Pushin' (6 page)

Of course you do
, my mom says, catching my drift.
Why not? You've got great legs, you can outperform any of those girls, and you've got sass. You'd make a perfect cheerleader, girl
.

But I already have a full plate, Mom
, I think back, placing the packet down on the table and taking the clipboard from Shauna's hand, much to Alicia's approval. Maybe they need more allies on the squad, especially since she and the other sister will be graduating in a few weeks. I'm sure they don't want their black legacy to go. They're the only two girls on the large squad who have sass and spunk from what I've seen: the perfect combination for a good cheerleader.

Jayd, it'll be fun. And besides, you need to live a little. You're going into your senior year of high school and before you know it you'll be graduating. You deserve to have some fun while you still can. Before you know it, you'll be all grown up, and then you will have plenty of time to work—trust me
. I know my mom's right. My mom was only nineteen when she had me, and that was the end of her fun for a while, if you let my mom tell it. I've been with my grandmother most of my life, and my mom's been making up for the time she lost in her first marriage ever since.

Fine. But when Mama gets pissed at me, I'm telling her you made me do it,
I say from my mind to hers while simultaneously signing up for the tryouts. I can't believe I just did that.

It wouldn't be the first time and I'm sure it won't be the last,
my mom says before finally leaving my thoughts. With my mom in my head I didn't have space to second-guess my actions for too long.

“Excellent!” Shauna exclaims, retrieving the clipboard and checking off my name. “Please read over all of the information in the packet, sign your name where indicated, and come prepared for a good workout on Monday afternoon.”

“You'll also need to have a copy of your transcripts and a one-paragraph statement on why you want to be on the pep squad. And dress in comfortable dance attire,” Alicia says, all about the business without Shauna's enthusiasm.

“Rehearsals are for one hour after school every day next week, with tryouts the following week. We will post our decision on the gymnasium's announcement board next Friday.” Shauna's all giggles as she puts a fresh sheet of notebook paper on the clipboard, ready for the next girl. There are a couple of guys on the squad, but they're usually off-season football players who want to get up the girls' skirts any way they can, including being the base of a human pyramid.

“Okay, thanks,” I say, claiming my papers and leaving the line. On my way to third period I run into my man. It's the first time I've seen Jeremy this morning. This day and night surfing is wearing him out, but luckily the competition is next Saturday and then hopefully he'll be back to his mellow schedule.

“Hey, lady,” Jeremy says, putting his right arm around my shoulders as I step into stride with him. He bends down, meeting my lips for a proper good morning hello.

“Hey, baby,” I say, returning the affection as we head toward our government class. Mrs. Peterson's probably already there, with her perpetually grumpy ass. She's been more stoic than ever lately, only speaking to us to grunt out her orders for the day. I guess she's ready for summer to get here just like the rest of us.

“Did I just see you in the cheer line?” Jeremy asks. The idea still sounds so foreign. We never talked about it, but I think Jeremy's secretly hoping I don't become a member of the pep squad.

“Yes, you did, and before you say anything, yes, I really am.”

Jeremy looks down at me like he doesn't recognize his girlfriend, but then softens his face into a smile. “Hey, I didn't say a word. And you know I'm down for you no matter what, Lady J,” Jeremy says, taking my backpack from my right shoulder and carrying it to my desk. Who says chivalry is dead?

“I appreciate that, Mr. Weiner,” I say, kissing him again before entering the grim room. It smells like Bengay and coffee in here, and it's colder than necessary if you ask me. “Have you spoken to Chance this morning?” I ask, taking my seat before Jeremy sits down next to me in our assigned row.

“No, and I called to check on him. I'm sure he's just taking a day off, but you wouldn't know anything about that now would you, Miss Jackson?” Jeremy's right. I never rest, but I don't feel like that's what's going on with our boy. I guess I'll have to do some extra footwork on this one myself. If Chance doesn't show up to Mr. Adewale's class next period, I'm going to take more drastic measures to share my dream with him. After all, his mother called me and I have to answer before it's too late.

 

Chance still hasn't returned any of my messages from this morning and because Jeremy and Nellie also haven't heard from him, I'm more worried than before. I took the liberty of asking Mrs. Sinclair if it was okay for me to be a little late to fifth period to see about her favorite student, and she was more than cool with it. I bet if it had been me in need, my ass would have been out of luck.

I pull up to Chance's mini Palos Verdes mansion and notice the flawless Chevy Nova parked in the driveway. The mere sight of the crimson classic makes my heart jump. It feels so good driving that thing, but that's not why I'm here. I step out of my car and walk toward the house. It's too still around here for me. No matter how nice the neighborhood is, white folks have their fair share of family drama, too. I stopped by Taco Bell and grabbed Chance some lunch, mainly because I'm hungry and it is lunchtime. We both have to eat, and what better way to talk than by breaking tacos together?

