by Renée Watson
When I come out of the restroom, Maxine is sitting on a bench in the lobby. “So sorry about that. We had to have that conversation,” she says.
I don’t say anything. I can’t even fake a that’s-okay smile.
“Well, I feel terrible that we didn’t spend time together. How about I take you to dinner?”
I don’t really want to say yes, but I’m hungry and I know there aren’t many options for dinner at home.
“Let’s walk to someplace close,” she says. On the way to the restaurant, Maxine does most of the talking, because I don’t really have anything to say to her, plus it’s hard to walk and talk at this pace, going uphill. I’ll be out of breath if I say too much. “So, what did you think?” she asks.
I want to tell her that I think she should have called Jon back later. That I think I should be important too. But I know there’s only one answer she’s looking for. “It was awesome. I loved it.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. You know, this city has so much to offer, so much great art to see. People just stay in their bubble of North Portland and never get out to see all that the city has,” she says. “Have your friends ever been here?”
I know she is not referring to my friends at St. Francis but the ones in my neighborhood. “Probably,” I say. Even though I am not sure.
When we get to the restaurant, there’s a short wait and then we are seated. Once we’ve had time to look the menu over, the waitress approaches the table. Maxine orders grilled salmon on top of arugula and an Arnold Palmer. She says to me, “Get whatever you want, okay?”
I really want a burger and fries but I don’t want a Healthy Eating, Healthy Living lecture right now. So, even though I’ve never had arugula and I have no idea what an Arnold Palmer is, I order the same thing as Maxine.
When the meal comes, I realize that an Arnold Palmer is some weird name for lemonade and iced tea mixed together. It’s actually pretty good. So is the salmon and arugula. Maxine starts with the small talk, but I can’t muster the fakeness. I am still thinking about what she said on our way here. “What did you mean when you said people in North Portland live in a bubble? I live in North Portland and I—”
“Oh, no—not you specifically. I meant that I know a lot of people who only stay within the small confinement of their blocks. They don’t really go out of their neighborhood to explore other areas.” Maxine squeezes a lemon into her drink.
I’m not trying to be disrespectful to Maxine, but I don’t like her talking about my friends like she knows them, like she understands anything about them. “Maybe they can’t afford these places,” I tell her.
“Yes, well, maybe the museum is a little pricey,” Maxine says. “But I think they have special discounts for families who can’t afford full admission. All that kind of info is on their website.”
“Well, not every family has a computer and, if they do, they might not have the Internet,” I tell her.
Maxine is full of ideas. “There are a lot of free things too. I mean, even taking a drive to Multnomah Falls or going to Bonneville Dam.”
“Yeah, well, my mom doesn’t have a car, so there goes that idea,” I say. “And if she did, I’m sure she’d need to be conservative on where to drive in order to keep gas in the car.”
Maxine shakes her head at me. “Always the pessimist,” she says, laughing.
Always the realist, I think. Always the poorest.
Maxine goes on talking, not even realizing she’s so oblivious. We’ve been at the restaurant so long that most of the people who were here when we first came in are gone and a whole new crowd has come.
“How’s your mom?” Maxine asks.
“She’s good. Working a lot,” I say.
“And what is it she does again?”
Again? I never told her. I tell Maxine about my mom working for Ms. Louise. “And now she’s working for another woman on the weekends.”
Even though this is good news, Maxine’s eyes are full of pity. She sounds like those annoying adults who take babies by the hand and talk in gibberish, in that childish voice. “So many people can’t find work in this economy,” she says. “Your mom is lucky.”
I think, She is not lucky. She works hard. Figured out a way to keep the lights on and the bills paid. Didn’t give up. All this talk about my mom makes me wonder about Maxine’s family. I ask her, “What about your mother? What does she do?”
“She’s a surgeon,” Maxine says.
“So she must have been at work a lot when you were younger too?”
“She was, actually. Yeah, she was.”
“Did you have a mentor?”
