Like Vanessa, page 3
I look at it for a second, and when I lift my eyes, Mrs. Walton is straight cheesin’. My stomach is making gurgling noises, and I’m standing there praying that she doesn’t hear them.
“Isn’t this just wonderful? Especially with all the buzz about Vanessa Williams? This’ll be perfect practice for when you eventually try out for Miss America. That’s what being in a pageant is all about, you know. Not just being pretty. It’s about talent and being a good student. And you are all that! You said you wanted to be Miss America, Vanessa,” she says, “so here you go.”
“This ain’t—” I say, but then I see Mrs. Walton raise an eyebrow. “I mean, this isn’t the Miss America pageant.”
Note to self. No street talk around the white lady.
“No, it’s not, but it’s a step. How do you think those women in the real Miss America pageant got their start? By doing something small and working their way up. You can do this. You should do this,” she says, shoving the flyer into my hand.
I bite the inside of my lip to the point where it could bleed any second. Then I flash back to when I watched the pageant. Sure, I pictured myself on that television screen, wearing a bomb-fancy dress, tearing up the stage with some grand, powerhouse song, and in the end having the crown placed on my head. But that wasn’t the girl I pictured on the outside. That girl was a lighter, skinnier, prettier version of me. And that was fantasy. If I did this, I’d have to be onstage—the real me—in front of the entire school. Oh heck naw!
“I know what you’re thinking.” Mrs. Walton breaks my train of thought.
“I’m thinking, why in the world do you care so much?” I admit.
Mrs. Walton swallows hard and clutches her pearls like How dare you ask me that?
“Let’s just say that at one point in my life, I too wanted to be in the Miss America pageant. Only I didn’t have an opportunity like this.”
I take one look at that blonde hair, those blue eyes, and throw my head back, laughing toward the tissue-bomb sky. This lady is on something.
“You’re laughing, but it’s true. Times were tough for me and my family back then. I didn’t have anyone in my corner to help me toward that dream. I wasn’t as smart as you, or as well read and well spoken. Vanessa, it’s 1983 and this country has finally crowned a black Miss America. Sky’s the limit for you.”
My laughter cuts short.
“You’re wondering how you’re going to prepare for all of this, right?”
“Well, yeah…sorta,” I respond.
“I can help you with everything, especially your talent. We can practice in my classroom after school twice a week. And you don’t need any help in the academic-achievement portion. I looked at your files. High honor roll every marking period since kindergarten?” Mrs. Walton is talking in one long-winded breath and doesn’t even come up for air. “We can also practice for the onstage interview, which shouldn’t be so bad, given how much you read. And while I’d love to help you pick out a dress for formal wear, I’m sure your mom and dad will want to—”
“Listen, Mrs. Walton.” I cut her off. “Thank you for thinking of me, but I can’t do this pageant.”
What I really want to say is Mama ain’t around and Daddy don’t have time for me anyway. So what’s the point?
But my words turn into movement. Next thing I know, my feet are pushing me down the hall, my eyes are stinging, every single organ in my body is losing electricity, my hands are crumpling up the flyer and throwing it in the trash. Ain’t gonna be no pageant. Not for me, at least. I got better things to do with my time anyway. And that’s that.
September 23, 1983
The Beginning of the End
Once upon a time, there lived a little girl
with a mom and a dad and sunshine and love.
Then one day,
the mom ran far, far away,
the dad turned into the big bad wolf,
and the little girl never saw the sun again.
The End.
Dear Darlene,
You know we ain’t never been into fairy tales anyway.
—Nessy
Letting Go
“Nessy, get up. You gonna be late for choir practice!” The stank of Pop Pop’s whiskey-tainted breath burns my nose. The rest of him seems fine. His eyes are clear, not glassy like when he drinks at night. Beneath the faint layer of tart whiskey, I can smell Shield soap, so he must have showered already. He’s always good on the weekends, because according to him, the good Lord’s looking at him when he walks through the church doors come Sunday.
It’s the weekend, thank God. No school. And no dodging Mrs. Walton! All I got is church choir rehearsal today and Sunday service tomorrow.
