Who Am I Without Him?

by Sharon Flake

  Shavon and Pretty didn’t hang together after that. They started arguing and fighting. That’s when she let it slip that she was the one who wrote the notes. You’d think a boy like Pretty woulda slapped her silly. He didn’t. But he got even with her anyhow. He told Cassandra what she did, and Cassandra came after Shavon. She hit her in the head with a geometry book. But that was just the beginning. For the rest of the year, she kept it coming. Her friends called Shavon’s house almost every hour on the hour for six months. Even after her parents changed phone numbers for the fourth time. They drove by her house and hit it with raw eggs, rotten chicken, bags of garbage. They scratched up her dad’s ride. They stole her little sister’s bike. They chased her home from the park, from the pool, from the bus stop, the mall, the movie theater—everywhere and everyplace she went.

  Sometimes when Cassandra or her girls came after Shavon, she’d see Pretty’s ride waiting. For a long, long time she said she was madder at him than at Cassandra. But then she said she finally figured it out. She didn’t have a right to be mad at him or her. “I invited all that drama in my life by digging in somebody else’s trash. So why should I be pissed off ’cause maggots got all over me?”

  Melody, I’m telling you this so you don’t end up like Shavon—dogging your girl and chasing a boy that ain’t gonna respect you one bit when it’s all said and done. But that ain’t the only reason I’m spilling my guts. There’s another reason too. See, I know the girl whose man you’re trying to take. He ain’t worth two cents. But she likes him—loves him even. And since she’s my sister, the baby of our family, I gotta look out for her. Right? And well, I ain’t gonna let nobody do her wrong. So consider yourself warned. Get out from under Rowl-D, ’ fore things start happening to you. Bad things. The kind of things that happened to me. And you already know from this here letter that I ain’t forgot one thing that was done to me by them girls. And you know what? You won’t never forget what I do to you, neither. Yours truly,

  The Girl with All the Answers

  Not a Boy

  “HOW I LOOK, MAN?” I say, checking myself out in the mirror.

  My friend Richard throws a comb at me. “Why you doing all this, man? She ain’t even cute.”

  I wanna clock him. He been busting on my girl, Yesterday, for two hours now. Just jealous, I say to myself.

  Richard finishes off the pickle-and-tuna sandwich that’s been sitting on my dresser for the last hour. “Simone and Jasmine look better than Yesterday. You shoulda asked one of them out.”

  It took me half the year to get Yesterday to go out with me. She’s a quiet girl. You say hi to her and she stares at the floor and says hi so low you can’t hardly hear her. But she’s pretty. And for four months now, we been lab partners in chemistry class. You gotta talk in that class.

  “Cecil,” my mother yells up the steps. “Don’t you be late picking that girl up.”

  I swallow, unbutton my shirt, and dump powder on my chest.

  Richard says I smell like his sister. I pop him upside the head.

  “Cecil!” my dad shouts. “If you don’t . . .”

  I take one last look at myself in the mirror. Nice, I think.

  Richard shakes his head. “You pathetic, man. Never been on a date. Got your dad driving you to some girl’s house.”

  Richard thinks he knows everything. But he’s wrong this time. I mean, I been on group dates. Library dates. Supposed-to-be-at-choir-rehearsal-but-sneaking-off-with-a-cutie-all-by-myself dates. But when I turned fifteen two months ago, my dad said I could go on a real date. I been asking Yesterday out all this time. She been telling me no. Then I just came out and told her: “I like you, a lot; better than any girl ever.” I sounded so corny. But I got to her, I guess. ’Cause three days later she said, “Okay. We can go to the movies.”

  By the time I get downstairs, my father is asking me a million goofy questions. Did I brush my teeth? Do I have mints in case the popcorn stinks up my breath? Do I have enough money? I ain’t even listening to him. I’m thinking ’bout the flowers my mother bought for me to give to Yesterday. I hid ’em this morning.

  “Fellas don’t do that no more,” I tell her when she asks about them.

