Genesis Begins Again Page 11

  100 Reasons Why We Hate Genesis . . .

  The bristly wool scratches lines into my skin, feels like I’m being scraped with razor blades. But I still scrub. I scrub the blackest parts of me. I scrub the tenderest parts, and the invisible ones too. Now my face. I start on my chin and I go for it. But oh God, it hurts . . . it hurts beyond any pain I’ve felt before. And I can’t do it—the one place on me that everyone sees. I just can’t, and I get mad for not having guts. So I take it out on my knees and knuckles and elbows. And I scrub the blue-black-purple. The bluck. The blurple. All of it.

  Now the lemon. The juice seeps into the cuts, feels like a swarm of hornets stinging me. If only I can get the juice deep enough under my skin, maybe, just maybe it’ll work. I bite down hard on my lip, forcing screams to stay in my throat.

  My fingers are trembling, but I scoop out the yogurt. And, hey, hey, it smothers the burn. It almost feels . . . good. This’ll all be worth it when the change finally happens. And when it does, Grandma won’t only marvel about her old relatives. Dad’ll be proud that it looks like he spit me out, and Mama really wouldn’t want to ever trade me in for anything in the world.

  Tiny sensations suddenly begin to pop all over my body like electric shocks. Don’t scratch, I warn myself. But slight stings turn to major prickles, and suddenly it feels as if my body’s exploding with blisters and—Arghhhh! I dart to the bathroom, twist on the shower, and let the water gush over me, washing the burns and my stupid, stupid hope, down the drain.

  Everything hurts. My arms and legs throb with even the slightest move. Grandma’s already called for me to get up twice now, and I do, slowly. And when I take off my pajamas—OH. MY. GOD. My arms, legs, and thighs have random streaks of scrapes across them. My elbows, knees, knuckles, and ankles look like they’ve been in a knock-down-drag-out fight. Most of it is already starting to scab, but a few areas are raw, oozing blood. Ohmygosh, how am I gonna explain this? I was running down the street, tripped and skidded over the concrete with my entire body, naked. A bunch of cats attacked me. The more I think, the more I panic, and the more stupid the excuses get.

  In the shower, I don’t dare use soap. I let the water do its best with cleansing me. Toweling down is out of the question, so I gently pat myself dry. Real gently. Thank God Grandma’s medicine cabinet is stocked for the apocalypse. There’s Neosporin and an ointment called zinc oxide; both claim they’re good for scratches. They’re probably as old as me, but I put a little on my finger anyway and lightly dab my elbow. Yeouch! I keep going, layering both medicines, until white, greasy smears cover every scratch. Oh no. My chin has tiny scabs too—makes it look like I have a little goatee. I dab there, then risk the pain to rub it in good so Grandma doesn’t notice. The lemons from yesterday are hidden at the bottom of the trash can. And that’s where they’re gonna stay, no way that “healing food” will be coming anywhere near my skin today.

  And you know what’s the worst? The really, really worst part? I’m still dark.

  Grandma knocks on the bathroom door twice. First, to tell me to come eat. The second time griping, “What in the name of Mary is taking you so long? No one needs that much time to do anything in the bathroom.” Can I just hide in here all day? Finally and carefully, I get dressed, making sure my clothes cover every inch of skin possible, even my wrists.

  When I go to breakfast, Grandma goes on about my slouching. Yeah, whatever, ’cause right now my shoulders are too heavy to even attempt to straighten.

  Then I get to thinking about how I maybe went a little overboard last night. What with everything Grandma said yesterday—and what she didn’t—she’s never said I reminded her of Mama—ever! Come to think of it, Grandma’s never even invited her other siblings to visit when we’re here, is she that ashamed of us? Or is she now an outcast because of Mama? Oh gosh, the questions won’t stop!

  This all makes me mad. Mad! So mad that I don’t care if Grandma gets mad at me, and I pop the question, “You wish I looked more like my mama, don’t you?”

  Grandma actually freezes. For a split second, but I can see it. Then slowly her eyes meet mine. I wish I could say that Grandma comforts me with: No, sweetheart, you’re just as God made you, and I love everything He makes. . . . Or even answer with one of the scriptures people use at church: You’re fearfully and wonderfully made. Whatever that means. I wish I could say she said those things, but I can’t. What she actually tells me is: “Life would be so much less complicated for you, if you did.”

