Show and Prove (18 page)

Nike swore Port Morris would be OK so long as we stuck together and backed each other up.
It'll just be like on the block. We manage, right?
He made me make a pact.
You can't make me go there alone, B.

Nike was right that Port Morris wasn't that bad. The problem was that it wasn't good either. Even though I was in the honors program and he was in regular classes, we stuck close and avoided the chaos, but it wasn't enough. I knew that every day I entered that building, I did so at my own risk because no place was safe. If a drug gang didn't catch me with a knife in the stairwell, a prejudiced teacher with an outdated textbook would get me in the classroom. Nike and I had some laughs during lunch or in gym, but it did nothing to shake the feeling that I was just choosing my poison.

Then one day I ran into Cookie in the train station, and I realized that I never saw her at Port Morris. She told me that she was using a play cousin's address so she could commute to Kennedy High School in Riverdale instead. Over the winter recess, I worked up the courage to ask my parents' permission to do the same, except I wanted to transfer to DeWitt Clinton. That sparked a big discussion because neither liked the idea of lying about my address to get out of going to my neighborhood school. I finally confessed how bad things were at Port Morris—gangs, drugs, worse—and that I was afraid to keep going there. That heated conversation in my living room with my own parents might have been my first hand at debate.
It's all boys, and James Baldwin, Ralph Lauren, Stan Lee, and a whole bunch of other famous people have graduated from there.
The only question I didn't answer is when Mama asked me why I didn't tell them sooner.

And I had an answer, which was that I could never figure out when is the best time to break your parents' hearts. Do I wake up Pop when he needs to sleep so he can work the twelve-to-eight running a subway train that's dirtier and more dangerous than my school? Do I tell Mama when she's healthy and make her worry away her gratefulness, or do I lay it on her in the midst of another crisis since she's already suffering? When is the right time to make your parents feel like no matter how hard they work, no matter how much they care, no matter how much you understand that they're doing the best they can, it's not enough? Instead, I said nothing.

Mama still responded. She contacted my principal and demanded a meeting. The principal talked to my teachers. My teachers gave me additional tests that nobody else had to take. People from schools I'd never heard of—some as far away as Vermont—were calling and visiting the apartment, and Mama had me writing essays, getting recommendations, and going on interviews as if I were applying to college instead of transferring between high schools. Pop hated the idea of boarding school from jump street. Said I'll
be damned if I send my only son hundreds of miles away to be raised to be saditty!
Mama pushed back.
Keep an open mind, Derrick.
Despite Pop's attempt to draw that line, getting me into a prestigious high school was Mama's project.
Let's see all the options we have and then decide what's best for Ray-Ray.
Before the recruiter from Dawkins visited, Mama was fixed on Loyola, it being a Catholic school and all. Then came Russell. He souped up Mama for real. Told her he grew up in University Heights, which makes our neighborhood look like the Magic Garden. Once he graduated from Dawkins, he went on to Princeton, and that was all Mama needed to hear. No other school existed after that. The fact that Dawkins was an all-boys day school in Manhattan—no girls, no dorm, no trek to Massachusetts or New Hampshire—was the icing on the cake. Both my parents were sold.

I was glad, too. Even though I didn't admit it, the thought of attending a school out of state scared me more than staying at my zoned high school. Maybe dealers and addicts surrounded the school, but at least I knew how to handle them. If there were hoods in the school, I had Nike and other guys for backup. Booby, Flex, Javi, and Pooh aren't my ace coom booms, but push come to shove, I could count on them, too. I could make friends and avoid trouble here, but what if none of those rich white kids at Andover or Exeter wanted to make friends with me? Or what if they did, and I couldn't afford to do the things they do for fun? Could I even have fun, or would I have to miss out on everything to study 24-7 to keep my scholarship? What if there were no Black or even Hispanic girls? What if none of the white girls liked me? Or worse…what if they did? Then Dawkins came through with a full scholarship. I thought I had the best of both worlds. A great school where I was Raymond by day, and a hip neighborhood where I was Smiley Smiles by night.

But I didn't tell Nike until Labor Day of sophomore year that I was transferring out of Port Morris. Between my adjusting to the commute and workload and his holding a grudge because I broke our pact, we barely spoke my first year at Dawkins. Nike came back around when Mama passed, but things have never been the same between us. He ran out of her funeral, and I've never told him what her hematologist now believes really killed her. Those few rounds of spit today are the closest we've been.

“Earth to Raymond,” Cookie yells, waving her hand across my face. “Come in, Raymond.”

I finally say, “Sara has a week to tell Nike the truth. And you can't tell her I know. You're pressuring me to keep a secret from my homie? You have to keep a secret from yours.”

