Show and Prove (22 page)

W
hen Cutter's burial ends and everyone else starts to file out of the cemetery, I walk in the opposite direction. “We'll wait for you, Smiles,” says Barb, knowing where I'm headed. “And we'll give you a ride.”

“Nah, go on. I might be a while.” Her grave's probably going to need some freshening up.

Cookie says, “You want me to go with you?”

“No, thanks.”

They know not to push, yet I feel their eyes on my back as I make my way across the cemetery.

When I reach my mother's resting place, I find a bundle of fresh pink carnations next to the dried bouquet I left on her birthday. “Hey, Mama.” I kiss her tombstone and kneel. “Who brought you these? Pop or Nana?” I lean in for a whiff of the slight aroma of cinnamon.

“So you already know that Pop's union avoided the strike. With the Con Ed workers still out of work, neither side wanted to risk getting the people riled up. Has Mr. Cutter come to see you yet? I'm sure he's making the rounds of his own relatives first and will catch up with you soon. And let him know that I meant what I said at his service. The only memories of him I'll hold on to are the good ones, and I pity the fool who tries to bad-mouth him in front of me. Oh, and Mr. Cutter has probably already forgiven him, but Nike only pops that mess because he feels guilty. Not that it makes it OK, but you know how Nike is, Mama. He be trying it!

“He did get me thinking, though. It could've been someone like Mr. Cutter who gave you HIV. Mr. Cutter himself even. I know, Mama, I know…you don't want me thinking like that. I don't know if Mr. Cutter had HIV, and if he did—or any of the other donors, for that matter—it's not like they knew they had it or that they could pass it on through the transfusion. They were only trying to help you, and I shouldn't be angry at them. All this stuff is just coming out now.

“But what I'm mad about, Mama, is the fact that these diseases even exist. All of them. Sickle cell, AIDS, even drug addiction. See, you thought I wouldn't remember, didn't you? How was I going to forget, the way you tanned my hide that day you busted me making fun of Mr. Cutter, imitating the way he be nodding off in the middle of the street. And then a day or so later you sat down and explained to me that substance abuse was a mental illness and that alcoholics and addicts were sick people who needed help and deserved our sympathy, no different than someone like you.

“And then you took me to see
Richard Pryor: Live on the Sunset Strip.
Man, I bragged about it for weeks.
My mother let me see a rated-R movie!
And you know how Cookie is. She was like,
For serious, Smiles? I wish my mother was cool like that.
And Nike just used that as an excuse to whine about how wack his mother is, that poor lady.

“And I almost performed the whole show for them, imitating Richard, repeating all his stories and telling his jokes. What I didn't tell them is how we went to White Castle afterward and talked real deep about what he was saying beyond the wisecracks. About racism and poverty and addiction.

“So, Mama, I kind of have the feeling that you wouldn't have been too keen on all that time I was spending with Qusay. Not because I was going to buy everything he was saying, hook, line, and sinker. You knew I'm smarter than that. More because Q was going to get me riled up about the way things are for us—even those of us who play by the rules—and you wouldn't want me to get caught up in raging and rebelling when I should be working hard and fitting in and all that.

“But, Mama, you started it. You were the first one that got me thinking about these things. And sometimes—like when things like this happen—it's really overwhelming. Like, real hard, Mama. Especially with Pop working the night shift, Nana being so old-school, and you being gone. Still, Mama, I'm glad you opened my eyes, even if I can't always make sense of what I see or don't know what I can do about it, if anything. But the way you were is why I want to try.

“And I know you don't want to hear this, but I think there's something to Qusay's theories about, you know, the government bringing drugs and disease into the Black community. Calm down, Mama. Let me explain before you start summoning angels to whoop my behind. Do I believe that Ronnie Reagan's sitting in the White House twiddling his fingers and cackling like a wizard and going,
Bwah, ha, ha, drugs! Shower the inner cities with drugs. More drugs!
No. But I do think that if all these problems were affecting white folks, the government would be pulling out all the stops to help people. That suddenly the money would be there. The jobs, the clinics, the programs, they'd be there. C'mon, Mama, if God hasn't filled you in yet on the reason behind all this madness, you got to wonder.

