Dear Yvette

by Ni-Ni Simone

  Silence.

  She continued, “Now the choice is yours. You wanna leave, then go and pack your bags.” Ms. Glo looked at me, like she was tryna read my eyes for a decision.

  I didn’t move.

  She carried on. “But if you wanna stay, then you need to understand this. I run a quiet ship. All this ruckus, hollerin’, and fussin’ gon’ stop today. Right now. ’Cause if you ever speak to me like this again, you will be right back on that hot and pissy Trailways bus you rode in here on.”

  She looked at me like she was darin’ me to say somethin’.

  I didn’t.

  She continued. “Next, school. There’s no room for negotiation. Every day there’s school, you gon’ be there. Now I’ve already arranged for you to be tested on the first day; providing you pass, you will be placed in your correct grade.”

  “I can’t leave Kamari.”

  “I’ma keep Kamari. So you can shoot that excuse. Next up is your curfew.”

  Curfew?

  “Curfew,” she said like she had read my mind. “Nine p.m. on week days. One a.m. on weekends. Break it if you want to, and the social worker will be waitin’ for you. Got that?”

  Silence.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “Yeah, I got it,” I answered reluctantly.

  “Thought so. ’Cause what you not gon’ do is run my pressure up. Life is too short for that.” She turned back to the stove and poured more pancake batter into the hot pan. “Now that we’ve gotten that straight, you want one or two pancakes?”

  11

  Can’t Stand Rain

  “Hey, girl,” Tasha said, pushing her face into the crack of my bedroom door. She dropped her eyes to the floor, where Kamari played with her toys. They smiled at each other; then Tasha looked back to me. She popped her lips. “I was thinking, since we didn’t exactly meet and greet under the best circumstances—’cause you know, that li’l incident in the kitchen wasn’t all that pretty—that maybe we should try again.”

  I didn’t even respond to that.

  She continued. “I’m Tasha Monique Wright. Well, on most days. ’Cause on Mondays, I’m Tash-boogie. That’s what my Roni-love, M.C. Swavey, calls me. He’s a chocolate-Rican-rapper, girl. Don’t worry, he got some friends. Now on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, I’m just Tasha. On Thursdays, I’m Tash-LaRock ’cause sometimes I be spittin’ stupid-fresh rhymes in the skating rink parking lot; that’s where everybody hangs out after school.

  “On Thursdays, I’m Sweet Cheeks, ’cause I got me a li’l Chinese boo.”

  “Chinese?”

  “Free fried rice and egg rolls, girl. Plus, he’s cute.”

  “I guess.”

  “But on the weekends, I’m T-Love. And T-Love is single. ’Cause ain’t nobody got time to be all ball and chained up. No, ma’am.” She pushed the door completely open, invited herself in, and flopped down, Indian style, on the edge of my bed. “So tell me a little about yourself. Not that I was listening, but I heard Aunty Glo say something about jail.” Her downward slanted eyes lit up like Christmas tree lights. “Do tell.”

  Tasha was extra bubbly. A little more bubbly than I was in the mood for. Her smile was a mile wide, her full lips were glossy and her butterscotch-colored skin shone. Her hair was styled in an asymmetrical, stacked bob, with a long tail hanging down her back. And her big behind made her look twice my size. I wondered where she was from. She had a southern accent, but there was somethin’ about the way she spoke that let me know she wasn’t from the south.

  I almost smiled at her. Instead, I bit my bottom lip, then sucked it in.

  She placed her hand on my shoulder, givin’ me a playful push. “Come on, girl, you gon’ be mad forever?”

  “Nope. Just while I’m here.” I reached for the two pancakes I had on the nightstand and took a bite. I hated that the pancakes were good. At least if they were nasty, I could say I hated Ms. Glo and her nasty pancakes.

  Tasha said, “Look, I get it. I was pissed off when I came here too.”

  “I can’t tell.”

  “Well I was. This was the last place I wanted to be, but I didn’t have a choice.”

  “What did you do? Why are you here?” Tasha paused and twisted her lips. The look in her eyes said she was wonderin’ if she should tell me or not. So I said, “Don’t nothin’ surprise me. Trust. Not pimps, not hoes, not fiends, and definitely nothin’ in-between. So spill it; what did you do?”

