Before, After, and Somebody In Between (10 page)

With that, he flings me outside, and the momentum sends me flying down the porch steps and into the grass. Then I’m up and running—down the sidewalk, down the street, around the corner, past old Luther Lee Washington in his wheelchair. As long as I’m running, as long as I’m moving, I don’t have to think about
Wayne’s fist in my hair. Or about Momma, goddamn her. How, how did she ever hook up with this maniac?

When I run out of breath, I trudge the rest of the way to the projects, shivering in the chilly air. Shavonne’s hungover worse than me, but perks right up when I give her the gory details. “What—a—psycho!”

“Can I spend the night? My mom doesn’t get off till midnight.”

“I guess. My mom’s kinda sick, so we gotta be quiet.”

“What’s wrong with her?” She looked fine last night.

“She’s sick,” Shavonne repeats. “Been working too hard.”

We sprawl on her bed and watch a sappy Lifetime movie while Shavonne works on a disturbingly realistic drawing of Chardonnay’s skull with her brain fully exposed.

“Nice hearse last night, huh?” she comments. “Lucky you didn’t end up in a morgue.”

“Real nice,” I agree. “I almost puked in it, too.”

“Whadja think of Nikki?”

I draw a blank. Leftover alcohol poisoning, I guess. “Who?”

“Didn’t you guys go pick her up or something?”

“Oh, her. I think she thought I was a hooker.”

“Bitch, right?” I shrug, and Shavonne adds, “Ma dragged me over there once to pick up a check she forgot, and man, you oughta see that place. Damn garage’s bigger than this apartment, and they’ve got this yappy little dog, and man, that Nikki girl’s a trip.”

“Trip how?”

“Oh, you know. Nice to my face, but she’s, like, lookin’ at me all cross-eyed like she wants to shove a finger down her throat. So I go, ‘Hey, what’s the matter with your face?’ and she’s like, ‘Whaddaya mean?’ and I go, ‘Girl, you don’t start looking at me straight, ain’t no way you gonna get them beady eyeballs apart.’
So
she
goes”—Shavonne tries to mimic an English accent, and my head hurts worse when I laugh—“ ‘Rah-ly, I have no clue what you mean, and please don’t speak to me again.’”

“Oh, no she didn’t.”

“Oh, yes she did. I swear, I don’t see how she can work for that triflin’ bunch of fools.”

The movie’s back on, and I can hear Mrs. Addams at intervals, hacking up chunks of her lungs. Eventually, I have to comment. “Man, I hope she didn’t do that all over the food last night. Some party, huh? All those rich people coming down with TB.”

I meant it as a lame joke, but Shavonne shoots me a one-more-word-and-I’m-gonna-tear-your-face-off look. Out loud, she says shortly, “I’m taking a shower.” She whips her shirt over her head, kicks off her sweatpants, then pauses, stark naked in the flickering light of the TV. “It’s not TB, asshole. She’s got HIV.”

I nearly strangle on a rope of my own breath, too shocked to apologize.

“She’s had it for years. It ain’t never made her sick before, but now she been coughin’ all week.”

“Sorry,” I squeak.

Shavonne grabs a towel off the back of her door. “Just keep your mouth shut, okay? Nobody else knows.” And she streaks off to the john.

I never knew anyone with HIV. I never even knew anybody who knew anybody with HIV. I’m awake half the night, wondering how she got it. Does Shavonne have it, too? Would she tell me if she did?

…

At least Wayne’s truck is gone when I get back home the next day, wrapped in a heavy sweater of Shavonne’s that reaches my knees. Hopefully I can sneak in without Momma noticing.

Wishful thinking

Thwap!
A smack in the head the second I step through the door. “What in the sam-hill do you mean, not comin’ home all night long? I was ready to call the cops!”

“So why didn’t you ask Wa-ayne why I didn’t come home last night?” I yell back, slightly dizzy from the unexpected slap.

That throws her for sure, but not in the right way. “What’re you talking about? He didn’t …you know, try to get funny with you, did he?”

Oh, yu-u-uck! How could she even think something that gross? “No, Momma, he just threw me off the damn porch!”

“So where were you all night?”

“Hello, are you even listening? I said Wayne threw me off the porch!”

This she totally ignores. “You get in your room. You’re grounded, missy!”

