matching skirt, tights, new shoes, panties in a three pack, perfume samples in little foil packets. We had to represent. Obviously 3211 was not invited, but my mother sent me to JJs for some gum, just so they could see me and Zane walk past—him in his Mac Daddy herringbone hat and me in my patent leather shoes.”
“Seriously? Zane in a fedora and you in a dress?” Alma says. “Do you have any pictures?”
“Nah, I destroyed the evidence. Anyway, my outfit was perfect that day. I mean, there was even a panty-bra set. Matching, you know? By the way, I wore panties back then, not boxers.”
“Wow. When did you get your first bra? I got mine at eight.”
“I got mine at eight too. These DDs were ready for combat by nine!”
“And one day you’ll tell me why the big transformation to sweatpants and sneakers last year?”
“Can’t tell you.” Because I can’t tell myself. (See I for I Don’t Want to Talk About It and P for Pink.) “Just happened.”
Anyway, so back then on my birfday I was like a Barbie with all the accessories included. No stuck zippers, no stains. I wore a towel over my dress at breakfast so I wouldn’t spill eggs on it. My mother planted me on a folding chair and told me not to move a muscle. Once all the guests got here and the adults got caught up, we was going to take pictures. Then ev
erybody showed up all decked out. Every kid that sat down next to me got a warning: NO grass stains on tights, NO dress sleeves as napkins, getting yelled at like they already had. Of-fucking-course, the parents turned what was supposed to be hello-qué-pasa into a century-long convo.
“Forget this,” I said, pulling a thread out my sweater. “Rip that Band-Aid off, that’s what.” I let Zane pull a thread into a sleeve hole. My neighbor Rochelle shimmied off her slip. Headbands became boomerangs.
Macy! my mother screeched, but she couldn’t beat my ass because the neighbors was watching and somebody would say something to somebody else—namely 3211—and they would call CPS. Ha!
Now I was free. I could eat barbecue with my bare hands. But the second I took my first bite, my mother was screaming at me to help her on the grill. I looked up to ask her where Daddy was, but her eyes told me I better not ask. I just pretended I was Daddy and got it done with a smile. I even cracked his jokes. I thought about how proud he would be when he got back from wherever he was at and saw that everybody got a hot plate. When he didn’t show up after everybody was served, I found myself staring at my plate not able to eat a bite.
It was time for the cake. My mother brought it out crying all over the candles. Cut it out, Mami—you’re gonna jinx my wish. To protect my wish, I picked up my whole cake and ran. I heard my mother cursing at me as I headed into the bafroom and locked me and the cake and my wish in it. I WANT MY DADDY!!! I screamed over the candles. NOW!!! But I didn’t blow. Even at that moment, knew better.
Three hours later my mother pounded on the door with something hard. I cracked it open and she shoved the phone through the crack. It was Daddy singing me Happy Birfday. He told me he’d see me on parole. He said the blow the cop found on him wasn’t even his. I said, I don’t care, just tell me when you’re coming home.
“Oh Macy,” Alma breathes when I get done telling her all this. That’s all she says, and that’s all I want her to say.
“You know what I wished, sitting there on my toilet with a big-ass melting ice-cream cookie cake?”
Alma is laughing and crying. “No. But I know what you didn’t wish for. For your daddy.”
“Yes. That’s right. That would a been stupit. I wished for that barbecue on my plate. The barbecue Daddy always set aside for me special. The best parts—with the juicy fat.”
That night, I crept out to the grill on the front porch. Crispy sausage steam still stuck to the air. A piece of sausage had fell into the coals. I pulled it out, wiped it off, and swallowed it whole. My mother had left the bottles of barbecue outside. One lick of the barbecue sauce became two and so on. After I polished off the bottle, I snuck back inside.
Next I took a little taste of the oil from the pan sitting on the counter. Found some hamburger buns to dip in that oil. I just kept thinking, By tomorrow, all that will be left is the smell. So I ate and I ate. My mother woke up to the sound of me throwing up. I couldn’t even look at barbecue for months.
Alma: “Macy, this year I want you to make a wish. A wish for you. M—”
Me: “Did you get what you wanted this year, Alma?”
Alma: “Okay. So we’re changing the subject. God, Macy! . . . I wished to go away. Yes, I know it sounds spoiled—I know . . .”
Me: “If you know me and I know you then you know you don’t need to explain.”
Alma: “I wanted to go away. Just anywhere. To my cousins in Cali. My aunt in Washington. Anywhere. My mother told me we couldn’t afford to go away with all the kids. When I told her I meant just me, she freaked out.”
Me: “Just you, huh.”
Alma: “Macy, I—”
Me: “No, I get it. No offense taken. I’m sorry you didn’t get what you wanted.”
Alma, in her soft voice: “I’m sorry you didn’t get your wish either.”
Me: “Actually I did. I just didn’t know my wish until I knew yours.”
Alma: “What? I demand you tell me.”
Me: “I would, but if I told you . . .”
“Macyyyyyyyyyyyyy!”
“If I told you, it would jinx it. But I can tell you something. For the first time, my birfday don’t blow.”
“Really?” I hear Alma yawn. “Then that’s good enough for me.”
We hang up. I grab a lighter and I burn the whole house down to a little pile of ashes.
