Almost Crimson (14 page)

In the office, CeCe watched Mr. Markeweiz twist at his wedding band while he relayed his disturbing discovery and prompted Michelle to tell her mother what was happening to her at night.

CeCe sat on the floor next to Michelle, holding her hand the entire time. CeCe would squeeze her friend's trembling fingers each time Michelle had to say “my chest” and “his finger” and “inside me.” Mrs. Johnson's face remained stoic and framed, as CeCe had always known her to be, but her thick makeup was streaked with tears. CeCe knew now that everyone, even icy queens like Mrs. Johnson, had a breaking point.

The police detectives came before the end of the ceremony. The vice principal had asked them to send plainclothes officers, because of the graduation. CeCe hovered near Michelle for the rest of the evening, although Mrs. Johnson had finally embraced her daughter. Every now and again, she'd catch CeCe's eye. CeCe felt badly for her. She knew how much Mrs. Johnson liked to brag about their “middle-class” family. CeCe wondered which she resented more, having a crack in their foundation exposed or seeing her daughter cry.

Mr. Johnson was discreetly escorted into the science lab and confronted by the detectives. CeCe was dismissed from the office, but was allowed to dispense one hug to Michelle.

“You promised, CeCe,” Michelle whispered into her ear.

“I won't tell,” CeCe whispered back.

Walking back to orchestra room for her jacket, CeCe saw Michael and Mr. Markeweiz in the hall. Mr. Markeweiz had his hand on Michael's shoulder as they walked and CeCe could see Michael fume. Their eyes locked. CeCe gave him a sympathetic look.

“This is all your goddamn fault!” Michael yelled. Mr. Markeweiz clamped his hands on Michael's shoulders and whispered into his ear as he guided Michael past CeCe and toward the office.

CeCe froze in her steps, mouth agape and arms lifted to the side. Moroseness coated her bones. She was tired. She was sad. And she'd missed her own commencement ceremony. As she turned around, back toward the orchestra room and her jacket, she saw two boys standing near the band door.

“Never heard him cuss like that,” the redhead said.

“Yeah,” said the smaller boy, his mouth too small for all the metal brackets inside. He turned a steely stare to CeCe and asked, “What the fuck did you do?”

CeCe didn't know the redhead very well. Only that his name was Scott. The shorter boy, with the braces, was Jesse. Jesse had been in the same fifth grade class with CeCe and now was in the same math block this year. Jesse was more of a taunt than a bully, a housefly buzzing in and out of the curtains. CeCe had never been significant enough for Jesse's sights, but she avoided his flight patterns anyway.

“Nothing,” CeCe mumbled, walking past them and into the orchestra room. She scanned the scattering of empty chairs and cups for her jacket.

“What's ‘all your fault,' then?” Jesse asked from the doorway.

“Nothing,” CeCe said, more forcefully. She spotted the windbreaker draped over the piano bench and moved toward it.

“You were down at the office for a super long time,” Jesse said. “Something happened.”

“My dad said he saw a police car outside,” said Scott, still in the hallway.

Jesse's eyes winked with mischief and he asked, “You and your
homeboy
getting arrested?”

CeCe folded her jacket over her arm and walked toward the doorway. The boys had already disheveled their black slacks and white button-down shirts. As she moved to walk past them, Jesse said in a low voice, “I'll find out what you did,
Crimson
.”

“I didn't get in trouble,” CeCe said, moving past them.

“So why was a police car here?” asked Jesse.

“Yeah,” Scott said. Both boys followed CeCe down the hall. “Why are police at our school,
Crimson
? We never had police cars here before,
Crimson
.”

“You niggers did something,” Jesse said. “My dad said you always do.”

CeCe's breath caught behind her tongue and felt the flood beginning to rise in her skull. She wanted to spin around and spit on them, throw her hard, dressy shoes, punch at their faces. Instead, she walked more swiftly. The boys did not continue to follow her, but their hollow laughter did. CeCe didn't think she could get outside, down the block to her bus stop, and across town to her bed fast enough.

“CeCe,” Mr. Markeweiz called. He was in the center of the hallway, in front of the guidance office door, gesturing for her.

Reluctantly, CeCe walked over to Mr. Markeweiz. She felt worked up and worn out at the same time. She didn't want to talk anymore. She didn't want to listen anymore. She wanted to go home.

Mr. Markeweiz placed a hand on her shoulder when she stood close enough and CeCe could see Ms. Patterson standing in her office. Her eyes softened at the sight of CeCe.

“I have your pin and certificate,” she said, handing them to CeCe. “I'm sorry you had to miss your ceremony.”

“You helped Michelle do a very brave thing,” Mr. Markeweiz added. “I'm so impressed with what a good friend you were for her tonight.”

