Before, After, and Somebody In Between Page 6

  Duh, if there wasn’t any food here a week ago, why would we have any now? So she roots around in her purse and hands me a food card. “I’m not using that! Don’t you have any real money?”

  “No, I don’t. A lady from AA gave me this, and it’s just as good as money.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. And if I don’t find me a job real soon, we’re gonna end up on welfare anyhow, so you might as well get off your high horse and get used to the idea.” Ah, there she is, the Momma I know and love.

  “What if Wayne doesn’t come back?” Worse, what if he comes back and kicks us both out?

  “I ain’t worryin’ about that now. All I know is, money’s gonna be tight for a while. No more luxuries, sugar pie.”

  Luxuries? What luxuries? Food? Hot water? Toilet paper?

  I spin the card across the table. “Forget it, Momma. I’m not using this thing in public.”

  With a hefty sigh and a pitiful shake of her head, Momma says for the thousandth time, “Martha, Martha. I swear, you are just—”

  “Like my dad,” I finish glumly. “Yeah, I know.”

  13

  Crusty-eyed and exhausted from lack of sleep, I show up for cello practice at six forty-five. Mr. Hopewell stares in horror at my swollen fingertips. “What’ve you been doing?”

  I yank away my hand. “Practicing, like you said.”

  “I didn’t tell you to turn your fingers into ground meat. And stop biting your nails. People’ll see your hands, and nobody wants to look at that.”

  I’m starting not to like this man very much.

  We work for a while on tuning our instruments. I seem to be the only one in the room who doesn’t need the piano to do it—“perfect pitch,” Mr. Hopewell calls it, which doesn’t win me any friends. Then, one by one, we have to show him our “progress.” He listens to me for an extra minute, and changes his tune. “Well, well. Very good. Keep it up, Martha.”

  I get dirty looks from the kids around me, but I just smile and forgive him for picking on my nails. When the bell rings, I gather up my stuff in a daze and lock up the cello. Wow, does he mean it? Does he really think I’m good?

  Lost in a daydream, I forget to stay alert. A foot hooks my ankle, my books go flying, and then I’m staring at the floor an inch away from my nose.

  “Sorry ‘bout that, ugly girl.” That same foot pokes my ribs. “Next time get outta my way.”

  Chardonnay’s halfway down the hall by the time I figure out what happened. Knees throbbing, I gather up my scattered books and stagger to homeroom—and there she is again, lurking outside the door. Grinning, she flicks a pen against her mossy teeth. No dinky little Bic for this honky bitch, baby. This one’s a super-sized, industrial-strength, eight-buck Dr. Grip, chiseled razor-sharp, no doubt, and laced with cyanide.

  “This ain’t a good day for you to be here,” she says conversationally. “Maybe you better take your skinny ass on home.”

  I take my skinny ass down to the office instead, and Mrs. Bigelow is not thrilled to see me. “Chardonnay tripped me in the hall and now she’s threatening to stab me.”

  “Stab you? Did you see a weapon?”

  “Yes. I mean no. I mean, she’s got a pen in her hand.”

  “A pen.” Good thing teachers can’t smack us. “Martha, go back to class.”

  So I go back to homeroom, and peek through the door to see Chardonnay slouched at my desk, her big, smelly feet propped up on her own. Well, that does it! Keeping an eye out for the guards, I slink out a door. I am not spending another second in this asylum.

  “What’re you doing home?” Momma demands when I limp in.

  “Um, it’s a holiday,” I stammer. “I forgot all about it.”

  “What holiday?”

  National Save-A-Honky’s-Chicken-Ass Day? “… Kennedy’s birthday.”

  Momma nods wisely, gulps her coffee, and waddles out with me on her heels. She pulls on a bright pink dress, then peels it off in disgust. Next she tries to squeeze into a purple pantsuit, splitting the back seam. “What am I gonna wear today?” she wails.

  “Where you going?”

  “I already told you. I gotta find me a job, remember?”

  Squirming with embarrassment, I watch her stuff her rolls into a foofy green frock that might’ve been fashionable when Elvis ruled the airways. She rips this one off, too, and then glowers at me like it’s my fault she’s about as big as Jabba the Hut. “What?”

  “Momma, I hate that school!” I burst out. “Do I have to go back there?”

