Like Vanessa, page 11
Mrs. Walton’s face turns serious.
“Oh, you know, Kim. Same old, same old. He sends his love.”
“Well, make sure you stop by and grab him a plate before you go visit him upstate. I’m sure by now he’s got a hurtin’ for our greens!” Kim says.
The owner, Mr. Sutton, strolls over and introduces himself to me and grabs our coats.
We sit at a table by the large window at the front of the restaurant. The movement of feet hustling through the streets of Newark matches the tip-tap of the Motown music playing inside. “Get Ready” by the Temptations comes on the radio, and Mrs. Walton breaks out into her awkward chair dance.
I try my best to hold it in, but I can’t help it any longer. So I bust out laughing.
“What? You think I don’t know soul music? I grew up on this stuff, honey!”
Mrs. Walton starts singing the lyrics, and her voice blends in perfectly with the male lead singer, only hers is an octave above. Her singing is great. Her dancing? Not so much.
Janet sashays over to our table, and she and Mrs. Walton start singing together. When the song fades out, they slap five like they just gave a sold-out concert at Symphony Hall.
“Will it be the usual?” she says to Mrs. Walton.
“You know it.”
“And what will the young lady have?”
I haven’t even looked at the menu. I’ve always wanted to eat at Je’s but never got the chance. More like never could afford it.
“Just tell her what you like, and they can create something special for you,” Mrs. Walton urges.
I hear Pop Pop’s voice inside my head, reminding me to order the cheapest thing on the menu “ ’cause we ain’t Rockefeller.” But hunger wins. This girl’s gotta eat.
“I’d love to have some macaroni and cheese, collard greens, and baked turkey wings, please.” This will more than make up for the turkey-shaped Spam balls we ate for Thanksgiving. I really want to order something fried, but the last thing I need is my face looking like a pepperoni pizza come the day of the pageant.
“Comin’ right up!” Janet smiles and heads toward the kitchen.
There is an awkward moment of silence between Mrs. Walton and me. I can’t even find the words to thank her for one of the most fun days I’ve had in a real long time.
“Mrs. Walton, why are you doing all this?”
“All what?” She smiles.
“You know. The shopping, this fancy lunch, accepting me into the pageant even though I fell flat on my behind. I don’t get it. Why me?”
Mrs. Walton reaches forward and places her hand briefly on top of mine.
“First of all, you could have fallen through the stage and landed in the school basement, and you still would’ve passed the audition because of your singing and your academic records. Second, I have a daughter. And when she gets older, I want her to be as smart and talented as you. And believe it or not, Vanessa, I see a lot of myself in you.”
This lady has got to be out of her mind. We couldn’t be any more different. My face must’ve given away my thought because Mrs. Walton keeps talking.
“No, I’m serious. Did you know that I’m from Newark? Well, Portugal by way of Newark.”
I almost spit out my Coke. “Say what?”
“I was born in Portugal. My family immigrated to the Ironbound when I was very young. We lived together in a three-room house over by Ferry Street—my father, grandfather, Tio Ronaldo, and a whole load of cousins and great-uncles from Portugal. My family came here with nothing, and they worked for pennies in the factories.” Mrs. Walton laughs. “And then they rushed home before nightfall to hide from the immigration-raid vans. Scared me half to death as a kid.”
Mrs. Walton places her hands on top of mine again.
“Now do you see why becoming Miss America was never in my future? Being a poor immigrant was rough. And not having a mother to help me was even rougher. How was I supposed to be Miss America? I didn’t lose my accent until I was out of college, and I didn’t become a citizen until I got married. There was no place for someone like me in Miss America. But you, Vanessa? Ah, you can make history!”
This is a lot to sink in. Living in a house smaller than what we got in the projects? Hiding and being hunted like animals? Working for barely any pay?
“Well, what about your mother? Where was she?” I ask before I realize that I shouldn’t have.
Mrs. Walton pauses. “She up and left before I could even walk.”
She gets real quiet for a second and then starts scratching the corner of her left eye. Maybe we got a lot more in common than I thought. I want to ask where her mother went, but that’ll probably make her ask questions about my own mama.