  Dang.

  No, I love you even with your dark-chocolate self. No, That was the old way of thinking, but love is love. No, I want you to be the best you can be, and that’s all. No nothing?

  So when the doorbell rings after I’ve washed the last breakfast dish, I’m all too relieved to go back home—even with the stupid boxes stuffed beside the stupid refrigerator reminding me that stupid Farmington Hills is only a temporary place.

  As I’m going to the bedroom to get my bag, stopping by the bathroom to grab those ointments, I hear Mama thanking Grandma for taking care of me. Just as I come back into the living room, Grandma gives me a hug, and I’m surprised she doesn’t feel how stiff my body is against hers. Does she even notice that I don’t raise my arms to hug her back? If so, she doesn’t say anything. Just clears her throat, shadows us to the door, and watches us. Grandma lets me leave her house with all these family secrets, and I don’t know if I’m supposed to keep them secret too.

  “Where’s Dad? Wait, Grandma’s letting you keep her car?” I ask, when I see Mom heading toward it.

  “For a little while,” Mama says, not answering my question about Dad.

  Mama has the eyes of a hawk, I swear, ’cause she asks, “What’s that on your chin?” She takes my chin in her hand and swivels my face to meet hers. “What happened?”

  I hate to lie, but I say, “I was going into the basement to get the laundry basket, and I fell down the stairs . . . scraped myself all up.” I show her my knuckles and wrists.

  “Oh, Genesis, honey,” Mama gasps. “You have to be more careful. I keep warning your grandmother that those wooden steps’ll get too slippery. I’ll stop and get something for that.” Mama drives off, still avoiding my question about Dad, so I ask once again and she says, “He left with Chico, so I don’t know, Gen.” A minute later Mama adds, “I’m just glad you didn’t hurt anything else.”

  “Me too,” I tell her. But inside, I’m like, If you only knew.

  fifteen

  My arms and legs are just like Kadijah’s. Kadijah is this girl I knew when I was in the fourth grade. She got teased worse than me ’cause she had scaly, patchy skin all over, and she used to scratch and scratch till she bled. She said she had eczema. I look just like her with my scaly patches and dry skin, except for one thing. My scabs are uglier. They’re purple black. And itch. I slather on the ointments again. All that for nothing. But at least Dad won’t see me like this . . . he ain’t come home.

  Still, I don’t know why I keep expecting a change to happen overnight. Just like I thought the lemons, the baking soda, the milk, and all that other stuff was going to work. I have to believe that God wouldn’t want me to have a hard life. I mean, I haven’t done anything that bad, and if He’s so good, then why punish me?

  All this heaviness is weighing me down in English class. There’s no concentrating for me with these scabs itching so badly that I could jump out the window. Then I get a wild thought: What if Troy feels the same way as I do? And Yvette, too? Is that why she’s hip-locked with Belinda? And, oh my gosh, could that be why Terrance is always tailgating Jason? Enough already!

  “Nia Kincaid will be the first student to read her essay.” Ms. Luctenburg’s announcement catches my attention.

  Nia saunters up to the front and brushes her dreadlocks out of her face. They’re so knotted that I mindlessly wriggle free the tangles in the back of my own head, the “kitchen.” I don’t want anyone to accuse me of having nappy hair like that.

 
She levels her gaze at us and then begins without even looking at her paper. I look over at Sophia, hoping she reads my Don’t tell me she memorized her entire essay? mind. But Sophia is totally tuned in to Nia. “Imagine being free to live without cumbersome concerns and decision-making. You will never have to worry about choosing the right career, marrying the perfect person, or keeping up with the latest trends.” The class grunts and nods in agreement. Nia goes on, and soon I’m leaning forward, almost forgetting about my hairy-looking chin ’cause I’m too busy imagining that world, that world without competition or comparisons. Even Jason’s edged to the tip of his seat. Nia finishes. When Ms. Luctenburg moves to the next reader, I’m still left in her world.

  What’s up with that girl? Of all the schools I’ve attended, I ain’t never met a girl so . . . I don’t know, different? And who’s her crew? I should go right up to her and say something like, Hey, I loved your essay. Or, Hey, how long did it take you to write that? Hey, you’re interesting, we should be friends. Yeah right. I won’t just be the new girl, but a stalker, too.