  “I used to run away.”

  I curled the corner of my upper lip. “That’s it? You in here for runnin’ away? You couldn’t learn to sit still?”

  “It’s more than that. I was in a gang too.” She tossed up a sign.

  “West siiide,” I said jokingly, surprisin’ myself that I had any laughter left. “Sexed in?”

  “Hell no. I ain’t no bimbo. Hand-to-hand combat.”

  Impressed, I gave her a nod and a crooked grin.

  She continued. “I also held up a gas station.”

  “You get any money?”

  “Not really. All the cat had on him was fifty dollars.”

  “Ski mask or no ski mask?”

  “No ski-mask. And a .22.”

  “Damn. All that for fifty dollars?”

  “I know, right? Pitiful. And I sold dope and weed.”

  “Word?”

  “Word.”

  “You was slangin’ or you was runnin’?” I asked.

  “Slangin’. Had my own corner and everything.”

  “Oh word.”

  “And I stabbed my mother’s boyfriend.”

  “Well, dang,” I said, surprised. “Don’t tell me you stabbed your mother too?”

  “No, I ain’t stab my mother.”

  “Just checkin’. So what else you do?” I asked, now feelin’ like a saint.

  “That’s it.”

  “Don’t you think that’s enough? So why did you stab your mother’s boyfriend?”

  “Cuz that sucker stole my stash and then got high with it.”

  “Whaaaat? I know he in darkness.”

  “No. It didn’t get that far. My mother walked in on me, called the police, and told them I was trying to kill her boyfriend. And, well, the rest is Aunty Glo history.”

  “So when do you go back home?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe never. I had to be here for a year. It’s been two, and Aunty Glo has never asked me to leave and I don’t want to go.”

  “What about your mother?” I asked.

  “I love my mother, but when it comes to men, she’s weak. Plus, we never got along. I talk to her sometimes, but life is better with us not living together.”

  “Well, after a year, me and my baby outta here.”

  “You going back home to your mother?”

  I paused. “A mother? What’s that?”

  Tasha nodded, like she didn’t know how to answer that, so she said, “Okay. Your turn. Now what did you do?”

  “Not as much as you.”

  We laughed and she said, “Umm-hmm. I bet. What you do?”

  “I dragged a girl off the bus and beat her down.”

  “Why?”

  “She said I was a snitch.”

  “Well, I know what name I won’t be callin’ you.” Tasha giggled. “So what else you do?”

  “That’s it.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Pretty much. Unless you count the times I used to boost.”

  “From where?”

  “The mall.”

  “I know you got some fly gear.” She chuckled. “You still do that?”

  “Girl, bye. I ain’t tryna go back to jail.”

  “I hear that . . . anyway enough of all that. Tell me this, where are you from? ’Cause your accent is a li’l different.”

  “Jersey. Brick City.”

  “Word?” she asked, excited. “I’m from Compton. California, baby.”

  “Okay. I didn’t think you were from Norfolk.”

  “Nope, I’m not. But I hop
e to make Norfolk my home forever.”

  “Hmph, well, good luck with that.”

  “Check it, Yvette. I know we just met, and I know you ain’t ask me for no advice, but just let me say this: Right now Aunty Glo is all we got.”

  “Negative. First, she’s not my aunt. And second, maybe Ms. Glo is all you got, but when my time is up, I’m outta here.”

  “All I’m sayin’ is, while you’re here, make the best of it. Give her a chance. She ain’t all bad.”

  Maybe Tasha had a point. But then again, maybe she didn’t. “Look, I’ma just go with the flow.”

  “I feel you. You gotta do whatever works for you.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I do have another question to ask you,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you like hip-hop? ’Cause Dough E. Fresh gon’ be in town and we gon’ need to be in the house, baby!”

  12

  Gas Face

  The next morning

  “Aye, yo, shawtie! C’mere!” dropped from the air the moment me and Tasha stepped onto Carver High’s crowded school yard.

  My crisp white, high-top Reeboks screeched in the middle of the concrete, as I sank my eyes into some dude I’d never seen before. He was posted a few steps away beneath the basketball net. “Who’s that?” I asked Tasha, as the mysterious cutie stared back at me.

