Jumped

by Rita Williams-Garcia

  True, I admired my beauties when I had them spread out on the floor at home, but seeing them displayed in the gallery is entirely special. When you stand before all your work hanging up like that, you appreciate the colors, the music, the mixes. That’s your work, your talent out on display. It’s like the world can witness your greatness and you don’t have to say a word.

  I don’t even have to lie. My homeroom teacher knows I have the antsies and lets me go.

  Pobrecita. She needs a mirror. Doesn’t she know how dumb she looks, waving her arms like an ape, banging against that teacher’s door? Where is AP Shelton when kids are acting up?

  Me, AP Shelton would catch, but boy-girl banging against the door—he’ll walk the other way like she’s invisible. What? Oh, who cares? Let me tiptoe down these stairs and skip over to the gallery.

  Mwaam, mwaam, mwaam. Is it conceited to want to kiss your own work? I can truly, truly say I know what it is to be like Picasso. People will gather around and will not be able to move from wherever they’re standing. This is even better than the “Oh, shnikies.” Better and deeper. I could die right here and now, with my artwork the last thing I see, and I would die happy. Like I filled in that blank Ms. Bauer wanted me to complete in my journal.

  Now, Mami wouldn’t appreciate me leaving her all alone, but I would be like a dead saint and she would keep my room like a shrine and gaze at my artwork and miss me.

  Oh, look. Mr. Sebastian gave me my own nameplate.

  17

  Damaged

  LETICIA

  I DON’T SEE THE PURPOSE OF GYM. You go down to the lockers. Three minutes. Take off your street shoes and take off your clothes. Three minutes. Remove your earrings, bracelets, chains, and rings. Two minutes. Put on your shorts and T-shirt, stretching the neck wide to protect your hair. Two minutes. Then put on your sneakers. Add it up. A lot of time already, right? Then you go to the gym, find your spot, and squat on that dirty floor a mop hasn’t touched because there’s only one janitor in this whole building. You watch Ms. Capito if you’re in Part B, or Ms. Nunke if you’re in Part A, demonstrate how to hit a ball, throw a ball, kick a ball, block a ball, catch a ball, and then for the next fifteen minutes it’s your turn. You hit, throw, kick, block, or catch whatever ball it is. After, Ms. Capito blows the whistle and you run down to the lockers, throw yourself together in six minutes, and be in the hallway fresh and ready for the next period.

  My point is, you spend more time changing than getting exercise, and if you care about your hygiene a little bit, you have to push some girl out the sink so you can splash water where you sweat, towel off, and roll on Secret. We have showers but my naked piggies aren’t touching those mildewy tiles while that hard, rusty water hits my delicate skin. One janitor, remember?

  Gym is one inconvenience on top of another. It might be a big-girl thing but I don’t like to sweat. Nothing good comes from hard work and sweat dripping off your body. For one, you stink and you don’t want stink-dried stains under your arms when you sit next to Chem II James in eighth period. All because you put effort into catching, kicking, and running after a ball. Leave that to Dominique and the gym leaders. Leave that to folks who care. All I have to do to pass this class is get dressed, line up, bounce whatever ball we’re bouncing once, then get back into my clothes. That will get me a 70 and enough credits to move on to the next round.

  Today we’re all lined up, six girls by six girls, doing arm raises. I’m hiding behind Anabel Winkler because Anabel stands out with her long arms and legs. If Ms. Capito focuses on Anabel, she’s not focusing on me. My arms are sort of up. Not over my head, but you shouldn’t be able to see that. I’m chilling, not sweating.

  Just when I think she’s not paying me any mind, Capito snags me anyway. “Come on, Moore. This is good for you.” She strolls between the rows with her whistle and clipboard. Ms. Capito is cute with her Dutch boy haircut, those tight little muscles on her pencil legs and arms. But don’t let that little lady fool you. Ms. Capito doesn’t mess around. Ms. Capito demands all-out participation, which is why I hide behind Anabel.

  “I’m doing it,” I say. “See?” This time I raise my arms a smidge higher, making a wide V. All the way up and all the way down makes you sweat. This is only one of the warm-up exercises. I’m pacing myself.

