by Renée Watson
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“I want something more from Woman to Woman,” I tell her. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I mean, I do like going on all those trips, but sometimes you make me feel like you’ve come to fix me; only, I don’t feel broken. Not until I’m around you.”
Maxine doesn’t say anything. She keeps driving, keeps listening.
“It feels like Woman to Woman takes us to all these places outside of our neighborhood, as if the places in our neighborhood aren’t good enough.” I pause to see if she’s going to say anything. She doesn’t. So I keep going. I say it all, “When you invited me over to have dinner with your family, I thought that was so nice of you. I thought you wanted to spend time with me and get to know me and that you cared about me enough to meet your family. But it felt like you just wanted to use me to get at your mom and prove some kind of point to her. Like you were showing off. You didn’t even let me speak for myself. I get so confused—because some of the time you act like you’re proud of me, and other times you act like you’re ashamed.”
Maxine pulls into the parking lot of McMenamins on Thirty-Third. She takes her seat belt off, but we don’t get out right away.
“Jade, I’m sorry. I feel horrible that you’ve been holding on to all of this,” Maxine says. “I’ve got a lot of learning to do. I’m so sorry I hurt you in the process.” Maxine sounds like she is about to cry, but the tears don’t fall. “I don’t pity you, Jade. Not at all. I don’t pity your friends. And you’re right: I shouldn’t be speaking for you. Ever. Sometimes I overcompensate, I think. I want to make sure you are comfortable, that you don’t feel on the spot—and well, I am proud of you, so maybe I brag a bit, make sure people know you are not the statistic they may be assuming you are. But yeah, you have a mouth and you can say all these things yourself.”
This conversation isn’t as intense as I thought it would be.
Maxine asks, “So what are some things Woman to Woman can do better?”
I take my seat belt off. “Well, I’d like to learn about real-life things—I mean, like you know, how to create a budget and balance a checkbook so I’ll know how much money I can spend and how much to put aside so the lights don’t get turned off,” I tell her. “You know, stuff like that. I do like a lot about the program. I’m not saying we should stop those outings, but it just seems like we can do more.”
“Jade, I don’t feel that you’re unappreciative. I think you’re right. We could do better,” Maxine says. “Any other ideas you have?”
“I’ve been thinking, what if we do a visit to your sister’s gallery? Maybe she can talk about how she started her own business.”
“Let’s talk to Sabrina. I’m sure she’ll think it’s a great idea.”
Maxine reaches to the backseat and grabs her purse. Before she opens the door, she asks, “Anything else you want to talk about?”
I didn’t think I would say it, but when I open my mouth, “Jon,” comes out. “It’s kind of hard to believe you care about me when you’re always standing me up for him,” I tell her.
Maxine sighs a slow deep breath. “You’re right,” she says. She opens the door. “Let’s talk about him over dinner.”
46
abandonar
to quit
As we walk through McMenamins, Maxine acts like a tour guide. “Isn’t it cool that this used to be a school? I love how they renovate old buildings. You know, they’ve done a funeral home, too.”
“I’d never want to go there. Ever.”
Maxine laughs. “There’s one close to your house, but this one is my favorite,” she tells me. We walk down a hall, and Maxine shows me what used to be the boiler room. It’s a bar now. “You’re too young to go in there. But maybe I’ll take you on your twenty-first birthday.” Maxine smiles at me.
I smile too and wonder if I’ll know her past high school.
“Here’s the movie theater,” Maxine says. “I love coming here. All the seats are secondhand couches and chairs. You can bring food from the restaurant in there too,” she says. “It’s a perfect cheap place for a date.”
“You sound like you work here or something.”
“Just come here a lot,” Maxine says.
We walk into the restaurant and wait to be seated. There are all kinds of lights hanging from the ceiling that are different sizes, shapes, and colors. They’re kind of weird looking, but also beautiful.
