by Sharon Flake
″Yeah, and they died anyhow,″ Worm shouts from the back. ″So what is your point?″
″You tell me. Anybody here believe strongly enough to die for something or someone?″
″My homies,″ Eric yells. ″I’d give up blood for one of my boys.″
″My momma,″ shouts Desda.
″Nobody,″ says Jerimey. ″Ain’t doing no dying for nobody but me. It’s cold but true. Don’t love nobody as much as my own fine black self,″ he says, kissing his arm from shoulder to fingertip.
Now everybody’s cracking up, including Miss Saunders.
″Yeah, Jerimey loves hisself, some Jerimey,″ Raina says.
Jerimey starts rubbing his cheeks. ″You gotta love yourself, baby. If you don’t, who will?″
″Romeo loved Juliet. My father loves my mother. People love other people,″ Desda says.
″But when they’re gone, whose gonna love you? When Romeo died, Juliet killed her stupid self. She loved him more than her own self. Now do that make sense?″ Jerimey says.
Miss Saunders is on the other side of the room now. She’s standing right next to Jerimey. ″You’re saying we shouldn’t love people so much?″
″No. I’m saying if you love yourself more than you love me, you will take good care of you. And, you won’t try to do me in because that’s just gonna cause problems for you. People who love who they are ain’t gonna make unnecessary trouble for themselves. Get it?″
″Go ahead, Mr. Philosopher, preach,″ John-John says, slapping him five.
″Can we get back to Romeo and Juliet?″ I say, just to shut him up.
But John-John interrupts again. ″You probably didn’t even read the book.″
″Why you always on Maleeka’s case, John-John?″ Jerimey asks.
″Shut up,″ John-John says.
″Make me,″ Jerimey says, getting out of his seat.
I’m smiling big-time. John-John is getting a taste of some of his own stuff. I like that.
″The period is almost over and you two ding-dongs are wasting time,″ Worm says. Everybody looks at Worm like he’s crazy. Since when did he care about stuff like Romeo and Juliet?
″Be quiet and let somebody else talk,″ Carrie says.
″I wish somebody would kill themselves over me,″ Desda says.
″I’d kill myself if I had to kiss those crusty lips,″ John-John butts in.
″I mean, ain’t that the most romantic thing in the world. Somebody who can’t live without you?″ Desda goes on, ignoring John-John.
″No,″ I say before I think about it. ″It ain’t.″ I start chewing on my lip, trying to figure my way out of this. But everybody’s looking. I keep on talking. ″When my daddy died three years ago, Momma fell apart. She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t sleep. She stayed up all night long, washing and scrubbing till her hands was raw,″ I say, chewing on my finger.
The class gets so quiet, it’s scary. ″I was ten years old and brushing her teeth, feeding her oatmeal like a baby. She cried all the time. Last year, she finally came to. Got up one day, went and bought a sewing machine, and started making clothes. Ain’t never sewed nothing before. Just started, day and night, sewing.″
Some kids at the back of the room start to snicker and make smart remarks. Shut up, I’m thinking. Just shut up.
″The more she sewed them clothes, the better she got. She started picking up after herself. Got a job and all. No, ain’t nothing good come from loving somebody so much you can’t live without ’em,″ I say. ″No good at all.″
Maria asks me why nobody in our family came to help me and Momma out when my daddy died.
I say that we don’t have no relatives, but that ain’t the truth. Momma’s got a sister in New York. Daddy had brothers all over the place. But they weren’t close. And getting in touch with them would have meant taking me away or putting Momma in some institution someplace. I wasn’t having that, so we lived off Daddy’s Social Security and savings.
The classroom gets quiet again. Then the bell rings, busting up the silence like a fist through glass.
CHAPTER 14
A FEW DAYS LATER, I’M HANGING out with Char and the twins. Char told me I better show up if I know what’s good for me. She says she don’t like how I’m acting lately. Forgetting to do her homework. Giving her too much lip. She’s right, I’m pushing my luck with her. But maybe I can learn to hang with Char and get along with her too. Fighting her ain’t no use. Look where it got me the last time in the lunchroom. I’m tired of working in the school office. It’s been a few weeks now, and I’m still bored stiff.
