Like Vanessa, page 7
A ripple of cool air flows into my room. Eight floors below, I hear the mix of salsa and rap over the scatter of nighttime voices and the movement of people out causing mischief on Halloween night. I wonder if any of those people clothed in their masks and costumes, hustling about the city, are the Edna who wrote to me. Who is she, and what could have been in that letter? A message about my mama? A clue to whatever truth Daddy continues to hide from me?
To take my mind off of things, I decide to call Tanisha. She always knows what to say. Always ready to make me laugh with a funny story about school or church or her own mama. Anything to make me forget. Though I’d never admit it to her, it is nice to hear that sometimes she’s got “mama drama” too.
Tanisha answers the phone, and I’m greeted with the sound of laughter. More than one voice for sure.
“Hey, girl, what you doing?”
“Nothing much…” Tanisha’s voice is shaky, nervous. More laughter echoes in the background.
“Sounds like a party over there.”
Tanisha pauses before responding. “Yeah, after practice I went trick-or-treating with Amaryllis.”
Insert awkward silence. This is starting to become our new normal. “Rodriguez?” I ask.
If Tanisha is the number-one girl on the basketball team, Amaryllis would be a close second. But they ain’t never hung out before, not that I’ve heard of.
“Well, I guess I’ll let you get back to your friend.” I make sure I say the last word extra stank.
“Yo, T, got any more Laffy Taffys?” Amaryllis calls out.
T? She even got a nickname for Tanisha now?
“Um…you wanna come over for a little bit? We got a lot of candy left,” Tanisha says.
It’s almost eight o’clock. Not to mention it’s a school night. Tanisha knows better. Plus it doesn’t seem like I was a part of the original invitation anyway. Not that I had a Halloween costume this year, or any other year for that matter. But at least in the past I’d go trick-or-treating with her—even if my costume was random: some ripped-up jeans, one of Daddy’s work shirts, and some powder thrown on my face.
“Nah, I’m good. I’ll check you later.” I slam the phone on the base before I even allow Tanisha to say good-bye.
At two in the morning, the front door blasts me out of my sleep. Daddy’s home from work. His footsteps are heavy and angry-sounding, as usual. The plastic on the couch screeches. Pop Pop clears his throat and mumbles a hello to Daddy.
I tiptoe to my cracked-open door.
“It’s that time of year again,” Pop Pop says. “You know where I’m going soon, right, son?”
Daddy lets out a heavy sigh. He takes a seat on the couch, the sound of the plastic covering echoing through the hallway.
“Not now,” he mumbles.
I take a small sip of oxygen, clutching onto their every word.
“I’m tired of telling you this, Daniel, but that child needs to know,” Pop Pop says to Daddy. “She ain’t no little girl no more. She’s got eyes, and she smart too.”
“When the time is right, Pop, I’ll tell her,” Daddy replies.
“She’s thirteen, ’bout to turn fourteen! She gonna be a woman soon. Don’t you think she got a right to know? It’s time to forgive and forget. Move on, before you lose her too.”
And with that, Daddy huffs and walks to his bedroom, slams the door, and chains up the locks on the other side. In that room he locks up everything. Himself. My letter. His secrets. His love.
Part of me wants to bust down that door and demand that he let me in. But instead I go back to my bed and ready myself for a sleepless night. Daddy’s words echo in my head for the next four hours.
When the time is right, he will tell me. Tell me what?
November 10, 1983
Holding On
November rolls in like a lion,
stomping its way into Newark with a thunderous roar,
devouring days of long suns and bearable, brisk winds.
Replacing those with a cold so bitter, so biting,
its teeth sharper than the lion’s fiercest enemy.
And in the midst of it all, of the cold,
of the short days that turn into long, dark nights,
I’m still trying to hold on.
Dear Darlene,
I sure hope you’re hanging on too. Just a few more pages to go before you’re all filled up. But don’t worry. Pop Pop will come to the rescue real soon. He always does.
