Hallway Diaries

by Felicia Pride

  Not wanting to break my concentration, I stole a quick glance at the competing jump rope team. I wanted to see how their jumper looked while waiting for the start signal.

  My brain quickly processed her stance. The back of her shoulders looked steady and ready. Definitely not as tense as mine felt.

  Come on, Mia Chambers, I scolded myself. You just found out that you aced all your classes with straight As and yet you’re letting an informal double-Dutch competition turn you into an insecure pile of blah.

  The shriek of the start whistle knocked me back to reality. I jumped in at the perfect opening, clearing both ropes. I successfully avoided either one of them. Stepping on the ropes would mean sudden death in this competition.

  Once takeoff was complete, my body switched to autopilot. Imaginary springs grew underneath my heels. With as involuntary a reflex as breathing, my feet skipped and hopped rhythmically. The whirring cords formed a wall that enclosed me in a capsule. That capsule created its own intense microclimate. I owned that inner space. I felt myself becoming a force of nature with it.

  While I jumped, I faced the only turner I trusted—my best friend, Stacie Morrison. After five years of jumping together, we pretty much could read each other’s double-Dutch minds. I knew that if I concentrated on her rotating arms as she weaved the two rope ends, my feet would keep the pace. I pretended she was my puppeteer.

  “Move up,” Stacie shouted to me. “You’re too far back.”

  I inched forward in one hop.

  This trial was set up to find out which jumper lasted longer when the ropes were at top speed—me or Kendra Shelton. The team knew Stacie was our best turner at this double-rope sport. Now they were curious to identify the best speed jumper.

  It was the day before the last day of school—or as I liked to put it, the eve of my last day as a freshman. Stacie, Kendra, me, and the rest of our neighborhood double-Dutch squad had carefully planned this speed jumping competition. Choosing to meet after school at East Orange City High School’s gym was the best idea. It was tough getting everyone together, but the fact that we were all students at City High made it a little easier.

  Our squad was called Rope-a-Dope.

  Actually, Stacie and I got the idea for both the name and the squad after watching a documentary about legendary boxer Muhammad Ali on ESPN Classic. Funny how you never know when inspiration will strike. We were struck by it on a rainy day last summer, when she and I had nothing else to do at my house but sit in the den and channel surf. As I absentmindedly clicked the remote from channel to channel, the sight of a cute face on black-and-white film jolted Stacie from her boredom.

  “Hold it right there!” she said, swooning. “He is a dime.”

  “For real,” I agreed. We were spellbound.

  For the next hour and a half, Stacie and I watched Muhammad Ali’s life story. When the narrator droned on about the charismatic fighter’s inventive boxing technique called the rope-a-dope, I perked up.

  “That would be a cool name for a double-Dutch squad,” I breathlessly announced.

  “Yeah, ’cause we’re dope in the ropes,” Stacie squealed, offering me her mood-ring-adorned hands to high-five.

  In one swift movement, Stacie pulled out her Ideas notebook, turned to a blank page, and scribbled down our new name with a purple-ink pen. “Ropeadope.”

  “I think we need to throw in a hyphen here and there.” I pointed at the pad, doing what comes naturally as the daughter of a Scrabble-champ, wordsmith dad.

  Looking at Stacie now, I’m glad we chose that name. Each end of the ropes was wrapped several times around her knuckles like a boxer’s hand wrap. The swift rope-turning motion made her upper body rock quickly from side to side, reminding me of Ali’s bobbing and weaving movements in the ring.

  In the year since Rope-a-Dope had started, our membership had grown from three to eight super-skillful jumpers and turners. Stacie was right. All we had to do was take Kendra on board and girls would flock to our tryouts. Kendra was like a social pied piper.

  The whistle sounded again, signaling the turners to increase their turning pace. I followed suit, not feeling tired as I jumped, one foot at a time, over the ropes. From the corner of my eye, I could see that Kendra had successfully made the transition, too.

  But I didn’t have to sneak a peek to find out if Kendra was keeping up. I could hear the reaction of the small crowd that had formed around her.