I want to have some fun. So after fifth period, instead of going to the office to work, I head to the lockers with Char, Raina, and Raise. And who do we run into but Miss Saunders, who’s on hall duty. The first thing Miss Saunders does is ask me how work is coming in the office. Then she says, ″I guess you’re headed there now. You are working there today, right?″
Char stays cool, for once, and she and the twins start walking ahead of Miss Saunders and me.
″I’m on my way,″ I say, turning back around and walking up the hall toward the office.
I hear Miss Saunders tell Char and the twins they better hurry up to class or they will have to get a late note to get in. Char says something smart and keeps stepping. A moment later, I hear the school side exit door closing.
Miss Saunders walks me to the office like I’m some baby. She’s dressed to the nines, like usual. She’s got on gold hoop earrings with dolphins jumping through them, and she’s making small talk. Asking how I am. Asking if I read her latest assignment.
″That a designer suit you wearing?″ I ask, knowing full well it is.
Miss Saunders fingers the collar. ″I think so.″
″You think so. Don’t you know?″
″Yes, it is, Maleeka,″ she says, kind of smart.
″Real teachers can’t afford designer suits,″ I say before I really think about what I’m saying.
″I wore suits for my job at the ad agency. Suits are kind of like a uniform, I guess.″
″My mom wears a uniform to work. What you got on ain’t no uniform.″
Miss Saunders nods. I think if I was wearing my own clothes I would feel like two cents next to her. But I’m in Char’s stuff, so I’m holding my own.
″What’re you doing here, Miss Saunders? At McClenton, I mean?″ I ask.
While we walk, Miss Saunders stops every once in a while and picks up a gum wrapper or a soda can tab. ″I want to teach,″ she says plain as day.
″Then, how come you’re not at that Catholic school ten blocks from here? Or one of them private schools downtown?″
Miss Saunders doesn’t say nothing, she’s just walking slow like I got all day.
″I mean, teachers don’t come here ’cause they want to. They get dumped here, ’cause they goofed up someplace else, usually. Except Tai, maybe. But you know, she’s weird. She wanted to come to McClenton,″ I tell her.
Then Miss Saunders gives me a trick question that I ain’t expecting. ″Why are you here?″
″What?″ I fold my arms tight in front of me.
″Why are you here?″ she asks again. ″I checked your records. Last year you passed the test for Central Middle School, across town.″
″You checked my records?″
″I check all my students’ records. In business, you always learn about your clients, who they are, what makes them tick. It helps you do your job better. It’s the same with teaching—know your clients.″
It bothers me that Miss Saunders knows all my business. ″You know about us kids. But we don’t know nothing ’bout you. Except where you came from before you got here, that you like suits and jewelry, and that you was born with that face.″
Miss Saunders says there’s nothing much to know about her. She’s single. She doesn’t have any kids. She was working eighteen-hour days and traveling the country all the time. When she turned forty, she didn’t want to do it anymore.
Six months later she found out about the school board’s new plan for letting executives teach in the schools.
″You gave that up to come here?″ I ask, reaching down and picking up a broken pen.
″The business world can be very competitive,″ Miss Saunders says. ″I was always trying to out-think, out-perform, even out-dress my competitors. It was wearing me down.″
″Well, you’re the best-dressed one in this place,″ I say.
Miss Saunders reaches for the top button on her suit.
″You think you ever going back, Miss Saunders? Back to working in a big company?″ I ask.
Miss Saunders shakes her head. ″No, I think teaching is it for me.″
″You won’t miss the money and stuff like that?″
She shakes her head a second time. We turn the corner and I go into the office. Miss Saunders walks in, throws trash in the garbage can by the door, and keeps on going. It’s the first time me and her been together without things falling apart.
