Before, After, and Somebody In Between (5 page)

“I don’t know, but—c’mon, Momma, please. I really want to play!”

“Oh, you don’t need to be wasting your time like that. You got schoolwork, and your chores, and—”

“No fair! I make straight A’s. And look, look! This place is spotless.”

She hems and haws. “Mm, I don’t know, it’s an awful lot of money, and I’m not so sure I want to listen to all that screechin’ again.”

“What screeching?”

“All that screeching you did on that old fiddle we had.”

Yeah, the one you burned! “I didn’t screech,” I remind her stiffly. “I was good. Everybody said so.”

“Well…” Momma pauses, and then shocks me with, “Maybe so.”

Okay. Suck-up time.

I sidle closer and drape my arm around her fleshy shoulders. I’m not the huggiest person in the world, and she eyes me suspiciously. “Momma, I swear, if you don’t like it, you won’t even have to hear it. I’ll play it in my room. I’ll only play when you’re not here. But ple-ease let me, please!”

Momma twists her lips and puffs out a sigh. “Well, okay. You can try it. But,” she adds before I can rejoice, “you gotta ask Wayne for the money, ‘cause I ain’t got it.”

Damn, damn, damn. Why do I have to go crawling to Wayne?

I bitch about this all the way to school, till Jerome finally says, “So what’s the big deal? Go ask him for the money.”

“But he’s such a creep!”

“Well, either ask him or don’t ask him. Just quit whining about it.”

So much for moral support.

Shavonne doesn’t show up for homeroom, and Chardonnay trills, “Hey, ugly girl! Where’s your big-mouthed friend?” when she sees me.

Nervous twitters from the people around me. Gritting my teeth, I pointedly flip open my copy of
Romeo and Juliet
—and a split second later, the book thunks against the chalkboard. I stare at my empty hands, trying to figure out what happened.

“Hey bitch, I’m talkin’ to you!”

A red-hot, imaginary curtain drops in front of me as Miss Fuchs flits in and stops, shocked at the stillness. She has no idea how she just saved my life. Chardonnay faces front, the picture of
innocence as I suck air back into my lungs. Now I think I understand why somebody would carry a knife to school. Screw zero tolerance! Three more years in this snake pit, and I might have to carry one myself.

Shavonne shows up for English, claiming she overslept. “Well, thanks a lot,” I huff. “I could’ve used some help.”

No sympathy from her, either. “What am I, your bodyguard?”

“No, but—”

“Girl, you want that skank to quit risin’ on you, you gotta get right up in her grill, you know what I’m saying?”

“Um, actually I have no clue what you just said.” Sometimes I think I need a pocket translator around here.

“I’m telling you to fight back.”

She makes it sound so easy.

…

Jerome, aka Mr. Nuclear Physicist, joined the chemistry club, of course, and abandons me after school to hit the first meeting. Miserable and depressed I walk home by myself, my stomach ripped up from all the stress. I don’t even notice Anthony and his posse hanging out in front of the Eagle Deli till one of them whistles at me and makes me dodge around a telephone pole to avoid his grimy paw.

Anthony smacks him. “Cut it out, man. That’s JoMo’s bitch.” With a shake of his crotch, he adds, “You like dark meat, baby, don’t you?” as his homies fall all over themselves, laughing.

“Freaks!” I blurt out before sprinting off. Ugly boarded-up buildings rush by me in a blur. Rusted fences, junk cars, and broken pieces of sidewalk. Trees that don’t even look like trees anymore, just sad, spindly pieces of wood. I hate this neighborhood!
Gasping for breath through a clog of hair in my mouth, I fly into the house, dive into bed, hug my stomach, and refuse to move for the rest of the day.

…

By morning I’m no better. I try to stay home, but Wayne couldn’t care less that I might be slowly dying from some massive internal rupture. “Aw, you look fine. Go take a pill or something.”

Right, go take a pill. The old Kowalski family motto.

“Where’s my mom?” I demand.

“Still in bed. Leave her alone.”

“Why? Is she sick?” I glance nervously around, knowing full well that they went out last night after AA and didn’t get back till after I was asleep. No beer cans or whisky bottles, so that’s a good sign. And yes, I still search for them, every day, everywhere.

Wayne frowns when he notices my gaze. He wouldn’t be a bad-looking dude if he lost the tattoos. Oh, and washed his hair, shaved, and bought himself a toothbrush. “What’re you looking for?”

“Nothing.”

