Mama scoots her chair forward and cracks the window. A blast of cold air fills the car, and I pull my hoodie/blanket close to my chin. Charlie’s the only one with a real blanket, and she’s bundled up like a caterpillar, except for the leg that kicked me.
Mama sighs, and I swallow up the words I was about to say—that I’m starving. Mama starts the car, looks at me in the rearview mirror.
“Seat belt, ’Saiah,” she says. I buckle up and glance over at Charlie.
“Want me to wake her up?”
Mama thinks for a second, and shakes her head.
“We’re not going far,” she tells me.
And she’s right. A few turns later and we’re in front of Woodson Elementary.
My school.
I sit very still, but my heart is thumping and my stomach feels like there’s a tennis match going on inside of it.
“It’s a little early,” Mama says, “but you’ll be able to use the bathroom and get breakfast.”
I still don’t move. Mama can’t be serious. It’s gotta be April Fools’ all over again. But I know she’s for real when she turns around to look at me. She opens her mouth, and my nose crinkles when I smell her breath. Mine must be just as bad. She’s saying something about washing my face and swishing some water around in my mouth, but her words sound muffled, like I’m inside a giant bubble. I nod when I’m supposed to.
“ ’Saiah, I know this isn’t—wasn’t—the best night. But we’re okay. We’re gonna be okay. It’ll be much better when I pick you up, okay?”
I feel better when she says that.
But I don’t believe her.
The school is pretty quiet when I go inside. Guess this is how it is before all the kids get here. I trudge to the bathroom and do what Mama says: swish water in my mouth and wash my face with a cold paper towel.
“Hey, Isaiah, you’re here early.” Ms. Marlee waves at me as I walk down the hallway to the lunchroom.
“Yeah, um, my mom got a new job and, um, she had to drop me early,” I say. I don’t know why I say the lie; it just comes out.
“Oh, good for her!” Ms. Marlee says, and I can tell she really means it. “And I’m really proud of your work in the ReStore program. I’d love to have you be a peer mentor next year; you and Angel.”
“Thanks,” I tell Ms. Marlee. I don’t know if I wanna be a mentor, but for Ms. Marlee, I’ll definitely think about it. I wonder if Ms. Marlee already mentioned it to Angel, and if she’s thinking about it, too.
The action in the hallway picks up as the buses get here, but I’m still first in line for breakfast.
“Can I get two?” I ask, my stomach grumbling as I stare at the mini cinnamon rolls. The lunch lady pauses, and I think she’s gonna say no, but then she puts an extra roll on my plate and winks.
I sit down at a table by myself and am done by the time I see Sneaky jump in line for his breakfast. My stomach drops when I think about missing the talent show, and I stand up quick to dump my tray. I don’t get there in time, though, cuz Sneaky sees me, and he doesn’t look happy.
“Yo, Isaiah, where were you yesterday?” he asks, glaring at me.
“Nowhere,” I say.
“Serious, man? You left me hangin’ at the talent show.”
“So?” I say, mad at Sneaky for getting mad at me. “It wasn’t my fault.”
I want to ask him if he still did the dance, but I’m guessing he didn’t. A part of me doesn’t even care. At least he has a home to go to, and fresh Jordans on his feet.
“Whatever, man,” Sneaky says. He shakes his head like I’m the worst disappointment ever.
“The dance was stupid anyway,” I say.
“Oh yeah?” Sneaky’s eyes narrow. “Well, I guess my candy business is stupid, too. You can find your own hustle.”
“I already did!” I say, but Sneaky’s walking away. Ignoring me. His best friend.
I throw everything in the trash can, including the tray. I kick the trash can, too.
“Dang, calm down! You and the trash can ’bout to be in the ReStore room with Ms. Marlee.”
I turn and see Angel with a smug look on her face.
“Whatever,” I say.
“ ‘Whatever,’ ” she says, copying how I sound. “What’s up with Sneaky?”
“Nothin’.”
