Dear Yvette

by Ni-Ni Simone

  Sheryl slid on her sunglasses and turned toward the door. “But what do I know? After all, you’re grown and I’m only a public pretender.”

  9

  Bust a Move . . .

  A week later...

  This. Was. Some. Bull.

  Not only did CPS and the state of New Jersey force me and Kamari into what felt like some witness protection program, they had us gallopin’ down I-95 in some musty behind, hot Trailways bus, where the bathroom tissue was soggy and the gray tiled diamonds on the bathroom floor glistened from old and new piss.

  And that was the best part of the trip. Here’s where hell stepped in: For nine hours, we was crammed up with a thousand other people. And by the time we stopped in Delaware, Maryland, D.C., and fifty-eleven places in Virginia, e’rything and e’rybody smelled like mornin’ breath and midnight ass, includin’ this red-haired, Valley girl social worker sent to escort me, who didn’t know the meaning of shut up.

  Thennnnnn, just when I thought I’d left the hood in Newark, we arrived at the Norfolk bus station and was greeted by hustlers, pimps, tricks, and hoes.

  It was ten p.m., and Janette, my social worker, was obviously scared to death ’cause she had us holdin’ hands and sprintin’ over to the Hertz car rental booth, like a triplet of OJs. Afterwards, we checked out a hot pink Aries K, and Janette had us creepin’ down Church Street like two misplaced junkies and a baby lookin’ to cop.

  Noooowwwww, we was on a tree-lined street, and there was no apartment buildings. No two, three, or four-family houses, only one-family dwellings. And none of them was boarded up, burned up, or abandoned. They was all different sizes, some with one story and others with two.

  We stood on the steps of a two-story white house, with hunter green shutters, an air conditioner hangin’ out the living room window drippin’ water, and two light brown, corduroy recliners on the front porch. And some old lady, about forty-five or fifty, who was a little taller than me, maybe about five-three, with skin the color of the evening sun, amber freckles sprinkled across her nose. and high cheeks, a head full of pink sponge rollers, wide hips, and a huge bosom, smilin’ at me, as she said in full Virginian twang, “Welcome home. You can call me Aunt Glo.”

  Then she boldly lifted Kamari, who’d been standin’ next to me, onto her hip, squeezed my baby and tickled the side of her neck. “You just as cute as you wanna be. I’ma call you Butter, ’cause you’re my little butterball.” She tickled her again and Kamari laughed, like she was having the time of her two-year-old life.

  All I could think was, Oh. Hell. No.

  I’d seen this smile before.

  I’d heard this same ole greetin’—Welcome home! You can call me Aunty, Mama, Nana . . .

  New people.

  Same old bullshit.

  And my same old mercy tossed at somebody else’s wide feet. And, yeah, she seemed like she was nice enough, and yeah, Kamari went to her without hesitation. But Kamari was a baby. I was grown, so I knew better. Plus, I’d been the new kid in a new hood one too many times before. And just ’cause this was a new state and a new city, ain’t mean I was suddenly beat for this street. ’Cause at the end of the day—whether the housemother was tall, short, fat, skinny, light, dark, or in-between—the look in they eyes was all the same and all said the same thing: Don’t get too comfortable, ’cause one of these days, when you least expect it, I’ma put you out.

  Therefore, her niceness ain’t impress me. Actually, it pissed me off, and I wished she would just skip the honeymoon smile and get to the real deal.

  I took Kamari out of her arms and tucked my baby onto my hip. Then I twisted my lips, twirled my index finger in the air, and set the record straight. “First of all, her name is Kamari, not Butter. Second of all, you not my aunt. We ain’t gon’ even start that. You’ll never have me in court, disowning me and tellin’ the judge I’ma family friend. I’m done with that. Now, outta respect, what I will call you is Ms. Glo.”

  I paused, and when she didn’t say or do anything more than look at me like I was completely crazy, I carried on, “And third of all, this ain’t my home. Me and my baby was sentenced to do a year here, and then we in the wind like Flynn. Adios, Amiga. Hotep. Peace to the Middle East.” I tossed up two fingers. “You feel me?”

  Obviously, she didn’t, ’cause all she did was look at Janette and say, “You wanna come in, ’cause I have a feeling you’ve had a long trip.”

