by Renée Watson
“Do you hear what you’re saying?”
“Do you remember last time we ate breakfast at her aunt’s house? The lady just about fainted when I told her I don’t like grits.” Nikki lines her lips and then puts on lip gloss. “And they—”
“It’s her birthday,” I remind her.
“Well, I can take her out for ice cream or something, just the two of us. I don’t want to deal with them today.” Nikki blots her lips on a square of tissue and leaves the bathroom. “I’m not going.”
I look in the mirror, at my thick twists.
Black Princess of the Nile.
When Nikki said it, she made it sound like a bad thing, but actually, I kind of like that name.
Chapter 13
When I step inside Essence’s house, the first thing Ms. Jackson does is touch my hair. “Girl, you still got that thick hair, huh?” She digs her nails to my roots and massages my scalp. “Remember when I used to do your hair? You and Nikki would just cry and cry—tender-headed and sensitive as I don’t know what!” Ms. Jackson laughs. She stretches one of my twists to see how long my hair reaches. “Got hair for days, just like your mom,” she says.
Essence’s aunts smile at me. All of them are fanning themselves with something—loose newspaper pages, paper plates.
Ms. Jackson is fanning herself with her hand. “Essence is out back with everyone else. Too hot out there for us.”
I walk through the kitchen to get to the back door.
“Help yourself to the food. There’s plenty,” Ms. Jackson calls out.
“Okay. Thank you.” I walk outside and join Essence and the rest of her guests.
Essence is wrapped in Malachi’s arms. When she sees me, she walks over to me. We hug.
“Happy birthday!”
“Thanks.”
Malachi and Devin ask, “Where’s Nikki?”
“She’s sick,” I say. I don’t even look at Essence when I tell the lie.
“The six of us haven’t been together all summer,” Ronnie says.
Essence nudges Devin. “And whose fault is that?”
Devin gives a remorseful smile. “I know, I know, it’s mostly my fault. I’m usually the one not able to make something,” he says.
At least he admits it.
“But I’m here now. I wouldn’t have missed your birthday, no matter what.”
Essence smiles and says, “You better not have missed this. And don’t let this be the last time we see you. It’s summer! We need to do something together before school starts.”
Devin rubs his head. “I know, I know. Summer Scholars keeps me extra busy.” Devin goes on to explain all the opportunities he’s getting through Summer Scholars. Somehow the conversation gets on SATs and college applications.
Essence’s cousins chime in, talking about how proud they are of Essence, how they can’t wait to see her walk across the stage at graduation. “And you going to college, right?” one of them says.
“Of course she going,” the other one says. “And you ain’t going to be like me, Essence. No kids before you’re finished with college. You hear me?”
“I hear you,” Essence says.
“You hear me, Mal-a-chi? I’m talking to you, too. No having a baby before you have a degree.”
Malachi looks embarrassed.
“I got big dreams for my little cousin.”
Essence interrupts. “Look, it’s my birthday. No college talk, no big dreams today. Just cake and ice cream.” Essence walks into the house.
When she comes back outside she has plastic bowls and spoons and Ms. Jackson is behind her carrying a chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting. The whole time Ms. Jackson is walking to the card table, she’s saying, “I made this myself. Made it from scratch for my baby.”
The rest of the adults that were in the house come outside. Ms. Jackson lights the big candle in the middle of the cake.
Even though Essence said there’d be no dreaming today, I swear I see her lips whisper a wish just before she blows the candle out.
Chapter 14
I’m sitting on my bed painting my nails and listening to music when Nikki barges in. “Can I borrow your earrings?” she asks as she puts one of my silver hoops into her left ear.
I don’t even bother to answer.
“We’re all going to Last Thursday. You want to come?”
Why does she even bother to ask? If I have no interest in going to shops on Jackson Avenue during regular business hours, what makes her think that I’d want to go for Last Thursday, when they have sidewalk sales down the whole street and close off the blocks to cars? “No,” I answer. “I’m going with Essence to the center to help Dad make registration packets for fall enrollment.”
“It’s going to be fun, Maya. You can’t waste your whole summer volunteering with Dad.”
“I’ve had fun this summer. You just haven’t been there.” That probably came out wrong, but I keep talking. “Essence and I went to the movies yesterday, and I’m going to Seaside this weekend with her and her cousins.”
“Well, you should come just for the people watching alone. It’s hilarious sometimes: what people have on, their crazy hair. Last month we saw someone walking his pet pig—on an actual leash.” Nikki laughs at the memory.
I don’t say anything.
Nikki interprets my silence. “Why don’t you like Kate?”
“I never said I didn’t like her.”
“Well, you’re always giving her attitude—”
“Well, she’s always asking me questions and making offensive comments. You know, kind of like how you feel about Essence’s cousins.”
“Oh, come on, Maya. So just because I didn’t go with you to Essence’s party, you’re not going to come with me?”
“You weren’t coming with me. Essence invited you. We’re both her best friends. Or at least we used to be.”
“Look, this isn’t about Kate or Essence,” Nikki says. “You should come out to get to know our neighborhood. Some of these places have been here for—what?—four years now, and you’ve never set foot in them. For someone who loves her community so much, you sure don’t support it.”