“I just heard you guys,” Angel says. “He’s actin’ dumb.”
“So?”
“Soooo, I have an idea,” Angel says. “For your new hustle. Meet at the library after school?”
“What’s the idea?” I ask.
“Library. After school.” Angel dumps her tray and walks away without saying anything else.
I have no idea what Mama’s doing right now, or if she’ll have a place for us to sleep by the end of the day. But I do know I’ll be at the library after school. No matter what.
May 18
We stopped
Being friends
As fast as
Popsicles melt
Outside on a blazing hot day
And drip down your fingers
Like tears.
May 20
Things I learned about Angel:
She likes Beyoncé. A lot.
She has crazy ideas, but sometimes they’re also good.
She has a dad, but he’s not very nice to her mom.
Her favorite food is pizza. She maybe coulda beat me at the pizza-eating contest.
For Angel’s idea, I write in Daddy’s notebook every chance I get, putting my words in the white spaces near his. I’m not sure it’ll work, but at least we’re giving it a try. Angel says today will just be “practice,” but I’m still nervous.
“You got the paper and pens?” I ask her when I get to the front of the library.
“You’re late,” she says, staring at her pink watch.
“Not really,” I tell her, even though I am. Last night was our fourth time sleeping in the car, and it’s not fun at all. Mama got us day passes to the YMCA so we could swim and use the showers, but instead of staying there with her and Charlie, I begged to come to the library. Ran all the way over.
“Whatever,” Angel says. She puts a hat on one of the library steps and points to the step above it. “Stand right there, okay?”
She’s bossy, but I do what she says. Angel puts a few dollars in the hat, and I drop in a handful of change, just like we talked about. It’s supposed to be a trigger to people of what they need to do. She sits a step above me and gets out a bright yellow sheet of paper. She starts cutting it with these fancy scissors and arranges her pens next to her.
“Okay, these two coming right now,” she whispers to me. I look and see an older couple walking from the parking lot holding hands. The guy has a bag of books in his other hand, and the lady is smiling for no reason. They must be in love.
“Something about love, okay?” Angel hisses, grabbing a red pen.
“Got it,” I whisper back. I close my eyes and touch Daddy’s notebook, which is right beside me. When the couple gets close, I say:
“Love is like the sun,
Big, and warm, and bright.
You know it’s always there,
Just sometimes out of sight.
Love comes to the library,
And love checks out a book.
Love takes out the trash,
And love will learn to cook.
We need love more than we know,
So plant a seed, and let love grow.”
“Oh my!” The lady stops in her tracks and puts a hand over her mouth for a second. “That was lovely, young man!”
“Thank you,” I say. And like Angel told me, I say something else to “engage” them. “How are you guys today?”
“Just fine,” says the guy, gi
ving me a smile. “And how are you? Busy with your poems, I see.”
“Yes,” I say. “Just something I like doing.”
“Would you like a copy of the poem?” Angel asks, holding up the yellow sheet. Man, she writes fast! And neat. She’s got my words in red bubble letters.
“Well, uh…” The guy looks like he wants to pull his wife inside, but she’s not having it.
“That would be wonderful, young lady!”
She goes digging in her purse, and Angel says, “Oh, we don’t charge, ma’am. We are a donation-based business.”
I hold my breath.
“Oh.” The lady looks a little confused until she sees the hat, the one we put money in. “Well, isn’t that the smartest thing, Harold?”
The lady chuckles and drops a few dollars into the hat.
“Keep it up, young people; that was very nice,” she says. “I’ll put this on my fridge!”
When the couple goes inside, Angel grins and nudges me.
“See! Told ya!” she says. “If Justin Bieber could blow up by sitting out there singing to people, you can make some money saying poems to people. ’Specially since you can do it on the spot like that.”
I can’t stop smiling, especially when I look in the hat and see what the lady put in.
“It’s a five wrapped up in a one!” I tell Angel.
