This Side of Home (8 page)

We call it The Lounge.

It's a section for silent reading and writing. Sometimes Nikki, Essence, and I come to The Lounge to eat lunch and catch Mrs. Armstrong up on what's going on in our lives.

“I want you all to be investigators,” she says. “Not just in class, but outside of class. And I expect you to read.” She walks to the front of the classroom, checks her watch. “Are there any questions?”

Vince raises his hand. “I have a question, Miss Armstrong.”

“Yes?”

“Are your arms really strong?”

“Actually, yes, Vince, they are. Remember, I'm also the volleyball coach for the girls' team. And it's Mrs., not Miss,” she says.

Vince smiles at her and says, “My apologies and
sincere
regret.”

Mrs. Armstrong just ignores him. Male students
are always flirting with her. She is the best-dressed teacher I've ever had. And her skin is flawless—like the women in those commercials that advertise age-defying face wash.

Mrs. Armstrong holds up a copy of
Portland's Voice
. “Any of you read the paper this morning?” she asks.

I feel bad that I haven't. Our ongoing assignment for the year is to read newspapers and magazines as much as we can. This morning, it didn't even cross my mind.

Mrs. Armstrong passes the paper around the class. The headline says, “Are Richmond Warriors Fighting Hard Enough?” There's a huge picture of a group of Richmond students sitting outside on the stoop in front of our school. The girls in the photo are laughing and talking. The picture implies that they are skipping class or just hanging out. But I remember that picture being taken on the first day of school when the press was here for the welcome-back assembly. To the side of the article, there's a chart that shows how attendance and test scores have dropped at Richmond over the years.

Mrs. Armstrong, throws the paper on her desk. “This is the third article on Richmond this school year, and it's only October. I think we should fight back. Any ideas?”

“We should give them something to write about,” I say.

“They have plenty to write about. That's the problem,” Charles says. His striped button-up shirt is tucked into his khaki pants and as always, he has his campaign voice on. “Low test scores, teen pregnancy, drugs, alcohol … oh, trust me, they have enough to write about.”

Mrs. Armstrong interjects. “So you believe the hype like everyone else? Richmond is really that bad?”

Tasha raises her hand. “It's not the worst, but it ain't—I mean, it isn't the best either,” she says.

I raise my hand. “But that's the problem. There are good and bad things that happen at Richmond. Just like at every other school. They never write about the good stuff. They don't want to tell that part of the story.”

Charles nods in agreement. “I can see Maya's point. And I think it's wrong how everybody is blaming us for a problem that's been going on for years. Maybe if they gave us the same stuff that those other schools get, we wouldn't be doing so bad.”

Mrs. Armstrong sits on her stool. “Stuff?”

Tasha jumps back in the conversation. “You know, like, other schools get new books and their teachers
have supplies and stuff. What kind of mess is that?” Tasha pops her gum.

Mrs. Armstrong mouths, “Spit out your gum.”

Tasha gets up and spits her gum into the garbage can.

“Anyone else want to add something?” Mrs. Armstrong asks.

I look over at Essence. She is looking at her cell phone and isn't paying attention at all to what's going on. Mrs. Armstrong clears her throat and walks over to her desk. “You know the rules, ladies and gents. No hats, no cell phones, no iPods, no nothing that can distract you or someone else from his or her education.”

Essence puts her phone away.

“Anyone else?” she asks.

Essence raises her hand.

“Yes, Essence, what would you like to add?”

“Um, nothing. I have to go to the bathroom. Can I have a hall pass?”

“Can it wait?”

Essence shakes her head no. She gives Mrs. Armstrong a look, the one that says this isn't about going to the bathroom.

Mrs. Armstrong gives Essence the hall pass, and when Essence doesn't come back after fifteen minutes,
Mrs. Armstrong comes to my desk and whispers, “Go check on her.”

I leave class and walk down senior hall. I go to the cleanest bathroom in the school—it's the only one that gets stocked with toilet tissue and there are always paper towels. When I step into the bathroom Essence's voice is echoing off the wall. She is yelling into her phone. When she sees me, she puts it on speaker so I can hear. The voice yelling back at her is her mother.

