by Renée Watson
“That’s a stupid question,” Danny says. “If he didn’t go here, would he be standing here right now?”
I hit Danny in his chest.
“God, Ricky,” Maria says. “We’re going to school with the pastor’s grandchildren. They’re going to tell him every bad thing we do.”
“Or,” Ricky says, “we’ll just have to get them to do bad stuff with us so we can blackmail them.”
We laugh.
I see Grandma’s car pull up behind the line of other parents waiting for their children. “Come on, Danny. We gotta go.” We all say good-bye to each other. Danny pulls his jeans up on our way to the car.
The closer we get to the counseling office, the less we talk. At first Danny and I are telling Grandma about our day—I only tell the good things, how Maria is in three of my classes and how I’ve already remembered my locker combination. Danny tells Grandma about his favorite classes, math and gym. But when we pull in the parking lot of Providence Children’s Center, we both stop talking.
• • • • • • •
“I’ll be out here in the waiting room,” Grandma says to us as two women take me and Danny in separate rooms.
Danny walks away with a woman named Gloria. She is short and fat and she has on three shades of blue. Her brown curly hair falls in her face and she talks like she’s asking a question. “Right this way,” she tells Danny, her voice raised at the end of the sentence as if Danny has a choice.
I go with Ann. She has on a long gray skirt and a dark burgundy blouse. When we go in her office, she smiles at me, points to the sofa, and sits across from me in an armchair.
The first thing she says to me is, “Serenity. What a beautiful name.” She crosses her legs. I notice her nylons twisting around her ankles. “Do you know what your name means?”
“People tell me it means ‘peace,’ ” I tell Ann. “But I don’t think names mean anything. They are just what you are called so people can get your attention or yell at you.”
Ann shifts in her seat. “Do you feel peace, Serenity?”
“The preachers at church say we’ll have peace when we get to heaven,” I say.
Ann writes in her tablet. Then she asks, “Do you want peace now—here on earth?”
I nod my head. “I don’t understand why we have to wait.”
Ann writes more in her tablet.
“Why are you writing down what I say?”
“Oh, these are just notes for me to remember what we’ve discussed. Do you want me to put it away?”
I shrug my shoulders.
Ann clears her throat. “You started school today, right?”
“Yeah.”
“How was it?”
“Fine,” I answer.
“What was the best part?”
“Um, well, I guess having my friend Maria from church there,” I say.
“That’s nice. To have someone you know there.”
“Yeah. Maria is nice.”
“What are some of the things you like about her?” Ann talks slow and soft. I can barely hear her sometimes because of the heavy rain that is hitting the window. I watch the drops of water race each other, then disappear once they hit the windowpane. “Serenity—what do you like about Maria?”
I say the first thing that comes to mind. “She doesn’t make me talk when I don’t want to.”
Ann takes a sip of her coffee. “You don’t want to talk?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You’re doing fine,” Ann says. “There’s not something you have to say.” She pauses and smiles at me. “And you know, you can talk to me about anything. Nothing has to be off-limits.” Ann closes her notebook. “Can you tell me what the worst thing was that happened today?”
I didn’t know I still had tears left over from earlier. They come out before any words do. I can’t believe I’ve started crying so easily. Twice in one day. I finally catch my breath and say, “I don’t like Mrs. Wilson.”
“Who is Mrs. Wilson?”
“A teacher at my school. Her classroom is right next to my English class.”
“Why don’t you like her?” Ann asks.
“She thinks I’m going to end up like my momma.”
“What do you think?”
More tears.
“What do you think you’d be like if you ended up like your mother?”
“I’d marry the wrong guy and make excuses for him,” I say.
Ann asks, “How else would you be?”
I feel hot.
Ann asks again.
I tell her, “I’d always be hiding bruises.”
“Your father was abusive?”
