Finding Someplace

by Denise Lewis Patrick

  Chapter Three

  AUGUST 27, 2005

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the designer of the year, Teresa Arielle Boone!”

  The crowd went wild. Reesie was on the runway, and it was her own fashion show. Her shiny black hair was bone-straight and swinging, just like the short red skirt of her glittery spaghetti-strap dress. News cameras were flashing and digital cams were clicking. She was surrounded by models wearing the clothes she’d designed; Ayanna and Orlando were going crazy in the front row; and all the folks in the house were chanting her name.

  “Reeee-see! Reee-see!” She was grinning and loving the excitement. The audience got louder. She blew them kisses.

  “Reesie!” She looked out and saw her parents. She waved but then felt a funny sensation around her ankles. Water was lapping over her toes. She looked out at the people, and they were all gone. She was alone, and she was surrounded by water.

  * * *

  Reesie woke up shaking. It was always water in her dreams. She tossed and turned but couldn’t fall back to sleep. The sun hadn’t even started to glow behind the vertical blinds, but she was now wide-awake. She heard her parents’ voices.

  Usually, when both of her parents left for work so early, they drank coffee and whispered while Reesie peacefully slept. Not this time. They were arguing, something that almost never happened. She pulled her knees up in the dark and sat against her pillows.

  “And in every storm scare,” her mother said, “you get called in to work overtime, triple time.… What if we need you?”

  In just four days the tropical storm that Junior had been so obsessed with had turned into a bona fide hurricane. Already Katrina had hit Florida like a monster, and the weather reports were screaming that she was headed right for the Gulf Coast, possibly New Orleans.

  “Jeannie, be fair. I’m a police officer. It’s my job!”

  “It doesn’t have to be.” Her mother lowered her voice.

  Reesie leaned forward, straining to hear more. The kitchen cabinet doors and fridge slammed open and closed.

  “You could retire right now. You and Reesie and I could go together, just for a few days, to get out of harm’s way.”

  “It’s Reesie that I’m doing this for, Jeannie. You know that!”

  “Shhh!” Mama hushed him.

  There was a long pause. All Reesie could hear was the hum of the central air-conditioning unit outside her window. How was she in the middle of the drama? She wanted to know, but at the same time she didn’t.

  This was supposed to be the perfect birthday weekend. She’d had it all planned: later this morning was her hair appointment, then Ayanna was coming over for a preview of the birthday outfit. Sunday would be her special dinner. And there would be her neighbor Miss Martine’s lip-smacking coconut cake. But now it seemed like the universe just wasn’t going to cooperate.

  She heard chair legs scrape against the kitchen floor.

  “Jeannie, baby, I know you worry over me and the job. I promise, soon as I bank a little bit more for Reesie’s college—”

  “Lloyd, we’re okay with that!” her mother said.

  So that was it. Reesie felt a little guilty, as if she were making trouble for her folks. Her mother went on, sounding calmer. “I’m just anxious. It’s everything they’re predicting about this storm.”

  “Listen,” Daddy said, “if it eases your mind, I’ll call Pete on my way to the station and have him take Reesie back to Baton Rouge with them tomorrow. She can stay over with them a few days. Missin’ some school in the first weeks won’t set her back at all.”

  “I guess…” Her mother’s voice trailed off.

  Reesie settled back onto her sheets. Uncle Pete was her father’s brother. He was also her parraine—her godfather. He was really cool and really laid-back. So was his wife, Tee Charmaine. Staying with them would make it feel like her birthday lasted extra long.

  “I’m just not convinced it’s gonna be that kind of dangerous, Jeannie. But I promise I’ll call Pete … and next week we’ll seriously talk retirement.” The front door clicked open. “Everything will be all right.”

  “If you say so, Superman. Be safe out there,” Mama said.

  “Yeah, I will. See ya, baby.” Daddy left.

  Reesie pulled the covers up around her neck. “No more drama! No more drama!” she whispered to her pillow. Soon she was snoring.

  When she woke up again, she blinked at the green numbers on her alarm clock. It was noon already, and she had a one-o’clock appointment at Bernice’s Beauty Nest and Nail Salon! There was no time to eat. No time for TV. She jumped out of bed and tossed on a white T and denim shorts.

