by Renée Watson
38
vestido
dress
Mom and I stand at the fridge, looking at our dry-erase calendar. “Are you keeping up on your homework?” Mom asks. “All these activities can’t get in the way of your studies.”
“I know,” I tell her. “I’m good.”
She looks the calendar over, studying each date. She gets to next Friday and says, “Wow, the symphony? Woman to Woman sure does plan some extravagant events.”
“I know. I can’t wait. I’ve never been to a symphony before.”
Mom says, “What are you going to wear? Don’t people dress up to go to the symphony?”
“They do?” I ask.
“I think so. I guess you should ask Maxine. She should know.” Mom walks to her bedroom. I hear her mumble, “I’ve never been to the symphony either.” Her door closes.
I go to my bedroom and stand in front of the closet, looking for something to wear. I try on at least five outfits. Nothing looks right. Either the shirt is too snug, the skirt too casual, the dress too dressy. I think about the money I put away just in case there was an emergency. A new dress isn’t what I thought I’d use the money on, but I have to. I mean, after all, it’s the symphony.
39
música
music
Before the symphony begins, one of the volunteers gives us a tour of the backstage area and talks about the history of the Oregon Symphony. She is white, and the black sweater she is wearing makes her skin look pale and washed-out. “You all should be very proud to be Oregonians. Did you know that before we were called the Oregon Symphony, we were called the Portland Symphony Society? We were the first orchestra in the West, and one of only seven major orchestras established in America before 1900.” She seems very proud of this fact.
The volunteer walks us to the stage so we can see the same view the musicians will have tonight as they look out at the audience. She tells us, “I like to think of our musical sections as different families coming together for one big celebration. You see, instruments in certain families have things in common, like being made from the same types of material, looking similar, and sounding akin to each other. They come in all sizes, just like natural families have parents and children and extended family members.”
I can tell this is something she’s memorized. But still, she manages to say it to us with passion and a smile on her face.
She is hyper, talking fast and high-pitched like the chirping birds outside my window in the early morning. “Our families are the strings family, the woodwind family, the brass family, and the percussion family.”
The volunteer must be offended that we aren’t as excited as she is. Why else would she look at us and say, “You know, some folks don’t think they can relate to this kind of music. But let me tell you, all kinds of people have been lovers of the symphony.”
This part doesn’t sound memorized. I think she’s going off script.
“Now, I know hip-hop is what you kids are all about these days,” she says. “But did you know that James DePreist was one of the first African American conductors on the world stage? In 1980 he became the music director of the Oregon Symphony, and he held the position for twenty-three years.” She walks toward us a little, still smiling. “He truly transformed our little part-time orchestra to a nationally recognized company with several recordings.” She pauses for a moment, maybe waiting for one of us to say something. Then she says, “Fun fact—he was the nephew of contralto Marian Anderson. Their family was from Philadelphia, but she lived in Portland in her last days. Do you know about her?”
Maxine speaks up. “Yes, we know about her.” There is venom in her voice.
“Oh,” the woman says with a smile.
Maxine is not smiling. She folds her arms and says, “In 1939, when she was refused permission to sing to an integrated audience in Constitution Hall, with the help of First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt, Marian Anderson performed a critically acclaimed concert on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC. She traveled the world.”
“Well, my, yes. That . . . that sums it up,” the woman says.
“She was also the first black person to perform with the New York Metropolitan Opera,” Maxine adds.
“Yes, well, looks like you know music history. I think that’s great.”
I hear Maxine’s breathing intensify.
“Now,” the volunteer says, “let’s get you all to your seats.”
We walk to our reserved seating and sit down, watching people file into the auditorium, dressed in their pearls and ties. Maxine whispers to Carla, “Can you believe that woman? Talking to us like we’re some poor black heathens who don’t know anything worth knowing.”
Carla says, “I know, right? First of all, I don’t even listen to hip-hop.”
Listening to Maxine and Carla, I think maybe they aren’t only offended at that woman’s stereotypes, but maybe they are upset at the idea of being put in the same category as me and the other girls.
The lights fade.
My emotions are all mixed up and jumbled inside.
For the first two songs, all I can think about is that white woman’s smiling face, her annoying voice. And even though we’re all dressed up in our new clothes, even though none of us had opened our mouths and talked to her, she thought we were the kind of kids who wouldn’t appreciate classical music. Makes me feel like no matter how dressed up we are, no matter how respectful we are, some people will only see what they want to see.
I try to let the music wash away that feeling that comes when white people make you feel special or stupid for no good reason. I don’t know how to describe that feeling, just to say that it’s kind of like cold, sunny days. Something is discomforting about a sun that gives no heat but keeps shining.
I close my eyes and try to listen to the music, really focus.
The melody is like an intricate collage. If you take it on all at once, you hear one song, one whole sound. But if you listen for the viola and cello, the flute and clarinet, you hear how each note lies next to the other to complete an image, how the French horn and tuba complements them all. How the piano and xylophone, the cymbals and drums hold them up like a base color. How the picture wouldn’t be the same without each note in its just-right place.
