Genesis Begins Again Page 7

  In my mind, I see Charlie. He was taller, thinner, and much, much lighter than Dad.

  Dad spends a long time sucking the little bitty meat out of a shrimp tail, probably picturing his brother too, and now the story’s most likely going to end. Then Dad stuns me by adding, “He was ’bout eleven. I was eight. We used to play in this old abandoned house, a lot of kids played there. But this day, we climbed into the attic . . . and we got to throwing rocks and pieces of wood, busting out the last of the windows. Just messing around, you know. Then . . .” Dad rubs his head like the next thought hurt it. “All of a sudden, there was fluttering all around; we thought it was just birds. Until Charlie screamed. He was screaming, ‘Get ’em away! Get ’em away!’ They were bats.” Dad waves his hand, fighting imaginary bats. “So many of ’em . . . flying around his head, and I was trying to get them away . . . get him away.”

  “Dang,” I say, visualizing the whole scene. “I thought he got rabies from a dog. He got it from bats?”

  Dad nods.

  “Well, how come y’all just didn’t take him to a doctor?”

  “He was so busy jumping that he didn’t even know he actually got bit.” Dad’s voice chokes up for real now. “Not till it was too late.”

  Rabies from a bat? No wonder Dad doesn’t talk about it; he’s still fighting bats.

  Dad clears his throat and goes on. “Charlie was fine, at first. Then he started complaining about his brain, said it wasn’t thinking right. My mama gave him aspirin. This happened more times, but we couldn’t make heads or tails of it, you know. Then a few weeks later he got real sick. It was too late by then.”

  “Too late for what?”

  “To help him.” Dad’s face goes tight. “That’s what the doctor said. . . .”

  Hold up, I got more questions—how long after until Charlie died, what did his mama do, and what else happened after Charlie’s mind wasn’t thinking? But it doesn’t look like Dad can handle any more, because he takes out his cigarettes, lights one, and takes a long drag. An end of conversation drag. And I’m not about to remind him that he’s not supposed to be smoking inside. He probably needs it right about now.

  When Dad stubs out the cigarette, I try to make him feel better, complimenting, “Your shrimp’s the best.” Then smile big.

  He stares at me.

  “What?” I ask, bracing myself.

  “You’ve got your mama’s smile. Never really noticed before.”

  I got Mama’s smile? My heart’s knocking in my chest. I got Mama’s smile? Right then, I’m aching to tell Dad about Troy and my tutoring, about Jason and his stupid sidekick. I want him to know how Mrs. Hill had the nerve to compare me to Miles Davis.

  “Your mama got a smile that’ll make a man spend all his money.” He eases back in the chair and his big, round belly rises and falls with each breath. His sad eyes get brighter as he goes on. “I couldn’t take my eyes off her . . . simply divine.”

  Even though my hair scarf is tied on my head like an old maid’s and the lemons hadn’t changed me in the least, I dare ask, “Am I simply divine? Like Mama?”

  Dad reaches over and covers my hand with his. But he doesn’t answer my question. Just as I’m about to cop an attitude and be like, “Forget it,” I hear his brother Charlie’s screams, Get ’em away! Now, how can I get mad when Dad’s got all that inside him? So I settle with at least knowing I got Mama’s smile.

  eight

  Another week flies by without any arguing. It’s as if Mama’s forgotten about Dad thieving, ’cause all she does is rave about the washer and dryer. “Thank God I don’t have to haul these clothes to the Laundromat and spend the whole day fighting for a machine!” Me? Well, I’m finding my rhythm at school, and have yet to be called Blackie or Ratchet. Plus, Sophia and I are getting along pretty well. But I’m still struggling with math. Troy’s been patient with me; I’ll give him that.

  “So, what’s the first thing you’ll do to solve for x?”

  Troy’s waiting for an answer, and I remind myself to focus. “Add five?”

  “I told you! You know this!” he says happily.

  “How’d you get so good at this stuff?” I ask, hardly believing I can answer a math question like this after just a week of tutoring. Troy’s good.

  “I didn’t have much choice. My parents are kind of strict.”

