Before, After, and Somebody In Between Page 8

  “Nice hearse last night, huh?” she comments. “Lucky you didn’t end up in a morgue.”

  “Real nice,” I agree. “I almost puked in it, too.”

  “Whadja think of Nikki?”

  I draw a blank. Leftover alcohol poisoning, I guess. “Who?”

  “Didn’t you guys go pick her up or something?”

  “Oh, her. I think she thought I was a hooker.”

  “Bitch, right?” I shrug, and Shavonne adds, “Ma dragged me over there once to pick up a check she forgot, and man, you oughta see that place. Damn garage’s bigger than this apartment, and they’ve got this yappy little dog, and man, that Nikki girl’s a trip.”

  “Trip how?”

  “Oh, you know. Nice to my face, but she’s, like, lookin’ at me all cross-eyed like she wants to shove a finger down her throat. So I go, ‘Hey, what’s the matter with your face?’ and she’s like, ‘Whaddaya mean?’ and I go, ‘Girl, you don’t start looking at me straight, ain’t no way you gonna get them beady eyeballs apart.’ So she goes”—Shavonne tries to mimic an English accent, and my head hurts worse when I laugh—“ ‘Rah-ly, I have no clue what you mean, and please don’t speak to me again.’”

  “Oh, no she didn’t.”

  “Oh, yes she did. I swear, I don’t see how she can work for that triflin’ bunch of fools.”

  The movie’s back on, and I can hear Mrs. Addams at intervals, hacking up chunks of her lungs. Eventually, I have to comment. “Man, I hope she didn’t do that all over the food last night. Some party, huh? All those rich people coming down with TB.”

  I meant it as a lame joke, but Shavonne shoots me a one-more-word-and-I’m-gonna-tear-your-face-off look. Out loud, she says shortly, “I’m taking a shower.” She whips her shirt over her head, kicks off her sweatpants, then pauses, stark naked in the flickering light of the TV. “It’s not TB, asshole. She’s got HIV.”

  I nearly strangle on a rope of my own breath, too shocked to apologize.

  “She’s had it for years. It ain’t never made her sick before, but now she been coughin’ all week.”

  “Sorry,” I squeak.

  Shavonne grabs a towel off the back of her door. “Just keep your mouth shut, okay? Nobody else knows.” And she streaks off to the john.

  I never knew anyone with HIV. I never even knew anybody who knew anybody with HIV. I’m awake half the night, wondering how she got it. Does Shavonne have it, too? Would she tell me if she did?

  …

  At least Wayne’s truck is gone when I get back home the next day, wrapped in a heavy sweater of Shavonne’s that reaches my knees. Hopefully I can sneak in without Momma noticing.

  Wishful thinking

  Thwap! A smack in the head the second I step through the door. “What in the sam-hill do you mean, not comin’ home all night long? I was ready to call the cops!”

  “So why didn’t you ask Wa-ayne why I didn’t come home last night?” I yell back, slightly dizzy from the unexpected slap.

  That throws her for sure, but not in the right way. “What’re you talking about? He didn’t …you know, try to get funny with you, did he?”

  Oh, yu-u-uck! How could she even think something that gross? “No, Momma, he just threw me off the damn porch!”

  “So where were you all night?”

  “Hello, are you even listening? I said Wayne threw me off the porch!”

  This she totally ignores. “You get in your room. You’re grounded, missy!”

  Grounded from what? It’s not like I have a life. I open my mouth to protest, but she rushes at me like an underwater torpedo, so I bolt for my room and barricade the door with my dresser.

  “You’re crazy!” I scream through the wood.

  “Crazy,” like “fat,” is another one of those words I should never use around Momma. Roaring like a rabid elephant, she pummels my door for like thirty seconds before she gives up and stomps off.

  I’ve neglected my cello over the past couple of days, but now an irresistible urge forces me to open the case. I wipe my face and blow my nose, then lift the cello out, and yes, I even hug it for a sec. Positioning myself perfectly on the edge of my bed, I rest it against my leg and lift my bow. Scale up, scale down. Scale up, scale down. All my exercises over and over, plus the three real pieces I now know by heart: Schubert, Brahms, and a little thing by Mozart. I play and play till my fingers are raw again, till every note sounds perfect. Peace and joy overtake me—but then I start crying, and my tears drip off my chin and skitter through the strings.

