by L. Divine
I can’t stay in this cramped apartment with all this on my mind. I don’t feel any better about KJ or Misty. When I need to get out, I take a walk to the liquor store.
I change out of my work clothes in the bathroom, putting on some Guess shorts and a Baby Phat tank top and some flip-flops from Target. I catch my reflection in the mirror and see I need to braid my hair tonight. Until then, a scarf will have to do.
I yell to my mom that I’m going for a walk and ask if she needs anything. She’s still on the couch drifting in and out of sleep.
“Yes, Jayd. Could you please get me some Lay’s chips and some sour cream?” she mumbles. “I feel like eating some onion dip.”
“What kinda Lay’s you want? Those new ones with the cheddar cheese are slammin’.”
“No, Jayd, all that new stuff is for y’all youngsters. Just get me the kind in the yellow bag—plain.”
“All right, but when I come back with my bag don’t say nothing.”
“Whatever, Jayd. Oh, and can you bring some French’s onion soup mix too?” my mom asks, still in the same position.
“So basically, you have nothing in the house to make what you want and you need me to get it, right?”
“Yes, girl. Thank you. I’ve been craving that all day but it’s just too damn hot to be walking around. It was so hot in church today I thought I would have to drink the holy water.”
“Mom, you are so silly. Where’s the dollars?”
“You working. You can’t afford some chips and dip—oh, and can you get me some ginger ale too? I have a little bit of an upset stomach.”
“Dang, Mom, you gone take all my little tips.”
“Come on, Jayd. I spent the last of my little cash filling up my tank. I’ll pay you back when I get paid next week.”
“OK, Mom. But, don’t forget.”
Although my mom can work a nerve, I wouldn’t mind living like she does when I grow up. She’s quite the independent woman. She has her own apartment, her own car, and takes care of herself, no man included. I mean, she dates or whatever, but she doesn’t need a man to pay her bills. That’s highly unusual for most of the women I know around here.
There are always women fighting over men, whether they’re the girlfriends, baby-mamas or whatever. It’s just so ghetto, and I’m glad my mother ain’t like that. The one time my mother got into an argument with a baby-mama, she said what she had to say in a low, deep tone and then simply walked away from the female, and the dude too. No loud talking, shoe throwing, or hair pulling. It’s just not her style. Besides, my mom is pretty fly, and there are always more men. Always. A walk will give me some time to think.
My mom lives on a small street where houses are extremely rare. Apartment buildings have taken their place, but it seems there’s at least one family on every block that refuses to sell their home and is still sticking it out.
It’s Labor Day weekend, and people are hangin’ out all over the place, barbecuing, drinking, smoking, and whatever else they feel like doing. I’m nervous about school starting on Tuesday, especially with this KJ mess still so fresh. It’s already nerve-racking just going back to school with new teachers, new clothes, and all. Not to mention the fact that my nemesis, Misty, is on my last nerve. Now this.
“Hey, shorty. I wish I was a pocket on them shorts you wearing,” this brotha says as I walk past. He and his homies are hangin’ out on the steps of their apartment. I see them every time I come to the store and they always have something to say.
“I just want to be one of them flip-flops on her feet, a sleeve on her shirt, something. Can a brotha holla or what?”
Usually I wouldn’t respond and they’re used to me doing just that. But today I was fired up and needed to take it out on someone, and this dude will have to do.
I stop and turn on them. “When I walk by here, do I ever speak to y’all?” I ask, shocking the hell out of all of them.
“Well, do I?” I repeat again because they obviously didn’t hear me or maybe they just don’t know what to say.
“Never mind. The answer is and will always be ‘hell no.’ So, stop asking.”
As I cross the street, leaving them dudes dumbfounded, I walk up the five steps that lead to “The Right Stop” liquor store, thinking about my list of munchies and my impending school drama, when I hear this loud noise from my left. It sounds like a big engine gunning. I turn around and this gray Regal pulls up from out of nowhere it seems. Two dudes in all black jump out and blast the same dude who just tried to holla at me.