  “That’s Brooklyn’s crazy butt. But don’t worry about him, he’s nuts.”

  I looked back over to Brooklyn and quietly pulled him in. Fresh fade, deep chocolate skin, shadow beard, eyes the color of desert sand. “Brooklyn? That’s his real name?”

  Tasha rubbed clear roll-on lip gloss across her lips, then popped ’em. “Yep. And his mama’s named Queens.”

  “Lies. For real?”

  She laughed. “No. His mama’s name is Brenda. They live down the street from us.”

  “Okay . . .” I drifted into a Brooklyn trance, put under by his smile and soft wink.

  Tasha tapped me on the shoulder. “Did you hear me?”

  I blinked. “No. What did you say?”

  “I said we could always walk over there and see what he wants.”

  “Chile, boo. What I look, beat to you?” I rolled my eyes at Brooklyn, flicked my wrist, and turned around, givin’ him my back to look at. I said to Tasha, “Is that how y’all say good morning down here, ‘Aye, yo, shawtie, c’mere?’ and what the heck is a shawtie?”

  “Being called shawtie is like a compliment. It’s like bein’ called boo or baby-girl. Or like y’all say up north, Ma. But don’t pay him no mind.”

  “Why?”

  “He ain’t shit.” She waved her hand. “He used to go with this girl named Alesha. And Alesha is friends with my girl Reesie. And Reesie told me that Brooklyn was a square, a dud, and a clown.”

  “Word?”

  “Word. But. He is a cutie.”

  I tossed on a look of disgust. “He ain’t all that; he looks all right. Plus, I don’t have time for no country bama-square-dud-clowns. All I wanna do is pass this placement test and focus on stayin’ here for the rest of the day, without sneakin’ out the back door and bouncin’.”

  “Well you better put your game face on, ’cause he’s walking this . . .”

  “Yo, Tasha, you wanna introduce us to ya girl?” fell over my shoulder.

  My heart stopped.

  Brooklyn.

  Ugh!

  God.

  Breathe.

  Chill.

  Just turn around, hold a straight face, look at him and say, Excuse you?

  Brooklyn towered over my four eleven frame, and it took everything in me not to smile up at him; instead, I arched my back, unintentionally makin’ my C-cups bounce. I looked him over from the braids going straight back in his hair, his Kelly-green Adidas sweat suit, to the white Stan Smith Adidas on his feet.

  I peeped over at his two homies. One was short like me and held a boom box on his right shoulder, dressed in Cross Color blue jeans, a dark gray Member’s Only jacket, and a red Bermuda Kango. Then I looked over at his friend, whose name shoulda been Whack-Skee, wit’ his Gumby haircut, black-rimmed glasses, a red-and-black lumberjack shirt, and black overalls—one leg pushed up and the other down.

  Three suckers.

  I popped off. “Yo, for real, son,” I said to Brooklyn. “You off the meat rack. Where I’m from, you get done walkin’ up on me and my homegirl like that. You lucky I don’t call my homies an ’em to come through and see about yo’ bama behinds!”

  Brooklyn chuckled in disbelief. “Oh, you a city girl, huh? So what you think? We slow down here or somethin’? Check it, you can bring your homies if you want too. But just know that when they go home, it’s gon’ be with their eyes closed.”

  “Whatever, and anyway, I know you saw me flip you off. Yet, you ova here in my face.” My eyes scanned his homies. “And I know y’all slow, dumb, retarded asses saw me too.”

  “Hold on, baby-girl. Chill wit’ all that,” Brooklyn said. “It’s all good over here, shawtie. My homie spotted you with Tasha and thought you were cute.” He pointed to Whack-Skee. “And I did too, ’til you opened your rat trap.”

  I sucked my teeth and spat out a quick comeback. “Rat trap? Boy, please. And for your information, I’m nobody’s baby girl . . .”

  Brooklyn interrupted. “You know what; you’re right. Forgive me, young man. I didn’t mean to offend you, sir.”

  “Ouuuuuuule!” followed by a round of snickers came from the small crowd that had gathered around.

