Sophia’s back at my side, and the look on her face tells me that there’s definitely a beef between her and Yvette.
“Genesis.” It’s Nia. “Very powerful audition.” My “thank you” gets caught in my throat, and my response sounds like a frog’s gurgle. She saunters away before I can tell her how dope her own audition was.
Everybody’s asking me questions, and I want to respond, but can’t. I can’t believe it. I did it. I, Genesis Anderson, stepped out onto that stage and sang. Out loud. In public. Alone.
twenty-two
It takes forever for Wednesday to get here. My mind can’t contain itself. Ms. Luctenburg catches me daydreaming twice and threatens to send me to detention. Coach makes me repeat my sit-up drills three times because “I’m not trying hard enough.” Mr. Benjamin mentions that I’m not demonstrating my potential. I’m too busy wondering if I made the show. Then there’s Mama secretly studying her college catalog. And I still haven’t told her that I poured out Dad’s liquor. So really, how can I concentrate?
Finally, I try to relax with Sophia in our peaceful corner. I should be reading Ms. Luctenburg’s novel study, The Outsiders, but Ella Fitzgerald’s biography is holding my attention. Like Billie Holiday, she had to struggle at a young age. When she was fifteen, her mother died, and Ella was placed in what was called a “colored orphanage asylum”—which sounds really close to a mental hospital, but it wasn’t; it was a reform school, but still!—and which, she ran away from. And, oh my gosh, she went to an amateur night talent show—and just like me—she was nervous; everybody stared and was ready to boo—although Mrs. Hill doesn’t play that booing mess. Just as I’m getting to the part where she used to sing a lot, but not in the mirror with a shirt on her head—Troy sneaks up on us.
“Guess what?”
“Hey! What?” Sophia and I say one after the other.
“They just posted the results!”
“Really?” He nods, grinning wide. “Let’s do this,” I say, wanting to know, but sorta scared to find out.
Troy holds out his hand to pull me up. “You coming, Sophe?”
“Of course,” she says, closing her book. We wait for her to stand up and brush the wrinkles out of her clothes. There aren’t any wrinkles, but we wait patiently.
A horde of students are mobbed around the wall under the TOGETHER WE STOMP OUT BULLYING sign. Some come away with fist pumps, others look stunned, and not in a good way. I grab Troy’s hand, and he squeezes. The closer we get, the tighter I must squeeze because he whispers, “Don’t break my hand! It’ll be okay.”
I grab Sophia’s hand, too, as we maneuver our way through the crowd. She lets go and backs away. “Hey, you coming?”
“No, I’ll hang back here.” Then she mouths, Crowds. She doesn’t do those well, either, I guess.
Troy and I continue pushing forward. Elbows jab ribs. Heels squash toes. Chests press against backs. We forge on, sliding and ducking till we make it to the front. Troy runs his finger down the row of names and turns to me, his face ecstatic. He brings me in for a bear hug, shouting, “You made it! We both did!”
I made the cut? Me, Genesis Anderson, made the cut! I hold a thumb up over the crowd to Sophia, then I break out into a quick two-step hallelujah dance. Troy laughs, then leaves to ham it up with a few of his other friends who made it too.
“Congratulations,” Sophia exclaims, once I make my way back to her, after scanning the list myself, just to be 1000 percent sure.
“Thanks,” I say, still in disbelief. I’m so relieved I could float. I made the cut.
Sophia and I part for our next classes. And right then I spot Nia a few feet away, adjusting her messenger bag. I’m right up on her before she notices me. “Congratulations on making it into the talent show,” I say, wanting to add more, but what?
“Thanks. You too,” she says, already on the move to chorus, no doubt.
I string along. Gosh, this is so stalkerish, but my feet keep striding. I think of something else to say. “Hey, your audition song, was that the idea you were talking to Mrs. Hill about?”
“Kind of,” she says, shifting her shoulders to slip past kids. “I planned on doing an original song, not an arrangement. But I wasn’t ready, you know?”
“Yeah, but I liked it. Kind of reminded me of old-school Lauryn Hill.” Man, Nia’s fast, my feet are on double duty just to keep up.
