Hallway Diaries

by Felicia Pride

  How is it that someone like Kendra could be such a crowd favorite? I wondered. She wasn’t anything like you’d imagine. She wasn’t particularly nice. In my opinion, she was full of herself and she didn’t seem to care about anyone’s feelings or opinions.

  Yet she just arrived on the scene where hundreds of people were crowding and found the perfect spot to stand, and a music video director spotted her. Then and there that director decided that Kendra had the image they wanted beamed out to millions of TV sets across the country, and possibly the globe. How was that for justice?

  Something about her caused film editors to include her two-second clip and leave countless minutes of quality footage on the cutting room floor.

  I could just imagine the editor and director discussing that decision. The conversation probably played out something like…

  DIRECTOR: Stop right there. Yes, her! The one with the scowl on her face. She’s got the look.

  EDITOR: I knew it the moment I saw her.

  DIRECTOR: I bet everyone loves to be around her. Heck—I wish I knew her!

  EDITOR: Somebody should track her down and make her a star.

  DIRECTOR: But it must always be known that we discovered her first.

  Meanwhile, if they had seen my face in the crowd, the exchange would’ve gone something like…

  DIRECTOR: Stop right there. Yes, her! Shouldn’t that girl with the wide-eyed look be home rewriting entries on Wikipedia or something?

  EDITOR: Yeah, remind me to call her the next time my term paper’s due.

  [They both chuckle.]

  “You know, I’m kinda glad the cameras didn’t zoom in on our faces that day at the video shoot.” Stacie snapped me out of my daydream. She seemed to pick up that I was thinking about that day.

  “Oh no?” I asked, curious. “Why not?”

  Before she spoke again, she waited until we had walked past a man mowing his lawn with a loud, old-fashioned mower.

  “Well, I’d rather people want to hang with me because they genuinely like me,” she continued, shrugging. “Not just because my face was on a popular music video.”

  She kicked a pebble with her lime-green flip-flop. “I see different kids come up to Kendra at the oddest places, and it all seems so fake,” Stacie commented.

  I couldn’t disagree with that.

  I nodded, feeling better and worse at the same time. Better, because Stacie’s bright perspective lifted my mood a bit. Worse, because it made me realize how envious my reaction to Kendra’s cameo had been. My shame silenced me for a second.

  “So, I don’t know about you, gurl.” Stacie smiled, pretending to frame her face with her hands. “But this face don’t have to be on any screen to be considered fly.”

  I smiled. It was true what kids at school teased us about. A pretty girl, Stacie did look like the poor man’s Beyoncé, just as much as I resembled the superstar’s buddy Kelly Rowland with my mocha skin and button nose.

  “Except on Chris Brown’s cell phone screen, talkin’ ’bout some ‘Cawl me!’” I winked at Stacie. I couldn’t miss the opportunity to tease her about the R & B singer she had a huge crush on.

  That sparked a fit of giggles that we couldn’t put a stop to for two blocks. Just when we thought we’d caught our composure, the sight of a middle-aged man riding a bike with the ashiest bare feet and ankles we’d ever seen got us cracking up again.

  By the time we reached the intersection where we parted ways, we were feeling light-headed.

  “You sure you’re not coming over?” Stacie knew I liked to hang at her lively house just as much as she loved to come over to mine for peace and quiet. There was never a dull moment at the Morrison residence, where Stacie lives with two sisters, two brothers, and a constantly squawking pet parrot. “We still need to go over a few details before tomorrow’s Rope-a-Dope meeting.”

  “I have to help my grandma with something,” I lied. The truth was, I wanted to get home early enough to catch my parents before they headed to that conference with Ms. Landrieux. “Call me in a few hours and we can go over it then.”

  Stacie pulled out her pad and started briefing me anyway. “It’s just a few things I wanted to mention.” The girl was so organized, she kept a calendar detailing which outfit she’d wear each day for the following two weeks.

  “If we want to be ready for the winter tournament, there are some things we need to take care of soon,” she began. Stacie talked about the next school year like it was next week.

