“Group two,” a volunteer calls. “Showtime!”
“That’s us,” says a boy from the a cappella group. They rush backstage.
The order of acts is posted on the walls around the room. My name is listed after Troy’s, with the song title of “A Surprise Arrangement,” which Mrs. Hill suggested. It’s time for me to warm up my voice, so I find an empty corner to do the exercises that Mrs. Hill taught me. Jitters go through my body, as if I have the flu. I practice the breathing techniques, but the jitters are still here.
Two dance groups go on and off, and the fake Eminem. When he comes back to the cafeteria, the confident swag he left with is gone, and a girl pats his back. His eyes are glassy like he’s about to cry. Terrance calls over to him and says, “Yo! Should’ve karaoked Post Malone.”
And that’s why I’m really glad that I didn’t sing a hook for those jerks. Thank you, Sophia!
“All right, Bring the Rhythm dancers, you’re on!” calls the volunteer. The girls in the modern dance group screech and scream, and run out the door.
I check the list again and count the acts before me. Yvette’s group is called One Star Trinity. I stifle my laugh. One star of three? Troy comes over too. “Almost showtime,” he says, resting his arm over my shoulders. “By the way, what’s the ‘Surprise Arrangement’?”
“By the way, what are you playing?”
He laughs. “Good one. You’ll see.”
Before the modern dancers are back in the room, the volunteer announces that Jason and Terrance are up next. I don’t even have the urge to see their performance. When they’re done, they come back all amped, talking about how they “killed it!”
When Nia’s called, I tell her to break a leg. She thanks me, and then Troy and I sneak backstage to watch. We’re not the only ones—Jason, Yvette, and Belinda are there too.
Nia sits on the stool, props her guitar on her knee, and adjusts the microphone. Into the mic she says, “I’d like to perform for you an original piece called ‘Stand.’ ” Her fingers strum the strings, and then she sings. Next thing I know, I’m bobbing my head. I peek out at the audience, and everybody’s rocking along too. When she goes into her last refrain, she starts drumming a beat on the face of her guitar and sing/raps about the world and making a change. Finally the beat stops, and she sings the chorus once more, ending with a high note that seems to ring in my ears even when she’s done. People jump up clapping. I’m so happy for her that I bum-rush her with a hug. “You are so dope!”
When Yvette and her group go on, Troy goes to grab his violin, and then we creep backstage once more. They wear the same short sequined dresses, sing the same song, and perform the same dance steps Yvette had taught me, and she’s still front and center. I hate to admit it, but they’re fantastic. Their harmonies sound like one incredible voice. And their moves are on point. I’m impressed with how quickly the new girl picked it all up too. The crowd goes wild, as if they were at a concert. Dang, Yvette just might win.
“Wish me luck,” Troy whispers, half groaning. “I have to follow them.”
“Break a leg,” I say instead. “They say wishing luck is bad. You got this.”
After the emcee announces Troy, he goes onstage and hooks his violin up to an amplifier. I’m hoping he doesn’t up his classical song to classic rock. Troy taps the beat out with his foot and begins playing. And I swear the entire audience takes one huge gasp because instantly, we all recognize the song—“Stay with Me.” And it almost . . . almost, even without vocals, almost sounds like Sam Smith is right here. Troy’s making his violin sing! He moves his body as if the music is bottled up inside him, fighting to get out. I’ve never seen anything like this. Never heard anything like this. By the looks on the faces in the crowd, neither have they. And when Troy teases his bow across the strings for the final note, the crowd cheers so loud that the building shakes. Okay, maybe not that loud, but they cheer the loudest I’ve heard so far.
“Awesome!” I say, grabbing him tightly, as he dips behind the curtain. “You were so, so, so awesome!” Other kids backstage excitedly give him dap too.
Then I hear my name. My stomach goes spastic. “Genesis, you’re on!” And now Troy’s telling me to break a leg.
I’m doing this! I tell myself as I head for the curtain. I’m doing this! I tell myself as I walk toward the microphone. I’m doing this! I get fierce with myself. Then, I go there. I draw those voices, those voices that hold me back. Look at you with that nappy hair; it can break a comb. Look at you with that wide nose and thick lips. And don’t get me started on how black you are. Life is going to be harder for you.