  “My boy does,” she says, shoving six red roses she takes out of a vase in the middle of the dining-room table at me.

  Richard shakes his head. “Don’t do it, man,” he says, walking out the front door.

  My father pats his pockets for car keys. “You a man now, not a boy. Gotta act like one,” he says, taking the flowers off my mom and handing them to me. I throw ’em on the couch on my way out the door.

  “My boy . . . a man,” he says, when we get in the car. Then he leans over and stares at my mouth. “Sure you brushed? Teeth look kinda yella.”

  I turn the rearview mirror my way. Scratch some white, cheeselike stuff off my teeth. Throw open the car door and tell my dad that I’ll be right back. I brush my teeth twice. I gargle. I think about Yesterday. How I like her hair—light brown and straight down to her shoulders. How I like her eyes, even though you can’t hardly see them behind her glasses.

  “Boy? You coming or what?” my mother shouts.

  I run down the steps, out the door, and into the car. The roses are sitting on the dashboard tied together with a ribbon. For a minute, I think about tossing ’em out the window.

  My dad starts the engine. “Who would name a child Yesterday?”

  I don’t answer. Kids tease her all the time about her name.

  “I mean, who would do that to a child?” he says, backing out the driveway. “Shoulda just named her Tomorrow, or Next Tuesday, for goodness’ sake.”

  I stare out the window. I don’t care what her name is. She’s fine. I like her.

  I point out the window and tell my father to turn left. He stops at the light. “I’m gonna go to the door with you,” he says. “Meet her folks. Let ’em know you come from quality, too.”

  “No!”

  He lets me know this wasn’t his idea. It was my mother’s.

  I take off my seat belt and look him right in the eye when I turn his way. “She ain’t here. Anyhow, you ain’t always gotta do what she says.”

  My father used to be a boxer. He still pumps iron every day and does 250 push-ups before work. But when it comes to my mother, he’s a wuss. He does whatever she says. “Give the girl the flowers. It will make your mother happy.”

  I pick up the flowers. Pluck petals off one by one and throw ’em out the window. “I said I’m not taking her no flowers.”

  My father doesn’t understand. My boys are already on me for not making her pay her own way. For going by her house to meet her folks instead of making her meet me at the movies, like they all do. They teasing me in school for walking her to class and sitting with her at lunch. I can’t have her saying I gave her flowers. No.

  My dad laughs. “Well, if she wants flowers, guess her daddy’s gonna have to buy her some.”

  I’m glad he sees things my way. He steps on the gas. The car is doing 50 in a 25-mile zone. I put my seat belt back on. “Her parents are strict.”

  He looks at me. “You sure they don’t wanna meet me?”

  I don’t answer. I sit back in my seat and shut my mouth for the rest of the ride.

  Twenty minutes later we pull onto her block. “Thirty-seven eighteen, that’s the address,” I say, pointing to the house.

  The front door opens wide. A woman with her hands on her hips stares at me. A man—a really tall, dark-skinned man—looks at me like he don’t like me already.

  My father makes his shoulder muscles jump, like her dad can see them from his front door. “I better go with ya.”

  I swallow. “I’m . . . I’m all right.” I open the door, but I stay in my seat. I look over at the roses. My father pulls out the stem with no petals left and drops it on the floor. He tightens the orange ribbon holding the flowers together and hands them to me. “Sometimes,” he says, “it’s best not to be empty-handed.”

&
nbsp; I take the flowers, ’cause if I don’t, my father will keep after me about them. Just like he won’t quit talking about wanting to meet her folks. He’s like that—once something gets in his head, he won’t turn it loose until you give in and do things his way.

  I look at Yesterday’s dad, and I don’t move.

  My father turns the radio on low. The music is for elevators, not for a car with a man who bench-presses 450 and eats six eggs a day. “Yesterday. That’s an interesting name.”

  I tell him that Yesterday got her name from her great, great, great-grandmother, who was a slave. Yesterday don’t like it, though.

  “But you like her, huh?” he asks.

