Peas and Carrots

by Tanita S. Davis

  “I didn’t think black people really did yoga.”

  Foster Lady inhales slowly and then breathes out. “Black people are just people, Dess. People of all kinds do whatever they feel like doing.” She exhales and smiles, bringing her arms and leg down again, standing still. “I feel like doing yoga.”

  “Yeah? So what are you…doing?” I move closer, curious. Foster Lady stands with her legs all wide, practically doing the splits, and then she stretches out her arms.

  “I was just in what’s called Tree Pose, followed by the Mountain Pose. Now I’m doing an Extended Triangle Pose, which is going to take me, next, to a Lunge….” Foster Lady goes over sideways, slowly but smoothly, her arms still outstretched. She breathes a moment, then asks, “Did you want to try it with me?”

  I hold up a hand. “Please. I am not into that hippie crap.” Foster Lady’s legs seem bigger than ever, bulging, as she uses her muscles to stay steady. It must be harder than it looks; a little sweat shines on her face and arms.

  She laughs. “That’s Hope, too. Yoga is too slow for her.”

  Riiight. Hopeless is nothing but slow. Foster Lady surprises me with her muscles and all, but I’m solid certain that Hope couldn’t stand on just one of her fat tree-trunk legs if you paid her. Where is she, anyway? You’d think her own mother would make her lazy butt get up.

  “You going to do this all day?”

  Foster Lady grins and doesn’t answer for a moment. “Breakfast will be on the table at seven, Dess. It’s written on the schedule I gave you last night. Remember?”

  “I’m not hungry, I just asked,” I say, feeling stupid. She did give me some little green piece of paper to put on my bulletin board. I’m supposed to meet a counselor today, and then she’s making me go for a doctor’s appointment. I swear she’s worse than Rena. I just went to the doctor with the group home, before school started. I keep telling these people there’s never nothing wrong with me.

  The sliding glass door rumbles in its track, and Hope comes in. She’s wearing a pair of black sweats and a T-shirt. She’s holding a laptop under one arm and a pair of little balls in her hands. She tucks the little balls behind the recliner closest to the door.

  “Hey, Dess. You got up early. You look nice.”

  What the hell does that mean? I give her the eye for a long moment, taking in her frizzy hair, T-shirt, and sweats. I wait for the clue that she’s messing with me—an eye roll, the curl of a lip. Instead, she just keeps staring. Weirded out, I mutter, “I didn’t think you were awake.”

  Hope shrugs. “I had to use the bathroom.”

  Oh, now she’s trying to start. I glance at Foster Lady. “She could’ve knocked.”

  Foster Lady just looks at Hope.

  Hope shrugs, her eyes widened. “I did. It’s okay. There are lots of bathrooms in this house. I used the other upstairs bath, then went outside and messed around with the weights while I went online.”

  I blink at her arms. She doesn’t look buffed to me. “Weights? You?”

  Hopeless looks embarrassed. She tries to roll one of the little balls across the floor toward me, but it stops before it gets more than a foot.

  I pick it up. It’s soft and small, but the side of the ball has “2.2 lbs.” written on it.

  “Huh.” I squeeze the ball in my hand and check out Hope’s long-sleeve T-shirt. The letters H and W wind together above a little white mountain range. A tree-looking blue squiggle below it is supposed to be water, I guess. “What’s that on your shirt supposed to be?”

  “It’s just the school symbol. This is the PE uniform from last year.”

  I give Foster Lady a look. “I have to wear a uniform—even at PE? Are you kidding me?”

  “The upper school at Headwaters has free-dress Fridays,” Hope interrupts. “Anyway, you’re new, so nobody’s going to care if you’re not in uniform the first day. It’s not that bad, I swear.”

  I shoot her a look, feeling panic thrum through my veins. “I am not wearing whatever crap outfit you’re wearing,” I blurt out. “Uh-uh. That’s not even legal. We have freedom of expression.”

  Hope gives a twisted little grin. “I want to hear you tell that to our principal.”

  “You think I’m playing? I will. How can you stand it, looking like everybody else?” It’s probably not that deep, but…uniforms? Seriously?

  Foster Lady interrupts. “Girls, we haven’t got time for a uniform debate. Hope, get a move on to that shower. We don’t want to be late today. Dess, since you’re ready, go in the kitchen and check the oven. The timer is—”

  “Oven?” Foster Lady is bent at the waist with her palms on the floor, her butt in the air, and her head down. “What’s wrong with the oven?”

