This Side of Home (3 page)

I guess the one good thing about Essence moving is, Ms. Jackson won't have to argue anymore with Carla.

I actually don't mind Carla's music. She even offered to give me guitar lessons, but I never took her up on it.

Carla waves at us. I wave back.

“Maya, are you listening to us?” Nikki says. “We're about to go see a movie with Ronnie and Malachi. You should call Devin and see if he wants to come.”

“Today is Thursday,” I remind them. And they know what that means. Devin is enrolled in Summer Scholars. He never misses it. We've been out of school for two weeks, and I've barely seen him. “Maybe we'll hang out with you guys tomorrow,” I say.

When Ronnie and Malachi come to pick up Nikki and Essence, they all try to get me to come, but I refuse
to be the looming shadow of a double date. “I'm fine,” I tell them. I go across the street. Home.

I text Devin. Ask him if he wants to get together when his class is over and wait for him to get back to me.

Devin is here.

But not for me.

He has a meeting with Dad. They check in once a month. Usually Dad takes him out to eat, but today he's putting Devin to work and they are pulling up the carpet from one of the rooms in the basement. I guess all the renovations on our block has Dad wanting to fix things up here, too. He promised he'd give Mom her own sewing room by the end of summer.

I can hear Devin and Dad talking, even though I'm not really trying to listen. Devin is telling Dad about his aunt and how he feels she doesn't understand where he's coming from. “It gets frustrating sometimes living in a house full of women.”

Dad laughs. A little too hard, if you ask me. “Son, I know. I know.”

Devin has grown up in a house full of women, and Dad says women don't know everything, can't teach a boy everything, shouldn't have to be everything. Devin's mom and dad died in a car accident when he was just a baby, and his aunt took him in and raised him as her own. His aunt has never been married and has four daughters who are older than us. They baby Devin sometimes, and a lot of times they can be bossy. He complains about it, but I think he also likes the attention.

I think Devin's family looks out for him because they know he really might do something big with his life. Devin is the one who makes sure we all keep our grades up, that none of us end up on the wrong side of the statistic. He talks about the future, has plans and dreams of what he wants his life to be.

Devin is a make-your-momma-proud kind of person. The good-grade-makin', football-all-star-playin' brotha who old women point to and say, “He's the next …” New hope stirring in them because when they look at Devin the future don't look too bad.

“He's a good catch,” Mom always tells me.

And women throughout our neighborhood pull me aside, saying things like, “I'm glad he's dating you and
not one of
them
.” And by
them
they either mean a white girl or a hood girl. I guess Devin and I are some kind of prize to each other.

But sometimes, instead of winning a prize, I feel like I'm losing him. He always has an excuse, always a reason for not hanging out. At first I thought maybe he was cheating on me. But I trust him, and I know he's telling me the truth when he tells me he can't spend time together because he has to get up early for his Summer Scholars program. He is on a mission to be the first in his family to go to college, to be something other than a Portland guy who
could have
been something. There is no other girl. Just his dream.

How can I compete with that?

Essence's landlord finished the rest of her house after she moved out. For two weeks, construction workers came early and stayed late. It's the Fourth of July weekend, and now the house has a FOR SALE sign in front of it. Today is the open house where people come and walk through to decide if this is where they want to live.

I don't belong here. I am the only black person in the entire house. Probably the only one who has lived in this neighborhood my whole life.

The Realtor makes the guests take their shoes off at the door. They
ooh
and
ahh
like tourists in a new city. I pretend like I am looking, like I have never been in this house before. And in a way, I haven't.

It is strange to feel like a stranger in my best friend's home.

The hallway is painted a pale tan color, and the carpet has been replaced with hardwood floors. Nothing looks regular anymore. Everything seems special—even the knobs for the shower and sink in the bathroom look like they were handpicked, especially chosen for this new house.

I step out of the bathroom and walk down the hallway to Essence's bedroom. There is a girl coming out of it. “I love it, Mom,” she says. “We have to get this one.”

“It is pretty great,” her mom says. “Perfect for your dad getting to work. Carver Middle School isn't too far from here.”

They both have brown hair. The mom's hair is cut short with curls that flip and twirl all over her head. The girl's hair is straight and hangs to the middle of her back. They both have on the same color of nail polish. Makes me wonder if they paint their nails together and gossip about the happenings of the day.

“Where are Dad and Tony? Have they been up here yet?” The girl grabs her mom's hand and they walk down the stairs.

I walk into Essence's bedroom. It looks bigger without her bed and dresser in here. I walk over to the window that faces the street and look out at my
house. I remember how sometimes, when we talked on the phone, Essence would stand at her bedroom window and I'd stand at mine and we'd talk while looking at each other. Mom called us crazy.

I walk over to the closet, and when I open it, I know exactly why that girl loves this room so much. Even the closet has been renovated. It's a walk-in closet now—shelves and room to stand in and take your time to choose what it is you want to wear. Space, space, and more space so that your clothes aren't bunched up on each other, getting wrinkled.

I think about Essence, how she would love this closet.

From the hall, I can hear people roaming from room to room, plotting out how they could make this house their home. “We could use this for an office,” I hear a man say about the room across the hallway.

There are many conversations swirling through the house.

This is an up-and-coming neighborhood
.

Is there a Whole Foods in the area?

What are the neighborhood schools?

This is a prime location
.

Is it a child-friendly neighborhood?

The crime rate has gone down
.

“You like the closet, too, huh?” a male voice asks. His voice is closer than those in the hallway. I turn to
see who he is talking to, and I realize he is talking to me. It's just the two of us in the room. He is standing close enough to me that I can smell his cologne, or maybe it's the leftover fragrance of his shampoo. He smells like soap, like a freshly washed load of laundry. “Sorry, didn't mean to scare you,” he says. “I, uh, I came up here looking for my sister. She said I had to come see upstairs.”