  Sophia couldn’t wait to tell Troy all about my “fall,” so she practically dragged me to the library to meet him for tutoring. Nothing dramatic must happen at this school if me tumbling down some stairs makes headline news. It started after I changed into my PE uniform: first there were the bugged-out looks, then the pointing, and finally, the interrogation. My scabby skin seemed to throb more with each question. And Sophia grilled for every tiny detail, forcing me to spin a tale better than Dad can. And now Troy’s probably expecting the deets too, and I can’t even remember everything I told Sophia in the first place. “Tell him, Genesis, and don’t leave out the part about your grandmother—”

  “Seriously, Sophia? I could’ve killed myself,” I say, leaving to find a table, hoping that that would be the end of it. I check to see if Troy’s coming along too. He’s not. They’re both standing there. “What?”

  “Why’re you walking like that?” Troy asks, and I can tell he’s not trying to be smart, he just wants to know.

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you before she bit my head off,” Sophia says, low. She’s lucky she lives out here in Farmington Hills; otherwise she’d catch a beatdown for blabbing people’s business.

  “I didn’t bite your head off,” I explain. “I’m just a little achy, that’s all.”

  Troy slides his backpack from his shoulder, letting it hang in his hand. “Well, is somebody going to tell me what’s up?”

  Sophia smooths out her shirt repeatedly, not saying a word. “Fine,” I start, “well, what happened was . . .”

  Ever since I can remember, I’ve always wanted a best friend. Someone I could be real with. And with the way Troy is looking at me, as if he earnestly cares, I want to be honest. But learning how people—not necessarily Troy—can be two-faced, smiling one minute and then talking about you behind your back the next, it’s just best not to fess up to anything that could be used against me later.

  So, my story is plain and simple. “I fell down the stairs.”

  “Oh, no wonder you’re walking so stiff.” Then he asks, “You okay?”

  “I’m fine, just got scratched up really bad.” I show him my wrists and knuckles. “But I’m tough,” I joke.

  “Yeah, I see.” Troy hoists his book bag back onto his shoulder. “Ready?”

  “That’s it?” Sophia butts in.

  That’s it? Maybe Sophia’s folks let her ask all the questions she wants, but my folks taught me better. When I get too curious, Mom and Dad would be like, If you don’t have nothing to do, then we’ll find something for you. Translation: Go on, get outta my face and do something else.

  This gives me the idea to pull a Mom and Dad on Sophia by saying, “Do you have a book to read, or you need help finding one?” Bam! Instant question shut down.

  Sophia keeps at it. “Don’t you want to know how it happened?”

  I’m about to point out that she’s the only one giving me the third degree, but Troy’s answer is enough. “No, I’m satisfied with knowing she’s okay.” And when he asks me again if I’m ready to get started, as if my scarred-up chin is no big deal, I’m thinking Troy’s all right, a real good dude.

  Even so, I ain’t telling him nothing.

  When I get to chorus, I hurry to my seat. After last week’s episode, I’m liable to flip out if one more person asks about my knuckles or chin.

  When Mrs. Hill tings her triangle my heart begins to race. If she makes us sing that drinking gourd song again, I swear I’ll head straight to the bathroom and never leave till Harriet Tubman herself rises from the grave and drags me out.

  “Today, class, we’re going to . . .”

  Is she looking right at me?

  “Do something a little different.”

  Hallelujah!

  “Now, everyone in this class can sing well, but what sets us apart?” Mrs. Hill doesn’t wait for an answer. “The emotion we put into the song. Great singers bring a little of themselves to their music, and for today I want you to allow yourself to be vulnerable. Surrender to the moment.”

  “Mrs. Hill, I don’t wanna run outta here crying,” says Terrance with a smirk. Jerk.

  “If that’s what it takes, Terrance, then what’s wrong with that?” Mrs. Hill holds a large picture out in front of her. “Take a good look at this collage. It’s by an artist named Romare Bearden.” In the picture, a group of musicians play instruments while a lady sings onstage. “Who can tell me what you might hear if we were actually there?” Kids state the obvious: horns, drums, and a piano. Mrs. Hill taps the picture, asking, “What about this woman here?”