“But don't worry. I'm not going back to Qusay's school. Not that I don't miss it, but it really isn't the place for me. And I'm going to get through Dawkins like I promised, even though I don't think that's the place for me either. I'll figure it out.

“I just wish you were here to help me. I mean, I know you're the reason I wasn't at the storefront the day Junior drove by and that he's not going to come after me. No matter how bad things get, I don't walk around scared anymore. I know you're with me, guiding me and protecting me. Your only child. The miracle baby the doctors said sickle cell would never let you carry to term.

“Your Ray-Ray of sunshine…really, really, really misses you.”

I take a few minutes to arrange just right the carnations I brought with me around the ones that are already there.

“Look, Mama, I better go. Barb offered me a ride back, and I'm going to see if I can catch up to her. Otherwise it's going to take me an hour by bus, and I think you would want me to go to Mr. Cutter's wake and have some of Mr. Camacho's pernil for you.”

I get back on my feet, kiss my mother's tombstone again, and run across the cemetery to the Balcom Avenue gate, hoping to spot Barb's red Chevette. I wait there, catching my breath, but when no more cars come, I finally leave. That's when I see Barb parked on the street. She spots me and reaches over to unlock the passenger door.

I get in and look around the empty car. Barb explains, “Everyone's already headed over to the restaurant. I told Lou I was waiting for you, so he packed as many people as he could into the station wagon.” Barb motions for me to put on my seat belt. There's a fresh box of tissues sitting between us.

As she pulls out of the cemetery and toward the highway, I say, “Y'all still got that gas guzzler?”

Barb laughs. “I keep tellin' my husband to get rid of it, but he refuses.” She becomes serious. “Says we'll be happy we kept it when we finally can afford to adopt.” Then that sadness comes over her.

I nod. “Yeah, he's probably right.” With the budget cuts, the Cuevases are going to have to wait longer.

Barb looks at me. “And I figured maybe you'd want to talk. You know, about whatever. Or not. It's up to you.” She pulls onto the highway. As she checks her rearview mirror, Barb asks, “How's Netty?”

I smile. “Mama's good. She says thanks.”

Barb hands me a few tissues, then takes one for herself.

T
he shooting shook her up so much that Sara skipped a few days of camp. “Maybe you should lay low, too,” she said.

“You mean Junior? I ain't scared of him.” Yes, I am a little, but he the one need to be laying low, right? I can go back to dodging him after my birthday.

You would think the shooting would have brought Sara and me closer, but I sensed her pulling away from me. We still spoke every day on the phone for at least an hour, but I got to worrying that maybe she remembered how I dissed Cutter and was holding it against me.

Then Sara finally came back to work on Wednesday, and gave me the best hug ever. I said, “Does this mean we're still on for my birthday?”

She said yes, of course. But I don't know. I got this sinking feeling. Like I'm going to do something to screw everything up.

“With all that bouncing around, you know who you remind me of?” Smiles asks as we cross the street to Sara's building. “Shorty Rock.”

“Yo, I don't want to know nothing more about that kid today, B,” I say. The brat kept singing “Happy Birthday” to me, Stevie Wonder–style, all day. I mean,
all
day. When I told him if he didn't knock it off, I would fly his head, Shorty started singing “Feliz Navidad” like he's José Feliciano. Then Sara called him over to play Uno with her and the twins. She saved Shorty Rock's life and my job, and hopefully that's just the beginning of the birthday presents she has for me.

“Is that Polo? Damn, B, what'd you do? Pour the whole bottle over your head?”

“Stop exaggerating. I only used that much.” I use my fingers to show him a capful. I don't tell him that Ma gave it to me. She has to be on point at least one day in the year.

When we get to Sara's building, I lean against the door of a mustard-colored Mustang a few yards from her stoop and hit play on our signal song on the boom box.
I want to thank you, heavenly Father, for shining your light on me.
Smiles rolls his eyes, and I'm starting to wish he'd stayed his ass home. “What's your beef now, B? This song's crush.”

“It is, but you do realize it's a gospel joint, right?”

“No, it's not.”

“Listen to the lyrics, B. It's all
God
this,
heavenly Father
that.”

“Because she's thanking God for sending her a good boyfriend.”

Smiles cackles. “She's thanking God for sending her Jesus, and she don't mean homeboy who lives on Jackson Avenue above the pawnshop neither.”

