“Go to the nurse’s office. Put some ice on it.”
“But I can’t write or hold nothing in this hand.”
“You holding the phone, aren’t you?”
“Mommy.”
“Deal. It’s only temporary, ’Ticia.”
“Didn’t you hear me? My nail didn’t just chip. It broke. I can barely move my finger, it’s so swollen. And the school’s not doing anything about it.”
She is puffing hot air on the other end. Celina picks up all of that. “What do you want from me?”
Is that any way to talk to your only child? The only child you will ever have? Is that how you do your beloved child?
“Mommy, please come to school to pick up my nail and then go to the Golden Blossom Nail Salon and give Girl Number Four twenty dollars to fix it. Tell her I have it wrapped in tissue so she doesn’t have to create a new one.”
There is a long silence, like our connection has been dropped. Celina does the best she can but sometimes Celina drops the ball.
Finally she says, “’Ticia, honey. It can wait for Friday. Saturday.”
“Mommy, didn’t you hear me? It’s a deep wound. Down to the flesh. I can’t do anything with this hand. It can’t wait for Friday or Saturday.”
Then there is nothing. Dead nothing. In fact, the screen goes from CALL to wallpaper. I hit redial. I aim Celina just right so she has three bars. My little girl is trying to get that connection. Celina’s ringing, ringing. Pick up, Bridgette. It’s your baby. Pick up.
I gasp. It’s worse than AP Shelton slamming on the brakes outside his office. Bridgette either turned her phone off or clicked IGNORE CALLER.
It takes me a minute to recover. Outrage on top of outrage. I only have so much time, so I pull myself together and hit 2 on speed dial.
“Daddy…”
By the time I finish it’s understood that Bernie is to skip lunch, pick up the nail at school, and then drive down to the Golden Blossom Nail Salon and pay Girl Number Four—the one with the mole on her left earlobe—twenty dollars for Big Sweetie. That’s what Girl Number Four calls me. Big Sweetie. “And leave her a tip, Daddy. A good tip so she’ll take care of me.”
I know how to look out for people, and I don’t appreciate a sloppy job.
20
You’re Going Down
TRINA
“CARMEN, YOU SAW IT, up on C Corridor? What did you—”
“Down
You’re going down
Unh/unh stomp-stomp-stomp
Unh/unh stomp-stomp-stomp
You’re going down”
Aw, yeah! They’re doing my stomp. Cup of spinach and slice of pizza has to wait. I got to get in on this.
“Watch my tray, Carmen?”
“Slap butt, stomp-stomp-stomp
Slap that booty, stomp-stomp-stomp
You’re going down”
In I jump, next to Mikki on the end. Right in time to come in on
“down
Unh/unh stomp-stomp-stomp
Unh/unh stomp-stomp-stomp
You’re going down”
How fly does that look? Me and the Boosters stomping feet, shaking booty, doing the cheer, five right hands pointing in unison:
“down
You’re going down
Slap/slap/slap
Going down”
Oh! Here’s my part. In double time:
“Slap/slap/slap/slap/slap/slap
Unh/unh/unh/unh/unh/unh
Clap/clap/clap/clap/clap/clap
Stomp/stomp/stomp/stomp/stomp/stomp
down”
Mikki’s going off, yo. Her feet are so fast it’s like she’s trying to lose me, but I keep up. I don’t disappoint my girl. For her “Unh/unh/unh” I’ve got “Unh/unh/unh/unh/unh/unh.” And I’m laughing, not huffing and puffing. Stomping tight with the Boosters. They’re in their blue tees. And I’m the hot-pink dot. The standout in the exclamation point. What? The lunch crowd is wowed by the hot pink. The hot chick. All you hear is Mikki, Renee, Connie, Pam, and Trina. Go, Trina. Go, Trina.
Jonesy, Malik, Devin, and the rest of the basketball team all want me to try out for cheerleaders. I’m like their lucky charm. They want me on the floor in the crunch. Can you see me out there, in the short-short skirt, the tight blue V-neck, and white pom-poms? Angie, the head cheerleader, gets blue and white stars painted on her cheeks for games. Don’t get me started painting colors on my face. All my fabulous mixes. What?