  I’m about to say that he doesn’t look like the type who’d have strict parents, but then realize I don’t know what that type actually looks like. I say, “Really?”

  “Yeah, it’s just me and my sister, Drew. We both have to have straight As or else.”

  “Or else what?” I ask, my mind’s buzzing with consequences: no video games, no TV, no hanging out, no cell phone, no what?

  “I don’t know. We never chance it.” Troy laughs. “I remember when I was in fourth grade and Drew was in sixth, my mom made us read two books.”

  “What do you mean ‘she made you’?”

  “I mean, she didn’t let us choose our own. We had to read The Souls of Black Folk by W. E. B. Du Bois.”

  “No offense, but that sounds kinda boring,” I say, wondering why the heck his mother would make him read something like that.

  Troy laughs again.

  “For real. I don’t even know who he is,” I add.

  He shakes his head like he doesn’t believe me.

  “Don’t look at me like that! All they ever teach during Black History Month is Martin Luther King, Rosa Parks, and Harriet Tubman. Anybody else, then you’re on your own.”

  “You’re right,” Troy agrees. “Just so you’ll know, W. E. B. Du Bois was one of the founders of the NAACP. And it really wasn’t all that boring, but my mom wasn’t making us read it for entertainment. Her thing was, she wanted us to know that no matter where we came from, we can still be great, you know?”

  I wonder if Dad ever heard of this W. E. B. Du Bois. “But in fourth grade?” I ask. “She couldn’t wait till you were in high school? Dang.”

  “You don’t know my mom.”

  “Okay, what was the other book?”

  “The other one was The Autobiography of Malcolm X.”

  “Malcolm X? Okay, I heard of him. There’re always ‘Brothers of the Nation’ at a corner selling bean pies or their Final Call newspapers.” Troy eyes me funny, so I add, “Well, not out here in Farmington Hills, they don’t. But in Detroit—whatever, never mind. So, why’d you have to read that one?”

  “Well, my dad wanted me to ’cause he says the book changed his life. And my mom went along with it because she wants me to know what it feels like to question things and think for myself.”

  “That’s wild.” For some reason, maybe ’cause Troy’s so smart, I assumed they’d be sitting around the house reading stuff like Shakespeare.

  “Yep, kind of wild. My mom is no joke. My dad is hard-core, too.” Troy refocuses on my homework, pointing to the next problem, but I keep talking.

  “What do they do?”

  “My mom, she’s a chemical engineer, and my dad’s a graphic designer.” Suddenly I’m hoping like mad that he doesn’t ask me the same question. I don’t want to answer with my dad’s a plant worker and my mom cleans up old people.

  “So.” Troy taps the paper again. “What will it be?”

  “I’ll add five to both sides.” I scribble +5 on each side of 3x – 5 = 13.

  “Then?”

  I picture the numbers in my head and struggle not to use my fingers. “Then I’ll divide by three?” Troy raises an eyebrow. “I’ll then divide by three,” I say more confidently.

  Troy nudges me with his elbow. “See, you’ve got this!” I hold in a grin that’s threatening to pop open. “You should be proud,” he goes on. “You’re catching on quick.”

  “I guess I am,” I say, flashing him my best “Mama” smile. “I never could understand this stuff before, but you explain it way better than any teacher.”

  And I can’t quit cheesing because I’m feeling pretty stoked fo
r understanding this stuff—finally.

  There are two more things that are different about Farmington Oaks Middle. One, at my old schools, you only ate in the cafeteria. Period. Here, we can leave the lunchroom after we’ve finished eating or even take food to go (some kids eat outside!). And two: the library. When Sophia first asked me to meet her here, I had no idea what to expect. This place is gigantic! Like a real public library, with computers and wall-to-wall books, and hardly any empty spaces on the shelves! I find myself still getting lost in the titles. Breadcrumbs. York. Out of My Mind. And, they even have a lot with Black people on the covers. Bud, Not Buddy. As Brave As You. Brown Girl Dreaming. The Jumbies. Gone Crazy in Alabama. Farmington Oaks has all the Harry Potters, too! Every one of them! So many books to choose that I snatch several from the shelves and stack them in my arms.

  “You’re checking out all those books?” Sophia takes the top one, examining its cover.

