by Renée Watson
Glamour Girl curses. She can’t find her pen. I’m not surprised. I’ve never seen her with anything school-related. She puts everything back into her bag. Except the mints. She opens the tin and takes out one round candy. As soon as she puts it into her mouth, I smell peppermint and my stomach rumbles again.
“You want one?” Glamour Girl asks. But she is not talking to me. She is tapping the shoulder of the girl in front of her. Then everyone around us is reaching their greedy fingers into the tin, taking out small round candies. Someone passes the tin to me. There aren’t any whole ones left. Just peppermint dust and a few that are broken in half. I take two halves and rest them on my tongue. I close my eyes and suck hard, savoring the cool flavor.
I give the almost empty tin to Glamour Girl and thank her. I am regretting that we aren’t friends. Maybe if we were friends, she would have offered the mints to me first and I would have a perfectly round one.
When the lunch bell rings, I don’t even stop at my locker. I go straight to Mrs. Parker’s office, where she offers me candy from the jar on her desk. I take a cherry Jolly Rancher. Like most of the adults in this school, Mrs. Parker is white. I imagine her to be a fun grandmother to the three boys in the pictures that decorate her office.
There’s a picture of her skating with them at Oaks Amusement Park. “Aren’t they just the cutest little boys you’ve ever laid eyes on?” she says. “Okay, well, I’m biased, but still.” The three boys have copper skin and tight dark-brown curls. I look at the rest of the framed photos in her room. There’s a photo of a girl, who must be her daughter, standing with a brown man, the three little boys gathered around their legs, at the bottom of Multnomah Falls. Mrs. Parker picks up the photo. “My youngest and her husband,” she tells me. Then she picks up a framed photo of her and her grandsons at a Winterhawks hockey game. They are all dressed in Winterhawks jerseys, and the logo in the center of their shirts is a Native American with four feathers in his hair and paint on his face. I wonder how a people’s culture, a people’s history, becomes a mascot. I wonder how this school counselor and her three grandsons can wear a stereotype on their shirts and hats and not care.
“Are you a Winterhawks fan?” Mrs. Parker asks.
“No, not really.”
“Oh, too bad. I get free tickets all the time. Let me know if you ever want to check them out.”
“Thank you,” I say. Why do people who can afford anything they want get stuff for free all the time?
“Now let’s get to business,” Mrs. Parker says.
I take a deep breath and prepare to act surprised when she tells me she’s nominating me for the study abroad program. She picks up a folder, looks at it, and like an orator who decides to improv instead of using her notes, tosses the folder back onto her desk and asks, “Jade, what do you want?”
To eat.
To travel with the study abroad program. Maybe go to Argentina.
To taste asado hot off the fire.
To lick my fingers after enjoying sweet alfajores—the dulce de leche dancing on my tongue.
To eat and speak Spanish in Argentina, in Costa Rica. In New York, California. In job interviews where knowing more than one language moves your application to the top of the pile.
To give myself a way out. A way in. Because language can take you places.
Mrs. Parker clears her throat. “It’s okay if you don’t have an answer yet,” she says. “That’s why I’m here. To help you figure it out. To help you get it once you know what it is.” She picks the folder back up and hands it to me.
The front of the folder shows a group of black women—adults and teens—smiling and embracing one another. Woman to Woman: A Mentorship Program for African American Girls. Mrs. Parker is smiling like what she’s about to tell me is that she found the cure for cancer. But really, what she has to tell me sounds more like a honking horn that’s stuck, a favorite glass shattering into countless pieces on the floor.
Mrs. Parker tells me that twelve girls from high schools throughout the city have been selected to participate in Woman to Woman. Each of us will be paired with a mentor. “Look at all the great activities that are planned for you,” she says. She takes the folder from my hand and opens it, pulling out a sheet titled Monthly Outings:
A Night at Oregon Symphony
Museum Visit at Portland Art Museum
Fun Day at Oaks Amusement Park
“Do you have any questions?” Mrs. Parker asks.
