Genesis Begins Again

by Alicia D. Williams

  “You rather I have you starve?” Dad says, defensively snatching up the chips and stuffing them back into his jacket pocket.

  “Have us starve?” Mama echoes. “Emory, please. What you did ain’t about starving.”

  It sure isn’t because Dad could’ve been like, “Babe, I’ve gotta do something that’ll piss you off. . . .” But naw, he waltzes in like a champ with dinner—and now—busted.

  “Listen, I have to make sacrifices—”

  “Playing Blackjack or Craps or whatever the heck you’ve been playing is hardly a sacrifice,” Mama says, real serious. “I’m gon’ ask you one time, did you take money from my wallet?”

  “Why you even trippin’? I won, didn’t I?” Mean Dad scratches at the surface. I can see him in the reddening of Dad’s eyes.

  “I don’t give a da—” Mama stops, editing herself.

  Mama almost cursed. The thing is, Mama doesn’t curse—at all. She could’ve cursed when we got put out in the snow, or the time some crackheads stole our flat-screen. She really should’ve cursed when we had to stay in Dad’s friend’s dusty basement, plus him going off on me—boy was she mad then, but she didn’t curse.

  “You thieving money from me now?” Mama gets up from the table.

  “Would you just hear me out?” Dad pleads.

  “Eat your dinner, Emory. Don’t want your ‘sacrifice’ getting cold.” With that, Mama stalks out of the kitchen.

  Dad and I sit at the table. Close-mouthed. Finally, Dad grabs his jacket, pulls out a bottle, and drinks straight from it. I gape at him.

  He wipes sweat from his brow again and says, “What? You got something you wanna say too?”

  Yeah. You ain’t ever gon’ learn, are you? is what my mouth wants to shoot out, but instead I quietly say, “Naw, I’m good,” shovel in four forkfuls of chicken, and then escape from the table before Dad’s liquor takes effect.

  It’s a good thing I left. Because a half hour later he’s drunk—mean drunk—and the shouting has started.

  I try to block it out, but Mama’s voice reaches clear to my room. “I’ve tried to help you. For the last five years! I thought if I could just love you enough, then you could kick it. But you need help, help I can’t give you.” Mama now sounds real stern. “Emory, there’s only one thing that I can think of . . . Alcoholics Anonymous. You’ve got to go, Em. Otherwise . . .”

  Mama lets her last word hang in the air. Otherwise. Even though she doesn’t say it, we all know what “otherwise” means. And you know what else? We all know that she means it, for real.

  five

  In the new school’s main office, my right foot will not stop tapping. My stomach is cramping up too because of this thing I do: I hold my stomach in without even realizing it. And when I do realize it, I take deep breaths to relax. But all on its own my stomach goes right back, squeezing tight again. Stop it, stomach! I focus on a poster of an eagle soaring over the mountains that reads YOUR ATTITUDE DETERMINES YOUR ALTITUDE. A cross-eyed bulldog, the school’s mascot, is painted on the wall beside it. Even though it’s only a painting, I don’t like the way his left eye stares at me.

  “So, you’re requesting transcripts, correct? And even brought a file of your own,” says the lady behind the counter—Ms. Bramble, her nametag says. “Very sufficient, indeed. Let me just finish putting you into the system.” After a little while, she hands Mama back the big manila envelope.

  “Now, Genesis,” Ms. Bramble addresses me, “you’ll take this schedule to your first class. You have Ms. Luctenburg for language arts. She’s in A-8. She’s also your homeroom teacher.”

  Mama scans the paper and nods her approval. “I would come along, but I’m running late for work. ’Sides, you’re probably too old for that, right?” She looks around warily. She, too, notices the newness, the foreignness of this place. So far we haven’t spotted a broken window or even a single ceiling tile caving in. Shoot, a school like this probably will never have lead in their water fountains. Mama smooths down my eyebrows. “You need a little lotion on your face”—she starts digging into her purse—“and your lips are chapped.”

  “Stop, you’re making me nervous,” I say, backing away.

  “Sorry,” she says, now fingering the unruly edges around my forehead before giving me a tight hug. “You’ll be fine.” She thanks Ms. Bramble and leaves me standing there.