“I get that a lot. But I’m still on the fence about busting out my own thing, just wanna do it right.” A few kids yell out congratulations; Nia thanks them without slowing down.
“I hear you,” I agree, then tell her, “I’m still trying to figure out my style too.”
Nia pulls a loc from underneath her bag’s strap. With that hair, how does she possibly think that she can be anything other than neo-soul? What singer has locs, besides the reggae ones? Then I really stop short as something occurs to me—I sound judgy! Like, like—too much like Grandma’s stupid tradition! Nope I’m not going there. Nia can be who she wants.
As she turns into the classroom, I’m right behind her when I hear: “Hey, Genesis!”
Yvette’s coming up the hall, Belinda by her side. I wait for them by the door, and when they reach me we exchange congratulations. They’re congratulating me—and I gotta admit—it makes me feel extra hype.
Jason and Terrance bounce up—they’re really trying hard with their stroll—and Terrance hugs and congratulates Yvette and Belinda, but not me. Jason lavishes his praise to all of us before going into the classroom.
My private celebration fizzles out when Yvette motions in Nia’s direction and warns, “Don’t hang around her, she’s so stuck-up it’s stinking ridiculous.”
“Why you say that?” Being “stuck-up” ranks high on the list of worst names to be called. And “stuck-up” is what my mama was called.
Yvette pulls me away from the view of the class. “You never see her talking to anybody, do you?”
“She’s a strange one,” volunteers Belinda in a hushed tone as kids dip into the classroom.
I take a step and peek into the room at Nia, who’s now flipping through her notebook.
“ ‘Strange’?” Yvette scoffs. “How ’bout ‘freak’?” I flinch. Sophia’s been called a freak. Wonder if she’ll call me a freak too, if she ever finds out I rub myself with lemons and soaked in bleach? “I’m joking, Genesis,” she says flippantly, “but seriously, I heard her hair stinks. She probably doesn’t wash it. Gross.”
Actually, Nia smells like gardenias, or jasmine.
“You can wash locs,” Belinda counters. “They’re kind of cool.”
“If you’re one of them fake bohemian types,” says Yvette.
“Or a rapper,” I say, easing into their groove. I kinda feel like I’m selling out Nia, but it was Yvette who had my back against Terrance, I reason.
“Exactly,” Yvette says, nodding like crazy. “I know the value of a good hairstyle; my mother pays a ridiculous amount of money to have this weave flown in from India. Looks real, doesn’t it?” Yvette pulls at her strands. “So, Belinda, get you some of those nasty things if you want. You won’t be hanging out with me.” Then Yvette looks right at me. “No offense.”
“What? I don’t have locs.” I pat my hair down.
“I know, but . . . how can I say this?” Yvette frowns. “I can smell your cooked hair.”
My hand flies to my head again. My hair smells? Cooked?
Just then, Mrs. Hill comes up and greets us. We all say, “Hi, Mrs. Hill” in unison. Class is about to start, and it’s the perfect time for me to roll in too, when Belinda asks how I feel about making the show.
“Good, I guess.”
“You feel good now,” says Yvette knowingly. “When it’s time for the actual show, that’s when you start to worry. Standing in front of a whole auditorium full of strangers who’re expecting perfection, waiting for you to mess up and stuff. . . . It’s so stinking stressful that last year I lost ten pounds. I don’t know why I do thi
s to myself.” She shakes her head at the memory.
“I hadn’t thought about that.” Not exactly in those terms, anyway.
“It’s not that bad for me,” she goes on. “I’m in a group. But you? You’re all by yourself. I wouldn’t have the guts to be onstage all by myself. Would you, Belinda?”
“No way!” Belinda gasps. “Plus all those bright lights, they’re awful.”
“The lights, yeah, they’re the worst,” I agree.
“Ladies, I know everyone’s excited,” interjects Mrs. Hill, “but it’s time to get started.”
“Excited” isn’t the word for how raucous the class is. You’d think the entire class made the talent show. Everyone is up chatting in groups as music plays in the background.
“But it can’t be that bad, right?” I whisper. “Troy told me it was fun.”
“Troy?” Yvette laughs. “What does he know? Seriously, last year he used to drone on about Star Trek. Like really, my dad watched that lame show twenty years ago.”
