Jumped (10 page)

U
P UNTIL NOW
, James Brown, the Godfather of Soul, has stayed out of my head. He lets me eat my lunch, go to the girls' room, and take a class or two without telling me what I need to do. The Godfather of Soul and I are cool until I see Jessie and Turtle in the hallway, working on new steps for tomorrow's fifteen seconds of “Get Up, Get into It, Get Involved.” There are so many bodies crowded around them that I can't get through and am forced to watch them dance. Jessie points to Turtle and Turtle points to Jessie, each one telling the other, “
You
get involved,
You
get involved….”

Now I'm stuck.

Why couldn't James Brown be content to stay pushed back where I stash lost homework and diet tips?

I fight to push past the crowd gathered around the dancing duo. Half of the crowd provides the chanting on behalf of James Brown. Try getting that out of your head. Try getting through these halls without elbows, backpacks, attitude, a lot of running, and now dancing. There are thirty-five hundred students in this school. The guidance counselors spread the schedules out as best as they can, but there are still thirty-five hundred of us. Some are like Bea—go to school one week, work the next week. Some come in period one (or zero), out period eight, others come in period two, out nine, in period three and out period ten. From period three to period eight you have the weight of the world marching in this cereal box. Can you feel the rumble? That's seven-thousand-odd feet stomping during the bell change. And that's just the stomping. Don't forget about the running, pushing, play fighting, and dancing. School's a dangerous place if you don't know how to get where you're supposed to be.

Mr. Yerkewicz is the only teacher I beat to the classroom. He just drags along, his eyes glassy, his mouth slack and drooly. Drags along in the mix. It is a wonder no one has knocked him down. He just keeps dragging until he
makes it to his classroom.

Honestly, if I had a heart attack or stroke I wouldn't be back here. I wouldn't try to fight the stream. I would sue the school and watch TV at home. The school is wrong. They shouldn't make Yerkewicz switch rooms during bell change. I don't know how that man stays on his feet but he does.

Last year, when I was a freshman, Miss Olenbach caught me in the hall during homeroom and asked me to do her a favor. Go collect Delaney cards from rooms 321 through 330. I said okay and went up to the third floor and collected the Delaney cards from 321 and 322. But when I opened the door to room 323 I was barely inside when Mr. Yerkewicz's face turned tomato red and he went down. He just slumped to the floor. He wasn't breathing right and his eyes were wide-open. I was in shock. The whole class was in shock. Everyone stood around saying, “Oh shit,” and stuff like that. I calmed down, whipped out Celina, hit 3 on speed dial, and started telling Bea what was happening. She started hollering in my ear while I tried to calm her down, but she wouldn't calm down. She kept saying, “Do something, Leticia. Do something.”

Bea must have been loud because someone in the class heard her voice and ran for help. The principal, the nurse, the school police, and a teacher's aide all rushed to
the scene. It was like watching a reality-TV crisis show. I've never seen so many people move so fast in real life. The nurse was on top of Mr. Yerkewicz giving mouth-to-mouth. She wasn't worried about his saliva, his cigar smoking, or his stiff body. She flung herself into the role of nurse, punching his chest and blowing into his mouth as if cameras were rolling. It was thrilling. Sirens were blasting outside, the EMS workers arrived, and the crew came inside and shoved the school nurse off of Yerkewicz. They slapped an oxygen mask over Yerkewicz's face, strapped him onto a gurney, and went racing down the hall knocking onlookers out of the way.

It was happening faster than I could tell Bea, who kept saying, “Don't let him die, God. Please, don't let him die.”

“Calm down, Bea,” I said. “You don't even know that man.”

Bea gets involved like she's reading the true-to-life dramas in one of her novels. She can't help it. That's Bea.

At that moment I couldn't worry about Mr. Yerkewicz because I had my own drama to deal with. In the middle of my calming Bea down, Principal Bates tore Celina, my little girl, from my hands. One minute Celina was cradled to my ear, the next minute my warm little Celina was ripped away. I almost had a heart attack on the spot. I was
no good for the rest of the day.

