Genesis Begins Again Read online

  “Man, I’m only playing. But seriously, I need those notes,” the boy says, before running off.

  I almost don’t want to put Troy on the spot, but I can’t help myself. “Why he call you Bill?”

  “Inside joke,” Troy says dismissively. “Anyway, what’s your next class?”

  I hand him my schedule, dropping the issue.

  “Chorus. Oh, Mrs. Hill. Go down this hall. . . .” As he gives me directions, I try to focus real hard on his words, but I can’t stop geeking inside that he stopped to help me. After getting me on track, Troy dashes off as quickly as he’d shown up.

  When I find C-4, it’s as if I’ve landed in a Bruno Mars rehearsal. Music’s blaring, and xylophones, drums, maracas, and practically any instrument you can imagine are scattered all over the room. Black-and-white photographs of musicians and singers hang on the walls. Students are taking seats situated in a half circle. The smart-mouthed kid from English strolls in; he better not crack on me, if he knows what’s good for him. He doesn’t, thank goodness. Jason’s in this class too. He approaches that Yvette girl from gym with a bounce harder than any dude in Detroit, and they start snickering.

  I venture a little farther into the room. A closet door is open, and a rump sticks out. Then a Black lady straightens up and closes the door. I haven’t seen any other Black adults here. Well, not in any of my classes, and I pray right then that she’s the teacher. When the lady notices me, she immediately comes over. “Well, hello. I’m Mrs. Hill.”

  “You are?” I manage to say, handing her my schedule while doing a happy dance inside.

  “Why yes. Were you expecting someone else?” Mrs. Hill says, checking over my course list. I can’t stop staring. Her cheeks are big and round with deep dimples. Her face is caramel brown, and her hair’s cut into a short, curly Afro, which is okay for her because she’s old. And this lady teaches my chorus class.

  I exhale and three butterflies fly out.

  “Please excuse me for a moment,” she says. She turns off the music and proceeds to the center of the room. “Class.” She waits for their attention. Here it comes. I concentrate on a photograph of a lady singing into a microphone.

  “Take a few minutes to warm up your voices, and then sing ‘The Drinking Gourd’ three times in its entirety. Let’s go, sopranos, altos, tenors. . . .” Chairs scrape against the floor as kids turn their seats toward each other.

  A blond girl raises her hand. “Mrs. Hill, which exercises do you want us to do?”

  “Sing the alphabet using the five-note scale up and down, twice. And then start on the song, got it?”

  “Can I lead us?” Yvette says.

  “We don’t need a leader,” says Smart-Mouthed Kid. He gets a few laughs.

  Yvette throws up one hand, saying, “Whatev.” Her friend with the sandy-brown hair, who she had called Belinda, whispers something and they giggle.

  “Thank you, Yvette, for volunteering.” Then Mrs. Hill says to the boy, “Terrance, I expect you to follow Yvette’s lead, understand?” He nods, frowning.

  Mrs. Hill then comes back to me. She hands me my schedule and says, “Now, Miss Genesis.” She says my name like a pretty song, then assesses me as if I’m a piece of sheet music. “Let me guess. You’re like slow jazz from Miles Davis. Observant, endearing, yet complex.” She points to a poster of a man blowing real hard on a horn. “Have you heard of him?”

  Should I take this as a compliment or insult because this man is midnight black. Bottom of your shoe black. Burnt rubber on Grand River Boulevard black. He’s so black that he makes me look light. If I have heard of him, I’d never admit it. “No.”

  “I’ll have to play him for you one day. His music is truly remarkable.” Then she nods toward the other students. “Listen to that.” The voices harmonize, echoing through the room, and I have to admit, they sound good singing something as simple as the alphabet.

  I steal a chance to scope out the class. The flowery-smelling girl from language arts, Nia Kincaid, sits with the sopranos sharing a music sheet with two white girls. Yvette sings above everyone as she’s up front, directing. Jason sits back in his chair, hardly moving his lips like he’s too cool. His boy Terrance mean-mugs me, so I frown back.

  Mrs. Hill leaves me again and goes to the piano. All I can think is: Lady, would you please let me go sit down?