I want to speak up, ask, What about the nomination for the study abroad program? I want to ask about that day she looked into my eyes and said, “St. Francis provides opportunities for our students to travel the world,” but instead I ask, “Why was I chosen for this?”
Mrs. Parker clears her throat. “Well, uh, selection was based on, uh, gender, grade, and, well, several other things.”
“Like?”
“Well, uh, several things. Teacher nominations . . . uh, need.”
“Mrs. Parker, I don’t need a mentor,” I tell her.
“Every young person could use a caring adult in her life.”
“I have my mother.” And my uncle, and my dad. “You think I don’t have anyone who cares about me?”
“No, no. That’s not what I said.” Mrs. Parker clears her throat. “We want to be as proactive as possible, and you know, well, statistics tell us that young people with your set of circumstances are, well, at risk for certain things, and we’d like to help you navigate through those circumstances.” Mrs. Parker takes a candy out of her jar and pops it into her mouth. “I’d like you to thoroughly look over the information and consider it. This is a good opportunity for you.”
That word shadows me. Follows me like a stray cat.
I stand up. “What happens if I don’t participate?” I ask.
“If you do participate and complete the two-year program—keeping your grade point average at a three point five or above—you are awarded a scholarship to any Oregon college,” Mrs. Parker tells me.
A scholarship to college?
I sit down, lean back in the seat, hear Mrs. Parker out.
She lowers her voice and talks as if what she is telling me is off the record. “You know, my son-in-law grew up in your same neighborhood. He lives in Lake Oswego now. Not a lot of African Americans live there, you know. And, well, he’s a grown man, and even he’s having a hard time adjusting. So, well, I think this school can be hard for anyone, but especially if you don’t really have anyone who, you know, you can relate to. That’s why I selected a mentor for you who went to this school,” Mrs. Parker says. “She graduated four years ago. And now she’s a graduate of Portland State University. You remind me so much of her,” she says.
I don’t say anything. I’ve already made up my mind that I’m going to do this, but I’m kind of enjoying listening to Mrs. Parker beg a little.
“Jade. You’re a smart girl. Are you really going to pass on a chance to get a scholarship to college?”
“I’ll do it,” I say. And then: “Thank you for the opportunity.”
She hands me a sheet of paper with a list of questions on it. “We’ll give this to your mentor before you meet so she can learn a little about you,” she says. She hands me a pen.
I fill out the form.
Name: Jade Butler
Favorite Color: Yellow
Hobbies: Collaging
And then there’s a question:
What do you hope to get out of this program?
I leave that one blank.
5
promesa
promise
Mom’s scent hugs me as soon as I get in the door. She is stretched out on her twin bed. And even though she is resting, I can tell by her face that there is no peace for her, not even in her dreams.
She did not bother to take off her nylons or her shoes that she says are more comfortable than clouds. The TV is watching her, so I turn it off. Mom likes to go to sleep to noise. I think the voices keep her from feeling lonely.
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br /> In the kitchen, there are empty brown paper bags on the counter top, which means there are groceries. I open the door to the fridge: milk, butter, mayonnaise, bread, eggs, hot dogs. And in the pantry: peanut butter, jelly, cans of tuna, packages of Top Ramen. And in the freezer: family value–size ground beef, frozen pizzas. And in the way, way back—ice cream. Mint chocolate chip.
6
historia
history
Lee Lee comes over after school, and over bowls of mint chocolate chip ice cream, we swap stories about our first day. Before we can get good into our conversation, E.J. comes home, smelling up the whole living room with his cologne. He joins us at the kitchen table, but not before grabbing a spoon from the dish rack and helping himself to my bowl. I give him the meanest look I can muster.
“I mean, you can’t share with your favorite uncle?” he says.
“Get your own.” I point to the freezer and move my bowl closer to me.
He laughs, goes into the living room, and puts his headphones on and starts bobbing his head.
“Okay, what were you saying?” I ask Lee Lee.
She is laughing at the two of us and shaking her head. “I was just saying how much I like my history teacher. She’s my favorite already,” Lee Lee tells me.