—Nessy
Dumb and Dumber
My clothes don’t fit right anymore. I’ve already poked two new holes in my belt to hold up my jeans. That’s never happened before. Pop Pop says I’m getting taller, which is the last thing I need. Five foot nine is tall enough. Most of my pants are high-waters now. It’s bad enough my clothes don’t match with the latest fads, but wearing high-waters is considered social suicide in middle school. I need TJ to bring me home some clothes, stat. He’s not around as much these days. It’s like he ain’t got time for me anymore either. He’s been skipping out on our walks or slipping off in the middle of the night when no one is around to question his every move.
At rehearsal this week, Mrs. Walton announces a big surprise. The Miss New Jersey pageant is sponsoring a trip for the contestants in our pageant to visit Convention Hall, complete with a pool party at a hotel and dinner at a fancy restaurant. Atlantic City, here I come! I’m going to get to stand on the same stage that Vanessa Williams was crowned on. Sweet! The messed-up part is that Vanessa Williams herself can’t be there. She’s a superstar now and travels all over the country.
The teachers give us permission slips for our parents to sign. As the days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months, the secret of me being in the pageant slowly grinds its teeth at me. Daddy should know about it and support me, but instead he’s too busy keeping his own secrets, leaving me in the dark.
We need an escort for the evening-wear segment of the competition. The person has to be a male and could be a father or relative, teacher, or friend. They have to look all handsome and gentleman-like in tuxedo suits. All the girls are raving about having either their dad or their crush walk with them onstage. I don’t like anyone at this school, because all the boys here are plain dumb-acting and behave like they have no home training. Exhibit A: Curtis and his braided teeth.
As much as I love my Pop Pop, I can’t imagine both of us walking all wobbly legged on that stage. And Daddy is out of the question. It’s bad enough he doesn’t know I’m in the pageant. Even if he did, he wouldn’t do it for me, and I don’t need his reminders that I don’t belong. That I’m not worthy of his attention, his time, his love. I guess that means TJ will have to do it, but that boy might upstage me and win the whole darn pageant even though he’s not a contestant! But I know that he’ll be proud to be up there, standing next to the dress he made special for me.
The stage in King Middle auditorium is massive, which is nothing compared to the Miss America stage, I’m sure. But never in my life have I felt so small standing on that thing. The janitors polish it every Monday. So much so that the stage glows like the sun, bright and slippery, and all I can think of is me falling again—in front of Beatriz and her crew sitting in the audience, in front of the whole school laughing, pointing at me as I go tumbling down, shaking the whole auditorium.
I’m standing behind the stage curtain, waiting for my turn to practice my evening-wear modeling. Stephanie Bowles is center stage, walking in them heels like it’s nothing. Back all straight, big old cheese painted on her face. Like she was made for this stuff.
“Vanessa, why don’t you go next?” Mrs. Caldwell nudges me in the back. “Try to stand a little taller and not slouch, so you don’t look so…”
FAT. Just say it, lady. So I don’t look so doggone fat.
But Mrs. Caldwell just puts a fake smile on her wrinkly-behind face and shoos me center stage.
Beatriz sits in the audience, hand covering her mouth, whispering to her friends. And man, are they hawking me up and down. My pants are slowly falling down. Any second now the crack of my behind will be playing peekaboo with the whole stinkin’ audience.
The sound of giggling, soft and piercing, simmers low from the seats.
“Straighter, Vanessa,” Mrs. Caldwell whispers from behind the curtain. “Suck it in!”
The heel of my shoe catches in a tiny crack in the stage. More giggling. I search for the exit doorway in the back of the auditorium, but the stage lights blind me. I wanna leave so bad—get out while I still have a small piece of me left.
Mrs. Walton bolts out of her front-row seat, probably to try and catch me before I fall flat on my behind. “Let’s run that again. And girls in the audience, show some respect or consider yourself disqualified!”
Boy, they all shut their traps after that.
Mrs. Walton grabs my shoulders, shaking me a bit. She stares me down with those eyes of hers. Focus, her eyes plead.
Mrs. Ruiz and Mrs. Moore, sitting in the sound box on the second level, run the music once again. The music pours out of the speakers like waves crashing against cliffs. The saxophone is the star of this nameless song, with the drums and piano blending with it in perfect harmony. It’s called jazz, and Mrs. Walton’s been teaching it in chorus for two weeks now. I let the melody bleed into my skin. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and Miss Americafy myself. Next thing I know, I’m like Vanessa Williams, tall and demanding, gliding across that stage.
