This Side of Home (20 page)

“Keeping it real, yes,” Principal Green says.

“Well, let's stop beating around the bush. Are you asking me to preselect a recipient and to make sure that the recipient is not African American?”

Principal Green's voice gets lower and lower. “I'm asking you to make sure there is clear representation of Richmond's
diverse
student body.”

Dad gets his professional voice on. “A panel of judges determines the winner. Neither you nor I can be on the panel. We shouldn't even touch an application. And the ethnicity of the applicant will not be relevant.”

Dad stands and walks Principal Green to the door.

I put the dustpan and broom away and walk out into the living room.

Principal Green shakes Dad's hand. “Thank your wife for me for the delicious breakfast. I'll be in touch.”

As soon as the door closes I think of all the questions I have about what I just overheard.

Dad knows me well. Before I can even get the words out of my mouth he says, “Not now, Maya.”

“But Dad, can I just say one thing—just one?”

“Not now, Maya,” he says.

“I just have one question.”

“One,” Dad says.

“When are applications going to be ready?”

“You can't apply. It wouldn't look right if one of my daughters—”

“I'm not asking for me.”

“I'll have everything ready by Wednesday.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Is that all?”

“Yeah, you said I could only say one thing.”

“It's a miracle,” Dad says. And he laughs and puts his heavy hand on my shoulder. “Sorry I ruined breakfast,” he says.

“You didn't ruin anything,” I tell him. “You just saved Essence's dream.”

Essence and I are in the office to pick up applications for the scholarship. I'm getting two. One for Charles, one for Ronnie. Essence is getting hers and Malachi's.

“They're due in two weeks,” Ms. Joan, the secretary, says. “Just come back and put it in that box, and then you'll be contacted about an interview.”

“An interview?” I ask.

“Each finalist will sit down with the judging committee for a brief interview. You two should have nothing to worry about,” she says. “There are only four questions.”

Just then, Principal Green's door opens and Cynthia is walking out of his office. She has an application in her hand.

I figured he'd encourage her to apply, but I wonder what they were talking about behind his closed door. “Thanks, Ms. Joan,” I say. I look at Principal Green, make sure he sees that I see him. He looks away.

Once we leave the office, Essence and I go our separate ways. I'm going to Mrs. Armstrong's class. Essence is going to do hair. When I get to class, I get right to work on my article for the school newspaper. I've been assigned the story on our block party and eighth-grade recruitment day.

Mrs. Armstrong says a good journalist always has her eyes open, always has an ear listening for news. So when I hear Cynthia say to Tasha, “These interview questions are hard,” my antenna goes up and I pick up every whisper between the two of them. “He says I should practice my answers,” Cynthia says. And then Mrs. Armstrong walks by so she stops talking. I see her slide a sheet of paper into her notebook, and I decide that I will do whatever I have to do to get those questions.

Attempt One. I get up and purposely walk into Cynthia's desk. I make sure I act real clumsy and knock her notebook off the table, hoping her papers will scatter, hoping I will see the questions, commit them to memory so I can pass them on to Essence, Ronnie, Malachi, and Charles. But when Cynthia's
notebook falls, no loose papers fly out and she picks it up before I can even bend over.

“Sorry,” I say.

Cynthia gives me a half smile. “It's okay.”

I sit back down, plot out another way. It comes sooner than I think it will. Cynthia raises her hand, asks to use the restroom. Mrs. Armstrong writes her a pass, and as soon as she is out of the door, I stand. Stretch. Survey the room, looking to see if anyone is watching me. I decide this is my only chance. I just have to walk over to her desk, take the notebook, open it, and get the questions. I look around one more time, then walk toward her desk, but decide to walk over to the bookshelf and pretend to be looking for something.

Can I really just open this girl's stuff?

I talk myself out of it, but then I think about how unfair it is that she gets to prepare and practice and no one else does. I know how these things go. The person who gets the head start usually wins the race. And Cynthia having those questions is Cynthia having a head start.

