I take the box from my drawer, holding on to its sleek smoothness for a moment before finally handing it over. Mama scrutinizes it as if it’s a repulsive artifact. And so I don’t have to keep apologizing every day for some other stupid thing I’ve done, I better come 100 percent clean. She’s taken my cream, so it can’t get no worse. “And, something else . . . Yvetteputarelaxerinmyhair.”
It takes a moment for Mama to untangle the jumble of words, and when she does, her volume is on ten. “She what?!” All her brown bag guilt vanishes, and I swear, her whole body’s gone rigid. “Genesis Anderson, have you lost your mind? You know how I feel about relaxers!”
“Mom, I’m sorry!”
“You’ve been a whole lot of sorry lately!” She wheels around and stalks out of my room, taking my jar of miracles with her, but she’s right back, shouting, “And another thing, don’t think for a second that you’re gonna watch TV, listen to your lil’ music—all that is cut off—gone! And hear me clearly, you can forget about sashaying in that show, too!”
The talent show?! Not the talent show! Mama can take away anything—ANYTHING—but not this, not this! “Please, Mama, just—”
“No, please nothing. With all the tricks you’ve pulled, you’re lucky you’ll even see the light of day.” With that, she slams my door, leaving me to hear her yelling, “I’m done! I’m so done with it all!”
Mama’s words bounce off the walls. I’m done! I’m done! One moment ago she was all excited about trying to keep us in Farmington Hills. And now she’s fed up with me. And I can’t even blame her, really, because . . . I messed up. And, aw man, when Mama looks at me, she probably only sees secrets, lying, and stealing—just like she does with Dad. What can I do now? Apologize again? Make a promise that I’ll do better? She already heard that a million times from Dad. But it wasn’t like I didn’t have a good reason for it all, right? Naw, I can’t even front. The stuff I did was just plain stupid. And wrong.
Now I feel worse, worse than ever. The . . . opposite of clean. I’ve got nothing—nothing—else up my sleeve. I go slam the drawer shut, but it sticks three-quarters of the way closed. I shove it again, but it’s stuck. I reach in and find the jam—my list is sticking up. My list. There are now so many things that I can add to it. And I don’t waste time doing it. I get a pen and write: #89: Because she ordered bleaching cream with her mama’s credit card that she stole!
I stare at the sentence. I feel bad about a whole lot of things, but not about this—well, minus the stealing. The truth is, I would shave layers of skin off my body if I knew I’d be lighter. In two more days, I could’ve been truly light-skinned. And without my cream, what if—what if the spots change back?
I remember how on my first day I noticed Yvette playing basketball with her friends, later wishing I could be friends with someone like her. I was excited to be part of her group, even more thrilled when she did my hair. Now she hopes I’ll go bald. That’s what she said this morning when I explained that I had to drop out of the group. When I couldn’t tell her why, just that I’m on punishment, she accused me of lying. Lying! Said I was being vague. Well, she was right about that, and I told her so. Yep, and even admitted that I was planning to quit anyway. I won’t repeat it, but you can just about guess the name she called me then.
Sophia lifts her chin in Yvette’s direction. “Good thing her eyes aren’t lasers; you’d be dead.” I turn away, blocking Yvette’s stank eye. “What else did she say?” Sophia asks, doing a full push-up, not the girl ones, on the knees, like I’m doing.
“She cracked on my face. Lame jokes.” I won’t admit to Sophia that those lame jokes stung because the splotches have gotten bigger. Shoot, I don’t look lighter. I look—spotted! And the pride I thought I was gon’ have—well, I’m feeling something, and it ain’t that. “These things are hard!” I gasp between push-ups. “How many do we have to do?”
“Three sets of fifteen.” Then she stops, resting on her knees. “How you really feeling?”
I collapse, laying my cheek flat on the mat. Her asking forces me to check in with myself, which I’ve been avoiding. Who wants to focus on drama? “I don’t know. It’s like . . . like a lot of pressure is on me. I wanted to win that show so badly. Of course, right now my mom won’t even let me do it. . . . And I feel so . . . so ugh—” I don’t want to say it, ’cause if I say it, I may get all emotional, and I’m not about to break down in this funky gym, especially with Yvette glaring.