  “Martha, everybody hates school. Why do you think I dropped out?”

  Well, that’s reassuring.

  “If those black kids are giving you a hard time, you just let me know. I’ll go down to that school myself and set ‘em straight.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just one person, that girl I told you about.”

  “So why’s she picking on you?”

  “How would I know?” I yell. “Because she’s a fat ugly bitch?”

  I never should have used the word “fat.”

  “People can’t help what they look like, missy. Maybe if you tried to get along with this girl, she wouldn’t be houndin’ you all the time.”

  Oh, gee, now why didn’t I think of that?

  …

  When Jerome gets home that afternoon, I sneak upstairs for a little sympathy. He’s no help, either. “Well, you can’t keep cutting school. You want to flunk out?”

  “So what am I supposed to do, let her stab me in the eye?”

  “Maybe talk to Mr. Johnson?” Mr. Johnson’s our principal, a bald-headed troll with hideously bad breath.

  “Great. Then I’ll really piss her off.”

  “Either that, or you stab her. Hell, I’ll even hold her down,” he offers, and I’m nice enough not to point out that Chardonnay undoubtedly could mash him flat with one thumb.

  Bubby, tired of being ignored, crawls into my lap, pinches my neck, gives me a sloppy kiss, and manipulates my face. I squeeze him close, and that’s when the door blasts open.

  “You again?” Aunt Gloria bellows. “You get back downstairs where you belong!” She descends on us all, rips Bubby away from me, and throws him roughly into the crib. “And how many times I gotta tell you to stay in there?”

  “Stop!” My body lunges forward, propelled by an alien force, but Aunt Gloria hauls off and slugs me in the head. I never saw it coming, and it stops me cold. Jerome leaps between us, but that only makes her madder.

  “You in for it now, fool!” She grabs a hanger and starts swinging, and even though I duck, I get a good whack on the shoulder. Jerome, on the other hand, isn’t as fast, or as lucky. With Aunt Gloria’s next wallop, he gets it in the face.

  “Get—out!” she screams at me.

  Jerome shoves me toward the window as the coat hanger whizzes. “Go, Martha. Go, go, go!” I’m barely over the sill before Aunt Gloria slams the window hard enough to crack the glass, and I land in my own room with my skull still vibrating.

  I sink to my knees and stick my fingers in my ears, trying to block out the sound of Bubby’s screams. Is she hitting him, too? I don’t want to know! Hell, all the times Momma smacked me around in the past, at least she never used a freaking weapon on me.

  Something has to be done about that bitch! But what can I do? Momma will tell me to mind my own business, and Wayne doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the Lindseys.

  God, I wish we were back in our old house. I don’t mean that last slum we lived in, or the one before that, or before that. I mean our real house down in Spencer, way out in the country where we used to live before Daddy gambled everything away. Big house, big rooms, and a big backyard. And best of all? We didn’t share any of it with anyone, and especially not with some crazy person who beats her kids with a wooden hanger.

  …

  In the morning, I scribble a note for Miss Fuchs—Please excuse Martha for her absence yesterday. She was very ill!!!—then dress quickly and g
rab a stale donut. Outside, the bump on Jerome’s cheek gleams like a lavender golf ball.

  All he mumbles is, “She was high again. She didn’t mean it.”

  “You oughta report her to someone! Can’t your grandma do something?”

  “She’s scared.”

  “She doesn’t act scared to me,” I argue, remembering how Grandma Daisy almost mowed Aunt Gloria down with the car.

  “Well, she is. Everybody’s scared. Well, not Anthony,” he adds truthfully. “He ain’t scared of nothin’. And he knows his mom’s crazy.”

  Yeah, ‘cause he has a gun, I almost say—but then I’d have to explain what I was doing in Jerome’s room.

  I sigh. “Well, I guess we all have crazy moms. Maybe we oughta start a club.”

  “Mine’s not crazy,” Jerome says testily. “She’s an addict, okay?”

  “Sor-ry.” What the hell’s the difference?

  “She used to take me places, you know, like to the park, to the pool. Man, I wish she’d come back,” he adds fiercely, “and kick Aunt Gloria’s ass. She never did drugs till Aunt Gloria got her started. And she never once hit me, not one single time.”