  Mama’s right. I’m old enough to go alone and ordinarily I wouldn’t care, but today I wouldn’t mind having her by my side at this fancy school. “Which way?” I ask the lady.

  “Out the door, to the left, and down the hall, sweetie.” Her voice is gentle—makes my stomach relax. “And welcome to Farmington Oaks Middle, have a good first day. First days can be scary.”

  If she only knew about my last three first days, this swanky school should be a cakewalk. These kids probably cried if their pencils didn’t have erasers or if their markers ran dry. Shoot, I’ve been to schools where there are no markers. Like I said, cakewalk.

  The hall’s crazy with kids. I’ve never seen so many white faces all in one place in my entire life. I search the crowd. It seems like forty kids shuffle pass before I finally find some kids who look like me. I smile. They look at me weird.

  So much for solidarity.

  I force myself into the current. Under a TOGETHER WE STOMP OUT BULLYING sign, an old man stands waving, warning us to stop running, slow down, and have a good day. No one pays him any attention. Two guys cruise in front of me with pants sagging. Pfft. Like seriously, nobody’s that hard out here in Farmington Hills. A tall, white lady stands by a classroom door eyeing everyone passing by.

  “Boys!” She’s calling out to the pants-at-knees guys. They just about skid to a stop. “If you dress like you’re less than nothing, then you will be treated like you’re less than nothing. Sadly, this is not an option for you to choose. You will have some decency about you and pull up your pants.”

  Guess what? They do it! And guess what else? She’s standing in front of classroom A-8. I flatten back my hair, step up to her, and hold out my schedule.

  She peers over her silver frames. “Good morning, may I help you?”

  You know those old movies where the wind’s kicking up dust and big tumbleweeds roll across the TV screen? That’s how dry my throat feels. “I’m new.”

  “Speak up, please. You will have to learn to use your voice, young lady.”

  “I’m new,” I say again, louder, showing her my paper.

  “Genesis Anderson,” she says, reading over the sheet. “I am Ms. Luctenburg.” She hands my schedule back, directing, “Go on in and wait by my desk, please. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Wait by her desk? Really? Everyone in the entire class will inspect me like I’m a freak show. And of course, that’s exactly what they do, too, as I stare at the back wall, cheeks burning.

  “Cute outfit,” one girl says. I can’t be sure who, but I glance over in time to see the smug look on the face of a red-haired girl. She’s leaning on her desk, as if challenging me to say something. Before I dare part my lips to respond, she adds, “Where’d you get it? Goodwill?”

  And everyone laughs. Instantly, I regret not wearing my blousy printed shirt—the only one that Regina has ever complimented me on—but dang, I thought this pink camo T-shirt was decent. Now I’m faced with a new-kid dilemma—should I clap-back? Red-haired girl is leaning, anticipating. No, it’s better to keep my mouth shut until I can figure out how to deal with these suburban kids.

  As I wait by the stupid desk pretending not to hear a thing, more kids drift in—mostly white kids. One white girl with glasses brushes by fast. She takes a seat by the wall, moves her desk a little to the left and then a little to the right, and back and forth like two more times before sitting down. As I watch her, a girl with light brown skin breezes past smelling like Grandma’s Avon creams. Jasmine, maybe? And this girl has dreadlocks. The locs aren’t even all the same size, some fat and some thin. Trust me, ain’t no boys checkin
’ for her with that never-seen-a-comb hair, ’cause where I’m from, if your hair’s not straight, bobbed, pixied, or even braided, then you can forget it. It’s a waste to be a Lite-Brite with a nappy hairstyle like dreadlocks.

  The classroom is just about full when a boy—dark as me, thank you!—passes by with a low: “Excuse me.” He must be into sports because his arm muscles nearly burst through his sweater. And two more brown-faced boys stroll in, a real dark boy, but without the muscles—two in one class, double thank you!—and the other, he looks mixed.

  Just then, Ms. Luctenburg steps inside the room and everyone simmers down. She stands beside me and says, “As you have noticed, we have with us a new student. Her name is Genesis Anderson.” She waits as if expecting applause. “Would you like to share anything, Miss Anderson?”

