Hallway Diaries

by Felicia Pride

  I watched the transformation of her face and spirit go from smiling to disturbed, disappointed, and dismayed. Stacie just looked straight-up dissed.

  “Stace, I—”

  She put her hand up as if to keep me at a distance—physically and emotionally.

  “That’s cool. I understand.” She took a step back, then walked away. “See you later at practice.”

  I was the last to arrive at practice. The girls were on the empty side of the park’s basketball court. A group of four guys was playing at the other end. I recognized one of them as Stacie’s crush, Eric, or E-Dub, as his friends in the junior class called him.

  Stacie had obviously noticed Eric was playing. She was making her announcements to the Rope-a-Dope squad with more enthusiasm than usual.

  “Ms. L gave us a fantastic reference in just one day. I have it right here.” She held the slender envelope up high like a picket sign. Everyone else was plopped on the ground, so they had to crane their necks to see it. “So I’ll send off the application tomorrow. Hopefully by this fall—” she paused as I leaned against the fence and joined the meeting “—we’ll know whether we’ve been selected to compete in the winter competition.” Stacie eyed me cautiously before continuing. “Of course, some of us won’t be at City High in the fall….”

  “Oh, yeah,” Kendra chimed in. “I heard about you bouncing, Mia.”

  I cleared my throat. “Yeah, guys. I’m switching schools.” That felt odd to hear out loud. “But that won’t affect my involvement with Rope-a-Dope.” I felt like a busted politician at a congressional hearing.

  “You sure double Dutch ain’t too ghetto for you?” Kendra stood up and wiped the dust off her shapely brown legs and brushed the back of her shorts. “Don’t they have a squash team or something up in Millwall?”

  “Squash?” the girls giggled. “Don’t you eat that?”

  “You’re nice in the ropes, but let’s face it,” Kendra continued. “You didn’t completely fit in. To start off with, you kinda talk and act white anyway. I guess that’s cuz you’re from the good part of East Orange.”

  I guess I was shocked that Kendra had called me out like that. At that moment, I should’ve spit out a cold comeback. But unfortunately, as I took time to wonder how Kendra could get away with talking to me like that, she got away with doing it.

  Kendra looked around for a backup “True” or “Yup” but instead got feeble “Humphs” and downward glances. The other girls obviously felt uncomfortable with where this was going. Kendra soldiered on solo.

  “Kendra—” Stacie’s tone pleaded with her to quit.

  “Nah, let’s be real. You’ll have a lot more in common with them than us, that’s for sure.” Kendra crossed her arms, as if to challenge me to say something.

  My response was to pick up my bag and walk away silently. I had to make a quick exit, before anyone could see the tears rolling down my face.

  CHAPTER 4

  “I can’t stand by and watch you let this summer slip by.” My grandma Bibi was standing in my bedroom doorway, watching me burn yet another one of her old CDs onto my iTunes list.

  “But I thought you said that Nina Simone helped you through many heartaches when you were growing up.” The jacket photo showed the late jazz singer circa 1958 sitting on a park bench.

  It had been three weeks since the “Kendra catastrophe,” as I liked to call it. Stacie and I had spoken briefly once, but only on the phone. I couldn’t beat Stacie in a grudge match. There was a record nine days that she didn’t talk to her own brother—and he lived across the hall from her! Besides, her summer romance with Eric—E-Dub—was heating up. And when you took into account her summer job at the movie theater, there was little time for hanging with me.

  I turned to music to keep me company.

  “I loves you, Porgyyyy,” Nina crooned sadly.

  “Oooh.” Bibi pointed her palm heavenward and sat on my bed. “Now that takes me back. Mm, mm, mm.”

  I swiveled my chair away from the desk to face her. “Oh really, Bibi? Tell me what this song reminds you of,” I teased. From the look on her face, I could tell there was a juicy-story itch begging to be scratched.

  She looked at me from the corner of her eye. “I don’t know…. You fifteen yet?”

  My limbs were like crab legs as I scurried across the room to Bibi without getting out of my rolling chair. “You know I am. I can handle it.”