  I knew I shoulda just let the argument go, but I couldn’t. If I walked away now and didn’t shut it down, sooner rather than later, e’rybody out here would be tryna test me, so I said, “Is that the best you got? What? You bleedin’? You need a tampon? Or your mama’s tittie in your mouth? ’Cause you doin’ a whole lot of cryin’ right now.”

  “Daaaaaaang!” rang out from the same crowd.

  The veins runnin’ through Brooklyn’s neck jumped and just when I thought he was gon’ lose it, he smiled and said, “All this comin’ from a trick. Did I walk past you on the corner or somethin’? What? You need a dollar? Here you go.” He tossed a single at me.

  Before I could even think of what I needed to do to level his dis, the school bell rang and mostly e’rybody, including Brooklyn and his boys, hustled inside.

  Me and Tasha was the only ones left standing there. I did my best not to look as played as I felt.

  After a few moments in tongue-tied silence, Tasha said, “Umm, listen, Yvette. All that was uncalled for.”

  “That’s what I’m sayin’. Is he crazy, steppin’ to me like that?”

  “I’m not talking about Brooklyn. I’m talking about you. You did way too much. Down here, we keep it cute. You could’ve just told him your name or shot him a wave and we could’ve walked away. But you up here actin’ like you’re the Godmother with a ring for him to kiss.” She shook her head.

  “Is you crazy? You got this twisted. Who you need to check is ole boy.”

  “No, I’m checkin’ you. Like, for real. Dang, this is school. Not the block. Ain’t nobody checkin’ for how thorough you supposed to be. This is the Dirty-Dirty and don’t nobody wanna hear all that.”

  I lifted my eyes to the sky and said a quick prayer, ’cause Tasha didn’t even realize she’d just put her life in my hands. I said, “He stepped to me! I don’t know what kind of party you thought this was, but if you come for me, I finish you.”

  “Well you didn’t finish him, ’cause he squashed you. And being that you were with me, now I been squashed too.”

  “He ain’t squash nothin’ over here. And, anyway, you’re the one who said he was a square, a clown, and a dud. Basically a sucker.”

  “Okay, maybe I underestimated him. But, daaaaang! You didn’t have to pop off like that.”

  “He came at me!”

  “You started it . . . Look, if you gon’ hang with me, I’ma need you to chill with all that. Otherwise, I�
�ma have to kick you to the curb.”

  I gave her the screw face. “Puhlease, let’s not forget that yesterday, you came lookin’ for me. I didn’t come checkin’ for you. So don’t get this confused. And trust, you’ll never ever get the chance to kick me to the curb, ’cause right about now, I’m finish wit’ you.” I shoved my backpack farther up my shoulder and left her standin’ there.

  Trick.

  13

  If I Could Turn Back . . .

  “I’m not stupid, if that’s what you tryna find out,” I said to the guidance counselor, Mrs. Brown, as she pointed to a metal, all-in-one student’s desk and handed me the placement tests.

  She leaned against her wooden bureau, covered with books, papers and framed pictures of kids, looked directly at me and smiled. “Yvette, I don’t think you’re stupid. Not at all. Why would I think that?”

  “Why wouldn’t you?” I looked over the blank answer sheet.

  “I asked you first,” she said.

  True. “Well . . .’cause.”

  “Because what?”

  “Just ’cause.”

  “Yvette, because”—Mrs. Brown stressed the word, like she wanted me to hear exactly the way the word should be said—“is not a complete thought. It’s also not a complete sentence.” She walked over to a rolling chair, pushed it next to me, and sat down. She tapped on my desk. “Put the paper down. Let’s have a chat first.”

  Oh, here we go. “Look,” I said, “before you even go there, I’m not in the mood to be social worked. I don’t need nobody tryna get into my head. Tryna see if I know right from wrong. Tryna see if I’m retarded. Lookin’ for love. Angry. Pissed off. Or just tryna see what’s wrong wit’ me. I don’t need none of that. Just let me chill. Just let me live. All I want is to be here for a year, and then I’m out.”

  “I’m not trying to cramp your style or gag you with a spoon,” Mrs. Brown said, soundin’ crazy.