Isaiah Dunn Is My Hero

by Kelly J. Baptist

  I want to ask her about being left at the library all day, which happens all the time. At least I’m making money at the barbershop.

  Which reminds me…

  “Mama, how was work?”

  Mama ignores my question.

  “Boy, did you hear me ask you about this barbershop? I’m grown; I don’t need you askin’ about my day.”

  “But, Mama, you met Rock already, remember? He cuts Sneaky’s hair and his wife does Miz Rita’s hair.”

  Mama doesn’t seem convinced. I notice that she doesn’t have on the same nice clothes she had on before. Now she’s wearing her faded gray sweats.

  She mumbles something as she drives off. It’s like she forgot all about her talk with Rock, how he told her it would be cool to have me helping around the shop.

  “Mommy didn’t get her job back,” Charlie says before sticking two fingers in her mouth.

  Aww, man…

  “Charlie!” Mama says, but not in a real mad voice. She looks at me in the rearview mirror. My eyes ask her what happened, because my mouth can’t. She sighs.

  “I guess I waited too long,” Mama tells me. “They filled my position.”

  Aww, man…

  “I thought they said—”

  “Yeah,” Mama says, “I thought they said that, too.”

  My face must be real upset, because Mama calls my name in a way that makes me look up.

  “Isaiah, don’t even worry. It’s all gonna work out. I’m gonna find something better.”

  I don’t say anything. I open my backpack, check for the sock. Then I grab Daddy’s notebook and hope I can find something inside to help me know what to do next.

  May 12

  THERE’S A BOTTLE in the trash can in 109.

  I hear the clink sound when I go to throw away the empty can of beans we had for dinner last night. I stare at the trash can for a minute. Maybe I imagined the sound, or maybe it’s something else, like the can of beans from dinner the night before last. I glare at the bathroom door, where Mama’s taking a shower. Charlie’s dressed, but she’s under the covers trying to sleep. I reach into the trash.

  I feel like when me and Sneaky were wrestling and he accidentally elbowed me in the stomach, hard.

  The bottle is cool and smooth in my hand and I want to fling it at the wall and watch it explode into a million pieces.

  “What’s that?”

  Charlie’s voice makes me jump. I drop the bottle into the trash and whirl around.

  “Back up!” I say. “You can’t be creeping up on me like that!”

  “I’m not!” Charlie says. She tries to peek into the trash, but I push her back toward her and Mama’s bed.

  “I’m telling! You pushed me!” Charlie yells.

  “So? You get on my nerves!”

  Charlie and I scowl at each other. The phone rings, and she bounces to it before I can stop her. Mama told us to never answer that phone, and to only use it if there’s an emergency.

  “Charlie, don’t—”

  “Hello?” Charlie picks up the phone. “No, she’s in the—”

  I snatch the phone from Charlie, and she sticks out her tongue at me.

  “Hello?” says the voice on the other end, sounding upset. “Is Lisa Dunn available?”

  “Um, no, she’s not available right now.”

  The voice sighs. “Well, we need her to call the main office right away. Can you tell her that?”

  “Yeah, I can tell her,” I say, my heart thumping.

  “Thank you.” Click.

  Mama comes from the bathroom, and her face is a cloud. I’m pretty sure the person on the phone was only bringing rain. So I don’t say a word about the call. Not today.

  When Mama drops me off at school, I climb from the car without saying goodbye.

  “ ’Sup, Isaiah?” says Sneaky when I sit down across from him in the lunchroom for breakfast.

  “Hey,” I say. I stab a Tater Tot with my fork, and I can barely taste it when I pop it into my mouth.

  “Check the kicks.” Sneaky grins, sliding his foot out from under the table. “Got ’em yesterday.”

  I stare at his shoes, and for some reason, seeing them just makes me even madder. Sneaky’s my best friend and all, but right now I feel like dumping a spoonful of ketchup on his brand-new shoes.

