Ex-girl to the Next Girl (6 page)

I
was at school Thursday morning. One more day and it would be the weekend. I couldn't wait. I was going to go home and just relax. I was writing on the board to read chapters 14 and 15. By the time the students finish both chapters and we go over the lesson, it would be time for lunch.

“Stop talking,” I said as I surveyed the room to find the talking students.

“I was asking her if I could hold her sharpener.”

“Raise your hand if you are finished.” Nobody raised their hand.

“Okay, nobody is finished, so I don't want to hear any talking.”

“Ms. Clark, can I go to the bathroom?” Erica asked. I told her she could go. She rose out of her seat and ran out of the classroom. I sat back down and looked around the classroom to see if I had any talkers. Erica came back in and had a seat.

“I'm finished, Ms. Clark,” another student, Samara, said. I went over to check her paper. In her mind she thought she was doing the greatest thing by hurrying through her assignment. Half of it was wrong. I circled half of the page and told her to take her time and do it over. She sat back down.

“Ms. Clark, I need you now.” I walked to the door to see what Mrs. Meyers, the nosey science teacher, wanted.

“Yes, Mrs. Meyers. What's the emergency?”

“Okay, we have a definite problem.”

“What's that?” I asked as I stepped out of the door.

“Mrs. Ramos quit.”

“What? Did you tell Mr. Mitchell?”

“Yes.”

“So why are you here?”

“We have to split the kids.”

“Split what kids?” I asked in disbelief.

“Her class for the rest of the day. Only for today—Mr. Mitchell has a sub coming in tomorrow.” Just what I needed: twelve more students to add to my twenty-eight. Mrs. Ramos's students dragged their desks into my classroom. It was thirty minutes before lunch. Friday, please hurry up and come.

 

 

Friday was here. Hallelujah! I stopped and grabbed a big tea. I had a feeling that Mr. Mitchell wasn't going to find a substitute, and I was going to have twelve extra students in my room. I walked into my classroom and my assumption was right. It was crowded. Students were popping gum, standing on their chairs, and playing Game Boys and listening to Walkmans.

“Everybody put everything away. Pull out your social studies workbook,” I shouted. All of my students except for one put their Walkmans away. I walked over to the lanky boy and said, “Tyreek, give me the Walkman.” I put my hand out to reach for it.

“I'm going to put it away, Ms. Clark,” he said as he put the Walkman in his desk.

“Everybody turn to page 284.”

Again, everybody was doing what he or she was told, except for Tyreek. He was now playing with Yugioh cards and letting the Walkman play under his desk. I crept up on him and snatched the Walkman. He tried to jump back and said, “Yo, man, you better give me my Walkman back.”

“And if I don't?” I asked as I lifted the Walkman high enough so that he couldn't reach it. Tyreek was pouting as he sat down. I tried to begin the class again. Before I could get turned to the right page, I heard Tyreek at it again.

“What are you looking at?” he screamed at Dana.

So then Dana said, “I'm looking at you, you black monkey.”

Tyreek jumped up and tried to hit Dana. Before he could reach her, I grabbed him, guiding him back to his seat, and said again, “Now turn to page 284.”

“I'll bang you, bitch. Keep playing with me,” Tyreek said while cracking his knuckles at Dana.

“You will bang who?” I had had enough of Tyreek for one day.

“I'll bang her
and
you,” he yelled as he walked out of the classroom. I made a call to the office. The secretary answered the telephone.

“Office—this is Mrs. Tuner, how may I help you?”

“Where is Mr. Mitchell? Tell him that Tyreek Freeman walked out of my classroom.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

“Okay, I'll tell Mr. Mitchell.”

I hung up and went on with my lesson. “Start reading, Aniya,” I said. As she began reading and the class somewhat got in order, the phone rang.

“Hello,” I answered.

“I need to speak to Ms. Clark,” a voice shouted.

“Yes, who's speaking? This is she.”