I did not know about James DePreist, and I’d never heard of Marian Anderson. But tonight I feel myself dancing with them. Feel myself traveling the world.
40
el río
the river
The past few weeks have been slow and quiet. Mom is working extra shifts because she is determined to start saving money so she can put a down payment on a car. E.J. practically lives at the studio, so I am usually home by myself. Which is good. The house stays cleaner this way, and the food lasts longer.
I haven’t spent much time with Sam. Partly because I usually have something to do after school, but mostly because I don’t know how to be around her when I know she doesn’t think that salesclerk treated me wrong. I don’t even think she feels the tension between us. She has moved on and acts like everything is fine, but me? I’m stuck wondering if I can truly be friends with someone who doesn’t understand what I go through, how I feel. I don’t expect Sam to always agree with me, but she didn’t even give me that generic I’m sorry that happened to you or I’m sorry you feel that way response.
Today, though, I have nowhere to go after school, so there is no avoiding Sam. She sees me at my locker as I swap out one book for another, and waits for me. “I have to stop by Mrs. Parker’s office before I leave,” she says.
“Okay.”
We walk to Mrs. Parker’s office, and when she sees us, she smiles and opens her jar. “What’s your pleasure today?” she asks. She holds the jar out.
Sam takes two sour apple Jolly Ranchers. I take a cherry one.
Then Mrs. Parker says, “Jade, do you mind if I speak with Sam alone? Just for a moment.”
“Oh, ah, okay. I’ll wait out there, Sam.” I
point to the sitting area outside Mrs. Parker’s office. I take one more Jolly Rancher and leave. When I step into the waiting area, I dump my bag onto one of the chairs and walk over to the alumni hall of fame wall. Here, the counselors have posted photos of graduates from last school year, each photo with a small sign under the name that lists the college the former graduates are attending. I smile, knowing my picture will be here one day.
Sam comes out of Mrs. Parker’s office, an envelope in her hand and the biggest smile on her face. She can’t even get words out, she is breathing and smiling so hard. “Oh my God, Jade. This is so unreal. You are not going to believe this!”
“What happened?”
We walk out of the counseling center and make our way to the bus stop. “I’ve been nominated for the study abroad program,” she says. “This year the trip is to Costa Rica.”
When she says this, there is a pain in my chest. A real physical pain. What I really want to do is turn around, go back to Mrs. Parker’s office, and ask, What about me? Instead I say, “That’s— Wow, Sam. That’s— Congratulations.” I feel horrible that I can’t do better than that. I try again. “That’s really amazing. What did Mrs. Parker say?”
“Well, she said I was nominated by Mr. Flores,” Sam tells me. We get to the bus stop and wait. I can barely look at Sam right now, because I’m afraid she’ll see my eyes and know how I really feel. I sit down and look out at the street. Sam opens her envelope. “There’s an information session happening in two weeks. I have to bring an adult.”
She keeps talking, but I lose track of what she is saying. I am too busy thinking, How did this happen? Too busy trying to concentrate on the moving cars and trucks so I can distract my tears from falling.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asks.
If she has to ask, it’s not worth explaining. “Nothing,” I say. She probably wouldn’t understand anyway.
“Are you sure?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
The bus comes. We get on, show our bus passes, and head to our usual section. I get in first, sit next to the window. The bus jerks, and Sam stumbles into the seat next to me. Once she is situated in her seat, she turns to me and says, “You should come to the meeting too. The two of us in Costa Rica? That would be the best thing—”
“You have to be nominated to go, Sam. No one nominated me.”
“But, well, maybe—”
“Maybe what?”
Sam puts the envelope into her backpack.
We ride in silence. Finally silence.
Passengers get on and off the bus. On and off.
Sam moves her too-long bangs out of her face. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Are you mad at me?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
We’re getting close to Sam’s stop. She scoots forward, getting ready to get up even though there are at least four more blocks to go. Sam starts talking again. “I, uh, I was going to ask if you wanted to come over this weekend. Maybe spend the night?”
“I’ll let you know what my mom says.”
“We can make pizza. My grandpa taught me how to make it from scratch. You like pizza, right?”
I nod.
When the bus pulls over at Sam’s stop, she walks to the back door. “See you tomorrow,” she says.
“Bye.”
I ride through the transition blocks, and then I’m back on my side of town. Where the river is polluted. I am thinking about the fish and the river. The giving and the learning. I am wondering how choices are made about who gets what and how much they get. Wondering who owns the river and the line, and the hook, and the worm.
41
familia
family
I haven’t spent time with Maxine since the outing to the symphony. She’s called a lot, but I usually make an excuse and say how busy I am and that I can’t talk. But she was determined to hang out today, so she invited me to her family’s Sunday dinner. “It’s a tradition in my family to eat dinner together on the first Sunday of the month,” Maxine tells me. “We call it Soul Food Sunday.”
I am surprised when Maxine says this. She doesn’t seem like the type of person who knows anything about soul food.
“I’m in charge of dessert,” Maxine says. She studies the cakes inside the glass case. We’re at some fancy bakery in the Pearl District, browsing through cakes, scones, and cookies. “What looks good to you?”