  “Yep.”

  “How’re you going to read ’em all before they’re due?” Sophia puts the book back. “You only need one.”

  She’s right. I only need one, so I check out Brown Girl Dreaming because . . . well, the title. I’ll have to read twice as fast to get through all these before we have to move again. We find two beanbags in an isolated corner. Sophia arranges and rearranges her seat about ten times before she actually sits. I try to read, but what the heck is she doing? When she finally starts reading, Sophia turns a page, then she almost immediately flips back as if she has to read the last passage again because it’s that good.

  “Why’re you watching me?” Sophia says, without looking up from her book.

  “I’m not watching you . . . I was . . . thinking,” I cover.

  “Fine then, about what?”

  I pause.

  Sophia says, “See, you weren’t thinking, you were watching me.”

  “I was too thinking. It’s just . . . corny, that’s all.”

  “All right, let’s hear it.” She sits up on one elbow.

  “Well,” I say, quickly making up my response, “I was thinking that it’s awesome here, you know . . . with the beanbags . . . and computers . . . and the colors.” Sophia waits for me, that one eyebrow cocked, and I decide to be real. “Okay, so what’s up with you not hanging out with any of the other girls?”

  “Whatever!” She catches herself and lowers her voice. “These girls are so fake. They’ll smile in your face and stab you in the back with a butcher’s knife.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say, remembering how Regina went right back to calling me Char when she saw our furniture on the curb. Still, I can’t help picturing girl cliques strutting down the halls together, and how I’m usually the one standing on the sidelines, watching instead of being watched. And I had that with Regina and them, even if it was just for a hot minute. And it felt great. So I say, “But wouldn’t it be kinda cool to have a crew?”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” She takes off her glasses and rubs the lenses vigorously with a small cloth. “I don’t need a bunch of fake friends. I only need one. One real friend.” She holds her glasses to the light and rubs the lenses again. “Really, it’s like, one minute you’re ‘BFFs’ and then the next . . .” Sophia shakes her head.

  “That’s the story of my life,” I agree.

  “Besides, I’ve got five brothers, my grandma, my ma, my dad, and my aunts, uncles, and their kids at our house almost all the time.” Sophia wriggles around, adjusting herself until she’s just right and says, “This place is a good place to just . . . chill.”

  “Hold on, five brothers?” If I had five brothers, man, I’d rule Detroit. “That’s what’s up.”

  “Not always,” Sophia says. “It gets pretty loud.”

  It’s sort of the opposite at my house. Sometimes it’s too quiet with just me, Mama, and Dad. Well, unless he’s drunk or something. Otherwise—quiet-ville. Which makes me curious—if Sophia comes here for quiet, then won’t all our yakking disturb it? “If you want chill, then why’d you invite me here?”

  “Maybe because . . . you’re new?” Sophia fusses with her glasses again, even though they appear to be spotless. “I don’t know. Maybe because you don’t know me, and I don’t know you.”

  My mind flashes back to how she ran alone on the track that first day, now I feel guilty for having thought she was weird in some way. And I get it: Sophia likes that we’re on an even playing field. No outsiders. No third party. Just us.

  nine

  Mrs. Hill is not in the classroom when I enter.

  “Here she comes,” says Smart-Mouth Terrance, who happens to be brown as mud. I glance behind me, but Mrs. Hill isn’t there. “Our first international student!”

  He sweeps his hand in my direction. “All the way from Africa!” He’s so wack that he doesn’t even know that African jokes are played out. He’s still probably calling kids African booty-scratcher, and I haven’t heard that since second grade. I could crack about how dark he is, but my grandma taught me not to be talking ignorant like that in front of white folks. Anyway, I’ve heard all these lame jokes a million times already. There’re plenty to throw back at him. You so black that you leave fingerprints on charcoal. . . . When you go swimming, it looks like an oil spill. . . . When you showed up at night school, the teacher marked you absent.

  “Shut up, Terrance. You’re such a jerk.” Yvette flips her hand at him as if he’s a pesky gnat. “Ignore him,” she says to me. “He’s a jerk to everyone.”