Star Trek may not be a show that I’d purposely watch, but dang, part of me is definitely not feeling how Yvette is clowning my friend. I should speak up, but Mrs. Hill dings her triangle. On the way to her seat Yvette whispers one last thing: “But really, I’d rather die than perform all alone.”
twenty-three
Why?
Why is there another white paper attached to our front door? Dad has a promotion. He’s been going to AA meetings. He showed us the paid rent receipt! Okay, maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. It might be an invitation from our neighbors. All sorts of community meetings and dinners probably be happening out here. It could even be an advertisement from the landscapers, or—it could be exactly what I thought it was.
I snatch the envelope off the door. And no, it’s not addressed to me, but I rip it open anyway. Ugh. Ugh-ugh-ugh. The last note was on, like, a regular piece of paper, but this one is all official-looking.
From the office of Todd Moreno
Dear Emory Anderson:
Your May rent has not been received as of the date of this notice. As a result and according to your lease, a late charge has been added to your total balance. You currently owe $1,589.00. This entire balance must be paid immediately. This is a serious matter and your urgent attention is required. Failure to act promptly will lead to eviction proceedings.
Just when things were getting better. I knew this was coming. I knew it. Why do we trust Dad for one hot minute, why?
Think. Don’t get mad—think.
What if we explained to Todd—but, explain what? That Dad’ll pay?
What if we can convince him to give us more time? At least till after the talent show.
Yes, that might work. It has to. I unlock the door and slip inside. Maybe Mama could talk to him. No, that’ll lead us straight to Grandma’s. Who else? Think, Genesis. Not Dad, and definitely not Grandma—dang. Not me either. I can’t talk to a landlord. I’m a kid! That’s stupid, ’cause like, how would I even get all the way to Dad’s job? Without money?
I run to my room and dive facedown on my bed. Where to now? A new neighborhood. Another school. I’m not moving again. I’m not! And you know what else? I’m tired of no one doing anything about it!
Shoot. Lying here won’t help. It’s gotta be me, I reason. So I get up and go to Mama’s room. I search her coat pockets, jiggle Dad’s pants, then check their drawers and under the bed. In the living room, AA pamphlets still lay on the table, as if proving that Dad is making good on his promise. Whatever. I dig between the couch cushions and in Mama’s other purses until I scrape up enough change for bus fare—there and back. I should leave a note, but no. The sooner I get there, the sooner I’ll get back.
At the bus stop, I keep my head down, scared of Mama or Dad somehow spotting me. I’m not afraid to go to the city by myself; shoot, I’ve been riding public buses for forever—even to go to school. But wait, how do I even get to Dad’s job? I know he works on Woodward Avenue, and I remember the stores around it. Mama calls them landmarks. If I can just make it to 7 Mile—one of the stops Mom and I used to catch the bus from to get to Dad’s job—I’m sure I’ll recognize the route to his work. I study the map just like Mama taught me, but I can’t figure out where to transfer. When the bus comes, I climb in and ask the driver which bus’ll get me to 7 Mile and then connect to Woodward Avenue. He tries to explain, but I must look confused because he finally says, “Just sit behind me, and I’ll let you know.” Which is very nice of him. People get on and off, and I watch them on the sly. Mama always taught me, You’ve got to have eyes in the back of your head.
The driver informs me it’s time to transfer, and which number bus to take. I thank him, get off, and focus my thoughts on what to sing for the talent show, and not what I’m about to do. I wait, getting peeved at Yvette for dissin’ someone as nice as Nia and Troy—and Sophia, for that matter. I’m still waiting, now in panic mode. What if the bus driver told me the wrong bus? What the heck I’m gonna say to Todd? Fifteen minutes later, the bus chugs up the street, and then I’m asking that driver if he knows the stop for Mumford Manufacturing Company. He frowns, irritated, as if being kind would hurt him. Then he says, “You’ve got about eight or nine stops to go.” I thank him, then find a seat next to an older lady and begin counting stops.
Todd’s note is folded up, safe in my jean’s front pocket. I pull it out and study it. Mama believes Dad sabotages himself because he’s afraid. What can be scary about paying the rent? It has to be more than that. The way I look at it, me scrubbing my skin and putting yogurt on my body ain’t about me just wanting to be pretty. So Dad’s gambling ain’t just about him trying to win money.