  “All the way. Come on, Moore. You can do it.”

  “How’s this good for me, Ms. Capito? You know I’m sensitive to sweat.”

  “You’re fat. This will break up that lard.”

  Ms. Capito will snap on you without smiling. Lucky for her this isn’t a new conversation. No one laughs or waits for my reaction. Instead her snap sounds weak, like she’s saying, “How ya doing, Leticia?” I don’t stress. I know she loves me.

  “Sweating is good, Moore. If you’d shake it up, you’d sweat. You sweat, you lose.”

  “What makes you think I want to lose anything? I want all this here.”

  Plus I have asthma. I do. I’m supposed to take my time and not exert myself. I’m supposed to take it easy.

  Ours is one of the biggest gyms in the city. The wooden divider keeps two boys’ classes on one side while we have two girls’ classes going on this side—Gym Part A and Gym Part B. We’re both learning volleyball, except our class is a day behind Nunke’s class. I know that because they already did what we’re doing today. We’re learning how to pass it to each other. They’re smacking it hard over the net. It’s not that I care what’s going on in Part A, but it dawns on me when I look over there. Dominique is in Part A with Ms. Nunke.

  I don’t want to stare at Dominique too hard but I can’t turn away either. She wants Nunke to let her smack the ball but Ms. Nunke sends Dominique to the end of the line. It’s kind of funny, but I don’t want Basketball Jones catching me grinning. You know she used to carry her basketball—I’m not lying—to class, until AP Shelton made her stop.

  I face front. Who knows what sets her off. I mean, what did Trina do to her, besides skip by being Trina? And even if I saw what I thought I saw, maybe it’s over. A thing of the moment. Over and forgotten. Now all she wants is her turn at the net. She’s not thinking about Trina.

  I don’t know why Bea’s getting all excited. All You gotta tell her, Leticia.

  Capito says, while our gym leader demonstrates, “Raise your hands with your elbows bent, forming a triangle. Cup your hands slightly, like this. Then release!”

  I look at the gym leader and do what she does. Hold my hands, fingers curved, then pop my fingers open for the release. We do that ten times in a row. Triangle, cup, pop. I’m not sweating so I don’t mind the finger exercises. I admire the shooting stars on my square-tipped nails while I cup and release my fingers.

  The gym leader pops and releases the ball up into the air. Capito runs under the ball, holds her hands up in the triangle, and then pops it back. The ball balloon floats between them. They stand in place, not even running for the ball. Not grunting or sweating. Just lightly popping the ball back and forth. I almost like it. It looks easy.

  “Imagine the sun setting,” Capito says, “and it’s hot. You don’t want to get burned so you release it quickly with your fingertips.” Then she pairs us with partners so we can pass the white floaty sun back and forth.

  I say to Anabel, “Look. I’m not running to get under the ball, so set it right.”

  Tall Anabel says, “I’m just gonna throw. Whatever happens, happens.”

  I make the triangle and wait.

  Anabel doesn’t even try to set the sun like Capito showed us. Instead she throws the ball over my head and I look at her, then I look at the ball sail by.

  “I’m not chasing after no ball.”

  Anabel stands there tapping her large sneaker. She’s not chasing after it either.

  Another girl kicks the ball to me and I kick the ball back to Anabel. This time when Anabel tosses it up, it falls just right. I don’t even have to move. Just cup my fingers into the triangle and tell myself, Here comes the sun. D
on’t get burnt. And I pop my fingers to release the ball, like Capito showed us. Then—

  Pop!

  My nail! My silk-wrapped, hand-painted, custom-designed, three-quarter-inch, square-cut nail tip with the sparkling faux diamond flies off my finger and shoots across the gym. I am knocking down girls in white Ts and blue shorts to rescue my custom-designed nail. As I rush to my nail, all of those months of manicure appointments, fillings, and retouches flash before me. I dive and scoop up my nail tip, saving it from being crushed by some girl thoughtlessly running to get under a volleyball.