I was gassed when they begged me. “For you, Malik, I’ll try out.” But first I went to check out the squad, and thank God I saw it for myself. All I can say is no cheerleading for Trina. Angie, Nettie, and them only have two cute cheers. The rest of it is posing, doing air traffic controller signing, keeping their arms stiff and their hands fisted. They make a pyramid and who do you suppose climbs to the tip-top of nine girls? Body untouchable tight, little, and perfect, that’s who. You can’t throw me in the back. People would say, Where’s the cute one? Don’t get me wrong. Angie, Nettie, and the other girls on the squad look good. You can’t have ugly cheerleaders. Your girls take the floor and the other team points and laughs at your ugly cheerleaders. Forget about cheering the game. The other squad got cheers for the ugly girls’ faces alone. Pretty cheerleaders aren’t stereotypes. Pretty cheerleaders with bouncy hair and pom-poms are a necessity.
But see, I’m already pretty. I need to bounce. I need to shake it with a bang. Stomp in double time. Not pose and crash from the top of the pyramid. I’m practically in with the Boosters. And they wear those cute tight sweats with the matching hoodie. Add the stomp/stomp/stomp with the famous Trina shaky-shake and you set off a frenzy. The cafeteria is on fire.
So I’m going back to my table to have my pizza, collect my rah-rahs, listen to everyone tell me about my art in the gallery and my stomping with the Boosters. I thought Mikki, Pam, Renee, and Connie were about to sit down but they’re starting up another cheer.
“Carmen, please, please. Just watch it for me.” We’re getting ready to go again. They’ll want me with them. Pizza’s getting cold but I’ll eat it hard and cold later.
“When they get it we say, ‘Miss it!’
M-I-S-S I-T MISS IT!
M-I-S-S I-T MISS IT!
When we steal it we say ‘Sink it!’
S-I-N-K I-T Sink it!
S-I-N-K I-T Sink it!
And the feet go—”
Aw yeah. The whole lunchroom is stomping.
Uh-oh. The lunch cops get up and stroll to the center of the cafeteria to cool things down. I call out to Officer DaCosta, “Hey.”
She keeps a straight, tight face.
“I bet you didn’t know I had so much talent.”
She remembers me from the early morning. From the smile I put on her face.
“It’s lunchtime, not dance time,” Officer DaCosta says.
Officer DaCosta’s got juice. The cafeteria starts to chill.
Mikki, Renee, Connie, and Pam go to their table. I know I should join them but I can’t leave Carmen sitting there with my cold pizza and spinach. That wouldn’t be right.
21
Break Me Off a Piece
DOMINIQUE
I’M TRYING TO EAT THIS MEATBALL SUB. Trying to chew, get it down. But it’s noisy and crazy in here and the Boosters are stomping, french fries flying—better not fly this way—and Scotty gotta push up on me from behind, wrap himself around me, and I’m not in the mood. I don’t even want the sub.
Scotty’s like a kid tied to his mother’s lap. If she gets up to pee he’s holding on.
I push him off me, but he’s—zzt—clamped on like a magnet. I push, he clamps on. Push harder, clamp-clamp. Scotty’s like a kid and like a dog. “Sit, Scott. Sit while I shoot hoops.” “Fetch, Scott. Fetch me a water.” Sit, fetch, stay. But Scotty’s loyal. Puppy loyal with those big eyes. Does what I tell him. Awright. Stay, Scott. You can stay.
Shayne starts singing the candy bar song. “Break me off a piece of that Kit
Kat bar.” She knows I’m about to give her a tap. A little punch. So she leans back in time.
Once I broke Scotty off a piece I was stuck with him. Broke him off a piece and now he wants another. He needs to get over that. It was a one-time shot. A thing of the moment.
I was mad and had to do something and mad sex is some good shit, yo. It’s some good, mad shit. I never did that before. Not all the way. But Coach benched me and steam was rising out of my skin. Yo, I was suited up, game ready. Dressed. Ready to play. And Coach was, like, “Duncan. Bench,” like I’m some dog. Stay on that bench. That’s where you’re going to be for the rest of the season. “Duncan. Bench.” And I was mad, like, what’s that movie? Yeah. Mad like Raging Bull. So now I know why they call it “hitting it.” ’Cause I was that mad and I needed to hit something or have something hit me so I made Shayne and Viv walk up. Y’all just keep walking and we’ll catch up. It was dark. After five. So I pulled Scotty over to the side of the building, right. The Hunan Palace. And I pulled out his thing and said, “Hit it.” And those big eyes…was like all, but I wasn’t in the mood for all that. I was, like, “Hit it.” Scotty had my back banging against the brick wall. Against the brick wall of the Hunan Palace. Mad heat was pouring down my legs and all I could hear was “Duncan. Bench.” “Duncan. Bench.” “Duncan. Bench.”