My left-foot turn is smooth. I don’t break for one second. My right foot wobbles a bit, but my hands fan out like a swan ready to soar, preventing my would-be fall. Not a sound in the audience. No giggling. No whispering. Moments later I hear a clap. First one, then two, then a few. And then a loud cheer from Stephanie Bowles.
“Go ’head with your bad self!” she screams.
“Nice job, chica,” Beatriz calls out, and her groupies all start nodding.
Maybe Beatriz is just saying that to be funny. I lock eyes with her as I do one last pivot on the runway, and she throws me a thumbs-up. My stomach dances a bit, and I force a smile back.
Practice lets out early, which is good because I need to study before TJ gets home.
The beats of Grafton move at a lightning-fast pace. Little kids play double Dutch in the empty lot, their braided ropes thwacking against the cold asphalt. Thumping, pumping, vibrating concrete pushes my feet home. Past the empty lot, past the liquor store, past the alley, and down the hill, deep into the projects. But first I make my way to the bodega to pick up Pop Pop’s newspaper. He wasn’t home this morning when I left for school. Sometimes he walks to the bodega to get a cafecito—I think buying coffee is a way to be eyein’ Mrs. Mendez.
“Yo, Vanessa,” a loud voice screams out from way down the block. “Wait up.” Beatriz runs toward me and stops short, huffing and puffing.
“Dang, you walk fast.” Her cheeks turn redder than her bomber jacket.
“Yeah, well, I’ve had a lot of practice these days,” I say, but I don’t stop walking.
“I just thought we should talk is all.” Beatriz’s voice lowers to a whisper so soft, I can barely hear her over the music. “You know, make a fresh start. I really didn’t mean anything when I made fun of you during auditions. I was just clowning around, you know.”
She pulls a piece of crinkled paper out of her pocket and hands it to me. It’s her phone number.
I stop in my tracks and look at Beatriz with my mouth twisted to the side. We stand in front of the entrance to the bodega, no words between us. Just the blast of bachata coming from inside her mother’s store.
“Going to Atlantic City will be fun, huh?” She changes the topic fast like the wind.
This is the girl who giggled. This is the girl who whispered. This is the girl who pointed. This is the one who tried to chop me down. And now here we are, standing with the winter chill nipping at our noses, forcing ourselves into a conversation. Minus the fat-black-girl jokes.
“Um, yeah. S-sure,” I stutter, doubtful.
“Maybe you can sit with us on the way down.” Beatriz gestures to her friends standing halfway down the block. They wave at us and keep it moving. “Do you like to play Uno? I’ll pack my cards.”
“You know, I don’t understand you. You’re mean to me basically all our lives, and now you wanna play nice? I don’t bother you. Heck, I don’t bother anyone at that school. So why—”
The door to the bodega flies open, and out comes Beatriz’s mom. Mrs. Mendez is a little lady with hair like midnight and a mouth that starts at one ear and wraps around her entire skull. The way she carries herself, you’d think she was six feet tall, but she can’t be an inch over five feet. She’s the type of woman that when she steps in the room, your knees turn to Silly Putty.
Mrs. Mendez sashays her way over to us. “Ay, Beatriz, who ju friend?” Her English is thick and broken, syrupy and hypnotizing.
Beatriz and I look at each other, not saying anything at first. We’re not friends, lady. In fact, up until this very moment, your daughter has been a bruja to me. I want to say all of that. But of course I don’t. Nobody wants to be told that their daughter is a witch. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Mendez thinks hers is a perfect angel.
“Mami, this is Vanessa Martin. She’s in the pageant too.”
“Ay, the chica you tell me she sing so good.” Mrs. Mendez smiles at me. “Vanessa, you giving my Beatriz a run for the money, eh? I making her practice all the time because of you.”
“Mami!” Beatriz raises her shoulders, fists clenched.
“No, no. I think is good. Is like you two can push each other to be better.” Mrs. Mendez points her finger in our faces.
Then things get real quiet even though the beat coming from the music in the store switches from mellow bachata to earsplitting salsa.
