Crackhead (2 page)

T
HE LAST FEW
students stumbled into Mr. Giencanna's Introduction to Philosophy class like zombies. It was only 9:30 a.m.—still too goddamn early in the morning to be trying to philosophize over some shit. No one felt like being there. Unfortunately, taking this class, not to mention dealing with Mr. Giencanna, was a necessary evil. Mr. Giencanna was one of those teachers that taught a little bit of everything, and no matter what, all students would cross his path sooner or later.

Standing at the front of the room, staring mercilessly at the students, Mr. Giencanna stood in his usual hard-ass stance. He had been a counselor at a boy's home in New York City before becoming a teacher. The children there were violent and hardened, and the staff treated them as such. Now, Mr. Giencanna displayed that same attitude with his current students.

Observing the angry mob of young adults, who seemed more pissed off about learning than being grateful for it, Mr. Giencanna shook his head. “Look at you all,” he said with disgust.
“Not one enthusiastic face in here eager to feed his or her mind. If you don't feed your mind, then how are you going to feed your belly when it comes time to survive on your own?” The room was filled with blank faces, and there was no response. “Mark my words,” he continued, “without knowledge you're all bound for the welfare line or the penitentiary.” Nobody was trying to hear him, and he proceeded with the daily roll call.

“Mr. Jason Abbott?” Mr. Giencanna called out, fixing his glasses on his hawklike nose.

“Here,” a young man in the rear spoke up.

“Casey Bernard?”

“Right here,” said another male's voice.

“Miss Natalie Farmer?”

This time there was no reply.

“Natalie Farmer?” he repeated.

A young man wearing a blue and gray varsity jacket nudged Natalie, who was at her desk, dozing off.

“What?” she said sleepily, and with an attitude.

He nodded toward their instructor. “Roll call. That's what,” he replied.

“I'm here, Mr. Giencanna, sir,” Natalie said, wiping around her mouth.

“Stay with us, please, Miss Farmer,” said Mr. Giencanna. Although he phrased it like a request, Natalie knew by his stern tone and the piercing look in his eyes that it was, without a doubt, an order.

Mr. Giencanna cleared his throat and continued. “Miss Julacia Johnson?”

Once again there was no reply. The classroom was silent as everyone looked around to see if there was another nodding student somewhere. Everyone appeared to be wide awake.

“Perhaps we have another sleeping beauty amongst us,” Mr. Giencanna said sarcastically. “Is there a Miss Julacia Johnson present?”

Still there was no reply.

“Julacia Johnson?” he repeated, very much irritated this time. The silence remained.

The welfare line or the penitentiary,
he thought as he prepared to call the next name.

S
O, TALK TO
me, Laci. We have a lot to discuss,” Laci's mother, Margaret, said as she sat down Indian-style on the edge of Laci's bed. She looked more like one of Laci's peers than she did her mother.

“What do you mean ‘a lot'?” Laci said as she fumbled through the endless name-brand clothes in her oversized walk-in closet—Gucci, Fendi, Troop, Liz Claiborne, Guess. She was in the process of throwing out old clothes that she hadn't worn in a while or that were worn out. She had to make room for the new ones she planned on purchasing during their annual mother-daughter shopping spree. Summer and college were right around the corner, and she would need a new wardrobe to set things off.

“Just what I said—a lot,” Margaret said, smiling. “I want to know everything.”

“Everything, like what?” Laci asked, intentionally stalling.

“Like whether you've decided where you want to go for the graduation trip I'm sending you on. Like, do you have a boyfriend
who might want to go on the trip with you?” Margaret leaned in, looking for some kind of response in her daughter's face.

“I knew you were fishing for something,” Laci said as she flung a handful of clothes from her closet onto the floor.

“Well, you're only the most beautiful seventeen-year-old girl in the world,” her mother said proudly. “And I'm not just saying that because I was a model and you are my daughter.”

