Genesis Begins Again Read online

  Suddenly, as if she has eyes in the back of her head, she spins around. “There are other lanes; can’t you find one to run in instead of following me?”

  I freeze. But no way am I gonna act afraid of a white suburban girl. “For your info,” I say, “I wasn’t following you. There’re a million girls on this track—someone’s bound to be behind you.”

  “And you just happen to be the lucky one.” She talks with a sharp twang. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you watching me.”

  I put my hand on my hip and say, “Girl, I ain’t been paying you no attention.” But I do check her out quickly—she doesn’t have a wandering eye or crooked teeth. She’s actually kinda pretty.

  The girl keeps at it. “What about on your first day, huh?”

  “I don’t know. I might’ve glanced your way.”

  “Might’ve? Really?” She raises one eyebrow.

  And I raise one too.

  We stand facing each other, ignoring the whistles and screams of Coach warning us to get back to running. Ignoring the other girls on the track who’re slowing down to examine the scene, ready to shout, Fight, fight.

  Then the girl does something unpredictable.

  She yells at the gawkers, “What’re you looking at? Haven’t you seen two people talking before? Geez!”

  Then she says, “I hate this track.”

  And I say, “We didn’t have to do this at my old school.”

  “You didn’t? You’re lucky.” White girl with glasses unties and reties her shoes, and then we walk-jog again.

  “What’s up with them making us run in the cold?” I say. “We could get the flu.”

  “Or walking pneumonia,” she adds, “and die.”

  “Well, that’s a little extreme,” I say. “But I feel you.”

  “Get outta the way!” a girl says from behind. Waves of blond and brown tresses bounce past us. “Move it, freak!” They all giggle that mean-girl giggle. I’m not sure which one of us—me, or what is her name?—they’re talking to, because we both go silent.

  Coach whistles for us to pick up the pace. We don’t. Instead, the glasses girl fools around with her shoestrings again, and I fuss with my hair. Coach is yelling and her face is getting redder and redder, and this girl is tying and retying each shoe. Just as Coach is about to have a conniption, she stands up and says, “You know what’s the worst?” She jerks her head toward the girls in front of us. “Them.”

  “No doubt,” I agree. We watch them run to the same beat like a pack of clones. Then I glance at Coach, who is now yelling at a different set of girls.

  The girl adds, “They think they’re all that, like they’re better than you or something.”

  “Me?” I ask, suddenly panicking—how did I already become their target.

  “No, other girls, in general,” she explains.

  We start back jogging. And it’s now clear to me that the girls were dissing her.

  Glasses girl is thin but not skinny. Her nose is regular, her mouth’s regular, and she has nice brown eyes. I don’t get it. Why are they slamming her? So I ask, “Why you think they be trippin’ like that?”

  She jogs a few more steps before answering. “Jealous maybe?” She adds, “Who knows?”

  Now I jog without answering because I sure as heck don’t know.

  Coach’s “Move It!” yells get louder as we round the track. “Anderson and Papageorgiou, move those legs!”

  We step it up before Coach can run behind us blowing her whistle.

  “What she call you?”

  “My name. Papageorgiou, and I don’t wanna hear a joke about it.”

  Now I know I like her. She’s tired of jokes too.

  “Just wanna know what to call you, that’s all.”

  “Sophia. Sophia Papa-gee-or-gee-oh.” She watches me.

  I don’t crack a smile or anything. “Genesis . . . Genesis Anderson. And I don’t want to hear a joke about it either.”

  And we run. My lungs feel like they’re exploding, sending sparks all through my body. But I don’t slow down. We run together. Me and Sophia.

  “See you found a friend, Papa John’s pizza,” says the red-haired girl from Ms. Luctenburg’s class.

  “I see you’re still a skinny puke face!” Sophia shouts back.

  Skinny puke face? Sophia’s comebacks are worse than mine. Regina and the girls would’ve laughed me off the block with a corny crack like that.

  “What’s the matter, Detroit?” says red’s sidekick. “Girls don’t run where you come from?”

  “Ignore them,” Sophia tells me.

  But I don’t. Might was well rep my city with a smooth-as-ice dis. Here’re a few tips learned over the last several years that I’m sure will fly out here in the ’burbs.

