Genesis Begins Again

by Alicia D. Williams

“No, Mom.”

  “Is it all right if I take a quick snap of you two?” Mrs. P. asks next, and Sophia opens the door fully, then we stand next to each other posing and cheesing. “Got it . . . cute,” Mrs. P. says, showing us the picture on her phone.

  “Okay, Mom. Byyyyyyye . . . ,” Sophia says, going back to her door. Then Mrs. P. starts whispering in Greek. Sophia whispers back. And back and forth they whisper till Sophia says, “You’re making me anxious.” All the whispering makes me nervous too. Are they talking about me? After her mom leaves, Sophia locks the door again. Her hands are shaking.

  “What was that about?” I ask.

  “Nothing.” Then she says, a little more at ease, “You know how mothers are . . . always checking in. Wanna watch TV?”

  “Sure.” We settle into the big, comfy floor pillows—ooh, I wish I had these in my room. Sophia turns on the TV, searches through the channels slowly. I mean s-l-o-w-l-y. Even Grandma’s faster than her. She goes through all the stations, starting at channel three. Click, click, click, goes back to the last channel, click. Finally I say, “How ’bout Nickelodeon? It doesn’t matter.”

  Usually Sophia’s sharp and quick witted, but I don’t recognize her today. Am I making her uncomfortable? ’Cause now I’m getting uncomfortable. I can’t figure it out—we’re totally chill at school. And all this awkwardness builds up until my mouth can’t do anything but shoot out, “I never had any friends before.” Sophia’s eyes are on me and I continue. “We’ve moved a lot, like, a real lot. And I’ve . . . I’ve never been invited over anybody’s house, either. So what I’m trying to say is that I was kind of scared when you asked me, ’cause I didn’t know what your family would think of me.”

  Sophia looks at me like I have two heads. “What? I told you my family would love you.”

  “Yeah, but I was still worried. So then I thought, ‘Sophia’s my friend, might even be my best friend, so it doesn’t matter.’ ”

  Sophia throws a pillow at me.

  “Best friend, huh?” she says.

  “That’s if you want.”

  “That’s if you want.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I say. “So, if we’re going to be best friends, we should make it official.”

  Sophia sits straight up. “I’m not smashing your spit in my hand, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Eww, gross.” I sit up too. “That only happens in old movies.”

  “Well, I’m not cutting myself to be blood sisters, either.”

  “Eww, grosser. That only happens in old old movies,” I say. “How ’bout we just tell each other a secret or something?”

  “Secrets?” Sophia frowns. “I don’t know.”

  “Then you come up with an idea.”

  After a few seconds Sophia says, “I’ve got nothing. Okay. Secrets. You go first.”

  “Me?”

  “It was your idea.”

  All of a sudden I wish I’d kept my big ol’ mouth closed. My secrets—she can’t know my secrets. “Hmm. Sure you don’t wanna do the spitting thing?”

  “Here, I’ll go first.” Sophia glances at the door. “I go to the library during lunch because I hate for people to watch me eat.”

  “That’s it? That’s not bad.”

  “That’s not all. Kids used to make fun of me.”

  “Just because you don’t like your food to touch?”

  “Not just that. Genesis, I’ve seen you watching me in the library, so please don’t pretend like you haven’t noticed . . . ,” Sophia says, sounding nervous.

  “What? That you like to read your pages twice? Maybe it’s a good book.”

  “Are you being funny?”

  “No,” I say, “honest.”

  She glances at the door again, then says, “Okay. So. Here’s the story. I have obsessive-compulsive disorder, OCD. You saw me in action that day in the bathroom. And I don’t have friends because I got tired of their teasing, especially behind my back. Weirdo, Freak, you name it, they called me it. I hate being like this. So there you have it.”

  Sophia watches me like she’s waiting for me to unlock her door and run for the hills. But, why would I? I just take my turn. The words rush out of my mouth in a wild, twisted tumble that I can’t even believe is coming from me. “I’ve never had friends because I’m too ugly, and I hate that I’m so black and my hair’s not straight and kids tease me all the time too, and I’ve been called Gorilla, Eggplant, Aunt Jemima, and a whole bunch of other stuff. And I sing in the mirror with a shirt over my head, pretending to be light-skinned with good hair and—” I catch myself, stunned. Stunned at what I just revealed.