“Oh, don't worry about it. I was just about to leave.”

“Tony?” A tall man walks into the bedroom. He is with the brown-haired girl and her mom. They crowd into the room, looking at every single detail. The light fixtures, the windowsill, the crown molding.

I take another look at the closet and notice that ESSENCE + MAYA + NIKKI = FRIENDS 4 EVER has been covered with a fresh coat of paint.

I leave.

Just as I step into the hallway I hear the mom say, “Honey, we should make an offer. Seems like it was made just for us.”

The boy who moved in across the street has Essence's room.

He hasn't put up curtains yet, so I see him all the time. Sometimes without even trying.

I can't remember his name.

He has the same brown hair and green eyes as his mom and sister. His shoulders are wide, and they hide under a too-big T-shirt.

The only thing I know about him is that he likes art. I've been watching him hang framed paintings on his bedroom walls—covering up all that fresh-paint newness. Not even appreciating that he has beautiful, clean walls that don't need to be covered.

Essence hung posters over parts of the wall that had chipped paint, small holes, cracks.

I am sitting on the porch when I see the boy who lives across the street walking toward me. He has a look in his eyes like he knows me. “Nikki?” he asks.

I smile. “Maya.”

He steps back. “Oh, I'm sorry. You look like—”

“She's my twin,” I tell him.

“Oh! Oh, wow, I-I didn't know. She didn't even—”

“Yeah, we don't really mention it unless we're standing next to each other.”

“You two look just alike,” he says.

“We're identical.”

“Right. Oh, and, uh, I'm Tony Jacobs.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say. “Nikki isn't here.”

“Okay. I, uh, I was just looking for my sister. I thought they were together.”

“Yeah, Kate, right? They just left not too long ago. Nikki is showing her the neighborhood.”

I feel like I need to say something, give a reason why I didn't go, but instead I just smile at him. Nikki invited me, but I refused to go meet and greet the people who moved into Essence's home. Funny how I ended up meeting them anyway.

Just when I am trying to find something to say, Tony jumps back, like a thought just shocked his body. He squints and says, “Wait. So that was you. No wonder your sister looked at me like I was crazy when I brought it up the other day. It was you I saw at the open house.”

I laugh.

“So, was your family thinking of moving across the street, or did you just want to spy on who your new neighbors would be?”

“Well, we weren't thinking about moving.”

Tony laughs. “I would have done the same thing.”

“So, are you from Portland?” I scoot over and make room for Tony to sit down on the step.

“Yeah. I grew up in Northwest Portland.” Tony sits next to me. “We moved because my parents wanted to be closer to their jobs.”

“What do they do?”

“My dad teaches at Carver Middle School. My mom writes grants for a nonprofit whose mission is
to reform public schools.” Tony swats at a fly. “If it were up to my mom, we would have moved over here a long time ago. She thinks it's important for my dad to live in the community where he's teaching. This year she decided to put her children where her mouth is, so I won't experience my senior year at St. Francis and my sister won't finish her last two years there. Kate and I will be going to Richmond High.”

“I'd hate to have to transfer my senior year.”

“Especially to Richmond,” Tony says. And he says
Richmond
like it's a poisonous word.

“I go to Richmond,” I tell him. “Both of my parents went there, too.” I move my twists from one side to the other. “Must be nice to have the luxury of experimenting with your education,” I say. I scoot away from him without meaning to.

Tony's face turns red. “Hold on. Wait. I didn't—I mean, I don't think I—”

“You didn't mean it like that?”

“Not at all.”

They
never do.

“I'm sorry. You must think I'm a jerk,” Tony says. “Um, look, I just meant that it's going to be very different going to a public school—no matter what public school, not just because it's Richmond.”

I don't say anything.

“I didn't mean to offend you,” Tony says. “Can,
can we—? Okay. I'm hitting the rewind button.” Tony actually sticks his hand in the air and presses down as if he's pushing a button. He makes a noise with his mouth like he's erasing what he just said.

I can't help but smile at how pitiful he looks.

“Okay, good. You're smiling. Smiling means you're not mad,” he says. “Can we start over?”

Of all the good restaurants we could go to, Nikki wants to take Kate to Popeyes—which is a surprise because lately all she wants to do is eat at the new restaurants on Jackson Avenue. But ever since Kate and Tony moved across the street, we've become their Northeast Portland tour guides, so here we are standing in line for chicken and biscuits.

Kate says to us, “You are so lucky that you grew up over here. We didn't have a Popeyes anywhere near where I lived. We used to make special trips just to have an excuse to come here.”

Is she serious?

“I love soul food,” Kate says.

“Popeyes is
not
soul food,” I say. And I must've rolled my eyes because Nikki gives me a look that tells
me to be nice and to stop looking at Kate like that. But I've had enough of Kate and her love for crispy chicken, her admiration of my braids, her excitement about all the boutiques to shop at that are just steps away from our homes.

She is a nagging fly that hovers and hovers. We've spent the last two days with her, and all she's done is ask me questions.

About my hair: “How long does it take you to get your hair like that? Can I touch it?”

About my skin: “So, this might sound like a stupid question—but do you get sunburned?”

About Richmond High: “Have you ever seen anyone get shot?”

And when we got caught in a rain shower she just couldn't understand what the big deal was when Nikki and I ran for cover. “It's just rain,” she said.

I told her, “Rain is like kryptonite to a black girl's hair.”

We laughed about it, but I could tell she had more questions.

We order and sit at the table closest to the door. Kate bites into her spicy chicken sandwich. “Oh. My. God. This. Is. So. Good.” She takes another bite. “This just made my day.”