by Renée Watson
I look around the room. Vince, Bags, Cynthia, and Tony have joined us. I whisper under my breath to Charles, “This is going to be interesting.”
Ever since freshman year, Vince and Bags have been known as the king and prince of practical jokes. Last year, Vince put Vaseline on all the doorknobs of senior hall. Bags’s real name is Noah, but we call him Bags because he always has a dime bag on him.
“Is Principal Green really going to let them be on student council?” Charles whispers in my ear. “I knew having him be our staff adviser was a bad idea.” Charles is known around the school as Preacher Man. He is always dressed in khaki pants and a tie. We all joke that he is an old man trapped in a teen’s body. I have no doubt he will end up at Harvard and be CEO of something one day. “We cannot let these white boys come in here with their fraternity shenanigans,” Charles says.
“They’ll be fine,” I say.
“Famous last words.”
Principal Green takes a sip of water from his plastic water bottle. “Let’s begin. It’s no secret that Richmond is changing. I mean, why even in this very room we can see that we have students of many ethnic backgrounds at our school. I’d like us to think of something we can do to promote diversity and celebrate all the cultures we have in our student body. Any ideas?”
No one speaks.
Not because we don’t want to celebrate diversity; I just think we need time to come up with good ideas. Charles and Cynthia raise their hand at the same time. Principal Green calls on Cynthia.
She leans forward and says, “Well, Thanksgiving is next month. Maybe we could have a multicultural potluck.”
Joey agrees with her. “Yeah. We could call it Tastes of the World.”
Cynthia keeps adding to her idea. “And we can have food from Javier’s Mexican Grill and Chinese food from Golden Wok.” She barely takes a breath. “And we could get food from that new Thai place and, well, I guess we need soul food, too. Maybe Popeyes?”
Popeyes is not soul food.
Charles scoots back from the table like he wants to be as far away from Cynthia’s idea as possible. “I’d like to see our budget go toward something more meaningful,” he says.
I’m glad someone else said it before me. Principal Green asks me what I think. “Well,” I say. “I agree with Charles.”
Cynthia rolls her eyes at me. It’s subtle, but I see the way she is looking at me, like she takes it personally that I don’t agree with her.
“I mean, well, what does a buffet have to do with diversity?” I ask. “Most students will just come to eat. They’re not going to learn anything.”
Cynthia rolls her eyes at me again. This time she’s less subtle. “Well, we can have an index card at each dish that gives facts about the countries represented in the buffet.”
I blurt out, “You think someone’s heritage can fit on an index card?” Now I’m rolling my eyes. I don’t mean to be rude, and I really, really didn’t mean to say it with an attitude, but is she serious? I look around the room hoping to make eye contact with someone else who might agree with me and Charles.
Tony speaks up. “But, well, isn’t the school, uh, short on funds? I mean, we don’t have a big budget so maybe Charles and Maya are right. We should spend our budget on something more meaningful.”
Principal Green rubs his chin. “I actually think Cynthia and Joey are onto something.”
“But I thought the point was to learn about other cultures, to encourage community?” I say.
Charles joins the conversation. “Yeah, what is watered-down, Americanized Mexican or Chinese food going to teach us about Mexico or China?” Charles clears his throat and in his presidential voice says, “With all due respect, Principal Green, I believe it would be best to take a vote.”
“I appreciate that, Charles, I do, I do. But I think the multicultural lunch is a great idea.”
“But Principal Green,” I say, “we haven’t heard from everyone.” I look at Rachel and Tasha.
Cynthia speaks. “Come on, guys. You know people like food. I mean, it will be a great first event. We’ll get a good turnout.”
Principal Green adds, “And we want our first event to be inclusive. We want it to be something everyone feels welcome at and a part of.”
So much for Principal Green being the neutral staff adviser.
He looks at me, then at Charles. “So why don’t the two of you do some research about the different cultures that will be represented, and perhaps you can do a one-page write-up on each of them instead of the index cards. That way, it’s more informative. Much more informative,” Principal Green says.