  Now I know why Momma won’t pay for this cello. It’s not the money at all.

  She just doesn’t like me very much. I don’t think she ever did.

  17

  For the next week or so, I stay out of Wayne’s way, and Chardonnay, by some miracle, chooses to ignore me. But the best thing of all? I just know I’m going to be a star because today, after practice, Mr. Hopewell, his smile bright against his wrinkly dark face, says, “Well, you think you’re ready to join the orchestra, Martha?”

  Tingling inside, I smile back. “You serious?”

  “You bet. I think you’ve come a long way.”

  Well! I guess all those hours of practicing over the past couple of months, and all those bloody fingertips are starting to pay off.

  “And I think you ought to talk to your folks about taking some private lessons, too.”

  I feel my grin get sucked off my face. “Huh?”

  “With a private instructor, I mean. I know you have talent, but that’s not going to be enough. You need one-on-one instruction, so you can grow as a musician.” He waves at the empty room. “You need a mentor, someone to help you develop your skill. You’re light-years ahead of everyone else, but there’s only so much you can learn in a class with thirty other kids.”

  “How much do they cost?” I ask suspiciously.

  “I won’t lie, they’re not cheap. But,” he adds as I open my mouth, “if there’s any way you could swing it, it’d be the best thing you could do. Now, I’m not trying to blow up your ego or anything, but yes, you’ve got something special.”

  “Well, do you think—” God, I’m afraid to ask. “You think I could, like, ever do this for a living?”

  Now he’s cornered. “Uh, most professionals start out a lot sooner than this. Still, you’re only, what? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

  “Fourteen.” He squints, like he doesn’t believe me. “I skipped a grade.”

  “Well, I think you’ve got the potential. And I know you’ve got the passion, so—well, you never know.”

  Then he hands me this brochure from the Great Lakes Academy of Music, a private high school right here in Cleveland. You have to audition to get in, plus it’s very expensive, and I mean thousands, okay?

  He reads my mind. “You can always apply for a scholarship. I’ll even be the first one to write you a letter of recommendation. But there’s more to playing an instrument than just playing an instrument, you know. There’s a whole culture out there, a world of people who devote their entire lives to their music. I’d sure like to see you become a part of that club.” He winks. “Think about it, okay?”

  Wow, picture it! Me, center stage in a spotlight in a long black gown, cello poised between my knees, while a hushed, expectant audience waits for my first note. Me, a member of this exclusive musical “club,” with other musicians for friends, sharing our music, and—oh, how can I talk Momma into this, how?

  …

  Momma’s working and Wayne’s in his usual spot, drunk, when I get home from school. Ignoring him, I cart my cello into my room, anxious to practice for that imaginary audience I can’t get out of my head. If I play very, very softly, maybe he won’t wake up…

  “Hell, you sound like a cat that got caught up under my engine one time.”

  My bow screeches to a halt. I didn’t even hear him come in. “Excuse me? I don’t believe I heard a knock.”

  “I don’t buh-leeve I heard a knock!” he mimics, swaying. “Yo
u paying the bills around here? No? I didn’t think so.”

  Okay. I’m out of here.

  His radar kicks in, though, and his bloodshot eyes narrow. “You ain’t going nowhere till you fix me something to eat.”

  “I’m not your maid. Go fix it yourself.”

  Wayne’s face undergoes this weird transformation. Oddly enough, his voice stays soft. “What’d you say? I don’t think I heard you right.”

  “You heard me just fine.” I will not, will not let him intimidate me this time. I’ll pretend I’m Shavonne. She’d never think twice about kicking him in the balls—

  But before I can lift a foot, I’m flying into the wall like one of his crushed-up beer cans. “That’s to help you remember our little talk the other day. Now get your ass out there and fix me some supper!”

  Refocusing my eyeballs, I vault over the bed and rush for the phone so I can call Momma right now and make her come home! But Wayne wrenches the receiver out of my hand. Pieces of it zing as he slams it to the floor, then jerks his belt out of his jeans.