In the background the news is playing, and the sizzle of something cooking in the kitchen perfumes the entire house. The gritty, bacony, syrupy scent drifts into my room, and I soon forget about the drunken cloud that surrounds Pop Pop.
“What time is it?” I ask, wiping the sleep out of my eyes.
“Almost eleven,” he says.
I can’t believe I slept this late. I blame that on Mama for seeping into my head and ruining what could have been a perfect night’s sleep. Tired of dreams keepin’ me awake at night.
“Yo’ teacher called here this morning, asking to speak to your mama.”
My throat gets real tight. No teachers have ever called the house.
“What teacher?” I ask slowly.
“Lady named Mrs. Walton. Nessy, you didn’t tell me you was singing in the school chorus. Well, I’ll be!” Pop Pop slaps his good leg. It wiggles, while the World War II one stands motionless.
“She asked for Mama? What did you say?” My voice has elevated two octaves.
“I told her the truth—”
I stop breathing for a second. Oh Lord, here it comes.
“—that she wasn’t here,” he finishes, and his forehead double-creases.
It is the truth. She isn’t here. I don’t know where she is. Or if she’s even alive, for that matter.
“Listen here, Nessy. I know you got a lot of questions and things on your mind. But it’s best that you forget about your mama for now. All you need to know is that she loves you. One day when the time is right, I’m sure your daddy will explain everything. Plus, you got all the love you need right here.” Pop Pop spreads out his arms real wide.
But where is she? The question whirls all through my head. It’s the same one I’ve asked him for years, but all I’m ever met with are deaf ears and sealed lips.
He hugs me tight, and I breathe in his whiskey-fading, soapy-scented aroma. I do have love here with him and TJ, and I guess with Daddy.
I breathe a sigh of relief and rise up to get ready for choir practice.
We’re singing “Goin’ Up Yonder.” TJ’s singing lead. He’s gonna tear the house down come Sunday morning! If only I had his courage to get out in front of an audience like that.
“She done told me about that pageant, Nessy,” Pop Pop says, limping to the door.
“Pop Pop, I—”
He cuts me off. “Now looka here. I know you don’t wanna do it ’cause you figure your mama ain’t around to help you. Your mama would be proud. Heck, I am. I tell you one thing: doing that pageant would be like second nature to you.”
“I don’t want to, Pop Pop. And how you figure?”
“Just trust me. I think you should try out. Now I know your daddy won’t approve, but let me deal with him. You got all the help you need right here. And that teacher who called here this morning seemed to want to help you. Now you march yo’ pretty self into that audition next week!”
Pop Pop brushes his hand across my face. I know that in his eyes, I am pretty. And not just the pretty-for-a-dark-skinned-girl comments I sometimes get from the folks at church.
TJ comes walking down the hall, cheesin’ so hard his mouth takes up his entire face. All I see are lips, teeth, and that big ole afro.
“I heard all about the pageant, Nessy, and you might as well do it!”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll think about it.”
“I could make all your clothes. I gotta design something for my final grade anyway. Come on. Do it for me,” TJ begs.
Pop Pop rolls his eyes. He doesn’t dig TJ’s fashion-designer dreams too tough, but he knows he has no say. TJ is a Martin. Daddy’s nephew. Daddy’s problem.
“Do it for us,” Pop Pop says, and wobbles down the hall.
I got lead in my feet as I creep toward the bathroom. My back presses against the door, and it slams shut with a booming thud. And then I proceed to do what I do best. Pretend. Shower on full blast. Eyes straight forward. Don’t even look at that tub. Fill up the sink with water. Washcloth in my hand. Bath mat beneath my feet. Handle my lady business. Make sure I don’t miss an inch. Look in the mirror and tell myself that this is all totally normal. Everybody’s afraid of something, right?
I get dressed and make my way toward the kitchen, sunlight pouring in through the window on that sorry-behind sunflower, feeding it with lies. That thing ain’t ever gonna live, no matter how hard it wants to.
Pop Pop’s made a spread: biscuits and gravy, bacon, eggs, and sweet tea. His southern grandma taught him to cook like this. My stomach is dancing at the sight of all the food, but my mind can’t stop thinking about Mrs. Walton’s nosy behind calling my house.