“This is Tyreek Freeman's mother. All I want to know is, did you put your hands on my child?” The woman caught me by surprise. I told her to hold and took the call outside the classroom. I stretched the phone cord as far as I could out the door.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, I asked you a question. Did you put your hands on my child?” I could see her neck snapping and going side to side through the phone.

“Excuse me. No, I did not put my hands on your child. Your son disrupted the class and then he said he was going to bang me.”

“What did you do to him?” she asked, like there was a reason that could justify him for threatening his teacher. I was not going to bother rationalizing with the woman. I told her I was conducting a class, and if she wanted to speak to me she could make an appointment.

At lunch I went to the office, where there were phones ringing and students sitting, waiting to be disciplined. There were blue mints sitting on the counter, and I grabbed one and waited for Mr. Mitchell. Most days he was usually very understanding. I hope today he would understand that I could not tolerate Tyreek Freeman anymore.

“Ms. Clark, are you waiting for me?” he asked, grabbing papers out of the holder outside his door.

“Yes,” I said as I stood up. He instructed me to come in. The moment he closed the door, I said, “Mr. Mitchell, I can't take it. Get him out of my class!”

“Who?”

“Tyreek Freeman—he said he is going to bang me. The mother? She doesn't think he does anything wrong. And I'm not going to be disrespected.”

“Can you just deal with it for the rest of the school year? I really don't want to move him. I'll give him a three-day and get Mom in here and we will see what we can do and we will talk. Okay?” he asked as he took his eyeglasses off and scratched his head. I didn't agree or disagree. I guess that was good enough for now. Nothing was really accomplished by our conversation.
Mr. Mitchell better do something,
I thought. I walked out of the office, grabbing another mint before I left.

 

 

Toya asked me to go out with her on a Wednesday night to this reggae club. I hate reggae music. I don't know what the hell they saying. To me, reggae is just fast-talking noise with a good beat.

We went to Olde City. It's a part of town where all races and ethnicities hang out. There are rows of restaurant bars and taverns. We entered the bar and had a seat. I noticed Toya's stomach and told her she better start doing some sit-ups. She had a little gut sticking out of her skinny frame.

“I know,” she said while acknowledging her stomach. She ordered a drink and gestured for me to come over where she was standing. She handed me another drink.

I noticed there were a few all-right-looking brothers. The first one who made eye contact with me was smiling super-extra hard. I wanted to walk up to him and ask him, “Do you know me? Why you keep looking at me? You don't know me, so turn around.”

“Hey, beautiful.” A brown-complexioned brother approached and attempted to grab my hand. His teeth were crooked and his lips were chapped. I walked away like I didn't know he was talking to me. The next guy who approached looked okay, but then he opened his mouth. His voice was weak and squeaky like a little girl. He asked, “Is this seat taken?”

I looked him right in his face and said, “Yes, it is. K-I-M. Keep it moving.”

I was tired of the men that I didn't want coming up and saying something. I decided I was going to go up to someone I was interested in and say hello. There he was: Mr. Dark Chocolate with Caramel in the Middle. His face was clean-shaven and he had a mustache. I accidentally brushed against him, letting my firm breast rub against his back. He turned around. His smile looked even better up close. About two inches separated our bodies.

“Sorry about that,” I said as I smiled and tried to conceal my intentions.

“It's okay.”

“No, sorry. I'm going to have to make it up to you. What are you drinking?”

“Oh, so you're going to buy me a drink?” He took a long look around the bar. “Really? I'm Quentin, and you?”

“Nadine. Here is my number. Call me and we'll talk,” I said as I paid for his Heineken and walked away. I was on my way to find Toya when I saw the man from earlier who kept looking at me like he knew me. This time he came up to me and touched my waist.

“Do you know me?”

“No, but I would like to get to know you. I'm Demetrius and I have been looking at you all night. I saw you walking toward the door—are you about to leave?”

“No, not yet.”

“Well, dance with me.” Demetrius pulled me to the dance floor and pulled me closer to him. I loved his assertiveness. Our bodies swayed as we danced off the hypnotic beat. A woman's voice was singing about waiting for her man to come home. After our dance, we exchanged numbers.