  We’re almost to school when, like an omen, a bus rumbles by with a sign on the side: Report Child Abuse. Call 1-800-4-A-CHILD. I look Jerome straight in the eye, but he doesn’t say a word. He really doesn’t have to. That silence of his is a whole lot worse.

  14

  Good news: Momma did get that nurse’s aide job, so now she works till midnight every night and goes to her AA meetings every morning. For the whole month of October, there’s no word from Wayne, not even a phone call warning us to get our butts offa his land. What do they call people like us? Oh, yeah—squatters.

  Momma’s mad because Aunt Gloria refuses to hand over the rent check. And when Momma’s mad, I’m the one who suffers.

  “I ain’t shelling out another dime for that thing!” is what I get one morning when I mention, quite nicely, that my cello contract expires in twenty-two days.

  “Momma, I can’t just quit. Can’t you make it, you know, kinda like an early Christmas present for me?”

  “Early, late, it don’t make no difference, I ain’t got the money, and I sure ain’t thinking about Christmas. Now I don’t want to hear another word about it!”

  “Fine!”

  …

  At lunch, Shavonne and Kenyatta and Monique exchange class pictures, and I have nothing to give them because Momma didn’t buy mine. Even Aunt Gloria paid for Jerome’s, and she’s not even his mother.

  “Jerome gave you his picture?” Shavonne whips the wallet-sized photo away before I barely have it out of my backpack. “Damn, that is one fine-lookin’ dude when he take off them ugly glasses.” She flips the picture over and scribbles XOXO on the back.

  “Hey!” I grab it back. “Not funny, Shavonne!”

  The whole table cracks up, and Kenyatta insists, “Oh, c’mon, we all know he likes you. You bringing him to the party tonight?” Her Halloween party, she means.

  “That is so not true,” I argue, my face growing hot. “And no, I’m not bringing him.” Jerome can’t come anyway. Friday nights are Aunt Gloria’s binge nights. He can’t trust her around Bubby, not even with Grandma Daisy in the house.

  After school, Jerome dumps me for Chem Club again, and I must look like a bag lady tromping down the sidewalk, lugging my cello case and grumbling out loud. I didn’t even want my class picture, but that’s not the point. Shavonne’s mom, I bet, spends every nickel she makes on Shavonne. All those clothes? All that art stuff? I’m lucky to get lunch money. Momma ought to be glad I’m playing the cello, and not screwing around with guys or jabbing dirty needles into my veins.

  The air is crisp and smells of burning leaves, and for once this shabby old neighborhood doesn’t seem quite as shabby, or even as old. Afternoon sunshine glints on each house, bathing every witch and every pumpkin in a splash of gold. I love Halloween, and man, do I need this party tonight!

  Anthony’s hanging out on the front porch when I make it home. He squints at my cello case. “Yo, girlfriend. Whatcha got there?”

  I am so-o not in the mood. “Excuse me. I’d like to get into my house.”

  He spreads his legs, blocking my way. Patiently, I wait. Why should I have to go around back?

  “C’mon, Anthony. I got a ton of homework to do.” At his puzzled look, I add, “You know—homework? That’s the stuff you do when you go to school. You, like, get graded on it and everything.” Blabber, blabber. God, what am I saying?

  “Smart girl. Betcha make straight A’s.” He grapples for a cigarette and nods at my cello. “How much that cost you?”

  Losing patience, I try to push past him. Unfortunately, he gets right in my face.

  “Hey, don’t you go shoving on me. All I done is ax you a question, so why you gotta act all ugly and shit?” Smoke curling into his nostrils, he pushes a twenty-dollar bill into my chest. “Give you twenty for it.”

  I say nothing.

  “Okay. Forty.”

  “It’s not for sale. I’m only renting it.”

  “What? You think ‘cause I ain’t no white-bread smart-ass like you, I can’t appreciate good music? Dang. And you a stone fox, too.” He reaches out, but his hand stops in midair as his gaze locks into mine. Too late I remember that when you meet a mad dog, the last thing you want to do is make threatening eye contact. “Now why you gotta act like such a cold-hearted bitch for? You gonna hurt my feelings.”

  I gauge the distance between myself and the door. Three feet, maybe four…

  “Double or nothin’.” He whips out more bills and dangles them under my nose.