  Throw them off with a question while laughing like you’re wildin’ out.

  “Oh snap, did she just try to clown me?” I say to Sophia, who obviously doesn’t know the rules.

  Make strong eye contact and don’t be the first to break it.

  My eyes lock in with the red-hair girl, and she’s good. So good that I’m reminded of the stare down with Regina. But she ain’t Regina, and we’re not on a block in Detroit. Red-hair girl looks away.

  Say something bad to make them back off.

  “Keep talking. I can show you how we run in my neighborhood.” I can show you? Might as well add a “please” and “thank-you.” Ugh.

  The girls laugh, mimicking us, and trot off. I peek again at Sophia and try to figure out why she’s getting hated on. And I have no clue. Maybe I should’ve stayed alone. Alone and invisible.

  seven

  When I get home from school on Friday, Dad’s car is in the driveway. He’s been home every day this week, but never this early. I pause on the porch, thinking how Sophia’s cool to talk to and how Troy’s tutoring is actually helping. Too bad this fancy house was only temporary. But dang, I hoped it’d be more than one-week temporary! I unlock the door and go in. Huh. The furniture seems to be all in place. No boxes stacked in the middle of the room either. “Ma?”

  But still, Dad took Mama’s money, and even though she’s been chill so far, things could’ve just now hit the roof. I call out again. “Ma?”

  Mama comes out from her bedroom. “Hey, babe.” Her long ponytail swishes. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Why’s Dad home so early?” Here it comes, the bad news.

  “They switched his hours on him.” Mama leans against the wall, folding her arms. “So, how was your day?”

  “Fine.” That’s it? No “we gotta move”? “I’ll be right back,” I say and bolt to my room and make sure my hair’s not a mess, my skin’s not ashy, and my lips aren’t cracked. I smooth and brush every part of me into place and scramble back into the living room, ’cause even though Dad hasn’t drunk heavily all week, I ain’t taking any chances. But when I finish, he’s not around, so I take a seat at the base of the couch and pull out my homework. Alcoholics Anonymous pamphlets are spread out on the table. Just as I’m about to reach for one, Mama’s at my side.

  “What were you doing?” Mama asks.

  “Nothing, just had to go to the bathroom.”

  She looks at me sideways but doesn’t ask anything else. Before I get a chance to tell her about Sophia, Dad enters the room. I sit up straight and smile.

  “Chubby Cheeks” is what he greets me with.

  Hate that nickname.

  “What? You ain’t happy to see me?” he says, setting a glass on the table. The liquid is light brown, and it’s not pop.

  “Yeah.” I scoot back, gauging his mood.

  “What’s your homework?” Dad takes a seat a few feet from me.

  “Math, language arts, and stuff.”

  “History?”

  “Nope.”

  “Sharon, the girl’s got no history.”

  “Okay, Emory.” Mama goes to the kitchen.

  “It’s called social studies,” I correct him, relaxing a notch.
/>   “History’s important, remember that. Nobody taught me anything . . . no history or nothing. I had to learn it on my own. That’s why I teach you what I know.” Dad nods hard, as if agreeing with himself, then says, “In your history class, you should protest, start a demonstration or something.”

  Mama sneaks up behind Dad and tags him on the arm with a dish towel. “Emory, why you putting that foolishness in her head? A demonstration, really? You’re so full of it.” Then she heads back to the kitchen.

  “I’m just teasing the girl.” Teasing is what I don’t want. I smooth my hair down again, even though right now he’s cool. “Your mama can hear trees fall in the forest.” He leans over to me and says, “You don’t have to start a big protest, just a small peaceful one.”

  “I can still hear you,” Mama calls out.

  “All right, all right, I’m done messing.” Dad leans back and closes his eyes, or “checks the inside of his eyelids” as he calls it.

  “Hey, Dad, what’s up with that new job?”

  “I’m working on it,” he says, opening his eyes.

  “She doesn’t understand what ‘working on it’ means,” Mama says loudly.

  “These things take time,” he hollers back, then presses his lips together. I’ve got those same lips. They’re dark. Real dark. As soon as I’m old enough, I’m gon’ keep them covered with pink or maybe purple lip gloss.