 

 

By the time the night was over, I had met three guys. Quentin was extra sexy, and with guys named Jermaine and Demetrius added to the list, I should have dates for the rest of the week.

Monday morning was business as usual. I didn't want to go in to class, but if I didn't show up, who would? I began writing my lesson on the board as the students began coming in and unpacking. Tyreek Freeman was back, and a man was with him. The man approached me and said, “Excuse me, can I see you in the hallway?”

“Sure, one moment,” I said as I instructed my class to pull out their journals. I stepped out of the classroom and closed the door behind me.

“How can I help you?” I asked as a nosey student walked by.

“I just wanted to talk to you and apologize for Tyreek's behavior. Listen, Ms. Clark, I know my wife gets slick with her mouth sometimes. But you're not going to have any more problems out of this boy the rest of the year—is she, Reek?” He turned to his son and stared at him.

“No,” Tyreek said as he held his head down.

“No, what?” his father asked as he moved closer to his face.

“No, sir,” he said, looking down at the ground.

“Look at her and tell her that you are sorry for disrespecting her.”

Tyreek looked at me and repeated what his father had said. His father put his hands up like he was about to grab and shake him but held back and said, “Ms. Clark, one phone call. One phone call is all it takes. Don't call my wife—she lets him get away with too much shit. Call me. I'll be up here.”

“Okay, I will,” I said. The class was on the other side of the door, listening intently. Mr. Big and Bad Tyreek was crying. This was the perfect time to embarrass him, but I didn't. I felt sorry for him. As soon as his father turned the hall corner, I told him to go to the bathroom and get himself together and then come back to class.

I went home and turned on
Oprah,
while I made out my lesson plan for the next week.

The phone rang and I answered it and heard Erick saying “Hey baby I miss you. Can I come over?”

I thought about it for a minute. I could let him come over and spend the night, but then he will think we are back together and I don't want to confuse him.

“I don't think that is a good idea.” I said.

“Why not? I miss you.”

“No, not right now, Erick. I have to go. I'm doing something,” I said as I went back to my lesson plan. He called me right back, but I turned the ringer off.

M
y district manager was getting on my last damn nerves. She was spending too much time in my office monitoring my every move like she is the C.I.A. She was riding me for no reason, saying that she had to check on a few accounts. I was fed up fucking with her
and
my job. I didn't say anything else to her, I just grabbed my bag and car keys and went toward the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked.
You know everything. So you should know why and where I'm going,
I thought.

“I'm taking an early day.”

I went home, turned the heat on, and sat on the sofa and opened my bills. I paid everything regularly. My gas bill was three hundred dollars for one month. That was ridiculous! I wanted to wash clothes, but I didn't feel like doing anything else. Not a dish! I went upstairs and got in the bed. What I needed was a nap—a nice, cozy nap. Then I'd wake up and get the boys. I went upstairs and turned the television on because its blare usually puts me at ease. I took off all my clothes and tossed them across the room.

A show called
Amazing Love
was on. The show was about couples who overcame barriers for love. I started to have the show at me and Malik's wedding. I'm glad I didn't. This episode was about a couple who had met in the tenth grade. They were separated for ten years, but recently reunited. They both thought about each other over the course of ten years. The wedding was at their old school's gym where they had their first dance. It was so nauseating. Then they let the doves out at the end of the ceremony. I had had it. I was going to do that at my wedding, but I didn't get a chance. Seeing the white, angelic, peaceful birds fly reminded me of my wedding that never was. I got instantly sick; it triggered something. “Good for fucking you,” I said as I threw the remote at the television.

I don't know what happened, but I kept repeating the same phrase. “How could you, Malik? How could you, Malik?” Tears streamed down my face. I snapped out of it and went into the bathroom and looked at my reflection in the mirror. My light brown hair was standing up as if I had been shocked.