CeCe's mind flashed to the pinched fury in Michael's face.

All her fault.

Once one tear got away from CeCe, she couldn't make the rest of them stop. Couldn't temper her wails. Couldn't stop her shoulders from heaving. Michelle. Michael. Ms. Johnson. Scott and Jesse. Even the fact that her mother hadn't come to the ceremony tonight.

“Talk to me, CeCe?” Ms. Patterson said, holding CeCe by one shoulder. “Tell me what else is going on for you right now.”

“No!” CeCe said, hysteria beginning to tinge her voice. “They already think it's my fault. That I told. But I didn't. I promised I wouldn't tell. Now they think I did. Calling me names. I didn't tell!”

“Who is calling you names?” asked Ms. Patterson.

“Who said you told?” asked Mr. Markeweiz.

CeCe threw up her hands and covered her face. She wanted to disappear from their close-range questions, remove herself from the linoleum hallway, undo the weighted conversations of this long, long evening.

Mr. Markeweiz's hand was on her right shoulder and, now, Ms. Patterson's hand was on the left. CeCe fought to wrangle herself back under control. They all heard the boys' dress shoes approaching in the hall.

“I should've known,” Ms. Patterson said under her breath.

CeCe turned from her wet palms to see Jesse and Scott stuck in their steps. Ms. Patterson moved toward them, demanding to know where they had been, why were they still in the building, what time were Scott's parents expecting them to make the two-block walk to his house, and why were they attacking CeCe?

“We didn't attack her!” Jesse snapped.

“Words can be attack weapons, too, Jesse,” Mr. Markeweiz called to them from where he stood holding CeCe's shoulders.

Grown-ups can be corny at the worst possible times, CeCe thought.

“I didn't call her a nigger! Jesse said that!” Scott said.

The word ricocheted on the walls, the floor, the ceiling, and their stunned faces.

“Let's go,” Ms. Patterson said, gesturing the boys into the dark office. “We're calling your parents
now
.”

CeCe glued her eyes to her slick hands, although she felt Jesse's flash in her direction as he and Scott walked past her. Mr. Markeweiz gave her shoulder a small squeeze.

“Let's skip the bus this time,” he said. “I can give you a ride home, if you don't think your mother would mind. Should we call her?”

CeCe shook her head. “She won't mind,” she said in a small voice.

Once at the apartment, CeCe felt she had just enough energy to drag herself through the courtyard and through her front door. She dropped her windbreaker on the arm of the couch and walked the short hallway to the bathroom. CeCe kept an ear peeled for her mother. Even though she knew better, CeCe waited to hear her mother's voice croak above the rushing water to ask about her day, about the commencement ceremony, about how she was doing.

CeCe turned out the lights in the bathroom and living room. She double-checked the doors and window locks. She unfolded her sheet next to the couch and folded herself into the cool fabric. CeCe tucked away the long day, her weary limbs, and an utterly broken heart.

TWENTY-FOUR

PANCAKES

 

 

CECE LOOKED FORWARD TO SPENDING the summer with her new family in Decatur, but the ordeal with Michelle had shaken her. She wrestled with her guilt and counted the days until she could surround herself with aunts and uncles and cousins who might listen to her. Talk to her. Give her a reason to smile or laugh.

CeCe climbed from the bus in Decatur on a Thursday morning and fell into an all-night movie marathon with her cousins. On Friday, they lazed around the house before meeting the entire family for dinner at Aunt Rosie's. Fried chicken and catfish, beef brisket, green beans, cut spaghetti, homemade rolls, macaroni and cheese, pound cake, and peach cobbler. Only here could CeCe ever see so much food in one place.

“Family” was still a fresh concept for her, this much family, anyway. CeCe tried to take it all in, testing every angle to see if she liked it as much as she'd hoped to. She put out the tableware and napkins with Aunt Rosie. She played tag and cards and checkers with her cousins. She read the liners of cassette tapes while the older cousins talked and shared their music. As she wandered in and out of the living room and porch, she caught snippets of the grown-ups' conversations: Dazz Band concert, tuition loans, gas prices,
Hill Street Blues
,
ET
, test-tube babies, car trade-ins, office backstabbing, John Johnson on the cover of
Forbes
, shopping for a class reunion.

“Girl, get outta grown folks' business,” Coretta said, giving CeCe a start. Coretta laughed as CeCe sprayed playing cards across the dining room table. Apparently, she'd been doing more blatant leaning and “ear hustling” than card shuffling.

CeCe opened her mouth to protest but Coretta twisted her mouth and cocked her head to the side in a comic “don't even try it” expression. As Coretta passed through the dining room, CeCe grinned as she ducked her head, scooped the cards, and headed back outside with the other kids. Coretta playfully pinched at CeCe's arm as she walked past.

