When the party was almost over and Izzy still hadn’t come, I got my phone from Mom’s purse to see if she had texted me, but she hadn’t. I guessed she was still angry. Or maybe jealous. Or hurt. Or busy hanging out with her cousin Carmella. I had to figure out a way to win my friend back, because come September, life in school without Izzy as a friend would be miserable. I would start thinking about what to do tonight. Or tomorrow, on the plane.
TJ stayed to help us clean up after everyone else left. “By the way, did Bob tell you who was going to play Romeo?” TJ asked, when we were finally done and walking out of the community center.
Uh-oh. Now it was TJ’s turn to feel left out. “Um . . .” I hesitated. “Actually, he said he wasn’t sure. When he was at my house, he said they were waiting to hear back from some actor, but they were pretty sure he was on board.”
“Did he say who?”
“No. He was kind of secretive about it. I wish it was you.”
“Well, alla kazoom, alla kazam, your wish has come true.”
I stopped walking and turned to him. He was smiling and his kiwi green eyes were twinkling under the streetlights.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m going to play Romeo opposite you again!”
I pushed him a lot harder than I intended to. “SHUT UP!”
“Ow! What is it with girls and shoving? I thought you’d be happy.”
“Happy! I’m . . . I’m . . .” I couldn’t find the words, so I just threw my arms around his neck and before I knew what I was doing, I had kissed him on the lips. Longer and harder than I ever had when we were in the play. My heart was beating so fast, I couldn’t believe I had just done that.
“Mango!”
I leapt away from TJ and turned to see Mom, her eyebrows lifted to her hairline.
TJ, a look of sheer terror in his eyes, said, “See you in New York!” and took off down the street.
“What was that about?” Mom said, walking up to me.
“TJ just told me he was going to New York to play Romeo again. I guess I was just shocked and . . . happy?” I had just thrown my arms around his neck and kissed him. Who did that? Who did that to a boy who was just a friend? He was just a friend-friend . . . right? I was confused and embarrassed and feeling feelings I thought I didn’t feel.
Mom took out her phone and started tapping out a text.
“What are you doing?”
“Texting your Aunt Zendaya. I just came up with a few more rules to keep you in check while you’re away.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Up, Up, and No Way!
TJ and I texted back and forth a bunch later that night.
I guessed I kind of fell asleep while we were texting. I scrolled through my texts next morning with a silly smile on my face, giddy that I’d have a friend from Trueheart in New York with me the whole time. (Of course that was the only reason I was smiling.)
It was Sunday morning, and the sun was streaming in through the blinds as I leapt out of bed. I lifted one of the slats, the way Mom always told me not to, and looked out at my street. The buildings across the way, the sad little trees that lined the curb along my block . . . I didn’t know what it was, but all of a sudden I was starting to feel this hollowness in my stomach, like what had been inside me was scooped out.
I backed away from the window and looked around my room: my desk, the swivel chair, my bed, the life-size poster of my BCF Gabriel Faust hanging on the inside of my closet door. My nightstand with the lamp and shade I had gotten to choose all by myself for the first time. The family picture we had taken at the JC Penney Portrait Studio a year earlier. Jasper was wearing his Elmo onesie, because he used to burst into tears when he didn’t have it on. I smiled, thinking of how Mom had bought three of the same onesies so he didn’t smell like sour milk and drool every day of the week. The hollowness in my belly was beginning to expand, and suddenly I knew what I was feeling. I was homesick even before I’d crossed the threshold of my own bedroom.
In the car on the way to the airport, the hollowness began to overwhelm me. I had tried to ignore it earlier, but now it was creeping up my skin like moss on tree bark. I could barely force down the special breakfast Dada had prepared earlier of all my favorites: pommes dauphinoise (a fancy French way of saying cheesy scalloped potatoes), his homemade spicy turkey sausage with sage and jerk, gashouse eggs (where the eggs are fried in a piece of toast with a hole in it), and fresh squeezed tangerine and lime juice. I knew he had gotten up early to make this just for me, but I couldn’t swallow through the lump that was growing in my throat—because I would miss him so much.