“Mom, I'm at school. I can't talk about this right now!” Essence yells.

“I want to know where my money is.”

“I'm hanging up now—”

“Essence, I know you took my money.”

“What money?”

“You know what I'm talking about.”

“Mom, I have no idea what you're talking about. I didn't know you had any money. If I did, I would have asked for it so I can get me a bus pass for the month.”

“Look here, I want a hundred dollars put back in my drawer by the end of the night.” Ms. Jackson sounds drunk.

I tap Essence on her shoulder and mouth silently,
“Just hang up.” I know there's no reasoning with Essence's mom when she gets like this. “Hang up,” I mouth again.

But Essence keeps talking. “Mom—I didn't take your money.”

“As a matter of fact, I want you home right now.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I want you to come home right now.”

“Mom, you're drunk.”

“Who you think you is, tellin' me what I am? Come home now. You hear me?”

“Mom, I'm at school.”

“I don't care where you are. Home is more important than school. You said you didn't take my money, then come home and help me find it,” Ms. Jackson yells.

“Mom—”

“If you don't come home right now, don't come home at all. I'ma have all your stuff outside on the sidewalk in thirty minutes if you ain't in this house.”

The bell rings. Essence takes the phone off speaker before girls storm into the bathroom to look in the mirrors, spray perfume, and gossip. “All right, Mom. Okay.” She hangs up.

Essence walks out of the bathroom. I follow her. “You don't have to come,” she says.

“I know.” I walk with her outside, down the steps, down the block, silently praying that no one sees me—Maya Younger, the student body president—skipping school. But I'm not going to let Essence go alone.

“I don't have enough bus fare for you,” Essence says.

“I have enough for both of us,” I tell her. I go into my bag and get money out. We ride the bus the entire forty-five minutes in silence.

When we get off the bus, on the way to her house, a group of men call out to us, flirting and trying to get us to cross the street and come talk to them. I ignore them. Essence flips them off.

When we turn the corner, I see Ms. Jackson standing on the porch in a bra and jeans throwing Essence's clothes out onto the lawn. “So you decided to come, huh?”

“Mom, go in the house. Get in the house.” Essence runs up the steps and tries to push her mother inside. I start picking up the clothes. “Mom, you don't have on a shirt. Go in the house,” Essence says.

“Why you always tellin' me what to do?” Ms. Jackson goes back into the house. We follow her. The house has been ransacked. The cushions from the sofa are turned upside down; books and loose paper, receipts, and mail cover the carpet. Empty alcohol
bottles litter the floor. “Help me find my money!” Ms. Jackson is screaming.

“Mom. Calm down. Just calm down.” Essence goes in her mother's room and brings out a Richmond High T-shirt. Here, put this on.”

Ms. Jackson can't get her arm through the sleeve. I try to help her. “I don't need your help! Your momma send you here? Huh? Your daddy told you to come check on me?” Ms. Jackson grabs a half-empty bottle from the coffee table and finishes drinking it. “Answer me, girl. They send you over here?”

“No, Ms. Darlene. They didn't.”

Sometimes it's hard for me to believe that Ms. Jackson and my mom were best friends when they were younger. Mom's got all kinds of pictures of them when they were my age. I wonder why they turned out so differently. I wonder how Nikki, Essence, and I will end up.

Essence grabs the bottle from her mom.

Ms. Jackson is standing with the shirt dangling around her neck.

“Put the shirt on,” Essence yells.

“Stop tellin' me what to do. Who you think you is, huh?” Ms. Jackson slides her arms through the sleeves.

“I wouldn't have to tell you what to do if you
would act like my mother!” Essence starts to walk away.

Ms. Jackson yanks her back by pulling her hair. “Who you think you walkin' away from?” She is holding on tight to Essence's hair. I can't tell if it hurts or if Essence is embarrassed, but there are tears forming in the corner of her eyes.

Just as I walk over to try to pry Essence out of her mom's grip, Ms. Jackson's friend, Melvin, walks in the house. He helped them move. I think he's more than a friend, but I've never asked. Essence will tell me about him when she's ready.

Melvin is carrying four bags of groceries. He steps over the mess on the floor. “Darlene? What in the world is going on in here?”