  A deep breath. “Would you go into the kitchen and check on the frittata? The timer should be going off pretty soon.”

  Frittata? I decide not to ask. “Fine.”

  “You don’t need to take it out. Just look and see if it’s browned and turn the oven off.”

  “Got it.”

  “You don’t even need to open the oven. If it’s browned, Russell will take it out.”

  I turn away, scoffing. “Lady, I can get a pan out of the oven.” Jeez.

  “Dess, don’t try lifting that hot skillet,” Foster Lady warns, her voice rising. “It’s cast iron, and it’s heavy.”

  I walk faster. “Whatever.” Not that I signed on to do nobody’s cooking, but she must think I can’t do anything.

  As I near the kitchen, I can smell something tasty. I hear music, too, little beeps and blips that sound like a video game. On the floor in the middle of the hallway, Baby is playing with something that looks like a little TV.

  “Hey, Baby!” I stand over him a moment, waiting for him to look up and throw his arms around me. He’s pushing buttons and arrows and making something—a little airplane? a car?—spin around and shoot little balls at a line of other little balls with numbers on them. “Tip-top!” a little voice exclaims as he shoots the red ball on his plane at another red ball.

  “Tip-top!” Baby repeats.

  I reach for him, then stop. Even little guys get pissed if you interrupt their games. Sighing, I glance up and realize Mr. Carter is sitting in a chair, smiling at me.

  “Morning, Dessa. Ready for your odyssey in education this morning?”

  “Hey.” I give him a half smile. He’s wearing dress pants and slippers. I can’t see his shirt. Up top, he’s all baby, wrapped up in some kind of blue cloth sling thing. In front of him, he has a mug and the newspaper open.

  I nod at the lump. “Don’t you people ever put that kid down?”

  Mr. Carter chuckles. “We do. It’s just that Jamaira has so many awful things in her life and so few good things that we indulge her. She likes to be held, so we hold her.”

  I click my tongue like Granny Doris, sharp and critical. “You’re spoiling her.”

  “Nah.” Mr. Carter grins, cheerful. “You can’t spoil a good baby like Jamaira.” He stands carefully, adjusting for her weight, and picks up his coffee cup. “You ready for breakfast, madam?”

  “Uh…sure. Foster Lady said I was supposed to get something out of the oven—” I sneak a quick look up the hall. I saw Mr. Carter and forgot what I was doing. I thought she’d come running in here to make sure I didn’t take out that stupid pan.

  “Oh, I got the frittata out already. Do you like broccoli?”

  “It’s…all right.” There had better not be broccoli for breakfast.

  “If you don’t like it, Robin boiled some eggs. There’s also cold cereal, toast, juice, peanut butter, fruit—the usual stuff. During the school year, it’s a good idea to eat a hot breakfast, though.”

  I follow him to the kitchen, noting that I don’t smell broccoli at all but something much, much better. The skillet is on the stovetop, resting on the burner to cool. It’s huge, and I’m glad I didn’t have to take it out myself. “That’s a frittata? I thought that was a quiche.”

  For s
ome reason, I don’t mind asking Mr. Carter stuff.

  “A quiche is a tart with a crust,” he says, and I nod.

  I knew he’d know.

  “Quiches are French, while the frittata here is an Italian dish,” he goes on, carefully reaching above the counter to bring out a stack of white ceramic plates. “You want to get the forks and napkins out of that drawer to your right?”

  I grab a pair of forks and a couple of cloth napkins and follow him to the table. He puts down the plates. “Now, a strata is close to that, but it uses pieces of stale bread and milk in the layers with the eggs and the vegetables and cheese.”

  I make a face. “What?”

  “Stale garlic bread is delicious the next day in a strata. This I promise you,” Mr. Carter says. “You want some of this? There’s juice in the fridge, too, if you’d like.”

  “I’ll try some frittata,” I say. What the hell. I’ve had broccoli and eggs separately. I guess it can’t kill me to eat them together…first thing in the morning. Ugh. “Is there coffee?” I ask hopefully.