I recall every bad memory, every negative word, because when I sing, I’m gonna conjure the loneliness of Billie Holiday, the joy of Ella Fitzgerald, the soul and longing of Etta James. I’ll sing for every girl who feels like . . . feels like me.
When I take the microphone, I peer out into the audience to see if Mama or Dad is there, but all I can do is blink in the blinding stage lights. Then I hear it. A snicker here and then there.
“Hello.” My voice cracks. “I’d like to sing a little medley I put together. Thank you.” I have no music. It’s all me. I tap a rhythm with my right foot, and pat my thighs with my hands. I take a deep breath. I got Billie’s gold. I got Etta’s soul. I got Ella’s scat. And that’s what I start with: light, peppery, Ella Fitzgerald with a Genesis Anderson scat.
Someone shouts, “You better sing, girl!” And then I hear it. The audience, they’re clapping and snapping along with the beat. I trail off with a “da-dat-dat-doo-wah,” then I summon Etta. I let each word soar. I swoop down to hug the little girl sitting on the curb with all her furniture. I visit the girl in the basement with the wrinkled brown bag passing from hand to hand. I kiss the lonely girl who hears ugly taunts from the mirror. I experience every single moment. And I’m not afraid. I am not afraid.
At last, I fill my lungs with as much air as I can take, and I belt. I do. I let it all go in one long breath, hitting a note that even surprises me. When I’m done, I collapse my shoulders, but quickly straighten them. And when I bow, the applause—it startles me. I shield my eyes and peer into the crowd. Everyone’s . . . standing? For me? I hurry offstage and Troy comes toward me with Nia close behind, both bombarding me with hugs. Then there’re others, too, who I don’t know.
Wow.
Powerful.
Girl, you worked it.
I hug and thank everybody, and quickly break away to the cafeteria. The volunteer announces another act as I find a peaceful place to . . . breathe. Troy sits with me; he doesn’t say anything, just covers my hand with his. We sit there for a long time, the quiet after the storm.
Sophia dashes in. “They’re about to announce the winner,” she says breathlessly, and dashes out again. All the acts squeeze onstage, and the emcee is congratulating everyone. Nia stands on the other side of me with her guitar across her back. The rhythm dancers hold hands, the white rapper keeps his head down, Jason and Terrance high-five each other as if they’ve already won, and Yvette and her girls are right in front, of course.
“And now, what you all have been wanting to know—are you excited?” The emcee teases the audience with rhetorical questions and long pauses. “Okay! Here we go! Our second runner-up is—”
Did Dad make it? I wonder.
“Nia Kincaid! Give it up!” The audience cheers and whistles.
Nia got third place! She hugs me and gets her trophy. She deserves it, for real.
“Last year I didn’t even get third,” Troy says.
“It’s not over yet,” I tell him, squeezing his arm.
“This was a tough show to judge,” says the emcee. “So much talent in this school! Our first runner-up is—One Star Trinity! Let’s hear it for these superstars!”
Dang! I wanted to beat them! Ugh! Now I’m dealing with Yvette’s egotistical smile, and the attitude she’s giving me with that stupid trophy she’s now parading across the stage with. It’s not over,
I tell myself.
“Drum roll, please.” Let it be me, let it be me, please let it be me. “Farmington Oaks’ first-place winner of our annual talent showcase is . . . Isn’t this exciting?” The audience groans. “The first-place winner is . . . Troy Benson!”
Troy Benson? Troy?! “You won!” I yelp. He’s too stunned to move. “Troy, you won!” I say again, pushing him to the front. The audience is going berserk! And so am I. Troy’s winning makes me forget about Dad, care less about Yvette, and erase my wanting a trophy. Troy finally won! Everyone’s jumping all over him, even as the curtains close. Mrs. Hill’s thanks to the volunteers can barely be heard ’cause we’re still screaming “You won!” We head back to the cafeteria to get our stuff, I’m carrying Troy’s trophy, and he’s got both arms wrapped around his gift basket.
“Thank you, Genesis,” he says, putting his winnings down. When I ask for what, he explains, “If you weren’t so mean, talking about me living in a bubble, then I might not have changed my style.”
“Well, now at least I don’t feel as bad as I did before,” I tease, setting his trophy over with his stuff.