  We walked into the living room, which was decorated with a soft brown leather living room set, plush beige carpet, a floor model TV, stereo system with extra large speakers in two corners of the room, and framed posters of Malcolm X, Marcus Garvey, and Martin Luther King hanging on beige, popcorn walls.

  Janette looked at me and her eyes pleaded for me to play nice. All I could do was flip my hair over my shoulders and shake my head. Bump, Janette. She didn’t have to live here. I did.

  Kamari spotted Ms. Glo’s small black dog and twisted to get out of my arms.

  “It’s okay; you can put her down,” Ms. Glo said, all up in my bissness. “Princess plays well with children.”

  I sucked my teeth. “No, she don’t need to be running around and then I gotta hear about her touchin’ your stuff.”

  “It’s just stuff. She’s a baby; let her move around,” Ms. Glo insisted.

  “I said no.”

  “So you gon’ hold her forever?”

  “No, just while I’m here.”

  “So you gon’ hold her for a year?”

  Breathe in.

  Breathe out.

  Just chill.

  Maybe she don’t mean no harm. You don’t know her and she don’t know you. “Like I said. No.”

  Janette gave Ms. Glo a nervous smile, then said, “On the ride here, I told Yvette all about your home and your wonderful reputation. The state of New Jersey and Child Protective Services appreciates you accepting Yvette into your fold. We have high hopes that this will be just what she needs to turn her life around and not get into any more trouble, drag anybody else off the bus, or get arrested again.”

  My eyes bucked. Did this heifer really just play me like that? I turned toward Janette and said, “For real? Seriously? So you just gon’ tell all my bissness, like I’m not even standing here? Word. That’s what we doin’ now? Lettin’ it all hang out. Well, okay then, let me just say this.” I turned my attention to Ms. Glo. “Obviously, you heard a whole lot about me. And most of it is probably true. But that don’t mean I’m all bad and that I’ma spend e’ry wakin’ moment comin’ for you.”

  “Well, thank God for small favors. I appreciate that,” Ms. Glo said, tappin’ her pink slipper–covered foot and foldin’ her arms across her breasts, like she was interested in what else I had to say.

  So I continued. “All I want to do is my time here, in peace.”

  “Sounds good to me. Do you wanna sing ‘Kumbaya’ and recite Bible verses in the mornings too?”

  I paused. Was she tryna make me cuss her out? I tapped my foot. Maybe I need to tell her that I fight old ladies too.

  I bit the inside of my cheek.

  Just let it go.

  But she got one mo’ time . . .

  I continued. “All I’m sayin’ is that I don’t want no static and no drama.”

  “A young woman with a plan; I like that.”

  I carried on. “Cool. I’m glad you do. So then let me just say this: The only way this whole arrangement gon’ work is if you understand that I’m grown. Kamari is my baby and what I say to her goes. If she do somthin’ you don’t like, come tell me and I’ll handle it. I also don’t need nobody in your family talkin’ crazy to me or it’s gon’ be a problem. You got an issue wit’ me, then you tell me. I don’t need yo’ daughter, if you got one, steppin’ to me. Another thing, respect my privacy and I’ll respect yours. Don’t ask me about myself or my family.”

  “And why is that?”

  “ ’Cause this ain’t personal. This is business.”

  10
r />   Check Yo’self before You Wreck Yo’self . . .

  I hated feelin’ like this.

  Straight up hated it.

  Hated that e’ry mornin’ I wondered if my mother was gon’ walk through the door and say, “Come on, baby girl. Let’s go.”

  The first time she took off I was about four, maybe five. She left me wit’ a lady called Aunt Maxine, whom I couldn’t stand. Not ’cause she wasn’t nice. She just wasn’t who I needed her to be. For six months, I couldn’t breathe. Then one day, my mother showed up, I caught my breath, and we left.

  After that, we was together for nine months. Then she sent me next door to stay with a neighbor. She came back a year later wit’ a new man, a new baby, and a new smile.

  We was good for two years. She had three more babies; we lost our apartment and squatted in an abandoned buildin’. Two months after that, the police put us out.

  Then we lived in her car.

  A homeless shelter.

  A drug program that housed addicts and they kids.

  A month later, we got kicked out and moved in with Nana.

  Ma stuck around for two weeks; then she and her boyfriend went to cop and never came back.

