Bronx Masquerade (7 page)

He sure worked that rhythm. I know that much. He snuck a little rhyme in there too. I like that. Go on, Preacher! Look like God got hisself a poet!

I spent way too long yakking with Tanisha over lunch. She couldn’t stop talking about Pedro Pietri, the poet Mr. Ward had invited to visit our class. He was coming in a couple of weeks and Tanisha said he was gonna rock the house. He was the only poet Mr. Ward had us read who we were actually going to meet, which was pretty cool. Tanisha could hardly wait to check him out. I had other things on my mind, though, so I was glad Tyrone came over and broke up the conversation. He started hitting on Tanisha, as usual. I whispered, “Sorry,” and took off.

Ten more minutes and Mr. Ward will be in here. I flip my sketchbook open to a fresh page, clip my father’s photo to the corner, and get busy. A few strokes of my pencil and the oval of his face is done. Then I start with his chin, I don’t know why. Maybe because the hardness is there and I want to get it out of the way, hurry on to the softer parts of his face. The parts that show love. I’ve never done a portrait from the bottom to the top before, but why not? As long as it looks like my father when I’m done.

The first bell rings. I lift my head and there’s Sterling, staring over my shoulder.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” I lean back so he can get a better look. “I just started this one,” I tell him. Other kids file in, so I gather up my charcoal pencils.

Raul swirls his brushes in a jar of water and finishes straightening up Mr. Ward’s desk. I catch his eye and we smile at each other. He’s part of the reason I don’t mind people looking at my drawings anymore. I guess I should give Tanisha some credit too. It was her bright idea to have me do those book report covers.

The day we got our reports back, Mr. Ward held mine up so everyone could see the cover. I tried evaporating on the spot, I swear. The last thing I wanted was extra attention. Too late! When class was over, I ran out of the room before anyone had a chance to laugh in my face, but Raul caught me in the hall and snatched the report from me quicker than a subway door slamming shut. He said he wanted to get a better look at it. I bit my tongue and stared at the floor.

“This is good!” he said. “Especially the eyes. They look right through you. You gotta show me how you do the eyes.”

My jaw dropped. “You think they’re that good?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Raul didn’t wait for an answer. He handed me back the report, shaking his head. “Wish I could do eyes like that. Anyway, see you later.”

I looked down at my book cover as if I was seeing it for the first time. Raul was right. The drawing was good. The eyes
did
look right through you. Maybe I should try working on the rest of the face, I thought. I could do studies of mouths and noses and chins. I could try different kinds of faces, different shapes. I could get Mom to model for me. Or Tanisha. Or I could use pictures. We only have a bazillion photo albums around my house. Maybe I could bring one of them to school with me. Or I could just borrow a few of the pictures and then put them back later. Maybe ...

I had a hard time concentrating on my classes that afternoon.

The next day, I wolfed down my lunch and half ran to Mr. Ward’s room with a sketch pad and charcoal pencils. By the time Raul arrived, I was already at work. Nowadays I’m in here two, three times a week. I’d come more often, but I gotta make time for my friends.

I shade in my father’s jawline just as Mr. Ward enters the room, then put my pencil down and look up in case he tries to catch my eye.

“Mr. Ramirez,” says Mr. Ward, “may I have my desk, please?” Raul bows deep, like some actor in an old-time movie, then struts to his seat. He passes me on the way, leans down, eyes my rough sketch, and whispers, “Let me know when you get to the eyes.”

My smile is so wide, my cheeks hurt.

OPEN MIKE

BY DIONDRA JORDAN

 

 

A trip to the city pool
ain’t what it used to be.
I left the kiddy pool behind
many moons ago.
I know how to float
how to dog paddle
how to hold my breath
between breaststrokes.
I know the stench and sting
of chlorine.
It’s no big thing.
But this,
scaling the ladder
for the high dive
drives me to distraction.
What if
I forget to swim?
What if
there’s no water in the pool?
But wait.
Is it really water
I’m after?
I reach the top,
pad to the edge of the board,
and peek.
There it is,
swirls of blue, purple,
and periwinkle watercolor.
The perfect palette.
I
take a deep breath,
dip the tip of my brush
into sky,
take one long leap
and...
To be continued.

I’ve been thinking we should plan on having a poetry slam next year. I ran the idea past Diondra. She’s one of the shyest sistas in our class. At least, she was when school got started. Anyway, I figure if she’s into the idea, everybody else should be down with it.

Next thing I need to do is pitch it to Mr. Ward, see if he can get the principal to go for it. Man, I would love to get in some guys from Bronx Science, or one of them other special schools, and turn them into toast at a poetry slam. There’s no
way
they’d beat us. They wouldn’t even know what hit ’em!

Amy. The name is petite, like me. It’s also soft. I’m not. Just ask Tyrone. Or Diondra. Or Sterling. Better yet, ask my father. He thinks I’m so tough, I don’t need anybody. Not even him. He didn’t always treat me that way. He used to handle me more like china. But then Mom left to start another family—without us. After the divorce, Dad decided we both needed to toughen up, that we needed to learn to stand on our own. I thought he meant together.

Two years ago I got sick at school and he was called in to take me to the hospital. Apparently I had appendicitis. I was doubled over with pain, tears streaming down my face, and he wouldn’t even put his arm around me. He just walked beside me, stiff as a two-by-four, asking “Are you okay?” every couple of minutes. Jerk.

Would it have killed him to touch me? To help me up the hospital stairs? Never mind. I won’t bother needing anyone like that again.