  Kendra never lacked attention. But just like McDonald’s still comes out with self-promoting ads, Kendra worked at staying popular. She was the most outgoing, most outspoken sophomore at East Orange City High. And somehow, like a bunch of moths to a flame, people were drawn to her.

  That explained the crowds around Kendra now.

  I was just surprised that up to this point in the competition, none of her “friends” had jumped into the rope with her just to wipe her brow. After all, they were known to laugh at her jokes before she even got to the punch line!

  Obsequious, my dad would call them.

  But maybe they were just afraid to be the brunt of Kendra’s notoriously mean jokes. They probably reasoned that it was safer to be a “friend” to her instead.

  With the next whistle, the turners upgraded the pace once again. Now the one-two, one-two slaps of the ropes were going so fast, they almost happened in sync. The rope made whirring sounds like a small windstorm. I hardly had enough time to pick my feet up from the floor before having to lift them again.

  It was challenging to jump at this super speedy pace. To keep up, I focused on Stacie’s arms as she turned in fast motion.

  With all of Kendra’s fans rooting for her now, I felt like Stacie was my only supporter. Every few seconds, Stacie would nod her head once to encourage me to keep jumping. My calves were starting to cramp. I ignored it. But it was getting tougher to disregard the dull ache at the back of my neck. I had been holding my head low as I jumped. Both my turners were a lot shorter than my five-foot-five-inch height, so I was afraid that my high ponytail would clip the rope as it traveled overhead. That would be a bad way to lose.

  Stacie’s face suddenly beamed. She began nodding her head excitedly. I didn’t catch on why at first.

  “You got it, Mia,” she told me as she kept turning. “You won!”

  I shot a glance over to where Kendra had been jumping and saw the collapsed ropes. I stopped hopping and slapped Stacie’s outstretched palm. “Good job turning,” I told her and Dana, the other turner.

  “Yeah, you got that,” Kendra’s voice boomed like she was speaking into a microphone. She stuck a lollipop in her mouth. Like a WNBA star at the free-throw line, Kendra then launched the candy wrapper right into the trash. “You got that,” she repeated between sucking sounds.

  She even made losing look cool.

  “My legs ain’t built like Daddy-Long-Legs Mia over there,” she continued. Her entourage started chuckling from the moment she said “built.”

  Their laughter echoed in the gym.

  “Sounds like something a sore loser would say,” Ms. Landrieux, our school guidance counselor, who doubles as our drill team advisor said. She walked into the gym just in time to catch Kendra’s comment about my legs.

  “Ms. Shelton, are you here to try out for next year’s drill team?” she asked Kendra, who huffed in response.

  “I don’t think so,” Kendra shot back, obviously feeling dissed and annoyed by the loss of the social upper hand. Her brief reply was loaded with attitude. Plus her expression made it clear that she thought the drill team was corny.

  “Then I’m going to have to ask only those from the drill team to remain.” Ms. Landrieux’s Caribbean lilt sounded pleasant even as she shooed away the moths who had stopped in to watch us double-Dutch. “If I don’t see you tomorrow, have a nice summer vacation, people.”

  Stacie and I were on the school’s drill team, so we stayed behind as the other teammates started trickling into the gym for our final meeting of the year.

&
nbsp; “We’ll see y’all at practice tomorrow,” Stacie called out to Kendra and the few other Rope-a-Dope members who were with her. It was Stacie’s fourth time this hour reminding everyone. She was like Santa—she wrote a list and then checked it twice.

  Our final drill team meeting of the year was bittersweet. Stacie and I were given an induction into varsity. That meant that next year, as sophomores, we would be more active members of the team.

  The graduating seniors were honored for their work on the squad. Pep rallies and halftime performances at the home football games had been so much more fun because of their amazing energy and cool choreography.

  I had learned a lot from them.

  I had come to appreciate the drill team as a cheerleading squad with a unique approach to getting the crowd energized. I was glad to learn that they incorporated double Dutch into their halftime performances. That’s one reason I was excited to come to East Orange City High.