CHAPTER 15
MISS SAUNDERS HAS REALLY GOT ALL the other teachers stirred up. Except for Tai, most of them don’t like her. They say Mr. Pajolli’s sucking up to her so that maybe her company will donate lots of money to the school. Maybe even get us some computers and a new library. All of this makes the other teachers resent Miss Saunders even more.
In the office, the teachers never say her name. They just say ″she″ did this, and ″she″ did that.
″I hate pushy people,″ Miss Benson, the English teacher is saying when she comes into the office with Mr. Pajolli. ″Every day, she’s coming to me with some new idea she came up with. Questioning why things can’t be done differently.″
Mr. Pajolli tries to quiet Miss Benson down. But she just gets louder and her face grows red. Raising her finger to him she says, ″You get her in line, Charles. She’s disrupting everything. Everything.″
Mr. Pajolli’s nodding, while his eyes go over the messages Miss Carol hands him.
″That’s the third parent calling to complain this week. Too much homework. Too much reading,″ Miss Carol says.
A big smile comes over Miss Benson’s face. ″Don’t tell me. Let me guess who they’re complaining about.″
Mr. Pajolli scratches his bald head. He lets out a deep breath and says he’ll take care of things. Then the phone rings.
″Yes, he’s here.″ Miss Carol presses down the hold button and smiles. ″Someone else calling about your favorite person.″
Mr. Pajolli clicks his false teeth together. ″Send it back to my office,″ he tells Miss Carol.
Miss Benson touches up the edges of her lipstick with her finger and walks off humming. Miss Carol tells me to get back to work and stop being so nosy. I go and staple papers together over in the corner. It’s good to see teachers get in as much trouble as kids do sometimes.
The office is a busy place. Folks come and go like this is a bus stop on the corner. As soon as I get a few papers stapled, here comes someone else wanting something. This time, it’s Desda.
″Hey, Maleeka. I need me a note to get into class. I been to the dentist,″ she says, pulling out a balled-up piece of paper with some writing on it.
I look in Miss Carol’s direction. She’s heading over to give Desda what she needs. While she’s doing that, here comes Charlese. I don’t see the twins nowhere.
″Charlese, shouldn’t you be in class?″ Miss Carol asks, still tending to Desda.
″In a minute,″ Char snaps, waving for me to come to the other end of the counter.
Miss Carol’s voice is squeaky and high-pitched like a wheel that needs some oil. ″Charlese Jones. I don’t know what you think is going on here, but Maleeka is doing a job for the principal. And you, young lady, had better high-tail it to class.″
Char just laughs at Miss Carol. ″You act like Maleeka is working for the president of the United States. Man.″
Miss Carol shoves the note over to Desda. ″All right now, get to class.″
Desda’s looking at me like I did something wrong. Charlese takes out a stick of gum, and pushes it in her mouth real slow. Miss Carol looks like she’s going to go off on her. Then out comes Mr. Pajolli.
″Hello, Mr. P.,″ Char says, in a sweet, baby voice. ″You think maybe one day I can work in here, too? Maybe answer the phone or something?″
Char stands there in her skintight striped pants suit with her finger in her mouth like a two-year-old. Mr. Pajolli knows Char ain’t the least bit like that for real.
″Sure, Charlese. You may start working in the office as soon as you pay the fines for the three library books and two math books you lost last year.″
Char starts arguing with Mr. Pajolli about how she ain’t never had those things and how everybody is out to get her. ″Anyhow,″ she says, ″I ain’t no slave. If I work for somebody, there’s got to be some dollars involved.″
Mr. Pajolli tells Char to move along, to get to class.
″For what?″ she says, heading out. ″All these teachers is boring me to death.″
Mr. Pajolli asks her what class she has now. ″Math, with Tai,″ Char says.
″Nobody can be bored in her class, unless they want to be,″ Mr. Pajolli says, walking out with her.
Mr. Pajolli is right, too. Tai is funny. She meditates a lot so during her class break it ain’t unusual to see her sitting on the desk with her legs folded and her arms crossed.