Mrs. Walton starts talking again. “After years of working in a factory, my family finally saved enough to start their own business: Da Silva Dry Cleaners, right in the heart of the Ironbound. Life was good here until the riots in ’67. Then it got so bad, a lot of Portuguese immigrants packed up and left. We stayed even though times were hard. But when rioters burned down the business, my father moved us up to upstate New York. I always knew I’d come back eventually. After I got married, my husband and I moved back to Newark. Then I was offered a job to teach at King Middle, and I couldn’t turn that down.”
“Wait! You live here?”
“Well, of course. Where’d you think I live? In the suburbs somewhere? Don’t be fooled. I’m a city girl through and through!”
I can’t picture Mrs. Walton living here during the race riots or even now. Though the riots happened two and a half years before I was born, some parts of the city are still damaged. There are still some buildings boarded up, with the windows busted out and replaced by paintings of would-be windows with curved drapes. Those busted-up buildings are now a hangout spot for the dope fiends and homeless people. I’ve seen pictures of what old Newark looked like before the riots. Back then, Newark was like a city of gold.
“If you didn’t have a mother around, then who taught you how to dress like you do? And where on earth did you learn about gospel and soul music? Aren’t Portuguese people Catholic or something?”
Mrs. Walton chuckles. “Yes, I grew up Catholic, though my family worked so much, we didn’t go to church often. But trust me, there were no songs like ‘Goin’ Up Yonder’ at Sunday mass! Mrs. Boxley taught me all kinds of music, from Bach to the Supremes. She was my music teacher at Ann Street School and the only black teacher there at the time.”
Talking about these memories brings a smile to Mrs. Walton’s face. “She was very popular with all the students. Mrs. Boxley took me under her wing and taught me how to play the piano and the church organ, and how to sing all styles of music, like classical and Broadway, but mainly gospel and soul music. She didn’t teach me only how to sing the music, she taught me how to feel it in my gut. Every Sunday she’d drive from her house in the Central Ward all the way to the Ironbound to bring me back to Central to go to church with her.”
Mrs. Walton’s eyes pace the ceiling as though she’s looking for something.
“Where is she now? Do you still see her?”
She clears her throat and lifts the napkin to the corner of her eye. “Once my father moved us to New York”—Mrs. Walton’s voice cracks—“I never saw Mrs. Boxley again.”
I feel the beat of my heart slow down in my chest. Mrs. Walton lost not one mother but two. Dang.
The waitress comes out with our food, piping hot, but suddenly I don’t feel like eating. Mrs. Walton’s order looks like a buffet table. This woman’s got a plate of grits with fried whiting, biscuits in white gravy, three thick slices of beef bacon, and a side of candied yams with marshmallows and raisins. To top it off, she has a pitcher-sized cup of sweet tea. Compared to my meal, hers looks like a heart attack on a plate. Make that several plates.
Smokey Robinson’s “The Tears of a Clown” blares through the radio.
“Enough of the sad talk now. Today is about fun!” Mrs. Walton breaks out into her white-girl dance while she takes large bites of her food. Next thing I know, I’m dancing and tearing up my food too.
When Mrs. Walton drops me at home, everybody is gawking at her ride. You’d think black folks ain’t never seen a white woman driving in the projects before. Who am I kidding? I ain’t never seen one either!
I thank Mrs. Walton for everything and make my way toward my building with my hands full of shopping bags.
“Hey, Vanessa. Do you want me to help you bring your things up?” Mrs. Walton yells from her car window.
I look behind me and see Junito and his crew walking down the hill. “Um, no thanks, Mrs. Walton. You better head home. Before the sun goes down.”
With that, she throws me a wink, spins her car around, and speeds up the hill, past the Diablos, past the garbage, past the pipes, and to the thumping, jumping rhythms of her own piece of Newark.
Up in the apartment, as I pick up the phone, I’m already asking myself why I’m dialing the number. Maybe it’s because TJ’s not home (again!), and I have no one to talk to about my amazing day with Mrs. Walton. Maybe it’s because I know that if I even tried to call Tanisha, she’d “conveniently” be unavailable. Or maybe it’s because Beatriz gets it. Gets me. Gets the pageant. Gets my dream.
