This Side of Home (19 page)

The thing about Essence is that yesterday is yesterday. She doesn't hold grudges, and she knows that no matter if we disagree, we love each other and we'll always have each other's back. So that's why I'm not surprised when she whispers to me, “Don't let them trifling girls get to you,” as we walk down the hallway.

Something bad is about to happen.

It's in Tasha's eyes, a look that says she wants trouble, is looking for it. She is standing with Cynthia at the end of the hall. Essence, Nikki, and I are walking toward them, and when we get to my locker, which is across from Tasha's, I hear her say, really loud, loud enough for everyone in the noisy hallway to hear, “There go the sellout girls.”

Essence stands in front of me. “What did you say?”

Tasha leans back against her locker. She looks me up and down and mumbles something under her breath.

“What did you say?” I ask.

Essence says, “Don't worry about her. She's just mad because she doesn't have what you have. You know, a boyfriend who loves her, real friends who care.” Essence rolls her eyes and turns around to open her locker.

Now Tasha is standing behind her, so close Essence barely has room to turn around. “I might not have what Maya has, but I have more than you. A mother who cares about me.”

It happens quicker than a blink, faster than the second hand on a clock. Essence and Tasha are tangled in a knot hitting each other and rolling on the floor fighting. It takes both of our security guards and a teacher to break them up.

Principal Green comes out into the hallway. “You all just stood here and watched? None of you thought to get an adult? Come on, Richmond, we're better than this. Let's be better than this,” he says. “We are our brother's keeper.”

I know Principal Green means well, but it's going to take more than a chant to fix this.

In journalism we review what's in the news, and then Mrs. Armstrong releases us to work on our individual articles for the school paper. A few students go to the back of the room to begin typing their stories for our next issue. I am looking through my notes on the interview I did of Mr. Corbett—the teacher who's been at Richmond the longest. Just when I get up to head to the computer space, the door swings open.

“Essence? Essence, you in here?” It's Ms. Jackson. And she is completely wasted. Her twig legs barely keep her standing.

And her record keeps spinning.

“Where's my baby? Where's my daughter?” Ms. Jackson walks through the rows of desks looking for Essence, who is sitting at a computer at the back of
the room. “I'm here for the parent meeting! Where the meeting at? I'm here!” she shouts. She is holding the letter that the school sent home with Essence when they suspended her for the fight.

Mrs. Armstrong stands and approaches Ms. Jackson. “Hi, hello, our, uh, our meeting is at 3:00, and it's only 1:30. Do you mind coming back?” Mrs. Armstrong says.

Students are laughing, and some are in such shock they can't even muster a giggle. Essence doesn't move. She just sits at the computer like that isn't her drunk mother who just showed up for a parent meeting an hour and a half early.

Mrs. Armstrong gently touches Ms. Jackson's arm. “Come with me,” she says.

“I ain't goin' nowhere with you! I done came all the way over here, and you just gonna send me home. What I look like to you? Look like I got all the time in the world, do I? Well, I don't. I ain't got time to be sittin' round here waitin' on you. Just tell me what you got to tell me!”

Mrs. Armstrong tries to remove her again. “Ms. Jackson, please. Let me walk you to the main office. You can wait there.”

“I told you I ain't goin' nowhere!” Ms. Jackson makes her way past Mrs. Armstrong and sees me. “You seen Essence?”

“Ms. Darlene, the meeting is after school. Why don't you let me take you outside,” I say. From the corner of my eye, I see Mrs. Armstrong on the phone. It doesn't take long before security is in the classroom.

Essence gets up and stuffs her notebook in her bag.

“There you are, baby, why you ain't said nothin'? I been lookin' for you.” She reaches out for Essence, but Essence moves away from her and leaves the classroom.

Ms. Jackson morphs from the sweet, funny drunk to an outraged woman. She is cursing and yelling now, and calling Essence all kinds of names no mother should ever call her child.

“Ms. Jackson, please come with me,” William, one of our security guards, says. He takes her out.