  I offer a small smile as thanks, and she gives me a “No problem, I’ve got your back” nod. Then she turns to her friend as I hurry to my seat.

  Even though Terrance tried to play me, I’m feeling pretty good because:

  #1. A dark girl stood up for me. Solidarity!

  #2. That’s never ever happened before.

  #3. The jerk actually shuts up.

  #4. No one’s paying me any attention.

  #5. No one’s paying him any attention.

  #6. Yvette gets me.

  Mrs. Hill finally arrives, chatting with Nia like they’re good friends. I’ve never peeped Nia talking to any of the other students. What’s up with that? In sixth grade, this girl named Shatasha said that light-skin girls think they’re better than everybody else. She wasn’t the only one who said it, either. That’s probably Nia’s deal.

  Mrs. Hill settles the class, and we get started. “I’ll hear if you all practiced,” she says with a smile, standing behind her music stand. After she leads us through vocal warm-ups, she holds up her hands like an orchestra leader and says, “Let’s begin.” Everyone starts singing “The Drinking Gourd.” I sing, but not loud, because even though Mrs. Hill says to leave all worries outside the door, it’s kind of hard to do now that the song reminds me of Uncle Charlie’s story. Heck, it was because of Mrs. Hill talking about family history that I even pried in the first place.

  “Stop, stop, stop. Something’s not quite right.” Mrs. Hill presses her fingertips together under her chin like she’s praying. “Jeremy, let me hear you sing it.”

  “By myself?”

  “Yes, of course.” She does this with several more students. “Eloise, breathe deep into your diaphragm like I showed you . . . that’s better. Belinda, let’s hear you . . . good pitch. All together now . . . stop, stop, stop.”

  Yvette raises her hand. “Mrs. Hill, I think we sound good. At least, I do anyways.” She shakes her bangs out of her face.

  “You all sound good, I agree, but it’s more than just sounding good. When it comes to a song like this, it’s about reaching deep into your personal experiences and using your emotions to sing. Try recalling a moment in your life that has made an impact, whether it be hurtful, shameful, or even joyous. . . . Can you see how there’s a passion and desperation in it?” Mrs. Hill pauses and gives us time to meditate on that.

  “What if you can’t think of anything?” asks Eloise.

  “I have an idea. I have a little imagery exercise that might help you con
nect with a strong emotion.” Mrs. Hill picks up a drum from the corner of the room. “Okay, so, everyone, close your eyes.” She waits a moment, probably until every eye is shut, and then she begins tapping the drum. Bum-badum-bum-bum-badum-bum . . .

  “Imagine if you can, that you’re running for your life. You’re hungry and exhausted and your feet are blistered and bloodied. If you’re caught that means death to you, your mother, father . . . and your little sister or brother will receive the worst lashing of their lives.”

  Mrs. Hill leads us to visualize ourselves running through woods and bushes. At first, there’re a few giggles and yawns. She thumps the drum harder, and soon my heart is pounding along with the beat. Then Mrs. Hill begins to hum. I try to dig deep and picture myself running through trees, but I only see me on the stupid track at gym with my hair kinking up. I open my eyes. One of the guys is staring off into space.

  “Keep your eyes closed,” Mrs. Hill says. “Now, see yourself hiding in the swamp. Hear the hooves of horses and barking of dogs. They’re getting closer and closer. You’re stuck with no way out. Are you well hidden?”

  I’ve been in two other chorus classes and none of the teachers ever did anything like this.

  Fine. I close my eyes again.

  Bum-badum-bum-bum-badum-bum . . .

  There’s Regina and her silly squad parading through my house laughing and pointing. I want to run and shut my bedroom door. Except, there aren’t doors on lawns.

  I squeeze my eyes tight. And now I see bats . . . bats swarming around little Charlie’s head. And Dad’s small arms waving frantically. I hear Charlie screaming, Get ’em away! Get ’em away! Quick, I open my eyes.

  Bum-badum-bum-bum-badum-bum . . .

  “Your heart beats hard and fast. You’re so close to freedom. . . .”

  The boom, boom, tap of the drum sounds like menacing footsteps.

  Again, I close my eyes.

  Bum-badum-bum-bum-badum-bum . . .