I ring the doorbell on the massive oak-and-stained-glass front door. Without asking who it is, Chance opens the door looking like he just rolled out of bed.

“I decided to come and check on you since you can't return a sistah's calls and you decided to play hooky today,” I say, stepping into the foyer and handing him his lunch. I can hear his mom on the phone in the living room and she doesn't sound happy.

“Yeah, sorry about that. I've had a lot on my mind,” Chance says, closing the door behind us and smelling his lunch. He looks like he's been through hell and back. “Come on in,” he says, ushering us into the dining room where we can eat and chill for a minute. We sit across from each other, both emptying the contents of our feast onto the marble table, ready to dig in. I can hear Mrs. Carmichael on the phone saying the words “help me” repeatedly, and feel the need to jump into Chance's mind to cool him off immediately. She's calling me again; only this time, instead of in my dream, I'm here to help my friend and his mother reconnect.

I jump into Chance's mind, seeing what he's not saying. He knows the entire truth about his birth mother's family, his adoption, his real name and all. He confronted his mother about his suspicions and she told him everything. It wasn't easy for either of them, but Chance feels betrayed by the woman he's loved as his mother his entire life. He wants to know why she didn't tell him the truth sooner and she can't explain her reasons to Chance, who is unyielding in his emotions. What a mess. At least I know my dreams are on point, as usual.

“Chance, what's really going on? You know you can tell me anything,” I say, leaving his mind and focusing on opening the tiny hot sauce packets accompanying our meal. Chance picks up his burrito and takes a huge bite before letting it all out.

“I'm going to Georgia to see my real family, or at least the black side of it,” Chance says proudly. I know it must feel like his mother kept this information from him for too long, but I know Mrs. Carmichael was just waiting for the right time to tell him. The worst part about that rationale is that there's no right time to tell someone they're adopted or that Chance's feelings of having black blood were valid. Somehow I have to get Chance to see that his mother's not his enemy.

“This is your real family,” I say, gesturing at the large house around us. I know Mrs. Carmichael must be a total wreck, her only child leaving for Georgia and making her worst nightmare come true. From her psychic request, this is the best I can do on such short notice. I wish I could help more.

“I know my mom loves me, but all my life I've felt out of place at family reunions, the country club, summer camps where everyone was rich and white. I could never understand why, but now I know, Jayd. Now I know,” Chance says, looking down at the blue paper in front of him and sliding it across the table for me to see. It's his birth certificate. Chase LeCroix Monroe. From my sleepwalk through his dream during the holidays, I remember that his mother is Creole and his daddy's a white boy, also from the South, whose family was adamantly against bringing home colored babies—but not mistresses—just like Jeremy's dad, who doesn't mind if his son dates colored girls so long as they don't bring any mixed babies home.

Mrs. Carmichael enters the room with a lit cigarette in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, her cell phone propped between her left ear and shoulder. She looks like hell, too.

“Hi, Mrs. Carmichael,” I say, trying to hide my shock at her tattered appearance. She really should consider cutting her alcohol intake before the damage to her body is irreversible.

“Jayd, please talk some sense into this boy,” his mother says, completely beside herself. She looks like she's been crying for days. If I had to guess, I'd say she hasn't showered in a couple of days, either.

“I already tried, but I think his mind's made up,” I say, focusing on Mrs. Carmichael's eyes and jumping right into her pain. It's so hot in here I'm starting to sweat. Calming her down with my new powers is my biggest challenge yet. “You should be as supportive as you can. You know Chance is your baby, and he'll always come back to you.” The tears stream down Mrs. Carmichael's face and I've lost her. I should've stopped while I was ahead because my last comment has sent her into a complete frenzy.

“I gave you life, Chance Carmichael, do you hear me? Even if I don't have the stretch marks to prove it, I'm still your mother and you have to believe I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you. I love you, baby,” Mrs. Carmichael says, walking over to Chance and attempting to hug him, but he refuses to let her get too close. She looks at me hard before storming out of the dining room and up the stairs. Damn, this is some heavy shit. I'm all for Chance finding out about his true lineage, but there's got to be a better way to go about it.

“I called my mother's father and he says he's always won dered what happened to me. My mother's dead and he doesn't know where my father is, but remembers a little about him,” Chance says, choking back his tears. I see my boy's been busy playing detective the past couple of days. It's amazing how small the Internet makes the world. “I already got my plane tickets and packed my shit,” Chance says, like it's no big deal. “I leave later this afternoon and will be back on Sunday.”