  A trip to Bernice’s could mean a couple of hours under the hair dryer, so she grabbed the backpack with her sketch pad and pencils in it and hurried out.

  On the way, she thought about calling to tell Ayanna about her parents’ fight. Ayanna would say that parents never agreed on anything—relax. And it would take Ayanna an hour to say all that. Instead Reesie texted, HAIR@1. TALK L8R.

  The street was calm and quiet, and the air was already muggy and uncomfortable. She walked faster, looking up. The sun was out, no clouds in sight. No sign of any storm of doom. It seemed like a perfectly normal summer day. But then she remembered the crazy dream she’d had—that scene had started out perfectly normal too.

  “Don’t try and kick up on my birthday, Katrina!” she shouted out loud to the sky, not noticing until too late that Miss M, the same Miss Martine who was baking her birthday cake, was half hidden between the leaves of her giant tomato plants three houses away. She was frowning.

  “Child, you better watch what you say!” Miss Martine bellowed, raising her bushy white eyebrows over her gold cat-eye glasses. She was wearing pink eye shadow and black eyeliner, and her ruby red lips were puckered with disapproval.

  Reesie had nowhere to hide, so she waved.

  Miss Martine had on her afternoon wig, a short and curly silver ’do with streaks of black. She wore store-bought hair and makeup like she was performing on a stage every night, but it was her desserts that were practically world famous. Peach cobblers, banana puddings, pies … and her cakes! Anybody in the Ninth Ward would tell you that Miss Martine Simon could just look at food and it would taste good. Her coconut cakes made it to every birthday, wedding, or picnic in the neighborhood.

  Miss Martine shook a gardening spade as Reesie came closer to the edge of her yard.

  “I know you think you’re grown, with your birthday coming up, becoming a teenager and all.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am!”

  “And I know Lloyd and Jeannie Boone didn’t raise you to play with the Lord like that!”

  Reesie slowed down. “Miss Martine, I wasn’t—”

  “Teresa Boone!”

  Reesie halted completely to show respect. The glaring sun was beating down onto her head, making her scalp sweat. Her hair situation was getting desperate, and Miss Martine was winding up for a sermon!

  Miss Martine snatched her glasses off for extra effect. “Child, don’t you know you’re blessed?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Reesie blinked at the bright reflection of the glittery beaded eyeglass chain.

  “Tell your mother the cake will be ready around eight in the morning. And you better remember one more thing.… Don’t you go trying to give orders to the man upstairs!” Miss Martine turned away, carefully tying her tall tomato plants to sturdy wood stakes.

  “I won’t!” Reesie answered automatically, and started walking again. Old people always took things totally the wrong way, she thought. Miss Martine must just be worried that her garden might be demolished by any strong winds. Reesie decided that maybe when she came home, she would offer to help.

  Her cell phone buzzed to announce a text. She looked down quickly to read Orlando’s message: GT TXS L8R. CU.

  Reesie wrinkled her nose. Going to Texas later. See you. What was he talking about? Uncle Jimmy’s Blue Moon Café was one of the hottes
t places in town. He never closed his business, not even on Christmas Day.

  She quickly texted back: WHEN? But there was no immediate buzz with his answer. She didn’t have much time, but she needed to stop by Blue Moon to check this out. With any luck, Bernice was running late as usual. Kicking high and forgetting the heat, she sprinted three blocks and rounded a corner, bursting into the swinging door of Blue Moon. There was no bustling lunch crowd lined up at the register or elbowing up to the counter. Blue Moon, featured on Channel Three last month as the hottest neighborhood food joint, had exactly four customers.

  Chapter Four

  Reesie slipped into a window booth to catch her breath. The air conditioning blasted like an icy wind. Across the small dining room, Orlando was taking orders from a table where the only four customers were seated. She settled back to watch him, her urgent hair appointment fading to the back of her mind.