Grounded from what? It’s not like I have a life. I open my mouth to protest, but she rushes at me like an underwater torpedo, so I bolt for my room and barricade the door with my dresser.

“You’re crazy!” I scream through the wood.

“Crazy,” like “fat,” is another one of those words I should never use around Momma. Roaring like a rabid elephant, she pummels my door for like thirty seconds before she gives up and stomps off.

I’ve neglected my cello over the past couple of days, but now an irresistible urge forces me to open the case. I wipe my face and blow my nose, then lift the cello out, and yes, I even hug it for a sec. Positioning myself perfectly on the edge of my bed, I rest it against my leg and lift my bow. Scale up, scale down. Scale up, scale down. All my exercises over and over, plus the three real
pieces I now know by heart: Schubert, Brahms, and a little thing by Mozart. I play and play till my fingers are raw again, till every note sounds perfect. Peace and joy overtake me—but then I start crying, and my tears drip off my chin and skitter through the strings.

Now I know why Momma won’t pay for this cello. It’s not the money at all.

She just doesn’t like me very much. I don’t think she ever did.

17

For the next week or so, I stay out of Wayne’s way, and Chardonnay, by some miracle, chooses to ignore me. But the best thing of all? I just know I’m going to be a star because today, after practice, Mr. Hopewell, his smile bright against his wrinkly dark face, says, “Well, you think you’re ready to join the orchestra, Martha?”

Tingling inside, I smile back. “You serious?”

“You bet. I think you’ve come a long way.”

Well! I guess all those hours of practicing over the past couple of months, and all those bloody fingertips are starting to pay off.

“And I think you ought to talk to your folks about taking some private lessons, too.”

I feel my grin get sucked off my face. “Huh?”

“With a private instructor, I mean. I know you have talent, but that’s not going to be enough. You need one-on-one instruction, so you can grow as a musician.” He waves at the empty room. “You need a mentor, someone to help you develop your skill. You’re light-years ahead of everyone else, but there’s only so much you can learn in a class with thirty other kids.”

“How much do they cost?” I ask suspiciously.

“I won’t lie, they’re not cheap. But,” he adds as I open my mouth, “if there’s any way you could swing it, it’d be the best thing you could do. Now, I’m not trying to blow up your ego or anything, but yes, you’ve got something special.”

“Well, do you think—” God, I’m afraid to ask. “You think I could, like, ever do this for a living?”

Now he’s cornered. “Uh, most professionals start out a lot sooner than this. Still, you’re only, what? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

“Fourteen.” He squints, like he doesn’t believe me. “I skipped a grade.”

“Well, I think you’ve got the potential. And I know you’ve got the passion, so—well, you never know.”

Then he hands me this brochure from the Great Lakes Academy of Music, a private high school right here in Cleveland. You have to audition to get in, plus it’s very expensive, and I mean thousands, okay?

He reads my mind. “You can always apply for a scholarship. I’ll even be the first one to write you a letter of recommendation. But there’s more to playing an instrument than just playing an instrument, you know. There’s a whole culture out there, a world of people who devote their entire lives to their music. I’d sure like to see you become a part of that club.” He winks. “Think about it, okay?”

Wow, picture it! Me, center stage in a spotlight in a long black gown, cello poised between my knees, while a hushed, expectant audience waits for my first note. Me, a member of this exclusive musical “club,” with other musicians for friends, sharing our music, and—oh, how can I talk Momma into this, how?

…

Momma’s working and Wayne’s in his usual spot, drunk, when I get home from school. Ignoring him, I cart my cello into my
room, anxious to practice for that imaginary audience I can’t get out of my head. If I play very, very softly, maybe he won’t wake up…

“Hell, you sound like a cat that got caught up under my engine one time.”

My bow screeches to a halt. I didn’t even hear him come in. “Excuse me? I don’t believe I heard a knock.”

“I don’t
buh-leeve
I heard a
knock!”
he mimics, swaying. “You paying the bills around here? No? I didn’t think so.”

Okay. I’m out of here.

His radar kicks in, though, and his bloodshot eyes narrow. “You ain’t going nowhere till you fix me something to eat.”

“I’m not your maid. Go fix it yourself.”

Wayne’s face undergoes this weird transformation. Oddly enough, his voice stays soft. “What’d you say? I don’t think I heard you right.”