Just kidding. Because, Dear Reader, if I was burning down anyone’s house it would be yours, you nosy-ass motherfoe.
What I really do is I pull up a floorboard.
This is where my dad used to hide his drugs from Yasmin. With the glow of the lighter’s flame I make sure the space is still secure. There’s still a bag of powder under there so I know my mother don’t know about the hiding place. I tape the hundred-dollar bill my mother threw at me to the bottom of the board. I hide it there for Alma—for her escape. It is her birfday gift. I won’t give it to her right now. It will be a gift I give her when she needs it the most. When she needs to get away. I relight the lighter and sing:
Happy birfday to me . . .
Even though it’s just a lighter, I can’t help but press my lips together and . . .
Book Club
Noun. As in, “You can find me in da (book) club.”
George and I wait in the hall for Alma. A few times a semester, regular and AP English classes combine for what Miss Black calls a meeting of the minds. This means Miss Link’s AP kids peer tutor our stupit asses. The class is split in half today. I always stay with Miss Black’s half because Miss Link can’t handle my difficult ass.
George catches a glimpse of Alma before I do and vrooms toward her. Alma knows to stand perfectly still. I run ahead and get the door. George picks up Alma’s stack of library books and her little ass. He squeezes his throttle and bursts into Miss Black’s class.
Miss Black: “Jesus, let me have my coffee first!”
We sit. I fucking hate sitting. “When I’m older,” I tell Alma and George, “I’m going to have a apartment kitchen with tables but no chairs, a living room with NO couch.”
Alma: “They make desks like that. Where you actually get to stand. Maybe you could talk to the principal about getting one.”
Me: “Talk. Principal. Did you use those two words in the same sentence?”
Alma: “Yes. Talk. Speaking of which, I got onto the debate team.”
Me: “Debates. Like the ones for president? So you get to tear people up and hang them out to dry?” I imagine winning debate after debate. My attendance trophy sitting in the shadow of my big-ass debate trophy. “Do they serve muffins?”
Alma laughing: “No, no, no, no. It’s very polite. You get assigned a topic and you have to prove why you’re right.”
Miss Black: “Blah blah blah blah something about foreshadowing.”
Me: “Assigned. That sounds like homework. I’ma pass. But I gotta topic of discussion for you. My mother said school makes everyone stupit. Is school making me stupit or am I stupit to begin with?”
Alma: “You are not stupiD.”
Miss Black: “Blah blah blah blah blah something about irony.”
Me, getting passed a book: “If I ain’t stupit, then I shouldn’t have to read To Kill a Mockingbird. Want me to summarize that shit for you? If you brown or black, you going to jail. The end.” I toss the book behind me. Me getting passed another book: “And I shouldn’t have to read The Diary of Anne Frank either. I mean, I get it! White people had fucked-up shit happen to them too. Never fucking forget! PS, black and brown people, get over that shit, you lazy-ass motherfoes.” Me getting passed another book: “I do not wanteth to readeth Romeo and Juliet becauseth none of the wordeths make no senseth.” I pass the book on.
I dance in my chair. “This book club is not da club I pictured,” I say.
Alma laughs behind her fist. Like her laugh needs protecting.
“Da Club, Da Club,” George sings, shaking his sumo wrestler’s body. His Ninja Turtle helmet slides over his eyes. (See H for Helme
t.) In his Chewbacca coat, George looks like a bear in heat.
Everyone is cracking up.
I laugh on the inside because I don’t like doing what everyone else is doing. I do not want to laugh when you laugh. If I cough, why do you need to cough, motherfoe? If I yawn . . . you get the picture.
Now George is huffing and puffing. Miss Black holds up a pass without even looking up from her work.
The class takes too long to stop laughing. I pound my desk: “ALL RIGHT THEN!”
Miss Black says, “Thank you,” and continues whatever she was saying that I ain’t been listening to. But she must have other bones to pick because today she ain’t bothering with me. As for Alma, she’s so smart she always has her homework done a week ahead of time. But nobody hates Alma. (Again, see B for Bestie.)
“Is there anything you would read?” Alma asks. What she means is: Have you ever read anything?
I think real hard. Even with Alma I don’t want to say the last thing I can remember reading cover to cover is Runaway Bunny. That was my brother’s favorite. (See B for Burners and G for Gas.)
Finally, I say, “When I was little I really liked to read the backs of cereal boxes. I read the whole thing top to bottom. My favorite words were fresh and goodness and sweet. I would read those words over and over again. Now I prefer the directions on the Kraft Macaroni box. First. Then. Next. I like steps. I read the recipe for the Taco Bake over and over. I like the words golden brown. I guess you could say I haven’t progressed much.”
“My grandma read to me all the time,” Alma says in her soft voice that she uses when she’s afraid she might insult me. “Books from the library. When I went to kindergarten, I already knew all my letters and numbers.”
Miss Black: “Shut the hell up!” (Okay, that’s not what she said. It’s what she meant, though.)
“So, is my mom right?” I whisper to Alma. “Does school make everyone stupit? I started off liking reading but now I hate it. Did school make me stupit or was I stupit to begin with? It’s like the chicken and the egg, right? The chicken and the egg. Mmmmm.”
The Disturbed Girl's Dictionary Page 5