“Everything,” I tell her.
She laughs. “Yeah, this is pastry heaven. I get myself in trouble when I come here on Fridays. Everything’s half off on Fridays.”
The baker behind the counter has just finished decorating a cake. She’s sculpted it to look like a dollhouse. I doubt the little girl it’s being made for will even want to cut into it. It looks so real. Too real to eat.
Maxine waves over one of the men behind the counter. “Can I get a dozen of these?” She points to the lemon-marionberry scones. Then she looks at me and says, “Now you pick something. A cake. Which one should we get?” She hands me the cake list.
I look it over: Sacher torte, pink champagne, crème de menthe, chocolate ganache. I go with the one that has chocolate in the name. You can’t go wrong with chocolate.
“Good choice,” Maxine says. “My dad loves chocolate ganache. You’ve won him over without even trying.”
Maxine pays for the cake and scones, and we leave the bakery.
I can tell we’re entering the rich part of Portland. We’re driving up a winding road that’s got us so high, my ears are popping. The road is secluded by tall trees tickling the sky. We come to a stop sign, and it feels like we might slide back down the hill. The car is at an angle, and I feel like I’m on a carnival ride that got stuck. Maxine looks both ways and begins to drive again. Then she says, “Look to your left.”
I turn my head and see the city of Portland below, Mount Hood in the distance. Maxine makes a right turn onto a steep hill, leading us down into a cul-de-sac of houses. Wait, not houses. Mansions. I’ve seen places like this before, like when I watch those shows that give an inside look at celebrity homes. But I’ve never been inside one.
“We’re here,” Maxine says. She pulls up to a house that has three garage doors and a balcony that wraps around to the front of the house. The yard looks fake, too plush and green to be real.
A woman who looks just like Maxine is standing at the door. When we get out of the car, she calls out, “Max!”
“That’s my sister, Mia,” Maxine tells me.
They hug and we go inside.
It takes only seconds before Maxine’s family is surrounding us, hugging us and welcoming me. Maxine introduces me to everyone: Maxine’s brother, Nathan, and his wife, Abby, and Mr. and Mrs. Winters, Maxine’s parents.
Nathan takes the cake out of my hand. It’s clearly in a box that’s labeled THE CAKE SHOP, but still he looks at his sister and says, “Oh no, you didn’t bake this, did you, Max?”
Maxine hits him. “Not in front of company, please,” she says.
He laughs, looks at me, and whispers, “At the last dinner she burned boiling water. Burned. Boiling. Water.”
I try not to laugh too hard, but I can’t help it.
Abby takes my jacket. Maxine lets me know that her mom prefers for people to take off their shoes. I take them off and add them to the row of shoes lined up against the wall. Everything in this house seems to have a place. No piles or messes. The walls look like curated museum exhibits. Maxine notices me looking at the art. “My mom loves collecting black art. It’s all through the house. That’s where Mia gets it from.” Maxine calls out to her sister, “Mia, what’s the name of this artist, again? The collection in the foyer?”
Mia yells, “Jacob Lawrence.”
“Right,” Maxine says. We walk into the kitchen.
Mia and Abby are putting food on serving dishes. I ask them if they need help with anything, but Mia insists that since I’m a guest, I should
make myself comfortable.
I sit down on the small sofa—yes, a sofa in the kitchen, that’s how big this place is—and watch the siblings orbit around one another, going back and forth between the stove, the fridge, the cabinets.
Mia says to me, “So tell us about yourself, Jade. You’re an artist, right? I’d love to have you stop by my gallery.”
“Thanks, I’d like that,” I say.
Maxine says, “Yeah, I keep meaning to take you by there. I think you’ll like it. And, Mia, you’ll love Jade’s work.
Mia and Abby switch off with the questions:“What grade are you in?”
“Any siblings?”
“Do you like St. Francis?”
“What do you want to do after high school?”
Maxine interjects, “Don’t bombard my mentee with questions,” she says. “I’ve already told you, Jade is an artist and she’s also a scholar.” Maxine brags about me, telling them, “She’s so focused. I just know she’s going to be a successful woman one day.”
Mia arranges crackers and cheese on a tray. She cuts the slices of cheese carefully. “And so you live in North Portland, right? Man, that’s dedication—how early do you get up to get to school?”
“I get up at—”
“It’s not that bad, is it, Jade?” Maxine asks. “You get up at, what? Six o’clock?”
“Are you going to let the girl speak?” Nathan says.
I was thinking the same thing.
Maxine is acting like she’s afraid that if I open my mouth, I’ll say the wrong thing, embarrass her or something. She seems nervous. I still don’t get a word in because Mia says, “Well, I’ll stop putting Jade on the spot. Let’s talk about what our plans are going to be for summer vacation. I know it’s a ways away, but we should at least start narrowing down a place,” she says. She walks the tray into the dining room and sets it on a long table against the wall. The space is open, so even though she is in the dining room, I see her and the living room and even the staircase that must lead to the bedrooms all at once.