  But then she’s back, handing me a sheet of paper. “This is the song we’re working on, ‘Follow the Drinking Gourd.’ Here’s some background: The drinking gourd represents the Big Dipper in the night sky. As I’ve already shared with the class, folklorists explain that the song tells the tale of Peg Leg Joe, who would wait on the banks of the Ohio River to sail runaways across to the other side. But in actuality, it was a roadmap for slaves to follow to freedom.” She then tells me about the Underground Railroad and how it’s said that trees were secretly marked with charcoal or mud with the symbol of a left foot and peg foot. “The whole song’s a secret message.”

  The class is on their second round of the song, and Mrs. Hill still doesn’t have me sit down.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” I don’t answer because I don’t want her thinking I like standing here listening to her speech. She continues anyway. “Not just the singing, but the words, too.”

  “When the sun comes back and the first quail calls,

  Follow the Drinking Gourd,

  For the old man is a-waiting for to carry you to freedom,

  If you follow the Drinking Gourd.”

  “Jason, I need you to enunciate, please,” she suddenly calls out. “You too, Terrance. Remember to breathe, Susan.” Mrs. Hill then confesses, “There’s something about spirituals that gets to me. This song in particular is special to my family. When I was a little girl, my grandpa would sit me on his knee and sing it to me, tell me the story of his daddy’s great-grandpa who was a slave in Kentucky and how he escaped to Philadelphia. Can you imagine singing a song that your great-great-great grandpa sang to cling to the hope of freedom?”

  No, I can’t. Mama rarely shares stories about the old, old days. Dad tells me tales, but never about family. Grandma recites the same old stuff, but it doesn’t go back that far. And apparently no one told Mrs. Hill that we don’t talk about slavery anymore, because she goes on like she’s proud to know her ancestors were picking cotton.

  The song ends. Yvette’s riding boots clack on the floor all the way back to her seat. Now all eyes are on Mrs. Hill and me. Here goes, Mrs. Hill will finally make me introduce myself. But shockingly, she doesn’t. She whispers for me to take the open seat in the soprano section, immediately makes everyone stand, and leads us through the song herself.

  I hold the music sheet out in front of me. Even though it seems like I’m singing, my mind is on Mrs. Hill’s story. Her grandpa’s great-great grandpa must’ve made it to freedom; otherwise she wouldn’t be broadcasting that information. Her family probably sits around the table every Thanksgiving recounting that same tale. Shoot, if my great-great-great-great grandpa made it all the way to freedom, and had survived all the terrible stuff slaves had to endure, guess I’d blab the story too. Makes me wish Mama or Dad would tell me our family history, no matter how bad it might be.

  When class is over, Mrs. Hill stops me. “Now, I know it’s your first day. And you may be a bit nervous, but I’d like to find your key. Do you sing much?”

  “A little . . . in my room.” For some reason, I share this secret with her.

  “That’s the best place, isn’t it? Come over here, this’ll only take a few minutes.” Mrs. Hill goes to the piano and sits. “Stand right there, perfect.” She presses one key at a time and hums. Then she has me repeat after her. Every time I do, she says, “That’s good, real good.” About ten keys later she closes the piano and declares, “You’re an alto. I want you to learn the words, sing what you remember, but don’t worry about the musical notes unless you read music.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Then I add, “I can’t read music.”

&n
bsp; “That’s fine.” Mrs. Hill escorts me to the door. “And, Genesis,” she says, taking my hand, “when you practice, I don’t want you to just sing it. I want you to embrace it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I feel a smile creeping on my face, the first one all day.

  Mrs. Hill wants me to sing. I’m down for that, just as long as she doesn’t ever have me sing by myself. Having people gawk and talk about me every time I start a new school is bad enough, but singing in front of everybody? Alone? I can see myself now, adding to my list. # Whatever: Because she acted like she was Beyoncé and they laughed her right out of Farmington Hills. No, thank you.

  six

  Day one of school—conquered. Even with the red-haired girl dissin’ my clothes and Terrance giving me dirty looks, it still was nothing compared with my other first days. Trust me, I’ve been mean-mugged by the scariest, shoved by the toughest, picked on, made friends, then dumped by the best of ’em. Never mind that two girls hated me so much—for no reason at all!—they made a list full of stupid stuff just to inform me that they hated me.