“No. I didn’t,” Maxine tells me.
I wonder why people didn’t think Maxine needed a mentor. Wonder why Maxine thinks she can be a mentor if she’s never had one.
The waitress asks if we need anything else before leaving the bill. Maxine says no and pulls out her wallet.
“Any other questions for me?” Maxine asks.
I wait for the waitress to walk away and then I say, “Yes. What makes you want to do this?”
“Well, I guess I’m doing this because, well, because I want to make a difference and because I—”
I roll my eyes. “The real reason,” I tell her. “Is it good money? Did you always want a little sister? There has to be a reason.”
Maxine laughs. “Okay, here it is—the money does help, of course. And, um, let’s see, well, I’m really interested in working with young girls and women—especially women of color—in regards to their mental, physical, and emotional health. So I thought this would be a good experience for me,” Maxine tells me.
“But why?” I ask. “I mean, what makes you want to do something like that?”
The waitress comes back with chocolate mints and the receipt. Maxine signs her name. “I guess I’m doing it because I could have used someone helping me out when I was your age. It would have been nice to have someone to talk to.”
“You think I need someone to talk to?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Do you?”
It takes me a while to answer. Not because I don’t need someone, but because I don’t want to say yes and have her thinking my mom is not a good mother. I don’t want her thinking I am some ’hood girl with a bunch of problems she has to come and fix.
“Jade, I know this is kind of awkward,” Maxine says. “I mean, we’re still getting to know each other. I know it’s going to take time, but hopefully one day you’ll feel like you can tell me anything.”
I tune out some of what Maxine is saying because now it’s starting to sound like something she practiced, something Sabrina told her to say. But when she says, “We’re going to have so much fun with the other mentor-mentee pairs. I can’t wait for us to grow and learn from each other.”
I ask her, “How is that going to happen if you keep flaking out on the activities?”
Maxine looks stunned that I actually said this. She takes a sip of her Arnold Palmer even though there’s not much left to drink. “You have every right to be upset with me for being so flaky today,” Maxine says.
“And last month,” I add.
“All I can say is I am sorry and, like I told you earlier, it won’t happen again.”
I don’t say anything. I’m just sitting here, thinking how different we are. How I’m not sure why Mrs. Parker thought we’d be a good pair.
“You have my word, Jade,” Maxine says. “I hope you’ll give me another chance.”
One more chance. That’s all she’s got.
29
la llorona
the weeping woman
I am on my way downtown to walk through the city and take photos. The bus is pretty empty when I get on. Only three people in the front—an elderly man and a mother with her young son, and a few teens near the back. I sit in the middle section and look out the window. The streets are as solemn as the sky. At the third stop a woman gets on the bus, her hair not so straight anymore because of the rain. She has on
sandals and jeans that look like they’ve never been washed. Her shirt hangs so low and is so thin, you can see her braless breasts. She says to the driver, “Can I get on?”
He says, “Pay your fare, ma’am.”
“I ain’t got no fare. Can I get on? I’m just going a few blocks.”
The driver sighs a long sigh. “Come on,” he says.
The braless woman wobbles to the seat across from me. I try not to stare at her, but she makes it hard because she is mumbling to herself and crying. She is not an old woman or a young woman. She is not pretty or ugly. I wonder who loves her, who is worried about her, who maybe cared so much but had to give up on her. I wonder what she was like when she was my age. Did she ever think she’d be on a bus, drenched from the rain, smelling like sorrow and regret?
When I get off, she calls out, “Jesus loves you. Jesus loves you.”
I walk around the city like I’m a tourist, my camera in hand. Every corner has a story; every block asks a question. So many worlds colliding all at once. I document my walk, hiding away in places people can’t see me so I’m not obvious. I don’t want anyone to pose or stop and ask why I’m taking their photo. I just want to capture the city. I put the setting on black-and-white and begin.
The line at Voodoo Doughnuts that wraps around the block.
The food carts on Alder Street.
The umbrella man at Pioneer Square.