Finally at 3:00—yep, had me waiting fifteen minutes—Principal Bates returned my little girl to me and told me not to bring her back to school. I said, “I promise,” and took my baby back, wiped her down good, and charged her up when I got home.

 

Mr. Yerkewicz drops his books on the teacher's desk, picks up the chalk, and writes
Treaty of Versailles
on the board. I'm so through with French following me from class to class that I say nice and loud, “Ver-frickin-si,” while Yerkewicz writes. I could have said much worse, for all Yerkewicz cares. He would keep on dragging his feet across the floor and the chalk across the board.

His handwriting isn't so good. You can only make out the first and last letter of each word. Everything else is just curves, dots, and squiggles. Neither his feet nor the chalk lift, but that doesn't stop him from doing his job. He writes those notes on the board as if we could read them. The objective, the outline, and tonight's reading. Then he starts talking about Versailles, and at any given moment he says, “Versailles. The worthless treaty,” like Worthless Treaty is its middle name. There's a low rumble of laughter, but honestly, I doubt he hears us laughing
or cares. He doesn't even ask questions, check if we've done the reading, or take attendance. Lorna fills out his Delaney card and walks it down to the office. Yerkewicz just writes and talks. He stands in front of us like he's standing on the Verrazano Bridge looking out at our faces like we're the green blue ocean. And while he's talking he shakes his head, chuckles, and says like it's a tragedy, “Versailles, the worthless treaty.” Then, before the bell goes off, he says, “Those French didn't stand a chance.”

W
E SHOULD HAVE WON LAST NIGHT'S GAME
. That game was rocking. We were down nine points. If I could have just got in there…. Clock was ticking down and

I looked to Coach,

looked to Coach

looked to Coach

praying she would change her mind. Put me in. They scored a 3 with no one checking for the J. I jumped up off the bench and Coach said, “Duncan, down.”

I could read the other team. Read the zone. I could have jumped in there and checked their point guard. Number Six was fast. Had a sweet no-look pass, but I was onto her; I could read her.

Aw, man. Coach was killing me. Killing me. I had to jump in there. Shut Six down. But Coach had me benched.

“Why you doing this to me?”

Coach didn't look my way once. “Bench” is what she told me. “Duncan, bench.”

I was getting more heated by the minute. Heated by the basket. And they were scoring on us. Spanking us in our own court. Down nine, eleven, thirteen. The game was slipping through Ellen's non-ball-handling fingers. All Coach would say was “Stay down, Duncan. Duncan, bench.”

“Coach, let me in. Let me turn it around.” There was still time. With eight minutes left, I could've jumped in there. Made things happen. Not even Reese and Bishop could have won this for us. Ellen couldn't put the ball in their hands. Aw, man. The ball in my hands would've been the ball in their hands.

Coach wouldn't hear me or see me. I was dismissed. Invisible. Coach only saw her clipboard, her plays, her non-ball-handling Ellen. Yeah. The all-arounder. The scholar-service-athlete. Miss Who's Who Shoot and Miss.

Game to game, I gave Coach triple-doubles, but “Bench, Duncan” was what I got. That's right. Ride that bench, Duncan. Stay. Sit. Know your place.

Damn. I'm not invisible. Why couldn't Coach see me? My dribble is tight.
Slam/slam/slam
. Like a drumroll spanking that hardwood. I wanted in. Needed in. Had to
jump in there and go man to man against Number Six. If she stuck her hand between the slam I'da had something for her.

I couldn't watch Ellen dribbling scared. I swear, she didn't own a pair. I was sick. Ill. Mad. Watching her dribbling scared. No ball-handling skills. No tight slam/slam/slam. She couldn't even see free hands behind her or free hands to the side. But there she was, dribbling loose down the lane waiting to be mugged, and Six was all over it for the easy pick.

“Please, Coach,” I said. “Let me in. Sit her down and let me in.”

 

Coach's hand went up, a big-ass stop sign: “Duncan. Bench.”

That was all I got. For all my assists. All my steals. For making fouls when we needed to, for sinking foul shots, I was invisible to her. Invisible. Duncan. Bench. Duncan. Bench. And all I wanted was the ball. The ball, the court. The ball, the court.

Coach doesn't have to look up. She knows it's me standing in the door frame. She waves me in.