  I shake my head.

  “In this class, we use our words to communicate.” A few kids snicker. “Who would like detention with me?” she adds, glaring out at the snickerers. Immediate silence. She turns back to me. “What school are you joining us from?”

  Right then, my mind draws a blank on the last school’s name and before I know it I blurt, “Detroit.”

  Over-the-top laughter.

  Ms. Luctenburg’s lip curls as if she smells old pinto beans, and everyone again hushes. She explains to me that the class is currently finishing book reports, then releases me with, “You may take the desk in row two, seat three.”

  Great, near the front.

  “Dang, she’s burnt,” the no-muscled boy says under his breath, and I quickly roll my eyes at him. Mixed-boy laughs, and I turn to glare at him, and meet his hazel eyes. He has good hair, soft and wavy. He opens his mouth and—

  “Mr. Jason Smithy,” Ms. Luctenburg calls out. “Do you have a joke you would like to share with the class?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps you would like to be the first person to volunteer to read your book report?”

  He hisses and then shuffles to the front of the class. “Mr. Smithy” covers his face with his paper and reads really fast.

  “Paper down in front of you. Slow down and start again, please.”

  He clears his throat. His hands shake. “My paper is on No More Dead Dogs by Gordon Korman. The main character, Wallace Wallace, is assigned to write a book review, which happens to be on his teacher’s favorite book from when she was a kid.” He glances at Ms. Luctenburg, then clears his throat. “But he hates the story because it is extremely boring.”

  Ms. Luctenburg makes him stop and start about five more times, urging him to speak up and articulate for the sake of public speaking. By the time Jason is done, his cheeks are red and shiny. I feel sorry for him because it’s a pretty good report. Three more kids present after him, but I wouldn’t be able to name the titles of their books if you asked. What I can tell you is that Ms. Luctenburg seems to be one of those teachers who was born without a single funny bone in her body.

  When class is dismissed, Jason is in front of me as we file out. He doesn’t even glance my way, and he doesn’t say anything smart, either. And well . . . let’s just say that I’m all the more determined to get more lemons.

  My math teacher, Mr. Benjamin, reminds me of Albert Einstein, like, a Hollywood character of a math teacher. He hands me an assessment and rattles something about it being standard. “First, answer the questions that you know, and then go back and answer the rest as best you can. The grade won’t count against you.”

  An assessment on the very first day? He can’t be serious. I mean, I’ve taken assessments before, but never on the first day. What kind of teacher puts a new student through a traumatic experience like this? Mr. Benjamin, that’s who. It must be a mistake. Any teacher with hair as wild as his has to be kind of screwy. “Mr. Benjamin? Am I supposed to be taking this now?”

  “Yes, of course.” He gestures to the class. “Take any available seat you’d like.”

  I choose a desk toward the rear of the first row. Then, I flip open the cover sheet. Multiple choice. Amen. Multiplication—I got that. Why was I even buggin’? Division—easy breezy, except the double digits slow me down. Multiply fractions—skip. Decimals—just count the decimal places, right? Percents—how many pages is this thing? Word problems—screech to a halt. I have a stare down with the first question:

  Michael bought 8 ball caps for 8 friends at $8.95 each. The sales clerk charged him an additional $12.07 in sales tax. He left the store with only $6.28. How much money did Michael start with?

  Michael bought eight ball caps. Got it. For eight friends. He has eight friends? I bet they’re not best friends. That’s unrealistic. Eight caps, $8.95 each, plus $12.07 in tax. $12.07 for tax? What a rip-off. He probably won’t even have enough money left to buy his own self a cap. Michael is a darn fool for spending all that money on people he thinks will be his friends. How much money did Michael start with? A lot. Must be rich. Rich and stupid. Evidently, Michael doesn’t have a grandma to tell him that “money buys everything but good sense.”

  All around me kids pack and leave the classroom. The dark-skin muscle guy is in this class, too, and he stops to talk to the teacher. I quickly go back through the test. I skipped half the questions! There’s no way I’m turning this in and having Mr. Benjamin thinking I’m dumb, so, real fast, I randomly circle answers.