  “Nice,” I say, not really caring about his stupid shoes.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Sneaky asks.

  “Nothing.” I dunk my French toast sticks in the little tub of syrup. Sneaky likes his plain, but he always gets an extra syrup for me. He tosses it to me like always, but it bumps the one I already have and spills on my tray.

  “Watch it!” I yell, louder than I mean to.

  “Dang, chill out, bro!” Sneaky says, giving me a look. “It was an accident. Why you trippin’?”

  I stand up without giving Sneaky an answer. I’m not hungry anymore, so I pick up my tray and toss everything in the trash. And even though it’s stupid, I don’t talk to Sneaky for the rest of the day.

  May 15

  “HEY, STRANGER!” MR. Shephard holds out his fist when I walk into the children’s section.

  “Hey, Mr. Shephard,” I say, bumping my fist to his.

  “How you been?” he asks.

  “Okay,” I say. I tell him about my job at the barbershop.

  “Nice,” he says. “You saving for something special?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. Mr. Shephard nods. He’s cool, but I know I can’t be telling him that me and Mama and Charlie are staying in a motel. Or that Mama’s the reason we’re still there. Or that things are kinda weird between me and Sneaky. We met up over the weekend for one last practice before the talent show, but it didn’t feel the same. We probably won’t win unless we can get back to normal. But how is that supposed to happen?

  I head over to my special table by the window and drop my backpack on it.

  “So what’re you reading today?” Mr. Shephard asks.

  “Nothin’.” I shrug. I don’t tell Mr. Shephard I’m gonna try to write something of my own today.

  The whole poetry project got me into reading Langston Hughes poems, so when Mr. Shephard walks by again, I ask if he’s ever heard of him.

  “Yep, sure have,” Mr. Shephard says. “You got good taste. Wanna grab a book about him?”

  “Okay,” I say. Me and Mr. Shephard go to the computer first, and he shows me how to type in Langston Hughes’s name and pick which books I want to find.

  “That one’s gonna be over in the biography section, and those are in fiction.” Mr. Shephard points me in the right direction. Some older kids come into the children’s section making noise, so he goes over to tell them to chill. I find Poetry for Young People: Langston Hughes, and another book about his life, then head over to my table and start reading.

  “What’s that?”

  A backpack plops on my table, and I look up and see Angel staring down at my book. Too late to try to hide it, I guess.

  “A book about Langston Hughes,” I say, like it’s no big deal.

  “For school?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “So you just like it?” Angel’s face is twisted up like she’s ’bout to laugh, but I don’t even care.

  “Yeah, I like it,” I tell her loudly, daring her to say something.

  Angel shrugs and sits down across from me. She unzips her backpack (pink) and pulls out her pink notebook. After flipping through it, she spins it around and points to a page.

  “This is my favorite one by him,” Angel says. I read her bubbly writing of a poem called “I, Too.”

  “My granddaddy made us memorize that one when we were really little,” Angel tells me. “He was always reciting it for no reason. Once, I said the whole thing when
I got sent from the table for playing with my food.”

  “What happened?” I ask, imagining Angel saying the poem with an attitude.

  “Everybody busted up laughing,” Angel says. This time there’s an actual smile on her face. “I didn’t get in trouble.”

  I grin, too. “So you make up poems?” I ask. Never thought Angel would like the same thing as me. I mean, we worked on the poetry project and all, but she never said she wrote poems.

  “Um, no.” Angel flips through her notebook some more so I can see. “I write down poems I like. I’m not some kinda weird rhyming genius like you.”

  I like that. Maybe I’m Isaiah Dunn, Rhyming Genius. Bet Daddy would’ve written some cool stories about that.

  “So how come you can make up poems right off the top of your head?” Angel asks.

  “I dunno.” I shrug. “It’s easy to me, I guess.”

  I’m about to tell Angel about how the words fist-fight to get out of my head when her eyes drift away to something over my shoulder, and her eyebrows bunch up.

  “Hey, ain’t that your mama?”