Mrs. Armstrong closes the door.

There are no discreet giggles, just full-blown hysterical laughter coming from everyone except me, Tony, and Charles. Mrs. Armstrong hushes the room, tells everyone to stop laughing and get back to work. Before I can even ask to be excused, Mrs. Armstrong looks at me and says, “Go check on her.”

I check every crevice of Richmond, but I can't find Essence.

I call her cell phone, but she doesn't answer. I try again. No answer. I hang up.

There's only one more place I can think of to
look. I leave school and walk home, and as soon as I turn the corner onto my block, I see Essence sitting on the porch swing of her old house. There are no cars in the driveway, which means both of Tony's parents are gone, which is good. I'm sure they'd freak out if they saw some random girl swinging on their porch.

I walk up the steps and sit next to Essence. We swing and sway and rock to Essence's blues.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Down the block, I see Mom driving. She pulls into our driveway and when she gets out, she sees us sitting on the porch. I take Essence by the hand, and we walk across the street. I tell Mom what happened.

“Get in,” she says. Mom drives to Essence's house and before we get out of the car, she turns to Essence and says, “When we go inside, I don't want you to say a word. Not one word. Just go to your room and start packing.”

“Melvin, is that you?” Ms. Jackson yells from her bedroom.

“No, Darlene, it's me,” Mom says.

“Who is ‘me'?” Ms. Jackson comes out of her room. When she sees Mom, she walks over to her and stands as close as she can get. Mom doesn't back up. “What you want?” Ms. Jackson says.

Essence obeys Mom's orders and goes to her room to pack. I go with her.

We leave the door open and listen. Mom says, “You broke our agreement.”

Ms. Jackson starts to pout like a child. “Please don't do this. One more chance. One more chance,” she says.

“No, Darlene. No more chances. Essence is moving in with me.”

Essence and I look at each other. She packs faster.

“Don't do this to me. Come on, I just been havin' a hard time,” Ms. Jackson says.

“Darlene, are you going to your meetings?”

“No.”

“Are you using again?” Mom asks.

Ms. Jackson doesn't answer.

“There are no more chances. She's coming with me. That was the agreement. You promised me and Thomas that you'd stay clean, get treatment, attend your support group—do whatever it takes to keep it together—and you're not doing anything.” Mom is a quiet storm. But as strong as she is, I can hear the tears at the back of her throat trying to stay at bay. “Darlene, I've known you over half of my life. I care about you and Essence—”

“I know, I know. You ain't been nothin' but good to me,” Ms. Jackson says. “I'm gonna get myself together. I am,” she says.

Essence zips her suitcase, I zip the duffel bag, and we come out into the living room. When Ms. Jackson sees us, she reaches out for Essence, who pulls away. “Baby, I'm gonna get it together. I promise. I'll do it for real this time,” she swears. “You gonna stay with
them for just a little while, till I get back on my feet.”

Essence goes outside to the car. I stand at the door, waiting for Mom.

“I love my daughter. I do. I tell you the truth, I love my baby girl and I'm gonna do right. I am.”

Mom says good-bye to Ms. Jackson, and we leave her standing at the door, singing the same lyrics she's been serenading Essence with her whole life. “I'm gonna get better. You'll see, you'll see.”

My family hasn't had breakfast together for weeks. Mom has been trying to establish Saturday breakfast since January—as part of her New Year's resolution to get us to spend more time with one another. It's the end of March and so far we've only had Saturday breakfast together twice.

Essence thinks it's funny that we even try to have a meal together.

Just when we sit down at the dining room table, the doorbell rings. “I'll get it,” I say. I get up from the table, walk to the door, and look through the peephole. “Dad, it's Principal Green.”

Dad jumps up from the table. “Oh, no! I forgot about our breakfast meeting at Village Inn.”

Mom sets down her coffee. “You mean you forgot not to schedule anything on Saturday mornings.”

“This is important.”

“Two hours. Your family just wants two hours,” Mom says.

