Holidaze

by L. Divine

  There are several ways to get from school to home without taking the freeway, and all of them involve getting caught up in mall traffic. There are two major malls between here and Compton and some people are still taking advantage of the after-Christmas sales. If I had some money, I’d be right in there with them. I haven’t braided any heads since the shooting, and don’t anticipate hustling this weekend either. Mama says I can’t touch anyone else’s head until I get mine straight. I’m pretty sure her and Netta will hook a sistah up tomorrow, whether I’m ready or not.

  When I get home, I know the first thing Mama’s going to ask me is if I made the appointment with our family physician, Dr. Whitmore, yet. I have insurance through my mom’s job with Kaiser, but Mama doesn’t trust them with shit like my sleepwalking. I don’t blame her, because the last time something like this happened to me and my mom took me to my pediatrician, they tried to give me antipsychotic drugs, as well as send me to a shrink. When Mama found out she wanted to crucify my mom, and I was right there with Mama.

  Walking up the driveway and up the porch, I look over my shoulder to make sure the alarm lights come on, indicating my mom’s ride is somewhat safe parked in front of the house. I doubt anyone will jack it because we protect our own on our block, even if Gunlock Avenue is notorious for being the spot to take jacked cars to get money for the parts. So a sistah still has to be cautious.

  As soon as I walk through the front door, Mama walks into the living room from the kitchen. She looks ready to harass me about my sleepwalking incident this morning.

  “Hi, baby. You didn’t forget any of the details from your dream last night, did you?” she asks, wiping her wet hands with a kitchen towel before giving me a hug.

  “No, ma’am,” I say, returning the hug. It feels good, embracing my grandmother, whose vanilla scent is comforting.

  “Good. And did you call Dr. Whitmore to make an appointment? I had Bryan put a reminder in that fancy phone of yours.”

  “Mama, I just got home,” I say, putting my pile of school-books down on the dining room table before taking off my shoes. It’s been a long day and I’m in no mood to get drilled.

  “Don’t you sass me, young lady. Tomorrow afternoon we’re at Netta’s, but you tell him that Wednesday works for me. And now that you’re driving your mama’s car, it should be good for you, too. Now, get on that little pink phone of yours and make the call.” Damn, Mama can be harsh sometimes. You’d think she was the one sleepwalking instead of me.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, near tears. Mama looks up from her spirit book, also on the dining room table, and sees the emotion written all over my face. She pats my hand with hers, letting me know she’s here for me.

  “Look, Jayd, I know it’s hard right now, but it won’t always be this way. We need to immediately get to the bottom of why you’re sleepwalking, and Dr. Whitmore will be able to help me see what I can’t right now. And more importantly, he’ll be able to help you get some solid sleep. The sooner we take care of this, the better.” I couldn’t agree more with her final statement. The last thing I want to do is have another episode like the one I had this morning.

  “I know, Mama. I know.” I take my phone out of my purse and put it on top of my stack of books. I look around the living room and notice my backpack isn’t where I left it by the dining room table. Mama follows my eyes as I search the room.

  “Your backpack’s in my room, Jayd,” she says, reading my mind. “You have to be careful, girl. You know these fools around here will snatch it and anything else up without a second thought.” Mama’s right. I have to be more careful and pay attention to what I’m doing. Maybe a visit with her doctor is just what I need to get myself together after all. Between his work and Netta’s head cleansing tomorrow, I should be straight by the weekend.

  After Monday’s eventful day, I opted to hide out all day yesterday, and with it being a usual short Tuesday because of the weekly staff meetings, it went by pretty quickly. Mama, Netta, and I also had a quiet afternoon at the shop. But even with Netta’s rogacion de cabeza and Mama there to assist with the head cleansing, I still didn’t sleep well last night. It seems like as soon as I close my eyes, it’s time to get up. There’s no dreaming, no hard sleep, nothing. Just lying down and getting up. That’s what usually leads to more sleepwalking episodes and no one wants to tune in for that show, least of all me.

  There was still no teacher for the debate class scheduled to start yesterday, so I had another free period in the library. According to Mr. Adelizi, today we will definitely start speech and debate.