  That was six years ago. I was ten.

  I’m sixteen now. I’m grown. I got sense enough to know that my mother ain’t never gon’ be more than wandering shit. I also know that her kids will never be enough to save her. It’s not like she had us out of love. We was just five tragedies that happened to a fiend.

  Yet, here I was in a whole other place, a whole other state, but always on edge, wonderin’ if she was gon’ walk through the door again.

  Thennnnn, as if feelin’ like that wasn’t bad enough, I also found myself missin’ Da Bricks.

  I missed the heat of the early mornin’ sun. The beat of an unannounced boombox suddenly blastin’ through the courtyard, while somebody screamed, “Aye, yo, yo, what’s good, homie!” While somebody else lifted up they window and answered, “Dammit, it’s too early for that!”

  I missed my old crew and the way we used to hang out, chill, and be ill. Spittin’ stupid rhymes, break dancin’, sittin’ on the park bench, laughin’, dreamin’, plottin’ and schemin’.

  I cracked up at the thought of me and Isis stealin’ Nana’s rent money and Nana blamin’ it on Stick. Then the time we got caught boostin’ clothes from the mall.

  Then me and Munch . . .

  Munch . . .

  I wish . . .

  I sucked my teeth. Forget that. I didn’t wish nothin’.

  I flung away the tears that escaped from my eyes, and in an attempt to feel better, I turned over to snuggle with a sleepin’ Kamari.

  There was only one problem.

  Wasn’t no Kamari.

  My heart dropped.

  Don’t panic.

  She gotta be around here somewhere.

  I sat up straight in bed and tossed my feet around to the floor; that’s when I noticed that the bedroom door was open.

  Ugh.

  I slid on blue joggin’ pants underneath my gown, slipped on a pair of socks, took two steps out of the room and there she was, in the kitchen. Wrapped in the arms of some high yellow, big booty, smilin’ skank. And this skeezer had my baby suckin’ on a piece of slimy pork bacon, with grease smeared across her warm brown cheeks. Kamari’s hair was in two wild and curly ponytails, and her button-brown eyes were bright with surprise when she spotted me.

  Kamari grinned, her mouth full of tiny bacon bits. “Hi, Mommy!” she said.

  Before I could say anything, the skank said, “She is soooooo cute. I hope you don’t mind me picking her up.”

  “Well, I do. But what I won’t mind is you puttin’ her down.” I walked over and took my baby out of her arms. Then I reached for a napkin and wiped the bacon grease off of Kamari’s face.

  I drew in a breath to keep from smackin’ this light-bright ho, and said, “Let me be clear: Me and my baby don’t eat swine. So don’t give it to her again. Next, I don’t appreciate her bein’ in here, and nobody asked me if she could leave the room. Especially since I don’t leave my baby wit’ random chicks.”

  “She’s not a random chick. Her name’s Tasha,” Ms. Glo said, switchin’ her wide behind past me and into the kitchen. She walked over to the stove, turned the burner on, and placed an iron skillet on the fire. She looked over to Tasha. “Hand me the butter out of the refrigerator.”

  She turned her attention back to me. “Yvette, Tasha has lived here for the last two years. She was only being nice, especially since you neglected to mention that you had a sign-out sheet for the baby. That wasn’t listed as one of your rules last night. And neither was no swine; therefore, you are three bacon strips too late.”

  Now I was livid. “Three?”

  “One. Two. Three. And what’s the problem with eating pork? Religion? Allergy?”

  “No and no,” I snapped. “Me and my baby just don’t eat it.”

  “Ooooh, I see. Umm-hmm. Nonsense.” Ms. Glo poured pancake mix, water, and sour cream into a large mixin’ bowl and stirred it up. Then she turned around to the stove and dumped two hunks of butter into the pan, like she didn’t wanna hear nothin’ else I had to say.

  I smirked. “Listen, lady, didn’t I tell you last night that Kamari was my baby.”

  Ms. Glo turned around, holding the mixin’ bowl loosely in her hand. “Li’l girl, I appreciate the reminder, but I know exactly who she is.”

  She turned back to the stove, then poured pancake batter into the hot buttered pan. She continued. “My son is thirty-two years old, so one thing I’m not walking around here doing is claiming babies. Now I will take care of ’em, love ’em, and spoil ’em. Then I send ’em on their way.”