We finally get to the foyer together, where, as expected, people start to surround him, sweeping him away. And almost first thing, I spot Mama. She stands against the wall, looking right, looking left. Looking for me. In her hand is my list. She finds me and we lock gazes. Mama weaves her way over to me. The pages, trembling in her hand, are pressed to her chest. There’s so much sorrow, guilt, and joy in her glassy eyes.
People stop to congratulate me, and I thank them quickly. And, as if she can’t stand it any longer, she grabs and holds me for a long time. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispers. When she releases me, her fingertips gently stroke my face. “So very, very proud.”
Just then, Sophia’s at our side. “Oh my gosh.” She bear hugs me. Sophia hugs me. “That took a lot of guts. You should’ve won, Genesis, you were great! And Troy, can you believe it?!” Sophia squeals excitedly. “He was awesome!”
“He was all that, for sure.”
Sophia agrees. Then she greets Mama with an “Oh, I’m so rude! Hello, Mrs. Anderson. Can you believe Genesis?!” Then turns back to me. “You did it! Now let me go find Troy—Troy won!”
After Sophia rushes off, I blurt, “I know you’re gonna kill me. But I had to do it, Mama, I had to, and I can explain why.”
“I know why,” Mama says, holding up my papers. “I read your letter.”
The foyer is packed with parents, kids, little brothers and sisters. I attempt to put on my best “Mama” smile for the PTA paparazzi. Cameras flash, as do more compliments. But there’s still no sight of Dad. So I ask, “Did Dad come? He read my letter?”
She must see the desperation in my eyes because she tells me, “He . . . he was here. And yeah, he read it.” Then she adds, “Gen, he wasn’t in the best condition. . . . He left after you performed.”
Should I be happy that he came—even drunk?
We stay around for a little while longer, enjoying this moment. I find Mrs. Hill in the crowd and in Mrs. Hill’s fashion, she opens her arms, and I fall right into them. “Girl, you did it! You did!”
“Yes, I did, Mrs. Hill,” I say, showing all thirty-twos. Then she chides me for even wavering about not doing it.
“I know, I get it now,” I say. Then I introduce her to Mama.
“Your daughter is something special,” Mrs. Hill tells Mama, beaming.
“That she is.” Mama’s eyes are getting watery now.
“Oh, I forgot . . .” I open my bag and get the Etta James CD.
Mrs. Hill closes my hand around the CD. “Keep it. A gift. For you.”
thirty-two
A sound, something like a whimpering puppy, wrestles me awake. It’s only a dream, I tell myself and roll back over. Except it’s not. I strain to hear where the noise comes from. I peek out my window. Nothing. I creep to my door and crack it open. It’s coming from inside the house. I tiptoe toward the sound.
In the dining room, I find him slumped on the floor, against a box, directly under the chandelier.
“Chubby Cheeks?”
“I hate that name,” I say.
“Why? You’ll always be my Chubby Cheeks.”
“Stop calling me that.” Every time he says that name, it takes me right back to that basement. I turn to go.
“Wait,” Dad says. And of course, of course, of course I do. He tries to pull himself up using the box, but only succeeds in knocking it on its side. “Oh God . . . look at me.”
He looks like one of Mama’s patients in the nursing home. I don’t want to feel sorry for him. Still, I stay. “What do you want?”
“I’ve gone to a meeting . . .” He reaches out to me. “Tell yo’ Mama for me. She won’t listen. I’m going, for real . . .”
Now he wants to go to AA, after all this time?
I want to leave, but can’t . . . ’cause maybe, finally, he really is trying. And because . . . he’s . . . my daddy. I step out of the shadow so he can see me. “Mama told me you came . . . to the talent show. . . .” Dad grapples with the box again. I push it up to his back, so he can lean on it. I’m wanting to ask what he thought, was he proud, did he cheer—but, I can’t bring myself to form the sentences. And since he doesn’t offer anything, there’s nothing for me to do but walk away.
Just then, Dad speaks. “When I saw you on that stage . . . I was so . . . amazed.” He wipes wetness from his cheeks. “I never seen you like that . . . didn’t even know it was in you. And I thought selfishly . . . ‘Listen to her, sings jus’ like me Look jus’ like me, too.’ ”
I’ve always wanted to hear him say things like this to me—undrunk. And he’s finally saying it, after everything—everything that’s happened, everything I’ve done . . . I just gape at him. He’s hated that I look like him! That’s not just being selfish, it’s . . . it’s hypocritical!!