  And as the creative partner of Rope-a-Dope, I invented most of our squad’s choreography and made our musical selection. So it was important for Stacie and me to get all the performance experience possible from the drill team.

  Our plan was to make Rope-a-Dope a star double-Dutch squad. That meant we had to prep the squad to perform tricky athletic and dance techniques inside the egg-beating ropes the way it’s done at competitions. Joining City High’s highly regarded drill team was the perfect training ground for our goal to take Rope-a-Dope to the state championships. Once we won at state level, we’d be qualified to enter the premiere double-Dutch championships in Harlem, New York. There, jumpers competed from as far away as Japan! I got excited just thinking about it all.

  After the meeting, we hugged the seniors goodbye and wished them good luck. As I headed out the gym with Stacie, Ms. Landrieux walked up to me.

  “I need to speak with you about a private matter, Mia,” she announced.

  I didn’t know what to think.

  “Meet you outside,” I told Stacie. She nodded, but looked at me quizzically as she headed to the double-door exit.

  “Congratulations again on your stellar academic performance this year, Ms. Chambers,” Ms. Landrieux began once Stacie was out of earshot.

  “Thank you,” I said cautiously. I didn’t know where she was going with this conversation. Maybe I scored a gift certificate or some prize for getting straight As, I thought to myself. I couldn’t read Ms. Landrieux’s expression. She had the same pleasant lilt in her voice and the usual polite expression on her face.

  I wondered what might make her snap and spit out something like “Oh nnno, you did-ent!”

  Ms. L couldn’t have been any older than 30—32 at the most, but she dressed as if she were twice her age. If the author Jane Austen had been reincarnated and come back as a black woman from the island of St. Lucia, she would have dressed and acted just like Ms. Landrieux.

  “I’ve called a conference with your parents for tonight,” she said. “We’re going to discuss how we can make your high school experience a bit more challenging.”

  “It is challenging,” I offered in a panic. I hate being singled out, I thought to myself. It was bad enough that my upbringing made me stand out. “I’m taking AP classes, and next year my extracurricular activities get more demanding since I’ll be on the varsity drill team.”

  “You’re easily excelling in your advanced placement assignments, Mia.” Ms. Landrieux gingerly picked up her briefcase and zipped it closed as if to indicate that our discussion was over. “I’m recommending that you be advanced one grade in order to start your junior year this September.”

  It was amazing how Ms. Landrieux could sound so kind as she was shattering your hopes and dreams. Her words almost floated by me unnoticed. I had to play it back in my head as she flashed me a sweet smile. When she offered me the same “If I don’t see you tomorrow, have a nice summer vacation” that she had tossed at Kendra and her crew, I didn’t react. I didn’t even move from the spot where I stood. The same feet that had been light as feathers as I’d jumped rope not that long ago were suddenly too heavy to lift.

  Ms. Landrieux answered her cell phone and dived into a new conversation. She was too preoccupied to notice I wasn’t following her out.

  CHAPTER 2

  Once I finally walked out of the gym, I saw Stacie in the hallway waiting for me. She followed her confused expression with the obvious question.

  “What was that about?”

  “She asked to speak to my parents and so they’re coming tonight,” I tried to make it sound like it was no big deal. But detail-needy Stacie wouldn’t leave it at that.

  “What do you think she wants to talk to them about?”

  “I guess she wants me to take more challenging classes or something, I don’t know.” Desperate to change the subject, I thought of something to distract Stacie.

  “You think Kendra is gonna hold it against me that she lost?”

  I held the school’s heavy front door, waiting for Stacie to catch up. Talking about my parent conference put her in a pensive mode, which made her walk slower. The sunny outdoors and the energy of all the students hanging out in front of the school eventually snapped her out of it.

  “You know Kendra.” Stacie skipped down the grand limestone stairs. “She’s always got to have a chip on her shoulder—whether you or someone else put it there is beside the point.”

  That was true.

  At the bottom of the stairs, a group of boys were looking through the newly distributed yearbook.

