Romiette and Julio

Romiette and Julio

Books by Sharon M. Draper

Tears of a Tiger
Forged by Fire
Romiette and Julio

First Aladdin Paperbacks edition April 2001

Copyright © 1999 by Sharon M. Draper

Aladdin Paperbacks
An imprint of Simon & Schuster
Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

All rights reserved, including the right of
reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Also available in an Atheneum Books
for Young Readers hardcover edition.

Designed by Lisa Vega.

The text for this book was set in Bembo.
Printed and bound in the United States of America
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Draper, Sharon M. (Sharon Mills)
Romiette and Julio / by Sharon M. Draper.—1st ed.
p. cm.

Summary: Romiette, an African-American girl, and Julio,
a Hispanic boy, discover that they attend the same high school after
falling in love on the Internet, but are harassed by a gang whose
members object to their interracial dating.
ISBN: 0-689-82180-8 (hc.)

[1. Internet (Computer network)—Fiction. 2. Gangs—Fiction. 3. High
Schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction. 5. Hispanic Americans—Fiction.
6. Afro-Americans—Fiction.] I. Title. II.Title: Romiette and Julio.
PZ7.D78325Ro 1999 [Fic]—dc21 98-50218
ISBN: 0-689-84209-0 (Aladdin pbk.)
eISBN-13: 978-1-4424-2885-0

To Larry, Who Gave Me The Idea

—
S.M.D.

Romiette and Julio

The water thundered into her ears, forced itself down her throat, and burned its way into her nose, her lungs, her brain. This water was fierce and deadly—no cool, gentle waves, but hot, choking liquid flames, sucking the breath of life from her. She struggled, searching for air, for land, for something to hold on to. But there was only the water, pulling her into its depths. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t swim. She couldn’t even scream. The water filled her, seared her thoughts, and she drifted slowly into unconsciousness. The fire cooled, the terror ebbed, and the dark shadow of death embraced her.

She drifted then—in a haze of colors and swirls and black, frightening void. Voices? Could she hear voices? One voice? Maybe it was a song. No, all was silence. Thick, enveloping quiet that led to despair. No reason to care, to breathe, to live. So easy to let the silence swallow her. That voice. It pierced the darkness. It was calling her name, grabbing her thoughts and making her remember the fear, the pain, the cold, clammy water. The water! She gasped, and the water grabbed her once more, viciously dragging her to its depths. But that voice. A man’s voice. It floated down to where she lay, cradled in the arms of the victorious water. The voice called her one last time.

Suddenly, Romiette sat up in her bed. Her nightgown was damp and clinging to her body. She was sweaty and disoriented. Her heart, still pounding from the fear of almost drowning, made her breathing jagged and tight in the darkness. She turned on her light, looked around her pale blue bedroom, and started to relax. She got up quietly, changed her nightgown, then opened her bedroom window. The night air was cool and soft; peace and silence ruled the street. No cars, no movement, not even a barking dog. Slowly, Romiette began to breathe more evenly. She took a deep breath of the night.

This was the third night in a row that she had been awakened by a dream of drowning, but she had been dreaming various versions of this dream for several months. She could find no reason for such a dream. True, she couldn’t swim, but she wasn’t taking swimming at school, and she purposely made her life tiptoe far around anything having to do with more water than a bathtub.
So why the terror dream?
she thought again.
Why? And who did that voice belong to?
She could hear it still, and it made her tremble, not with fear, but with excitement. It was not a voice she had heard before—she was sure of that.

It was 3
A.M.
Romiette knew she couldn’t get back to sleep, so she decided to write in her journal. Writing soothed her, relaxed her, and tonight, she thought, was one of those nights that she needed to really chill.
This was my favorite Christmas present,
thought Romiette as she stroked the smooth leather cover of her new journal.

She sat cross-legged on her bed with a blanket around her shoulders, relaxed a bit, breathed deeply, and opened the journal slowly. She carefully wrote her name on the soft cream-colored front page. She blew on it gently to make sure it would not smear, then, with great anticipation, opened to the first page. She liked starting a fresh journal. It was full of possibilities and unanswered questions—of days yet to come and events yet to happen. She decided to start by describing who she was. Maybe somehow she’d find an answer to the terrible dreams.

My name is Romiette Renee Cappelle. I am brown, like the earth, tall and slim like a poplar tree, and outspoken, like the wind on a stormy day. I like mornings because of all the possibilities, and rainbows when I can find them. I am sixteen years old and I’ll be driving by the end of the year.

I like chili, macadamia nut cookies, and environmentally safe products. I believe recycling is essential for the future of this planet, so I never throw anything away. In my room, I have collections of buttons, pop-tops, foil, and safety pins. I like to talk on the phone in the dark because it adds mystery and conserves energy.

I hate picky people, watermelon, and chocolate. I hate gangs, violence, and movies with too much sex and cussing. There are gangs in our school now, and it’s a little scary because they want to control with threats and punches the actions and thinking of kids, and
I can’t be bothered with that, so they don’t like me much. That’s fine with me—I don’t need any more complications in my life. It’s complicated enough trying to juggle geometry, boys, and learning to drive.