“So we’re really doing this?” I ask. And now I have a homework assignment?
Principal Green asks for volunteers to take on different responsibilities for the event. “Tony, what would you like to do?”
“I, uh, I can help Charles and Maya,” he says. He looks at me. “The three of us can work together.” Tony smiles.
I smile back at him and get a nervous feeling. It feels like my heart has the hiccups. This is the feeling that usually comes when I make a speech or right before I sing. And here it is, now, as I sit across the table from Tony. I look away from him, but the feeling stays.
Chapter 22
I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse that so many of us from student council are in Mrs. Armstrong’s journalism class. Vince, Tasha, Charles, and Tony are all here. The best part of this class is that Essence has it, too. We’re sitting next to each other, flipping through the thick packet of articles Mrs. Armstrong just passed out. “These articles need to be read by the end of the week,” Mrs. Armstrong says.
The class moans.
“I keep telling you all that this is not going to be your easy-A newspaper class.”
I notice a boy shift in his chair and wonder if he will transfer classes and take another elective.
“This journalism class is about investigating your world. Asking questions and doing something with the information you discover.” Mrs. Armstrong has her stern voice on, but since I know her from last year, I know that, really, Mrs. Armstrong is one of the most caring teachers in this school. She’s also one of the only black teachers. At the back of her classroom there’s a secondhand sofa, a worn armchair, and a coffee table. If the coffee table were a person, it would walk with a limp.
We call it The Lounge.
It’s a section for silent reading and writing. Sometimes Nikki, Essence, and I come to The Lounge to eat lunch and catch Mrs. Armstrong up on what’s going on in our lives.
“I want you all to be investigators,” she says. “Not just in class, but outside of class. And I expect you to read.” She walks to the front of the classroom, checks her watch. “Are there any questions?”
Vince raises his hand. “I have a question, Miss Armstrong.”
“Yes?”
“Are your arms really strong?”
“Actually, yes, Vince, they are. Remember, I’m also the volleyball coach for the girls’ team. And it’s Mrs., not Miss,” she says.
Vince smiles at her and says, “My apologies and sincere regret.”
Mrs. Armstrong just ignores him. Male students are always flirting with her. She is the best-dressed teacher I’ve ever had. And her skin is flawless—like the women in those commercials that advertise age-defying face wash.
Mrs. Armstrong holds up a copy of Portland’s Voice. “Any of you read the paper this morning?” she asks.
I feel bad that I haven’t. Our ongoing assignment for the year is to read newspapers and magazines as much as we can. This morning, it didn’t even cross my mind.
Mrs. Armstrong passes the paper around the class. The headline says, “Are Richmond Warriors Fighting Hard Enough?” There’s a huge picture of a group of Richmond students sitting outside on the stoop in front of our school. The girls in the photo are laughing and talking. The picture implies that they are skipping class or just hanging out. But I remember that picture being taken on the first
day of school when the press was here for the welcome-back assembly. To the side of the article, there’s a chart that shows how attendance and test scores have dropped at Richmond over the years.
Mrs. Armstrong, throws the paper on her desk. “This is the third article on Richmond this school year, and it’s only October. I think we should fight back. Any ideas?”
“We should give them something to write about,” I say.
“They have plenty to write about. That’s the problem,” Charles says. His striped button-up shirt is tucked into his khaki pants and as always, he has his campaign voice on. “Low test scores, teen pregnancy, drugs, alcohol … oh, trust me, they have enough to write about.”
Mrs. Armstrong interjects. “So you believe the hype like everyone else? Richmond is really that bad?”
Tasha raises her hand. “It’s not the worst, but it ain’t—I mean, it isn’t the best either,” she says.
I raise my hand. “But that’s the problem. There are good and bad things that happen at Richmond. Just like at every other school. They never write about the good stuff. They don’t want to tell that part of the story.”