“I have an idea. Why don’t you come inside, Vanessa? I show you how I start my business in Puerto Rico making the best empanadas ever. You know what those are?”
“She speaks Spanish, Mami.”
“Si, empanadas son mis favoritas,” I say.
Mrs. Mendez’s eyes widen. She claps her hands and throws her arm around my shoulder. “Ay, que bueno! Come and let me show you just why the Mendez Bodega is the best mercado in all of Newark!”
How can I say no to empanadas? Those delicious, fried, cheesy, meaty pockets of joy. Plus it’s kind of hard to turn down a woman like Mrs. Mendez. It’s like she’s got a spell on everybody in the neighborhood.
Next thing I know, Mrs. Mendez is pulling me into their apartment above the bodega, with Beatriz trailing the steps behind us. I don’t need to look back to know that the look on her face is just as dumbfounded as mine.
Baby Steps, Girlfriend!
When I get home, Pop Pop’s still not there. Then I remember that sneaky little conversation him and Daddy had a few weeks ago. You know where I’m going soon, right, son? And now that I think about it, it does seem like every year around this time he disappears for the day. Stays out for hours but always returns by the time the streetlights come on. That man can’t be out in the cold for too long with that leg of his.
TJ and I take our power walk around Grafton, all the while hoping to run into Pop Pop and tell him to hobble his half-legged self back home. It ain’t autumn no more.
We walk uphill and downhill, followed by a light jog twice by the river. All the while, the icy air is biting at every exposed part of me. Something about it, though, cleanses everything that’s crowding my mind. Tanisha. Daddy. Beatriz. The pageant. The secrets.
My hands are stuffed deep inside my hoodie, hopeful for the slightest bit of warmth. I touch the paper Beatriz gave me and sing the numbers in my head.
555-9345. 555-9345. The notes come out clean, thunderous, pitch-defying, until that number is permanently etched in my memory.
Beatriz Mendez gave me her phone number. Beatriz Mendez wants to be my friend. Beatriz Mendez wants to sit with me on the bus for our trip to Atlantic City. These days it feels like I have no friends. Tanisha’s too busy being basketball buddies with Amaryllis Rodrrrriguez, making new Halloween traditions that don’t involve me. Come Thanksgiving and Christmas, I’ll probably be left out too. She’s too busy trying to make it out of Grafton and leave me behind. Maybe it’s time I start to think about making some new friends of my own and planning my own exit out of here.
“What song are you humming?” TJ asks, breaking me out of my thoughts.
“Huh? What?” I stumble on my words. “Oh, it’s nothing.” I decide to forget about what’s on my mind and focus on TJ.
“What’s up with you stepping out in the middle of the night all the time? Bad enough Tanisha ain’t got time for me these days—now you?”
This ridiculously wide, cheesy smile breaks across TJ’s face. “I’ve been seeing somebody.” The words float out of TJ’s mouth like clouds, all fluffy and thick.
“Ooh! Who? One of those models at your school in New York?” I squeal.
“Maybe. Maybe not. You know I don’t kiss and tell! Let’s just say this person is muy caliente!” TJ says, pushing my back with his hand. That’s my signal to stop asking questions. Walk harder, jog faster, push longer.
When we return I slip on a pair of heels and cook dinner, even though I’m still full from Mrs. Mendez’s empanadas. I try to ignore the veins in my feet pulsing in and out. I look pretty silly in my blue hoodie, gray stonewashed jeans, and white patent-leather heels. But I need all the practice I can get at this point.
Tonight’s meal of fried bologna, french fries, and eggs means only one thing. The first of the month can’t come soon enough. That’s when Pop Pop gets his veteran’s check and TJ does the food shopping. Pop Pop takes care of the groceries. Daddy pays rent and utilities. We eat real good for the first two weeks: turkey wings, steaks, and whole chickens from the bodega. Sometimes we go all out and send TJ to get whiting from the Portuguese fish market in the Ironbound. But once the money runs low, we resort to the cans we have left on our pantry shelves. And sometimes that doesn’t include meat. Tonight, though, I discover a hidden treasure when I find four pieces of bologna wrapped in wax paper behind an empty carton of milk.