“May I speak to Beatriz, please?”
“Vanessa? Hey, chica. I heard you were hanging out in some fancy blue car today.”
“Um, yeah, I was—”
“Chica, everybody knows that’s Mrs. Walton’s ride. Teacher’s pet!”
“We were just—”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me. It’s all good. Wanna come over and practice for the pageant? We can play Uno. Mami’s making arroz con gandules for dinner.”
Maybe Beatriz and I are becoming real friends. She knows I can’t turn down her mom’s rice and beans.
“Claro que sí! I’ll be over around six.”
November 30, 1983
Empty Promises
Wonderful things happen
when your complexion is clear.
Bright.
Sol-Glo light…
Dear Darlene,
I’ve been using this stuff all week. And so far, nada. My skin seems blacker than the skin I started with. Each day I ask why the heck I’m doing this. To look like Vanessa Williams? To look like Mama? Or maybe to fix what’s on the outside, hoping the Sol-Glo will take care of what’s left inside too?
—Nessy
New Friend, Old Problems
My gear’s been decked out for school every day since I went shopping with Mrs. Walton. Today I’m wearing my gray Guess jeans with a blue-and-orange argyle polo and a pair of shiny brown penny loafers TJ got me from school. My outfit is tucked in all the right places, showing off curves that I ain’t never had before.
From the stares I’ve been getting all week, I can’t tell if people think I’m looking fly or think I’m new to the school, because I definitely don’t look like the nerd they’re used to seeing in the back of the class.
Right before lunch I change books for the last periods of the day. Curtis and his boys walk toward the cafeteria, right near my locker. Curtis winks at me and blows a kiss, and I just about throw up in my mouth. Then one of his boys slaps him in the ribs and says, “Yoooo, that’s Vanessa Martin!”
Curtis does a double take and says, “What the heck? She ain’t look like that last week!”
I just roll my eyes and keep packing my books. Idiots.
Tanisha comes out of the bathroom and heads toward my locker.
“Well, hello, stranger. So nice to be in your royal presence. You know you ditched choir rehearsal Saturday.” She’s got this stank-attitude, eye-roll look smeared all over her face.
“I know. I went shopping for the pageant with Mrs. Walton.
“You hung out…with a teacher?” Tanisha’s voice is loud, so I hush her so no one else hears.
“Guess you forgot we had plans to go roller skating. My mom was going to take us as an early birthday present for you, remember?”
Shoot! I did forget! I was too busy hanging out with Mrs. Walton. And Beatriz. Suddenly I feel sick. “Tanisha, I’m sorry. There’s so much going—”
“Look,” she cuts me off. “I get that the pageant is coming up and all. And you know I got your back in all of this, but—”
Just then Beatriz strolls up with her crew, all of them wearing red jeans and white button-down shirts like they’re some type of R&B group. Beatriz smiles at me and looks me up and down.
“Nice outfit, chica. You wanna sit with us at lunch?”
Well, this is awkward. Does she mean both me and Tanisha or just me? “Nah. I gotta go to the library and finish up my lab report.”
Tanisha crosses her arms and sucks her teeth.
“Wanna come over my house again after practice?” Beatriz asks.
“Um, I’ll let you know.”
Fire shoots out of Tanisha’s ears, scorching my face.
Beatriz winks at me, rolls her eyes at Tanisha, and struts with her crew to the cafeteria.
“Hang out at her house? Again? These days you ain’t got time to chill with me, but it looks like you got plenty of time for her. Since when did you two become friends?” Tanisha asks. Her eyes look hurt and sad.
“Oh, stop it! It’s not like you’re not hanging out with a new friend these days.” I slap her on the arm. “Come on. You know who my best friend is. You!”
I’m half laughing, but Tanisha ain’t cracking a smile. “We’ve just been helping each other practice for the pageant. It’s nothing, really.”
“I can’t chill with you if you’re gonna be hanging out with her. I don’t trust that girl. Ever stop and wonder why she wears red to school almost every day? That’s the color of her brother’s gang. That girl ain’t nothing but a snake in the grass, and I told you that a long time ago. Hit me up when you got time for your real friends.”