“Hey, CeCe,” Coretta said, before CeCe reached the screen door. “How about pancakes tomorrow, just me and you?”

CeCe's elation plummeted when the idea of being in trouble invaded her mind. Maybe it was the cereal bowl in the front room. Maybe it was the second slice of pound cake. Maybe they hadn't wanted her back for a second summer. Maybe Coretta was going to give CeCe a list of restrictions, the way Mrs. Johnson had done once Michelle had started inviting CeCe to birthday parties and to spend the night. CeCe wasn't allowed in this room and wasn't allowed to touch that photo album and couldn't eat from these dishes at the Johnson house. Michelle wasn't, either, but Mrs. Johnson didn't leave those instructions to chance or to her children. She reminded CeCe of the rules every time she came to play with Michelle.

Michelle.

“You don't have to actually eat pancakes if you don't want to,” Coretta was saying, concern contorting her expression. “You can eat what you want. I just wanted to have a girl time with you.”

“I like pancakes,” CeCe said quickly. She didn't want Coretta to uninvite her.

Coretta relaxed her face. “Good. Me, too. We'll go while the girls are at dance.”

CeCe meant to merely smile, but knew her face was beaming. Coretta smiled, pinched at CeCe's arm again, and returned to the living room with the other adults.

 

Neither of them had been able to finish eating their tall stacks. CeCe and Coretta leaned back in their booths and made a show of rubbing their full bellies. CeCe liked the way Coretta fit all of her different pieces together, how the Fusser and the Fixer and the Funny Coretta were all different parts of her, but all the same. CeCe didn't think her own parts—the Nice and the Angry—could share the spaces inside her.

“So, junior high. Kind of a big deal,” Coretta said, sitting up to sip her coffee. “Anything you want to know?”

CeCe hadn't thought about it. Valmore was a magnet school for gifted students and CeCe had earned a lottery seat and a scholarship. Ms. Patterson had given her the application and Mrs. Anderson had helped her fill it out. They'd been more excited than CeCe when she showed them her acceptance letter. CeCe looked forward to attending a school filled with kids who liked to learn like she did. No one to tease her about good grades and enormous library books. She couldn't know, however, what she didn't know about middle school.

“Like what?” CeCe asked. “Lockers? Algebra?”

Coretta laughed, more to herself. “I was trying for a segue. So much for that,” she said. “Look, I wanted to talk with you about your body, CeCe. The changes that will happen soon. About your period. About sex. All of that. You up for it?”

CeCe's face grew hot. She looked at the tables and booths around them and shifted in her seat. Coretta laughed.

“How about this? Tell me what you know about sex and I'll tell you if you can opt out of this discussion,” Coretta said.

“I know I don't want any,” CeCe said, folding her arms across the buds on her chest.

Coretta dropped her head in laughter. “Good,” Coretta managed. “You have plenty of time for that. Besides ‘not wanting any,' tell me what you know. I mean, how does it work?”

CeCe furrowed her brow, feeling her thick bangs tickle her forehead. Carefully, she cited the diagrams and definitions she'd found in the library and surmised from novels. She described the two genitalia, how they interlocked, the function of sperm and eggs, and even a sketchy overview of the stages of pregnancy.

“You've done a lot of reading, huh?” Coretta said smiling. “So, what doesn't make sense?”

CeCe felt as if a cashier had invited her to shove a candy bar into her pocket. What CeCe knew most certainly about sex was how little she understood it. In her reading, CeCe knew she missed the core, like the back-story to an inside joke. In her head, she didn't understand the allure of sex. Especially if it leads men to their own daughters. CeCe considered her questions. She didn't want to sound like a thirteen-year-old.

“How does it really work?” she blurted, cringing at herself as Coretta grinned another amused smile.

“Well, when it ‘works' right,” she began, “it starts with a kiss.”

Coretta drained a small carafe of coffee while telling CeCe about what gets inserted where, how sex differed from intimacy, how to clean her privates, the lies boys tell to get sex, and how long CeCe should wait before trying.

“The church wants me to tell you to wait until you're married,” Coretta said, as they walked to the car. “And you should try. At minimum, no sex until you're at least eighteen. By then, you'll be mature enough to pick someone who's special, smart, and knows how lucky he is to earn such a gift. Don't rush just to say you've done it. So many girls do that and regret it. You only get one time to have a first time. Doesn't it make sense to make that one time as perfect as you can?”

CeCe nodded as she fastened her seat belt. All the way home, with the scent of maple syrup filling their conversation, CeCe imagined a humongous red bow underneath her sundress. She was also sad for her friend. CeCe turned to the open window and closed her eyes against the wind.