“Honey, I'm sorry.” Dad kisses Mom on her forehead.

I open the door. Principal Green comes in, and I am hoping no one sees the principal coming to my house.

Principal Green is casual today. Jeans and a polo shirt.

“Jimmy,” Dad says. “Be with you in a moment.”

“My, it sure smells good in here,” Principal Green says. “Looks like we don't need to get our own breakfast. Looks like we don't need to get our own breakfast at all.” He takes in an exaggerated whiff of Mom's cooking.

“Would you like to stay here and meet?” Mom asks, dry and flat.

“Do you mind? Do you?” Principal Green is in the dining room faster than my mom can even think about it.

“I'll fix you a plate,” Mom says. She gives Dad her look of death but gets up and fixes Principal Green a plate of pancakes with strawberries on top. “My only rule is no business until we're finished with breakfast,” Mom says.

Principal Green smiles. “Deal. Oh, yes, you've got a deal.”

We eat breakfast, and most of the conversation is about the weather. I have kitchen duty this week, so when we're finished eating, I clean the table and load the dishwasher. Nikki and Essence go upstairs. I've set freshly brewed cups of coffee on the table for Dad and Principal Green. They've turned the dining room into a boardroom, and papers are spread out all over the table.

“Thomas, brotha, Richmond can't thank you enough. A full-tuition scholarship? We sure are going to make some family's load a lot lighter. Yes, indeed. Someone's load is going to be a lot lighter.”

A scholarship for a Richmond student? I immediately think about all the friends I have who need this.

“Don't thank me. Thank my funders. And Susan Jacobs,” Dad says.

Susan Jacobs? That's Tony's mom.

“Without them, I couldn't allocate anything. It's been great partnering with her organization.”

Principal Green slurps his coffee. “Now, what are the restrictions of the award? And what should be our guidelines?”

I wipe down the countertops and hand wash the pans and dishes that are too big for the dishwasher. I
usually clean with music blasting. But today I want to hear every word that's being said.

Dad says, “The scholarship can be used on anything school related. Tuition, books, room and board, computer, living expenses. Whatever.”

Principal Green says, “Now, as far as GPA, what did you have in mind?”

Dad comes into the kitchen to get milk for his coffee. His voice rises above the running water. “I'd like to see this go to a student who might not have the best grades but has contributed to the community through leadership and service and has potential to excel in college if given the opportunity.”

Yes! Essence definitely fits in that category, and of course Charles does, too. Every summer we volunteer at Dad's center working as support for the summer camp counselors who teach the elementary kids.

Principal Green says, “We've got to be careful with that, Thomas. We can't let it look like Richmond is rewarding mediocrity.”

“There's nothing mediocre about leadership and service,” Dad says. He continues with his list, “I also think we should require that applying students be students who've attended Richmond for at least two years.”

“There's no way we can put a stipulation like that
on this scholarship. We can't exclude new students from applying.”

“We can't let a student that's been at Richmond for one year walk away with the Leadership Scholarship either.”

“And why not?”

I am done cleaning the kitchen, but I want to hear all their conversation. I clean the microwave. It's not too dirty, but it could use a good wipe down.

Principal Green lowers his voice like he's releasing top-secret information. “Look, Thomas. As the kids say, let me keep it real with you.” He chuckles, as if he's proud of using slang. “As you know, enrollment at Richmond is at an all-time low. And it just doesn't make sense. There are too many students living in Richmond's district,” he says. He slurps his coffee between sentences. “Northeast Portland is not a black community anymore.”

His voice gets even lower; I strain to hear him. “I'd like us to make sure we are giving the scholarship to recipients that show the wide range of students we have at Richmond. You know, to show how diverse we are,” Principal Green says. “You see, we need to change the face of Richmond. We've got to. We have to show our, uh, new parents that this school isn't just an urban school, if you know what I
mean. They need to see their faces up there getting awards and being involved in assemblies and programs, or they'll send their kids elsewhere.”

Dad clears his throat. “We're keeping it real, right?” he says sarcastically.