  “What’s ‘good hair’?” Sophia asks, as if that were the only secret she heard.

  I do my best to explain this to someone like her—especially without using the word nappy—a word that makes me flinch. Sophia nods like she gets it and then asks innocently, “Can I touch it—your hair?”

  “No!” I cry, automatically ducking my head, even though she’s not near enough to reach it. Everybody I know knows better than to put their hands in somebody else’s head—shoot, we learned that as kids. No way am I going to sit here and let Sophia feel how kinky my kitchen is. “Why you even ask that?” I say.

  Sophia’s entire face turns pink. “I’ve never touched . . . hair like yours before.”

  Hair like mine? Oh, I get it.

  Sophia looks hopeful, as if I’ll change my mind, so I quickly say, “I’d rather not.”

  OCD. I don’t really know anything about it, have only really heard that term when kids get all clean obsessed about their lockers, sneakers, rooms, and stuff. Every now and then someone’ll say something like, My locker partner is so messy, she’s making me OCD, or Someone stepped on his sneakers, now he’s acting totally OCD. But it’s a real thing, I know. And Sophia has it—and yes, I do watch her sometimes—and it’s like she can’t control herself. It now clicks . . . the basketball inspecting, shoe tying, page flipping, lens wiping, hand washing—and no paper towels. That’s intense.

  The voices from the television fill a long silence.

  Finally I say, “And for the record, I would never call you weird.”

  “Good.” Silence again. Then Sophia says, “And for the record, I’d never think of you as ugly.”

  Well, glad that’s settled.

  We sit back in our big floor pillows, content. A thought comes to me. Maybe I am good enough to audition on Monday. If I can hang out at Sophia’s and not one person looks at me funny, then maybe I can get onstage and not worry about some stupid name calling—aside from Terrance. I can get a song together by tomorrow night, but dang, it’s . . . it’s too late to sign up.

  It only takes two minutes after Mrs. Papageorgiou drops me off for my good vibes to turn sour. Mama cautions me that Dad’s upset about some missing liquor, accused her of pouring it out—which she wished she had—but not to worry because he probably doesn’t recall drinking it, and now that he’s in AA he shouldn’t have it anyway. The bottles. Dang, I forgot about them. Maybe I should go out back, get them from underneath the deck, and show her what I’d done. Or at least tell her.

  And I try to, I really do, but my mouth goes pasty, as if it’s sealed with glue. Because beyond that, that I did it, she needs to understand why I did it.

  “Ma?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  I part my lips to say more, but the truth gets stuck in my throat.

  twenty-one

  “Don’t make us late,” Sophia says, speed walking ahead of me. “We promised him we’d be there.” She opens the door of the auditorium, opens the door to chaos. Students are practicing dance moves in the aisles, massive instruments take up two seats at a time, groups of kids harmonize on and off pitch all over the place. “He said he’ll be down front—come on.”

  Troy waves from a seat up by the stage. We weave through the tangles of nervous bodies and overconfident posers. “Thanks for coming,” he says, tightening the strings on his violin.

  He
looks really impressive with the violin in his hands. I take the seat closer to him.

  Mrs. Hill stands at the microphone. “Good afternoon.” Hardly anyone notices. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” she says again, louder this time. The clatter and clangs cease. “Thank you for your attention. Welcome to the auditions for our annual talent showcase. We’ll begin in the order of the sign-up sheet. Thank you and good luck.” Cheers echo through the auditorium. Mrs. Hill steps back to the microphone. “One more thing . . . two rules: One, no booing. Two, you boo, you’re out. Only clap to show our talent your support.”

  “You’re not nervous, are you?” Sophia asks Troy.

  “A little,” Troy admits.

  “You’ve made it every year. At least you know you’ll get in,” Sophia says earnestly.

  “Gee, thanks for the pep talk.”

  I chime in, “Don’t listen to her. When you’re onstage, just imagine yourself in a different galaxy and get into your zone.”

  Troy nudges me with his knee. “Thanks . . . that’s much better than Sophia’s words of inspiration,” he jokes.