“Jayd!” screams Mrs. Ngyuen, the store owner. She grabs my arm, pulls me inside the door, and turns the two huge steel locks.
The gunfire is loud. I’m barely aware of all the screaming inside and outside Mrs. Ngyuen’s store.
When the gunfire stops, we hear tires screeching off and nothing else. Something overcomes me.
“Mrs. Ngyuen, open the door. I got to go see if that brotha is OK.”
“Jayd, are you crazy? Your mother would have my butt in sling if I let you out. Stay down until police get here,” she says in slightly broken English. She and her husband have owned this store for five years now and have seen their fair share of violence, so she knows what to do, but still I persist.
“Now you know that’s going to take forever. This is Inglewood, South Central L.A. They ain’t gone come soon enough. Let me out, now!” I yell. Finally, she’s convinced, but Mrs. Ngyuen ain’t moving fast enough for me, so I grab the keys from her hand and open the door myself, before running down the stairs and across the street. He’s lying in a pool of blood, eyes wide open, gasping in between bloody breaths of air that just aren’t there for him to catch.
As crowded and noisy as it was outside five minutes ago is how empty and quiet it is right now. No one is outside. I see curtains moving in windows so I know folks are watching.
“Somebody, quick. Get me a blanket and some towels. I have to try and stop the bleeding. Hurry, please!” I say frantically to anyone listening. Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time I’ve had to act alone in a crisis situation. Not thinking, I take off my shirt and try to stop the bleeding coming from his chest, arms, and mouth like I learned in health class.
Once the ambulance, police, and other bystanders make their way to the scene to take over, I slowly walk back to my mom’s house in a daze. It’s been a while since I saw somebody get shot.
I reach my mom’s door and put the key in the lock.
“Did you remember the ginger ale?” my mom asks from the kitchen.
“No, Mom. I forgot to get that and everything else too,” I say with my bloody tank top in my hands. No matter how many times I see someone get shot or stabbed, I never get used to seeing the blood.
My mom comes out of the kitchen looking like she’s about to pounce on me before she takes a loud gasp.
“Jayd! What happened? Are you OK?”
“I’m fine, Mom. Nothing I ain’t seen before,” I say. I’m tired from work, from KJ, from the shooting, from everything, and I still have to pack up my trash bags–turned–luggage to go home tomorrow.
“Whose blood is this? Are you hurt?” My mom grabs me and takes me into the bathroom.
I want to tell her about everything: the shooting, KJ dumping me, Misty selling me out, everything. But I just can’t seem to find the words.
“Mom, I got it. I just want to take a shower and go to bed.”
My mother looks like she doesn’t know what to do, so she sticks with what she knows.
“Not until you tell Mama what happened. You know how she is. If you don’t talk to her tonight and she finds out about it tomorrow, she’ll never forgive you.” My mom knows like I do that Mama will always have the answer.
After my shower, I notice a pimple brewing on my nose. The drama just never stops. I call Mama and break down everything that happened today.
“Have you been studying your earth lessons, child? You know you have a writing assignment due to me tomorrow, as well as a l
ab. Have you even started?” Mama asks, almost cooing.
Mama and her damned lessons. As if I don’t have enough schoolwork, she makes me memorize formulas for different tinctures and potions. She also makes me write down my dreams and these sayings she calls “affirmations.” According to Mama, writing down your wants and desires, or your affirmations, is the same thing as making them come true.
“Mama, after all that happened to me today, that’s what you’re worried about? My lessons?” I ask, almost offended.
“Jayd, life never slows down for us. It just changes. And you need your lessons to help you deal with the changes. Like that pimple. Don’t you have a potion in your notes for that?”
I haven’t looked at my notes from Mama’s lessons all summer. Before I can answer her, she says, “Study the potion, Jayd, and we’ll work on it tomorrow when you get home.”
2
Home
“Woke up quick, at about noon
Just felt that I had to be in Compton soon.”