  “What are you doing?” I scream.

  “You just don’t get it! When I tell you to go do something, you damn well better do it. Why’s everything gotta be such a big goddamn deal with you?”

  Fear surging through every fiber of my body, I scream and lurch away, but he swings the belt fast, and—whomp!

  “So you wanna give me a hard time, huh?” He chases me down, cornering me by my closet, every blow of the belt like an explosion of fire. I hunker in the corner, my mind a nauseous blur, waiting for him to murder me in cold blood, here in my own room.

  Finally he stops. “Ain’t so smart anymore, are you? You don’t want to follow my rules? You can find the door yourself.” He grabs a jacket and heads out, whistling cheerfully. I just lie there like a puddle, my heart hammering so hard I can feel the floorboards vibrating under my chest.

  Get up! Do something! But I can’t even move.

  Why didn’t I fight harder? How could I let this happen? How could Momma let it happen?

  Once I recover, I decide not to be here whenever Wayne gets back. I layer on my sweatshirts, top them off with Shavonne’s sweater, and fly to the door, where I bump smack into Anthony, lurking in the back stairwell. Not doing anything in particular, just… lurking.

  “Hey, baby,” he whispers, slurring the words. “Lookin’ for me?”

  Horrified that I even touched him, I leap through the door and zoom to the library, nagged by the vague realization that I’m surrounded by psychopaths twenty-four hours a day.

  Only hunger forces me to go home when the librarian locks the doors behind me. I stumble into the house, half-dead from frostbite. Momma’s already home, and I know her shift doesn’t end till eleven thirty.

  “Why, hi-i-i there, sugar pie!” She grabs me, hugs me, and slides a sloppy kiss over my face. I push her away, sickened by the stench of booze.

  “You’re drunk!” I screech, rubbing spit off my cheek.

  “Yeah!” she screeches back. “I just quit my job!”

  “What? Why?”

  “All those damn nurses, always accusing me of stuff I didn’t do. I finally told ‘em where to get off, and now I’m celebratin’!”

  She quit her job? Now we’ll never get away from Wayne!

  With a half-scream, half-roar, I lunge into my room and start heaving stuff against the walls—and that’s when I notice it.

  My cello’s gone.

  Did I leave it at school? No-o, I remember practicing, and then—shit!

  My feet come alive and I fly from room to room, searching everywhere and anywhere, but my cello is gone. Gone, gone, gone!

  Fear has no place in my panic-stricken fury. I race back out to the kitchen where Momma’s fishing for munchies. “Where is it? Where’s my cello?”

  Momma stares blearily. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Did Wayne take it? Did he?” Who else would do something this shitty?

  “I don’t even know where he is! He’s been gone since I got here.”

  “Well, I know he took it, and you better make him give it back or I’m calling the cops! I’ll show ‘em what he did to me, and then he can rot in jail!”

  “What’d he do to you?”

  I yank my jeans down a couple of inches to show her the marks. “All because I didn’t want to cook him supper.” She looks at my hip, but her face registers nothing. “Goddammit, Momma, are you even listening to me?”

  “I hear you! And you stop cussing at me like that, or I’ll call the cops myself and have ‘em throw you in the loony bin. I’m about sick of your mouth!”

  “Good, I hope you do it! Any place is better than here.”

  I huddle back on my bed, seething with rage and desperation. Now what do I do? That freaking contract’s up in a couple of weeks, and Grandma Daisy sure doesn’t have the money to pay for a cello. Besides, she trusted me. What if the music store sues her? Aunt Gloria will kill me!

  Well, now I can forget about my lessons. Forget about any scholarship. Forget about joining the school orchestra. Hell, without my cello, why bother with school at all? Might as well throw in the towel and drop out now, just like—

  Like Anthony.

  That’s when it hits me: maybe I’m wrong.

  Maybe it wasn’t Wayne at all.

  Because who’s the creep who tried to buy it, and then copped an attitude when I told him to go blow? What was he up to today, skulking around in the stairwell? He could’ve marched right in and helped himself to anything in the house. A locked door wouldn’t stop him, that’s for sure.