The Portlandia statue.
The Portland marquee at the Arlene Schnitzer, its oversize lights framing the sign.
And then I see a mural I’ve never seen before. On the front of the old Oregon Historical Society building there’s a larger-than-life mural of Lewis and Clark, Sacagawea with her baby, and York with Seaman, the dog that accompanied them on the trip. I have never seen this mural before. Never seen York alongside the others. They seem to be stepping out of the building. The four of them so high, they look over the city.
I take a few photos of the mural. And on the last one, I zoom in on York’s face.
30
feliz navidad
Merry Christmas
Lee Lee and Sam come over to make holiday cards. Before we even get started, Lee Lee says, “I’m just here for moral support. Jade, you know I can’t draw.”
“You don’t have to draw anything. We’re making collages,” I remind her.
“I’m not an artist like you, Jade,” Lee Lee says, like she didn’t even hear what I said.
“But look, the art is mostly done for you.” I open the small plastic bin I have that’s full of Christmas cards from last year. Some were given to me, some to my mom. I tore off the front of the cards and saved them so I could recycle them for this year. I do it with Valentine’s Day cards too. I tell Lee Lee and Sam, “All you have to do is cut and paste. There’s really no wrong way to do it.”
“You must not remember sixth grade,” Lee Lee says. We burst into laughter, so hard that I have to wipe tears from my eyes. Lee Lee explains it all to Sam. “Our art teacher kept giving the same we’re-all-artists speech Jade is trying to give us, but when it came time for her to hang our self-portraits in the hallway for parent night, guess what she said to me.” Lee Lee looks at me for me to take over.
I talk in Mrs. White’s frail shaky voice, “Well, hmm. Well, let’s see, Lenora, I think we just might set this one aside. I’ll find a special place for it, but maybe, well, maybe it won’t go on the bulletin board.”
Lee Lee finishes, “Mrs. White never found a special place—well, the trash can, maybe. But it never made it to the bulletin board or anywhere on a wall in the classroom. I couldn’t believe how shocked she sounded, like she had never, ever seen something so bad in all her years of teaching.”
“And that didn’t hurt your feelings?” Sam asks.
“Not at all. I know what I’m good at, and it ain’t drawing or painting or cutting things up and making something out of them. That’s Jade. I’m the poet.”
I tell Sam, “We used to do each other’s assignments. I would draw for Lee Lee, and she would write for me.” I grab the scissors and cut out a Christmas tree.
“It worked until middle school, but then we met Mrs. White and there was no way to trick her. And so, left to my own skills, my self-portrait looked like I hated myself,” Lee Lee says.
Sam laughs just a little until Lee Lee tells her, “It’s okay. You can laugh at me. It’s pretty pathetic, I know.” Then Sam lets a real laugh out.
I hand a few cards to Lee Lee. “Cut things out,” I tell her. “I’ll design.”
Lee Lee picks up a pair of scissors and starts cutting.
Sam grabs scissors and starts cutting too. “I can’t believe you saved all of this. I throw cards away the minute I get them. Well, not like I get that many, but yeah. I don’t keep anything.”
We make cards for the rest of the afternoon, only stopping to make hot chocolate. Lee Lee is writing a poem for Mrs. Baker, and Sam is writing a note to her grandfather. I finished a card for my mom, but I haven’t written anything yet. I’m working on one for Maxine. I’ll write something later.
The room is full of the sound of scissors slicing and pens gliding across construction paper. Lee Lee puts her pen down and then says, “Sam, what are you good at? What do you like to do?”
Sam stops writing. She thinks—longer than I expect—and says, “I don’t know. Nothing like writing poetry or making art. I’m just . . . I don’t know. I don’t really like making things as much as I like enjoying them; like, I mean, I’d rather read a story than write one. I’d rather go to a museum and see art than paint something,” she tells us. “So pretty much, I’m lazy, I guess. And I have no talent.” She laughs a little.