She’s different, but she can teach. I used to get all A’s in Tai’s class last year. Since I got this office gig, Tai’s been bugging me about keeping up my average. She came right in here yesterday and asked me where my homework was. Mr. Pajolli was standing right at the desk, too. I lied and said it was in my locker. Tai asked Mr. Pajolli if it was OK for me to go get it. Then I had to fess up and tell her I forgot to do it. She asked Mr. Pajolli if it’s OK for me to use my office time to do my math homework. He said, yeah, but that I’d have to make up the time later.
Teachers don’t do nothing but cause you grief, I swear that’s all they do.
CHAPTER 16
YOU GETTING SOFT, MALEEKA, I SAY to myself. It’s Saturday morning and I been up two hours already writing this stuff for Miss Saunders. If Char or the twins knew about this, they would think I was out of my mind. Doing schoolwork on the weekend. For fun.
Momma’s trying to work me to death today, too. She got me washing windows and clothes and everything else. I tell her I have to do homework. That’s the only thing that got me off the hook for now. So here I am, trying to think something up before I head to Char’s. It’s coming slow, but it’s coming.
Dear Diary:
The sea is wild and mean. Water is crashing against the boat like a hundred angry lions. My body is wet with sweat and throw-up from the others pressing close around me like sticks of firewood.
They chain us together like thieves and beat us till we bleed. I have made up my mind, though. I will show no weakness. I will be strong. Strong like the sea and the wind.
—Akeelma
I finish writing, throw the paper in my drawer, and run out of the house. Momma don’t know I’m headed for Char’s place. She wouldn’t like it. She says Char’s sister, Juju, lets Char do anything she wants. Lets her run wild. Momma’s right about that.
Just before I’m about to leave, Sweets calls. She asks why am I going to Char’s if I’m trying to shake Char loose. ″I’m bored,″ I tell her. ″I don’t want to go to the avenue or hang out here at home. Besides, Char asked me to come over. Her sister’s got some new things. I was going to say no. Then she mentioned something about a black-and-gold skirt set.″ I can hear Sweets listening on the other end of the phone. She doesn’t say much before she hangs up.
I thought I would be at Char’s by one o’clock. But Momma keeps finding things for me to do. I have to clean out the cabinets, sweep, and take clothes to wash at the laundromat. I swear Momma thinks I’m her slave. She don’t even want to pay me a little something for doing so many chores. She says it�
��s my house, too, and that I should be glad to help.
When four o’clock comes, I’m knocking on Char’s door. Can’t nobody hear me, though. The music’s too loud. Some African stuff is playing. Drums are beating. Singers are making animal noises. Maracas are shaking.
I push open the broken screen door and go inside. Juju is jamming. Her and about ten other people are dancing. They’re rubbing up on one another. When I’m halfway across the room, a man with dreadlocks down to his belt jumps in front of me and says, ″Come jam with us, little sister.″ Then he starts moving like he’s a snake. I shake my head and run up the steps. Juju tells the dreadlocked brother to turn up the music and leave me alone. The music gets louder and so do the pots and sticks people are banging on.
I’m thinking that the party’s just got started. But Char says it’s finishing up from last night. I ask her how she sleeps through all the noise. She says she ain’t been to sleep yet. That she gets paid big bucks from Juju to keep glasses clean, ash trays emptied, and food coming. ″I don’t mind missing sleep for a hundred dollars,″ she says, waving the money in my face.
Juju parties all the time. Two, three times a month. People come from all over to go to her parties. Char and I find a place to talk, upstairs, in one of the empty bedrooms. I tell Char I couldn’t stand being around so many strangers all the time.
Char says I’m a wimp. That it ain’t nothing for her to wake up and find somebody she ain’t never seen using her bathroom two days after the party’s done. Folks like being around Juju, she says.
″Don’t they work?″ I ask.
″Some do, some don’t,″ she says, matter-of-factly. ″Juju don’t care as long as they pay to get into the party. She ain’t giving nobody nothing for free.″
I shake my head. I’m thinking, Ain’t no way I could live like this. Cigarette smoke burning your eyes. The house smelling like old chicken grease. Strangers passed out on your living room floor.