Rolling down the freeway, I turned away from Jasper, who was pointing at all of the cars out the window and identifying them by saying, “Dah! Cah! Dah! Cah!”
How much would he grow in the six weeks I would be away? Would he remember me when I came back? Would I even recognize him? Toddlers grew so fast. I couldn’t believe I was going to miss some of those precious moments with him. I wished I had an 8 x10 photo of myself that I could frame and give to him, so his memory of me wouldn’t be completely replaced by his obsession with Izzy.
My forehead was hot. I felt as though I were getting a fever, so I leaned my face against the cool window. Mom, in the passenger seat, turned around and asked, “Mango? You okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why are you sitting there scrunched up like that?”
“I don’t know, Mom.”
“Dah! Cah!”
“Maybe she didn’t eat enough breakfast,” Dada said. “I cooked up all her favorites and she just kept moving things around the plate.”
“She’ll be sorry tomorrow, because she isn’t going to get a breakfast like that for a long time,” Mom remarked. “Not with Zendaya’s 'stick the frozen mess in the microwave and hope for the best’ cooking.”
Dada chuckled. “I’ll never forget the time she blew up the microwave when she called herself cooking Thanksgiving dinner.”
“She was heating up the ham still wrapped in foil!” Mom and Dada laughed. The sound of them being so happy together sucked me deeper into a quicksand of homesickness. It was about to pull me completely under and make me change my mind about going.
“Dah! Cah!”
“She set off smoke detectors all over the building.”
“The fire department came out on Thanksgiving Day!”
Dada asked, “Didn’t Zendaya get engaged to one of the firemen she met?”
“Yeah, but he came to his senses before he let her lure him down the aisle!”
I couldn’t take it anymore! I was about to yell, STOP! TURN THE CAR AROUND! I WANT TO GO HOME! But we had already arrived at the airport. Dada pulled a ticket from the dispenser, glided into the parking garage, and found a space near the elevator, a stroke of luck that made him start beat-boxing and jerking his shoulders up and down like the fourth place loser in a B-boy dance contest.
Before I knew it, we were at the gate, (my family had arranged to accompany me all the way, since I was a minor), and there, waiting for me, was Bob. He had delayed his own flight to New York so we could fly together and he could deliver me directly to Aunt Zendaya. That was the only way my parents felt comfortable about me flying without them.
Bob opened his long arms and wiggled his jazz hands. “Mango-Mango, are you as excited as I am?”
As he reached for me, well . . . I couldn’t help it. I bent forward and hurled special occasion breakfast chunks all over his Crocs. Ugh!
Public humiliation overshadowed everything! Homesickness. Embarrassment. Being misunderstood. EVERYTHING! Public humiliation in an airport, where there were hundreds of people sitting around waiting semi-patiently until it was time to board their flights, with nothing better to do than gawk at Gross Girl from the planet Vomit, was worse than dying of thirst in the middle of the desert with dung beetles crawling all over you. At least, that’s what I felt like at that moment.
Mom and Dada assumed I threw up because I was nervous abo
ut flying without them for the first time. Bob cracked, “Hey, I know my Crocs aren’t as cool as they used to be, but that’s no reason to barf all over them.” And Jasper, well, I really don’t know what Jasper thought, but he clapped and cheered when he saw what I did.
As Bob kind of hopped/limped to the restroom to wash off his Crocs, the airport ticket clerk made an announcement loud enough to be heard on the farthest of Jupiter’s 67 moons. “Cleanup at Gate 23. Cleanup at Gate 23. Nervous flyer stomach action.” Dada led me to a seat upwind of the foul evidence of my misery. He sat me between him and Mom, who was holding onto the leash attached to Jasper’s teddy bear backpack. He was a known wanderer, so the leash helped keep him within five feet at all times.
Dada smiled, wiping my face with his bandanna. “You’re going to be okay, Mango gal. The flight is just under three hours. Before you know it, you’ll be hugging your aunt and getting ready to be a star.”
“I’m not worried about flying.”
Mom furrowed her brow. “You feeling sick? Flu? Virus?”
“No! I’m just . . . I’m gonna miss you. All of you.”