  “Well…” She puckered her lips. Bibi was a master at the art of suspense. “All right. But this stays between us.”

  I nodded and mimed locking my lips with an imaginary key and then tucking it in my vintage New Jersey Nets baby tee.

  “Well, back in the days when I couldn’t walk one block without someone asking me if I modeled—”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Hey—don’t be fresh. Where do you think your mother got her looks from?” she asked me. “Sure as heck not from her daddy, bless his soul. Genes are a tricky thing, my darling. Your mom got lucky. Now, as for your uncle Lenny, I apologize to him all the time for choosing a husband with my heart instead of my eyes.”

  “Bibi!” I coughed out a shocked laugh.

  “I didn’t appreciate it enough back then, but I was a stunning beauty. My classmates were so jealous they constantly picked on any flaw they could find in me. It was torture.” Bibi’s eyes looked sad for a moment. “They told me I wasn’t even fit to be a model student, much less a fashion model. They talked about my broad nose and my taller-than-average height until I began to feel distorted. By the time I was your age, I didn’t feel beautiful at all. I hardly liked to look in the mirror when I got dressed in the mornings. And I avoided being photographed for months. Then I met Delroy.”

  “And how did he look?” I asked, curious. I wondered how it was that I’d never heard this story before. Maybe I was too busy daydreaming to pay attention the last time she told this story, I thought.

  “Like a Nubian prince. He was an artist and asked me to pose for one of his pencil drawings.”

  “Oh, he used that old pickup line, huh?” I teased.

  “Exactly what I thought—oooh, I taught you well, Ladybug,” Bibi gushed, her rings colliding as she clapped in amusement.

  “Great—I can’t even tease you without you taking it as a compliment,” I chuckled. “How on earth did a mirror-dodging girl grow up to be you?”

  “It wasn’t easy, I’ll tell you that. But each self-esteem-boosting moment was like a stair step closer to where I am today. And one of those first defining moments happened because of Delroy.”

  “Where’d you meet him?”

  “At school. He was a year ahead of me at my old high school.” Bibi had grown up in Charleston, South Carolina, but moved to East Orange once she married my grandfather Julian. “Every time Delroy and I crossed paths, I’d turn down his offer to do a portrait of me. Around that time I wouldn’t even let someone take a picture of me, much less allow some boy to study my features and bring them to life on canvas. But Delroy was politely persistent. He said he had to complete a portrait for his art class assignment and that he couldn’t imagine doing his best work on any other face than mine. I thought Delroy must be blind. I couldn’t understand what he saw of beauty in me.”

  “When did you finally give in?”

  “It was on the day my church youth group and I had successfully convinced our local radio station manager to play more black artists on the radio. Just think—I joined a group that stood behind an important cause. About seventeen of us stood outside that radio station with protest signs for hours each day after school for fifteen straight days. On that fifteenth day, the station manager came out and spoke to us. An hour after that, Nina Simone’s ‘I Loves You, Porgy’ was played on the radio for the whole community to hear. That happened in large part because of our organized protest. And I was a part of that.”

  Bibi’s glassy eyes were looking in the distance, focusing on the memory, while her chin jutted out with deep, quie
t pride.

  “I was walking from the station, feeling proud of what I’d helped to achieve, when I ran into Delroy. This time when he offered to sketch me, I surprised him with a yes answer.”

  “He must’ve been ex-ci-ted,” I said.

  “Yes, he was. He didn’t want to risk me changing my mind, so he was prepared to do it then and there. I sat on a park bench, just like Ms. Simone does on her album cover. Under an hour later, he was done. But he didn’t let me see the sketch. He insisted I meet him at his art class a week later so I could see the finished project—painted and completed.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to wait.” I shook my head. “I’d be too eager to see it.”

  “When I walked into that classroom that next week, I was immediately drawn to a painting by the window. It was a portrait of a young woman with an inner spirit so strong, you could see it on her face. She wasn’t smiling, but her eyes were. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.”

  “It was you, Bibi?”