Ms. Jackson looks at Melvin and slowly lets Essence go. “Hi, baby. Sorry 'bout the mess,” she says.

Melvin hands the groceries to Essence. “Here, take these in the kitchen. Thought I'd get us some food in this house before we all starve to death,” he says. “Darlene, I'll pay you back this weekend. I'll be fixing cars down at the shop so we should get some money soon.”

“Okay, baby, that's fine,” Ms. Jackson says. She looks at Essence. “Did you hear the man? Put the food away.”

We go into the kitchen.

“And when you're finished, clean up that mess in the living room,” Ms. Jackson yells. She goes into her bedroom with Melvin and closes the door.

Essence puts the groceries away. I help.

The faucet drips, the grocery bags crinkle, the cabinet doors creak open and close, creak open and close.

Essence's life is a blues song. Her mother, a scratched record stuck on the same note. I don't know what to say. I wish I could fix Ms. Jackson. Wish I knew what it would take to get her to see that her daughter is worth staying sober for. I'm so glad we graduate in June. Once June comes Essence can leave. We'll go far from here, and she never has to come back if she doesn't want to.

Essence has to go to Spelman. She can't settle for PCC. Nothing's wrong with a community college, but she has to get out of Portland. June can't get here quick enough. But I've got to figure out how to help her right now. “You want to stay at my house tonight?” I ask.

Essence shakes her head. She folds one of the brown bags. “I'd have to come home sooner or later. Can't keep running to your place,” she says. “We're not little girls anymore.”

It's Friday night, and the homecoming football game just ended. Richmond won, and everyone is celebrating. The game was sold out. Students from both schools, along with alumni, teachers, parents, and community members crowded into the bleachers, bundled in scarves, hats, and gloves.

Now that the game is over, we are all standing in line to get into the dance. Ronnie and Nikki are next to each other showing way too much public affection, if you ask me.

Tony and Kate walk up to us. We let them cut the line. “Why are there so many cops out tonight?” Kate asks. “Did something happen?”

“No, they always ride around during our events,” Nikki explains.

Kate blows into her hands to warm them.

Another police car creeps by.

I stand closer to Devin, take his hand.

Nikki takes a few steps forward. “Finally, the line is moving,” she says.

We give our tickets to the parent volunteer at the door and step inside the dance. We mingle and talk with friends for a little while before we make our way to the dance floor. Devin pulls me close to him, and our bodies fall into a groove. We dance for two songs and then sit at a table.

“Did your dad tell you about the guy who wants to have lunch with me so we can talk about my college plans?”

I shake my head.

“He might be interested in helping me financially. He heard me speak at the fund-raising gala for the center.”

“That's amazing, Devin. Have you told your aunt yet?”

Devin scoots in closer to me to make sure I can hear him over the loud music. “Waiting till I know for sure. Don't want to get her hopes up,” Devin says. “You apply for any scholarships yet?”

I nod.

Devin asks me which ones I applied for and I recite the list to him, just like I do to our college
counselor and every other adult who has been asking. I wiggle my toes in my too-tight shoes. Funny how I thought my feet would be hurting by this point of the night. I look onto the dance floor at the waving arms and swaying hips and see Tony dancing with a girl. He moves in sync with the rhythm of the music and when the song changes from fast to slow, he pulls her close and they wrap themselves in each other's embrace. I look away, focus on Devin.

We must not look like a couple. Maybe we just look like two friends hanging out, because Cynthia comes up to Devin—as if I'm invisible—and says, “Want to dance?” And she pulls Devin up by his arms, not even giving him a chance to answer.

“No, I'm good, I'm good,” Devin says. And he backs away from her and sits down.

“Next time,” Cynthia says. She smiles and walks away.

Before I can even open my mouth to go off about how much I can't stand her, Devin takes my hand and we sit and talk. At first we are laughing at how silly Ronnie looks on the dance floor doing Michael Jackson moves in the center of a circle. And then a slow song comes on. Devin leans into me, and I think he is going to ask me if I want to go back to the dance floor. But instead he asks, “So have you turned your application in to Spelman yet?”