By the time I decide that I am going to do it—just walk over to her desk and read the questions, Cynthia is back and the bell is ringing, and I'm still plotting.

I've been waiting for everyone to fall asleep, but Nikki has been on the phone with Ronnie for an hour. It's past midnight and if Mom knew either of us were still awake, she'd be fussing.

I finally hear Nikki's TV go on, which means she's off the phone and in bed. She goes to sleep to the sound of her TV. I usually end up going in her room in the middle of the night and turning it off because it's way too loud.

I wait for about fifteen minutes, and I think Nikki has fallen asleep, so I go into the hall, stand at the top of the stairs, and listen to see if Dad is up. I don't see any lights on, or hear any noise, so I go downstairs, make my way to his office.

He might have the questions. I'm sure he helped come up with them.

I get to the bottom of the steps and all I have to do is walk through the living room to get to Dad's office. But before I start walking, I see light seeping through the bottom of the door. Is he in there or did he just leave the light on?

I walk barefoot across the hardwood floor, step inches in front of his office door, put my hand on the knob, and the door opens without me even trying. “Maya?” Dad is standing in the doorway, startled but relieved. “I thought I heard something. Girl, you're going to give your ole man a heart attack.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.”

Dad turns off the light to his office, closes the door. “What are you doing up so late?”

“Can't sleep.”

I am hoping Dad will say something like, “Well, don't stay up too late,” and go to his bedroom so I can sneak into his office, search for the questions. But instead Dad says, “Me neither.” He walks into the living room, takes the remote control, and turns the TV on. “Want to join me?”

“Girls! Girls!” It's ten o'clock on a Saturday morning. Why is my mother screaming? I turn over, pull my covers tight.

My door opens. “Maya, wake up.” Now Mom is standing at the foot of my bed. “Nikki!” she yells. “We're in Maya's room. Come on. Get up.”

Nikki stands in the doorway, wiping the sleep from her eyes. She yawns. “Mom.”

“You have to open them together,” Mom says. She hands both of us thick envelopes from Spelman.

I sit up and come from under the covers.

Nikki has her letter in hand before I can even get my envelope open. We read the letters silently. Both of us smile and scream and jump up and down.

“I'm so proud. So proud,” Mom says. She and
Nikki start making plans—what to pack, what to buy there, how early we should get to Atlanta so we can get acclimated before classes start.

“So you're coming with me?” I ask Nikki.

“Yes. I'm going with you to Spelman,” Nikki says.

I put my letter on my desk next to the brochures that Tony gave me. I stretch. Long. Reach for my ceiling and let out a yawning sigh. My eyes water. Maybe because of the yawn, maybe because when I look out the window and see Tony's shadow moving against his curtain, I think about how much I am going to miss him. Or maybe it's because Essence is in the guest room, probably pretending to be asleep, pretending she can't hear that her two closest friends are moving. And this time, the distance is a lot more than forty-five minutes away.

“I want to see you,” Tony says.

It is stormy outside and I don't feel like going anywhere.

“Are your parents home?”

“Yes. Yours?”

“Yep.” Tony sighs. “Well, just come on a ride with me. We won't even get out of the car. I just want to see you.”

“I'll be out in five,” I say. I have on jeans and one of my dad's sweatshirts. I don't change, I just put on socks and shoes and run down the stairs. Mom is in her sewing room, Dad is in his office. “Dad, I'm going out with Tony. I won't be gone long.”

“Okay.”

Tony is waiting for me when I get outside. He has the car running, and when I get in, the car is already heated. He doesn't drive off just yet. We sit for a while, looking out at the rain. It crawls along the window, then disappears.

“Congratulations,” Tony says.

“I wanted to be the one to tell you!”

“Kate,” Tony says, smiling. “Nikki called her to tell her the good news.” Tony takes my hand and traces his finger along my palm. “Do you know what I'm writing?” He presses into my skin three times.

“Do it again,” I say.

He repeats the three marks, slowly.