  Dad starts nodding again, then raises his head. “Gen-Gen, did I ever tell you—”

  “Wait,” I interrupt him. “I got one. Have you ever heard of Peg Leg Joe?”

  He pulls on his mustache, mulling it over. “Naw, can’t say I have.”

  “What about the drinking gourd?”

  “The drinking gourd?”

  I grin because I can’t believe I’m stumping Dad. “Time’s up! The drinking gourd is the code name for the Big Dipper that the slaves used to escape.”

  “Yeah, I heard of the Big Dipper, but you threw me off with the Peg Leg part.” Dad adds, “That ain’t something that was taught when I was in school, you know? ’Sides, don’t nobody wanna be reminded we were slaves. You feel me? I don’t even watch movies with ’em in it . . . makes me mad.”

  “But this is a good story.” I then repeat all of what Mrs. Hill told me.

  “Yeah, that’s a good one, Gen-Gen,” Dad agrees when I’m done. “Now, have I ever told you about someone who fasted for twenty-one days?” He gives me a smile just like he gives Mama. “Come here . . .”

  I slide closer and sit at his feet. “Twenty-one days is like forever. I bet you it wasn’t a kid,” I guess.

  “You’re right. It was this dude named Gandhi, and he fasted as a means of protest.”

  “No kid in their right mind would commit to starving just to make a point. Heck, my protest wouldn’t last five minutes.” And Dad laughs. He does. He laughs!

  My dad’s a talking, walking Wikipedia. When he’s in a good mood he teaches me all types of stuff. He told me why a marching band parades down the streets in New Orleans during a funeral. How a girl named Anne Frank hid in an attic with her family because she was Jewish. And that Christopher Columbus didn’t really discover America, since Native Americans were already living here.

  “But you see,” Wikipedia Dad goes on, “Gandhi had a vision of peace . . . way across the ocean in India, with all the hustle and bustle of cars driving through crowded streets and cows crossing right in the middle of roads, there was this little man . . .”

  Closing my eyes, I imagine what this Gandhi guy looks like. My father’s deep voice carries me across the wide waters. And I soar across India, catch a delicious whiff of chicken from a vendor, watch men driving motorbikes through crammed roads, and hear hypnotic music from stringed instruments. I land beside Gandhi, sitting cross-legged on a rug. He’s a small, brown, bald man.

  “Emory, you talk like you were Gandhi’s right-hand man or something.” Mama’s interruption lands me back into our living room. I was so into the story that I didn’t even hear her creeping up on us.

  “How you know I wasn’t?” He turns back to me. “Ay, Gen, I was like, ‘Yo, Gandhi, if you wanna gain worldwide attention, don’t eat the food. People’ll get suspicious thinking the government planted something in it, and they’ll fast with you.’ See, that’s what they don’t tell you in those history books.”

  “Emory, stop talking crazy. I don’t want Genesis repeating that nonsense at school.”

  “It’s better than what they’re teaching her.” Dad squeezes my elbow, asking, “They ever teach you about Gandhi?”

  “No.”

  “See what I mean, Sharon? She can learn more from me than them.” Dad winks at me.

  “Not with you sprinkling in only half the truth. I don’t want my baby going around talking outta the side of her neck.” Mama smiles though, and I know she’s just giving him the business.

  “Yeah, I hear you.” Dad reaches for his glass, but then he pauses. For a few seconds it’s as if he’s hypnotized, then he shakes his head, breaking free. Dad doesn’t take a drink, surprisingly, but instead pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and slides one out.

  I’m stumped, wondering what that was all about. Does he feel bad for stealing from Mama, and trying to really slow his drinking roll? Or, have the lemons worked, and I’m too blind to notice? Yeah, I wish.

  “Emory,” Mama says, her voice going high. “You agreed not to smoke in this house . . . it’s too nice to be smelling up.”

  “Yep, that’s what I promised.” Dad stands, thrusting out his arms, stretching. “I’ll smoke in the backyard.”

  Mama shut down our precious moment, but before he leaves I try to grab it back. “Wait, Dad, what happened to him? That Gandhi guy?”

  “Not much, I told you the important parts for now, anyway.”

  “Got another story?”