I really don’t want to tell my momma’s secrets. I look down at the floor. The tears falling make my eyes blurry and the carpet looks like it’s moving. I can barely get the word out. “Yes,” I say. “He beat her all the time for no reason at all.” Part of our secret is out. It hovers in the room like a heavy rain cloud. “I don’t want to live like that,” I tell Ann.
“Do you think you have a choice?” Ann asks.
I shrug my shoulders, then shake my head. Now I can’t stop crying.
THY KINGDOM COME
• • • • • • • • • • •
Serenity Evans
Mrs. Ross, 1st Period
Poetry Workshop
Simile: Comparing two unlikely things using like or as: The snow covered the ground like a thick blanket. Write a poem about your family using similes.
My Family
My family is like a roller coaster
going up and down, high and low
through the joys and pains of life.
My father’s anger was like hot, boiling water.
My mother’s tears fell down her cheeks like waterfalls.
My brother hid like a turtle disappearing in its shell.
My grandparents’ house is like a shelter for stray puppies.
My family is like a roller coaster
going up and down, high and low
through the joys and pains of life.
The weekend is full of the usual. Friday night I go with Danny, Ricky, and Maria to the youth group’s bowling party at Interstate Lanes. Saturday I go grocery shopping with Grandma for the soup kitchen and Sunday we go to church.
Grandpa is still taking a break from preaching, but he and Grandma stay busy with the church and I think that helps them keep their minds off my momma, because whenever they stand still, even for a moment, they break into sobs. They still don’t know I can hear them through the vents. Whenever they’re sad, they go into their room and cry.
Last week I accidentally walked in on Grandma while she was looking through old photo albums and crying. She was just sitting on her bed looking at a picture of my momma when she was a baby. I sat next to her and she flipped through the pages telling me all kinds of stories—Momma’s first word, her favorite toy, the day she graduated from high school. There is such sadness in Grandma’s eyes. And I never thought about it till that moment, but I bet it hurts just as bad to lose a daughter as it does to lose a mother.
Danny doesn’t cry as much. Grandpa says everyone experiences grief in different ways. Danny’s way is not doing his homework, sneaking out of church, and talking back. He’s been in trouble at school twice this week for getting smart with a teacher. Grandma has a teacher conference because of it next Friday.
When we go to church, you’d never know we were so messed up and sad at home. Like today. Grandma is singing in the choir, raising her hands to God in praise. And Grandpa is sitting in the pulpit, smiling and nodding his head in agreement with what the preacher is saying.
There is a guest minister today. He is the pastor at New Joy Tabernacle. His name is Pastor McGee. He is fat like Santa Claus but he doesn’t have a beard, and his suit is navy blue. He’s been to the house for dinner, always wearing dark suits. He never wears bright colors like his wife, who is known for her fluorescent dresses and gigantic matching hats. Every t
ime she visits our church she sits in the third row. I’m sure anyone who sits behind her can’t see the pulpit. Mrs. McGee fans herself with the bulletin, yelling piercing cheers, rooting for her husband. “Preach, Pastor! I know that’s right. Tell it like it is. Amen!”
Pastor McGee tells us to turn our Bibles to John 15. I open the Bible Grandma gave me but can’t find where John is, so I pretend that I have to get something out of my purse. Maria sees me. She scoots close to me and we read her Bible together. We follow along with Pastor McGee as he reads aloud. Maria’s finger slides across the thin paper guiding my eyes. “Jesus’ words are in red,” she whispers.
While we are reading, Karen passes a folded square to Maria. Maria opens it and we read the letter, only it looks like we are still reading the scripture. The letter is from Ricky, who is sitting behind us. I turn around. Ricky looks cute today. He always does, but Maria doesn’t think so. Ricky is too simple for her. Maria is a fancy girl. Her lips are always glossed and smell like strawberries. She matches everything—her shoes with her bag, her socks with her shirts. And her eyes are a light hazel brown, but not really. One day in the bathroom at school, she took out her contacts because they were irritating her eyes. Her eyes are dark brown like mine.
