Teenie (19 page)

“Yo, you ain’t tell me that, son,” Kari says to Wazi before throwing a mean look at me. “Whatever. Let’s just leave Ms. Stankdraws alone.”

“Looks like that arrow Cupid shot went right up her butt.”

“I know, right? Acting mad stink since we’ve been home.” Kari glares at me for a few more seconds, then turns around in his seat. “In high school now and don’t know how to act.” He shakes his head and starts changing the stations on the radio, then turning the volume up when he finds a song he likes.

When we pull up to the light, Kari turns to Wazi and says, “Ain’t that that shorty E-ZPass walking into the Laundromat?”

“Oh yeah, that freak we used to …” He switches to the G-rated description when he remembers that I’m in the car. “Yeah, that girl that went to Tech. Damn, she’s looking real nice.”

Tech? By the time I look to see who they’re talking about, the girl is already inside.

“Who’s that thick chick with her?”

“I don’t know. Let’s go ask her.”

Kari turns back to me and says, “We’ll be right back, Miss Stinky.”

“Where are you going? Please take me home now.”

“That’s the bus stop across the street if you’re in such a hurry,” Wazi laughs.

They shut the car off and walk into the Laundromat. It doesn’t matter that I want to go home. When they see girls, the little brain function they do have shuts down. Their hormones take over. I don’t feel like waiting anymore, and if they had
left the keys in the ignition, I would have tried driving home myself. We’re only about six or seven blocks from the house. When they disappear into the Laundromat, I get out of the car and start walking.

I can cut through the alleyway on the next block and shave about three minutes off the walk. All I can think about is jumping in my bed, sweaty clothes and all. Then again, I might want to take these clothes off, because the wind just blew and I feel a shiver run down my back. I hear someone honk from a passing car and say, “What you doing out here all by yourself?”

Shame and disgust overwhelm me when I realize who it is. I start walking faster when I hear the door open, unsure if I should break into a full sprint. By the time I think about running, Greg has grabbed my arm.

“Hold up, hold up.”

“Leave me alone,” I say, snatching my arm away.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that. I just wanna talk to you real quick.”

“What’s there to talk about?” I cross my arms and put my meanest face on. It’s a total front, because I am scared out of my mind.

“Things didn’t go exactly the way we planned yesterday, did they?”

I shake my head and look away, but my arms stay crossed.

“Did you tell anyone what happened?”

“Why?”

“It’s probably better if we keep things between us until we get a chance to do it the right way.”

I turn to walk away but he grabs my arm again, not as gently as the first time. “Where you going? Mmm. You’re still sweaty.” He licks the hand that he grabbed me with. “Now we definitely gotta do it right.” The way he said that, I can tell he’s grinning. I’m trying my best not to look at him.

“Let go of me, please.”

“When we finish talking. So you didn’t tell nobody, right?”

“Just let me go.”

“I
said
I’ll let you go when we finish talking. How long are your brothers in town for?”

“Why don’t you ask them yourself?”

He turns his head fast, I guess to see if they’re coming. “Smart move not saying anything to them. Those are my boys and they ain’t gonna believe you anyway. Nobody’s gonna believe you. Plus, if you really wanna go to Spain, it might be in your best interest to keep our little thing a secret. You know what I’m saying?” He starts rubbing my arm and then says, “So Monday, after school. We’ll finish what we started, right?”

I don’t answer him. My heart is racing and I don’t have the courage to say anything else.

“You want a ride home?”

I keep quiet.

“Alright then. I’ll see you at school.” He leans in and kisses my cheek.

When Greg drives away, I slump down onto the steps of the house I’m standing in front of. My legs feel like noodles and start shaking once I take my weight off them. Why didn’t I run? Or scream? Or kick him in the nuts again? Why did I let him rough me up like that? He’s cute and he’s so popular and
all the girls want him. Maybe I wanted it just like they do. I did want it. Who am I kidding? I knew what was going on, and I should’ve known better.

A car pulls up in front of me. I guess Greg has come back to do what he wants with me. The horn honks, but my head stays down until I hear my name called.