  I keep a lot of stuff to myself. Like how Yesterday stays in my head even when I’m asleep. Like how I wanna knock Jason Crews’s teeth out for looking at her like he do sometimes. “She aiight,” I tell my father. Then I see her peeking out the window, and my heart speeds up, and my throat gets tight, and I’m hot all over.

  My father leans on the steering wheel. “All right, boy. Now, remember what I said.”

  I remember. Pay for everything—even the bus ride to and from the movies. Let her pick the seats. “If they’re too close to the screen or too far away, keep quiet,” my father said. “A girl likes to think a boy is considerate that way.” Keep my hands to myself—maybe. And thank her for a nice evening. “If she’s like your momma,” he said, “she’s got a diary.

  And twenty years from now—whether you’re with her or not—she’s gonna read about what you did, and think you were the best thing that ever happened to her.”

  My father clears his throat. “You sure you don’t want me to go in with you?”

  “No!” I lower my voice. “You always telling me what to do . . . how to act. A man don’t need his father holding his hand and telling him stuff all the time, now do he?”

  I don’t know where that came from. But I’m glad I said it. ’Cause my father is like my mother— always up in my business.

  “Boy . . .”

  I slap my chest hard. “I’m not a boy,” I shout. “I’m a man.” Right then, Yesterday’s front door slams shut.

  “Aaah, man,” I say, throwing the flowers down. “Now see what you did?” I slam my door closed. “Ruined everything.”

  Me and my father both stare at the front door of the house, like we can open it with our eyes. He apologizes. I don’t want to hear it. I shoulda took a bus. Only, buses don’t run around here, so my father brought me . . . like I’m a little boy.

  My father picks the roses off the floor and puts them in between us. I can tell he don’t know what to do right now. Then he tells me again about the first time he took my mother out. “Her father met me at the front door with a two-page letter.”

  I say what comes next, ’cause I figure that way I can shorten the story. “It had the same two sentences written over and over again.”

  Me and my father say the words together. “‘This is my daughter: if you do anything to make her cry, anything to disrespect her, anything to make people gossip about her or treat her differently, you will live to regret it. This is my daughter, my love, my heart—if you do anything to break my heart, I will make you pay over and over again.’”

  I always laugh at that story, only now that I’m sitting outside Yesterday’s door with her dad inside, maybe hating me, the words don’t seem so funny no more. “Were you . . . were you scared when you met him?”

  My father smiles. “Sure! You gotta be scared when you get something like that from a man who ain’t smiling at you, and didn’t shake your hand when you extended it.”

  I look at Yesterday’s front door. “People don’t do stuff like that no more.”

  He squeezes my shoulder. “That’s his daughter. A man will hurt somebody over his baby girl.”

  I open the car door and put one foot on the pavement. “What if he don’t open the door again?” I reach for the roses. Step out the car. Lean down and tell my father I’ll see him later. I don’t move, though. I keep thinking that maybe her father won’t let me in the house. Or he’ll open the door and curse me out or something. “Go,” I tell myself, shutting the car door and walking up the steps. I’m thinking about my grandfather’s letter. About Yesterday’s dad. He wasn’t big like my dad, but he looked mean—ugly too.

  The roses in my hand are shaking like the wind’s blowing out here. But it’s just me, nervous enough to pee.

  I shoulda done like Richard said, I think, and asked Jasmine or Simone out. They meet you anywhere you want, so you ain’t got to worry ’bout their father’s going off on you.

  When I knock on the door, nobody answers. I knock again. Nobody answers. I’m staring at my feet. Holding tight to the flowers. Not wanting to look back at my father . . . not wanting no more help from him. My fist is balled when I knock the next time, and I pound on the door harder than I want. I look at my watch. I been here, like, ten minutes. You blew it, man, I think. She ain’t never going out with you now.

  I’m thinking ’bout my boys. What they would say. Forget her, man. There’re more legs where hers come from.

  “Yeah, forget her,” I say out loud. But then, I don’t know, I knock on the door again.

