The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real (18 page)

17

F
or one brief moment, Hakim had given me a glimpse into his soul—a glimpse that stabbed like a hot knife into my own.
Oh God! Will it
ever stop hurting?

Somehow I made it through the day, beginning our new math unit on measurements and simple fractions. Chanté and Astrid, budding artists, got assigned to make a temperature chart for the month of February. Each student printed his or her name on a strip of paper that went into a jar to “take the temperature” each school day—all except Hakim, who said he didn't want a turn. Terrell's name came out of the jar to read the thermometer outside the classroom window today. Proudly he wrote down +15 in the Fahrenheit column and –10 in the Celsius column.

No surprises there. February in Chicago.

But I was worried.Was Hakim pulling back into his I-don't-wanna-and-you-can't-make-me shroud? And I had to send a report home to his mother this week for the second marking period! I fell back on my rule of thumb—“When in doubt, stall!”—and just left him alone while the rest of the class measured their desks, the window ledge, and the chalkboard with plastic rulers. I noticed Hakim pushed to the front of the group at the worktable when I brought out a package of store-bought cinnamon buns and a table knife, my shameless introduction to fractions. “We're going to divide each one into four parts so we can all have a taste,” I said. “Who wants to divide the first one?”

Cornell tried first, ending up with one big lump and three small snitches. Protests went up. “That ain't fair!” “Who gets the big one?” “I ain't gonna eat that little crumb.”

Ramón tried next, with equally lopsided results.

Hakim looked disgusted. “Let me do it!” I handed him the table knife.With a swift, smooth motion, he cut the next bun in half, turned it, and cut it in half again. “See?” he sneered. “Easy.”

I thought my buttons might pop. “Good job, Hakim. Who wants to try next?”

“No!” several voices chorused. “Let Hakim do it! He makes 'em even!”

Obviously, my eight- and nine-year-olds had more interest in getting a fair share of the cinnamon buns than learning to cut things in equal fourths. I handed the knife back to Hakim. Still plenty of time for fractions.

By the time the school day was over and I'd tied the last scarf and unstuck the last zipper, I was pooped. And I still had all those reports to do so they could get sent in the take-home folders on Thursday. Yet something compelled me to fish in my tote bag for the small Bible I carried, hunting for that verse about being “redeemed from the pit.” I finally found it in Psalm 103.

Keeping my finger in place, I walked over to Hakim's desk and squeezed myself into his seat.
Ugh . . . tight fit.
Sitting in the chair he occupied each day, I murmured the fourth and fifth verses for Hakim: “Oh God, redeem Hakim's life from the pit! Crown him with love and compassion. Satisfy his desires with good things, so that his youth can be renewed like the eagle's!” I blinked back sudden tears. “Yes, Lord, let him fly.”

DOING REPORTS FOR THE second marking period took every spare minute that week, so I just said, “Fine, fine,” when Stu came downstairs Wednesday evening and said Hoshi had a paper she had to write this week-end, but both Florida and Yo-Yo signed on for the visit to the prison again. “Can we take your car?” Stu asked. “I can squeeze four in mine, but it won't be that comfortable all the way to Lincoln.”

“Sure, fine,” I said, hoping it was. I'd have to work out logistics with Denny.

I finished the last report at lunchtime the next day and managed to get them stuffed into the correct take-home folders. I had lingered over what to say in Hakim's report. After marking the appropriate boxes in each subject category regarding work completed and work handed in—which showed a need for
lots
of improvement—I added a note: “Hakim still struggles with paperwork but excels when it comes to spatial and conceptual math in his head. Once we discover the key to helping Hakim translate what's in his mind and get it down on paper, this boy will fly. Sincerely, Ms. Baxter.”

Hallelujah! That's done.
I packed up my tote bag at the end of the day and headed down the hallway.
Maybe
now I can start making plans for Amanda's
quinceañera,
which is
—I had to think about the date—
aack! Only two
weeks from Saturday!

As I passed the school office, a woman who looked vaguely familiar stood at the counter. Business suit, chunky earrings, close-cropped hair, small glasses. I slowed, wondering . . . and then I heard her crisp voice. “Ms.Wilkins-Porter—I have an appointment with Ms. Johnson.”

My heart practically surged up into my throat. Hakim's mother! I picked up my pace to get out of sight before the woman saw me. She must be here for the meeting with Avis and the social worker. Why hadn't Avis warned me? But . . . at least she came.
Yes!
I breathed, as I slowed to a normal pace for the half-mile walk back to Lunt Avenue.
Thank You, Jesus!

I COLLECTED THE TAKE-HOME folders the next morning. Parents were supposed to sign and return the reports. As usual, half of them would dribble in next week. But Hakim's was back. Curious, I pulled out his report card. Had he given it to his mother?

Must have. There was her signature:
Ms. Geraldine
Wilkins-Porter.
Period. No comments. Oh well. At least she hadn't followed through on her threat to transfer him to another school. That alone was no small miracle.

This Friday evening—unlike the previous week—we were back to catch-as-catch-can for supper. Denny had a seven o'clock game, Josh had stayed at school for a debate team practice, and Amanda was getting picked up to babysit the Reilly twins.

“Oh! Mom?” Amanda yelled, just as the doorbell rang—her ride. “Can you take me down to Edesa's tomorrow morning? I'm supposed to get a fitting for my dress for the
quinceañera
.”

“Wait! Tomorrow?” I trailed her into the front hall as she bundled into her hat and jacket. “I can't. I promised Stu I'd drive down to the prison tomorrow—Florida and Yo-Yo are going too, so we need a bigger car.”