“Niblet. Get in the car.”

The horn honks again, and then I hear the door open and slam.

“Martine. Get in the car.”

I look up at Kari, but I don’t move.

“Yo, what’s wrong with you? Get in the damn car.”

He grabs my elbow, drags me toward the car, and sits me down in the backseat. Wazi pulls off as soon as Kari closes the door. Kari swivels around in the passenger seat to face me and I can see Wazi looking at me in the mirror.

“Yo, why did you get out the car like that? You know Daddy would have a fit if we went home and didn’t know where you were.”

“Niblet, what’s going on with you?”

“I’m fine.” Just fine.

T
here’s no more denying it. I officially miss my best friend. There’s not a thing I wouldn’t give to be able to talk to her and figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do right now. Even though I still think she’s a major B for treating me the way she did, part of me is worried that she might still be seeing that stalker Big Daddy.

I know I’m desperate, but it’s not like I have much to choose from. Of my friends, Garth is by far the easiest to talk to because he’s such a great listener, but what kind of advice could he give me? The guy fainted during health class last semester when the teacher said the word “testicles.” There’s no way in hell I’d tell my brothers. I don’t feel comfortable talking to any of the girls from the lunchroom. Sabrina would find a way to make me feel bad with one of her offhand
comments, Sohmi would just look at me with her mouth wide open, and if I tell Malika, I’d basically be telling two people, because as sure as the sun comes up she would end up telling Tamara.

That leaves my mother. She told me that I could talk to her about anything, and she’s been telling me that since, since … well, ever since. No matter the subject, she told me that I could come and talk to her whenever I had an issue.

We have to get up early for church tomorrow, so I don’t have much time to sit with her. She got home at around eleven, and I know she has to catch up on some sleep. The door of my parents’ bedroom is closed. I raise my hand to knock on the door, but I hear noises coming from downstairs. I peek down the staircase and see them snuggling on the couch, watching some loud movie on HBO. As I walk down the stairs, I start to lighten my footsteps when I realize Beresford is talking about Cherise and her mother.

“That woman still ain’t call me yet to find out about she daughter. I tell you, these people don’t watch what their children doing and all manner of craziness does go on.”

“Did you try to call her?”

“Me call she? Come on, Glory. If somebody did leave me a note concerning my daughter, you think they would have to contact me again?”

“That’s true. Well, maybe Cherise never left the letter in the first place.”

“That could be true, you know. I tell you, that girl fast, and she mother ain’t no better. Running all over the place with them young fellas.”

“She’s not even thirty yet, Beres. She had Cherise when she was fifteen. But I agree with you. She should be more involved in what her daughter is doing, because if someone tried to take advantage of Martine like that …”

“One of us would be in jail for sure, ’cause that man woulda get chop up. But that little girl should know better than to be putting sheself in situations like that. Thank God Martine don’t get on like that. I tell you something, though. I worry sometimes about Martine hanging around Cherise.”

“You place too much weight on Cherise’s influence and not enough on your daughter’s common sense. They’ve been friends for ten years and we haven’t had a major problem yet.”

“You’re right. We’re lucky we don’t have to deal with her doing foolishness and crap.”

“Martine? You need something?”

Oh, shoot! How did my mother know I was here? “Yes, Mommy. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute.”

“Come.”

I continue down the stairs and see both of them smiling at me. My parents think so much of me. How would they feel if I told them about what I did after school yesterday? Or about what happened to me today?

“What is it, dear?”

I am trying to think of a nice way to tell Beresford that I want to talk to Mommy alone, but as usual, my mother reads the situation. “Beres, I bought some cookies-and-cream. Can you please make me one of your famous sundaes?”

“You did buy ice cream? I didn’t see it in there!” My dad
jumps up off the couch and runs straight for the freezer like the ice cream is trying to escape or something. He’ll be in there for a few minutes, so my mother and I will have some time alone.

“I don’t want you to be disappointed with me, Mommy.”

“I will try my best, darling.”