“Oh, don’t be like that! You’re wrong about Beatriz. She’s not so bad once you get to know her.”
I say all of that hoping that Tanisha will turn to face me, tell me she overreacted, tell me she’s sorry because she’s the one who started dissing me in the first place. That she’ll let me know she hasn’t given up on us yet. But Tanisha doesn’t say a word. She keeps it moving to the cafeteria, not even looking back.
Junito Shatters the Earth
On the walk home from pageant practice, Beatriz grooves to the rhythms of Newark traveling in the air. The cool-cat bass of Kurtis Blow is playing low under the hip-grinding sway of Celia Cruz. Beatriz’s steps match the different beats: a slow tread through the grassless patches of black soil, followed by a faster two-step on the cracked concrete. I’m walking a half beat behind her, not really feeling it.
The homeboys hanging on the corners keep trying to step to Beatriz. It’s like I’m nothing more than her shadow. “What’s up, boricua linda? Can we walk you home?”
Their words linger in the winter winds. Beatriz has light skin, so she’s pretty in their eyes. I’m reminded yet again that I’m too dark—invisible—and not worth an ounce of their attention.
Beatriz sucks her teeth and throws her hand up in the air. As each group of guys calls out for her, Beatriz carries herself taller and arches her back to show off her curves. I pull my stomach in and do the same, but I don’t look as good.
“Ahhh. I’m so nervous for the pageant!” she says.
“Yeah, me too,” I say, finally letting out a cold breath.
“I ain’t gonna be able to look at my family in the audience. Junito and my cousins will probably be laughing at me. And Mami will be too busy trying to tell me how to walk and how to talk.”
I pause, painfully reminded of what little family I have coming to see me in the pageant. “Be happy your mom will be there. Only my grandfather and TJ are coming. Tanisha was supposed to come, but I doubt it now.”
“Oh,” Beatriz speaks slowly. “Look, I’m sorry if I said something earlier that maybe Tanisha didn’t like. It’s just that, you know, she’s always giving me a hard time. Talking caca about me.”
“Don’t worry about her. She’ll come around. I bet the three of us will chill together one day like nothing ever happened.”
“What about your dad? He had a change of heart, right?”
I nibble on the inside of my lip, thinking about how to answer that. I wanna tell her how I broke into his room. How I found an empty envelope and rusty old tiara. But I can’t.
“I’m gonna do the pageant. Without his permission. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” The words spill out like water.
“Hmmm. So you mean if I want a shot at winning the pageant, all I gotta do is rat you out to your dad?” Beatriz raises an eyebrow, and my breath cuts short. Then she laughs so hard, all of Grafton can hear.
“I’m kidding, chica! Real friends don’t do stuff like that to each other. It’s your dad’s loss if he doesn’t come and see you.”
There’s this uncomfortable silence between us.
“So when are you going to invite me over and show me the gown Mrs. Walton got you?” Beatriz asks.
“Oh, my cousin’s making my gown,” I blurt out. Dang. The last thing I want is for anyone to know that TJ makes clothes for girls. The family story is that he’s in school for the business side of fashion. Which is a bald-faced lie.
Beatriz stops walking and raises an eyebrow. “Wait. You mean TJ? You didn’t tell me this. Well, excuse me! What does it look like?” She’s all up in my business now.
“It’s nothing special,” I lie. “Red with silver sequins.”
I’m not the bragging type, but my dress is fresh to death. No, it’s not a fancy brand-name dress from some expensive boutique, but the fact that my cousin’s making it means it’s special to me. TJ is putting the finishing touches on it at school and bringing it home on my birthday, the day before the pageant.
“What about your dress?” I ask. “All the times I’ve been to your house, you haven’t showed me yours either.”
“That’s because my abuela hasn’t finished making it yet. She’s shipping it up from Puerto Rico. It’s white and simple.” Beatriz throws her hand in the air, a sign that she ain’t got nothing else to say. She then takes her other hand and runs her fingers through her hair. They glide through the silkiness in one smooth, napless sweep. Part of me wants to reach out and touch that hair, grab a thick chunk, and brush it against my cheek. Feel what it’s like, even for a second, to have nice hair. But she’d probably call me out for being a weirdo if I did that.