Julacia, or Laci, as she was called, was indeed very attractive. She was small in stature and had a face like a porcelain doll. Her long, black, shiny Shirley Temple–like curls cascaded across the left side of her forehead, tickling her perfectly arched eyebrow. Her moody brown eyes complimented her light butterscotch skin tone. She was often mistaken for being Puerto Rican. In 1989, there weren't exactly a whole bunch of biracial kids walking around. Laci could have fit right in with Pebbles or Mariah Carey, with her light skin with “good” hair. At 5′4″, Laci was thick and curvy in all the right places. She was tight-to-def with junk in the trunk, a slim waist, and nice B-cup breasts. Though never one to be conceited, Laci knew she had a bangin' body and a funky fresh style to match. She would look good even if she were dressed in rags.

“Mom . . .” Laci said wearily.

“Tell me, tell me, tell me,” her mother asked anxiously, bouncing on the bed like a giddy teenager. “What's his name? What does he look like?”

“What are you talking about?” Laci said, sucking her teeth. “There is no
he.
And you know you'd be the first to know if there was.”

“So you say,” Margaret replied, giving Laci a doubtful look.

“Mom, I'm not seeing anybody.” Laci had sadness in her eyes.

“Come on, baby,” Margaret said with a wink. “I'm not only
your mother, but your friend, too. All we have is each other. I love being a part of your life. In a way, I live through you. You make me feel like
I'm
seventeen again. So, get to talkin', honey. Is he tall, short, thin, buff, or what?”

“Mom,” Laci whined, stepping out of the closet with an old sundress in her hand. “I don't have a boyfriend.” She threw the dress in the pile she had started on the floor, then walked over to her bed and crawled to the middle of it.

“Okay, if you say you're not seeing anybody, then I'll have to believe you.” Margaret grabbed Laci's old Cabbage Patch doll that was lying on the bed. “So where are you going on your vacation? Have you thought of someplace nice?”

“I was thinking of Puerto Rico,” Laci said excitedly.

“Ooh, that sounds nice. So should I go ahead and book a ticket for you . . . and your boyfriend?” Margaret started kissing the doll. Laci laughed and playfully threw a pillow at her. “Oh, boy, you shouldn't have done that. You don't want to tell me who your boyfriend is, huh? Then take that!” She pounded Laci repeatedly with a pillow and began to laugh hysterically.

“Mom, please stop,” Laci pleaded. “You're messing up my hair!”

“If you didn't have a boyfriend, then you wouldn't care how your hair looked. Now, what's his name?” Margaret asked out of breath, getting in another hit.

“Wait, wait,” Laci said, reaching for her ringing Mickey Mouse phone on the nightstand next to the bed. “Hello?” she said, catching her breath.

“Hey, Laci?” the voice on the other end said.

“Yes, this is she,” Laci replied, not recognizing the voice. “Who is this?”

“Girl, its Monique,” said the smiling voice. “What you doin'?”

“Laci,” her mother called from behind her, “You want to catch a movie or go to dinner tonight? You know . . . celebrate your upcoming graduation, going off to Boston?”

“Hold on, Monique,” Laci said, covering the phone. “What'd you say, Mom?”

“I said do you wanna go out and celebrate tonight? With graduation right around the corner and you going off to college, I figured that was cause enough for us to get out of this house and go do something.”

“Okay, Mom. After I get off the phone, we'll see.” Laci then directed her attention back to the phone. “Monique . . . you still there?” Laci's mother hit her again with a pillow, which landed on the bed. Laci tried to hurry up and grab the pillow to get the last hit, but her mother was too quick and ran out of the room.

“Yeah, I'm here,” Monique answered.

“Okay, girl,” Laci said, chuckling and breathing hard.

“Why you breathing so hard?”

“Fooling around with my crazy mother. We were having a pillow fight,” Laci giggled. “She wants to take me out tonight.”

As usual, Monique tried to twist Laci's words around. “Why you try'na throw shit up in my face?” she snapped.

Laci should have seen it coming. Of all the girls in Tonette's crew (which included Shaunna, Crystal, Monique, and of course Tonette), Monique seemed to be the most envious of Laci's relationship with her mother.