  I am so busy blowing gym dirt off my custom-designed nail and assessing the damage that I am just now feeling the pain inflicted by that volleyball. And then I see my hand. My damaged hand. Four perfectly painted silk-wrapped nails and one fat and useless finger standing out, dead center.

  I march up to Capito and shove my custom-designed, hand-painted nail tip at her.

  “Who’s gonna pay for this?”

  She says, “Pay for what?”

  “My silk-wrapped tip, Ms. Capito. Who gonna pay?”

  She laughs at me like we was doing our daily joke, but joke time is over. I am serious.

  “Someone’s got to pay,” I tell her. “Someone’s got to take responsibility. This cost money. This happened here and you’re the adult in charge. What are you going to do about this, Ms. Capito?”

  Ms. Capito holds my hand to get a good look, then says, “I’ll write you a pass to get it cleaned up.”

  I snatch my hand back. “I don’t care about a pass. I want action. I’ve been damaged.”

  18

  All-Ball Girl

  DOMINIQUE

  I LIKE GYM. I don’t cut gym. I don’t have a problem with gym. Just folk dancing. I’ll sit out if we’re folk dancing. Big cramps if we’re do-si-do’ing.

  Just give me ball days. Show off my ball skills. My hustle. My drive. I’m here for ball days. I’ll suit up. I’ll play. Yeah. Give me all ball days. I’m an all-ball girl.

  Brown ball. That’s my thing. That’s me. Spanking the court with the brown ball, passing, shooting. Brown ball is fitted for my hands. The right fit in the curve of my hand. Only feels wrong when the ball’s not sucked into the curve of my hand. Vacuum sucked. If it’s up to me, we’ll play brown ball all year long. All-ball girl.

  But I’ll play what we got. Any ball. Toss it here. I’ll play it. Throw it. Hit it. Defend it. Score it. Knock it down. Just let it be a ball day. Not a health film day. Not a folk-dancing day. As long as it’s a ball day, I’ll play. You know it: all-ball girl.

  We’re still on the white ball. Volleyball. Nunke and the gym leader, Crawford, demonstrate the spike at the net. Nunke throws the ball up. The ball arcs right. Crawford, in that white student leader uniform, runs and leaps like she’s in ballet class. Runs, leaps like she’s in a tutu. Runs, leaps, and taps the white ball with her open hand. Just a tap. A ballerina tap. And they do it again. Up, arc, then run, leap, tap.

  Enough demonstrations. We get it. Let’s do it.

  We line up for our turn at the net. Our turn to do it. Spike it over the net. I jump to the front, but Nunke points to the back. “Come on,” I say. Nunke says, “Back of the line, Duncan,” sounding like Coach. I can’t believe she won’t let me slide, but she’s not hearing me. She points. “Back, Duncan.” So I go back. The last girl on line.

  It’s all right. I’ll get my shot. That’s what I tell myself while I wait. I watch Nunke set it and the girls try to hit it. Nunke sets it up, right. And if a girl misses it, she doesn’t go to the end of the line. That’s your turn, you’re done. Scram. No. Crawford throws the ball back to Nunke and Nunke sets it again.

  And I’m watching the clock. Watching the misses. Counting the girls on line. Thirty, forty girls ahead of me. A minute a girl. And all I want is a hit. Just one, just one. Let me hit one.

  I’m tasting it. When my turn comes up, it won’t be about run. It won’t be about leap. It won’t be about tap. When Nunke sets it straight up, as it falls a little to the right, I’ll charge the net, haul back, and kablam. A hammer slam. My hand’s throbbing, from the back of the line. Throbbing. I’m tasting the smack of the ball. The white, soft, hard leather. That feels good against your hand, yo. That sting is so good, your skin turns white, and then the blood comes back. It hurts, but that hard, hard slap is good. And you want that soft white ball one more time. One more hit.

  Let me get one. Let me get one. One good hit. One solid slap.

  The line is moving. I’m two girls away. But I take my eye off the clock for a second and the bell rings. Once that bell rings it’s chickens fleeing the coop. All balls drop. All the little chick-chicks go running to the lockers, but I grab Crawford and say, “Hey. Just one. Set me up one.”

  She says, “I gotta go.”