  I barely caught what Stacie was saying. My mind was elsewhere. Usually, we stopped and chatted at this intersection for a few minutes before parting, but today I was having trouble concentrating.

  “All right, I’ll check you later,” I told her when she’d finished.

  “See ya.” Her voice trailed behind me as I walked in the direction of my street. She was so excited about her plans for the winter tournament that she didn’t notice that I was getting more worried by the second.

  When I reached my block, I saw my grandma Bibi picking flowers from her mini–rose garden in the front of the house. She was wearing a wide-brimmed sun hat and humming Debussy’s “Clair de Lune.” She didn’t know the name of it, but would always ask, “Can you play that dah-dah, duh-duh-dum?” the minute I sat on the piano bench to practice. But I didn’t mind playing it. I loved the piece myself. And plus, I would do anything for my grandma.

  “Hey, Bibi,” I called to her. I’d been calling my grandma that ever since I could talk. The story is that years ago, I loved to have her read me a particular children’s book titled Bibi, the Swahili word for grandmother.

  “Hey, Sugar.” She turned to face me and smiled warmly. “What’s new?”

  “One more day of school to go.” I smiled back, walking up to her. “But tonight Mom and Dad are meeting with my guidance counselor.”

  Bibi caught the look of my furrowed brow before I leaned in to kiss her cheek. “They want me to skip a grade,” I told her.

  “Oh, that explains why you’re home so soon.” She laid a few freshly clipped roses into the basket on the ground. “I thought you and Stacie would be hanging out a bit longer.”

  “Am I pathetic?” I exhaled and started nibbling my thumbnail.

  “No, but I’ll tell you what I see.” She reached out and gently pulled my hand away from my face. The sun rays that poked through the tiny openings in her straw hat became soft beams of light gliding across her face. I waited for what she had to say. Bibi always had a wonderful way of breaking things down. She could find the baby in an Olympic-size bathtub.

  “I see a worried girl who’s terrified of change.” She gave me a knowing look before I headed inside and upstairs to my bedroom.

  That’s because whenever Mom gets involved in anything, things change, I thought as I belly-flopped onto my bed. My mother considered herself a problem solver. The only problem was, she preferred to shake things up rather than go with the flow. The woman actually feels flutters in her belly when she senses that a change is brewing. It excites her because she believes change brings the opportunity to grow and learn. It’s what she calls “Living Life.”

  Problems frustrate Mom. She prefers to scrap something altogether and start from scratch rather than beat what she considers to be a dead horse. If it hadn’t been for my dad’s strong love for stability, I suspected we’d be living like a traveling circus sometimes. Especially when you considered the parade of characters Mom had befriended in the past.

  “Mia, honey, come play something for my friend,” she’d call out to me when we had guests. I’d go to the living room to find another eccentric person sitting at the “listening lounge,” as I liked to call the chaise lounge near the piano. I tried hard not to crack up when one wannabe hip listening couple started snapping their fingers and beat boxing to the classical piece I played them.

  Aside from getting her “change” fix by redecorating our home every few seasons, Mom loves to get acquaintanted with people from all walks of life—p
referably those who speak no English. She then embarks on learning how to communicate with them. All that comes in handy at my mom’s high-profile job.

  I once witnessed her in action. She took me to her offices in nearby New York City for Take Your Daughter to Work Day when I was in the seventh grade. She was amazing to watch at the board meeting she let me sit in on. There, when she pointed at the large screen projecting her PowerPoint presentation, all eyes were fixed on her.

  My mom is statuesque, with arms so long I felt she could almost embrace us from the head of the boardroom table. Her mahogany skin glowed, her dark eyes twinkled, and her teeth sparkled as she spoke.

  Dressed in an elegant blue pantsuit with her hair pulled away from her face, Mom captured everyone’s attention with her engaging personality. Her words came to life in her listeners’ minds.

  She was genuine in her appreciation of her foreign clients, who had flown in from Japan that day. At one memorable point, Mom said something in Japanese and the clients were tickled.