  Mr. Benjamin comes over. “Aren’t you dedicated! I like that. However, I’m afraid you’ll be late to your next class.”

  I hand him the paper, front side down, and tell him that I didn’t have enough time to finish.

  “Would you like to complete it tomorrow?”

  “No, I made educated guesses.”

  “I see.” He turns the paper over, scanning it. “I’m sure you did fine.”

  Hmph. Mr. Benjamin doesn’t have a clue.

  On my way to finding the gym, I can hardly move without bumping someone. My schedule’s damp with hand sweat, and the room number is now smeared and hard to read. Then I catch a whiff of rubber and B.O.—phew—the gym! I join the pack of kids surging in. The padded walls make the gym look like a room for crazy people. And I must be one because I wanna bash my body against them until my nervousness goes away; in PE there are always some kids waiting to size up us newbies.

  Girls and boys split away to opposite sides of the gym and disappear through doors that have the words LOCKER ROOM above them. There’s no way I’m going in there—especially without clothes to change into. Can you say creepy? An office is in the back corner, and that’s the direction my feet go. A woman spots me through the window and gets up. “Well, here’s a new face,” she says, closing the door behind her. “Do you have your schedule?”

  I hand her the soggy paper.

  She checks her clipboard and makes a mark. “Welcome to PE, Anderson. I’m Coach Singletary. And over there with the boys is Coach Baynor. Play any sports?”

  “A little bit . . . double Dutch.” Technically, double Dutch is an official sport, and I turned the ropes two and a half times in sixth grade.

  She gives me a once-over and chuckles. Chuckles. “Did you order a PE uniform?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “We’ll have it ready for next time. I suppose you didn’t bring any gym clothes?”

  I tell her I didn’t, tugging at my jeans that suddenly feel too snug to be trying to show off my non-game.

  Coach Singletary instructs me to take a seat against the wall. She strides over to the half-court line and blows her whistle as the last few girls straggle out from the locker room. “Listen up. We’re shooting hoops again today. Get back into your assigned groups and get started.” Girls randomly run over to a rack of balls. Coach tells me that my street clothes shouldn’t get in the way of my having fun, so go ahead, join a group or grab a ball.

  Basketball is not my sport of choice. Still, I grab a ball and go to a less occupied net at the far end of the court, hoping not to be checked out as I check out everybody else. The girl with glasses from Ms. Luctenburg’s cl
ass dribbles deliberately. I watch her for a few minutes, noticing how she inspects the ball closely before each shot like she’s examining it for germs or something. Her team shouts for her to shoot already, but she takes her sweet time. That’s when she sees me staring, and I immediately throw my ball, which clearly doesn’t fly anywhere near the net. I chase after it, ignoring the chuckles that are surely happening.

  Someone calls out “Yvette,” and a dark girl with bangs swivels around. She’s what Grandma would call “plump”—not fat, just a little pudgy—or what guys call “thick.” And her hair is long and bone straight. The girl passing her the ball has good hair like Mama’s, except hers is sandy brown. They dribble and shoot as if a bunch of boys are watching—hard enough to appear to be playing, but hardly enough to work up a sweat.

  And wanna know something? None of these girls seem to be paying me any mind, which means that once I figure out the group that, you know, I wanna hang with, then I probably won’t have to jump through any hoops—not like at my last school. Jump through hoops—now, that’s funny. I bounce the ball more relaxed now. You know why? ’Cause my day just got better.

  Or so I thought. Getting to the next class is a disaster. Why? First, I get so twisted around trying to find Wing C that I have to go to the office. Ms. Bramble highlights a map, but once I leave, all I see is a maze of boxes and lines. Just as tears of frustration start to prick my eyes, a voice says, “You need help with that?” It’s the sweater-wearing dude from my first class. “You’re new, right?”

  I nod.

  “You’re in my English and math classes. I’m Troy.”

  Just then, another Black dude runs up and punches Troy in the arm. “Yo! What’s up with those science notes, Bill Nye.”

  “I asked you to not call me that,” Troy tells him.

  “Stop acting so sensitive,” the boy teases, rubbing Troy’s head.

  He pushes the boy’s hand away. “I’m not.”