The hostess seats us at the window that overlooks the patio, which has a garden and outdoor fireplace. Maxine takes the lemon wedge that’s on the rim of her glass, squirts it into her water, and takes a sip. “So after meeting Kira and Bailey, I’m sure you see that you are not the first person to be anti-Jon,” she says.
“I don’t think we’re anti-Jon. I think we’re pro-Maxine,” I say.
Maxine smiles as tears fall. She wipes them quickly. “Oh, Jade, you have me in here, getting all emotional. You’re not supposed to be giving me the advice,” she says.
Now that I’ve spoken honestly with Maxine and she’s really listened, I feel like I can tell her anything. “I know I am the mentee,” I say. “But for what it’s worth, I don’t think he deserves your time or any more attention from you.”
Maxine says, “I know.” Then: “I need to be better at setting boundaries and letting go.” She takes in a deep breath, releases it real slow, and puts her mentor voice back on. “And you need to work on not giving up so easily. How about we make a deal? I quit Jon; you don’t quit the program.”
“Deal.”
47
orar
to pray
If I don’t leave in the next ten minutes, I’m going to be late for school. I put two Pop-Tarts into the toaster and don’t even wait for them to shoot up. I slide the warm pastries back into the silver sleeve and put them into my backpack. I’ll eat them on the bus. I walk into the living room. E.J. is awake but still lying down, looking at his phone. “Morning,” he mumbles.
“Good morning.” I put my coat on and zip it.
“You hear about what happened Saturday night?” E.J. asks.
“No.”
He sits up and reads from his phone, “‘Vancouver, Washington, police manhandle black teen at house party.’”
“What?” Vancouver is just across the Columbia River. It’s practically in my backyard—just a fifteen-minute drive from my house. Most of the black people I know who live there used to live in Portland. “What’s her name?” I ask.
E.J. looks at his phone, scrolling up and down with his finger. “Natasha Ramsey,” he says. “She’s fifteen.” He turns the phone to me so I can see the photo.
I don’t recognize her name or face, but still, she looks familiar. Like a girl I would be friends with. “What . . . what happened?”
“The police beat her bad. She’s in critical condition.” E.J. reads the article, calling out details as he reads. “The police were called to a house party because neighbors complained about loud music. The cops are saying when they came to break up the party, she was insubordinate.” He reads for a few moments, than tells me, “They are saying they didn’t use excessive force. But this girl has fractured ribs and a broken jaw!” E.J. shakes his head and puts down the phone. “We probably wouldn’t even know about this except people had their phones out, recording.”
“I feel like we should say a prayer or something.”
“Why?”
“For Natasha Ramsey. For her family.”
“And what is prayer going to do?” E.J. asks. “Prayer ain’t nothing but the poor man’s drug.”
“What?”
“Poor people are the ones who pray. People who don’t have what they need, who can’t pay their rent, who can’t buy healthy food, who can’t save any of their paycheck because every dollar is already accounted for. Those are the people who pray. They pray for miracles, they pray for signs, they pray for good health. Rich people don’t do that,” he tells me. “Plus, God isn’t the one we
need to be talking to. We need to talk to the chief of police, the mayor, and the governor. They’re the ones with the power to make change.”
I stare at the picture, can’t stop looking at her face, at how she looks like someone who lives in my neighborhood. Maybe she used to? I see the time at the top of the screen. “I’m going to be late!” I yell. I’ve definitely missed the bus.
I rush to the door, but before I leave, E.J. stops me. “Be careful today, Jade. For real.”
“I will.”
When I get to school, the tardy bell for first period is ringing. I go to class, and the entire time all I can think about is Natasha Ramsey. Her smiling face. The bell rings, and I go to my locker. Sam is waiting for me. “Thought maybe you were sick and weren’t coming today,” she says.
“Nope, just couldn’t get out the house on time today.” I almost ask Sam if she heard about Natasha Ramsey, but I figure since she didn’t say anything about it, she probably hasn’t. I go to my next class, saying a prayer in my head as I walk down the hall.