Ignoring him, I turn up the volume a bit to be sure that Sara can hear it and fix my eyes on her window. I love to catch her peeking through the curtains looking for me. She lives too high up for me to see her face from the street, but I feel her smile at the sight of me. Her curtains flutter, but she doesn't appear.

Smiles says, “She can get in serious trouble if she comes with us tonight. Big-time.”

“Can't be worrying about that.” This is going to be the best night of my life when I wipe the floor with Hazardiss. Smiles had pointed out that if I beat Haz, he could block me from joining Rock Steady. That never occurred to me, but then if he does, to hell with him and Rock Steady. After I wax him, there won't be a crew in the joint that won't want me to join them. I'm down with whoever is smart enough to be down with me—so long as they ain't wack. And I want Sara to be there, cheering me on as I dance and showering me with hugs and kisses when I win. “Nobody's twistin' her arm to be with me.”

“You know her parents don't know nothing about you if she can't even talk to you on the phone when they're around.”

“Do your white friends' parents know about you?” The second I say it, I wish I could take it back. I try to play it off like my question is genuine. “No disrespect, for real.”

Smiles gives me a dirty look. “It's your birthday,” he says, his voice full of warning. “I'm gonna let that slide.”

I don't want no static on my birthday either, so I let it go, too, but this is the first time sneaking around with a girl has started to bug me. Used to be as long as I got what I wanted, I didn't care, but now I do.

“Look, I'm not trying to rain on your parade, homeboy,” says Smiles. “I've just never seen you this hype over a girl before. If it's like that, everything should be out in the open.”

“So you saying Sara's never gonna bring me home to meet her parents.” Smiles's getting on my last nerve. Sara would never play me close. He's just jealous 'cause no girl wants his militant ass.

“Not that, but…” It doesn't sound like Smiles knows himself. I look at my watch. There's no time for Smiles's cryptograms, and while I appreciate that Sara wants to look pretty for me, we have to leave at seven-thirty on the dot. The battle is at ten, but registration opens at nine, first come first served until the slots are filled. It takes at least an hour to get to the Roxy, and who knows how long the line might be? I dip into my pocket for some coins. “I'ma call her.” And as I walk toward the pay phone, I say, “If she was sneakin' around all that much, she wouldn't have finally given me her number, right?” I pick up the receiver and slip a few coins into the slot.

Smiles takes my place against the Mustang. “Oh, so you have called her house and talked to her.” Actually, I let the phone ring only once so no one can answer it, and that's Sara's cue to call me back. If she doesn't, I know she can't speak to me, never mind come outside. But I'm not volunteering any more explanations of our romantic systems.

I dial Sara's number and get a busy signal. When I let Smiles know, he says, “So unless it's her on the phone with somebody, she should be down soon.” He looks at his watch. “She needs to come, like, now, though.”

“Word.” I stand beside him and elbow him in the ribs. “Where's Cookie meeting us?”

“Why you askin' me when you the one invited her?”

I'm too anxious to beef with him, so I go back to the pay phone. Seconds later I hang up with no luck. “Still busy, yo.”

“Buzz her already. I don't understand how you can call her but you can't buzz her doorbell. A ring is a ring, man.”

True, but I still don't know which apartment is hers. I only know that Sara lives on the third floor. If I admit that to Smiles now, he's really going to go off about what kind of game she's playing, and I don't have a defense.

“If we don't leave now,” says Smiles, “it makes no sense to go.” I look up at Sara's window and again fight the temptation to call out her name. “If you want to spend your birthday waiting on some girl, no skin off my teeth, but I don't think Sara's coming out tonight.”

I always took the fact that this tournament landed on my birthday as a sign. This was my year to show and prove. When I moved here from Williamsburg, I reinvented myself. I stopped being Little Willie “Such a Pity” Vega in the high-water corduroys and Korvettes sneakers and became Nike the fly boy who rocks the vicious gear and has the prettiest girls. On my seventeenth birthday, I was going to be reborn again, this time as Nike Fresh, b-boy extraordinaire, getting crazy dollars for going berserk on the dance floor. Who cares if I qualify for SYEP until I'm twenty-four? I want to make money doing something I love and am good at, too, but chasing after the Shorty Rocks of the neighborhood ain't it.