  “It looks like she’s going to say, ‘That’s my song,’ ” Yvette calls out.

  “Good. Now how would she say it?”

  “That’s my song,” Yvette says with sass. Mrs. Hill makes us repeat the phrase like Yvette had.

  “What does the horn sound like? Let me hear the sound, not the words.” Someone shouts, “Toot-toot-toot.” Everyone cracks up. Before we know it, Mrs. Hill has us toot-tooting and boom-bapping all over the place. We scat-a-tat like the jazz singer. We snap fingers like the audience members. We boom-bap like the drum player.

  Mrs. Hill breaks the class into groups and assigns us each a phrase. My group gets, “I can dig it, man,” which we start saying real cool, like beatniks, half laughing, half embarrassed. Yvette’s group gets, “That’s my song.” Jeez, why couldn’t I be in her group? Once everyone’s giggle-practiced a bit, Mrs. Hill holds up a skinny baton, and directs us as she plays with our volume, pitch, and different combinations of the sounds and words until we start to sound like a real band.

  “Boom-boom-bap!”

  “Skiddle-dee-bee-bap!”

  “Tt-Tt-Tt!”

  “I can dig it, man!”

  “That’s my song!”

  “Tt-Tt-Tt! Skiddle-dee-bee-bap! Ahh-ahh-ahh-ahh! I can dig it, man! Boom-boom-bap! That’s my song!”

  Mrs. Hill silences one group, then layers in another one. We’re grooving and moving. I catch Nia’s eye and we smile, both feeling the same vibe. Mrs. Hill works us into a fury, and then brings us down, silencing us, group by group, until we hear only the Tt-Tt-Tt as it fades to a whisper, ending with a mellow I can dig it, man!

  We’re so pumped that it takes three dings from the triangle for Mrs. Hill to get everyone’s attention.

  “Did you all like that exercise?” Nods and yeses from the class. “I’m glad, because I want to announce that auditions for the annual talent showcase are two weeks away! Sign-up sheets will be posted in the hall.”

  Immediately a buzz goes around the room.

  “I’m doing it this year, I have to!”

  “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh. I’ve waited all year for this.”

  “Whatever you do, please don’t do that mime thing. It’s awful.”

  Terrance jumps up and shouts to Jason, “Ohhh yeah! That trophy is ours, bruh!” Yvette huddles close to Belinda, whi
spering. Eloise sits erect, writing furiously in her notebook. Nia sits back with a mysterious grin on her face.

  Whoa, these folk are seriously into the talent show! When class is over, I wait for everyone to leave and then approach Mrs. Hill. I keep my chin down—I’ve told my falling down the stairs story so many times today that I’ll be struck by lightning if I lie one more time.

  “Genesis. Good work today.”

  “Thanks. I, uh, wanted to give you back your CD. I’ve listened to it almost every day. I can probably sing the songs in my sleep!”

  She beams. “Glad you liked it.”

  “I even checked out a book on her. Yeah, I couldn’t put it down.”

  Mrs. Hill looks happily surprised. “You did? What’re your thoughts?”

  “Well . . .” I hadn’t thought too deeply about it until now. “She had a hard life with her father not being there. Plus, she was dead poor . . . and, the work she had to do as a kid . . . it was crazy.” I pause, thinking, and add, “Then again, she seemed like she had a lot of freedom.”

  “Freedom? Was it really freedom?” Mrs. Hill starts straightening the chairs back into a semicircle, and I follow behind, helping.

  “Well, I guess not . . . not exactly,” I say. “What I mean is that she could make choices on her own. But now that I think about it, she was forced into certain situations because nobody was looking out for her.”

  “She made some very strong choices to survive, is that what you mean?”

  I nod. “Yeah, and she had to sing in front of grown-ups when she was, like, my age. Just to make money to live. To me, all of that set up her life, you know, with her being addicted to drugs and stuff.”

  “Perhaps so . . . Billie Holiday definitely had a lifetime of struggles, but even still, she made a huge contribution to music. No one could ever deny that.”

  “Yeah, and her singing sounds so . . . easy. It’s like she used her voice to express what she was going through . . . like her story’s right there under the words. It’s hard to describe it.”