  I haven’t seen Mr. Adewale this week and I miss his presence. I’ve become accustomed to seeing our AP substitute teacher on a regular basis. I hope they find some work for him to do soon.

  Walking down the main hall gives me the same familiar feeling I had when I walked down these same halls during the weeks before Christmas break. It’s only the third day of the new semester and ASB has already moved on to the next holiday. Valentine’s Day is over a month away and they’ve already got fliers up advertising the annual dance and secret valentine telegrams. Who knew a holiday supposedly about love could provide so many different fundraising ideas?

  As with all holidays, the true meaning is hidden behind the commercial bull. The original Valentine’s Day is based off of bloodshed, just like Thanksgiving. It seems that no matter the celebration, there has to be a sacrifice of some sort, and usually the person with her ass on the line has no idea she’s about to be butchered.

  “Ah, look who it is, baby. The bitch who death follows,” Misty says. I don’t know why, but her words give me the chills, and not like when a cold breeze blows across my face. I feel like she just invited someone—or something—into our space, and whatever it is doesn’t feel good.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Misty’s eyes look cold and empty as she thinks of a response to my question. I never thought I’d see the day Misty reminds me of Esmeralda, but today she does. Our evil next-door neighbor has been incognito ever since Misty and her mom became Esmeralda’s godchildren in the religion. Mama says that some twisted voodoo priests use their godchildren like vampires, and this newfound family they’ve concocted is a prime example of that type of sick relationship.

  “It means that wherever you go, someone gets hurt. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone cursed you.” Misty, KJ, and his crew laugh at her joke, but it’s anything but funny to me. Those sound like fighting words, but I’m too tired to front her physically, so my words will have to serve as fists today.

  “So, KJ, I see you have a thing for voodoo girls.” He looks at me like he wants to eat me up, but he knows better than to try to get with me again. That’ll never happen.

  “Not anymore,” he says, playing off his obvious attraction to me while adding to their morning comedy routine.

  “Oh, Misty did tell you she’s in the same religion as I am, didn’t she? Or did you forget to mention that little fact?” I say, wiping the smiles right off all their faces. The last thing KJ or his hella Christian parents want is to be associated with any hoodoo mess, as they call it. But all priests know that hoodoo is simply the work. Voodoo, Santeria, Ifa, or whatever branch of the religion we choose to refer to ourselves as, is a whole other world KJ and his folks want no part of.

  “Don’t pay her any mind, KJ. She’s a very troubled girl,” Misty says, rolling her neck and hips at me. Misty’s eyes aren’t the only thing that’s different about her. She’s also lost a lot of weight over the break. When I saw her at Tre’s house after the shooting, I could tell she was shedding the pounds, but now she looks like she’s been starving herself.

  “Whatever, Misty. You and I know the truth, and whenever you’re ready to come with it, bring it on,” I say to Misty’s back as they exit the main hall, heading in the same direction I’m going. KJ looks back at me and I nod my head to confirm my words. If Misty’s going to call me out on my shit—which I’m not ashamed of—then I’m cal
ling her on hers. One of the rules of our religion is to not out other practitioners, but Misty’s far from being a true devotee of the Orisha, our West African Gods. And because she’s a fake, I think it’s my duty to out her wannabe ass for the trick she really is, in as many ways as I possibly can.

  I take my class schedule out of my purse to check the room number for my new fourth-period class. It’s in the language arts hall at the opposite end of the building from my English class. At least it’s not far from my third period government class. Jeremy conveniently ditched third period today, starting out his second semester the right way, as far as he’s concerned. Lucky for him the absences start over again at the beginning of each semester, which means he’s working with a clean slate now.

  “Lost?” I hear a familiar voice ask. As if my prayers were answered, Mr. Adewale comes walking down the main hall looking as fine as ever. Damn, why does he have to be my teacher and too old for me to date?

  “Hey, Mr. A. Fancy meeting you here.” Mr. Adewale looks down and smiles at me, falling into step with my quick stride. As we walk down the long corridor, we notice the crowd of students waiting at the other end of the hall. Among the masses are KJ, Misty, and their crew. Please tell me they’re not in class with me.

