Like Vanessa, page 4
I finally say, “I probably won’t try out for the pageant anyway. I’m ’a be busy with school, so…”
For a moment I consider telling her about Daddy and his reaction to me doing the pageant. But what would she know about that? Her father is at every basketball game because he’s her coach. Check that. Her number-one fan.
“That’s cool, I guess. Plus, who cares about that pageant? It’s not like it’s actually Miss America or anything.”
More silence. That last line lingers in the air, stinging me right down to my toes. Who cares?
Well, it’s obvious that she doesn’t. Tanisha’s probably gonna get into Saint Anthony’s High School on a basketball scholarship. Me? I got nothing like that waiting for me.
The faint sound of Diff’rent Strokes plays in the background on her end. Then Tanisha’s mom calls her to come have dinner. I close my eyes real tight-like and picture the spread her mom’s made: chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with gravy, and buttered corn, all with a side of love.
“Well, I gotta go. Don’t forget the season’s about to start. I need my favorite cheerleader in the bleachers.”
“Yeah. Sure,” I say real slow.
When we hang up, I’m feeling more confused than ever. Tanisha’s not interested in trying out for the pageant with me, but she made sure to bring up me being there for her basketball. Her hopes. Her dreams. Her way out of Grafton.
Will I ever make it out of here? ’Cause one thing I know for sure, Saint Anthony’s not interested in recruiting Tanisha and her groupie.
Part of me wants to do the pageant. But even with the strongest game face I can put on, I know that I’m no match for Beatriz Mendez. She can have that crown. Like Tanisha said, it’s not like it’s actually Miss America anyway.
Goin’ Up Yonder
What I love best about Sundays is that not only is Pop Pop sober, but we get to pretend like we’re something special, dressed in our Sunday best. Pop Pop wears his mauve bell-bottom suit and veteran’s pin. His face is cleanly shaven, and he smells of Old Spice. All his weekday liquor sins are washed away, and I have my grandfather back, even if it’s only for one day a week.
TJ looks handsome in his navy blazer with brown suede elbow patches. Since it’s Founder’s Sunday, all the women wear white. It’s a symbol of purity and cleansing. That’s tradition at Cotton Temple. My skirt is long and trimmed in white lace, with a white blouse to match.
My usual church shoes no longer fit, so TJ gives me a pair of low heels he got from school, and I can barely walk in them. The white patent leather is scratched a bit, and the bottoms are slightly worn out, but they’re better than nothing. Can’t go to church in my combat boots. I slip the hand-me-down heels on, and my knees turn inward. I’m so dang tall in these things. I buckle my shoulders to take away from looking like Vanessa the Giant.
“I want you to sing lead with me on ‘Goin’ Up Yonder,’” TJ says.
“You gotta be kidding. I can’t sing that song with you, boy! Everybody in church will be staring at me!”
“We sing together at home all the time. It’s time for you to have an audience. You know all the parts, Nessy. Come on, you can do it. This could be good practice for you if you decide to audition for that pageant.”
Then I remember one of the poems I wrote in Darlene:
Who travels a road full of twists, turns, cracked earth, and flooded paths?
Only to end up in a place where no one is waiting for you?
And like a lullaby, a tiny voice inside of me sings back: You do.
“Umm, yeah, I don’t know,” I say hesitantly, aware of the uselessness of my dream. Daddy. Mama. Beatriz. Me? Too many bumps in the road. All for a shiny crown.
Because of his prosthetic leg, Pop Pop can’t take two buses and walk another seven blocks to church. So we take a car service—a black town car from JP Transportation. Pop Pop fought in World War II with the owner’s father, so they give him that good ole battle-buddy hookup. Every Sunday it’s like we’re Hollywood stars when that car pulls up in Grafton Hill.
Church is on fire, as usual for Founder’s Day. Pastor’s preaching up a storm, but all I got on my mind is this pageant. Why I should definitely try out for it. And why it’s the stupidest idea I ever thought of.
But maybe being in the pageant would open a new world for me. A chance to step away from the hut-two-three-four military routine that is my life.
Monday through Friday, school.
Saturday, choir rehearsal.
Sunday, church.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Somewhere, pushed deep beyond my fears, there’s this thing I got inside me. It’s called hope. Hope for Mama to come back. Hope for Daddy to come back to me too. And not as a shell of a man that I call my father. If Daddy gave it a chance, he’d see. The pageant could be a good thing, if only he’d open his mind a little.