Scotty reaches for a fry. I don’t care. They’re cold. Hard. No wonder kids throw them like weapons.
Viv says, “Someone needs to make her sit down.”
I tell them, “Don’t worry. I got that. I’m’o sit her pink ass down.”
Me and Viv and Shayne are laughing and watching the bitch, watching the bitch. Yea, pink bitch. Stink bitch. That’s right. Get your stomp on. Get your shake on. ’Cause you will get stomped. You will get shaken. I tell my girls, “It’s on.”
We’re laughing and Scotty’s eyes get bigger. He wants to know what’s going on. Why we’re looking over there. At the Boosters and that pink chick.
It’s as loud as hell in here. Crazy. The Boosters are singing that cheer. That “You going down” cheer. Viv starts singing along with them: “You’re going down—with a big crush.” And Shayne pipes in “At two forty-five, going down.” And it’s all to the beat.
22
It’s On
LETICIA
IT’S HARD TO EAT LEFT-HANDED but I don’t want anybody staring at my right hand. Two tables over, Dominique’s guy is hugging her up, but I’m not thinking about what’s going on with Dominique. Chem II James is walking down with his tray, searching for a spot to sit, and I’m praying he doesn’t park his tray at my table. I’m praying today isn’t the day he finds me irresistible and must be in my presence. I’ll forget myself, break out into my “cute and can’t be bothered” mode, flash my hands, thinking they’re both still gorgeous, and then he’ll see my deformed hand.
It’s so loud in here between the usual roar and the Boosters practicing that I can’t hear myself pray, and…can you believe this? Trina is stomping with the Boosters.
Chem II James takes a seat near the Boosters. And Trina. He doesn’t look this way because he’s looking that way. So I toss my head, as if anyone notices, only to find myself facing Dominique’s table. I’m looking dead at Dominique, Vivica, and Shayne, reading their lips like a deaf-mute pro. Vivica and Shayne are singing to the beat of the Boosters’ cheer, but Dominique is straight up saying it: You’re going down.
I try to pull away to not make it obvious that I’m staring at them but my eyes are locked onto their table. It’s like a movie that’s about to heat up and the dun/
dun/
dun
music plays because stuff is about to go down and you don’t dare blink or get up to go to the bathroom.
Just look at Trina. It would be almost funny if you didn’t already know she was about to get beat down. And it’s on. As sure as I’m holding a slice of pizza with my left hand, it is on. Trina’s just jumping, shaking, and stomping. Showing off that “hot chick” plastered on the seat of her pink KMarts without a clue.
Now that it’s definitely on, and I know I saw what I saw, I can honestly say I have no sympathy and this is all Trina’s fault. If Bea were here in the caf instead of working in the “real world” she’d have no sympathy either. No matter how you look at it, Trina don’t have anyone to blame but Trina. I don’t know what she did to Basketball Jones but she put herself in this fix. Just look at her. She’s doing it right now. Sticking herself somewhere uninvited. Look at Mikki and them. They’d jump her now if there wasn’t a cop stationed in every corner. They don’t want her stepping with them. They didn’t invite her, but there is Trina, soaking up their moment. Being where she shouldn’t be. Dominique might be wrong, and it might be trifling, but this is all Trina’s fault.
When you’re the outsider, you should know your situation. Know who you are when you step out. Know what you can do and can’t do. Know whose face you can be in and whose joke you can laugh at. You should know whose man belongs to who, and even if he’s on his own, you should know where he was before you came skipping along. You can’t just arrive on the scene and be jumping in everyone’s face. You gotta know where to step and how.
Even worse, not only is Trina flunking rules and history, she doesn’t have any people. If everyone knows your brothers, sisters, cousins, and the people you’re cool with, you have protection. An invisible ring of your people and their people around you. Don’t mess with Bea, ’cause she’s with Jay. Don’t mess with Jay ’cause he can handle himself and he got people. Don’t mess with Leticia because she’s with Bea. And then Bea with Jay, and there’s the invisible ring, and so on. So if you have beef with Leticia, you have to say, Do I want to have beef with Jay and his crew? See how this works? Trina don’t have people. She thinks she do, but she don’t have anyone but Trina and that pink outfit she got on.
Poor Mikki, Renee, and them. Trying to shake Trina, but she’s the chunky peanut butter clinging to the bread.
Just in time. The lady cop and her squad are on the job, shutting down the Boosters. But look at Trina. She can’t just walk back to her table. She got to do that shaky-shake thing like she can’t get enough attention. And that’s why Trina can’t blame anyone but Trina for this mess. So no. I don’t have to tell Trina a thing. This might even be good for her. She might learn a lesson.