  “Not really. Seems they had another opening for this semester and I’ll still be subbing for Mrs. Peterson when she needs me, as well as the other teachers, just like I did last semester.”

  “So what do you do when you’re not teaching here?” I ask, all up in his business this morning. We never have a lot of time to talk so I have to get in the important questions whenever I get the chance.

  “I study. I still have to pass my exams at the University of West Los Angeles in the spring, before they award me my master’s degree in conjunction with my bachelor’s.”

  “Wow, that must take a lot of time out of your day.” I feel him though. “Between my schoolwork and my work at home, I always have my head in a book.”

  “Is there a better place for your head to be?” Yeah, resting on a pillow in a deep sleep that keeps me still, but he doesn’t need to know all that. Ending our brief conversation, Mr. Adewale stops in front of my fourth-period classroom and unlocks the door. Yes! He’s my teacher after all. There is a God.

  “Oh hell, no, she’s not in our class,” Misty says, following Mr. A and me into the cold, dark classroom. If I recall correctly, this room wasn’t used last semester. It smells stale in here and has a strange feeling, like it’s vacant, but not really. If I didn’t know any better I’d say there were ghosts up in here, but I think that’s my sleep deprivation talking.

  “Now, this should be interesting,” Jeremy says, talking over KJ and Misty’s heads while looking down at me from behind. I look up at Mr. Adewale, who shakes his head before turning on the lights.

  “Please take your seats,” Mr. A says over the loud crowd. Most of the students from my government class are in here, as well as other displaced AP students. But there are a few new faces as well. One dude in particular catches my eye because he seems to be staring at me. I quickly swoop up the seat closest to Mr. Adewale’s dusty desk, and Jeremy’s right next to me, as usual. Misty, KJ, and the rest of their crew, including Shae and Tony—her mute man, who never speaks unless spoken to—take the seats in the back, and everyone else files in and gets comfortable in our new space.

  “Excuse me, I’m supposed to have you sign this,” the cute Latino dude who was checking me out says to Mr. A. He glances at me and gives me a shy smile, making me blush from the inside out. Damn, he’s fine. I wonder if he’s met Maggie and the rest of El Barrio, the Latino clique. If not, I think introductions are in order and I’ll be glad to make the connection.

  “Sure,” Mr. A says, taking the yellow enrollment slip from our new classmate and signing it. “Okay, class, today we’re going to get our seat assignments in order and pass out the textbooks. Tomorrow I will hand out the syllabi for the semester and I expect everyone to familiarize themselves with the various sections of the textbook by tomorrow.”

  “Damn, dude, chill. It’s the first day,” Del says, causing KJ and followers to chuckle. Now they should know better than to mess with the same brotha that served as the referee for the game between them and my boys. Jeremy shakes his head, crosses his arms over his desk and puts his head down for a quick nap. He has no tolerance for drama of any kind.

  “It’s not the first day, it’s the third and I’m not your dude nor do I chill.” Mr. Adewale slams his teacher’s edition onto his desk, causing a cloud of dust to rise up and silencing the chattering class. Jeremy doesn’t budge. “No disrespect of any kind will be tolerated.” Mr. A walks over to Jeremy and taps him on the shoulder, waking him up.

  “Sorry, man, my bad,” Jeremy says, sitting up straight in his chair. I wish I could fall out that easily.

  “Jeremy, would you please pass out the textbooks that are in the back corner of the room. KJ, you can help.” Wow, Mr. A is serious about his shit this morning. “Rule number one of debate and speech is to respect your opponent, just like in any other sport. You may not like them or agree with what they’re saying, but they still deserve to be heard. Rule number two is to remember rule number one.”

  Feeling someone’s eyes on me, I turn around and look behind me, scanning the other faces in the room. I catch Misty staring at me. She’s been going back and forth with Shae the whole time we’ve been in here. Just then, Nellie and Laura walk into the room, completing my nightmare of a class situation. I feel like I’ve died and gone straight to hell, and I don’t even believe in the place. Mama says life, like hell, is what you make of it, and this is as close as I could get to it on Earth.