Too bad my father’s not more like Mr. Ward. His daughter goes to this school, and I saw the two of them in the cafeteria the other day. I hear they have lunch together three times a week. Anyhow, there they were in the lunch line, him with his arm draped over her shoulder, the two of them blabbing away like old buddies. She was bent over a little, from the weight of her backpack I guess, and when he noticed, he slipped it off and carried it for her. She smiled up at him and gave his waist a squeeze, and I felt my stomach turn.

For about a minute, I hated that girl.

Sterling says jealousy is a waste of energy, that I should focus on what I have, not what I don’t. That’s what I get for opening my big mouth and telling him how I feel. But he’s so easy to talk to, sometimes I let things slip before I even realize my mouth is open. Anyway, he’s too busy trying to save my Jewish soul to think about betraying my secrets. He knows I’d never forgive him, and then where would he be? He could pretty much forget about preaching love and forgiveness around me after that. Not that all his preaching will get him anywhere, seeing as I’m an atheist. Still, his trying doesn’t bother me, he’s so up front about it.

He’s right about the jealousy, though. I seem to be jealous of everyone and everything. Especially the friendships I see all around me. Leslie and Porscha, Lupe and Gloria, Tanisha and Diondra. It’s enough to make me ill.

It’s been forever since I had a best friend, let alone a boyfriend.

“Friendships don’t just happen,” Sterling tells me whenever I complain. “You have to reach out and make them.”

“How?” I ask him.

“Just be yourself.”

Myself. That’s a laugh. If I were to show anyone who I really am inside, how cold my heart is, they’d probably run in the opposite direction. I tell Sterling this and he says, “Maybe. Maybe not. You won’t know unless you try.”

Sterling’s right. I haven’t been trying. Not since my parents divorced. I’ve been afraid to get close to anyone. When my mom left, I was suddenly out of orbit. It’s like she was the sun, and when she took off, the only thing left was a big black hole where she used to be. Now the idea of letting somebody else get that close ... I don’t know. I’m just not ready. I wonder if I ever will be.

OPEN MIKE

BY AMY MOSCOWITZ

 

 

Man! That girl is as cold as the snow on the ground. Somebody must’ve put a hurting on her. “I want to be stone.” Can you get next to that? I’ve felt that way a couple of times. Once, when the undertaker carried my pops out of here. Another time when my girlfriend left me for my supposed-to-be homey. Both times I remember wishing I couldn’t feel the hurt, wishing I could just cut my heart out and be done with it. But I like the way Amy said it. Let me be stone.

Amy Moscowitz looked at me like I had two heads. Why? Just because I wanted to change my name.

When Mr. Ward took attendance this morning and got to me, I raised my hand and interrupted.

“Please don’t call me Sheila,” I said. “I prefer Natalina, my Africana name.”

“Excuse me?” said Mr. Ward.

I cleared my throat, and spoke a little louder. “Please call me Natalina from now on.”

Mr. Ward looked puzzled. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Why would you—never mind, Sheila. Just see me after class.”

I nodded. Diondra Jordan caught my eye and shook her head. Then she turned back to the charcoal portrait I saw her working on when I got to class. She slipped it into her notebook and shook her head again. I looked away just in time to catch Amy rolling her eyes in my direction. It was obvious she didn’t understand, but since there are only four white people in this class, I was hoping for some support. So sue me.

“Africana name.
Puh-leeze!
Ain’t nothing African about Natalina,” said Judianne, the girl behind me. We used to call her Short Skirt. I know one thing, her clothes fit her better than my name fits me. But try telling her that. “Why don’t you just keep the name your mama gave you?” she said.

“Leave the girl alone,” said Porscha. “If she wants to change her name, I’m sure she has a reason. People always have reasons for what they do, even if we don’t know what they are.”

“I know one thing,” said Judianne. “She can call herself whatever she wants. It still ain’t gonna make her Black.” Tanisha shot her a look of disapproval. Judianne lowered her eyes. “Sorry,” she said, but it was too late.

I knew someone would misunderstand.

I’m proud to be an Italian. I
love
being Italian. Not that anybody can tell I
am
one, with this blond hair and pale skin of mine.

Everybody else in my family looks typical. Olive complexion, dark hair, dark eyes. Then there’s me, sticking out like the proverbial sore thumb. But hey, I might as well. I’m the black sheep, anyway. The only girl in the family who wants a career instead of babies. The only cousin who likes to hang out with Blacks and Latinos. The only one who doesn’t think they’re all lazy and shiftless. Never mind that they’ve been discriminated against and shoved to the bottom of the economic rung since they’ve been here. Try telling that to my father. And don’t even mention slavery, he throws his hands up and walks away. So of course he thinks I’m an idiot for wanting to go into social work to help minorities. He might understand better if he knew any.

It’s ten years since Dad took over the neighborhood pizza parlor from Uncle Tony. You’d think by now he and my mother would’ve taken time to get to know most of their customers, not just the white ones. Maybe they’re afraid to get too close to someone who might actually hug them, heaven forbid. It seems the only Gamberoni willing to show affection is me. How weird is that?

Some days I wake up wondering if I’m adopted. I try my life on like a dress, and it doesn’t fit. I know this life is mine because the label has my name on it, but what kind of name is Sheila? It doesn’t tell you who I am, or where I came from. Sheila could be anybody. That’s why I wanted something more Africana. Okay, so maybe Africana isn’t the right word. But I definitely want something more ethnic. A name that tells a story. A name with roots. That’s what I want people to understand.

After English, I met with Mr. Ward and explained all of that, or enough of it to satisfy him, anyway. “Okay,” he said. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow. Natalina.” It was all I could do not to give him a hug.

OPEN MIKE

BY NATALINA GAMBERONI