“Coach is coming.” Sophia quickly drops her chest to the floor. We grunt through our next set of push-ups, real convincing because Coach says, “Good job.”
“You know, after that comic book thing, I still had to come back to school and face everybody. And I still had to do my work, acting like I wasn’t breaking apart inside.” Sophia goes back to her knees and claps away dust from her hands. “I wanted to confront Yvette, and my so-called friends, so many times. Ugh! I just dealt with it. Was I scared? Yeah, probably. And, well, you probably are too.” Sophia rests a hand on my shoulder and says, “It’s gonna be okay, okay?”
I shut my eyes, squeezing tight ’cause they’re getting kinda wet. “How . . .” I pinch the corners of my eyes. “I can’t even be in the talent show . . . can’t even go.”
“Yeah,” she sighs. “There’s that. . . . What’re you gonna do?”
“What can I do?” I say. “Shoot, my mom went off so bad, you almost had to write my obituary last night.” Then I add, “Dang, I need to tell Mrs. Hill she’s gotta scratch me off the program.” Sophia’s quiet, so I go on. “There’s something else.”
Coach blows the whistle and makes the end of class announcement. Everybody’s jumping up and putting away their mats. I take Sophia’s hand to make sure she’s listening. “We may have to move at the end of the school year.”
“Move? Why?” she asks, alarmed. “You just moved here!”
How do I answer without revealing Dad’s habits or that he doesn’t pay the rent? Best friend or no, Dad’s addictions are not something I want to admit to anybody. So I tell her it’s complicated. “But,” I say with a fake cheeriness, “my mom’s looking for another job, out here. And . . . well, you just never know.”
And that’s the part that gets to me . . . the never knowing.
thirty-one
Last night I kept wondering “What if?” Then I got to humming a Billie Holiday song and thinking about her story, her pain. It’s . . . in some ways, I realize, not totally different from Dad’s. Dad has a lot of hurt in him from his childhood, like Billie does. And in her photographs, she looks so alone. But she wasn’t, she had her husband. Maybe . . . maybe Dad needs to listen to Billie and hear that he’s not alone, either. And a CD might not be enough to get his attention. I now realize that what I’m secretly thinking is gonna get me into big, big trouble—I’m already in such big trouble . . . and . . . this is the very last, bottom-of-the-barrel thing that I can do. I don’t have anything left but this. So before I set off for school, I quickly curl my hair, pack a dress and shoes, write a letter of what I’m doing and why, and leave it on the table with my list. Then I pray real hard for Dad to come.
And all day long, I kid you not, everybody’s been buzzing about how the PTA’s inside the auditorium decorating, setting up the lights and sound equipment. They’re taping it this year. They even rented a photo booth! They’re putting the red carpet down now! Kids try to sneak a peek, but the old man is at the door shooing them away. Even the teachers find it hard to keep us focused—well, all except Ms. Luctenburg.
A big red-and-silver banner is draped above the auditorium’s doors that reads: A NIGHT WITH THE STARS: FARMINGTON OAKS MIDDLE SCHOOL’S ANNUAL TALENT SHOW. Red, black, and white balloons are posted on the sides of the doors.
“Told you they go all out,” Troy says, sneaking up on me.
“Yeah, I see, you’d think it was America’s Got Talent or something.” Troy laughs, and just then, the same two jerks that I’ve seen him with in the halls purposel
y bump him.
“Yo! Einstein, I got a D on my test, no thanks to you,” says the tall one.
“All you had to do was hook us up,” snaps no-neck-guy.
“Hey, I already told you I wasn’t gonna keep giving you my notes.” Okay, I don’t know if it’s Troy’s talent show nervousness or what, but he explodes! I’m talking in-yo-face-and-tired-of-your-picking explosion—Troy style. “Stop asking for them. I’m tired of bailing your sorry selves out.”
“Yo, why you acting brand-new?” says no-neck.
Then, because Troy has my back, I have his. And because I’m amped, part scared for the show and part scared that Mama’ll come yank me out of this school, I shoot off, “Hey, y’all live in freakin’ Farmington Hills, go to a school without metal detectors, and don’t gotta share desks—you not hard. So stop frontin’ like you dumb.”