  “Oh, good, another one for my team,” Mr. Carter says. The baby makes a noise like a kitten, a tiny mewing, and he pats her on the back. “Hope and Robin drink tea. I like my coffee, and the French press is in the cabinet there.” He gestures with his chin. “But I’m going to have to leave you a moment and do some diaper duty.”

  “Eww, go—please. I’ll make my own coffee,” I say, stepping way back. There are some things I just don’t need to think about in the kitchen first thing in the morning.

  “Hey, Daddy.”

  Mr. Carter kisses Hope as they pass in the kitchen doorway. She’s wearing a braided headband pushing back her wild frizz of hair, black skinny jeans, a long-sleeve denim top, and black lace-up canvas tennis shoes. The denim shirt has that little HW mountain range and water-tree logo on the pocket. I look it over and shrug. The uniform shirt’s not that embarrassing, but Hopeless’s outfit is all her: hopelessly boring.

  “You’re making Dad coffee?” Hope asks, and I shrug again.

  “I don’t know how to do it French.”

  “I’ll show you,” Hope says. “Do you drink coffee all the time? If you do, Dad’s going to have to use an actual coffeemaker, because this only makes, like, four cups.”

  I give her a look. “I only need one.”

  Hope rolls her eyes in explanation. “Dad. He’ll drink all four, trust me. Haven’t you noticed he’s hyper?”

  I sit down at the table, reluctant to be the one to cut the frittata but not sure what else to do. It’s almost seven, and no one seems to be in any hurry to get to the charter school. It’s so different from the group home. At this hour, there’d be bacon smoking on the stove and eggs sputtering and popping in the fat, and the cook, Carol, yelling, “Order up!” like we were in a diner. People would be grabbing plates and grabbing jackets, social workers would be coming in the door, and Rena would be yelling at people to hurry and not miss the bus.

  It feels too weird to be two girls in a kitchen, just…quiet.

  I don’t like it. I know I won’t like this new school. Too much quiet, with too many rich people. And they’re crazy, all of them. Skinny little Mr. Carter. Big old Amazon lady. Hopeless and that dying kid. Everything’s messed up. Farris just had to move me in with Baby, didn’t she? My life was getting too good.

  “My tummy’s rumbling,” Baby announces, barreling into the kitchen. “Hi, Dessa!” he adds, like he hasn’t already seen me this morning.

  “Austin, what do you do if—” Hope breaks off, pausing as she dumps coffee from the grinder into the small glass pitcher. She glances at me and licks her lips. “Ask Dessa what to do if your tummy’s rumbling,” she says, and for a moment I panic. Why the hell does she want Baby asking me? And then I remember. I’m the sister. This is what I do.

  “Um…no toys at the table, wash your hands, and sit down,” I say, trying to sound like Foster Lady. It must work for her. Baby looks at me like I’m crazy, his little forehead all wrinkled up and cranky.

  “I washed my hands yesterday,” he complains, and stomps out of the kitchen.

  I don’t even know I’m smiling until I see Hope grinning back at me.

  On the front steps of the admin building, the vice principal was waiting in a bright fuchsia suit with a ruffled collar. “Hello, hello!” Ms. Aiello warbled, waving. Her lipstick, kind of a deep pinkish color, had come off on her top teeth. Hope thought this made her look like an aging vampire.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Carter,” the vice principal said, even though the two of them normally called each other “Robin” and “Barbara.” “Is this our girl?”

  Our. Hope winced. It was too early for this.

  “Good morning. Yes, this is Dessa Matthews,” Mom said, and gently set her hand on Dess’s shoulder to bring her forward. Dess shrugged it off and stepped to the side, looking, as far as Hope could tell, at the fabric in Ms. Aiello’s skirt.

  “Nice suit,” Dess said, unsmiling. “That’s a great color.”

  “Why, thank you,” Ms. Aiello said, and beamed with pink teeth.

  Was she even serious? Dess had to be playing suck-up, because that suit was seriously hideous. Hope decided she didn’t want to know—and standing around through introductions was pointless. With a wave to Austin, who ignored her in favor of watching the big kids in the hall, wide-eyed, Hope edged around to the side of the group, hoping to escape.

  “Don’t run away yet, Hope Carter,” Ms. Aiello caroled. “You’re Dessa’s tour guide for the morning. After homeroom, please report to my office.”

  Hope grimaced. She was stuck with Dess at school, too? Mom must’ve told Aiello about her “consequence.” Then Hope saw the look on Dess’s face and felt a fresh wave of humiliation—Dess looked as if she’d swallowed something that wasn’t going down.