The music for “Goin’ Up Yonder” starts, and I see TJ stand up from the tenor row and stop at the soprano row. He extends his hand for me to join him.
“I’m gonna ask my cousin Vanessa to join me in singing this song to y’all today.”
The church thunders in applause, and I see Pop Pop in the back of the pews jump up and shout, “Saaaaaaang, Nessy!”
The spotlight is on me, and the church grows quiet. One by one, beads of sweat form in an arc across my forehead. Fear begins to chew away at my insides. But then that tiny voice returns—bigger, louder than ever, daring me to give it a try.
Next to Pop Pop, a small woman—half his size, covered in an oversized white hat, white blazer, skirt, and gloves—begins to clap. I’ve never seen her at church, and I’m sure Pop Pop is back there flirting with her for the whole service. But before I can get a better look, everybody is standing up, clapping to the beat of the song. All of a sudden something pulls me out of my seat, and my feet are moving forward. My mind is screaming at me, telling me to sit my behind down.
Maybe if I close my eyes, then I won’t have to feel everyone else’s piercing through me. When I do close them, I see her. Mama. With eyes you could swim in. Bluish brown or sometimes greenish gray, depending on the day. Smile so wide, warm, and perfect in every way. With her voice—a perfect blend of silk and honey and hummingbirds—she says, “Go on, princess, sing. Show them what you can do.”
Mama caresses my cheek. The heat of her fingertips injects me with confidence. Fills me with her love. Feeds me with what I’ve been craving all along. I will sing to bring Mama back, even if it’s only for this moment right now, right here.
The organ thrums low as the percussion kicks in. TJ begins the first lyrics of the song. Then he passes the microphone to me. Every single hair on my neck stands in military style. I swallow a large dose of oxygen and let go. My voice pours out of me in perfect tune with the music. It is lightning breaking through the clouds. Earthshaking. I am free. And everyone is going wild, stomping and crying and lifting their hands up to the sky.
Mama stands in the front pew, taller than anyone, her shoulders square and proud. Daddy appears, standing beside her, beaming with his big ole hands wrapped around her waist. And it’s just like back in the day when we were the happily-ever-after Martins.
The choir joins in, blending in so sweet. Next thing I know, TJ and I are ad-libbing back and forth in harmony over the chorus. We’re killing it.
When the song is over, Mama and Daddy melt away like snowflakes falling on wet ground. And everything is back to normal. Daddy’s at work like always. And Mama? Well, she’s exactly what I’ve always known her to be. A ghost.
But all around me people are still shouting and dancing. I see Pop Pop catching the Holy Ghost. He’s wiggling and stomping that wooden leg of his up and down the aisles. The lady with the big ole face-covering hat is still up clapping, hands raised and spinning round and round. Pop Pop and his new friend are cutting up in the back of the church, having a good ole time.
After the service, I do my regular job collecting the hymnals from the choir rows. Pastor knows how much I love books. The hymnals are like my babies. I dust them off, placing each one delicately in its silk sleeve, and lay them out on the table next to the organ.
Just as I’m placing the last book down, a small hand touches my shoulder.
“I knew you were something special, Vanessa Martin.”
I turn around and see Mrs. Walton. She’s the little lady in the back of the church next to Pop Pop.
I stand there dumbfounded as Pop Pop wobbles up behind her. “Told you my Nessy here could sing her tail off.”
“Indeed you did, sir, and that was quite impressive, Vanessa,” she continues. “I can’t wait to see you in the Miss King Middle pageant. You’re going to be awesome!”
Mrs. Walton sounds worse than a dang cheerleader. I wanna tell her that you can’t say the word awesome in Newark without somebody looking at you sideways, but what would it matter? Her time here is done, and in the next few minutes she’ll be hopping in her fancy car to head up 78, probably to a town where saying a word like awesome is perfectly fine.
I try and say something to her, but I’m stuck. I ain’t never seen a teacher outside of school. Do they even have a life beyond the classroom walls? Crazy as it sounds, growing up I always thought the teachers lived in school. Seeing my teacher here at church is just weird.
I stand there, torn between wanting to whack TJ and Pop Pop upside the head for scheming behind my back, and trying to figure out why, out of all the kids at King Middle, Mrs. Walton’s interested in me.