“Who she?” the taller one asks Troy.
“Don’t worry about her. I’m done trying to help you.” Troy turns to me, smiling his great smile and says, “You ready, Gen?”
“I’m ready,” I say, and we go into the library. When the door closes, I let out a very anxious breath. That’s what it feels like to be down for your friend. Wow. I ask him if he’s okay, and he tells me he’s good. And this time I’m sure that he is.
Sophia joins us just as we settle in our beanbags. I can tell something’s up because she’s shifting from side to side. “Here, this is for you,” she says, handing me a gift bag.
A gift? For me? I grin and sift through the fancy paper until I feel something hard at the bottom. It’s a frame with a picture of us, the one taken in her room the night we had dinner. I’ve never . . . I’ve never had a picture with a friend before. “Sophia, I love this. Thanks.”
“Yeah, you’re welcome,” she says, still shifting. Then she takes out a cloth from her pocket and proceeds to rub the lenses of her glasses so hard I worry that she’s going to pop them out of the frames.
“Sit down, Sophe. I’ve got an announcement.” I tell them both that I’m going through with the show. And right away, Sophia pipes up, “You sure? You might not live to see tomorrow.”
“What do you mean you’re ‘going through with it’?” Troy asks.
“She hasn’t told you?” Sophia says, now adjusting her beanbag. “You haven’t told him?”
Then I do. I fill Troy in on the whole story. And I’m kinda thankful that neither one of them remind me of how stupid the cream idea was in the first place. I still don’t know how I would’ve explained the color change!
The closer it gets to the end of our library time, the more my fingers want to twist my hair. I sit on my hands, and Sophia tells me to calm down for the fifth time. But my nerves won’t settle. I do hope Mrs. Hill is right, that I have a gift, because it’ll take more than that for me to win with only one night of practice. Troy, he looks cool on the outside, but he’s fiddling his fingers too.
“Y’all are driving me bonkers. Would you both relax so I can relax? Geesh!” Sophia says at last.
“My bad,” Troy says. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Usually I’m cool.”
“I used to get like that too,” Sophia acknowledges. “Every piano recital where I had to play a classical piece, I felt like I had to be extra perfect.”
“Yeah, but that’s not why I’m nervous. I’m ah, doing things a little different this year since I’ve heard that classical violin doesn’t cut it for talent shows.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Sophia says, shocked.
Troy nods toward me, and I raise a finger in the air fast. “But that’s not what I meant—well, okay, that’s what I meant, but it just came out wrong when I first said it. I know, I know, I’m the worst,” I say, covering my head.
“No, not the worst”—he laughs—“but seriously, our talk inspired me to try something different.” Troy assures me that it’s a good thing.
Us three being together got me feeling all tingly, and I try to hold on to this feeling throughout the day, especially in my next class. In chorus, Mrs. Hill keeps us focused with the graduation songs; otherwise I’d melt from the burning glares of Yvette, Belinda, and Jason, and Terrence’s mean-mugging. At least Nia smiles at me.
As soon as we’re dismissed from final period, you’d think it was the last day of school. Kids burst out of the rooms as if they’re hyped on sugar. Some were actually running to the auditorium to claim seats. I ease into the hallway, on the watch for Mama—’cause you never know—and go grab my outfit from my locker. But when I get to the foyer I hold back. There are even more balloons bobbing throughout the hallway. Kids are already crowding around the photo booth, taking pictures with friends. And the prize basket sits on a table surrounded by students “oohing” and “aahing.” Suddenly I can’t move. I turn away; maybe I should go home, after all. I push through the crowd, and then I hear my name. My name. It’s Sophia, racing toward me with Troy behind her. He carries a bag in one hand and his violin case held protectively to his chest with the other.
“I can’t believe you’re going through with this,” Sophia says excitedly. “If I ever break a punishment, I’ll think of you—now go show Yvette you’re no back-seater.”
“Come on,” Troy says, offering me his arm. He leads us toward the talent holding area, which is in the cafeteria. We pass the red carpet for the runway, a few parent volunteers acting as paparazzi, the velvet rope leading to the auditorium doors, and eager parents already filing in the auditorium. I look for Mama and Dad, but I don’t see either of them.