  Orlando had worked at his uncle’s place since he was ten. At first he had just cleaned up, but he’d turned thirteen already and now he was training to be a waiter. His shoulders looked muscular in a navy polo—Blue Moon’s uniform—and his wavy hair was braided into a skinny rattail. Uncle Jimmy had warned him to cut it, but Orlando just flashed that bright white grin. And he did have eyes that crinkled when he laughed, like he was doing right now with the customers. Reesie blinked. Why was she thinking about Orlando like he was a boy? He was just Orlando. His knees were knobby and his feet were big, and …

  Suddenly he looked up at her.

  “Peanut Butter!” Orlando yelled across the dining room, and started in her direction.

  Reesie cut her eyes at him and sucked her teeth. How could anybody think he was cute? Well, you just kind of did, she told herself.

  “Why do you embarrass me like that, calling me by that second-grade nickname in public?” she asked as Orlando made it to her table.

  “How come you didn’t answer my text?” He had on some kind of cologne. Orlando was trying to be manly!

  “I did! Besides, I was going to get my hair done.” Reesie smoothed her ponytail.

  Orlando leaned on the back of the booth across from her. “You know, we do killer po’ boys here, but we don’t do hair,” he said with a grin. “You hungry?”

  He pulled out his order pad and pretended to write, because Uncle Jimmy’s narrowed eyes were aimed at the back of Orlando’s head.

  “For your information, no.” Reesie used her most snooty voice. She wanted to ask him why he hadn’t been in touch for two days. She wanted to ask if going to Texas meant he’d forgotten all about her birthday party. But when the kitchen door swung open and she caught the aroma of a shrimp po’ boy, her stomach gurgled, demanding food.

  “Okay, okay. A po’ boy,” she said. “But make it fast. Remember, I have an appointment!” She felt silly for running all the way over, so she quickly added, “And what is this craziness about going to Texas?”

  “We’re tryin’ to get outta the way of Katrina, that’s what!” he said. He sat down, looking serious and very grown-up. Maybe that was what was weird about him lately—Orlando had turned thirteen first. Did he want to leave his old friends behind? Reesie wiggled in her seat and dropped her eyes away from his, playing with sugar packets.

  “I know I’m gonna miss your birthday thing,” he said. “I’m surprised your folks are lettin’ you stay here! This could be the storm to wash New Orleans clear away!”

  Reesie leaned across the table. He remembered!

  “But this is home,” she said. “For real, your uncle Jimmy is evacuating?” She looked across the dining room. The stools at the back counter were empty and the countertop was cleared of the usual cakes and pies in glass domes. Instead of the normal pandemonium coming from the kitchen, all she heard was the hum of a radio.

  Orlando’s gaze followed hers. “Yeah. Uncle Jimmy is closing up as soon as these customers finish. He’s not even doing the Saturday night rush. He’s gonna pick up Dré, Leila, and her kids, then we’re taking the Escalade to Houston.”

  Reesie stared at him. Dré and Leila were Orlando’s older brother and sister. That meant his entire family was leaving town.

  “But the storm might change direction!”

  Orlando shook his head hard. “Not Katrina, they say. Go on, call your daddy and get confirmation on the information. Ask him!”

  Reesie hesitated. “You know I can’t call him when he’s on duty, not unless it’s an emergency.”

  “Seems like an emergency to me,” Orlando said, slowly rising from the table. “One shrimp po’ boy comin’ up.”

  “Extra mayo, okay?” Reesie said to the yellow crescent on Orlando’s back. She couldn’t call her father, but Junior would do. She took out her phone and dialed his number.

  “Reesie!” Junior sounded as if he’d been running. “Can’t talk now—just did laps and heading to the showers. Are you watching the Weather Channel? It was blowin’ up before I left the dorm! What are y’all doing?”

  “Doing?” Reesie felt Junior said the word like he meant Duhh. Aren’t you smarter than this? She tried to answer with confidence.

  “Mama and I are going back to Baton Rouge with Parraine and Tee Charmaine tomorrow.”

  “Finally! Mom got Daddy to be sensible and evacuate! Good. Great. Hey, gotta go. I sort of have a date. I’m really sorry about missing your birthday. I’ll come the first weekend I can, okay? Bye!”

  Reesie’s insides fluttered. She looked outside. Three cars cruised by, packed with people and their stuff. They were heading for the St. Claude Avenue Bridge, which ran across the canal separating the Lower Ninth Ward from downtown, uptown, and highways out of the city. Reesie hit speed dial.