  Once inside my house and in my new room, I turn on my old trusty CD player’s radio—one of the things I’ve managed to keep during our moves—and immediately start digging in my junk box in the closet. I push past a bag of nail polish, my Rihanna CDs, and an iPod that’s missing its charger, till it’s in my hands: my black button-down shirt, had it since I was seven. For the first time all day I let myself really relax. I drape the shirt over my head, pull it back into a ponytail, and tie it with a ribbon. It sways to the right and left, cascading down my back just like Rihanna’s. It feels kinda silly—I’m not seven anymore—but I don’t care. It lets me pretend to have good hair. It makes me beautiful. Even my skin looks lighter against the dark fabric.

  Next, I sneak into Mama’s bathroom, steal her makeup bag, and slide out her foundation. The cream glides over my skin like icing. Now I’m light-skinned. I turn up the volume on my CD player. And I can’t stop myself: I start singing along, letting my voice—the voice that won’t ever come out if anyone’s listening—loose. Everyone in the audience begins to wave their arms and dance in the aisles. Then from behind the curtain comes a rare and special appearance—Dad. He grins at me—for me—and joins me onstage, a microphone in his hand, and the drums thump and the horns blare.

  The song ends. A commercial comes on, and just like that—my fantasy’s over for now. I pull the shirt off my head, wash my face, and do my social studies homework. When I’m done, I turn off my music and go sit in the picture window—I can’t believe we have a picture window!—and watch the street. Then I get to thinking that, yeah, we should have flowers in our yard. After a while, all on its own, my body starts to rock side to side and before I know it, I’m humming. Humming Mrs. Hill’s song. Then singing.

  “When the sun comes back and the first quail calls,

  Follow the Drinking Gourd,

  For the old man is a-waiting for to carry you to freedom,

  If you follow the Drinking Gourd.”

  This reminds me of when, oh, about two schools ago, I read a book about a family of slaves who tried to escape over the Cincinnati River in the winter. They didn’t even have coats or boots. Nothing except the clothes on their backs. It had to be really unbearable to drop everything and run off like that. I can’t help but wonder how it feels to be so bound up that you can’t be or do what you want. Bound so tight that you’d take a huge risk like that, crossing a river in the snow.

  One day. That’s all it takes for Mr. Benjamin to discover that I know nearly nothing about math. He discreetly lays the assessment facedown on my desk. I flip over a corner. Forty-nine percent. Great. I stuff the stupid test in my backpack, knowing what’s to come. At the end of class, Mr. Benjamin’s sure to tell me that he’s moving me to the low math class. Not zoning out is hard ’cause my mind keeps asking, What’s the point? And I keep answering, I know. I’ll never get math.

  But then Mr. Benjamin excitedly posts himself in front of the class and scribbles marks on the smart screen that look like hieroglyphics. “My friends, today we’ll be starting a new unit.” He extends his arm and announces, “The slope and y intercept.”

  Mute. We all stare.

  “The sooner you all embrace math, the less painful it will be. I promise.”

  We all grunt. Loud.

  “Before you start groaning and moaning, my friends, let me explain. Math is like a chess game, or . . . or a puzzle. Even the Rubik’s Cube can be solved by using algorithms.”

  “That’s why I never got that cube,” says a boy with a surfer haircut.

  Hilarious. We all laugh.

  “Allow me to show you.” Mr. Benjamin draws formulas, connects lines, waves his hands and joggles his eyebrows. Everyone in class copies examples, asks questions, solves equations, and gets excited. Even me.

  When class is over, Mr. Benjamin calls me to his desk. I knew it! “I believe I’ve worked out a solution that’ll help you catch up.”

  “A . . . solution?”

  “Yes, I have a wonderful student who’ll tutor you.”

  Okay, this is something new. But hold up—the last thing I need is some nerdy white kid trying to make me out to be a dumb Detroit girl. “What do you mean?” I ask cautiously.

  “Here, meet Troy Benson. Troy?”

  Troy, the one who helped me in the hallway and is in my language arts class, too. Here’s the thing—all of a sudden I’m a tiny bit nervous, I mean, because he is a boy. I mean, I knew he was a boy. Obviously . . . but this is me, Genesis, working one-on-one with a boy.

