Before, After, and Somebody In Between Page 11

  Talk about him? I can’t even think about Bubby. If I think about him now, I’ll go crazy for sure.

  Jerome surprises me then by reaching for my books. He curls a cold hand around one of mine and says, “Okay, forget it. We gonna be late.”

  So he doesn’t hate me after all, which means he doesn’t know about the money. For the first time in days my brain doesn’t feel like somebody’s mashing it through a meat grinder. Finally I can breathe. Finally I can cry. And I do exactly that as he pulls me along the icy sidewalk.

  23

  Life, more or less, returns to “normal”—but of course that doesn’t last. A week before Christmas vacation, I come home from school to find Momma and Wayne huddled together on the couch, drinking as usual, but now toking as well. Looking guilty as hell for one microsecond, Momma struggles to sit up, figures it’s too much effort, and falls back into the cushions.

  Wayne cocks a jolly brow. Hard to believe this is the same guy who once gave me money for a cello. “Take a hike, little girl.”

  Seething, I stomp off to the kitchen. My day has already sucked beyond belief. Now this?

  Shavonne’s been absent for a couple of days, and I’m dying to know why. I punch her number into the phone and stretch the raggedy phone cord into my room so I can have some privacy, and not inhale those putrid fumes.

  “So what’s up?” I ask her. “Where’ve you been?”

  “My mom ain’t doin’ so hot. She wants me to stay home with her for a while.”

  “How long is a while?”

  “Till my Aunt Bernice gets here, whenever that’s gonna be.” Shavonne changes the subject before I can bring up the fact that there’s a law somewhere that says kids have to go to school. “How’s Blubber Butt treating you these days?”

  “Shitty as usual. Today she trashed my books. Called me a cu—” I stop, embarrassed. Believe it or not, there are some words in the English language even I can’t say out loud. “Then she shoved me into the lockers, and I’d be dead right now if Finelli hadn’t come out and kicked her fat ass down the hall.”

  Shavonne snickers. “Damn, I can’t leave you alone for a second.”

  “And you know what he said? He said they’ve been trying to get rid of her for years, and that the only way to do it is to, like, document stuff.” I pause dramatically. “So now I’m supposed to write down everything she does to me.”

  “And do what with it?”

  “Duh. Turn it in.”

  “Who to?”

  “To Mr. Johnson. The principal?” I remind her, in case she already forgot.

  Shavonne blows out a snort. “That freaky old troll? What’s he gonna do?” My thought exactly. “You’re not gonna do it, are you?”

  “Hell, yeah! I’m sick of that bitch, and I got two more years to get through.”

  “Well, hate to say it, sister-girl,” Shavonne says sorrowfully, “but you are one dead honky bitch.”

  She might be right. Ratting out Chardonnay might make things worse, but maybe not. What if it works? If I write everything down, and if Mr. Finelli’s on my side, maybe people like Mrs. Bigelow won’t be so quick to blow me off.

  …

  It starts again the next day, the second I get to homeroom. Miss Fuchs is late, so Chardonnay grabs the chance and tosses my books into the aisle.

  Inhaling deeply, I ask politely, “Aren’t you sick of this yet?”

  “Hell, no!” She blasts me with halitosis.

  Calmly I pick up my books, flip open a notebook, and write: 7:47 a.m.—knocked my books on the floor.

  Pure confusion. “What’s that, bitch?”

  7:48 a.m.—called me a bitch.

  Chardonnay snatches my notebook. Thump-thump-thump-thump. Deafened by my heartbeat, I hold my ground. “Give it back, please.”

  “Fuck’s this? You keepin’ notes on me?”

  Thump-thump-thump-thump. “Give it back, Chardonnay.”

  “Sure.” She flings it across the room, then clamps down on my arm, pinching my skin like a pair of pliers. “Look, you. I ain’t forgot how you done me at that party, and now you turning into a snitch? You wanna get me kicked out? You want me to do this whole fuckin’ year over?”

  “That is so not my problem,” I squeak, struggling to get my arm back.

  She bunches her forehead, her eyes glittery slivers. “Oh, yeah? Maybe I’m gonna make it your problem, you lying sneakin’—” And blah, blah, blah while the rest of the class sits riveted to what might very well turn out to be murder in broad daylight. “So whaddaya say to that?” she ends with delight.