“She’s tired out, that’s all. We went out dancing last night. Why do you always think the worst about your momma?”

Habit, what else? I make a face and slouch back toward my room, then stop when I remember the most critical thing. This might not be the best time to ask, but if I wait for him to be in a better mood, I might be waiting the rest of my life.

Casually I back up and give him my sweetest smile. “Hey, Wayne? By any chance did Momma talk to you about me taking cello lessons?”

The cigarette almost jumps out of his mouth. “Huh?”

“Cello lessons,” I say very slowly. “I need twenty-five bucks
a month to rent a cello. Momma says it’s okay with her if it’s okay with you.” I cross my fingers so hard, my knuckles snap.

Silence. Wayne blows a tornado of smoke toward the yellow ceiling. Noticing his empty mug, I trip over my own feet to pour him some fresh coffee. He grins then, and remarks, “You know, I used to play the gee-tar, myself. Had me a band and everything.”

I teeter hopefully, faking interest.

“Twenty-five bucks, huh? Well, I reckon we can swing it.”

Wow! This just goes to show you, you never know about Wayne. Every now and then, he can really act human.

Outside it’s beautiful—warm sun, blue sky, just a hint of a breeze. Jerome trudges beside me, talking incessantly about Mr. Finelli’s stupid science project, but all I can think is: I’m getting my cello, I’m getting my cello!

During English, my stomachache grows worse. Maybe I should’ve eaten breakfast. Maybe I’m getting the flu? Maybe I just need to throw up except, well, it’s not exactly
that
kind of sick.

After class, Shavonne and I make a pit stop, and omigod! My mangy old cotton undies are soaked with blood, plus I find a big, obvious splotch on the back of my jeans. How could I not have felt this? And did anyone else notice?

“You stuck?” Shavonne rattles the stall.

“I just got my period.” I can’t believe it. I’ve been waiting for this for years. Why did it have to hit me in the middle of English?

“Need a Tampax?”

“Um, don’t you have a pad or something?” Shavonne throws one over and I miss the catch, and smack my head on the toilet while I’m groping around. “I gotta go home. It’s all over my jeans.” Shavonne snickers, and I yell, “Hey, it’s
not funny!”

“Jeez, chill out. What do you want me to tell Lopez?”

“I don’t care what you tell her. Tell her I dropped dead.”

The halls are almost silent, but halfway to the exit I hear a guard yell, “Hey, you!” I bolt through the door, my back crawling with a sensation of being pummeled by rubber bullets. My beautiful morning sky clouds over rapidly as I rush home on wobbly legs, this weird foreign object shifting between my thighs like a soggy brick.

Wayne’s already left for work, and yes, Momma’s still in bed. Rummaging through the john, I come up with only two pads. Great.

I jiggle the humongous lump under Momma’s covers. “Momma, wake up. I need money.” She only grunts. Bending over, I sniff, but all I can smell is her morning breath and the perfume she wore last night. “Momma?”

“Go ‘way,” she grumbles. “I feel like shit.”

“Are you sick?”

“I said get outta here!” She rolls noisily to her other side, yanking the sheet over her matted blond curls.

Okay, not sick, not drunk, so what does that leave? Depressed, dammit. And nasty on top of it.

I give up and raid her purse, but only find two bucks. How much do I need? I have no idea. I picture myself at the store with a bunch of people in line behind me, a box of pads in my hand and a few cents short. Haven’t I been humiliated enough for one day?

Well, Aunt Gloria might have some, not that I want to mortify myself any further. Upstairs, I knock softly on the Lindseys’ kitchen door. No answer. After a minute I let myself in, wondering if Aunt Gloria keeps a shotgun handy, and how quick she’d be to use it.

Nobody’s home. Under the bathroom sink, I find a full box
of Always with Wings, and stuff eight or ten of them under my shirt—and then nearly leap out of my skin when the back door bangs open and heavy footsteps pound up the stairs.

Shit, shit! I fly into Jerome’s room but there’s no time to hit the window. I squeeze into the cluttered closet one split second before Anthony erupts into the room. Through the crack, I see him slide into home base and shove an arm under Jerome’s mattress. He rocks back on his heels, and I hold my breath till he jumps up, rushes out, and stumbles back downstairs.

I count to sixty before slinking out of the closet. Jerome’s mattress is crooked, and I tell myself no, I am
not
going to look. I’ve seen way too many movies about people, usually girls, who can’t mind their own business and end up dead. And yet—

I squat next to the bed, hoist the mattress, and feel my eyes pop out at the wad of cash. At least three inches thick, hundred-dollar bills. And sitting right next to it? A gun.