  “Naw, baby girl. I’ve got nothing else. ’Sides, I don’t want your mama mad at me. You see the way she beat me with that dish towel?” He rubs his tagged arm and starts humming a tune unfamiliar to me.

  “Dad, did you know someone fasted even longer than Gandhi?”

  “Who?”

  “Jesus. For forty days and forty nights. That’s what the Bible says, anyway.”

  He winks at me. Again. To be real with you, one of Dad’s winks is worth putting up with him calling me Chubby Cheeks.

  It’s late at night, maybe already early morning, when I smell it. The aroma travels down the hall, slips under my bedroom door, and circles my nose. Toward the kitchen I creep, taking extra care not to creak the floorboards. Dad stands barefoot with flour powdering his fingers, singing. I want to sing right along like that Black girl did in the movie Annie. A couple of years ago, Mama rented the DVD. Anyway, in my imagination, I’d be Annie and Dad’ll play the man part, and we’d hold hands and tap-dance all over these wooden floors.

  Even though I can’t tap-dance, I join in singing, quiet at first, “I’ve got so much honey, the bees envy me.” Dad cocks his head and listens. Then a little louder, “Oh, ooh . . .”

  “I’ve got a sweeter song,” Dad sings.

  “Than the birds in the trees.” I make sure my hair scarf is tight and in place on my head, and then step into the kitchen.

  Dad laughs and says, “Baby girl, what you doing up?”

  “About to eat some shrimp.”

  “You love some food, just like your daddy.” Dad picks up a raw plump piece and hands it to me. “The trick to getting the shrimp just right is all in the batter. You’ve got to add just the right amount of seasoning”—he holds open a brown paper bag and I dump the shrimp in, a small cloud of flour puffs out—“and the right amount of shaking.” He shakes the bag four times. He pulls out the flour-coated shrimp and drops it in the hot grease. “Then, the right amount of cooking. Shrimp cooks up fast. Two minutes tops.”

  I get the plates and hot sauce and set them on the table. “Dad, it’s like you don’t listen to the radio at all. You do kn
ow there’re some modern songs out, right?”

  “Gen, how I look like trying to sing Trey Songz without a six-pack?” Dad says, patting his stomach.

  “You got a point,” I joke.

  Dad spoons out the shrimp and lays them on a pan lined with paper towels to catch the grease. “Back when I was a knuckle-headed teenager, I used to hang out at this auto repair garage owned by this old man named Luther. Anyway, Ol’ Luther tried to teach me about cars and stuff, keep me out of trouble. He played Motown all the time . . . couldn’t stand it at first.” I nodded, but I had no clue where Dad was going with the story. He continues, “Now it makes me remember those times, those good times, see?”

  “I guess,” I say, yawning. “Hey, what’s that song, the other song, you always humming to yourself?”

  Dad gazes up at the ceiling, like he’s trying to remember which one. “Oh, that’s an old blues song. Used to be my mama’s favorite.” Before I can ask him the name, he tells me to take my seat at the kitchen table, and then he sets six big shrimp on my plate.

  “Blow ’em, they’re hot,” he warns.

  I bite into one. The outside’s crispy and spicy, and the inside’s soft and juicy. The shrimp’s so good that I wiggle my toes. He laughs and takes a bite of his; crumbs hang from the tip of his mustache and jiggle as he chews.

  Dad’s a better cook than Mama. He tells me he learned as a little boy growing up down south, in Arkansas. It’s true because a long time ago he showed me an old, beat-up photo of him, his brother, and his mom at the stove cooking. Even though I never met them, their faces are etched in my mind.

  This, for whatever reason, makes me think of Mrs. Hill sitting on her grandpa’s lap. I’m not about to sit on Dad’s legs, but it seems like a good time for some family history. Dad won’t ever talk about his mother, but he could at least tell me about his brother.

  “Dad?”

  He raises his head, licking hot sauce from his fingertips.

  “How come you never talk about your brother? Mama told me he died from rabies, is that why?”

  I don’t know if it’s because the shrimp’s so good or because it’s just us two, but Dad actually lets loose. “No, it’s because . . .” Dad pauses, as if his words are stuck. “Charlie was my best friend.”