“Is anyone going with you?” I ask after devouring the last of my chicken tacos. That was a slamming lunch even if the conversation wasn't as pleasant.

“No, and I don't want anyone to. This is something I have to do for myself.” Chance takes another bite of his second burrito, avoiding my eyes. I really fear for my friend. He's suffering the loss of two mothers and doesn't know which to mourn first.

“I'm all about you finding your roots, but don't get it twisted, Chance. The grass isn't always greener. You don't know how your black side is going to respond to you. Are you sure you don't want your mom or Jeremy to go with you?” I would've offered my company, but Mama would never allow me to fly across country with one of my friends.

“I'm not sure about anything anymore, Jayd. I just want to get to Atlanta and see what my real mom looked like. If she had this mole on her lip like I do,” he says, scratching his upper lip. “I always wondered where this damn thing came from.” I hope Chance finds the answers he's looking for. It's not going to be easy, but life rarely is. I just hope he doesn't neglect Mrs. Carmichael's grief in the process. Her son's rightful search for self just might kill her.

“At least let me drive you to the airport. I got a school pass from Mrs. Sinclair and can take you whenever you're ready.”

“I was born ready, Jayd. Let's roll,” Chance says, rising from the table and jogging up the stairs two at a time to get his stuff. I can't believe he's going to Atlanta tonight. I'm glad Chance trusts me enough to be a part of his journey. After I drop him off I'll head straight to work, officially beginning my weekend. Like Chance, I hope I find some sort of peace over the next three days. God knows we both deserve it.

I
nitially I'd hoped for a relaxing weekend, but it turned out to be the exact opposite, much to my bank account's benefit. I had clients stacked up at the shop and at my mom's apartment. As if doing hair all weekend wasn't enough, I also had spirit work and my boyfriend to keep me busy, not to mention studying the sorority's history for the debutante meeting at Mrs. Esop's house later this afternoon. I'm as ready as I'll ever be to deal with the ladies of leisure Mrs. Esop associates with. Tolerating their bougie asses will be a challenge, but nothing I can't stomach for a couple of hours.

After braiding all morning, I came over to Mama's to help her fill some of her special Mother's Day orders for next Sunday's holiday, which also happens to be Mama's favorite day of the year after Christmas, and have been working in the spirit room ever since. She and Netta get all dressed up and go out after their all-day ritual honoring our ancestral mothers. It's a beautiful ceremony and I always feel renewed after participating every year.

I have yet to tell Mama about me becoming a debutante with Mrs. Esop's sorority and possibly a cheerleader next year. Much like with my Advanced Placement exams, Mama won't be happy with the time spent on my newfound extracurricular activities. I don't know how to break the news to her, but it has to be done. I'm sure she's going to wonder why I can't stay for dinner today, and lying about it won't work with Mama for long. It's going to be a tough sell, though. She's never gotten along well with Nigel's mother, who thinks my grandmother is related to the Antichrist and Mama feels the same way about her. Their hating goes back to when Mrs. Esop was still in Compton, having come from Louisiana with Mama, Netta, Esmeralda and a lot of our other neighbors. I wonder if Mrs. Esop's snooty friends feel the same way. If they say one cross word about my grandmother or my mother, I'm out—damn our verbal agreement.

“Jayd, hand me the shea butter, please. And could you crush some more vanilla beans for the big belly balm? We're going to need it for that girl's growing stomach,” Mama says, mixing the ingredients in the mortar. I'm so glad she's making a special batch of the cream for Mickey, even though Mama made it very clear it's for the baby and not my fast-ass friend.

“What does vanilla do besides make it smell good?” I ask, immediately sorry that I did. I take the small, dark brown beans out of one of the dozens of glass containers lining the shelves. The look in Mama's eyes is enough to show how much she's disappointed in my lack of spiritual prowess. I've been studying my spirit lessons, but not as much as she thinks I should. I can't tell her that I'm more interested in studying about my mom's gift of sight than about ingredients for the various recipes Mama specializes in. After a few more minutes, Mama softens her look and answers my question.

“Vanilla has many benefits. For expectant mothers it is a soothing herb, especially when coupled with sandalwood and lavender,” she says, taking more of the ground ingredients from the cutting board and drizzling them into a marble bowl before beating them with the matching pestle. I love Mama's tools. She rarely lets me use the ancient bowl and pounder because she's afraid I'll break them. But the various wooden combinations lining the cabinets work just as well for me.