  “I got this. I don’t even need you to do that much,” I said.

  “This morning was not about what you needed me to do. It was about this baby walking in here while Tasha and I were having breakfast, and saying, ‘Eat, eat.’ What would you have me do? Let her starve?”

  “You could’ve woke me up.”

  She flipped over the pancakes. “Well, forgive me for thinking that you were up late last night and may have wanted your sleep.” She took the pancakes out of the pan and slid them onto a plate. “Especially since you have to be up early for school tomorrow.”

  Pause.

  School? “What?”

  “School. You know, the place where the two teenagers, you and Tasha, who live here, must go.” She poured more batter into the pan.

  Five.

  Four.

  Three.

  Kamari twisted in my arms, tryin’ to get down. I shoved her further up my hip. “Look, when I agreed to come here, school wasn’t a part of the deal. Therefore, I ain’t goin’. Point blank, period.”

  Ms. Glo arched a brow. “Oh, really?” She flipped over the pancakes.

  “Yeah, really.”

  “And why is that?”

  “’Cause I don’t have time for school. What I’ma do is get me a job, so when this year is up I can step.” Kamari continued to twist wildly in my arms.

  “And just where you gon’ step to, the welfare line? Would you put that child down?!” She walked over to me, took Kamari outta my arms, and placed her on the floor. “You need to . . .”

  “I don’t need you tellin’ me what to do!” My intention was to snatch Kamari back into my arms, but she’d already climbed into one of the kitchen chairs, sat down, looked at Tasha and said, “Eat, eat.”

  Tasha didn’t move.

  But Ms. Glo, took a plate, cut up a pancake, drizzled maple syrup on it, and placed it in front of Kamari, who started eatin’ that stupid pancake, with her hands, like it was the best thing she’d ever had.

  “I don’t need you in my bissness!” I snapped at Ms. Glo.

  She hesitated. Looked up at the ceiling then back at me, and said, “No, what you need is a foot up yo’ behind, but since we’re just getting acquainted, I’m not gon’ be rude. But you’re pushin’ it.
”

  “You better . . .”

  “The only thing I better do is stay black, pay taxes, and die. That’s it. Everything else is an option.”

  “Listen . . .”

  “I don’t have to listen to you, li’l girl. I’m fifty years old; you’re only sixteen. What could you possibly have to tell me that I need to listen to? I run this. And it will be my way . . .”

  “Or what, the highway? Is this the point where you put me out?”

  “Put you out?” She frowned, sliding more pancakes onto a plate. “You’re about to put yourself out ’cause obviously you don’t wanna be here. Especially if you think you gon’ run me. And another thing you obviously don’t want is this baby. You must wanna give her away and have the state place her into another foster home.”

  What did she just say?

  She locked eyes with me. “Yeah, I said it. You don’t want her. ’Cause if you did, then you wouldn’t be up in here actin’ nutty as hell ’cause somebody fed your baby breakfast! Are you crazy?” She paused, like she expected me to really answer that.

  I didn’t.

  She continued. “You’re lucky I didn’t check you comin’ through the door last night.”

  “If you had somethin’ to say, you shoulda said it.”

  She sighed; clearly I was wearin’ her out. She sighed again. “You know what, Yvette. Why don’t you help us both out of this situation? Do both of us a favor; take yourself into the other room and call your social worker.” She nodded, like that was a great idea. “Yeah, you do that. Tell her to come and get you, that you don’t like it here, and would rather go back to jail.”

  I couldn’t believe she went there. I sucked my teeth. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  “Yeah, the social worker is exactly who you need, because I will not tolerate this. You’re running up in here and speaking to me like this is yo’ crib. Oh hell no! You can pack your bags and leave. Believe me, there are a million other teens lookin’ to take yo’ spot, who will come here and appreciate what I have to offer!”

  “I don’t . . .”

  “Have no manners!” Ms. Glo interjected. “Not one. Nobody here has done anything to you, but you’re standing in my face actin’ like a fool. Now if you’re looking for a way out, then the phone is in the other room. Make this easy for all of us and make your phone call. Tell CPS you wanna break your plea and go back to jail. And maybe when you get out, in six years, Kamari will be waiting for you, and maybe she won’t. But you will not run me ’cause I don’t owe you shit, not even a second damn chance.”