  The door flies open. “What?” It’s her dad. “What do you want?”

  I swallow. Clear my throat and try to remember my name.

  “Can I help you with something?” he says, loud-talking me. “You sat in the car so long, I figured you’d changed your mind.”

  I don’t have no words; no spit left neither, so my throat hurts like fingernails been scratching inside it.

  “Do you want something here, boy?” her dad says. “If you do, speak up!”

  Yesterday’s dad and me stare at each other like men do sometimes when they ain’t sure what the other’s gonna do next. His hands start to push the door closed again. Then, finally, the words do come.

  “Mr. Johnson, my name is Cecil. Cecil Carson. And this is my son,” my dad says, walking up the steps and standing next to me.

  Like that, I can breathe again. I reach out and shake Mr. Johnson’s hand. I almost scream the words at first. “I’m Cecil Carson the Second, and I’m here for your daughter,” I say, looking him right in the eyes.

  A Letter to My Daughter

  Dear Alicia,

  I ain’t the type to write letters. You know that. But, well, sometimes a man’s gotta do what he don’t like. So, I’m taking pen to paper, hoping you and your mother don’t catch no spelling errors or find nothing wrong in here.

  You’re almost fifteen. Man. That’s a lot of birthdays I done missed. But, well, the other day I seen you walking into the house. You looked so sweet. And the boys, I seen ’em looking. Highfiving each other when you walked by—saying what they would like to do to you.

  I know I been gone too long to start playing daddy, but, girl, I had to get myself from around there quick, because I was ready to hurt somebody.

  What you doing following me? That’s what you asking yourself, huh? What you doing trying to get up in my life now, when you been gone for always? Good questions. Wish I had good answers. But it’s just that I woke up this morning and, well, you was on my mind like an overdue bill. I wondered if you thought I done you wrong by never being around. Then I got to thinking about your momma, and what she tells you about me. Did she tell you I lived in a house not far from yours? That I finally got a steady job and a little change in my pocket? I’ll admit it. I always liked life free and easy. Living in a different city every six months, that was me. Working long enough to earn a few dollars, buy some nice clothes, take some pretty woman to dinner and a movie, and hop another Greyhound outta town.

  It’s been almost a year now, and I’m still on the same job. Girl, it’s killing me to stay put like regular folks. But it’s time I planted some kinda roots, I guess. Anyhow, I got me a room in some old woman’s house, who cooks just as good as your grandma. But me ain’t why I’m writing to you.

  So I’ll stop h
ere telling you how I’m doing.

  Anyhow, I seen a man on television last week. He said he was gonna leave his daughter the house, the car, and $10,000 in his will when he died. What I’m gonna leave my child? I thought. “Hard times and heartbreak,” I said to myself.

  I couldn’t stop thinking ’bout you, though. So I came down last week and just watched you walk with your head high and your mind on something bigger than the mess all around you. You like your momma, I swear you is. She was gonna be somebody. Everybody said that. Then she met me. And I talked her outta all her dreams, all her money, and all her good sense too.

  But what’s in us don’t just evaporate like steam from hot pipes. That’s what my mother used to say anyhow. It lingers, like sediment (your momma taught me them words), and every now and then it turns into what it was meant to be in the first place. So when I seen you, I saw your momma— a tall, smart, big-boned beauty queen—living in the jungle, fighting off tigers.

  After I seen you, I went home and cried. Then I wondered, do your momma cry, too? Do she know you gonna turn out just like her—holding on too long to a man who’s gonna rip off her future and make her regret the past?

  You know, last night I dreamed about you. You was living with your momma. You had two or three babies, wasn’t married, and didn’t have no idea where the daddies were. You watched Jeopardy!, just like she used to. You played chess and knew all the answers to The Price is Right. But you was trapped, like her. “It’s my fault!” I yelled the words so loud in my sleep that night, Mrs. Carson came into my room and woke me up.

  “If it’s your fault, make it right,” she said, not even asking me what I was taking the blame for.