Amanda looked at me, stricken.
“Mo-om!
I have to get a fitting or Edesa can't keep sewing!” She yanked open the door, filling the entryway with cold air. “Oh, never mind. I'll take the el.”

“No! I don't want you traveling to the west side by yourself.”

“Oh, great. So now what am I supposed to do? You just said you're taking the car all day.” She rolled her eyes big-time. “That . . . that robber person is more important to you than I am.”

I pushed the door shut, choosing to ignore that last remark. “Amanda, calm down.We'll figure out something. We can . . .” My brain scrambled. Send Josh with her? Ask to borrow Stu's car? No, wasn't going to go there. “We'll drop you off on the way and pick you up on the way back.”

She considered my offer. “Guess so. Just don't leave so
early,
like you did last time.” Then she was gone.

I locked the door behind her and leaned against it—and that's when it hit me. Not only was Amanda's
quinceañera
only two weeks away, but Peter Douglass and Avis were coming to lunch after church this Sunday! I hadn't sent out invitations, hadn't planned refreshments or decorations for the party, hadn't shopped for food for Sunday—I must've been crazy to agree to drive all the way to Lincoln this weekend!

BUT THERE I WAS, pointing our Dodge minivan down I-55 the next morning after dropping Amanda off at Edesa's apartment around nine o'clock. The fitting wasn't going to take long, so it surprised me when Amanda didn't balk at not getting picked up till three or four. She'd tossed off something about José teaching her the traditional waltzes.
“Josh has to learn them too,”
she had said
. “All
the
chambelanes
do.”

“Whatcha groanin' about, Jodi?” Yo-Yo's voice from the front passenger seat broke into my thoughts.

“I groaned? Oh, dear.” I was hugging the righthand lane, going five miles below the speed limit. Car after car pulled around me and passed. I didn't care. It was my first time driving at highway speed since before the accident. “Just thinking about all the stuff I have to do to get ready for Amanda's
quinceañera
in two weeks.”

“What's that you sayin', Jodi?” Florida called out from where she and Stu took up the bench seat behind me. “Speak up so we can hear ya. Y'all decided ta do that
quinceañera
thing? How come we jus' now hearin' about it?”

I did groan this time. “That's the problem, Flo—I haven't even had time to get out invitations, and it's two weeks from today! And I have no idea what to do about food, except—Yo-Yo! Could I order a cake from the Bagel Bakery? A big one?”

“Just send out e-invitations, Jodi,” Stu tossed in. “I could show you—or even do it, if you want.No big deal.”

Now that sounded hopeful. I opened my mouth to say thanks, when Stu added, “Besides, it's too late for snail-mail invitations. Should have done that two weeks ago.”

Arrgh.
Why did she always have to stick it to me?

Get over it, Jodi. She's right, you know.

“I know,” I said glumly. “But thanks for the e-invitation idea. Might save my butt.”

“Well, I knew somethin' was up,” Yo-Yo said, “ 'cause Amanda called Pete and asked him ta be one of her ‘chamber-somethin's' for a big party.”

I tore my eyes away from the road and gaped at Yo-Yo. “Really? Amanda asked Pete?” My eyes went back to the road, which stretched out on either side of the median like twin lizard tongues, sucking up car bugs. “I wonder how many escorts she's asking?”

Yo-Yo shrugged. “Dunno. Pete seemed pleased, though . . . Huh. Lookit that. Everything looks so dead. Not like last fall when we came down. That was boss.” Yo-Yo, who'd never been out of Chicago in her twenty-three years except for the eighteen months she'd spent at Lincoln Correctional herself, gazed hungrily at the flat, frozen farmland on either side of the highway. Probably why she liked to come on these junkets to visit “our thief ”—just to soak up a little open space.

“You inviting Yada Yada to Amanda's party?” Flo asked. “ 'Cause if you are, I'm cookin'.”

“Of course Yada Yada's invited!” I sputtered. “Just haven't got there yet. But I was just gonna have, you know, cake and punch—”

“Aw, Jodi.You need
real
food for a party! Let me round it up.”

“And a piñata,” said Stu. “Gotta have a piñata for a Mexican fiesta. The kids'll love it!”

“Stu! We're trying to keep expenses down.” But I felt a flutter of excitement. A piñata! What a great idea!

“Pooh. They don't cost much. It'll be my birthday present for Amanda's fifteenth.”

I giggled. “Fifteen-and-a-
half,
you mean . . .”

By the time we pulled off the highway and rolled up to the guardhouse of the state women's prison, Stu, Florida, and Yo-Yo practically had the entire
quinceañera
planned—and jobs for everybody from Avis to Adele, even though they didn't know it yet.

18

A
fter two previous visits to Lincoln Correctional, I was no longer surprised at the drill. We had to shed our coats and purses, dig stuff out of our pockets, and put it all in a locker. A female guard examined our shoes before letting us put them back on, and then there was the pat-down. Stu pressed her lips into a thin line as the guard told her to stand with feet apart and arms out straight, running an electronic wand up and down her body.

“You flying standby?” I said, trying to lighten things up. Stu said nothing.

We found an empty table in the gray-on-gray visitors' room and prepared to wait. Yo-Yo slid into her customary slouch; Florida—who said she was trying to cut back on cigarettes—kept up a tap dance with her painted fingertips. Stu tried to look relaxed, sitting in the molded plastic chair with one pant leg crossed casually over the other. But I could tell from the constant movement of her hands—winding a strand of long hair around her finger, picking at a spot on the table, brushing nonexistent lint from her fine-knit sweater set—that she was anything
but.