  It was obvious Dess didn’t want to hang out with her. Well, Hope didn’t want to hang out with Dess, either. She lifted her chin. “Um, Ms. Aiello? Can’t somebody else do it?”

  Her mother’s eyes widened. Ms. Aiello’s pursed lips looked like a pair of bumpy raspberries as she said disapprovingly, “I beg your pardon?”

  “I don’t mean anything negative or disrespectful,” Hope said carefully, avoiding her mother’s eyes. “It’s just that we’ve already met, and we live in the same house. It would make more sense if Dess got a chance to—”

  “I need to meet new people,” Dess agreed before Hope could finish. She met Ms. Aiello’s frown with an un-Dess-like smile. “Totally fine with me. Thanks, Ms. Aiello.”

  “If that’s okay,” Hope said awkwardly, aware from her mother’s sharp silence that not everyone agreed this was the best plan.

  The vice principal gave a little shrug. “All right, then, if you girls have it figured out. Come on into the office and let’s get to know you…Dessa? Or is it Dess?”

  Hope exhaled in relief as Ms. Aiello herded Dess away, but her mother gave a disgusted tch and turned away.

  “Mom,” Hope began, but her mother shook her head.

  “Not now,” she said, hefting the baby seat in one hand and leading Austin toward Ms. Aiello’s office with the other.

  Hope waved again to Austin and shrugged off her mother’s disappointment. It wasn’t that doing one little campus tour would have been that bad, but Hope knew it was a gateway job for what Ms. Aiello really wanted. Just like her mother, Ms. Aiello no doubt wanted Hope to walk around campus and hold Dess’s hand until she made a friend. But seriously, there was no way. Hope couldn’t work miracles. Someone as mean and snarly as Dess wasn’t going to make friends.

  Like, this morning. Dess had been okay for five minutes in the kitchen, kind of relaxed and nice, and then, boom, she’d asked Hope what the “deal” was with her “bushy hair.” Okay, so she’d smiled like she was joking, but still. What kind of question was that? Some African Americans wore their hair in really big crinkly curls, and so what? So what if Hope’s hair wasn’t bleached blond and smooth and straigh
t? It wasn’t bushy. She’d just combed it. Or she’d been going to before she’d heard her dad talking to Dess….Anyway, the point was Hope couldn’t make people be friends with Dess, no matter what Mom or Ms. Aiello thought.

  Also, all Mom’s talk about how Hope needed to “open up” and “make new friends” was kind of stupid. She didn’t really need more friends—she had Natalie and Liesl Stockton and Jas Singh, when he wasn’t being a total goof, and lots of other kids in her class. Yeah, so her closest friend had left the country. And? Hope had been on her own all summer. Missing Savannah didn’t make her so lonely and desperate that she had to hang out with someone who sniped about her appearance.

  She stalked down the hall, barely acknowledging the many clusters of students. Headwaters Academy was a charter school and catered to kids from all kinds of families: African American, East Asian, Haitian, South Asian, Latino, and Caucasian. Emphasis on math, science, and technology made it a California Distinguished School, but Hope thought of it as just plain school. She tried to see it from Dess’s point of view, wondering what her foster sister would think of it.

  In Mr. Workman’s room, Hope dropped her bag on a desk three rows back, where she usually sat. Fortunately, today that was on the other side of the room from Rob Anguiano, who smelled as if he’d drowned himself in cologne that morning. An empty desk sat next to her, and Hope put her bag on the seat, as if someone was coming back. She didn’t want Dess coming in later and getting the wrong idea, and claiming space right next to her.

  Maybe Dess would be on a totally different track. Maybe they wouldn’t have classes together at all. But at a school this small, no classes together at all was probably asking a little much.

  Hope frowned as she thought of Dess. She wished her mother hadn’t come into the office last night. She needed to have found out more. It was so weird to think of Dess as a secret foster child, with her mom practically in protective custody. Did that mean somebody was protecting Dess—like she’d have a bodyguard, or “witness protection” people? Hope wished there was someone she could ask about Dess’s father. What had he done to be put into jail? She wondered if Miss Odessa LeAnn knew the whole story, and felt a smug warmth building. She would bet anything that Dess didn’t know as much as she did.