  I pick up the white ball and throw it at her. Crawford’s quick. She’s not a gym leader for nothing. She catches it and gives in.

  “Just one,” she says.

  “That’s all I asked for.” So I’m in position, right. A few feet from the net, strong side. I’m looking up, ready to charge, haul back, and slap that ball down. She sets, but she doesn’t set it right. I can get a piece of it, but it’s too low. I’d have to tap it and I’m not here to tap nothing.

  “No, no. That’s not it. Put it up. Straight up.”

  Crawford knows she ain’t going nowhere until she does it right. So she sets it, perfect frog arms spring, and it’s up, straight up, ninety degrees. I’m off. I’m charging. I’m under it, and it’s hanging in the sweet spot, and pss-slap! Hammer to the nail. A spinning rocket to the back court line. That was good contact. Good slap. Good sting. My hand is burning. I could hit another.

  19

  Slamming on the Brakes

  LETICIA

  I CAN’T MISS AP SHELTON standing in the stream of kids, and he can’t miss me, headed right at him. Our eyes lock. There’s no turning away from me.

  “Miss Moore,” he says.

  “AP Shelton,” I say right back. “I was damaged in your school and I want to know what you intend to do about it.”

  AP Shelton is the right person for this job. He is a serious man. He scrunches the lines in his forehead, taking in the gravity of my complaint. He’s ready to do what assistant principals do.

  “Walk with me to my office,” he says. His voice dips low, in a hush. “I want to know exactly what happened.”

  We’re walking but I can’t contain myself. Something must be done now. The sooner he knows, the sooner he can take action. I thrust my disfigured hand in his face. I want him to see what class participation got me. I say, “I hope this school has insurance, because this happened in your gymnasium during a volleyball exercise.”

  AP Shelton slams on the brakes. We’re no longer speeding to his office. He looks at my wounded hand and my severed silk-wrapped nail tip and says, “Go to class, Miss Moore.”

  I can’t breathe. Not even Bridgette and Bernie believe me when I say I have asthma, but I feel an attack coming on. I manage to find a breath and say, “But my hand. My hand is damaged.”

  He sighs. Sighs. That only makes my outrage climb. In fact, my outrage is halfway to heaven.

  “Go to the girls’ bathroom and run cold water over it. I’ll write you a pass.”

  I stamp my feet. “I don’t want a pass. I want action. I was damaged during gym. My hand and my property. Someone has to pay. Someone has to be responsible.”

  He alternately nods yes and no and sings, “Oh, I agree, Miss Moore.”

  Is that a smirk? A smirk and a song? Oh no, he didn’t just smirk at me in my hour of pain and loss of property. I tell him, “My parents will be in your office bright and early, AP Shelton. They’ll want to talk to you.”

  Now it’s out-and-out smirking. He says, “Good, Miss Moore. I’ll want to talk to them.”

  “I’m serious, AP Shelton.”

  “Go to class, Miss Moore.”

  I need to make a call. I can’t worry
about getting caught with Celina because this is a medical emergency. Instead of going to class I slip inside the Media Center. Mrs. Thomas, the media specialist, is tucked away in her little office, so I duck down into a PC cubicle, stay low, and hit 1 on speed dial for Bridgette.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Mommy, it’s bad. It’s so bad.”

  “What, ’Ticia? Tell me.”

  “We have to sue the school, Mommy.”

  “What?”

  Her heels are clicking, like she’s walking away so she can explode in private. That’s right, Bridgette. Let that outrage climb sky-high.

  “For what they made me do.”

  It was quiet on the other end. She’s having palpitations, imagining the worst, which is how it should be.

  “They made me participate in volleyball.”

  “What?”

  “Volleyball, Mommy,” I said. “They made me set the sun and hit the sun and the ball hit me and tore off my custom-designed nail tip. The one with the faux diamond.”

  “’Ticia. Is this why you called me at my job? Do you know I’m in the middle of a presentation? Do you know I have an office full of people waiting on me and you’re telling me about some volleyball and some fake nail? Girl…”

  “It broke down to the skin, Mommy. The meat and everything. I can’t even write. My hand is in pain.”