“Dad,” I burst out, “how you gon’ say that—now?” I can’t stop what’s coming out of my mouth and not sure I want to. “You told me I didn’t take after you. You told me that plenty times. . . . ‘You ain’t nothin’ like me,’ you said. Made me hate looking like you! Made me hate looking like . . . like me.”
Now it’s me who’s sniffling.
“Gen?”
I don’t get it. Why couldn’t he have said any of these things before . . . just once?
“Genesis?” he says, stronger. I meet his eyes. “Me saying those words to you . . . were because . . . I didn’t want you to be nothin’ like me—not act like me, look like me. But everything about you was me. I thought if I pushed it away . . . then . . .” Dad takes a deep breath and blows it out. “You wanted to know why I don’t talk about my family?” I nod. “My mama . . . she blamed me for what happened to Charlie. She did . . . told me over and over she wished it was me dead, steada Charlie.”
My chest tightens. Dad’s mama said that?
Dad continues, “She called him her pretty little boy. Me? I was never-gon’-amount-to-nothin’-like-yo’-black-nappy-headed-triflin’-daddy.” Drool slips from his mouth and he wipes it away with the back of his hand. “Turns out, she was right. She was right. Now tell me, you’d think I’d want my baby girl to be anything like that?
“I’m a mess. I messed up my life, yo’ mama’s life, and yours. But when I drink,” he goes on, adjusting the box again, “I feel like a winner. When I drink, I drown out her voice. . . . The other night, when you asked me what you did—”
What I asked him? I think back . . . oh yeah. You drink ’cause you hate me?
“I saw myself,” Dad mutters. “I saw myself . . . askin’ my own mama that same question . . . and I couldn’t think of nothing to say ’cept what she said to me. But . . . Genesis, you gotta believe me when I say this . . . I don’t wanna lose you.”
A lump the size of a walnut is stuck in my throat. Now I know why Mama wants so much to protect him. I wanna cry for the little boy that was dogged by his mama. The one who tried
to save his brother from the bats. He seems so—empty. And yeah, I do this. I sit next to him.
“On that stage, Chubby Ch—Genesis . . . you were . . . incredible.”
“But you left.”
“But I saw you. You didn’t deserve me being there like that. . . . And, I, uh . . . All I could think was, why couldn’t I be a better father?”
Even though he doesn’t apologize, his regret is a small drop of comfort. And I know for certain you gotta start somewhere. Maybe he will change, eventually.
“I didn’t win. . . .”
Dad pats my knee. “Oh, you won. In my eyes, just being up there, you won. You ain’t need no trophy for that.”
The walnut is now the size of a grapefruit. Still, I gotta tell him the truth. “I wanted to, for you.” Now he squeezes my knee. “Dad, I am like you. I made a mess of everything.” Dad shushes me, letting me know it’s okay, but it’s not okay. “In the letter, I told you that I did something horrible to my face. . . . Well, I put some cream—” The words get stuck, but I fight to get them out. “I thought that if . . . if I could—” I can’t finish, I’m choking up for real now.
“I know, I know what you’re about to say,” Dad says quietly. “Don’t you think I felt that, wanted that every time my mama went on about Charlie . . . and then looked at me like, like I was—”
“I get it, I do,” I say, putting everything, every single piece together. “You drink to drown out your mama’s voice. . . . I hear voices too. And I drown ’em out. . . . I . . . I do things to myself to make me . . . beautiful.”
Now Dad’s breaking up.
I wipe my face on my pajamas. My mind’s blown away with—this. This moment. There’s nothing else to do but sit quietly. And of all songs, my mind plays Billie Holiday’s “Good Morning, Heartache,” as if it’s our theme. Then I get to thinking about her hard childhood and struggles with her sickness. What would she have wanted to hear? Or even Ella, dealing with memories of being put away in that orphan asylum. And surely Etta, too. They all had big, big hurts. It’s right there, hidden in their music. And I believe what they needed to hear—what Dad needs to hear—what I wanna hear—
Genesis Begins Again Page 23