The Woodward Avenue street sign catches my eye. Dang it! I almost miss my stop. I leap up and reach over the old lady—“Excuse me”—to ring the bell. Once I’m off the bus, I put on a poker face. A big, open lot sits in front of the plant and a barbed wire fence surrounds the property. I wander around the place searching for a main entrance, then see a crowd waiting at a food truck. The aroma of Philly cheesesteaks drifts in the air. I ignore the tiger clawing in my stomach as I search the faces for Dad’s.
Alongside the building are openings huge enough for eighteen-wheelers to back up into. Dad used to work in press stamping or something like that, but I have no idea what department Todd works in. A Black man wearing a uniform is posted by the fence. I glance around for Dad before approaching to ask if he knows Todd Moreno. He shrugs, points to a white man, and says, “Ask Freddy, he’s in charge.” Freddy stands at one of the truck openings, staring down at a clipboard in his hand. As if it’s perfectly normal for me to be here, I cruise over to him and in my most mature voice say, “Excuse me?”
“Yeah?” he says harshly, and then looks up from his clipboard and sees me. “What’re you doing around here?”
“Uhm . . . I’m looking for Todd Moreno.”
“Todd Moreno?” He taps his clipboard, thinking. “Todd Moreno in stamping?” I nod, guessing he’s right. “Whaddaya want with him?”
“I have a message for him, that’s all.”
“Hold on, he might’ve gone for the day. Who’s asking?” He lifts the walkie-talkie to his mouth.
“Uhm . . . Gen-nie,” I say.
The man calls for Todd. My palms are sweaty. I scan the place, expecting Dad to step up at any minute. Would he come from inside or the loading dock? A voice clicks back, “He already left for the day.”
“There you have it. Wanna leave the message?”
“No, thanks,” I say.
He shrugs as if it makes him no never mind.
This could’ve been disastrous. I turn to leave, but I stop myself. Hold on, I didn’t travel over an hour for nothing, did I? Yes, the scared part of me screams, hoping to jet from this place with a swiftness. But the part of me that talks big and bad about what I should’ve done after it’s too late—well, that part of me turns back to Freddy and asks, “Excuse me, do you know Emory Anderson? I think he’s
in stamping too?”
Freddy looks at me, impatient. I get to tapping my foot because he’s staring me down. Just as I’m about to fly out of there, Freddy says, “I know him. Why ya’ asking?”
My throat tightens. I swallow and say, “Uhm . . .” I cannot think of one single story to tell this guy—especially with him glaring at me. The only thing I come up with is the lamest, corniest lie on earth: “We heard he got a job promotion and wanted to know his new hours so we could surprise him with a party.”
We? Who the heck is we? Freddy cannot possibly believe this story. Especially since he bursts out laughing. When he finally catches his breath, he says, “Well, Gennie, you tell your people that Emory will never get a promotion here. He doesn’t even work here anymore.” Then he laughs again.
All the brain cells in my head start to pinball, knocking around the question: Did I hear him right?
Freddy calls over to someone else. “Hey, Harry, listen to this, will ya?”
Yeah, I heard him right, so I hightail it to the gate as fast as I can without actually running. I pass the Philly cheesesteak truck, the smell now turning my stomach.
“Hey!” A man in the food truck line calls out to me. “Hey, remember me? Chico.”
I stop in my tracks.
Chico.
“It’s been a while, but you still look just like your old man. What’s your name, again? Wait, don’t tell me.” He snaps his fingers and says, “Jordan? No . . . Janice? No . . .”
I turn and hoof it out the gate.
“Hey wait, you looking for your dad?” Chico calls.
I don’t turn back. And I don’t stop moving till I reach the bus stop.
“Where have you been? I’ve been worried half to death!” Mama hits me with a barrage of questions and doesn’t take a single breath before launching into the next. I couldn’t answer them, anyway. I don’t even recall getting on or off the buses home. All I know is that I’m too numb to consider her anger and fear. Too stunned to create a story to tell her. An easy lie falls from my lips. “I was working on a project with Sophia.”
Genesis Begins Again Page 17