  “Like I said, this should be interesting,” Jeremy says, placing a book on my desk before continuing with the rest of the row. He’s no prophet, but Jeremy hit this one on the head. Mama’s definitely got to tell me how to deal with this situation, because keeping a cool head this semester will be next to impossible.

  2

  An Unholy Day

  “This reminiscing with my past/

  Has got me caught up in a daydream.”

  —LISA “LEFT EYE” LOPES

  Mama’s still not comfortable with me having a license to drive. She refuses to get in the car if I’m behind the wheel, saying she values the rest of her living years too much to let a teenager drive her around. Rather than me pick her up from the house and we both ride together to Dr. Whitmore’s office, which is next door to our neighborhood liquor store, Miracle Market, she’d rather meet me there. With all of the walking Mama does on a daily basis, it’s no wonder why she’s in such good shape. No one would ever guess she’s a mother of eight children and in her mid-fifties. Her salt-and-pepper, shoulder-length hair only adds to her youthful look, because her skin is seamless, not a crack to be found.

  “Hey, Mama,” I say, walking into the small office. There’s a waiting room with Zen qualities, and two patient rooms on either side of us. It feels more like an Eastern medical clinic than a general practitioner’s office, like the sign on the door reads.

  Dr. Whitmore delivered all of Mama’s children and has taken care of them ever since. My mom never liked Dr. Whitmore, just like she felt about Netta, and delivered me at a hospital in Bellflower. Mama’s never forgiven my mother for that, and blames her for my caul not receiving the proper burial it deserved. But Mama’s been taking me to Dr. Whitmore on her own since then, and he’s cool with me.

  “Hey, baby,” Mama says, moving her right cheek slightly up to meet my kiss. “How was your day?”

  I take my purse off of my shoulder and sit down next to Mama on the futon to wait for the doctor.

  “It was cool until Misty said something that freaked me out.” Mama looks at me and her green eyes begin to glow as she probes my thoughts; looking for what, I’m not sure. But, by the way her eyes widen, I’d say she found what she was searching for.

  “What exactly did she say?” Mama asks in a low voice that g
ives me the shivers. What the hell? The next time she asks me about my day I’m giving her a simple one-word answer. Dr. Whitmore’s office door opens and we can hear him wrapping up a phone conversation. “Word for word, Jayd. This is important.”

  “She said that I’m ‘the bitch who death follows.’” Mama turns grey as soon as the words leave my lips. Before she can say anything, Dr. Whitmore walks into the waiting room to greet us.

  “My two favorite ladies in the whole world,” he says, opening his long arms to hug us both. Daddy’s always been jealous of Mama’s relationship with Dr. Whitmore, but he really can’t talk, as many church women as he’s laid his healing hands on from the pulpit and beyond. “So, your grandmother tells me you’re having some problems sleeping, Jayd. What’s going on?”

  “She’s been hexed,” Mama says matter-of-factly. When did she come to that conclusion and why didn’t she share it with me? “By Esmeralda and one of her latest followers.”

  “When did this happen and where was I?” I ask as the conversation goes over my head. This always happens when Mama and Dr. Whitmore get together.

  “While you were sleeping, I assume,” Mama says. Now she’s scaring me.

  “That old bat. She still doesn’t get it, does she?” Whenever Mama’s around Dr. Whitmore, their body language becomes relaxed, but I know not to ask her too many questions regarding their relationship. Mama taught me at a young age to be quiet unless spoken to when I was out with her. I broke that rule once and can still feel the sting in my ass from that spanking.

  “No, and she never will. We need to get to work on Jayd right away. Her powers are growing swiftly and Esmeralda knows it. She’s got one of Jayd’s school friends doing her dirty work now.”

  “Misty’s not my friend,” I say. They both look at me like I’ve lost my mind for speaking out of turn. Mama’s eyebrows tighten into a frown, the usual scolding for intruding in what she calls “grown folks’ business.” I’m sorry for being rude, but that had to be said for the record. Misty’s no friend of mine. And with all of the adjectives there are in the English language, I know we can come up with something better than that to describe her relationship to me.