“Malik, how could you? Whhhhhhhhy, Malik? Why you had to do this to me? I did everything you asked me to do. Why, why, why, Malik? I didn't deserve this. I was a good woman to you. I did everything. Everything you asked, I did. All I wanted was for you to be good to me, be honest.” My head was throbbing. I couldn't think. I looked in the medicine cabinet and took a few Tylenol. I went and lay down. I would get the broken glass up later. I set my alarm for five. I could sleep for three hours. I would then pick up Kevin after school and Kayden from daycare. I just needed to rest a little.
I will feel much better when I awake,
I told myself before I shut the world out.

 

 

It was dark outside when I awoke. It was not just-got-dark, it was pitch-black-dark. I searched around my bed for my cell phone. When I finally found it, I flipped it open. The time read 7:08. I jumped out of bed and grabbed my bag and keys and raced out the door. I put the key in the ignition when my phone rang.

“Where are you?” my mother asked.

“Mommy, I can't talk. I have to pick up the kids.”

“I have them. I picked them up. Their schools called me. It was either me go get them or DHS.”

“They're okay? Thanks, Mom,” I said as I sighed with relief.

“Kimberly Vanessa Brown, I wish you would really snap out of it. You are a strong girl. You can overcome anything. This is nothing.”

“Mom, I'm okay. I just was sleepy. I fell asleep and my alarm didn't go off.”

“I don't care how sleepy you are. How do you forget to pick up your children? What is wrong with you?”

“I don't know what happened, Mom.”

“You shouldn't never let a man break you. You're better than that. Can you hear me?”

“Yes, I hear you,” I said.

“We'll be there in a few moments.”

A few minutes later the boys were running through the door. My mom used the spare key I had given her to get in.

“Mommy, Mommy,” they screamed. They both came up to me, hugging me. My mother gave me a look-over and shook her head.

“Give me a call if you need me. I wish you would go see Dr. Burrows.” I walked my mother to the door. Then I fixed the boys a frozen pizza and we watched television before going to bed. I was so happy they were safe. I don't know what I would do without them. I was mad at myself for oversleeping, but thankful because I did get some rest. I felt a little better.

The next morning, I dropped the boys off at school and headed for work. I thought about my life. How nobody cared about me. How I was a loser with my kids and work. N
obody cares about you. You weren't good enough to marry. You're not a good mother. You're not nothing,
I kept thinking to myself. I dialed my mother to get the number for Dr. Burrows—maybe I did need to talk to him. I pulled over and just started crying. I couldn't stop. Traffic was passing me, and cars were beeping their horns, but I couldn't move. I was immobile—I couldn't move my legs, they were so heavy. I remember my mother begging me to go to the hospital and for me to call her when I arrived there. Then there was a loud crash. I still had my cell phone in my hand. My mother was yelling, “What's going on, Kim?Are you okay?” I got out of my car. My car was not damaged. A man came running toward me, saying, “Are you on drugs?” I didn't know what to say or do—I just kept crying. Did I look like I was on drugs? I caught a glance at myself through the window—maybe I did. I didn't look my best. Apparently I did look like a drug user because the police came and said I had to go to the district so they could check my drug and alcohol level.

“Have you been drinking, miss?”

“No.”

“Do you do drugs?”

“No.”

“How did you run into a parked car?”

“I was talking to my mother. I need to talk to my mother.”

“Are you okay?” the officer asked.

“No, I am not,” I said as I attempted to stand, and stumbled.

“Would you like to speak to someone about the feelings you are having?” the officer said in a real calm tone, like I was crazy.

“What feelings? No, I'm fine. I need to speak to my mother.” They gave me the phone and allowed me to contact my family. But my mind was clouded, I couldn't think of anybody's number. “I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry,” I kept saying aloud. The police officer said they were going to take me for a ride and go to the hospital. I'm thinking,
I'm not sick. What can the hospital do for me?
Then I saw a sign that read M
ENTAL
H
EALTH.
I opened my eyes so I could see better. I walked through the doors and they shut behind me. There was a guard to my left, and the door was locked. Once you were in, there was no way out.