I sit at the table and start piling up my plate. It’s a long haul to church on Saturdays. Between taking two buses and then walking seven blocks uphill, a girl needs her strength.
When I place a third biscuit on my plate, TJ shoots me a look with his lip upturned and snatches it back. “You are officially in pageant mode!”
“Hey, no fair!” I grab for the biscuit, but it’s already in his mouth. TJ’s so thin, he could eat a hundred biscuits and not gain a single pound.
In the Miss America pageant, the contestants have to prance around the stage in swimsuits. The flyer for the school pageant said nothing like that. Don’t get me wrong, it’s cool to watch it on television, but they’ll never catch my behind walking around in no swimsuit. No sir! These rolls ain’t made for sharing with the world.
We sit around the table, and Pop Pop and TJ are blabbing away about the pageant. Like they’re the ones in control and I’m gonna do whatever they say. Both of them are glowing just talking about it, and I start to wonder if the pageant has more to do with them than it does with me.
I can’t remember the last time I saw them so excited about something. TJ says he’ll make my dress red with silver sequins because red would look good next to my skin. It’ll have a train, like those real princess dresses have. He’s in design heaven right now.
Pop Pop couldn’t care less what I wear. His only request is that I sing his favorite gospel song, “Amazing Grace.” Every now and then he makes me sing that song to him while I braid his hair. He says I sound just like Mama when I sing it, except my voice is more buttery than hers. I smile, listening to them go back and forth. I haven’t even agreed to do the pageant yet.
A loud thud rattles the front door. We stop chatting and sit up like soldiers.
“Don’t say a word. Let me do all the talking,” Pop Pop whispers.
Daddy lumbers in, dropping his tool bag in the hallway. The silence in the room is thicker than them biscuits on our plates. He walks over to the counter with his footsteps earth-quaking everything around us. Even the glass jars in the pantry are shaking.
TJ sits up even straighter, puffing his chest out. God, I feel so bad for that boy. Every time Daddy walks through the door, I can hear the iron chains clank around TJ’s heart, stripping him of what little dignity he has left.
I stare at Daddy square in the face, hoping he’ll look my way. Maybe sit down and have a conversation with me. Ask me how school is going. But his eyes remain straight and unflinching.
“Good morning, Daniel. That job of yours sure got you working all kinds of times these days,” Pop Pop says cheerfully.
“Yeah, Pop,” he grunts back, gravelly voiced.
My father. Man of many words. There is a pleading in my head, echoing so loud I think all of Grafton can hear. Daddy, I want to be in the school pageant. Daddy, I want to sing and dress up like Miss America. The words swirl inside of me, swishing and swooping every which-a-way but out of my mouth.
“Nessy would like to try out for the school pageant, and I say she oughta,” Pop Pop proudly announces, squaring his shoulders.
At first Daddy doesn’t do or say anything. Just pours himself a cup of coffee, throws a couple of pieces of bacon on a paper towel, and starts to walk out of the kitchen. He stops short in the hallway.
“Pageant? Like that Miss America garbage?” he asks. “The one where them white girls prance around on stage in swimsuits, letting it all hang out for dirty men to feast their eyes on? The one where they finally let a black girl win after all these years? She ain’t even all that black, if you ask me! And Nessy wants to do something like that? Now, Pop, of all people you should know better!”
Daddy turns around, and our eyes meet. Mine wounded. His weary.
How would you or Pop Pop know? It’s not like that, Daddy. This one’s different.
I suck in a long breath, praying that he’ll say yes.
“Like hell she’ll try out. I can’t travel that road again.”
Daddy stomps his way to his bedroom, a few drops of coffee spilling onto the floor, and slams the door. The twisting of the locks and the clanking of the chains vibrate through every wall of the apartment. On the other side of that door, Daddy barricades himself in a room that is no doubt filled with nothingness.
And there I sit, swimming in his words. Drowning in his rejection.
“He’ll change his mind,” TJ whispers. He gestures for me to smile. But I can’t. I feel too hollow.