Dada put his arm around me and hugged me close. “Oh, baby girl, we’re going to miss you, too.”
Bob came back from the restroom just as they were announcing the boarding for our flight. His Crocs were making a squishy kind of sound, but he said they were a cinch to clean and he couldn’t even smell the vomit anymore. Lovely.
My family and I shared the long, tight kind of hug that made it hard to breathe, but I didn’t care. I inhaled the coconut butter scent of Mom. I lifted Jasper, whose neck smelled of baby oil and cereal. Dada held me long and hard as I breathed in his natural woody scent mixed in with spices from my special breakfast. As I got in line, I wrapped my hand in Dada’s hands, which were calloused and rough from years of chopping, cutting, cooking, and “just growing up a bwoy in the mountains of Jamaica.”
It wasn’t easy, but finally I let go, had my ticket scanned, and stepped into the tunnel thing that takes you to the door of the plane. The flight attendant was all smiles, greeting us as we boarded.
Bob placed our bags in the overhead bin and insisted I take the window seat. That was very nice of him and very necessary for me, because as the plane took off, I had to turn my face toward the window so he couldn’t see the tears rolling down my cheeks.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Aunt Butterfly
Bob had planned on using our time on the plane to go over script changes together, but I slept through most of the flight, my face smooshed up against the window. When I woke up, I had to move, bend, and stretch my neck to remind myself that it was connected to my shoulders. Also, I needed to use the restroom, but Bob, in the aisle seat, was now sleeping—head back, mouth open, long snorting snores sleeping. I tried my best to hold it because I didn’t want to wake him, but once my legs started jiggling, I knew it was time to go. So, what did I do? I unbuckled my seatbelt and crawled over him, of course. I kind of felt like Spiderman, the way I stretched my leg across Bob’s seat and grabbed onto the seatbelt sign above to steady myself, trying my best not to disturb him.
I succeeded! As I made my way up the aisle, I noticed most people were sleeping or playing games on phones or watching movies. But some glanced up and kind of smirked at me. Some glanced up and gave me a pitying look before quickly turning away. Huh? I thought to myself, Hey, you could be looking at the next big Broadway star and you don’t even know it. One day, you’re going to wish you’d asked for my autograph.
Both restrooms were occupied, so I shimmied a bit as I waited. Finally, one of the doors opened and a little old-fashioned lady came out. I say “old-fashioned” because she was wearing a hat like ladies used to do in old movies. It had a net that covered half her face. She smiled up at me and said, “Oh, you poor dear. You’re the girl who threw up in the airport, aren’t you? Well, no need to cry. It doesn’t matter in the least.”
I kind of smiled and nodded, thinking, Cry? Who’s crying, lady? I went into the restroom, closed the door, and slid the lock into place. Turning to the mirror, I saw why people were giving me odd looks and 1940s grandma thought I was crying. My entire Afro puff was a wreck. It was smashed flat on one side so it looked like I had a flying saucer tilted on top of my head. And my face, OMGZ! My face was streaked with salty, dry tear tracks. Holy mortification! I looked so horrible, I forgot how badly I had to pee and set about washing my face and re-puffing my hair STAT! (That was a little term I learned studying for a medical degree by watching Grey’s Anatomy.)
The whole situation set me back. I mean, really? One humiliation after another. First, I was the girl who threw up. Then, I was the girl who looked like she crash-landed from another planet. I was so embarrassed, I wanted to spend the rest of the flight in the restroom, but I knew that wasn’t possible. So, I thought about what my mom told me to do one time when I was afraid. It happened when I was seven and we lived in a building where the girls who lived downstairs would try to scare me by peeling their eyelids back. Mom told me, “Just because you’re afraid doesn’t mean your enemy has to know it. Act like you’re brave, they’ll think you’re brave, and then, guess what? You’ll be brave.”
I put on a smile and looked at myself in the cramped mirror. My hair was re-puffed. The tear stains had been wiped away with wet paper towels. I had relieved myself, and so now it was time to leave the restroom. Yes, I was humiliated, but I didn’t have to let the rest of the passengers know. If I acted confident, like I thought I was beautiful, then they would think I was confident and beautiful. Right, Mom? It had worked on the bullies when I was seven, and I hoped it would work again now.