  “It was me. I was still speechless when Delroy came over to ask me how I liked it. I was amazed by his talent, but also at the fact that he had tapped into the positive way I was feeling about myself that day. He captured my inner radiance—the pride I felt from the successful protest—and etched it forever in time right there on that canvas. Delroy and his family moved out of state later that year, but he let me keep the portrait. I treasure it to this day.”

  I’d seen that gold-framed painting on the wall above Bibi’s dresser a million times, but I’d never appreciated the story behind it. I began to understand why Bibi had given me the birthday card I kept in my locker. She was trying to help me tap into my own inner radiance. No doubt lately I’d been walking around like somebody had turned off all my indoor lights.

  “Bibi,” I said, looking down at my long brown fingers, “if you can go from feeling that low to becoming the diva you are today, I guess that means there’s hope for me yet.”

  Bibi smiled and softly nudged my chin. “Yes, there is, Ladybug—and don’t you forget it.”

  Twenty seconds had gone by since I’d last rang the bell. It wouldn’t have been impolite to go for the second ring. By the time my finger reached the button, my new piano teacher, a woman in her early thirties, answered her door.

  “Hello,” she greeted me with a close-lipped smile. “You must be Mia.”

  “Yes, Ms. Simon,” I sighed.

  “Uh-uh.” She tossed a quick glance behind her as she led me through her home’s foyer into the room where the piano was waiting. “Call me Nadine.”

  “Okay, Nadine.”

  My effort to sound enthusiastic failed. Maybe my lack of socializing this summer was turning me into uncool company. Ever since my talk with Bibi the day before, I couldn’t stop thinking about what a portrait of me would look like if it were done now. Lately I’d been feeling so unsure, I probably wouldn’t even know which way to face an artist painting me. The portrait would probably be of the back of my head!

  At least I had my music to guide me in the right direction. My mom had been raving about this piano teacher for weeks, and suggested I start seeing her. It had been four months since my last visit to Mr. Alston, the piano teacher I’d had since the sixth grade. When he’d moved across the river to Brooklyn, I’d stopped taking lessons. Besides, our Rope-a-Dope meetings had taken up any spare time I had. Now that those meetings were on hiatus for the summer, it was a good time to get back into my piano.

  “How’s your mother?” Nadine was asking me. “She’s such a dynamic woman.”

  “She’s fine,” I managed to offer. By “dynamic” Nadine probably meant “pushy.”

  My mom had met Nadine at a Broadway show. Last summer, my parents had had orchestra seats to The Color Purple, and during intermission, my superfriendly mom went over to compliment the pianist on her fancy finger work. That pianist was Nadine Simon. After the show my mom approached Nadine and found out that she hailed from East Orange and still lives here. Lord knows whether or not the poor woman actually was already moonlighting as a piano teacher or if my mother talked her into doing it.

  “This is how I’m sensing you’re feeling today,” said Nadine as she sat on the shiny black piano bench and gingerly lowered her fingertips to the keys. Her piano started narrating a moody tale, using statements of tender high notes flowing into notes so low I could feel them reverberate in my chest. It was like Nadine was using sound instead of paint to create a portrait of me. And I didn’t sound like a happy camper.

  “But that’s just my opinion,” Nadine said when she stopped playing. “I could be way off. Am I?”

  There was no use denying it. Those annoyingly premature back-to-school commercials starting to air on TV were making me feel extra nervous, and it was showing. In just a few short weeks I’d be starting school at St. Claire Academy.

  “Nope,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re pretty on point there. Nice guess.”

  Nadine smiled at me and we both laughed. Her brief aural psychology session actually broke the ice and I felt myself relax in her company.

  “Let’s chat a bit about your expectations before we get started. Please, have a seat.”

  I didn’t realize I’d been standing next to the piano since I walked in. Once I’d eased into the pin-striped loveseat nearby, I noticed the room’s décor for the first time. Unlike the coordinated furniture at my house, no two pieces here matched. The piano bench didn’t even go with the piano. Nadine would probably lose at a card game of concentration, but somehow the look as a whole worked in a charming and eclectic sort of way. And I could already tell from Nadine’s quirky personality that she felt more comfortable in a mismatched world. She chose personal style over trends. I admired that about her.