48
fantasma
ghost
It is lunchtime. Sam and I are in the cafeteria, standing in line to fix our burrito bowls. All day long I’ve been whispering prayers. Natasha’s name haunts me. No one speaks her name or mentions what happened. It’s as if no one in this school knows or cares that an unarmed black girl was assaulted by the police just across the river.
My stomach hurts. And all I want to do is talk to my mom and Lee Lee and Maxine. Every time something like this happens, I go to accounting for every person I know who also fits the description, who it could’ve been. Feels like such a selfish thing to do—to be thankful it isn’t someone I know. To call people just to hear their breath on the other end of the line.
“Excuse me, young lady. I’m not going to tell you again. Keep the line moving. Step up, step up.” The voice interrupts my thoughts, and I realize Ms. Weber is talking to me. She is a short woman with hair to her waist. We’ve exchanged hellos every now and then but we’ve never had a conversation. “You too, Hannah,” she says to the white girl in back of me. Sam is in front of us and has already put her rice and black beans in the bowl.
“God, Ms. Weber, don’t have a heart attack about it,” Hannah says.
I turn to Hannah and say, “I know, right? Is it that serious?” I pick up my bowl and get ready to dish my rice.
Ms. Weber stands in front of me. “You have a problem, young lady?”
“My name is Jade,” I tell her.
“I didn’t ask you what your name was. I asked you if you had a problem.”
I roll my eyes. “You so worried about the line moving and now you’re holding us up,” I say. I try to pass her, but she won’t move.
“You need to adjust your attitude,” Ms. Weber says.
I walk around Ms. Weber. I put a scoop of rice and beans in my bowl.
Hannah is behind me. She laughs. “What is your problem today, Weber? PMS? Didn’t get laid last night? I mean, God, what is it?”
I laugh, and as I put my grilled chicken in the bowl, Ms. Weber says, “Okay, that’s it. Go see Mrs. Parker.”
I don’t think she’s talking to me, so I keep moving down the line. Sam is finished making her lunch and has gone to find us a seat.
“Did you hear me, young lady? Go see Mrs. Parker. Now.”
“My name is Jade, and why do I have to go see Mrs. Parker?”
“Because she’s the only one in this school who can handle you. Come with me,” she says.
She snatches my lunch out of my hands, throws it into the trash can, and escorts me out of the cafeteria. When we get to Mrs. Parker’s office, Ms. Weber says, “Shirley, I need to speak with you.” Then she turns to me and says, “You can stay here.”
I stand against the wall. Mrs. Parker doesn’t close her door, so I’m not sure what the point is of having me stand out here. I hear everything Ms. Weber is saying, every lie and exaggeration. “This girl needs to lose her attitude. I am not going to tolerate all that sass. She was so disrespectful, Shirley.”
I get up and walk toward them. “Did you tell her what you said? Did you tell her that Hannah was being disrespectful too?”
Mrs. Parker turns to me. “Jade, please wait for me. I’ll come out and hear your side too.”
“I’m not going to let her lie on me, Mrs. Parker. I didn’t do anything—”
“See what I mean?” Ms. Weber says. “Young lady, your defiant behavior can get you kicked out of this school.”
“Let’s all calm down,” Mrs. Parker says.
Now there’s a scene. Other counselors and students who are in the counseling center are staring. I refuse to put on a show for them. I stop talking. Stand back against the wall and wait. By the time Mrs. Parker is ready for me, lunch is over. She calls me into her office and sits across from me, behind her desk. “Are you okay to stay at school today or do you need to go home?”
“Mrs. Parker, I didn’t do anything—”
“Jade, lower your voice. I’m only asking you a question. I’m trying to help you. If you need to take a moment and clear your head for the day, you can go home. But if you choose to stay, you’ll have to let go of the attitude and—”
“I want to go home,” I tell her. And I never want to come back to this school again.