“Uh-huh!” Angel’s all grins, too. She grabs another sheet of paper and starts cutting. “Make sure you ready for the next one!”
We stay outside for another hour, me saying poems and Angel writing them all fancy. Not everybody stops, and not everybody throws cash into our hat, but it’s still fun, and I don’t have to sneak around selling candy to do it.
“When you get really good, we can have Jules record you and put it on YouTube,” says Angel.
“YouTube?”
“Yeah,” Angel says, like it’s a no-brainer. “That’s how Justin and Shawn Mendes did it, right?”
“I guess.” I shrug. I’m not really trying to be like either of those guys, but if that’ll get us into a real house, YouTube, here I come!
I’m a mix of sad and mad when I see Mama pull up. I don’t tell Angel that the car is also our house, and that I’ll say poems all day and night if it means I don’t have to sleep crammed in the backseat with Charlie or use baby wipes to wash up. That’s the kind of stuff I would only tell Sneaky, if we were talking. I just tell Angel I’ll see her at school. The way she tells me bye makes me think she already understands. And when I’m in the car, I know for sure, cuz I find a piece of paper mixed in with the money we split. Only two words, written in bubbly pink letters:
May 22
“MAMA, WHERE’S CHARLIE?”
We’ve been driving around for almost an hour, and Mama keeps making weird turns, swerving, and muttering to herself. Today’s a half day, and I was shocked when Mama picked me up on time. Sorta. She was actually a little early. I was worried when the office called my name to get picked up during science, and when I didn’t see Charlie in the car, I felt even worse. I know that Mama put Charlie in a free preschool, but she only goes for half a day, and now the clock in the car says 1:07.
I missed lunch, so my stomach is rumbling. Too bad I’m not in the candy business anymore; I would’ve probably had a Snickers or something in my backpack. Not being friends with Sneaky is gonna take forever to get used to.
I’m about to ask about Charlie again when I hear the buzz of Mama’s phone ringing. I lean forward and see it on the front seat, with the name “Rita Sanders” flashing across the screen.
“Mama, is Charlie with Miz Rita?” I ask. “Miz Rita’s calling you right now.”
Mama ignores her phone. It stops ringing, then starts back up a few seconds later. Miz Rita again. I reach for the phone myself, thinking that maybe something happened to Charlie, but Mama grabs it and says “Hello?” super loud.
Mama goes, “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. And why they call you? I’m the mother!”
I can’t hear a thing Miz Rita’s saying, plus my heart is beating extra loud and fast. Mama hangs up the phone and tosses it onto the seat.
“Mama, is Charlie okay?” I ask, my voice all high like a little kid.
“Yeah, she’s fine,” Mama snaps. “We’re gonna get her.”
I sit back hard against the seat. And then, for some stupid reason, tears start falling from my eyes. I wipe them away fast, and tell myself that everything’s okay. But really, I’m tired of telling myself that.
We pull up to Charlie’s daycare, and she’s walking out with a big smile, holding Miz Rita’s hand. Mama runs onto the curb a little and jumps from the car before I’m even sure it’s parked.
Mama starts yelling at Miz Rita, and I get out to try to stop her. Miz Rita’s face is calm and firm, like she knows what she’s getting into, the kind of storm Mama is.
“Isaiah, get back in that car!” yells Mama.
Charlie’s smile disappears.
“What’s wrong, Mama?” she asks.
“Charlie, c’mon,” I say, reaching for her hand. She sees my tears and starts crying herself. I feel like the worst hero ever.
“Isaiah baby, you and Charlie go wait in the car,” Miz Rita says. She gives me a quick squeeze. “It’s gonna be okay, baby. Let me talk to your mama.”
I pull Charlie to the car, and she keeps turning around to see Mama, who’s still yelling. A few people walking by point and stare, and I wish we had magic beans and rice to make us disappear.
“What’s wrong with Mama?” Charlie asks me in the car. “Is she gonna die?”
“No, Charlie!” I say quickly. “She’s okay.”