—EAZY-E
It’s midafternoon and everybody’s hangin’ out for the holiday. When my mom and I pull up to Mama’s house, I’m more than glad; my mom’s little ’94 Mazda Protégé has a broken air conditioner and a radio I have to hold on my lap.
I get out of the car and start to walk through the backyard and into the kitchen, but Mama calls me and my mom into the yard. While walking through the gate, I can hear our neighbor, Esmeralda, mumbling something under her breath in Portugese.
Daddy’s at the grill barbecuing every part of a pig that can be cooked, along with some beef ribs, chicken legs, and hot dogs.
“Hey there, Tweet. How’s my favorite granddaughter?” Daddy asks, giving me a big hug.
“I’m fine, Daddy. Got any tofu on that plate?”
“You know, if it don’t bark, squeal, or holla, it ain’t allowed on Daddy’s grill.”
“Wasn’t nobody talking to you, Bryan,” Daddy says, giving Bryan an evil look.
“I thought you was going in the house to get the Dominoes and cards so we can get a game of Spades going on out here.”
“Daddy, you don’t want none of this,” Bryan says, hitting his chest like he’s Shaft.
“Bryan, I can beat you in Spades without a partner, and Daddy taught me how to play,” I say, hoping they’ll get the hint and let me play. I love playing Dominoes and Spades, especially if there’s money at stake.
“Tweet, go on back there with Mama and stay out of men’s affairs,” Daddy says to me. “Bryan, go get your brothers and tell them to get out here.”
A little defeated, I walk back to the small garden area away from the men and notice that the Christmas lights Daddy keeps promising to take down are still on the roof. He did paint the house over the weekend though, a nice dark blue with light gray trim.
“Lil Lynn and Jayd, my two girls. I thought y’all would never get here.” Mama’s in one of her infamous housedresses that look more like evening wear. Unlike the rest of the neighborhood, Mama’s not cooking or partying. Instead, she’s in the back making potions and charm bags for her clients.
“I think you and the plumber are the only two people working on Labor Day,” my mom says while giving Mama a kiss on the cheek.
Mama bends over, picking up a thick stainless-steel pot filled with some concoction, and passes a spoonful to me to taste.
“It’s a lesson, Jayd. You should be able to decipher from the texture, taste, and smell what ingredients are in a potion. What can you tell me about this one?”
“Well, it’s green, thick, and gooey, and it smells minty.”
“So, what ingredients make up all those things and can be used to kill a pimple?”
“Well, let me think. Gooey must be from the aloe vera plant.”
“Very good. And you know aloe can be used to dry out all kinds of blemishes. What else?”
“Okay. The minty smell comes from eucalyptus oil, maybe?”
“Are you asking or telling me? Be sure in your answer, Jayd. Even if you think it’s wrong, take a leap of faith that maybe you’re right.”
“Am I?” I ask, hopeful that my half-assed studying is actually paying off.
“No, you’re not. It’s tea tree oil. That’s why you need to study more and stop worrying about them boys. What’s the last ingredient?”
Now she’s reminding me of yesterday’s pain. My mind is right back to KJ and as far away from this lesson as possible.
“I don’t know. Something to make it green?” I say, knowing Mama’s getting annoyed with me.
“Jayd, get away from me with that silliness,” she says, turning away from me and back to the potion. “One day I’m not going to be here and you’re going to wish you were a better student. Your mama was the same way when she was your age,” Mama says in a voice meant for my mom. “Out of all of my children, Lynn was the most difficult when it came to learning about her root history. Don’t be like your mama, Jayd.”
My mom’s standing at the gate, hears her, rolls her eyes, and decides it’s time for her to go. “It’s always fun, but I gotta roll. I’ll see you Friday night, baby,” my mom says, giving me a kiss on the cheek.
“If you need to talk, you know where to find me.” My mom can never stay here too long. I wonder why she thinks I don’t mind living here if she can’t even visit for more than a few minutes herself.
“She wouldn’t have to find you if you would stay your ass put somewhere.”