Cookie is excited. “Bet! She begged me not to say anything to you. I'm totally down to let her think I didn't say squat!” She starts to jump up and down, and before I know it, Cookie is throwing her arms around me. “Thank you, Smiles—I owe you!” Then before I can tell her to step off, she kisses me on the cheek and runs out of the bathroom.

I wait a few seconds, praying that no one saw her leave the boys' room. I peek my head outside the door, and when I think the coast is clear, I dash out and back into the cafeteria. Nike is right where I left him, arranging his cards in his hand.

“What'd you do? Fall in? I was about to have Barb call the fire department.”

“Hardy har har.” I pick up my half of the deck and start to lay out my cards. “Prepare to get dusted.”

“I'm so scared.” Then he asks, “No more sandwiches?”

I completely forgot. “Yeah, we're out.”

Nike shrugs and switches back to BLS on his boom box just as the prerecorded station ID gives way to “The Message.” The second we hear the opening beat, Nike and I bob our heads and yell,
Hooo!
and give each other five. We play cards for the rest of the afternoon, the only words between us the rhymes we trade as they flow from Nike's radio. Funny how the music emphasizes everything that brings us together even as it drowns out all the things that push us apart. If we were listening to an album, after every three minutes of rhythm and truth, we would have to suffer ten seconds of silence and secrets.

Thank God for the mastermix.

G
irls can be so moody, especially when it's that time of the month. Sara's gotten all grouchy like I did something to her. She barely says two words to me at a time and wriggles away when I try to put an arm around her. I asked if she wanted me to run to the bodega for some aspirin—not Tylenol since some kook is out there poisoning people—or get the hot-water bottle Barb keeps with the first-aid kid. She just told me to leave her alone and slunk off with Cookie somewhere.

“Give her a few days,” Smiles said. “When you're not feeling well, you want someone in your face?”

Actually, I
do.
OK, maybe not in my face, but trying to make me feel better. Checking on me from time to time. I let Sara be for the rest of the day but still walk her home from work, 'cause I'm a gentleman, you know. I do all the talking, though, mostly how I think Smiles is getting carried away with all that Black Power talk. When I say, “Talk to you in a bit,” Sara doesn't say that she's not going to call me, so I rush home and wait like I always do.

An hour passes—nothing. What am I supposed to do? I can't come within two feet of my sister when she's on the rag if I want to keep my teeth, but Blue Eyes would get really pissed when I tiptoed around her during her period.
Stop acting like I'm a leper!
she'd yell.
It's not some contagious disease.
If I act like it's no big thing, I'm insensitive. If I acknowledge it, I'm invading her privacy and embarrassing her. A dude can't win!

I'd call Sara and tell her I'm sorry for whatever, except I still don't have her number. She says her parents are crazy strict and wouldn't like it if a boy called for her. Maybe one of them is home and she can't call me. Or maybe Sara's taking a nap since she ain't feeling too tough. I'd like to think she'd keep our routine and call me before crashing, even if only for a few minutes. And then I hear my sister laughing on the other side of my door.

Not much else I can do but dance. It's still raining, so I'll have to practice in the hallway outside my apartment. I tell Ma and Glo that I'm expecting a very important phone call, so to come get me.

I'm not out there a half hour when I smell that rancid odor of burned plastic and ancient vomit coming from the stairwell. Frustrated and sweaty, I run back into the apartment before it can overwhelm me. These crackheads are getting bolder and bolder every day, yo.

Gloria's on the floor in front of the TV, yapping on the phone and tying up the line. “Yo, get off the phone! I done told you already. I'm expecting a call.”

“Ay, but he's so conceited, especially around his friends,” she says while twirling the cord around her finger. “When they're not around, he's all in my face, but let them be there, and he acts like he don't know me.”

“Gloria, I said get off the phone!”

“Yeah, that was the bowlegged doofus!” Gloria rolls her eyes as if the other person can see her. “Good thing Sara's not knock-kneed. Otherwise, they'd walk down the street spelling the word OK!”

I storm over to Gloria and snatch the phone out of her hand. Before I can break, I recognize the giggle. “Cookie?”

“You
are
a bowlegged doofus.”

“Yo, is Sara mad at me or something?”

“Why don't you ask her yourself?”

“I would if you and my sister weren't monopolizing the line.” But Cookie doesn't hear me, because she's whispering to someone. “Cookie!”

“Hi, Willie.”

“Sara?” I pick up the phone off the floor and carry it to my room.

Gloria yells, “Don't you stay on there forever, 'cause you ain't the only one who lives here.”

“You're not the heir to New York Telephone either,” Ma calls through the bathroom door.

I'd tell them both to shut up, but I don't want Sara to hear me go off like that. I slam my door and let that say it all. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Are you at Cookie's?” Cookie lives in the building next to Smiles's. I could be there in five minutes. Three if I run.