  “Mama?”

  “Hey, Reesie … this hospital is a madhouse. Is your hair done?”

  “No, but I was talking to Junior—”

  “Oops! Sorry, I have to go. I’m doing another shift because so many folks didn’t come in today. So I won’t make it home tonight, and—oh! I’m being paged. I’ll call you back later.”

  “Wait!” Reesie’s squeak echoed across the empty space. The other customers had left. She could hear Orlando and his uncle in the kitchen.

  How could they laugh if the situation was really so serious? Reesie slowly slipped her phone back in her pocket.

  Carrying a serving tray, Orlando swung open the kitchen door and began weaving his way toward Reesie. He carefully put her setup on the table in silence: silverware rolled up neatly in a blue paper napkin. Then, with a sweep of his other arm, he put the plate in front of her.

  The zing of the spicy cornmeal coating on the shrimp made Reesie’s eyes water, and she blinked, not wanting Orlando to think she was crying. Still, water leaked down her cheeks, and she had to wipe her face with the back of her hand.

  “I saw you on the phone. You called your daddy?” he asked. “This ain’t no joke, right?”

  “No.” She’d answered both questions at once. Orlando stood over her with his peach fuzz mustache. He seemed different. More like a man, somehow. She wasn’t sure she liked that.

  “How come?” she asked him quietly.

  Orlando looked puzzled. “How come what?”

  “How come this whole Katrina thing is so wild?”

  Orlando’s shoulders dropped, and his man face disappeared. Reesie saw little boy fear in his eyes for the first time in forever.

  “I ’on’t know, Peanut Butter,” he said, suddenly turning away from her. “I’ll call you when we get to Houston, all right?”

  Reesie wanted him to come back. She wanted to say that she’d be in Baton Rouge, but she didn’t say anything. She would text him tonight or in the morning. Instead she picked up the po’ boy and took a huge too-big bite.

  The sandwich tasted like cardboard. Something’s wrong with the world for true, she thought. She hurried up, dropped a five on the table, and slipped away from Blue Moon.

  Chapter Five

  Bernice’s Beauty Nest was packed with women and girls, a
ll apparently trying to get their hair hooked up before they left town. Reesie sighed, realizing that she had forfeited her appointment. She slipped into a chair near the door anyway, and picked up a copy of Black Hairstyles magazine.

  The four hair dryers ran constantly, and even with a window air conditioner plus two floor fans, the heat was almost unbearable. Within a few minutes Reesie heard so much gossip about the storm that she felt her head might explode. Luckily, Bernice’s sister, Clarice, pointed to a free shampoo sink and waved Reesie over.

  “Well, I’m not leavin’ my livelihood!” Bernice announced to the room. She clicked her curling iron. Reesie watched it sizzle over a teenager’s waxed-stiff hair.

  Reesie slouched in her chair as Clarice freed her hair from the scrunchie and let a loud rush of warm water pour over her head.

  “What’s your daddy sayin’, Reesie?” Bernice called across the red linoleum floor.

  “Aw, Bernice! The child can’t hear you over this water!” Clarice shouted back. Reesie didn’t let on that she could. And by the time her hair was washed and the rollers were in, no one seemed to be talking about the hurricane anymore. Bernice was waving a jumbo curling iron at a loud blond woman and talking her down that no New Jersey casino could beat a New Orleans riverboat casino.

  “They don’t have the mighty Mississippi up there, no!” Bernice made her point by clattering the curler into the heating unit. Everyone laughed. No one seemed to be upset, or even anxious.

  Reesie hurried to sit under a hair dryer and pulled out her drawing pad and pencil so no one would ask her opinion again. She had been to New Jersey visiting family so many times that it wasn’t any big deal. It was an okay place—mainly because it was close to New York—but Bernice was right: no place was like New Orleans.

  Reesie busied herself by sketching outfits: the runway dress from her dream, a short wrap skirt with wide stripes, a jacket with a hood and backpack attached. Once her hair was dry, Clarice took out the rollers and trimmed a little off her ends, then combed Reesie’s hair out carefully.