“The balm smells so good I could spread it on a biscuit and eat it,” I say, mixing the almond oil, melted cocoa butter, and another special oil Mama didn't give me the name of, in my smaller mortar, waiting for further instructions.

“You could, but it might not taste so good,” Mama says, smiling at me. It's always nice being in the spirit room with Mama, especially when it's a bright, sunny day like today. It's over eighty degrees outside and a slight breeze is blowing through the screen door, dispersing our healing scents through the tiny house. Even Lexi—Mama's loyal German shepherd—is enjoying the day from her usual post at the threshold. “Which reminds me, what are we having for dinner this evening? I've got some fresh salmon from Mr. Webb and we can make some honey butter and biscuits to go with it.” Oh, that sounds so delicious. I know they won't have anything like that to eat at the tea this afternoon.

“About that,” I say, easing into my admission. “I actually have a function to attend this afternoon and I don't think I'll make it back in time for dinner.” Mama continues her mixing, not looking up from the smooth concoction. I hope Mickey knows what she's getting, but she probably doesn't and couldn't care less about the spiritual relevance of having a priestess like Mama making her something to smooth her stretch marks and many other ailments she may experience.

“I see,” she says, finally done with the balm. I automatically claim an empty plastic container from the counter and hand it to Mama to fill. I busy myself with the label making while the thought of me not being here for our now regular Sunday dinner sets in, filling the room with an uncomfortable silence.

“I've been meaning to talk to you about something,” I say, taking Mickey's full container and pressing the label onto the front. I then walk over to the ancestor shrine and place the balm next to the rest of the products lined up for blessings. This is the final ingredient that makes Mama's line of healing and beauty products so special and powerful. Once she prays over them, they're ready to go. “I've been invited by Nigel's mother to participate in a debutante ball.”

“A debutante ball—by Nigel's mother,” Mama repeats, rubbing the remnants of the balm into her already glistening skin. “And you accepted the invitation, I assume.” I stare at Mama, who's focused on her hands. She can tell there's more I'm not saying.

“Yes, I did, but only because Mrs. Esop made me agree to it in exchange for her presence at Mickey's baby shower, where she only came downstairs to say hello. But in her eyes, her part of the deal was met, so I have to keep my word, too.” I join Mama at the kitchen table, sitting on a stool across from her. Her green eyes look weary and I wonder if she's been taking her herbs regularly since I moved out. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to Mama because I don't live here anymore.

“Yes, you must keep your word,” she says cryptically. Mama looks behind her at the refrigerator and claims the spirit book from the top. “And?” Mama asks, waiting for the rest of my confession. This must be how it feels to let it all out to a Catholic priest.

“And all next week I'll be an hour late to Netta's because I'm trying out for the cheer squad. My counselor, Mr. Adelizi, says it will help my chances of getting into a good college.” Mama looks up at me, shocked by that last bomb. “I know, I know, it's not my thing, but he says that I need another activity to make me a solid candidate.”

“Mrs. Esop, Mr. Adelizi. Who the hell are these people to you, Jayd?” Mama taps her long, red fingernail on the book three times before opening it to exactly what she was looking for, I suppose. That's just how gifted Mama is. The book speaks to her, unlike when I ask it a question. I have to look through the entire thing to find what I'm looking for. I wonder if there's a silent prayer or something that comes along with the nail tapping that I need to become privy to.

“Well, Mr. Adelizi is my guidance counselor at school and, well, you know who Mrs. Esop is,” I say, realizing how silly I must sound. Mama bends her neck to the right and opens her mouth in total disbelief that I had the nerve to answer her rhetorical question.

“Jayd, I have tolerated your recent shenanigans as best I know how. But, girl, I think you're really losing it.” Mama closes her eyes and scratches her forehead like she's completely stressed, and I feel her. I hardly recognize myself sometimes, but I feel like the same person. What gives?

“Mama, it's not that bad. I'm just growing up, I guess.”

“Growing up means maturing, not completely changing who you are at the influence of outsiders.” Mama opens her eyes and silently reads a few lines from the great book.

“Outsiders?” I say aloud, questioning the word's use in this case. I know what Mama means, but I see these people on a regular basis.

“Yes, Jayd. Outsiders: people who are not a part of your family, your lineage, your bloodline. Your destiny was carved out way before you were even thought of, little girl. And the path you're etching out for yourself is in direct contradiction to that divine destiny.” Mama continues her reading, taking one of the loose note cards from the ancient text and using it as a bookmark. Unlike the pages in this book, my life's not written yet.