“Let's break out,” I say.

“Sorry, man.” Smiles pats me on the back. “I know how much you wanted her to come. She probably can't slip out.”

“Word.” Smiles is right, but it sure ain't much of a consolation. Nobody in that apartment knows me from a hole in the ground wall.

We're at the entrance of the train station when we hear, “Guys, wait!” We turn around, and here comes Cookie.

“Yo, were you upstairs at Sara's all this time?”

“Yeah. Look, Nike, she wanted to come for real. But something huge came up.”

“What happened?” I knew there had to be a reason. “Why she didn't answer the phone? Or come to the window?”

Cookie looks overwhelmed by my questions. “I can't tell you.” She glances at Smiles. “Sara has to explain.”

I stick out my hand. “So you got a card, a letter or something, for me?” Cookie just stares at my empty palm. “Are you kidding me? I might not get to the Roxy in time to compete, waiting on her, and you can't even tell me why she isn't coming?” Instead of facing me, Cookie turns again toward Smiles. “What you looking at him for?”

Cookie says, “Nike, you have to believe me. Sara called me crying so hard she could barely talk. I raced over there, thinking it was just her mom being strict and that maybe I could convince her. But it's something else. Real bad.”

I turn to Smiles. “She keeps looking at you like you know something. Y'all in cahoots?” They're playing a little prank for my birthday. Any minute Sara's going to run up behind me, put her hands over my eyes, and whisper,
Happy birthday, Willie,
while Smiles and Cookie yell,
Psych!

Smiles drops his eyes to his kicks. “Yo, my name isn't Bennett, and I'm not in it.” It finally hits me that he may have seen this coming.

“Smiles doesn't know anything,” says Cookie. “I didn't know until a half hour ago.”

“Know what?”

“Sara made me promise not to tell you. She wants to tell you herself. She said that she's really sorry and that she'll call you first chance she gets.”

“Nah, man,” I say. “I'm not waiting for no girl to call me whenever she gets her little story together. Just go back there and tell her forget it.”

“What do you mean, forget it?”

“I mean it's quits.” Sara wants to run messages through Cookie? Wait until she gets a load of that one. “C'mon, Smiles,” I say, starting down the staircase into the station. “I'm sick of wasting my time sneaking around with the Puerto Rican Rapunzel.”

Behind me I hear Smiles whisper to Cookie, “Yo, what happened?”

Cookie ignores him. “Better Rapunzel than Pinocchio. How're you not going to give Sara a break like you don't always be lying through your teeth?” Cookie drops her voice and grabs at her crotch. “
Junior and 'em don't like me 'cause I don't want to be a Barbarian.”

Smiles says, “All right, Carolina, that's enough.”

“You think you're such a man now, Nike, but you don't know shit,” Cookie yells. “That's why you and Shorty Rock be beefin' all the time. You're a bratty little boy just like him.”

I stop and turn around. “Yo, Smiles, let's break out 'fore I forget that crab is supposed to be a girl and deck her.”

Cookie flails her arms like a scarecrow flapping in the wind. “G'head and forget! Don't tell me you gonna deck me halfway into the station. You think you so big and bad, come back up here and say it to my face!”

“Cookie, chill!” says Smiles.

“No, Smiles, you tell your homeboy to chill!”

And on and on they go. I put on my boom box, and “I Want to Thank You” continues to play. I turn it up to drown them out, even though each word feels like a stab to my heart. Once I enter the subway, I turn it off, pay my fare, and walk through the turnstile. I stand on that platform, alone, waiting for an eternity for the train to come. If it shows up and Smiles is not here, I'm not waiting. At this point, I don't care if he convinces Cookie to spill the beans. For a while I've suspected that Sara's been hiding something from me, and now that she almost ruined my birthday, I don't care anymore. I'll channel my anger into the freshest routine of my life so all this counts for something.

I hit the eject button on my boom box, and the cassette deck pops open. I pull out the tape and stare at it. Instead of trying to catch the song on the radio, I bought the single on vinyl and then taped it for Sara because I wanted it to be perfect. I was going to give it to her today. My birthday, but I had the present for her. I toss the cassette at a rat scurrying across the subway tracks.