  Part of me truly wants to be reasonable. The other part figures she’s so out of control, nothing I say can possibly make it worse.

  I yank my throbbing arm free, and the second part wins. “I say go fuck yourself.”

  Faster than a rattlesnake, she jerks the front of my sweater. I can feel her knuckles all knotted in the material, digging into my chest. With all the adrenaline firing through my veins, though, I’m not as afraid as I should be.

  “I still got that knife, and I ain’t triflin’ with you now. Next time I catch you alone? Girl, I’m gonna slice you open like a big fat tomato and stuff your guts up your—”

  “Chardonnay! What—are—you—doing?” Miss Fuchs, finally.

  Finger by finger, Chardonnay lets go of my sweater and sings, “Nothing, Miz Feeyooks.”

  I bite my tongue and go pick up my notebook. One minute ago I was feeling so brave. Now I’m rigid with fear and about to collapse. Shakily I scrawl: 7:50 a.m.—grabbed my sweater, said next time she catches me alone, she will slice me with a knife like a big fat tomato.

  A big fat tomato?

  That does it. I smack my notebook shut.

  “You go, girl!” Kenyatta hollers as I march out on rubbery legs, ignoring Miss Fuchs’s feeble protest. Who cares if the whole school thinks I’m a rat fink? I am not putting up with this shit any longer.

  Down in the principal’s office, old Mr. Johnson’s not impressed with my measly notes. He does send for Chardonnay, though, which was not part of my plan. “She’ll just deny it. Why don’t you ask somebody else? Ask Kenyatta. She saw the whole thing.”

  Sweat gleams along the fuzzy rim of Mr. Johnson’s ancient brown dome. Bet he’s not used to little white girls mouthing off to him in his own domain. “I’m not dragging other students into this, so pipe down now and get back to class.”

  Pipe down? Does he think I’m making this up? Incensed, I fling myself out of the office.

  After lunch, I find this on my locker, scrawled down the length of the door in black magic marker:

  I stare at the message, mouth dry, throat stuffed with cotton.

  She means it this time. There is no doubt in my mind.

  My next class is algebra, and that room is right across from the Life-Skills-for-Dummies Center, which is where Chardonnay goes at this time to learn how to, you know, fry up bologna and stuff. Usually she hangs around in the hall, waiting for poor unsuspecting me. Today, I’m sure, will not be an exception.

  Today, however, I bet she does more than call me names. You can get a knife past the metal detectors—remember the one I saw in homeroom that first day? Since I can’t prove she wrote this, there’s no point in running back to the office. Old Mr. Johnson’s not about to dust my locker for prints.

  Not caring who sees me—and I’m sure that’ll be Miss Lopez, jogging down the hall now in her sweaty double-knit shorts—I run out the nearest door and head straight home. Momma’s nowhere in sight, and Wayne, mesmerized by a fiery NASCAR wreck on TV, doesn’t hear me tiptoe in and snatch a couple of beer cans out of the fridge.

  After I finish the second one, I know these won’t do the trick. True, I feel buzzed and dizzy, but also bloated and nauseous. Worse, all I can think about is what Chardonnay wrote on my locker, and there’s not enough beer in the world to erase those words from my mind.

  So, with shaky hands dripping with sweat, I swipe another beer and pop two of
those Percodans. Soon my limbs dissolve into puddles of melted wax, and everything bad trickles out of my brain. Chardonnay, Momma, Wayne…even Bubby, because Bubby’s always in my mind, even when I pretend he isn’t.

  Well, now I see exactly why people get high! Who wouldn’t want to feel this wonderful every second of the day?

  I hear the phone ringing, far away, like from the bottom of a well. And Wayne’s voice, a bit louder: “No, her momma ain’t feelin’ so good…Yep, I’ll tell her…”

  The school, no doubt, ratting me out for bailing. Yeah, he’ll tell Momma. If he can wake her up, that is.

  …

  My own shriek of surprise is what wakes me up when Wayne grabs the back of my hoody and drags me out of bed.

  “Nap’s over!” he yells.

  “Get off me!” I fling my hands back to push him away, and accidentally poke him in the eye—gro-oss!—but all he does is yank me closer.