  Troy strides over, grinning. His teeth are crazy white. He’d be half cute if he weren’t so dark, is what Grandma would say. Me? He’s definitely half cute.

  “My classroom is open for use during lunch or after school, if you like,” says Mr. Benjamin. “Well, I must leave you two to figure out timing—I have to prepare for my next class.”

  “I can take it from here, Mr. B.” Troy turns to me and says, “Hello, again.”

  “Hey,” I say, ignoring the fact that my hands have gone clammy.

  “Genesis, right?”

  My cheeks get hot. Chill, girl. “Yeah.”

  “So, we can meet either during lunch or after school, it doesn’t matter,” Troy tells me. “We can start out with three days a week, see how you do.”

  “How ’bout lunch?” I say.

  “Great, let’s start tomorrow,” Troy says, going back to his desk and packing up his things.

  I feel silly just standing there watching, so I ask, “Do you tutor a lot?”

  He slings the bag’s strap over his shoulder and hurries back. “Sometimes, for extra credit.” He stops, pulls out a comic book, and tucks it under his arm.

  “We were doing something else at my other school. And I just made some dumb mistakes on that assessment, that’s all,” I say, covering; I don’t want him to think I’m some moron. All these different lessons from the different schools are jumbled in my head, and I can’t sort them out.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll straighten you out; a lot of people get tripped up on math.”

  Troy and I are walking down the hall—talking. I can feel a stupid grin on my face, and I can’t stop it, can’t even say something cool like, Hey, thanks for looking out yesterday, when I was turned around. Well, that’s not exactly cool, but still, I can’t say it because my lips are frozen. And the grin’s still there even after Troy leaves for class.

  I’m totally killin’ it on day two. Not.

  I hate these shorts.

  The PE uniforms must be made weird because no matter how much I shimmy the shorts down my thighs, they still creep up when I sit, totally failing to protect my butt from the cold, hard gym floor.

  Coach Singletary is pacing back and forth in front of us, blabbing about some physical fitness test that’ll count as 75 percent of our grade. “You’ll be expected to run a full mile. Timed.” A mile? I ain’t never run that much unless I was being chased. The
n she goes on about curl-ups, push-ups, and flexibility tests. “Any questions?”

  Someone raises a hand. “Does the test start today?”

  “No, but pre-testing does. The boys will start with curl-ups and push-ups with Coach Baynor. And the girls will have the pleasure of running outside in my company.”

  “But that’s not fair,” another girl protests. “It’s freezing out there!”

  “Life’s not fair,” answers Coach. “And yes, it’s a little brisk. Just remember to pace yourselves. Don’t want you on the sidelines upchucking.” A few kids laugh. “Move. Once you get your blood flowing, you’ll warm up.”

  While the boys grab mats, we girls grudgingly follow Coach Singletary. The gym doors burst open, and a blast of chill air sends goose bumps racing up my arms. When we get to the track, I stand to the side and pretend to tie my shoes as clusters of girls jog off. Yvette and Belinda sprint away, with a few girls encircling them. Once they’re all ahead of me, I start. It takes forever to complete one puny, little lap. No, it’s not puny. It’s enormous. It’s so big that Usain Bolt himself would stop and say, “Now wait a minute.”

  By the second lap, I’m gasping for air. My arms pump harder, my entire body aches, and only the momentum carries me forward. Sweat rolls down my back. I wipe my forehead.

  My forehead.

  My hair.

  Sweat is like kryptonite to pressed hair, kinks it right up.

  “What’s the problem, Anderson?”

  “Cramp,” I lie.

  “Walk it out.”

  Coach doesn’t need to tell me twice. I mosey along, fanning my face and praying silently that my hair doesn’t get any worse than it is already. Not too far ahead, the basketball-inspecting girl with glasses from yesterday runs alone. Every so often she stops and ties her shoes, but I keep my distance. She’s not weird looking from what I can tell. She must have crooked teeth or a wandering eye or something strange about her. Why else would she be by herself? Before I know it, I find myself jogging a few feet behind her. I hang back—she’s even slower than I am—and soon my pace falls in sync with hers.