  By the time my lesson with Nadine was over, my outlook on things was a little rosier. Maybe Nadine was right. Judging from her impression of my mother, Nadine figured it was in my blood to set out on new adventures. “Heading to a new school can turn into the perfect opportunity to discover new things about yourself,” Nadine told me.

  I still secretly hoped that for once I’d meet people who were cool with any aspect of my personality that I chose to explore.

  CHAPTER 5

  On the first day of school, I had to wake up an hour and a half earlier than I usually did at City High. Instead of a ten-minute stroll through East Orange, my new commute would involve two New Jersey Transit buses and be seventy-one minutes long.

  The distant hum of my parents’ car rolling backward out the driveway each morning became my cue to hit the shower. I had to be at the city bus stop at 6:40 at the latest if I wanted to get to St. Claire Academy by the 7:52 bell.

  Luckily, I had two commute routes to choose from. I could walk one block to the number 34 bus stop to Bloomfield, and then transfer there for the number 60 bus to Millwall Cliffs. Or, if I was running late, I could walk the eight blocks to the number 60 bus that goes straight to school.

  Maybe it was nerves, but I got to the number 34 bus stop a lot earlier than I’d planned. I felt my grandma’s eyes watching over me as I left the house. I turned around to see her distant figure standing next to the shrubbery she had carefully pruned into shape. She nodded when I waved.

  She was willing me to be strong and face my day confidently.

  Once on the bus, I chose a window seat halfway down the aisle. I smoothed my new uniform—blue and gray were the Academy’s colors—and stared at the scene outside. About twenty minutes later, I pressed the strip on the wall, alerting the driver of my stop. The transfer was perfectly timed. The number 60 arrived at the next stop just as I did. Even though I had to stand for the first mile or so, passengers began to get off by the load and I found a seat quickly. By the time the bus reached its last stop, which was Millwall Cliff’s town center, I was one of the few people left on it.

  From there, I walked up a quiet side street past the large, gorgeous homes and up the hill to where St. Claire Academy was perched. That was when I saw the c
ars lined up in front of the Academy like the school was a luxury car dealer. Girls squealed and rushed to hug friends they hadn’t seen since last school year. Soccer moms in minivans waved at their daughters before driving off.

  Great. It was barely 7:45 a.m. when I suffered my first episode of culture shock. This sight was a lot different than the scene outside City High. For one, a majority of the students there walked to school, because their parents, who were at work, weren’t available to take them.

  Perfect, I thought. If I feel this out of place before I step foot through the school’s front doors, I can only imagine how this day’s gonna be. Where was Oprah when you needed her? The media icon had an uncanny way of turning any crowd into a “Kumbaya”-singing sisterhood. I needed some positive vibrations, quick.

  On my way to the principal’s office, I noticed that the students wore their skirts a lot shorter than my below-the-knee-length skirt. I wore mine as the school handbook required. But apparently I didn’t have to take the rules so literally. Some girls wore funky-colored or patterned tights under their skirts, and cool shoes. I was glad we could bend the dress-code a little.

  The middle-aged secretary at the front office blinked three times fast when she greeted me. I wasn’t sure if her coffee was to blame for that or if it was because she was surprised I wasn’t white. Her behavior after that didn’t let on either way. She tapped on her computer keyboard to note that I’d arrived for my first day and then printed out my class schedule.

  “According to your placement test results, you scored somewhere between our B-level and A-level standards,” the secretary said while multitasking. “So we’re putting you in a mixed bag.”

  Oh, uh-uh, I thought when I read that I’d been placed in B-level classes and just a few A-level ones. How did I go from advanced placement in City High to intermediate level here at St. Claire’s?

  “Your homeroom is just down the hall to the left,” she said. Sounds easy enough, I thought as I headed to the door. “But homeroom is ending any minute so you have to head to your first class in the annex.”