  I stare up at one of my Elvises with his massive sideburns and glittering white Las Vegas suit, trying to think of a plan that doesn’t involve bloodshed.

  Anthony did it. He stole my cello. And I swear to God I’m going to make him pay, but how? How?

  Suddenly, I know.

  18

  I cut gym the next morning because I’m black and blue, and the last thing I need is for Lopez to notice. I skip music, too, because I can’t face Mr. Hopewell. I spend last period in the school library, plotting my revenge.

  “Where’s your cello?” Jerome asks as we walk home through the cold rain.

  I pretend to be fascinated by something across the street so he won’t notice my quivering lips. “The contract’s up. I had to take it back.” I don’t dare tell him what really happened. Once I do what I have to do, he might figure it all out.

  “Bummer.” Jerome pats my shoulder, but all that does is bring me even closer to tears.

  I take a deep breath, and decide to launch my attack before I chicken out for good. “Hey, you want to study together? These chapters Finelli gave us are really a bitch.”

  “Huh?” I hate biology, and he knows it. No wonder he’s suspicious. “You want to hit the library?”

  “No. I thought we could study in your room.”

  “Um, we’re not supposed to do that, remember?”

  “We’re studying, okay? We can leave the door open. God, Jerome, don’t you ever get sick of people pushing you around all the time?”

  He considers this, raindrops glinting on his glasses. “Okay.”

  Aunt Gloria’s car isn’t there, so I don’t bother with the window. I walk right in with Jerome at my side, and Grandma Daisy, full of flour and sweat, greets us in the kitchen. “Fresh cookies! Y’all hungry?” I shake my head, and she tugs the hood of my outermost sweatshirt. “Child, you gonna catch pneumonia runnin’ around like that. Tell that momma of yours she needs to go out and buy you a real coat.” She pulls the sweatshirt off me so she can throw it in the dryer, and I bite my lip when she gives me an unexpected hug. Wonder how huggy she’ll be if she ends up on Court TV?

  Bubby, trapped in a high chair, chubby cheeks dotted with cookie dough, smells like vanilla when I drop a kiss on his head. He goes back to squishing cookie dough into his tray, and I stumble to Jerome’s room through the cluttered hallway, wondering if I’ll ever feel like me
again.

  Jerome has already spread our homework over the grimy floor of his room. While he rambles on about mitochondria and osmosis and everything else I don’t care about, I stare at his mattress, wishing I had a better plan, and then I hear myself say, “You know, I’m too hungry to think. Maybe I will take some of those cookies.”

  Jerome throws the book down in disgust, and I flip up the mattress as soon as he’s out of the room. No sign of the gun, but luckily the money’s still there. Balancing the mattress on my head, I rapidly peel away some bills. Five hundred, six hundred…how much do I need? Should I call and find out? No, no, no, this might be my only chance.

  Nine hundred, a thousand …eleven hundred, twelve… and then I hear Jerome coming back. The mattress slams down with a muffled plop, and I shove the wad into my jeans and put on an oh-so-innocent face. Twelve hundred bucks—Anthony will die! But he can’t prove I took it any more than I can prove he took my cello.

  So now we’re even.

  …

  The next day after school, I blow Jerome off and ride the bus back to Tower City. “Option to purchase”—it says so on the contract. I point this out to that same grumpy lady who blinks at me over the rim of her tiny glasses. “That’ll be one thousand and ninety dollars and ninety-five cents.” Funny how I don’t need an adult around to buy the damn thing.

  I hand over the clump of bills, take my receipt, and wander back out with a sickening sense of loss. Something important has been ripped out of me now, like an arm or a leg, or maybe something much deeper. Maybe a chunk of my heart. Maybe a sliver of my soul.

  Whatever it is, I think it’s gone for good.

  19

  Days and days pass, and I can’t shake this awful feeling. I can’t think. I can’t eat. I can’t even breathe without hurting, and I itch all over like poison ivy. Even heroin withdrawal can’t be as bad as this.

  When I can’t stand it another second, I go crawling to Momma.

  Big mistake. She’s hasn’t been sober one minute since the day she quit her job. “How many times I gotta tell you? Nobody’s working! We ain’t got the money!”