  I could just see her meeting Ms. Landrieux tonight. I bet she’d pronounce Ms. L’s French last name better than even Ms. L herself! Mom would probably ask her a question in French or something and my guidance counselor would be immediately smitten.

  And how could she not be? Mom really has a wonderful way with people. The problem is, she fails to see that I do not.

  It took me most of my grade school years to find a friend I felt comfortable hanging out with. And that connection came about not because of who I am, but what I did—and that was jump double Dutch well. My mom didn’t seem to get that kids I met at the playground didn’t care that I’d been taking piano lessons since age four, or that I’d visited almost every museum in New York City.

  Sometimes I thought that I was my parents’ social experiment to create some “well-rounded” child in the hood. When they decided to raise me in the same city where my grandma Bibi raised my mom, my parents had hoped to create a future leader in a girl with humble beginnings and worldly talents. But all I’d ever wanted to do was to blend in.

  Being able to read college texts at a young age didn’t make me a leader. It made me a nerd.

  Two hours later, I heard my parents’ car pull into our long driveway. I got off the phone with Stacie, said a quick prayer, and met them at the back door through the kitchen.

  “We have been to the village in St. Lucia where she’s from—remember Scott?” My mom was asking my dad, who looked eager to catch the last 12 minutes of Jeopardy!

  Mom had obviously gotten familiar with Ms. L.

  “Hey, Pumpkin.” Dad affectionately squeezed my shoulder as he walked by me and into the house.

  How could they act so nonchalant at a time like this? My social life—the little there was of it—was hanging by a thread.

  “Well?” I asked them, searching their faces. “How did the meeting with Ms. L go?”

  “That’s Ms. Landrrur.” Mom Frenchified her name. “And, Sweetie, why do you look so flustered? You know we always have your best interest in mind.”

  Dad took a seat at the kitchen counter instead of in his study, so I knew something was up. Mom dropped her oversized bag by the kitchen table and kicked off her pumps.

  “It’s safe to come on in, Mia.” She led me inside through the doorway to the seat next to my dad. “What’s got you so worried? Things are great. Your teachers think very highly of you.”

  “So highly, in fact, that they want to skip you a grade, you genius daughter of mine.” Dad playfully poked me in the ribs, trying to make light of the situation.

  “But I don’t want to do that.” I didn’t giggle like I usually do when he does that. “I don’t think—”

  “We know, we know,” Mom interrupted. “We agree with you. There’s no reason for you to skip a grade at this point.”

  “Good.” I exhaled. “Thank you so much.”

  “That’s why we’re going to transfer you to a more academically challenging school instead,” Mom said softly.

  “St. Claire Academy in Millwall Cliffs is an exceptional girls’ school,” Dad continued.

  St. who? Girls’ what? My mind was reeling.

  “So, that’s it?” I glared at my dad and then at my mom. “You just rearrange my life like my opinion doesn’t matter?” Their lips parted, but they didn’t speak. “You can’t do this to me!” I heard myself yell louder than I’d expected.

  “Mia.” Dad reached out to touch my arm but I sprang out of my chair.

  “Nothing you can say will make me feel better right now.” I nodded and slowly walked backward toward the door. I felt betrayed. And because I knew how strict my parents were about education, I knew that their decision was final. Just like that. When I felt the tears welling up, I turned around and stormed back to my room.

  My parents didn’t follow. They gave me the space I needed to let it all sink in.

  CHAPTER 3

  That next morning, I pretended to be asleep when my parents peeked into my bedroom before heading to work. I was still so mad at them.

  An hour later, I couldn’t even bring myself to say more than two words to Bibi when she offered to make me breakfast. “No, thanks,” I mumbled before walking out the front door.

  Who feels this low on the last day of school? I asked myself. I dragged through the eight-block commute to the school building.

  When Mr. Gatwick’s fenced-in German shepherd greeted me with an intimidating growl and slobbery barking, I didn’t flinch or cross the street like I usually did.