“Nikki, those places aren’t here for us. You know that, right?” I get off my bed and stand at the window. I can see Essence’s house, all new and fancy with its flowerpots hanging above the banister. And I think about all the new places around the corner. “I mean, really, a Doggie Daycare? How many of our friends’ parents can afford daycare for their children, let alone their pets?”
Nikki just lets out a sigh and walks away, back across the hall to her room.
I follow her. She started this conversation. She can’t just walk away.
Before I say another word, she says, “Okay, Maya. I get it. Just drop it. You don’t want a nice, clean neighborhood. You’d rather drive all the way downtown for a good restaurant or get on the bus to go to the mall. You don’t want—”
“Are you serious right now? Did I say I didn’t want those things?”
“Well, that’s how you’re acting.”
“I want things to be fair. And something is not fair when black men and women are turned down for business loans over and over again, but others aren’t.”
“Maybe they just didn’t qualify, Maya. Have you ever even considered that?”
“I would believe that if it was just here, in Portland. But Grandma says the same type of thing happened in Atlanta, and Dad was just talking about his friend in New York who said it’s happened in Brooklyn and Harlem. That can’t be coincidence. There is something—something that has allowed this to be normal, that poor communities get remade and their people are forced to move. Have you ever seen it the other way around? Ever?”
Nikki has no answer for this, so she just ignores me and keeps getting ready.
I go into my room, close the door. My nail polish is smudged now, and I’ll have to take it off and start over.
I hear her as she leaves. Hear her run down the steps, hear
the door shut, hear the gate clink after she closes it. I get back up and stand at the window. Nikki walks across the street to Kate’s house and rings the doorbell. When Kate comes to the door they hug like they’ve been friends for more than a few weeks.
I sit back on my bed and start regretting the way I spoke to Nikki. I know it seems ridiculous for me not to want to shop on Jackson Avenue. Of course I like the fact that just around the corner there are all kinds of places I would have never even thought of. Like the store where you can make your own stationery or the restaurant that has only grilled cheese sandwiches on the menu—any kind of cheese you can think of, they have it. I like the fact that I can walk home in the dark from the bus stop and not feel the need to look over my shoulder, because for some reason it just feels more safe.
But for all the things I like, I can’t help but wonder why the changes we’ve always wanted in this community had to come from other people and not us.
I don’t understand why Nikki doesn’t get that, why she doesn’t get me.
Chapter 15
I take off the nail polish and just as I am about to apply a new coat, Devin’s name is flashing on my cell phone. I answer it.
“Please come with us to Last Thursday,” he says.
“You’re going?”
“Yeah. Summer Scholars ended today. I don’t have class tomorrow. I thought you were going, so I walked over here. We’re all at Ronnie’s. You should come. I want to see you.”
Even though I have my reasons for not wanting to go to Last Thursday, there are more reasons why I want to see Devin. I can’t believe I’m saying this. “I’ll meet you guys at Thirteenth and Jackson.”
“Okay.”
I hang up the phone and rush to find something to wear.
By the time I get to Jackson Avenue, everyone else has already made it. I’m surprised that Tony isn’t here; for some reason, I just assumed he was coming. Malachi and Essence aren’t here either. They went to the movies instead. So it’s me and Devin, Nikki and Ronnie, Kate and Roberto.
There are people packed onto every inch of Jackson Avenue. Besides the permanent shops that are open, there are also street vendors selling all kinds of products—from homemade soaps to jewelry. I see a man sitting at a table with a cloth draped over it. He has earrings, bracelets, and necklaces laid out on the table. He is the only black vendor out here. He smiles at me, waves at me to come over. Devin and the rest of the group go into Ray’s Records. I stay outside and look at the jewelry. “This jewelry is from Ghana,” he says.
I look at his collection and immediately go to the silver section. There’s a necklace that has a bird with its head turned backward, taking an egg off its back. I look at it, pick it up.
“Would you like to try it on?” the man asks.
I put it on.
He gives me a hand mirror so I can see how it looks. “It’s beautiful on you,” he says.
“Thank you.” I move the mirror backward and forward, looking at the necklace and trying to imagine wearing it with different clothes. “I like it,” I tell the man. “I’d like to get it.” I pay for the necklace, and the man hands me a small velvet pouch for me to keep it in.
When Nikki sees it she completely overreacts. “Maya Younger actually purchased something on Jackson Avenue,” she says.
“Yeah, from the only black person on the whole street,” I say.
She ignores my comment and lifts the necklace. “It’s really pretty,” she says. “I’ll have to borrow that.”
“You better buy your own while we’re here,” I tease.
“Whatever!”
I wave to the man with jewelry from Ghana.
We walk around for about an hour and then decide to get something to eat. Devin takes my hand, and we make our way through the crowd to Nikki’s favorite new burger spot. “We have to order a basket of sweet potato french fries. The best,” she says.
The line at the restaurant is out the door, but we wait anyway. Just about every restaurant is at capacity, so it’s going to be a wait no matter what.