“I?”

“Yes.”

He keeps writing on my hand with his finger. “You can't look,” he tells me.

I close my eyes. “That tickles.” I pull my hand away and wipe it on my jeans.

Tony takes it back and keeps writing, but after three tries I can't guess what it says. So as he writes, he talks slowly, “I'm proud of you.” He taps my hand as if to leave a period.

I take his hand and kiss it. “I'm going to miss you,” I tell him.

He squeezes my hand, leans back in his seat.

We sit in the car, surrounded by rain and dark sky. The streetlights glisten against the fallen water, making the windows shimmer like a sequined dress.

A week has gone by, and I haven't been able to get my hands on those interview questions, and the interviews are happening next week. Ronnie, Malachi, and Charles have made it as finalists. I know Cynthia has, too, which is why I am making the boys practice during lunch so they can be ready. Essence didn't make it as a finalist, so she's definitely going to beauty school. I talked her into taking business classes, too.

It's lunchtime and Essence and I are in The Lounge drilling them with questions we pulled from our college applications. “I'm sure it will be something similar,” I tell them.

Mrs. Armstrong is at her desk eating her lunch and reading through a stack of essays from one of
her English classes. She looks up from time to time and smiles.

Essence says, “Before we start, we need to talk about what you guys are going to wear.” She looks at Ronnie and Malachi.

Ronnie says, “Why you not asking Charles what he's wearing?”

Charles laughs, and Essence says, “Because I don't ever have to worry about Charles looking put together. You and Malachi are the ones who think putting on a blazer with jeans and a button-up shirt is formal.”

Malachi asks, “We have to dress formal for the interview?”

“No,” I tell them. “But you shouldn't wear jeans. It's an interview.”

“I'll help you guys with what to wear,” Essence says.

“And I'll help all of you with what to say,” I tell them.

For the next twenty minutes we role-play with each other and I ask them questions that I think the panel might ask.

A heavy knock pounds on the door, and Principal Green steps inside the classroom before Mrs. Armstrong can say, “Come in.”

He is carrying a clipboard in his hand that has
papers and a pen tucked under the silver clasp. “Rachelle?” Mr. Greene calls Mrs. Armstrong by her first name. “Do you have a moment? I'd like to speak with you.”

It's obviously not a question because Principal Green just keeps talking, not giving Mrs. Armstrong a chance to answer.

“What is this?” He holds up the worksheet on press releases that she gave us in class.

“You don't know what that is?” she asks.

“Don't be trite with me. Yeah, I know what it is, and I also know that some of your students have invited media here for the block party, which is something I didn't approve.” Principal Green looks at me. “You can imagine my surprise when Channel 8 called to confirm the details.” Principal Green looks over at us and says, “Uh, you all might want to leave—”

Mrs. Armstrong stands. “It's okay. They can stay.”

Principal Green hesitates for a moment, then he says, “Do you know who sent the press release?”

“No,” Mrs. Armstrong says.

“I find it interesting that posters were hanging around this school of people
you
were teaching to students, yet you didn't know who was behind that, and now you're telling me you don't know who sent the media a press release, when you're the one who
taught them how to write one.” Principal Green takes the top paper off his clipboard and tosses the paper toward the desk, and it blows to the floor. Neither of them bothers to pick it up. “Rachelle, you are a teacher. You are here to teach. Not lead political rallies or make a statement. These kids have a lot of learning to do, and the last thing they need is to be distracted by a movement. And furthermore, you don't have the authority to invite the press to this school for anything. We have administrators who handle public relations.”

I can't believe Principal Green is talking to her this way. I want to say something. Defend her. But I know that it's not my place. Besides, Mrs. Armstrong is capable of handling her own. “Are you finished?” she asks.

“Actually I'm not. We wonder why kids aren't learning at Richmond, and then it all becomes clear. Teachers are using their prep time to chat with the students.” He points toward us. “These kids are students. Not your friends. I need you to remember that.” Principal Green turns to leave.