I am looking at the note, with its crease in the middle of the sentence. Ricky wants to know if she will go with him. Maria writes back, “Go where?” And we laugh out loud. Grandma gives me a look from the choir stand and I know when I get home I will get a lecture about respecting God’s house.
Communion is passed and in unison we drink small cups of grape juice, smaller than the cup that comes with cough medicine. We eat the crisp, flat wafer, and Pastor McGee reads a scripture about Jesus dying on the cross and rising on the third day. Maria accidentally drops her cup of grape juice, and Mrs. McGee turns around and clears her throat. She doesn’t like us. She is always clearing her throat and glaring at us from under her too-big hats. She is the only adult at church who never offers us any peppermint candies.
I do not pay attention to where Danny is until Grandpa asks me when church is over. I go outside to find him. “Ricky, have you seen Danny?”
“Nope. Not since Sunday school.” That was over an hour ago.
As I walk down the steps of the church, I see Danny walking up the sidewalk. He is with Jay. This is the third time Danny has left church to be with Jay. Jay smiles at me. “What’s up?” He tosses his head up in the air and asks, “You good?” Ever since the first day of school, he asks me this whenever he sees me.
“I’m good,” I tell him. I wonder what he’d do if I said I wasn’t. “Danny, Grandpa is looking for you.”
“I’m right here,” he says. Danny’s eyes are light pink and they sit low. “You got some eye drops, Maria?”
“I think so. Let me see.” Maria looks in her purse, pulls out a small bottle, and gives it to Danny.
“Thanks.” Danny squirts the last drop right when Grandma comes outside. She doesn’t ask any questions and we don’t say anything. We just wait for Grandpa to bring the car around. Grandma taps her foot against the cement, humming the song she sang today in the choir. Grandma always hums when she is angry. I think my lecture won’t be too long. Grandma is more upset with Danny.
On the ride home everyone is silent. Except Grandma. She is still humming. When Grandpa pulls the car into the driveway, we get out and go into the house. Danny tosses his Bible on the floor in the living room and starts setting up his video game.
“Boy, have you lost your mind? Pick that Bible up off the floor and put that game away!” Grandma is standing with her hand on her hip.
“But, Grandma—” Danny is whining.
“Don’t talk back to me. Go to your room. Don’t come out till I call you.”
Danny huffs and puffs and loudly sucks his teeth, but does what Grandma says.
Grandma gives him her stern look. “Something caught in your teeth?”
“No, Grandma.” Danny goes to our room. I follow him. “Don’t start with me,” he says. He takes his shoes off, but not the rest of his clothes, and stretches out across his bed.
“What do you mean don’t start? You started it by leaving church. Why are you giving Grandma a reason to fuss at you?”
“I ain’t giving her or you no reason to say nothin’ to me!”
“You left church!” I say. Then I lower my voice. “And you’re smoking weed. Are you crazy?”
Danny gets up and goes into the bathroom, even though I can tell he doesn’t have to use it. He just doesn’t have any other place to go. I stand at the door trying to think of something to say to him, but I can’t think of anything that won’t make him more mad. So I just go in my room and change out of my church clothes.
I try to start my homework, but all I’m doing is doodling and drawing on my paper. I’ve been wasting time for about an hour when my grandma lets us know it’s time for dinner.
“All right, you two, time to eat!” Grandma calls us and we go to the dining room. Grandpa says a prayer over the food and we all start eating. “Honey, you’ve outdone yourself,” he says as he eats Grandma’s rice and gravy. “You need to go ahead and write that cookbook you keep talking about.” Grandpa scrapes the last bit of food off his plate. Grandma just smiles and serves him another helping. “Serenity, did you know your grandma is going to put a cookbook together?”
“No,” I say. I eat a bite of my pork chop.
“We’ll sell it locally first, but I know it will be a success. People are always asking your grandmother for recipes. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”
Grandma nods her head. “I know hundreds of recipes. Serenity, I was hoping you’d help me make some of them, test them out, and see which ones should go in the book. Would you like to help?”