Pop Pop looks at me with pained eyes. “Don’t you worry about your daddy. You go on and audition, and I’ll deal with him later.”
What does Daddy mean, “travel that road again”? There’s gotta be a reason why he doesn’t agree with me doing the pageant. Maybe he doesn’t think I’m pretty enough. Maybe he’s right. If you’re gonna be black and be in a pageant, you gotta be light skinned with pretty hair. And I ain’t got none of that. Mama had it all, though. Me? I came into this world looking every bit like my father, with his blue-black skin, black hair, and even blacker eyes.
It’s probably for the best that I don’t audition anyhow. What was I thinking to even entertain the idea of being in a school pageant? Who would want to represent that beat-up, run-down King Middle anyway? Some bathroom stalls don’t even have doors!
“Y’all hurry up and get on to choir practice ’fore y’all be late!” Pop Pop picks up our dishes and hobbles to the sink. TJ and I grab our things and dash out of the house before we miss the bus.
There’s a slight chill in the air today. People are rocking hoodies and combat boots, and you just know the days of summer bliss are long gone. After way too long of a ride, the bus screeches to a stop right in front of Shabazz Park. We hop off and speed-walk up seven blocks to make it to choir practice on time.
The sun beams on the stained-glass windows of Cotton Temple. It’s the prettiest building in a neighborhood surrounded by run-down apartment buildings and scattered litter in the streets. I always find my church’s name to be a hootin’ riot. All those years, black people were slaves, growing cotton and getting whipped over it—why in the world would anyone want to name a church after it?
The organ is thunderous when we step inside. The music crawls through my bones, seeps real deep into my skin. Sister Marie, our choir director, starts to run us through the list of songs we’ll sing for tomorrow’s service. Tomorrow is Founder’s Sunday, which means we’ll be celebrating Pastor Evans’s father, who started the church back in 1945. It also means service will be extra long ’cause black folk just love celebrating that man. Every year, they go so long I swear I can see his ghost rise up from the dead and take his seat right there in the preacher’s pulpit.
When it’s TJ’s turn to sing “Goin’ Up Yonder,” somebody screams out, “You better saaaaaaaang, Brother TJ!”
My cousin’s voice bounces from wall to wall, filling up the entire room. Everyone is feeling it, and I can too. The sound coming out of his mouth is moving, cleansing, freeing. Like Maya Angelou’s caged bird being released, flying past the jungle, past the ghetto, and up, up to the heavens. A feeling washes over me, and I forget about everything that’s on my mind. My mom. My dad. School. Here I can just let go.
Ain’t Miss America No Way
At seven o’clock on the dot, Tanisha calls.
“What’s up, girl? I saw Beatrrrrriz at the bodega tonight.” She rolls the r extra thick. Just hearing that name makes my fingers twitch.
“And?” I laugh out my response.
“She was talking hard about you and the pageant. How she saw Mrs. Walton asking you to do it, even though you don’t stand a chance ’cause you too dark skinned. How she’s gonna win, no matter what it takes. How nobody can step to her, blah blah blah. All her friends were laughing and egging her on, and when I got in her face for talking about you, she said she was kidding. But I don’t know. There was something about it that sounded like she meant it.”
I try my best to pretend like I don’t care. “Yeah, well, she can think what she wants. But thanks for sticking up for me.”
“Are you gonna try out? Make this chick eat her words?” Tanisha asks.
I suck in a quick breath.
“Hello? You there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. I don’t know. Maybe….I will if you do it with me.”
Tanisha says nothing back.
“Are you there?” I ask.
“Try out for a pageant? Yeah, okay.” The words come out in a giggly, you-must-be-joking kinda way.
There is a silence between us, and I’m struggling to spit out how I’m really feeling. I want to mention that time she made me try out for the basketball team, knowing dang well I couldn’t even dribble a ball. That after I made a fool of myself and didn’t make it past the first cut, I still went to every single game, every single practice. That I have them all recorded in Darlene. Twelve games and sixteen practices, if we’re getting real specific. But I ain’t got the guts to say any of that, ’cause having one friend is better than having none.