“Why?” I ask.
“She’s all about teaching stuff we don’t necessarily learn in our textbooks. Like today we learned about York—the black slave who traveled with Lewis and Clark.”
“A black person was part of the Lewis and Clark expedition? Really?”
Lee Lee tells me, “My teacher says he was just as important as Lewis and Clark.” She reaches into her backpack and pulls out a work sheet and hands it to me. A picture of York is front and center. He looks strong and confident. He looks so regular, like he wasn’t a slave, like he wasn’t treated like less than anyone else. Lee Lee says, “My teacher told us that York and Sacagawea helped during the expedition. She said Sacagawea helped to translate and that she was very knowledgeable about the land and could tell which plants were edible and which ones could be used for medicine.”
“What did York do?” I ask.
“Mrs. Phillips said he was a good hunter and he set up the tents and managed the sails. Once, he even saved Clark from drowning.” Lee Lee scrapes the bowl and eats the last morsels of melted ice cream. “When they needed to decide on where to go next or how to handle a challenge, York got to vote. Sacagawea, too. The first time a black man and a woman were ever given that privilege.”
Lee Lee tells me that Lewis and Clark came with gifts and that it was a ritual to have a meeting ceremony. At that meeting, Lewis and Clark told the tribal leaders that their land was now the property of the United States, and that a man in the east was their new great father.
They did not tell them York was Clark’s slave.
They did not tell them that their new great father owned slaves.
I give the work sheet back to Lee Lee. “I wonder if the native people saw it coming,” I say. “Did they know that the meeting ceremony ritual was not so innocent, that it wasn’t just an exchange of goods?”
Lee Lee looks at me. “I’m sure they didn’t. How could they know this was the beginning of their displacement?”
“But York and Sacagawea—they knew?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Lee Lee says. “But even if they did, what could they do about it?”
I have so many more questions, but Lee Lee is on to the next topic. She starts telling me about all the Northside drama—who’s broken up, who’s gotten back together. I know so many of them because we all went to middle school together.
The whole time Lee Lee is talking, I am thinking about York and Sacagawea, wondering how they must have felt having a form of freedom but no real power.
7
arte
art
Lee Lee has been gone for at least two hours. E.J. is in the living room, turning the sofa into his bed. I have on headphones so I can block out the TV show he’s watching. One of those real-life murder mysteries. He has the volume up so loud, I am sure the neighbors can hear.
I am sitting at the kitchen table, which is really a folding card table someone gave us a year ago. It’s not that sturdy or wide or long, but it is enough. Tonight it is holding scraps of paper, the 35 bus schedule, and old copies of the St. John’s Review—our community newsletter.
I am ripping and cutting. Gluing and pasting. Rearranging reality, redefining, covering, disguising.
Tonight I am taking ugly and making beautiful.
I am still thinking about what Lee Lee told me about York. I’m thinking about the walks I’ve taken through North Portland and all the signs that mark the journey of Lewis and Clark. I’ve seen these signs my whole life. Lewis or Clark pointing into the distance, the other one standing with his gun. York is not there; neither is Sacagawea. Or the native people who were already there.
I think about Mrs. Parker. How she has a black son-in-law smiling at me from a frame. How proud she is of her free passes to Winterhawks games. How she wants me to have a mentor. How she’s always ready to give me an opportunity, a gift. Like what she is telling me is she comes in peace.
8
algo en común
something in common
The Book Girl gets on the bus again. She sits in the same seat, reading the same book. I watch her as we ride to St. Francis. A man gets on the bus, his cell phone in his hand, and he is playing music for the entire bus, holding his phone up like it’s an eighties boom box. And singing along. And he can’t sing—not even a little bit.
It is too early for this.
The Book Girl looks around the bus, and our eyes meet. She smiles, the kind of uncomfortable smile people give one another in these kinds of situations. I smile back. The louder he sings, the bigger her eyes get. And then—even though there are plenty of empty seats—he stands right in front of her, as if to serenade her. She looks at me and with her eyes, asks, Is this really happening?