  I turn and see Mama come into the children’s area, and right away I know something’s not right.

  Mama’s wobbling as she walks, and when she says hello to Mr. Shephard, her voice is loud—too loud for the library. Charlie trails behind her, her eyes big and scared. When she sees me, she races past Mama and grips my arm.

  “C’mon, Isaiah, let’s go!” Mama calls. I’m already up and grabbing my bag.

  “Bye,” Angel says.

  I don’t say anything back.

  One of the loud kids snickers when I pass their table, and I glare at him. I recognize him from school, and even though he whispers, I still hear what he says about Mama.

  “Isaiah, did you want to check those out?” Mr. Shephard asks, nodding at the Langston Hughes books I’m still holding.

  “Um, no,” I say, handing him the books. “Maybe later.”

  Right now, we have to leave. Fast!

  “I shouldn’t have to come inside looking for you, Isaiah,” Mama says loudly. I see heads turn as we walk through the main part of the library.

  Almost to the door. Almost to the door.

  Mama bumps a cart of books, and I reach for her arm to steady her. She snatches it away. Somehow we make it to the car, where Mama fumbles with the keys for a few seconds.

  After she finally gets it open, I climb in after Charlie. She scoots her booster seat to the middle, close to me, and doesn’t let go of my arm.

  “Hey, Charlie, you gotta let go for a second,” I say, trying to put on my seat belt with one hand. It doesn’t go too well, and I have to pull away from her to do it. Mama starts the car.

  “Should you even be driving?”

  I thought the words were just in my head, but nope, they actually flew from my mouth.

  “What?” Mama turns around to face me. I stare at my shoes. Mama mumbles something and keeps driving. I pray like crazy that she doesn’t crash us into something. I don’t notice that I’m squeezing Charlie’s hand until she says, “Ow!”

  “Sorry,” I tell her.

  We get to the motel in one piece, and as soon as we walk inside 109 and shut the door, Mama plops onto the bed. I help Charlie wash up and put on her pj’s, and then I put on mine. Before I turn off all the lights, I reach in my backpack for my notebook. The words in my head gotta come out or I won’t be able to sleep.

  But I don’t get to write a single word. Everything just gets worse when I reach inside, and a million times worse when I dump everything onto the floor.

  Daddy’s sock is gone.

  May 16

  THE POUNDING ON the door makes me jump. I’m sitting on the couch, writing a list in Daddy’s notebook. The list is every place I’ve been with my backpack, and where the money could’ve gotten stolen. My first thought is school, but my bag is always, always locked up in my locker. Plus, I already checked in the office today, and no one turned in any money. At the barbershop after school, it was the same thing. No missing money. Rock wished me luck on trying to find the cash, but I’m not having any luck at all.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Mama stares at the door; she looks surprised, too. Nobody knows we’re here, so nobody’s ever come to see us. I get up to go to the door, but Mama beats me to it. She peeks in the peephole, then just stands still. There’s another pound, and Mama jumps a tiny bit before unlocking the door.

  Two guys. One is the always-angry guy from the main office. The other is a cop.

  The cop looks at Mama and nods slightly. The guy from the office stares at everything except Mama’s face.

  “Ma’am? Sleep Inn management notified us that you have not made a payment in three weeks, despite repeated attempts to collect. I’ll have to escort you off the premises if you are unable to make payment at this time.”

  Mama doesn’t say anything. Her face isn’t shocked like mine is, and that makes the karate-chopping start up in my stomach. Especially when she turns to me with eyes that are blank.

  “Isaiah, you and Charlie go get your stuff.”

  I stare at Mama, then Charlie, who’s sucking her fingers and watching TV, then back to Mama. For some reason, my feet can’t move and my mouth can’t talk.

  “We’ll give you a few moments to gather your belongings,” says the guy from the office. He doesn’t sound as mean as before, but he doesn’t say, “Hey, I’ll give you a few extra days,” either. They both leave the doorway, but they don’t go far away.