A nurse came in with a mixture of brown and gray hair in a bun. She handed me a hospital gown and said, “Remove all your clothes.” I was reluctant until she said
or she would have someone remove them for me.
She took my clothes and I became petrified.

“What are you doing with my clothes?”

“You get them back after the doctor has seen you.”

I sat in a white room with nothing but a chair and a bed in it. While waiting for the doctor to come, my imagination got the best of me. My mind started racing.
What if they commit me? What if the doctor thinks that I am crazy? What if I am crazy and I don't know that I'm crazy? Kim, you are not crazy, and you have to let the world and this doctor know that you are not crazy.

I peeked out the door and down the hallway. There were real crazy people out there. One older white man was smacking and hitting things that weren't there. His robe was hanging open, exposing his droopy underwear. Another kept trying to chew on the side of her cheek like a dog. I was so scared. If I thought I was crazy, I knew now I wasn't crazy. I was very sane, and I had to get out of there. I wanted to go home. I wanted to get my life together. My sons needed me. I have to leave.

 

 

The female doctor entered the room. She didn't look old enough to drive, let alone be a doctor. She had deep, dark olive skin and black hair French-braided.

“Any history of mental illness in your family?” she asked with an accent.

“No,” I answered quickly, but then I thought of my dad, who was sick in a V.A. hospital. I rephrased my answer.

“Well, yes, my dad was in the military and he suffers from mental illness, but only because of the chemicals from the war.” As the young doctor wrote something on her clipboard, I stood up and said, “Listen, I'm not crazy.” Me saying I wasn't crazy probably confirmed that I was.

“You're not?”

“No, I'm not. I, I just can't take all the pressure that's building up on me anymore. I do everything without any help.”

“Everything like what?”

“Everything. Take the kids to school, pick them up, homework, ironing clothes, dishes, trash—you name it, I do it. And when I try to talk to my family about it, they say
So what?
I tell them I need a break, but nobody gives me one. I'm always stuck with my kids. They are with me from the time I wake up to the time I go to sleep. The only time I get a break is when I'm at work. And that's another story. They will just say something like,
You are not the first person to raise children alone.
And I just need help. I'm not crazy. I just need a break. I swear to you,” I said as tears began streaming down my face. I continued, “I'm not crazy at all. I never think about hurting myself or my kids. It's just I've been having a hard time since my son's father left me at our wedding. I love my life—not my circumstances, though. Some days I can't stay up; others I stay up all night and can't go to sleep. I didn't mean to hit that car. I don't know what's wrong with me. I've been having really bad headaches and been very sleepy.”

“Your headaches are probably coming from stress. Listen, I don't think you are crazy. You do not belong in here. However, I am going to suggest that you seek outpatient care. I'm going to refer you to a psychiatrist. Every day we bottle up things that we need to get out of our mind and system. And sometimes talking about them relieves us of all the stress that we have inside. I'm going to also give you a prescription for Lexapro and Ambien to help you sleep. Do you have someone who can watch your children?”

“Yes, I'll find someone. I'll pay someone.” I wanted to say anything to get out of this place.

“Well, I suggest that you don't return to work for a few days and just take it easy. The nurse will bring in your clothes.”

“Thank you,” I said as I waited for the nurse to bring my belongings.

I was released after I was given my prescriptions and signed a release form. I called my mom and she said she would meet me at my house. I caught a cab back to my car. I tried to think about everything that happened.
What could be bottled up inside of me? I released all my pain from Malik. I think. I cried every tear that I am going to cry for him. Who knows?
I thought to myself as I drove toward my house.

“So what's the verdict?” my mom asked as I walked in the door.

“The doctor said I had a mental breakdown.”

“Those doctors don't know what they are talking about. You are in control. That's why it is called mental mind over matter. What I do want is for you to take it easy.”

“I have been.”

“No, you haven't. I'll come over and help you. And we have to teach Kevin how to do something like dishes.”

“He's too young.”

“No, he is not. It is time to put him to work. So you can get a break.”