“No, she's at mine.”

“Guess your parents aren't
that
strict.”

“They really like Cookie. It took her some time, but she won them over. If not for her, I wouldn't be working at the camp.”

“I could win them over, too, if I had a chance.” With Cookie there, this phone call is going to be as short as it is late, so I don't have time to mess around. “Sara, why you mad at me?” She doesn't answer. “I'm sorry if you feel I wasn't paying enough attention to you. Sometimes people want to be left alone when they're not feeling well. I hope you're feeling better.”

She doesn't say anything. Damn, isn't this hard enough without Cookie sitting there hanging on every word? “Listen, August fifth's my birthday, and I've got something special planned. There's going to be this b-boy battle at the Roxy. You've heard of the Roxy, right?”

“The nightclub…” Her words come slowly over some rustling in the background. Cookie's probably pantomiming. “…in Manhattan.”

“Yeah. Well, on my birthday, I'm going there to celebrate by crushing that battle, and you have to be there, Sara, 'cause you're my good-luck charm.” Since Sara doesn't repeat that, I'm positive Cookie has her ear stuck to the other side of the receiver with Krazy Glue. “Think about it. Ever since we started, you know, chilling with each other, I haven't gotten docked, not once.” Come to think of it, me and Smiles aren't fighting as much. Vanessa and Junior aren't bothering me anymore. On our last payday, I went back to JD's and got my Sergio Valentes out of layaway. I even saw Booby and Pooh in front of the bodega on my way back home, and one gave me a nod and the other said,
What's up?
With Cookie being nosy, I don't say this to Sara, but it's true. The more time I spend with her, the better my life goes.

Sara says, “I'd like to go, but there's no way I can go out at night, never mind downtown.”

I was afraid she was going to say that. “Do you really want to go?” In the past, that would have been the first stop on a guilt trip. I would've told the girl,
Oh, you don't really want to be with me.
But I don't want to play games with Sara. I just need to believe that she means it when she says that she wants to celebrate my birthday.

“More than anything.”

“Maybe they'll let you go if you tell them that Cookie's going, too.”

“Willie, I don't know…. ” Her voice trails into some girlish whispering. “Hold on. Cookie wants to speak to you.”

“Nike Fresh.” She never calls me that. Cookie genuinely seems to be on my side.

“Cookie Cee in the place to be.”

“My parents aren't gonna let me go downtown either, but bust this. They probably wouldn't mind if I spent the night at Sara's house. If she can convince her parents to let her stay at
my
place…”

“Word!” I'm getting excited. If Smiles came, too, it'd be like old times. He won't be too keen about Cookie tagging along, but he'll understand and be down with the plan. Ain't like Sara and I are trying to match them up or anything.

Sara gets back on the phone. “I can't promise you anything, Willie. My parents still might say no to the sleepover, but I'm going to try.”

That's all I want,
I start to tell her, but Sara's whispering with Cookie again, so I have to wait. I'm forever waiting for this girl, but she's worth it. They start fussing at each other. “Hello! What's going on over there?”

“Cookie told me that I shouldn't agree to risk getting into trouble unless…” I see where this is going, and I'm down with it. “…unless we're…you know…going out together.”

“You been my girlfriend, Sara.” I hope she can hear me grinning. “That's why I invited you.”

Cookie feeds her another question. Sara asks, “But am I the only one? Are we just messin' around or going out for real?” She's repeating after Cookie word for word. So cute, because even though Sara's a fly girl, she doesn't talk like one. I like how she's going to the trouble of putting me in check. It shows that she cares as much as I do.

“There's nobody else but you, Princess.” Then I rush to add, “G'head and ask Cookie if I would take you to the Roxy if I was interested in rapping to other girls.” I wait for her to ask my question. Cookie better tell the truth.

“OK.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

We hang up, and I look at the flyer for the b-boy competition at the Roxy on my wall. The movie in my mind starts again. I walk in rocking my new Sergios and holding Sara's hand. She looks fly in my Nike Fresh sweatshirt, miniskirt, and belt buckle. All the guys check out my fly girl, but she can't see anybody but me. Hazardiss tries to talk to her, and I'm like,
Step off, B!
He pops shit, I call him out, and when Grand Wizzard Theodore plays “Looking for the Perfect Beat,” we battle. I rock Haz's world, and then the entire Rock Steady Crew wants to try me. I take them all on, burning each and every one of them toys—Crazy Legs, Bam-Bam, Easy J, C-Money, all the way down the line until the whole crowd at the Roxy is cheering me.
Nike, Nike, Nike!
Paco from KTU hands me a giant check for a thousand dollars. Sara runs into my arms and tells me that she loves me, and we kiss like Adrian and Rocky.

I can't wait for my birthday.