  “Are you deaf? I said it’s not even my freakin’ cello. Now get out of my way and let me into my house!”

  With a knowing smile, he steps aside in a leisurely way. “Ain’t your fuckin’ house no way,” he reminds me as I squeeze past, accidentally thunking him with my case. With a piglike grunt, he jerks on my ponytail. “Better watch yourself, girlfriend—and keep your skeezy ass out of my brother’s room.”

  Does he know I saw the money? That I know about the gun? Where is it, anyway? Does he have it on him right now?

  Ripping my hair away, I scramble into the house, smash down the deadbolt, and then scream with shock when his face pops up in the window. After a slow, significant smile, he dissolves out of sight.

  15

  Momma’s working tonight, so I scarf down a pizza pocket and race through my homework so I won’t be stuck with it over the weekend. I grab my stuff and head over to Shavonne’s who, by the way, came up with the most spectacular idea for our costumes—we’re going as each other!

  I make it there before dark, and we have the place to ourselves because her mom’s at work, helping to cater some big fancy dinner. Shavonne spends two full hours twisting my hair into long braids and slathering me with pitch-black mascara. Her cousin Rodney/Rashonda, the ultimate drag queen, generously donated a few tubes of professional greasepaint, guaranteed not to melt under the hottest of stage lights. I paint her a peachy-pink, and she paints me a chocolate-pudding brown.

  “I can’t believe I’m gonna wear this thing in public,” she complains, pulling my South Park T-shirt down over one of Rodney/Rashonda’s curly wigs and tucking it into her jeans.

  Me, I’m in a low-cut sweater and skimpy skirt, the best things I’ve found in that Goodwill box so far, topped off with Shavonne’s black, lace-up, high-heeled dominatrix boots. I gloss up my lips for good measure, and gape at myself in the mirror.

  “You need to accessorize,” she informs me critically. “Hey, let’s pierce your ears! Lemme go grab some ice—”

  “Do I look like an idiot?” I duck as she throws me a pile of colored Mardi Gras beads followed by a bracelet, a leather choker, and a tarnished silver ring with a big black stone. “Wow. This is, um, pretty ugly.”

  “Hey, it’s a mood ring. I found it in a junk store.”

  I slip it on my finger and
wait. The stone stays black. “Well, you got ripped off.”

  “Naw, black just means you in a real shitty mood. Let’s booze you up and then see what color it turns.”

  “I don’t drink,” I say quickly, knowing Momma would kill me if she knew I was even thinking about it.

  Shavonne flips a pair of her mom’s glasses, minus the lenses, onto her newly-pink nose. “Yeah, you do,” she insists, shoving me toward the door.

  …

  Kenyatta lives in a huge, crumbling stone house a few blocks away. Her folks, if they exist, are nowhere in sight. Made up like an exotic African princess, she waves a bottle of vodka in my face. “Help yourselves, sluts,” she offers, and grins at my plunging neckline. “Dang, you got titties! I never woulda guessed.”

  I spy a keg of beer on the kitchen table, surrounded by liquor bottles. “Um, you got any pop? I took an antihistamine.”

  Shavonne glares. “Bullshit. This is a party, okay? Not some Girl Scout meeting.”

  “Yeah, c’mon,” Kenyatta argues. “Live it up for once!”

  Monique, in skintight gold spandex and a bone-chilling blond Afro, cheerfully swats my back. “Yeah, get down! I’m five drinks ahead of y’all!”

  Boy, all that peer pressure stuff they warn you about. Just say no, Martha. Be your own person, Martha. Well, I am my own person, but I still want to try it. Believe it or not, I’ve never even tasted a beer. Besides, I am not Momma. I, at least, know how to exercise self-control. I came here to have fun, dammit. Who wants to drink Pepsi?

  So, armed with two vodka and orange juices, I follow Shavonne down to the crowded basement where we’re greeted by deafening music and wall-to-wall bodies. It’s dark as hell, not that I can see much anyway. I left my glasses at Shavonne’s so I wouldn’t destroy the illusion.

  Shavonne immediately jumps into a dance with TyShawn, one of our homeroom homeboys, so I gulp my first drink down and then stand there alone, wobbling in my boots, sipping daintily on the second.