I motion for her to come sit next to me. I pick my bag up from the aisle seat and set it on my lap. She comes over, full of disbelief and laughter. “Thank you for rescuing me,” she whispers. Once the man gets off the bus, we burst into laughter.
“I’m Jade,” I tell her.
“Samantha,” she says. “My friends call me Sam.”
“How do you like St. Francis?”
She looks at me with suspicion.
“I go there too. We have the same Spanish class,” I tell her.
“What? Oh God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize—”
“It’s okay.”
“So you take the bus every morning?” Sam asks.
“Every morning,” I tell her. “I live in North Portland.”
“And I thought I lived far from St. Francis,” Sam says. “I live close to Peninsula Park. Looks like we’ll be bus buddies.”
“Yeah.”
As we ride to school together, I make sure to tell her the shortcuts to get around the crowded hallways. I let her know which teachers she should stay away from at all costs and which ones to get to know even if she doesn’t have their classes.
Sam tucks her hair behind her right ear and clears her throat. “Any tips about lunch?” she asks.
“I eat in the cafeteria,” I answer. I don’t tell her that my meals are free and part of my scholarship package.
“I have to eat in the cafeteria too,” Sam says. “I mean, well, I don’t have to, but, well—”
She doesn’t finish her sentence. She doesn’t have to. “Meet me at the sandwich bar for lunch. We can eat together,” I say.
“Okay. Thanks.”
The bus stops and we get off.
Sam is full of more questions about St. Francis.
I am full of questions about her. I wonder what Sam is exiting from. She must be coming from something.
9
esperar
to wait
September has come and gone. My daily routine i
s riding the bus in the morning and eating lunch with Sam. Depending on what I have to do after school, we go home together too. But today I can’t because today is the day I meet my mentor. I have to take a different bus after school to go to the first Woman to Woman meeting. It’s at a library in Northeast Portland. When the dismissal bell rings, I make my way to Sam’s locker before I leave.
Sam is looking into a mirror, trying to fix her unfixable hair. Her locker is full of pictures of her cat, Misty, who she found in the rain. Owners definitely look like their pets. Sam’s thick hair sheds all over the place. Her eyes are big, full, and piercing. Her mouth, thin and overshadowed by her cheeks. She swoops her hair behind her ear. “Ready to meet the woman who’s going to change your life?”
I laugh.
We walk outside and stop at the corner.
“At least someone notices you need someone to talk to. It could be worse. You could be me. No one ever thinks I need anything,” Sam says.
The light changes. She walks away so fast, I can’t ask her what she means by that. Can’t ask her what it is she needs.
When I get to the library, groups of women are huddled in circles, mingling and making small talk. The woman at the front desk checks me in and hands me a name tag. I print my name in green marker and stick the tag to the left side of my chest.
The woman scrolls her finger down the list. “Jade Butler? Let’s see—your mentor hasn’t arrived yet,” she tells me. “I’m sure she’ll be here soon. Her name is Maxine.”
“Okay.”
The woman hands me a folder. “This is all you need to know about Woman to Woman. It has our schedule for mentor-mentee outings, a handbook that goes over expectations, and lots of resources for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Help yourself to the refreshments,” the woman says. She points to two long tables that have been pushed together to hold fruit and cheese trays, chips and dip, cookies, and drinks.
Before heading to the snack table, I walk to the back of the library and claim my seat. Two rows from the last. I put my jacket on the back of a folding chair and set the folder down. I walk over to the table and put five cookies in a napkin, looking around to make sure no one is watching. I fold the napkin and go back to my seat, where I slip the cookies into my backpack. I do this two more times, taking chips, grapes, strawberries, and more cookies, and sneak them into my bag. This is something I learned from Mom. Whenever we go out to eat, we usually have dinner at an all-you-can-eat place, like Izzy’s or Old Country Buffet. Once we’re full and ready to go, Mom takes foil out of her bag and discreetly wraps up food for us to take.