23
Boy-girls
TRINA
THE NOISE IN THE CAF melts to a low roar. The pizza is hard and rubbery, but drinking the milk and feeling the love all around me makes the chewy dough go down smooth. And there’s much love everywhere I turn. Trina art-upon-C-Corridor love. Trina stomping-with-the-Boosters love. Much love for Trina wearing hot pink. Love all around.
When you got it, you want to spread it. Even over there, across the bench where Griffy and Pheoma slouch. Those girls need to feel the love. Always with the anger, those two. The hate. The punching. Don’t even look at them like they’re not girls because they swear they are. What? Oh yeah, we’re girls. But they don’t even try. They don’t have enough natural goodness to stretch, roll, and go in the morning. They need color. Lotion. Effort. Girls like Griffy and Pheoma, boy-girls, are not straight-out lezzies. Not like Dara and India and Nadira and them. Pheoma and Griffy aren’t handholding, smooching-in-B-Corridor, dressing-each-other-up-for-the-prom lezzies. No. Pheoma, like Griffy—who knows her real name?—are stone boy-girls. Big, beefy boy-girls with small knotted ponytails. Not bouncy-shiny-silky tails like mines. Theirs is like, Yo, let’s handle this hair, wrestle it down with a rubber band so it don’t get in the way when we’re smacking that handball into the wall. But they’re girls. You can’t tell them otherwise. They’re just boy-girls and they get mad if you look at them like Know your role, boy-girl.
Have you ever heard the whack of a ball against a hand then against the wall? Not with these gorgeous hands. Hitting a hard rubber ball against the wall. Your palm turns to shoe leather from smacking it around. Nasty orange calluses crust up
where it should be soft to tease a boy’s neck.
Once, I saw Pheoma and Griffy kick these freshmen, a couple of boys, off the handball court. That was sad funny, yo. You couldn’t help but laugh. These girls just rode up on those poor guys, took the ball while it was in play, bounced it off the concrete wall, and then threw it over the fence into the street. Griffy took out her rubber ball and she and Pheoma started smacking it up against the wall.
The two boys, those freshmen, were like, Hey! And the boy-girls were like, What? and it was over. Almost. One boy wanted to be like, What? back and tried to step, arms in motion, like he could do something. I prayed to God right there for his life. It was about to get ugly on the handball court for those little boys. Against those boy-girls. What? But God intervened through the other boy and grabbed him while his arm was waving. He said, “Let those dykes have it.” And even though his face wasn’t showing it, you know he was glad his friend stepped in, so they laughed and called Pheoma and Griffy dykes while they were walking away. Big steps, like running away.
And Basketball Girl. Dominique? Yeah. Dominique. She don’t hang with Griffy and Pheoma but she’s a stone boy-girl. Big NBA-shirt-wearing boy-girl with a cute guy hanging on her, tagging behind her. What? Cannot lie. Scotty is too hot for Dominique. Hot and pretty. Scotty could be the dream prom date in CosmoGIRL! With those eyes and that curly hair and model lips. Pouty. So pouty I want to smear lip gloss on him. Tangerine mixed with berry on those mwaam, mwaam, mwaam lips. Can you imagine lips like those saying “Baby”—I’m not even on to the kiss.
Damn! What did Basketball Girl do to deserve that? Scotty must like that manly stuff because Dominique is built like a rig. The kind that hauls a fleet of brand-new cars. And he likes that. Go figure. But yeah, Dominique’s a stone boy-girl. Ponytail, jeans, big-ass lumberjack shirt like she Brawny Girl. Never wears pinks, violets, or orange—naranja would go perfect with her skin! Never shows off her curves. You only see her legs on the court. I know she got scars. I was passing by Fourth Street Park in my cute T with the V and my shorts, blending in with the flowers, the greenery, beautifying the neighborhood. And who do you see pushing up the court like an ape, low to the asphalt, ball in one hand, other hand curled, oo-hoo-oo-hoo. Then she charges them, right? And a guy knocks her down and she gets up and I can see the blood on her knees, and I’m sorry, but what is a girl doing aping around with those gorillas? They aren’t even boys. They’re men with man stink pouring out to the sidewalk. And Scotty sitting on the park bench watching his sweetie getting knocked down by those men. But she got all those scars on her legs. Scotty don’t see those scars or he likes all that. Maybe she don’t wear a skirt to spare us from seeing those scabby legs. That can’t be pretty. But she got Scotty.
Jumped Page 7