  My eyes rolled over the grade school’s brick structure as I walked by it. The playground next to the building looked so much smaller than I remembered it being when I was a student there. That was where I’d met Stacie five years ago. Stacie and her friend were trying to get a game of double Dutch going, but they needed a third person. She spotted me leaning on the fence reading a book from the American Girl series.

  “You turn double?” she called out to me, inquiring about whether I had the right rhythm to be a strong turner.

  “No, I turn well.” I cringed inside as soon as I said it. Although grammatically correct, I thought it would’ve sounded less nerdy to say “turn good,” like other girls at my school would.

  But Stacie didn’t judge me. She just handed me the rope ends, and we’ve been tight ever since.

  I’d had no friends up to that point. As the only child in my family, there was usually a thirty-year age gap between me and the folks I spent time with. I cherished my summertime visits to see my favorite girl cousins in North Carolina. They were the ones who’d schooled me about double Dutch. But when I was back home, my college-professor dad and advertising-exec mom introduced me to intellectual ideas, people, and places. Too bad they didn’t prep me with the basics of schoolyard social skills.

  Unlike most kids, Stacie overlooked my awkwardness. She just cared that I liked double Dutch. Today, she and I were a double-Dutch duo.

  Elementary school girls walked by in a flurry of pigtails and giggles. They obediently formed a cluster next to Mabel, the crossing guard, who had something sassy to say to every kid she helmed across the busy street.

  “Now, why did your mama let you leave the house with breakfast crumbs still sittin’ up on the side of your mouth?” she was asking one child.

  By the time I got to my locker at school, Stacie was there waiting for me. That was when I wished I’d used my walk to school to think of an easy way to tell her that I wouldn’t be coming back to City High next year.

  “Guess what, gurl?” she said before I could say hi. “I thought of a perfect advisor who could write a recommendation for Rope-a-Dope.”

  Once Stacie got in one of her excited moods, you could forget about getting a word in edgewise.

  “Ms. L!” she answered before I could pretend like I was eager to hear who. Stacie looked like she’d just been named the next contestant on The Price Is Right. What ever happened to the art of building suspense? I thought.

  “That�
�s great.” I forced out a weak smile.

  Talking about Ms. L made me feel guilty about not using this as a chance to segue into my news. I started scratching places on the back of my neck that didn’t itch. Now was not the time to tell her. It would spoil her happy moment. Instead, I swung open my locker door and tried to avoid eye contact.

  “If I can get her to write it by the end of today, we’ll make the application deadline and be considered for the winter competition.”

  I nodded but didn’t look away from what I was doing. As she spoke, I continued to take down the photos I had taped to the inside of my locker door. A picture of Stacie and me jumping during our first halftime performance as drill team members. A clip of my favorite poem by Gwendolyn Brooks. I peeled the extra tape off the birthday card Bibi had given me when I’d turned fifteen last month. The girl on the front of the card looked just like me. Her tight auburn curls were worn loose, like a weeping willow at the peak of autumn. My illustrated twin had an air of confidence that I wished I had. She looked proudly unique rather than awkwardly different, like I felt. I’d kept the card taped on my locker door for weeks, hoping that one day as I reached for my algebra text, she’d whisper the secret of social success to me.

  “Anything wrong, Mia?” Stacie said with mock concern in her voice. “You look like that girl from the tampon commercial after she realized she bought the wrong brand.”

  “We’re gonna miss you next year, Ms. Chambers,” called out our history teacher, Mr. Reynolds, as he strolled by. “Good luck in your new school.”

  The power trip Mr. Reynolds felt when he monitored the hallways obviously affected his judgment. For someone who had spent two class periods lecturing us about privacy laws, he had no qualms about putting my personal business on blast.

  “What does he mean by that?” Stacie said.

  “Stacie.” I shut my locker door and faced her. “I was meaning to tell you. I just found out yesterday.” She didn’t look convinced. “It’s true—today’s my last day at City High.”