But as I watch Miz Rita trying to reach for Mama, and Mama snatching away, I realize that she does not look okay.
Miz Rita’s talking soft, so I don’t hear what she’s saying. But I hear Mama say, “It’s our anniversary! It’s our anniversary, and he’s not here!” Mama’s crying hard now, and finally, she falls into Miz Rita’s arms.
May 23
I’VE WOKEN UP in this building thousands of times—in my old place or Sneaky’s. But when I wake up in Miz Rita’s apartment, it feels weird, and not right. The room I’m in is pitch black and quiet, except for a clock that’s tick, tick, ticking away. No Charlie snoring, no Mama moving around. I can’t sleep.
I sit up and blink until I can see good enough to get out of bed and walk to the door. A tiny bit of light hits my face when I open it, and I hear soft voices coming from the kitchen. I tiptoe down the hall, and luckily, Miz Rita’s floor’s not squeaky like ours was. I pass Charlie knocked out on the couch, but no Mama.
I peek into the kitchen and see Mama and Miz Rita sitting at the table. Crumpled tissues cover the table like snow, and both Mama and Miz Rita have their hands wrapped around two mugs with steam coming out of them. Mama’s head is down, so she doesn’t see me, and Miz Rita’s sitting sideways, looking at Mama, so she doesn’t see me, either.
“I just don’t see how I can go on,” Mama says. “Some days I don’t even want to.”
“I know, sweetie, I know,” Miz Rita says. I yank my head back when Mama looks up to grab another tissue from the box on the table.
“I should be out of tears by now,” Mama says. That makes me think about writing a poem, one about tears. Miz Rita says something nice to Mama, but I don’t really hear her. I’m too busy thinking about my words. I wonder if Daddy did the same thing. Maybe while he was working, he thought about his stories. I ninja-walk back down the hall, close the door, and turn on the light. I open my notebook to a free space and write:
I should be out of tears, but more keep falling.
Where they coming from? I can't stop bawling.
Where do tears start? Where do they end?
I wish they'd stop soon, and never come again.
When I’m done w
riting, I close the notebook and put it next to Daddy’s in my backpack. Then I turn off the light and tiptoe back down the hall. When I get to Charlie, I scoot her over on the couch and climb under the blanket with her. She doesn’t even move. I listen to her breathing, and to Miz Rita and Mama in the kitchen, until I can’t keep my eyes and ears open anymore.
May 24
MIZ RITA MAKES breakfast like Sneaky’s mom does: giant biscuits, grits, eggs, and sausages. I eat till my stomach hurts and I wanna lay down and watch cartoons. But nope, that’s not what happens next.
“Isaiah, need you to take this garbage to the trash room,” Miz Rita says. She’s already got Charlie taking dishes to the sink, so I know there’s no way out of it.
“Okay,” I say, grabbing the two bags. Before I go, I notice that Miz Rita’s fixing a separate plate.
“This is for your Mama,” she tells me. “She’s resting, but she’ll be hungry when she gets up.”
Mama’s been resting a whole lot. Crying, too. But there are no bottles clinking around in the garbage bags I’m carrying, so I guess things are better.
I walk down the hall to the trash room, which pretty much smells like a dirty toilet. As I’m tossing the bags into the huge bin, an old lady comes hobbling in with her trash bags.
“Sweet Jesus, that’s a stink!” she says, wrinkling up her face. “Baby, can you toss these bags in there for me?”
I do what she asks, and she turns to go, then stops right outside the door and studies me.
“Baby, you know the elevator’s broke again—ain’t surprised—but my friend up on the eighth floor can’t be carryin’ all them bags down the steps, old as she is. Would you mind toting her bags down for her?”
Aww, man! Miz Rita probably set me up and told all her old lady friends I’m staying with her so they can give me work to do.
“Okay,” I tell the old lady, and she grins. She pulls a cell phone from her pocket and frowns as she tries to unlock the screen.
Isaiah Dunn Is My Hero Page 10