“I love you too, Mama,” my mom yells on her way out the yard and to her car.
I sometimes forget that Mama raised my mom too. Mama almost feels like she’s my real mother. And my mom feels more like my big sister. It isn’t unusual, especially in our neighborhood, but it’s still a strange feeling to have two mothers.
Out of the two, Mama is definitely more well rounded. I look at my mom drive away in her little car and then I look at Mama. I can only find one word to describe her: fierce. The sistah is as bad as they come. From head to toe, Mama represents ghetto bougie fab sophistication.
Her favorite place to shop is Nordstrom’s. Well, that was before they brought Bloomingdale’s to Cali a few years back. Mama’s favorite designer is Jones New York, although she also loves Liz Claiborne for her casual wear.
At five foot seven inches with heels—which she’s rarely seen without—Mama’s not physically a big woman, but she has a large presence. Mama dresses up for everything, especially to go shopping.
Her favorite perfume is Yves St. Laurent’s Amarige. She bathes in the stuff, lotions down, and sprays it up. You can get a whiff of her from more than a mile away. Mama stands out around here and she’s hated and feared because she’s unique.
Mama pretty much ignores Daddy—except when he attacks her “work.” I don’t understand why they’re still together. They haven’t slept in the same room since I was a little girl. She doesn’t cook for him anymore, nor does she sweat him about all his side women, or “church hussies” as Mama calls them. That’s why she stopped going to church. The women talked way too much.
“Lynn Mae is always hanging out with that Mexican lady.”
Mama would tell them, “Esmeralda’s from Brazil, not Mexico.”
“Her and that lady be up to no good, I tell you what. They be in that back house conjuring up the devil’s work.”
Mama would say to those same church women, “It wasn’t the devil’s work when you needed a him-never-leave-me potion for that trifling-ass husband of yours, now was it?”
“Lynn Mae think she so much better than everybody ’cause she light-skinned with that long, brown wavy hair and them green eyes. I bet they ain’t even hers. My sister got a pair just like them at the mall.” Then the laughter.
Mama cut her hair short just to shut them up. But even when Mama cut all her hair off, she was still fierce. She got it cut in a real short style, but hella feminine. To me she looks even more beautiful with her hair short. But she couldn’t do anything about her eyes.
“Jayd, help me take these things into the house. It’s getting late and you have a big day tomorrow.”
I pick up the heavy pots, white towels, and other items she uses for her work.
“Did you mix that potion for your pimple like I told you to? I sent you to your mama’s with everything you needed so you have no excuse, Jayd. And, what about the No More Drama charm bag I asked you to make last night?”
Damn. I forgot all about my lesson last night. I hope she doesn’t make me do it tonight. All I want to do is eat some of my cousin Jay’s potato salad and get ready for bed. I still have yesterday on my mind and I didn’t sleep well at all last night.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I forgot to read my notes.”
Mama reaches into her pocket and hands me a small vial of the potion she was just mixing.
“Take a cotton ball and dab some of that on your pimple. It will be gone by morning,” she says, winking at me.
Knowing Mama, the potion for my pimple will not only work but it’ll also make my skin glow or something a little extra like that. I’m glad because I can’t have none of them boys seeing me with a big pimple on my nose on the first day of school.
After I help Mama bring the rest of the stuff into the house, I eat a big bowl of potato salad and get ready for tomorrow, the first day back at Drama High. I would call my girls to see if there’s any last minute info I need before the first day, but I want to take advantage of the fact that all the men are outside, leaving the bathroom free and clear for a nice, hot bath without anyone banging on the door.
After my bath, I make my bed. I haven’t slept in it for a couple of weeks because I’ve been over at my mom’s since summer school ended, and I know Mama didn’t change the sheets for me. Domestic work just ain’t her thing. As I turn down my sheets to get ready for bed, I feel the potion working already. I wish she could make me a potion to change the past. I still can’t understand why KJ doesn’t want me anymore. Is sex really that important?