“I have too much homework,” I tell her. Now I just want to get up and leave the table. I do not want to talk about cooking. I have lost my appetite and take a drink of my water.
Grandpa looks at Danny. “Bet you could make time for taste testing, huh?”
Danny shrugs his shoulders but half smiles, happy that someone has finally talked to him. I think he feels less in trouble now that he’s a part of the conversation.
Grandma clears her throat. “Mr. Daniel Lee Evans won’t be doing any special activities if he skips out on church again.” She looks at him, one eyebrow arched, her lips pursed together. “I don’t like that Jay boy. You don’t need to be hanging around him.”
“You don’t even know him,” Danny says, avoiding her eyes. “Why don’t you like him?”
“I think you know the answer to that question, Danny.” Grandma looks at my grandpa like she wants him to say something.
Grandpa says, “He’s not a bad person. He’s just not doing anything positive. You need to be around people who are doing something with their life. We don’t want you picking up his ways. I hear Jay barely goes to school,” Grandpa says. “It’s like the Bible says, ‘Bad company ruins good intentions.’ ”
Danny looks at Grandpa and asks, half defiant and half sincere, “Where does it say that?”
“First Corinthians 15:33,” I blurt out. Then I feel bad for making it seem like I’m a know-it-all. I only know because it was a memory verse last week. I want to tell Danny that I don’t know everything, that I couldn’t even find the verse in church today. But I don’t say anything.
Grandma asks if we have finished our homework. We both say no. Danny says he has to finish his math. “What do you have left?” Grandma asks me.
“I have to read one of Maya Angelou’s poems and write a reflection.” Grandma asks me which one. I excuse myself from the table and get my folder. I pull out the handout Mrs. Ross gave us. “ ‘Still I Rise,’ ” I tell her.
Grandpa sits back in his chair, looking too full to eat another bite. “That’s one of your favorites, isn’t it?” he says to Grandma.
“Yes, indeed. I love that poem. Seems like Maya wrote that one about me.” Grandma recites part of her favorite
stanza. She performs the poem like she’s on stage, softening her voice or making it loud for dramatic effect. Then Grandma shouts the last line, lifting her hands to the ceiling. She smiles. “Yes, indeed, I’ve risen out of many, many things. That poem was written for me.” She starts to clear the table.
Grandpa chuckles. “I’m sure everyone feels that way.”
Grandma opens the dishwasher and begins loading it. “I suppose you’re right,” she says. “Everybody’s risen out of something, huh?”
“What have you risen out of, Grandma?” I ask.
“Lots of things.” Grandma stops loading the dishwasher and leans against the kitchen counter.
Grandpa reminds us, “You children have heard the stories of how we marched and protested for our very freedom. For rights and equality.” He tells us stories about how it was growing up in the South when he was our age.
“But we rose out of segregation!” Grandma yells. “And we’ve overcome some personal battles.”
Grandpa adds, “Your aunt Sara was a very sick child. There were many times we thought she wasn’t going to make it.”
“And we rose out of sickness!” Grandma shouts.
“And Lord knows, we’ve had our share of times counting pennies, making ends meet.”
Grandma’s voice gets even louder. “And we rose out of poverty!”
Danny and I laugh. He isn’t mad anymore and we’re all sitting around the dining room table talking about all the good things that have happened in our family. Grandma and Grandpa go on and on for a while. They tell us about how their church used to be a tiny storefront. Less than twenty members and now it’s grown to be one of the largest churches in Portland.
“That’s why we say ‘we rise,’ children. There have been lots of things that have tried to keep us down. But we’ve got resilience running through these veins. And so do the both you,” she says.
Grandma gets back to cleaning the kitchen. She wipes the counter with a dishrag. Grandpa puts his arm around her waist, takes the rag, and says, “Go sit down, honey. You’ve worked hard enough today.” Grandpa finishes cleaning. “Danny, take out the trash, please,” he says as he starts the dishwasher.