I tug on Troy’s arm. “Wait. I’m not . . . I’m not sure I can do this. I mean, I’ve got this bad feeling.”
“It’s just jitters—everyone gets them,” Troy assures me. “You’ll be great.”
Sophia adds, “It’s good to be a little nervous—keep you on your game. Well, that’s what my piano teacher always says.”
“I guess,” I say, chalking it up to nerves.
Troy opens the cafeteria door, and a slew of kids are already here preparing for the show. More trail in behind us. A modern dance group is prancing around in hot pink and sparkly spandex. An a cappella group is doing vocal warm-ups. Everywhere, kids are practicing dance steps, tuning instruments, or finding pitches. Jason and Terrance are in the corner spitting rhymes back and forth. Nia has her guitar over her knee and waves. Yvette and Belinda spot me from across the room and make a beeline my way, a third girl in tow.
Sophia raises one eyebrow. “Maybe they’re the bad feeling you’re getting,” she says in my ear.
Yvette and her crew stop right in front of me. All posing with attitudes, crossed arms and lips pursed out. Kids near us are pretending to get ready, but they’re really staring. I flash back to Regina standing with her crew in the yard, amid all our furniture, and I had promised myself that one day I wasn’t gonna stand around letting people dis me. And today is that day.
“Wait,” I get in first, holding out my hand like us Detroit girls do. “You’re gonna tell me that I’m gonna be blinded by the lights, everybody’ll laugh, and I’ll stinkingly, ridiculously embarrass myself because I’ve never been in a talent show, right? Because you ain’t here to wish me good luck.”
“No, I come to tell you that I knew you were lying, talkin’ about grounded. Yeah, right.” Yvette refolds her arms, fuming. “Doesn’t matter, you’re gonna look mighty stupid when we walk away with the trophy.”
“Yeah, well, you’re gonna look mighty stupid if you don’t.” I turn my back on her and say, “Sophe, I’m going to go change.”
It’s my turn to leave them standing there, looking lame.
Sophia grins. “You go, big, bad Detroit,” she calls after me.
Troy fist bumps me, then he says he has to go get fly.
“You okay?” Sophia asks as we head for the girls bathroom. My hands seem to be trembling. “Don’t tell me they rattled you?”
“Not this time,” I say. “I’m good.” Tell that to my hands, I think. “But maybe I shouldn’t
do this. . . . My mom’s gonna kill me.” I shake my hands, releasing the tension. It then occurs to me that she’s going to kill me anyway for ditching my punishment in the first place. Plus, what other choice do I have? “No, forget it, I’m doing it, I’m fine.”
“Sure?” And when she knows for sure that I am, she leaves to grab her seat.
At the last house when I did the final sweep, I remember thinking how I’d hoped a change would happen with this new move. And you know what? Things have definitely changed. I touch my fine hair and the splotches on my face. I also remember vowing that I’d never sing in public. No matter what. Another big ol’ change.
My shirtdress falls right under my knees, and when I wrap my black leather belt around my waist it cinches up a little bit. I turn around to see if my butt pokes out, but the mirror is too high. I take off my sneakers and socks, and slip on my good black ballerina-like flats. I raise my arms and twist about, considering how I might pose onstage. In my imagination, this is how I’d get ready for my concert. I gently finger my curls that now look like I stood in front of a fan for a few minutes, which is cool because it’s a straight up Yoncé style, except much shorter. And when I go to put on my lip gloss, I really look at my face, my face with all the random patches of light on it. I did this to myself—on purpose. I did this to myself.
Girls come in and out, some change too, others slyly peek at me as they wash their hands. It’s my cue to hurry up. By the time I get back to the cafeteria, the show has already started and everybody’s in a frenzy. Even the parent volunteers aren’t much help for all the backstage insanity. Yvette’s fussing at the new girl, and Jason and Terrance are huddled together, arguing over something. Troy’s on edge too, pacing back and forth with his hands going through the motions of playing his violin. And yes, he is definitely fly in his jeans, blue shirt and vest, and brown-and-blue fedora cocked to the side.
Genesis Begins Again Page 22