Damn, I knew that guy was up to no good! But now what do I do? Tell Aunt Gloria? Excuse me, ma’am, but I snuck into your house to rip off some pads, and …

I’m afraid to leave the gun there, but I’m more afraid to touch it. Why, oh why did I even have to look? Careful not to leave a trail of pads behind me, I clutch my loaded T-shirt, swing my legs over Jerome’s sill as thunder cracks overhead, and make it to my room, soaking wet, in record time.

Cramps are coming in waves now, shark’s teeth sinking into my innards. I soak in the tub for a solid half hour, then pop three Tylenols and stretch out on the couch.

Momma’s in a “mood,” I’m on the rag, and I bet everybody in English saw that big red stain on my butt. On top of that, thanks to the rain, the cable just fizzled out.

Life, in general, pretty much sucks.

9

I wake up sweating in the middle of the night, jerked out of sleep by the worst nightmare I’ve ever had—an ear-shattering explosion of springs, stuffing, and flying limbs. Can guns go off by themselves, or is that only in the movies? I picture Bubby poking a chubby arm under the mattress… oh, I never should’ve left it! How stupid was that?

I watch my window turn lighter and lighter, then blow out a sigh when my alarm finally rings. No clean clothes, of course. If
I
don’t do the laundry, nobody else around here will. I paw through Momma’s musty Goodwill box till I find a top with no stains, no rips, and only slightly yellow armpits.

Momma’s sipping coffee in the kitchen. “Nice shirt,” she comments sincerely.

I slop coffee into a mug. “Gee, thanks. I like it, too. Especially the BO stains.”

Okay, now she notices. “You feelin’ okay, sugar pie?”

“Nope. I feel like crap.”

“You sick?”

“I’m on the
rag,”
I announce, with the right touch of drama.

Momma gasps. “You are? When? Why didn’t you say something?”

Boy, you’d think I just got accepted to Harvard. “Well, I’m saying it now, okay? And I need some damn pads.”

“I’ll pick some up today. You got enough to get you through the day?”

“Barely.” No thanks to you.

Momma tilts back in her chair. It creaks dangerously under her weight, and I wish she wouldn’t do that. “You’re all grown up now, sugar pie, and you know what that means.”

“Yeah, it means I’m gonna bleed like a butchered hog for the next forty years.” Why does she think I’d be happy about this?

“It means you gotta be, you know, careful. With the boys, I mean. I’m way too young to be raisin’ any grandkids”—I roll my eyes—“and what with all those diseases you can catch nowadays”—I roll my eyes even harder. “If you’re as smart as you think you are, you’ll stay away from the boys. Especially the black ones,” she adds, obviously meaning Jerome.

If I roll my eyes any harder, they might pop like a couple of grapes. “Ooh, does that mean I gotta give him back his ring?”

Momma scowls. “You’re pretty mouthy today, missy, and I don’t like it one bit.”

Finally it all rushes out. “Well, you were no help at all! And you didn’t have to yell at me and throw me out of your room!”

Momma taps her sugar spoon against her mug of black coffee. “I get down sometimes,” she says in a voice I can barely hear. “Some days I don’t even like to open my eyes. That ain’t nothin’ new.”

I feel a stab of guilt. “I know, but—well, you stayed in bed all
day.
If you get that depressed, then why don’t you…you know, go see somebody?”

Clunk!
The chair drops forward, and she’s out of it in an instant. “See who? You mean one of them quacks?”

“Well, maybe they can give you pills or something—”

“They tell me in AA I ain’t supposed to take any pills.”

“Is that true? Even stuff from doctors?”

With a dirty look instead of a straight answer, Momma clumps off in a snit just as Jerome bangs on the front door.

“I’m running late,” I lie through the screen. “Go on without me.”

“I can wait,” he offers, trying to see behind me.

“No, you can
go.”

“Jee-sus!” He clatters off down the porch steps.

So now that makes two people in a row I’ve ticked off today.

I wait another few minutes, then scale the fire escape. Jerome’s room is empty except for a snoozing Bubby and another juicy roach waddling along the wall. I scoop my arm gingerly under the mattress, hoping not to pull back a bloody stump. I can feel the money, the whole fat wad of it, but nothing else. Heart thudding, I flop up the mattress to be sure.