“I think that’s a good choice,” Mrs. Parker says. “We’ll start fresh tomorrow.”
“I thought you wanted to hear my side,” I say. “I didn’t do anything, Mrs. Parker.”
“Look, Jade, you’re not in trouble.”
“So you know Ms. Weber is lying?”
“I know both of you probably let this go too far and that it’s a good idea to simply move on from this misunderstanding.”
I bite my lip, hold back the tears that are boiling in my eyes. I think about Lee Lee and Maxine and how they’re always telling me to speak up for myself. But right now I can’t talk. Nothing but curse words would come out, anyway. So I stay silent.
I walk out of her office and go to my locker. Before I leave, I stop by Mr. Flores’s class. He has a prep period after lunch, so I know he won’t have students in his class. His door is open. He’s reading something on his lap top and eating a sandwich. “Mr. Flores?”
“Yes?”
“I’m going home early today, and I just wanted to know if you can tell me what the homework is going to be.”
“Well, sure, but is everything okay?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him. If I talk about it, these tears will spill over.
Mr. Flores talks me through today’s lesson and gives me the homework. “If you have questions, you can stop by at lunch tomorrow.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I look down at Mr. Flores’s computer. The screen has a photo of Natasha Ramsey on it, next to an article. “Bye, Mr. Flores.”
“Bye, Jade. Hope you feel better.”
49
el teléfono
the telephone
“Are you okay?” Sam asks. She sounds like maybe she’s washing dishes. “I can’t believe they sent you home.”
“I know. I didn’t even do anything,” I say.
“Well, you were mouthing off, Jade. I mean, I could never talk to a teacher like that.”
“Yes, you could. Hannah did.”
The water shuts off. I hear dishes clank, then a drawer open and close. “Well, you know why Hannah didn’t get in trouble,” Sam says.
“Because she’s white.”
I can’t see Sam, but I’m pretty sure she just rolled her eyes. “Uh, no. Because she’s rich. Her parents donate a bunch of money to the school every year. She can say and do whatever she wants,” Sam says. “That had nothing to do with her being white and your being black.”
“You know that’s what people are going to say about Natasha Ramsey. That it had nothing to do with her being black.”
“Who?” Sam asks.
There is silence between us.
I don’t respond, because this is
not a conversation I want to have. Not with Sam. I tell her I have to go, that my mom needs the phone. I hang up. Call Lee Lee.
50
respirar
to breathe
The first thing Lee Lee says to me is, “I was just about to call you. Did you hear what happened?”
“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
“We had a town hall meeting for students who needed to talk about it. I went,” Lee Lee tells me.
“Did you say anything?” I ask.
“No, just listened. It was kind of pointless. I mean, you know, the usual, ‘If you need an adult to talk to, we’re here for you.’ You know, that kind of stuff.”
“Well, that’s more than my school,” I tell her.
“I want to do something,” Lee Lee says.
“Do something?”
“Yeah, I mean, well, I kind of am, I guess. Mrs. Baker gave us an assignment to write a poem in honor of Natasha Ramsey or any victim of police brutality. But writing a poem doesn’t seem like enough. I don’t know.” Lee Lee’s voice cracks, and she stops talking. I hear her sniffing and breathing hard.
I get up off my bed and walk around my room. “You okay?”
“I don’t know why this making me so, so . . . I don’t know. I mean, we hear about this stuff all the time—and she didn’t even die. It’s not even as bad as it could be. But for some reason I just . . . I don’t know. I feel, it just feels—”
“Too close?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“And like it could have been you or me?”
There are no words from Lee Lee, only the sound of her breathing.
We sit there, not talking, just listening to each other’s breath. Just thankful.
51
borrar
to erase
Morning will be here soon and I haven’t slept at all.
How does time go by without you seeing it, hearing it, feeling it? Have I yawned? Did my stomach moan? Did my eyes fade at least once?