  “Hey, I got a call from your principal! Cuttin’ school, huh?”

  “Where’s my mom!” I yelp as I twist out of my hoody, leaving it dangling from his fist. He simply drops the hoody, and snatches my ponytail instead. “Ow! Let go of me, freak!”

  “You wanna talk to your momma? Go right ahead.” Hauling me by my hair, he whacks Momma’s door with his boot. “Hey Lou Ann, c’mon out! Your little girl here’s got something to say to you, honey.”

  He squashes my face into the door. I scream for Momma, but no, she doesn’t answer, she won’t help me, and I know I’m alone, just me and Wayne—and if I don’t do something now, what’s he gonna do to me? So with a Jackie Chan howl, I slam my fist into his nose, blinding us both with a spray of bright blood.

  One frozen second of disbelief, and then Wayne lets out a roar and chases me to my room. This time, however, I remember to fight back. I shriek my lungs out, throwing everything I can get my hands on straight at his head till he grabs me, forces me to my knees—and suddenly lets go.

  I scramble away, sucking in mouthfuls of oxygen. I swear I’m hallucinating because I see Jerome in the doorway, pointing a gun at Wayne. “Get away from her, asshole.”

  Face rabid, Wayne warns, “You put that thing down and get the hell outta here, punk!”

  “No,” Jerome says quietly. “You get out.”

  I know what Wayne’s thinking because I’m thinking the same thing. Geeky little Jerome? This can’t be happening.

  Stunned, bloodied, Wayne slowly backs off. Then, unbelievably, he strolls out of my room and out of the house.

  All those guns in that living room cabinet. Hunting rifles and pistols, World War II relics, even an AK-47, and one with a bayonet. Bet he never once imagined that somebody might use one of them on him.

  Tears and snot run down my face as Jerome kneels beside me and hands me my glasses. “Martha, don’t move. I’m gonna go call the cops.”

  “No, don’t!” I whimper, clutching at his leg. “All they’ll do is arrest you.”

  “What for? For this?” He twirls the gun in disbelief. “It’s our word against his.” I shake my head fiercely. “Well, at least tell your mom!”

  Ha! Tell my mom? Where was Momma ten minutes ago? Why didn’t she help me? I know she heard me screaming. “You’re so clueless, Jerome. My mom’s crazy, okay? I mean ser-i-ous-ly crazy.”

  Jerome squeezes my hand and holds it a minute till I feel calmer, safer, till the insanity passes. And that’s when he does it—he ducks his head and kisses me quickly, a nice normal kiss with no tongues involved. I lean against him, and he leans against me, and I wish we could stay like this all night long.

  “Would you really have done it?” I whisper. “Shoot him, I mean?”

  “Hell, yeah!” I see a look of sheer fury in his smoky dark eyes as he spins the gun on his finger in that nerve-wracking way. “I’d shoot him in a sec. Him, and those bastards that murdered my little boo. If I ever get a chance…” He swallows hard. “Man, I miss Bubby. I miss him so much.”

  I try to pull my hand away, but he won’t let go, so I just stare at the floor, chewing my lip, praying he won’t say another word about Bubby.

  Jerome’s hand tightens over mine. “You gotta talk about him sometime, you know.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I mean I don’t want to,” I finally admit.

  “Why you keep acting like he never been born? You ain’t the only one hurtin’, you know. You think I ain’t hurtin’?”

  “I don’t care, Jerome!”

  He looks hurt for about one second, and pitches my hand aside. “Yeah? Well, I got a news flash for you—Bubby was my brother, not yours.” I kick out at him, but he catches my ankle. “Girl, you so stuck on yourself, sometimes it makes me sick.”

  Stuck on myself? I open my mouth, never mind that he’s right, I am a stuck-up bitch, and Momma’s been saying that my whole life.

  But then I can hear the popping of those bullets again, and the screams, and the sirens, and the shattering glass—and then Jerome pulls me closer and says, very softly, “Granny says it was just Bubby’s time.”

  I’d argue with this—but instead, I start crying. “I miss him so much!” And I keep saying this over and over while Jerome pats my head. Probably the same way Luther Lee Washington patted his dog, Ole Marvin, before somebody ran him over and then nobody would tell Luther Lee…and now I see why, because it hurts too much. Maybe it’s better to pretend.