“You heard me just fine.” I will not, will
not
let him intimidate me this time. I’ll pretend I’m Shavonne. She’d never think twice about kicking him in the balls—

But before I can lift a foot, I’m flying into the wall like one of his crushed-up beer cans. “That’s to help you remember our little talk the other day. Now get your ass out there and
fix me some supper!
”

Refocusing my eyeballs, I vault over the bed and rush for the phone so I can call Momma right now and
make her come home!
But Wayne wrenches the receiver out of my hand. Pieces of it zing as he slams it to the floor, then jerks his belt out of his jeans.

“What are you doing?” I scream.

“You just don’t get it! When I tell you to go do something, you damn well better do it. Why’s everything gotta be such a big goddamn deal with you?”

Fear surging through every fiber of my body, I scream and lurch away, but he swings the belt fast, and—
whomp
!

“So you wanna give me a hard time, huh?” He chases me down, cornering me by my closet, every blow of the belt like an explosion of fire. I hunker in the corner, my mind a nauseous blur, waiting for him to murder me in cold blood, here in my own room.

Finally he stops. “Ain’t so smart anymore, are you? You don’t want to follow my rules? You can find the door yourself.” He grabs a jacket and heads out, whistling cheerfully. I just lie there like a puddle, my heart hammering so hard I can feel the floorboards vibrating under my chest.

Get up! Do something! But I can’t even move.

Why didn’t I fight harder? How could I let this happen? How could
Momma
let it happen?

Once I recover, I decide not to be here whenever Wayne gets back. I layer on my sweatshirts, top them off with Shavonne’s sweater, and fly to the door, where I bump smack into Anthony, lurking in the back stairwell. Not doing anything in particular, just… lurking.

“Hey, baby,” he whispers, slurring the words. “Lookin’ for me?”

Horrified that I even touched him, I leap through the door and zoom to the library, nagged by the vague realization that I’m surrounded by psychopaths twenty-four hours a day.

Only hunger forces me to go home when the librarian locks the doors behind me. I stumble into the house, half-dead from frostbite. Momma’s already home, and I know her shift doesn’t end till eleven thirty.

“Why, hi-i-i there, sugar pie!” She grabs me, hugs me, and slides a sloppy kiss over my face. I push her away, sickened by the stench of booze.

“You’re drunk!” I screech, rubbing spit off my cheek.

“Yeah!” she screeches back. “I just quit my job!”

“What? Why?”

“All those damn nurses, always accusing me of stuff I didn’t do. I finally told ‘em where to get off, and now I’m celebratin’!”

She quit her job? Now we’ll never get away from Wayne!

With a half-scream, half-roar, I lunge into my room and start heaving stuff against the walls—and that’s when I notice it.

My cello’s gone.

Did I leave it at school? No-o, I remember practicing, and then—shit!

My feet come alive and I fly from room to room, searching everywhere and anywhere, but my cello is gone.
Gone, gone, gone!

Fear has no place in my panic-stricken fury. I race back out to the kitchen where Momma’s fishing for munchies. “Where is it? Where’s my cello?”

Momma stares blearily. “What’re you talking about?”

“Did Wayne take it? Did he?” Who else would do something this shitty?

“I don’t even know where he is! He’s been gone since I got here.”

“Well, I
know
he took it, and you better make him give it back or I’m calling the cops! I’ll show ‘em what he did to me, and then he can rot in jail!”

“What’d he do to you?”

I yank my jeans down a couple of inches to show her the marks. “All because I didn’t want to cook him supper.” She looks at my hip, but her face registers nothing. “Goddammit, Momma, are you even listening to me?”

“I hear you! And you stop cussing at me like that, or I’ll call the cops myself and have ‘em throw you in the loony bin. I’m about sick of your mouth!”

“Good, I hope you do it! Any place is better than here.”

I huddle back on my bed, seething with rage and desperation. Now what do I do? That freaking contract’s up in a couple of weeks, and Grandma Daisy sure doesn’t have the money to pay for a cello. Besides, she trusted me. What if the music store sues her? Aunt Gloria will kill me!

Well, now I can forget about my lessons. Forget about any scholarship. Forget about joining the school orchestra. Hell, without my cello, why bother with school at all? Might as well throw in the towel and drop out now, just like—

Like Anthony.

That’s when it hits me: maybe I’m wrong.

Maybe it wasn’t Wayne at all.