  Across the auditorium, I spy Jason. He’s with Terrance, and the way he keeps balling and unballing his fist tells me that he’s nervous too.

  In the first twenty minutes, we see an a cappella ensemble, two hip-hop and one modern dance group, an all-girl singing group, a Justin Bieber look-alike, and an Eminem wannabe who wouldn’t last a minute on 8 Mile. The auditions start to drag when a soloist sings in French and a magician does super corny tricks.

  Then Yvette struts onstage with Belinda and another girl. They stand in a V formation with Yvette front and center. She doesn’t wait for Mrs. Hill to tell them to begin, just counts off “Five-six-seven-eight!” The music starts and, in unison, they all begin to sway. Troy nudges me a second time and says something, but I can’t tear my eyes away. They’re moving in a sexy, graceful way that I can only fantasize doing when I’m alone in my room. The crowd cheers for them just like they do for me in my imaginary world. It’s like . . . it’s like they are me, or rather, I’m them . . . my eyes go wide. Was that . . . was that—singing—that they’d wanted to talk to me about?

  “Genesis.” Nudge number three.

  “Huh?”

  “What do you think?” Troy asks.

  I glance at him, then turn back to Yvette’s group, saying, “They’re amazing. Real amazing.”

  “Yeah, they won second place last year; they thought they should’ve won first.”

  “Yep,” Sophia agrees. “And they were real mad about it too.”

  Troy adds, “They’ve got a real good chance of winning it this time,” as the three sashay off the stage. Aww, song’s over.

  “Number twelve?” announces Mrs. Hill. “Number twelve? Going once . . . twice . . .”

  Jason jumps up. “That’s us!” He runs onstage, Terrance right behind him. When the music blasts on, they march back and forth, back and forth, and finally start rapping. They grip the microphones so close to their mouths that I can hardly make out what they’re saying. Apparently, everybody else understands perfectly because some of the kids shout “Whoa!” “Hit ’em hard!” “That’s blazin’!” When they come off the stage, other guys give them fist bumps, as if they’ve already won. Personally, Jason and Terrance did too much jumping around, and the lyrics I could make out were, well, weak. My rhymes are tighter than Saran Wrap. Really?

  Next, Nia Kincaid walks—no, strides—onstage holding an acoustic guitar by its neck. She adjusts the microphone’s height, then clears her throat. “I’d like to perform a cover of ‘Here’ by Alessia Cara,” she tells us, so calm. Hey, I thought she was gonna sing an original song. And hey, how’s she so chill? She nestles the guitar under one arm and begins to strum. Her voice is neo-soul-jazzy smooth. We’re all tuned in—especially Jason, who’s leaning forward with his mouth hanging open—probably thinking the same thing: That girl is bad—good bad. I know it’s true, ’cause even Sophia says, “She’s great.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. If you ask me, she’s almost as good as Yvette and them.

  Troy is nodding too. “Yeah, she’s got it. Well, I’m next. Wish me luck.”

  Troy’s already onstage when Mrs. Hill announces his number. He tucks his violin under his chin, with the bow in place. “Go, Troy!” Sophia screams, which must embarrass him because he gives a false start and some kids laugh. I want to cover my eyes and not witness the reason he never wins. Kids whisper and call him “nerd.” Thank God Mrs. Hill told us we can’t boo. Troy’s arms are in position again, and once the bow hair strikes the strings—he plays . . . classical music! Don’t get me wrong, it sounds great—better than great—but not winning-a-talent-show-in-middle-school great. When he’s done, both Sophia and I are the only ones who stand and cheer. We quickly stop when Mrs. Hill peers into the audience.

  Troy trots back to us. “How’d I do?”

  My mouth’s sealed shut; I just nod and smile like I’m stunned speechless. But Sophia all but screams, “You were amazing!” Of course she does, she used to play classical piano, and all.

  Mrs. Hill is back at the mic. “What an enormous amount of talent in this school.” She scopes the audience, and I swear she zooms in on me when she adds, “That concludes our auditions for this afternoon . . . unless . . .” Mrs. Hill stalls.

  Dang—I should’ve signed up. ’Cause like, what if? What if I did make it into the show? And . . . what if—what if Dad sees me? Would it make him proud? Would it? Dad used to love singing with me—

  As if reading my mind Mrs. Hill continues, “Unless someone didn’t get the opportunity to sign up and wants this last chance.”