I opened the door and walked with my head held high. I moved like a superstar, doing the kind of walk I did when I was playing Juliet, a famous singer winning a Grammy in Yo, Romeo! And guess what? No one noticed me, because they were all facing the same direction I was walking. No one could see me, unless they literally had eyes in the back of their head. Oh well.
When I got back to my seat, Bob was waking up. The Fasten Your Seatbelt sign dinged on, and it was almost time to land. I decided I would stick with this confident posture as I left the plane and came face to face with New York City for the first time since I was five years old.
When we got to the baggage claim area, a whirl of color came twirling toward me and Bob—oohing, cooing, and pecking me with kisses and compliments. “Oh my goodness, look at how beautiful you are. Girl, where’d you get them long legs? Look at you! You’re way too old to be my niece. We’ll have to tell everybody we’re sisters. Twins, as beautiful as you are!”
Aunt Zendaya was draped in long colorful robes that looked sort of African and sort of like a Japanese kimono at the same time. The fabric was flowy and covered in swirls of primary colors, and the sleeves were long, like wings. Her head was wrapped in matching cloth, her fingers were covered in jewelry made with wire and colorful stones, long earrings dangled from her lobes, and without a drop of makeup, her skin shone like she had her own personal spotlight following her everywhere she went. As she twirled around to greet Bob, who was staring at her with his mouth open, her sleeves billowed out, and I could have sworn she was a human-size butterfly. Yes, that was it. Aunt Zendaya was a butterfly, and Mom was a moth. Related, but very, very different.
I think Aunt Zendaya was actually flirting with Bob, the way she giggled and lightly touched his arm at everything he said. I believe he was flattered, by the way he blushed and sucked in his stomach. The whole situation was becoming a little awkward, so I was glad when Bob finally left to catch a cab up to Harlem.
As we left the terminal and headed for the garage, Aunt Zendaya went on and on about how much I’d grown since the last time we were together. It was kind of hard to hear her with the sounds of horns honking, traffic, and whistles blowing all around me. I was so busy looking this way and that that I almost walked into the cart loaded with my luggage.
“Do you have a map app on your phone?” Au
nt Zendaya asked. She lifted the creaking trunk of what looked like the kind of car you’d see in movies from the sixties, except this one had big rings of rust and the back fender was a completely different color than the rest of the car.
“Is this your car Aunt Z?”
“No, my friend Esteban let me borrow it to pick you up. Isn’t it amazing? It’s a classic. A relic from the past.”
Looked more like a wreck that wouldn’t last to me, but it wouldn’t have been polite to say that. So I just nodded as we loaded my rolling suitcase into the trunk and Aunt Z slammed it shut. The doors creaked as we opened them and took our seats. I was surprised to see that the seat belt fastened across my lap, like the one on the airplane. I was used to seat belts that crossed my chest. I must’ve been frowning or something, because Aunt Zendaya asked, “Is something wrong, sweetie?”
“Uh, no . . . I was just wondering if this car was safe.”
“Honey, this car has been running since before both of us were born, and that says something.” She turned the key in the ignition and after a wheezing protest, the car rumbled to a start. Then she flicked a switch and there was a horrible craning sound that made me jump in my seat. When the roof of the car started lifting, I reached for the door handle.
Aunt Zendaya grabbed my arm, laughing, and said, “Haven’t you ever ridden in a convertible before?”
As the horrible noise continued, I turned and watched the top as it creaked and groaned down into a space behind the back seat.
“All right!” shouted Aunt Zendaya. “Let’s get it, let’s go!”
The car glided smoothly out of the parking lot, and it was pretty cool seeing JFK airport from a car without a roof. Aunt Zendaya went on and on about how happy she was that we would get to spend six whole weeks together, how many things there were to show me, how much we had to talk about and learn about each other. While I was interested in everything she had to say, my eyes were so busy taking in all there was to see that I could barely keep up. All at once, my regular old summer vacation had turned into a real adventure!
Summer in the City Page 5