  “I know. Me, too. I miss him a lot.”

  I want to tell him about the money, I really do want to confess. But Momma’s door swings open with a heavy whack, and there she stands in nothing but her underpants, gigantic breasts slumped down to her belly.

  “Sugar pie? That you?” Glistening eyes wander, trying to focus.

  “Ho-ly shit,” Jerome whispers as we climb to our feet. She must’ve peed herself because it’s all we can smell.

  “Where’s Wa-ayne? I want Wa-ayne.”

  She doesn’t ask about me. Only Wayne, because that’s who she cares about.

  “Momma. Go to bed.” She reaches out, still whining for Wayne, and I shove her away as hard as I can. “I said go back to bed! You make me sick!”

  Sobbing, Momma stumbles back to her room. I hear the lock snap behind her, and for once I’m glad.

  “Holy shit,” Jerome repeats, immobilized by horrid fascination. “What’s that all about? Is she psycho or something?”

  “Didn’t I tell you she’s crazy? Maybe now you’ll believe me.”

  The spell is broken, and it’s too late for me to confess. And I’m starting to feel sorry I let him kiss me like that. How can we ever go back to being buddies again?

  I avoid his gaze. “You better get out of here. I’ll be okay.”

  “What if he comes back? You want me to stay?” I shake my head, so then he tries to force the gun into my hand. “No, for real. Take it!”

  I jerk away, sickened by the touch of the cold metal, remembering what I heard that awful night—right through the chest, poor thing. Ripping bullets. Exploding glass. Bubby sleeping with his sock monkey, lashes fluttering in his sleep… “I can’t. I can’t shoot it!”

  “You ain’t gotta shoot it. Just stick it in his face.” He pushes it at me again, and this time I take it with quivering fingers. “Remember what you told me a while back? How you’d never let anybody beat up on you?”

  Yes. I remember the conversation. And I’m ashamed of it now.

  “Be cool.” Jerome touches my sleeve and then lets his hand fall away, looking about as embarrassed as I feel. A second later he’s gone.

  I set the gun on my dresser. How weird it looks, lying there on top of a colorful pile of hair scrunchies, between my copy of Romeo and Juliet and my Algebra II workbook. I look at it for a long time, then take a deep breath, reach over, and pick it back up.

  This time it’s easier, and the longer I hold the gun, the less I’m afraid. I rotate it cautiously around in my hands, then flop back on my bed and rest it on my stomach,
enjoying the weight, the certainty of safety.

  For the first time in my life, I have power.

  I have control.

  And not a single drop of fear.

  Well, one thing’s for sure—forget about Wayne. I have a much better idea what I can do with this gun… like take it to school tomorrow, jam it up Chardonnay’s nose, and tell her once and for all to stay the fuck out of my life. The idea makes me giggle, but then I’m crying at the same time, making weird, pathetic sounds.

  I wish I’d told Jerome he could stay and keep me company. I could tell him I’m sorry, that I know he’s sad about Bubby, and that I’m not really as self-centered as he thinks I am.

  But now I’m just glad I didn’t tell him about the money.

  24

  I have to go to school.

  I have to face Chardonnay.

  Then I remember the gun.

  As soon as I pick it up, the panic disappears and I feel calm, almost high in a supernatural way. I remember her message—Next time I see you, get ready to die, bitch!—and I answer her out loud, “Ha! Nice try.” You, Blubber Butt, are in for one big honkin’ surprise.

  I dress fast, stuff the gun into the pocket of my warmest hoody, and screech to a halt by Momma’s bedroom door. Still locked, and not a sound to be heard. My hand stops in midair before I can knock. I could be dead right now and she’d never even know it. Instead, I give the bottom of the door a hard kick and slouch out to the kitchen. No sign of Wayne. Could this be my lucky day?

  Instead of waiting for Jerome, I head off to school alone. If he knows I’m bringing the gun, he might try to stop me. My mind feels oddly blank as I stare down at my feet in my filthy secondhand Reeboks, putting one in front of the other, then the other, then the other. If I try to form a single thought, my skull might burst into splinters. Keep walking, Martha. Keep walking, keep walking…

  And then my brain cranks back to life as soon as I hit the school grounds. Hello! Metal detectors? Instant expulsion?