I’m not afraid of much. Lots of girls see spiders and snakes and scream. I think snakes are sleek and sexy—not that I’d want to marry one or anything, but I like snakes because they’re smooth and cool, and spiders because they create art out of their own bodies. That’s awesome. Most spiders don’t bite, and if I see one, I go around it rather than step on it. Life is rough enough for a spider without looking out for girls with big shoes. And I do love big shoes. The bigger the better. Three-inch heels and soles. Four inches. Five! My mother said she wore shoes just like those when she was my age. I find that hard to believe. The only other things I’m afraid of are being abandoned, thunderstorms, and water.

I’m terrified of water. I took swimming when I was little like everyone else, but I never learned. That’s not exactly true. I learned how to swim, I just never got the nerve to let go. I know how to do rhythmic breathing, proper arm strokes, the flutter kick—all of that, but I just can’t get away from the side of the pool. When I’m in the middle with nothing to hold on to, I panic. There’s just nothing solid—nothing to grasp. The water slips through my hands,
and I flounder, then I start to sink, then I scream, then, of course, I get embarrassed. So I go to the pool, but I stay on the side, or splash with the little kids in the shallow end so their parents can go swim in the deep water. Even walking by the deep end makes me feel ill. But I’ve never fallen in, never had a near-drowning incident, never even slipped in the bathtub. Which is why that dream freaks me out. I’m going to have to ask my dad. He would tell me what to do without getting too worried about it.

My daddy, Cornell Cappelle, is a television newscaster. He’s good-looking and popular, and his picture is on billboards all over the city. I like that. He gets to interview all the stars and dignitaries that come to town. I got to meet Michael Jackson and Michael Jordan last year because of my dad’s job. His show comes on every night at six o’clock with this really goofy lady named Nannette Norris. She’s pretty, but she can’t read very well and keeps mispronouncing words and making stupid mistakes on the air. She once spent the whole show talking about the gorillas in some war in Europe. My dad just smiled, and explained to the listening audience that the guerrilla, not gorilla, warfare was making the war so intense.

My daddy’s folk come from New Orleans, and we visit every summer with my grandmama
Essie and my grandpapa Rudolph. Essie makes the best red beans and rice this side of the Mississippi River, and Rudolph tells me tall tales of ghosts and voodoo and stuff my daddy did when he was little. I bet Grandpapa Rudolph would know why I’m having scary dreams about drowning. Grandmama would say it was something I ate, or growing pains, but Grandpapa would light a candle and whisper a tale of a drowned sailor woman and I wouldn’t sleep for a week. He’d laugh about it later, but then he’d wink at me and I never could be sure when he was joking or when he really believed what he said.

My mother’s name is Lady. I think black folk have the most creative names for their children. We don’t bother with ordinary names like Sandy and Mary. We like flamboyant names like La Shandra and LaMarietta or Quinesia or Appolinia. Each name is distinct and descriptive. Anyway, my mama, Lady Brianna Cappelle, is from Cincinnati, where I grew up. Her parents are strict, churchgoing, hymn-singing college teachers who taught me to love music and reading and God. They named their only daughter Lady because that is what they expected her to grow up to be—not a woman, but a lady. And she is. She is six feet tall, with very short dark hair, dark skin, and a figure better than mine, and I’m sixteen and supposedly at the prime of my life. She
was a model when she was younger. She walks like an African queen. Grandpa told me that we are direct descendants of African kings, and when I see my mama walk, I believe him.

She never frowns, never yells, and never loses her cool like I do all the time. Once we were shopping and the saleslady started to wait on these teenagers who had come in at least twenty minutes after us. Mama didn’t raise a fuss. She said quietly, with that powerful, musical voice of hers, “Excuse me, madam, but the reports of my invisibility have been greatly exaggerated. I’m sure you never intended to overlook my six-foot body and the hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise I am holding in my hand.” The lady mumbled apologies, Mama smiled sweetly, and we walked out of there like royalty.

My mother owns a boutique downtown. She sells African artifacts and cloth, and imported items from all over the world. She also carries prints from black artists, and lots of books for children and adults by black writers. Anybody who wants a unique outfit or some authentic African artwork, they know to come to Lady Brianna’s Boutique. I work there three days a week after school, and most Saturdays. It’s not like a job to me, because I love being there. I’ve read all the latest books, and I’ve got some really sharp outfits that my friends all admire. People from all
over the world come to Mama’s shop. Her shop is right between two large hotels, so we love tourists. A couple of times, we’ve even had visiting kings and presidents of African countries come in. She, the queenly person that she is, was simply charming to them. They appreciated her style and bought lots of stuff.

I like being connected to royalty. I’m tall like my mom, but not tall enough to have that queenly walk. She says it will come later, but I don’t know—I may be doomed to walk like a jock all my life. I tried modeling for a while, but I felt stupid grinning when I wasn’t happy, and walking when I’d rather be sitting down. Last year I played basketball on a team of girls from my neighborhood. We could beat most of the boys we know, but the boys would never admit it. I don’t have a boyfriend and I don’t want one. Boys are smelly, noisy, and confusing. They call you and tell you they like you, then they don’t call back. They like to act macho, and don’t like a girl who is smarter or tougher than they are.