“You are going to audition, right?” She draws in closer to me and stares me down with those hypnotizing, ocean-blue eyes of hers. I breathe her in, and she smells like a mixture of everything nice in this world.
“Umm…” I search for an answer.
Pop Pop cuts in and introduces TJ—the third partner in this scheme of theirs. They exchange handshakes. The three of them are small-talking about me, pouring out compliments as I fight the urge to blush.
“That voice is something else,” Mrs. Walton says.
“Too bad she won’t even consider using it,” TJ shoots back.
I try to soak in this idea. Me up on that stage. Voice rising way above the ceiling. People jolting out of their seats. Hands clapping, happy tears flowing, prayers, both small and impossible, heard and answered. I did that here. Today. Maybe I can do it again, at the pageant this time. Bring back that feeling, the memory of Mama and Daddy together again.
“Okay, okay. Yes,” I say loudly. “I’ll give it a shot.”
They throw their hands up and squeal, and there I am, smiling on the inside. My own little cheerleading squad. Mrs. Walton hands Pop Pop two sheets of paper: the flyer for the pageant and a permission slip for the audition.
“Just be sure to have Vanessa’s mom or dad sign the permission slip for Friday because we will stay until five o’clock,” she says.
Pop Pop and TJ look at me with hesitation in their eyes. “Working all kind of crazy hours, Mrs. Walton,” Pop Pop says, “and he ain’t never really home. I take care of her, so—”
“Pop, I got this. I can sign it.” TJ grabs the paper.
Pop Pop snatches it out of his hands and smirks at Mrs. Walton. “Boy think ’cause he eighteen now, he a grown man.” Pop Pop pulls a pen out from his coat pocket, signs his name, and hands it back to her. “There you go.”
I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, hoping Mrs. Walton don’t ask no more questions. She doesn’t need to know nothing about my life. How I’m surviving on empty, waiting and hoping to be filled again.
“Good enough!” she says, and then she wraps her arms around me and holds me tight.
I stand there all stupid-like. Not knowing if I should hug her back. I push slightly away, but Mrs. Walton pulls me in farther, deeper. And then I let her take me in. In that moment an imaginary ax grinds down on my emotions, slicing them in equal parts: happy for the attention, even if it’s from a stranger, and angry that it ain’t coming from who I need it from most.
“Nice meeting everyone.” Mrs. Walton winks at me and then prances to the back of the church and out the door.
Like zombies under a spell, we trail behind her. Our eyes follow her to her car, a pastel-blue Chevrolet Celebrity with shiny silver rims.
We make our way to the town car waiting for us.
“Ooh-wee! That woman know she sho’ is fine!” Pop Pop says.
“Yes, Lawd!” TJ chimes in, slapping fives with Pop Pop.
Mrs. Walton’s blue car speeds away, past the church, past the garbage, and off to her own little land of sunshine.
September 27, 1983
Me and Darlene Against the Asphalt
Now I lay me down to sleep,
another tear I shall not weep.
Please work your magic through the night,
that I will wake with skin so light.
For this will bring a brighter day,
to light my path and guide the way.
And all the pieces will come together:
love, beauty, family, forever.
Dear Darlene,
Closed mouths don’t get fed. Pop Pop would always tell me that when I was a little girl. If you don’t say what’s in your heart, it ain’t never gonna come to you. Never really had no meaning for me until now. So tonight as the moon hovers outside my window, and the music drifts in with the midnight air, I make this my promise to myself. Every night, I’m gonna whisper this poem to the wind. And just maybe those words will turn into reality. Make me beautiful. Free me from the darkness that makes the outside world see me as less than pretty. Take me back to the place where I was once happy. Because here in this jungle, there ain’t nothing but weeds and tears and dreams trapped beneath the asphalt.
—Nessy
Pray Myself Invisible
Friday comes fast, and I’m having doubts about this audition stuff. Everybody’s been talking about it at school all week. It’s almost like Pop Pop is psychic or something ’cause he can sense my nervousness. Right before I leave for school, he gives me a star-shaped brooch to pin on my shirt.
“Your mama used to wear this every time…” His voice drifts off.
“Every time what, Pop Pop?”
The light in Pop Pop’s eyes dims. “Every time she needed a little luck. She’d be proud of you doing this pageant. Just try your best today, Nessy. And don’t worry about yo’ daddy. We’ll keep it between us.”