  “Charlie,” Mama says, staring past me, “make sure all your toys and clothes are in your basket.”

  Mama walks to the small kitchen area and grabs the few pots, pans, and bowls that we have. She moves like a robot, like she’s blocking out everything except the next thing she’s about to grab.

  “Isaiah, get your stuff together. We have to go.”

  Normally I would be doing what she said. But I swear, I can’t move a muscle.

  “Mama—” I finally say, but she cuts me off by slamming a bowl on the counter.

  “Just do it, Isaiah! Charlise, now!”

  “Mama, why don’t you just give them the money from the contest?”

  Mama’s not facing me, so I don’t see her face. But her shoulders drop just a tiny bit. And I know.

  She doesn’t have that money anymore. And I don’t have my money anymore, or I could’ve saved us. I could’ve been like the superhero Daddy wrote about. But I’m not.

  I start slamming clothes into my basket, and I have to keep blinking because my eyes feel all prickly with the tears trying to stab their way out. I get my toothbrush from the bathroom, and make sure Daddy’s notebook is in my backpack. I don’t care about anything else.

  Charlie’s quiet as she puts her dolls and clothes into her basket. I wonder what she’s thinking, why she’s not screaming and crying like a baby, the way I want to. Mama carries the kitchen things to the car, and I don’t help at all. Takes her three trips. She puts the bathroom stuff in garbage bags and carries that by herself, too.

  In less than an hour, the stupid room is emptied of all our things. Mama walks around, making sure we’re not leaving anything behind. When she turns off the TV and opens her mouth to say something to me and Charlie, I sling my backpack over my shoulder, yank up my basket, and brush past her to the door.

  “Hey, kid.” The office guy nods over at me. “You guys have somewhere to go?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “Somewhere new.”

  “That’s good.” He nods again, spits in the grass. When Mama walks toward us he says, “I don’t like doing this, y’know. But this is a business, and we have to collect payment….”

  Mama glares at him, and his voice trails off.

  “Ma’am, could I speak with you over here?” asks the cop.

 
; “Yes,” Mama snaps. “If I can get my babies in the car.”

  She opens the door, and Charlie climbs in and buckles up. I toss my basket in the trunk and get in beside Charlie.

  “Stay in the car,” Mama tells us before walking over to the cop. He does some talking, and Mama nods and points off to somewhere in the distance. I wish I knew what she’s saying. Probably how we’re gonna go stay with a cousin or grandparent or best friend or something. Or how we have this nice new place that’s finally ready. Three bathrooms and a playroom, just like we talked about.

  When Mama comes back to the car, she slams her door, starts the engine, and speeds toward the exit, right in front of the cop.

  “Where we going now, Mama?” Charlie asks, staring out her window at Smoky Inn.

  “I don’t know,” Mama says. At least she’s honest.

  Someone in a car nearby is blasting Bruno Mars, and it’s right then that I remember tonight is the talent show. My heart sinks even more. No way can I ask Mama to drop me off at school, or even call Sneaky to tell him what happened. One minute I’m trying to figure out where my money could be, and the next minute, the cop was pounding on the door and everything else faded from my mind.

  We exit the parking lot of the motel, and as much as I hated the place, right now, I think I’m hating Mama more.

  May 17

  I CRASH INTO morning with a sore neck and an empty stomach. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, cuz when I open them, I’ll know it wasn’t all just a nightmare.

  Charlie kicks me in the butt, literally, and I officially wake up. First thing I see is Mama’s seat, reclined way back, close to my face. I stare at a stain on the seat and try to remember what it came from. Maybe an ice cream cone, or ketchup from French fries. It’s a stupid stain, but I feel like I have to know. I sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes. I really, really have to use the bathroom.

  My stomach growls, and before I can stop it, I let out a huge fart.

  “Oh Lord,” Mama mutters a few seconds later when the funk hits her. I smile, even though I don’t want to.