  “Aw, yeah, I got the ballerific profile goin’ on,” Faison, a sophomore, said as he checked his picture in the book. His friend Alex gave him a soul-brother handshake to congratulate him.

  “Yeah, but too bad your shape-up wasn’t as tight as mine,” said Alex, making reference to Faison’s overgrown afro.

  “That’s a’ight,” Faison countered. “’Cause your girl signed my yearbook like, ‘Call me—Alex is going down South this summer.’”

  I had to laugh at Faison’s falsetto girl voice and fluttering eyelids as he imitated what Alex’s fictitious girlfriend would sound and look like.

  The group of boys all shouted, “Oooooh!” and cracked up.

  Stacie and I were out of earshot, so we didn’t hear Alex’s comeback. But we caught the explosive reaction it got.

  “Touché for Alex,” I giggled with Stacie, looking back to catch more hand slapping among the group.

  The thump-thump-thump of bass from a souped-up car stereo soon drowned out their voices. An SUV drove by, loudly playing the latest True MC song. Stacie and I bobbed our heads to the beat.

  True MC was a recent graduate of City High and his songs were hot on the charts. You couldn’t turn on BET or watch TRL without catching one of his hip-hop videos. He’d taken our fair city of East Orange, New Jersey, worldwide in a way few had before.

  True’s good looks and clever lyrics made him a media darling. And through it all, he hadn’t forgotten where he hails from.

  Months ago when we’d heard that his latest video, for the song “True Life Story,” would be shot locally, everyone was excited. Stacie’s big brother Joss heard from his friend’s cousin that the camera crews would set up on the corner of Douglas and Tubman, near the high-rise buildings Kendra lives in.

  On the day of the shoot, Stacie and I searched her closet for the hottest gear we could find.

  Once she had pulled together the perfect look, Stacie playfully announced: “I’m gonna be on the camera like…” and she busted an exaggerated dance move that made her look like superstar Beyoncé performing barefoot on hot coals.

  I dropped to her carpeted floor, laughing.

  “And then I’m gonna be like…” I said, then stood up to demonstrate one crazy spastic movement that had Stacie cracking up so hard her eyes started tearing.

  Maybe Stacie and I took too long getting ready for our imagined close-up. By the time we got to the shoot, the crowd that had gathered was so thick police had to redirect
traffic. The closest we could get was a block and a half away.

  When the video premiered on TV a few weeks later, it was the biggest thing to happen to East Orange—or even New Jersey—in my memory. The video was filmed with Hollywood flair. Shots of East Orange flashed on-screen as True MC rapped about the place where he’d been born and raised. Our school even got a cameo! But most of the city sites selected were the more blighted areas of the community. Nowhere represented were the fun shopping center, the parks, the friendly retirees who worked as crossing guards on almost every school zone corner, or the city’s tree-lined blocks that also sprouted Victorian-style homes, like the street I lived on.

  I guessed places like those wouldn’t give True the street cred a rapper needed.

  Still, we were excited to watch the video premiere. I watched it from the living room in Stacie’s crowded home. It was like playing a game of Where’s Waldo? When different locations flashed on-screen, someone tried to be the first to recognize it. Shouts of “Oh—there’s the Jamaican pattie place!” or “That’s over by Lettie’s Hair Salon!” erupted while True repeated his hook: “This is my true life—true life story/Things ain’t been too right—too right for me.”

  But the video’s biggest sighting of all was the quick close-up shot of Kendra Shelton!

  Of all the people in the crowd, cameras zoomed in on Kendra’s face. We could all see her, plain as day. Her especially feminine facial features stood out more than usual because of her freshly lightened hair and newly waxed eyebrows. But the fixed “I wish she would” scowl on her face and the subtle flash of her gold tooth added that trademark street slickness to her look.

  Her cameo was all anyone could talk about at school the next day.

  People showered her with “Kendra, you were reppin’ hard!” and “Kendra, I saw you on MTV!”

  After that, more girls wanted to come to our Rope-a-Dope tryouts, just to be cool with Kendra.