  What if he gets so proud that he’ll never want to miss a rent payment again? That he’ll automatically go cold turkey with his drinking?

  “Going once . . .”

  Maybe I’m being totally unrealistic. . . .

  “Going twice . . .”

  But dang it, what if? What if? I push through the crowded aisle. People are already packing up and moving toward the door.

  “Hey, where’re you going?” Sophia calls after me, but I can’t answer because I’m moving too fast, else I’ll chicken out.

  I climb the stairs and step out to the microphone. The lights—whoa, they’re blinding!

  “Miss Genesis, I was hoping you’d come up.” Mrs. Hill’s voice is a layer of calm. “Do you have music?” Relax. I can do this.

  I shake my head. I know everyone’s staring at me.

  “What’re you going to sing?” Mrs. Hill encourages.

  I can’t think of a single Beyoncé or Rihanna song! But one of Dad’s favorite Motown songs come to mind, one that we’ve sung together hundreds of times in my imagination. “ ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,’ ” I say.

  Mrs. Hill nods. “Go ahead.”

  I’m at the microphone, unable to move. There’s no breath in my body to even sing with. Mrs. Hill taught me to have good posture, so I stand up straight, take in a deep breath, open my mouth, and nothing.

  Giggles.

  Is it first, ain’t no valley low or ain’t no mountain high? I can feel my forehead breaking into a sweat as bad as Dad’s. I search every corner of my brain, but the words aren’t anywhere.

  Laughter.

  “Miss Genesis,” says Mrs. Hill. “How’re you today?”

  I shrug. I’ve no idea how I am today, was yesterday, or even five minutes ago.

  “When did you first hear the song?” asks Mrs. Hill.

  From Dad. We were at Belle Isle and it came on the radio. He sang it, and he sounded so good. I promised to remember the words so we could sing it together. And I did. And, oh, oh thank you thank you, the words come back to me now. I close my eyes, and let the song out, let it free. When I’m done, the entire auditorium is silent.

  “Good job, Genesis. Good job,” Mrs. Hill murmurs, just for me. Her eyes—they’re glistening.

  I hurry back to my friends. My sight’s blurry and my h
earing’s warped, as if I’m swimming underwater. Hands grab at me, but I keep moving. I don’t stop until I reach Sophia.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you could sing?!” Sophia demands, her voice joyous. “We’re supposed to be best friends!”

  “You were awesome!” Troy is exclaiming at the same time. “Where’ve you been hiding that?”

  Jason slinks by, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

  Yvette and Belinda both snake their way over too. I want to blurt out how fab their audition was, and how perfectly poised Yvette was onstage. Why can’t I be poised like that when I sing and shake? But no, I get sweaty Dad brow.

  “Oh my gosh, Genesis, you were so stinking good!” Belinda finger combs her already perfect sandy-brown hair and adds, “I thought you said you weren’t auditioning?”

  “I didn’t say that,” I say, still coming down from all that crazy energy. But my mind’s clear enough to remember the day they asked me about it. “I said, ‘I hadn’t thought about it.’ ”

  “But you decided to do it,” Yvette presses. Sophia steps away to the side, and Troy is now somewhere laughing it up with the wannabe rapper.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I say, hoping she doesn’t think I lied to her. We’re both hashtag team dark-skinned, right? Why else would she have stood up for me that day? “It was a last-minute decision, like, right before I went up there.” Then I add, “Y’all were awesome too.”

  Yvette thanks me and gives me the strangest look. She never did tell me what she wanted to two weeks ago. What was it? Now she’s wishing me good luck before maneuvering back through the masses.

  Yeah, good luck. For real, now that I’ve auditioned, to even think that winning is a possibility is as crazy as me actually believing that God’ll turn me beautiful. But not quite crazy enough for me to give up hope. Because if the angels do decide to smile upon this pitiful child and let me win, then for one moment I can believe Dad’ll smile too. And that moment might turn into weeks as Dad retells the story over and over to his friends how his “baby girl stole the show.” That moment might last for months as he laughs and hands the rent check to Todd.