Monique had been living with her grandmother for the last few years. Her mother died when she was just a freshman in high school. Not an addict herself, Monique's mother had made the all-too-common mistake of sleeping with a dope fiend, who was infected with some mysterious new virus called HIV.

“What are you talking about?” Laci asked, getting sick of Monique's attitude.

“
What are you talking about?
” Monique replied, mimicking Laci's proper English. “You sound like a white girl.”

“Look,” Laci huffed, “was there a reason for this call, or did you just feel like starting another argument?”

“Never mind,” Monique said, sucking her teeth. “You ain't gon' wanna go. Forget it. I didn't mean to interrupt your pillow fight. Go hang out with your
mommy.
I need to call the rest of the crew to make sure they're wit' it. Peace out.”

Laci was confused. Her face revealed the frustration she endured on a daily basis as a result of interacting with her homegirls. It was safe to say that she was the prima donna of the pack. She definitely had the most going for her; sweet and laid back, Laci was the complete opposite of her loud, foul-mouthed friends from the South Bronx. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth, Laci was living the lifestyle of the rich and famous compared to her girls. Her mother was white and a former model featured in such magazines as
Sports Illustrated, Cosmopolitan,
and
Glamour.
Her dad, Jay Johnson, was black and a corporate lawyer. As the only child, Laci got whatever she wanted, even if she didn't ask for it. After her father died of a massive heart attack, mother and daughter moved back to Riverdale, one of New York City's wealthier neighborhoods, also located in the Bronx. Although Laci and her girls lived in the same borough, they lived worlds apart.

It probably would have been in her best interest to not associate with a group of around-the-way girls. Being connected with one of the Bronx's most well-known female crews, it was also probably in her best interest to be seen and not heard. No
matter what came out of Laci's mouth, it was always viewed as her being bougie, uppity, a snob. Wanting so badly to be a part of something blinded her to the point where she couldn't see that not everybody was down for her. Some of those girls wanted to be her, and it was only a matter of time before jealousy would rear its ugly head.

Laci was so taken aback by Monique's negative attitude that she didn't even notice her mother come back into the bedroom. “Laci, what's the matter?” Margaret asked, noticing the sudden change in her disposition.

“Uh, nothing,” Laci lied.

“Laci . . .” Her mother had that
I know you're lying
tone in her voice.

Laci sighed. “It's just that the girls are always so confrontational with me. Everything I say is bad. Like when they ask me questions, it's almost like they do it just to argue with me,” she said in frustration.

“I don't understand,” her mother said, leaning in the doorway with her arms folded. “Give me an example of what you're talking about.”

“Like us having money, or you and I being so close.” Laci sighed again, falling back on the bed.

“What about us?” Margaret asked, confused.

“When I talk about you and me going shopping, they get all uptight. They don't have any money. I'm tired of being sorry for not being poor.”

“Really?” Margaret asked, concerned. She walked over to the bed and sat down next to Laci. “I didn't know this about your new friends.”

Laci nodded. “And I don't care about that, Mom. I just want to hang with them, you know? When's the last time you've known
me to have a group of friends?” Margaret remained silent. “Exactly.” Laci sighed again.

“And why is it that you want to hang out with them? I'm sure there are plenty of nice kids at your school.”

Laci thought for a moment. “Because . . . I don't know. The kids I go to school with are really stuck up, plus, they're racist. I just like hanging out with more down-to-earth people I can relate and talk to. I love talking to you, but I need girls my age to kick it with.”

“I know you're more intelligent than that,” Margaret said, hating the fact that her daughter was falling into the trap of wanting to be associated with the in-crowd. “I've never picked your friends for you, but the writing is on the wall. If a group or a person isn't good for you, then you don't need to be around them. Are you telling me that you don't care how they treat you—that you're willing to accept whatever to be a part of their little crew?”

Laci let out a deep sigh. “Mom, please don't lecture me—not today.”

“Okay . . . okay.” Margaret threw her hands up in surrender as she got up from the bed and walked over to the door. “You're old enough to handle yourself. I'm not gonna tell you what to do, but I will tell you to be careful. You're my daughter and I love you. You know I'm here for you if you need me, Julacia.”