“Maybe that means you’re good at listening,” I say. I think about all the conversations we’ve had, how Sam always looks at me like she is really focusing on my words, taking all of me in. How she is a good observer, always noticing my mood and asking if I’m okay. “You’re a good friend,” I tell her. “That’s a talent.”
“Sure is,” Lee Lee says. “Not everyone knows how to be that.” Lee Lee gets to talking about one of our friends who isn’t really our friend anymore. She keeps saying she doesn’t care, but you wouldn’t know it by the way she keeps going on and on. It’s almost like she isn’t talking to me or Sam. Like she is caught in her own replay of how our ex–best friend kissed her boyfriend.
And while Lee Lee is reliving her heartache, Sam seems like she is in her own world too. Her face is stuck on a smile, her eyes bright and thankful. She looks at me and says almost in a whisper, “You’re a good friend too.”
31
víspera de Año Nuevo
New Year’s Eve
I write my resolution in black Sharpie marker on top of a background made out of cut-up scriptures, words from newspaper headlines, and numbers from last year’s calendar.
Be bold.
Be brave.
Be beautiful.
Be brilliant.
Be (your) best.
32
hermanas
sisters
Ever since my talk with Maxine, she’s been making an effort to spend time with me—and really be with me. Not late, not checking her phone. Tonight she invited me over to her apartment. Mom took no time to say yes. A few of Maxine’s friends are coming over, and she wants me to meet them. She picked me up early enough to go to Safeway to get snacks: chocolate pretzels, cheese and crackers, mixed nuts. She takes out serving dishes from the cabinet, and I pour the pretzels and nuts into separate bowls while she arranges the crackers around the chunk of cheese in the middle of a small tray. “Thanks for helping,” she says. She sets the food out on the coffee table.
Maxine’s apartment has two bedrooms, and each has its own bathroom; plus there’s a half bathroom, for guests, in the hallway. The living room, dining room, and kitchen blend into one another in one big space, separated by furniture and appliances. There’s a framed world map in the center of her living room wall, black-and
-white photos to the left and right. One of the Eiffel Tower, the other the Brooklyn Bridge. Her living room looks like she bought a whole showroom at a furniture store—everything matching and perfectly in its place. “I love your apartment,” I tell her.
“Thanks,” Maxine says. “Don’t open that closet, though,” she says, laughing. “Have to have at least one messy space.”
There’s a knock on her door, and when Maxine opens it, two girls come in. “Max!” They exchange hugs and file in. Maxine introduces us. I make mental notes so I can remember their names. Bailey is the one who has hair braided in big thick cords and pinned back into a maze of rows that make a full bun at the back of her head. Kira is the one with straight hair, a light brown color like her eyes.
Bailey says, “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”
I smile and wonder what Maxine has told them.
Bailey and Kira sit in the living room. I join them.
Maxine pours iced tea and offers the snacks to everyone. “Eat up, ladies,” she says.
Kira wastes no time getting to business. “So, lay it on us,” Kira says. “What’s the deal with you and Jon?”
“There’s nothing to say. We broke up. That’s it.”
“He’s trying to get back with her though,” Bailey says. “Calls her a million and one times a day.”
“You’re not picking up, are you, Max? I mean, what does he have to say?” Kira asks.
“He still thinks he has access to her stuff. Didn’t he ask to use your car the other day?” Bailey asks.
Maxine says, “That’s not all he calls about. He called the other day to apologize. He said he was sorry for everything.”
“Well, we know that,” Kira says. “He’s been sorry from day one—”
“Oh, come on,” Maxine says. “None of us knew Jon was going to cheat on me. I mean, we had a good two-year relationship.”
Bailey’s voice is softer now, like she knows what she’s about to say might hurt Maxine’s feelings. “Max, Jon may not have been cheating on you that whole time, but, well, he was kind of using you. I mean, always needing your car, always asking for money—even if he didn’t cheat, the writing was on the wall that the two of you didn’t need to be together.”