“Mommy.” She’s smiling at me and stroking my hair out of my face. I can’t do it, not after listening to my parents talk about what a good kid I am. I can’t tell her, I just can’t. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to handle all the laundry. I didn’t expect the twins to bring home so much stuff. I’m not going to have time to study.”

“I figured that. No problem. Well then, you know what you gotta do.”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“I want to be clear. It’s a ninety-five average that you’re going to get, right?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Okay. I spoke with your father, and he agreed to let you go. BUT … you have to make sure that you stay out of trouble in the interim. I don’t want to see any of this mischievous behavior, young lady. Keep your nose clean.”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Glory, you want sprinkles on it?”

“Yes, Beres,” she calls back before returning her attention to me. “Is there anything else?”

“Martine, you want one too?”

“Okay, Daddy. But a small one.”

“Is there anything else, sweetheart?” my mother asks again.

“No, Mommy.”

“Okay then. Guess you better go upstairs and hit the books. You have a lot of work to do.”

“Yes, Mommy.”

I wish I could say I feel happy at not having to wash my brothers’ clothes. I have to study twice as hard to raise my average two points. With all this crazy stuff going on, how in the world am I going to manage everything? I’m willing to bet something else will go wrong now. I’ll just sit here and wait for the phone to ring telling me that my grandmother is dead. Or better still, go digging through my parents’ stuff and find out that I’m adopted. Who cares anyway? Not like I could feel any worse.

What sucks the most is that I’m working on what should be the easy stuff, my paper for American studies. The only thing I’m able to concentrate on is the blinking cursor in my Word document. At this rate I’m going to be up all damn night. I can already feel my eyes starting to burn. Maybe if I grab some caffeine, I might be able to get this stuff done. For there to be any hope at all, I have to finish this paper tonight.

I open my bedroom door and hear the TV still on. When I reach the bottom of the stairwell, I see my parents snuggled together asleep on the couch. I put a sheet over them and smile. They actually look kind of cute up until my dad stirs and busts a big old fart. Nice.

A
ll I want to do is sleep—lie down in my bed and never wake up. I hardly got any work done last night. Every time I started writing a sentence for my paper, I kept thinking about what Greg did to me. It was pointless to keep trying. Before I slunk into bed, I took a couple of dark sheets and hung them over the blinds. I didn’t want any light to seep in and disturb me.

My eyes pop open and I stare at the alarm clock until the numbers come into focus. No matter how hard I try to go back to sleep, I can’t relax. Any minute now my mother will push into my room and wake me for church. If I had it my way, I would stay in bed for the whole day.

My mother comes into the room singing a song by Luciano called “Lord Give Me Strength.” It’s a song that I hear maybe once every two months or so. When she does sing
it, it’s always on Sundays, but I’ve also heard her hum it under her breath when Beresford starts getting on her nerves.

She’s halfway through the second verse, and I haven’t moved a muscle. My eyes are slammed shut, and I do my best to pretend I’m still asleep. The release of the sickly groan I’m holding in has to be timed just right. I know it’s perfect when I hear my mother say, “Oh, sweetie, you still not feeling well?”

I shake my head. There’s genuine concern in her voice. This might just work. She puts her hand on my forehead and neck. I’m trying to will myself to feel hot, but when she shakes her head and says, “Okay, Martine. Up, up. In the shower,” I am disappointed yet again.

“Wait, why in here so dark?” She flips the light switch on. I hear her gasp when she sees my clothes dumped at the foot of the bed and three empty cans of Coke on the nightstand. “Martine, what’s going on here? Why does this room look so messy?” My mother snatches the sheets off the blinds and opens the windows. “In here smells closed up. When we get home from church, straighten up this room. I didn’t raise you like this.”

When she walks out, I get up and turn the lights off and go right back into the bed. I don’t want to get up, I’m not going to get up, and I don’t care who comes in here and tells me different.

About fifteen minutes later, Beresford knocks but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Martine. Come on, sweetheart, get up. Time for church.”

I close my eyes and pretend that I’m sleeping again.

“Martine. Get up. It’s time for church.”

I try to use the groan again and say, “Daddy, I don’t feel well.”