“Don't I get a say in the way my life unfolds?” I know I sound like a bratty teenager but for real. I've been living this spiritual life for seventeen years now. When do I get a break to just do me? I know my life includes the crazy dreams and everything else that comes with my lineage, and I've accepted that. But there has to be a way to balance the best of both worlds. Otherwise, what's the point?

“Of course you do, just like your mama did. And we see how well that turned out,” Mama says, eyeing the weathered pages in front of her. I don't like where this conversation is leading and from the look of it, neither does my grandmother.

“But my mom turned out okay in the end,” I say, fingering the five jade bracelets on my left arm. I wonder if they can protect me against the wrath I feel coming from Mama.

“Yes, she did. And as her mother, I'm just grateful she's alive and healthy—for the most part.”

“What do you mean, ‘for the most part'? Is there something I should know?” I ask, alarmed at the possibility my mother's ill or something else just as disturbing.

“Nothing that you aren't already aware of,” Mama says, rubbing her tired eyes underneath her reading glasses. “For a priestess to lose her power is tantamount to one losing a hand or the use of their eyes. So like I said, Lynn Marie is healthy, for the most part.”

“I don't see what me getting involved in more school activities has to do with my sight. I'm still dreaming and retaining my memory, just like I'm supposed to,” I say, stopping short of admitting I've retained more than a memory from one of my dreams about my mother. I'm still in disbelief that I've kept her powers, but I'm not letting Mama know or she'll strip me of them before I can make a good case as to why I should keep them. They've already been beneficial to my friends and Mrs. Carmichael, and that has to count for something.

“Yes, about that,” Mama says, turning the book around to face me. “You have no idea what you're supposed to be able to do because you don't spend enough time on your spirit studies. How do you know what your true potential is if you don't invest fully in your talent?”

“Exactly my point about cheer and becoming a debutante,” I say, surprised at the logic in my argument. Why am I so gung ho about making a case for my newfound activities when I myself am fundamentally against becoming active in either group? I guess now that they're on the table I feel like I want to keep them, just like my mom's cold-ass abilities and my bid for ASU president. They're both in my destiny and it's time to claim them.

“Jayd, what the hell good is becoming a debutante going to do you? Those heffas know nothing about real work or our way of life. All they do is sip tea and talk shit,” Mama says, shuddering at the thought. “Trust me, Jayd, I know more about that world than you realize. Me and Teresa go way, way back and despite her name, she's no saint.” I've never heard Mama refer to Nigel's mother by her first name. I almost forgot she had one.

“I know she's a tough lady, but this opportunity is bigger than her. Besides, I gave my word.” I look at the wall clock and realize it's already past noon. I need to do my hair, raid what's left of my mother's clothes for something suitable to wear to the tea, and get a move on. I'm a bit nervous about meeting the ladies of leisure, as Nigel calls his mom's sorority sisters, but I'm also excited. It's nice being chosen, even if I wasn't running for anything. Speaking of which, I also have to write my speech for the election during the African Student Union meeting on Wednesday at lunch. I've made a good case for myself and think I'm a shoo-in for president, but one can never be too sure.

“Be careful about spreading your word too thin, Jayd. Just like your ass, it can get worn out.” Mama places the last index card in the spirit book and pushes it across the table toward me. “Here's your lesson for the week. Study it well. There will be a test at Netta's soon.” Mama rises from her stool, walks over to me and kisses me long on the forehead. “I love you, baby. Have a good time at your tea.”

“Thank you, Mama. I love you, too.” I hug her tightly before she exits the small house with Lexi at her heels.

The section Mama has chosen for this week's lesson, is all about verbal ashe, or the spoken word. This should be an interesting lesson to say the least. I have about an hour before I have to get going. I'll read as much as I can and take notes to study later. The rest will have to be done tomorrow after work. I don't have much time to get ready, hair included. Balancing my new priorities with my old ones will take some serious juggling. Hopefully, I'll get better at it because I can't keep neglecting my spirit work or Mama.

 

When I made it back to my mom's place a couple of hours ago, I took a quick shower and touched up my hair before raiding my mom's dwindling wardrobe. Slowly but surely my mom's things are making their way over to her boyfriend's apartment, undoubtedly forcing some of his stuff out. I finally settled on a cream silk skirt suit with a pink shell underneath and pink snakeskin pumps to match. I look so good I wish I had somewhere else to show off my sophisticated clothes. If I don't look like a lady, then I don't know who does. We'll see if Nigel's mother and her friends agree. I send Jeremy a quick text to let him know I'm thinking about my boo. He's probably in the deep blue sea riding a wave, or whatever it is they do at the beach all day. Maybe we can meet up tonight after we're done with both of our busy days.