A chubby white woman types Nikki’s name into her iPad and hands us a few menus. As we wait outside, a man in overalls with no shirt walks up to the restaurant. He has a lopsided, dried-out jerry curl, and his feet—the biggest feet I’ve ever seen—are bare and callused. He’s pushing a shopping cart that is overflowing with stuff, stuff, and more stuff. I’ve seen him around the neighborhood my whole life.
We call him Z.
Most people assume Z is homeless, but he’s not. Z lives on Eleventh Street, and his front yard looks just like his cart. I used to be afraid of him, but really, Z is the person you want on your side. I’ve seen him break up a fight between two rival gang members and save a little girl who almost got hit by a car before a four-way stoplight was put up.
Z stands in front of the hostess. “I need to wait in line to use the bathroom? I just need to use the bathroom.”
“I believe there’s a port-a-potty down the block, sir,” the woman says.
“But your restaurant got a bathroom, don’t it?”
“Yes, sir. But our restrooms are for paying customers only, sir.”
“Who said I ain’t paying? I just need to use the bathroom first. I’m gonna order something.”
“Sir!” A woman behind me steps forward. She is white and tall and thin like rice paper. “You’re holding up the line. We need to put our names on the list.” She has a little girl with her, about seven years old. “And your cart is in the way.”
I can tell the woman is holding on to her daughter’s hand tightly. Her knuckles are red.
“I ain’t bothering nobody. I just had a question.”
“She answered your question. You’re holding up the line. If you have to use the restroom, go down the block like everyone else.”
Other people join in the complaining.
Z exaggerates a moan. “Ahhh, kiss my ashy toes!” He flips the line off and walks away, pushing his cart and bumping into people.
I watch him make his way down the block. He passes the man with a pet pig on a leash, and on the other side there’s a woman walking on stilts. An old guy is riding a unicycle down the street, swerving and zigzagging through the people like a flying bee. I see a girl with rainbow hair cut into a Mohawk, walking up to people asking if she can do magic tricks for them.
The woman behind me sighs and says to someone next to her, “I wish there was a way to keep crazy people from coming to these things.”
I have a feeling she’s talking about Z. Not about the rest of them.
Chapter 16
It’s the last weekend of summer vacation.
Devin is coming over, and Mom is making a big deal about this. I am in the kitchen getting some snacks to take into our family room. Mom watches me go back and forth and then says, “So I want you to keep the door open, and I don’t want any—”
“Mom!”
“I’m just saying. I know how it is to be young and—”
“Mom!”
“Okay, okay.” She laughs and takes chocolate chip cookies out of the box and spreads them out on a small plate. I dump half a bag of chips into a bowl.
The doorbell rings, and Dad opens the door. I hear him ask Devin how Summer Scholars was, and I know they will be talking for a while. Mom helps me carry the rest of the snacks to the room. Before she goes back to the kitchen, she whispers, “I’ll tell your dad to keep it short. They can talk college stuff later.” Then she turns and says, “Now remember, I don’t want any—”
“Oh, my goodness, Mom. For real.”
“All right, I’ll leave it alone.” She smiles and laughs all the way down the hall.
Twenty minutes pass before Devin comes to the family room. He sits next to me and says, “I want to show you something.” He reaches in his backpack and pulls out a Polaroid. “Look what I found,” he says.
I take the picture. “I can’t believe you still have this.” It’s a photo of us when we were in the fifth gra
de. Our teacher took this picture for our class bulletin board. Devin and I are standing under a sign that says APRIL STUDENTS OF THE MONTH. I remember feeling so proud. I had perfect attendance, good behavior, and stars on my chart for turning in homework on time. Nikki had been student of the month in January, and I was determined to get it, too. I remember begging my mom to let me wear my hair out—not in braided ponytails—because I wanted my hair to look nice for the picture. I wish she hadn’t given in. “Look at my hair.” I laugh. I have two big Afro-puff ponytails. “I look a mess.” I give the photo back to him.
“You looked good,” Devin says. “I was bragging to every boy in that school that I got to take a picture with the prettiest girl in the class.”
“You thought I was pretty back then?”
“You still are,” he says. And then he kisses me and I kiss him back, and I taste our friendship in the softness of his lips, taste playing on the merry-go-round at Alberta Park, taste snow fights in the backyard and carnival rides at the waterfront, taste the first time I saw him cry—when his cousin died—taste our remember-whens and never-forgets.
I lean my head on his shoulder, turn the TV on, and hand the remote to Devin. He flips through channels. We pass a cooking show, the news, and a talk show. Then Devin turns it to the station that plays classic black-and-white movies. He turns the channel.
I tap his leg. “Go back, go back. That was the movie Psycho.”
“Psycho?” Devin turns back to the channel.
It’s just starting; we haven’t missed much. “Let’s watch this,” I say.
“I hate these kind of movies,” Devin says.
“This is one of Alfred Hitchcock’s best films. What do you mean you hate it?”
“It’s corny. It’s not scary at all. Plus, it’s black and white.”
“What’s wrong with black-and-white movies?” I ask.
“I just don’t like them.”
Even though that’s not a reason, I drop it. I’m not going to argue about Hitchcock.