Charles nods in agreement. “I can see Maya’s point. And I think it’s wrong how everybody is blaming us for a problem that’s been going on for years. Maybe if they gave us the same stuff that those other schools get, we wouldn’t be doing so bad.”
Mrs. Armstrong sits on her stool. “Stuff?”
Tasha jumps back in the conversation. “You know, like, other schools get new books and their teachers have supplies and stuff. What kind of mess is that?” Tasha pops her gum.
Mrs. Armstrong mouths, “Spit out your gum.”
Tasha gets up and spits her gum into the garbage can.
“Anyone else want to add something?” Mrs. Armstrong asks.
I look over at Essence. She is looking at her cell phone and isn’t paying attention at all to what’s going on. Mrs. Armstrong clears her throat and walks over to her desk. “You know the rules, ladies and gents. No hats, no cell phones, no iPods, no nothing that can distract you or someone else from his or her education.”
Essence puts her phone away.
“Anyone else?” she asks.
Essence raises her hand.
“Yes, Essence, what would you like to add?”
“Um, nothing. I have to go to the bathroom. Can I have a hall pass?”
“Can it wait?”
Essence shakes her head no. She gives Mrs. Armstrong a look, the one that says this isn’t about going to the bathroom.
Mrs. Armstrong gives Essence the hall pass, and when Essence doesn’t come back after fifteen minutes, Mrs. Armstrong comes to my desk and whispers, “Go check on her.”
I leave class and walk down senior hall. I go to the cleanest bathroom in the school—it’s the only one that gets stocked with toilet tissue and there are always paper towels. When I step into the bathroom Essence’s voice is echoing off the wall. She is yelling into her phone. When she sees me, she puts it on speaker so I can hear. The voice yelling back at her is her mother.
Chapter 23
“Mom, I’m at school. I can’t talk about this right now!” Essence yells.
“I want to know where my money is.”
“I’m hanging up now—”
“Essence, I know you took my money.”
“What money?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“Mom, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t know you had any money. If I did, I would have asked for it so I can get me a bus pass for the month.”
“Look here, I want a hundred dollars put back in my drawer by the end of the night.” Ms. Jackson sounds drunk.
I tap Essence on her shoulder and mouth silently, “Just hang up.” I know there’s no reasoning with Essence’s mom when she gets like this. “Hang up,” I mouth again.
But Essence keeps talking. “Mom—I didn’t take your money.”
“As a matter of fact, I want you home right now.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I want you to come home right now.”
“Mom, you’re drunk.”
“Who you think you is, tellin’ me what I am? Come home now. You hear me?”
“Mom, I’m at school.”
“I don’t care where you are. Home is more important than school. You said you didn’t take my money, then come home and help me find it,” Ms. Jackson yells.
“Mom—”
“If you don’t come home right now, don’t come home at all. I’ma have all your stuff outside on the sidewalk in thirty minutes if you ain’t in this house.”
The bell rings. Essence takes the phone off speaker before girls storm into the bathroom to look in the mirrors, spray perfume, and gossip. “All right, Mom. Okay.” She hangs up.
Essence walks out of the bathroom. I follow her. “You don’t have to come,” she says.
“I know.” I walk with her outside, down the steps, down the block, silently praying that no one sees me—Maya Younger, the student body president—skipping school. But I’m not going to let Essence go alone.
“I don’t have enough bus fare for you,” Essence says.
“I have enough for both of us,” I tell her. I go into my bag and get money out. We ride the bus the entire forty-five minutes in silence.
When we get off the bus, on the way to her house, a group of men call out to us, flirting and trying to get us to cross the street and come talk to them. I ignore them. Essence flips them off.
When we turn the corner, I see Ms. Jackson standing on the porch in a bra and jeans throwing Essence’s clothes out onto the lawn. “So you decided to come, huh?”
“Mom, go in the house. Get in the house.” Essence runs up the steps and tries to push her mother inside. I start picking up the clothes. “Mom, you don’t have on a shirt. Go in the house,” Essence says.