Another secret to add to the collection in our household. Seems these days you could paint the walls with the secrets we have.
After school Tanisha and I make our way to the auditorium. By the way she’s dragging her feet, I can’t tell if she’s mad because I forced her to come or plain tired from playing basketball during gym. When we get there, it’s packed. Every inch of the room is filled with King Middle girls. Some are taking it seriously and practicing their routines. Some are there only to make fun of the ones who look like they don’t know what they’re doing. I see everything from step routines to praise dancing to rapping and singing.
A small crowd gathers around Beatriz as she stands in front of the first-row seats. She’s got on a costume, dressed to the nines. No one told me that we could audition in costumes! Not that I have one anyway, but still. Beatriz has on a bright-red leotard with a long, white, ruffly skirt and a blue silk flower in her hair.
“Dang, chica, your outfit is too fly,” I hear Beatriz’s friend, Maricela Vazquez, say. That girl is Beatriz’s number-one butt kisser.
“We know that you’ll win the pageant. You got this hands down,” Julicza Feliciano chimes in. Butt kisser number two.
Tanisha and I walk down the aisle to find seats. It just so happens that the only ones available are in the second row. Dead behind where Beatriz and her crew are standing.
“My abuela sent me this outfit from Puerto Rico. You know when you have an audition you gotta go the extra mile. Take it seriously, especially when you’re trying to win. Too bad not everyone got that memo,” she says, staring my way, cutting her eyes straight through my skull. Her little audience looks at me and starts laughing.
Tanisha sucks her teeth real loud. “Got a problem?”
A sick feeling buries itself real deep inside me, like a thousand roaches crawling all over me, worse than what we got in our kitchen. And all I wanna do is fill up the tub with Raid and drown myself in it. Not that I even ever set foot in the tub. That thing’s got demons in it. Standing at the sink to handle my business is fine by me. That’s how they did it in the old days anyway.
Besides, Beatriz Mendez never paid me no mind before, and we’ve been going to school together since she moved here from Puerto Rico in second grade. But I can’t help but wonder if she’s right. What am I thinking? I’m not dressed up for this thing. Why’d I even come in the first place?
The teachers walk in, followed by our principal, Mrs. Carlisle. She’s all tall and stone-faced, wearing a black-and-white pinstripe suit. As usual she is carrying her bullhorn. That woman carries that thing everywhere. She yells through it to get everyone to stop talking.
Beatriz and her butt kissers take seats in that front row, like it was reserved for them all along.
“Ladies, I would appreciate your attention. Your teachers Mrs. Walton, Mrs. Ruiz, Mrs. Moore, and Mrs. Caldwell have been working very hard to produce a quality event for you. You will behave as young ladies. Four girls from each grade will be selected to participate, and the final results will be posted outside of the cafeteria tomorrow. Good luck.”
And just like that, Mrs. Carlisle storms out of the auditorium, with her back so straight and her face so tight that we are hypnotized into silence long after she is gone.
I scan the panel of teachers responsible for choosing the contestants. Mrs. Walton, without a doubt, will pick me. She literally begged me to try out. Seeing her there is enough to keep my behind in my seat. Mrs. Ruiz is the eighth-grade Spanish teacher. She’s built like a brick house with mounds of blonde hair, though I’m sure she dyes it that color, because the roots are black. Hands down, she is the best-dressed teacher in the school, always decked out in the flyest gear: designer handbags, blazers with jeweled buttons, and a pair of high heels to match each color of the rainbow. Mrs. Ruiz is extra popular with the Latino kids. Even though I make straight As in her class, I doubt she even knows my name. Beatriz’ll probably be her number-one pick. Mrs. Moore is the only gym teacher I’ve ever known who’s actually physically fit. Everybody calls her the drill sergeant. Body made of pure steel. Hair always braided in tight cornrows. Honestly, I think she only passes me out of pity. Every now and then she throws me a little jab to remind me to “make exercise a part of my daily routine.” I probably don’t stand a chance with her either. Then there’s Mrs. Caldwell. Poor, poor Mrs. Caldwell is way past her prime. She should’ve stopped teaching history a long time ago. She’s so old and forgetful that most of the time the students are the ones teaching the class. I’m hoping that in the middle of her dozing off, she’ll do me a solid and give me a good score.