“Why you always tellin’ me what to do?” Ms. Jackson goes back into the house. We follow her. The house has been ransacked. The cushions from the sofa are turned upside down; books and loose paper, receipts, and mail cover the carpet. Empty alcohol bottles litter the floor. “Help me find my money!” Ms. Jackson is screaming.
“Mom. Calm down. Just calm down.” Essence goes in her mother’s room and brings out a Richmond High T-shirt. Here, put this on.”
Ms. Jackson can’t get her arm through the sleeve. I try to help her. “I don’t need your help! Your momma send you here? Huh? Your daddy told you to come check on me?” Ms. Jackson grabs a half-empty bottle from the coffee table and finishes drinking it. “Answer me, girl. They send you over here?”
“No, Ms. Darlene. They didn’t.”
Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe that Ms. Jackson and my mom were best friends when they were younger. Mom’s got all kinds of pictures of them when they were my age. I wonder why they turned out so differently. I wonder how Nikki, Essence, and I will end up.
Essence grabs the bottle from her mom.
Ms. Jackson is standing with the shirt dangling around her neck.
“Put the shirt on,” Essence yells.
“Stop tellin’ me what to do. Who you think you is, huh?” Ms. Jackson slides her arms through the sleeves.
“I wouldn’t have to tell you what to do if you would act like my mother!” Essence starts to walk away.
Ms. Jackson yanks her back by pulling her hair. “Who you think you walkin’ away from?” She is holding on tight to Essence’s hair. I can’t tell if it hurts or if Essence is embarrassed, but there are tears forming in the corner of her eyes.
Just as I walk over to try to pry Essence out of her mom’s grip, Ms. Jackson’s friend, Melvin, walks in the house. He helped them move. I think he’s more than a friend, but I’ve never asked. Essence will tell me about him when she’s ready.
Melvin is carrying four bags of groceries. He steps over the mess on the floor. “Darlene? What in the world is going on in here?”
Ms. Jackso
n looks at Melvin and slowly lets Essence go. “Hi, baby. Sorry ’bout the mess,” she says.
Melvin hands the groceries to Essence. “Here, take these in the kitchen. Thought I’d get us some food in this house before we all starve to death,” he says. “Darlene, I’ll pay you back this weekend. I’ll be fixing cars down at the shop so we should get some money soon.”
“Okay, baby, that’s fine,” Ms. Jackson says. She looks at Essence. “Did you hear the man? Put the food away.”
We go into the kitchen.
“And when you’re finished, clean up that mess in the living room,” Ms. Jackson yells. She goes into her bedroom with Melvin and closes the door.
Essence puts the groceries away. I help.
The faucet drips, the grocery bags crinkle, the cabinet doors creak open and close, creak open and close.
Essence’s life is a blues song. Her mother, a scratched record stuck on the same note. I don’t know what to say. I wish I could fix Ms. Jackson. Wish I knew what it would take to get her to see that her daughter is worth staying sober for. I’m so glad we graduate in June. Once June comes Essence can leave. We’ll go far from here, and she never has to come back if she doesn’t want to.
Essence has to go to Spelman. She can’t settle for PCC. Nothing’s wrong with a community college, but she has to get out of Portland. June can’t get here quick enough. But I’ve got to figure out how to help her right now. “You want to stay at my house tonight?” I ask.
Essence shakes her head. She folds one of the brown bags. “I’d have to come home sooner or later. Can’t keep running to your place,” she says. “We’re not little girls anymore.”
Chapter 24
It’s Friday night, and the homecoming football game just ended. Richmond won, and everyone is celebrating. The game was sold out. Students from both schools, along with alumni, teachers, parents, and community members crowded into the bleachers, bundled in scarves, hats, and gloves.
Now that the game is over, we are all standing in line to get into the dance. Ronnie and Nikki are next to each other showing way too much public affection, if you ask me.