“Why you doing this, Coach?” I ask. “Why you benching me?”

“You know my rules,” Coach says. “Seventy-five to take the floor.”

“But I need to play. I need my minutes.”

“Look, Duncan. I'm not in control of that. You are. Kick up your grades and I'll play you.”

“I can't wait for that. Season will be over by then.”

She shrugs. “You'll play next season.”

This is all so simple to her. No big thing to her. But it's life to me and she's not hearing me. Not seeing me.

Coach is wrong. It's not how she says it is. I don't control shit. I don't control Hershheiser. The grades I get. The classes on my schedule. When I come and go. I don't control none of that. All of that's controlling me. Boxing me in.

The only thing I control is the ball. Steal it. Dribble. Pass it. Shoot it. I control the ball. Control the court. That's what I control.

“Just let us fight for it. Ellen and me. See who starts and who sits.”

Now my heart is sloppy hanging out. My knees are scraping the rug from all this crawling. This isn't nothing but simple to her. A simple rule that she controls. And I'm begging like a dumb bitch getting kicked to the curb. And I'm trying to get her to see, to hear me out, and she says, “We're done, Duncan. Get to class.”

T
HEY SHOULD HAVE A NEW CATEGORY
in the yearbook when I graduate: Girl Most Secretly Sketched. Ivan doesn't know how blessed he is. Every person holding a charcoal pencil in this studio steals glances at our worktable. My neck is stiff but these eyes don't miss a thing. Shamel, Lizette, Pradeep, and them want to change models. They must wonder,
Why can't we draw Trina?
and who can blame them.

I give him so much to work with from any angle he chooses to study me. Even if he has no imagination whatsoever, all he has to do is follow the curve of my cheekbones and lips, get the sparkle in my light brown eyes, the point of my cute nose, and he can't go wrong. And this hair? What? I let it fall to my shoulders so he can pick up the natural shine. I am too nice. Does Ivan know what a
gift I'm giving him and his sketch pad?

Our art program is filled with lonely boys. Lonely boys who take to drawing because talking doesn't come easily. They don't create color and art like I do. Instead they take Mr. Sebastian's art paper, the paper he sold his paintings for, and draw cartoons with big eyes, mondo missile tatas, musclemen, and monsters. Little lonely boys.

 

My butt is numb and I want to get up, shaky-shake and stomp, from the head to the booty to the toe. Like in the caf with the Boosters. But I keep posing, keep giving, and then for no reason Ivan goes crazy. He takes that charcoal pencil and circles round and round on the pad. I freak. He's messing me up.

“What are you doing?”

Do you know what Ivan has the nerve to say? Do you?

“Mr. Sebastian,” he calls out, “the model's talking. She's breaking the aura.”

I know I am supposed to be art, but art for incredible inspiration. Not a bowl of fruit. A dumb cat.

Mr. Sebastian doesn't even come over to handle the situation. He just bellows from Pradeep's table, “Trina…”

Ivan keeps making round, round circles with that
black charcoal pencil. What can he do that's round, round, round on my face and needs so much black?

“Oval,” I say from my gut through my teeth, because I'm trying to stay still. Trying to be professional. “Oval, not
round
.”

I don't have to turn to see people shifting to look this way. And there's giggling. I don't appreciate being looked at and laughed at.

But what does Mr. Sebastian say? You guessed it. As if it's my fault, all my fault. “Trina…”

Am I burning?

Here is my wonderful, wonderful day, my hot-pink near-perfection day, and Ivan has to put a smudge on my day. On my star.

I thought Ivan had a crush on me but he turns out to be another hater. Hah. And I drew his portrait to perfection and with a little fun. Just wait. I'm going to give him a complete makeover and rip his face out of my expensive artist's sketch pad.

That black charcoal in his hand goes round, round, round. My face isn't round. Isn't charcoal black. I am screaming inside. Screaming. And clawing Ivan's eyes out of his sockets.

“You're trembling, Boo. Be still. I got you. I got you.”

Oh my God. Did you see? Did you? His lips blowing a
kiss at me? Hah. Who does he think he is?

Green, green, green. Hater, hater, hater.

Get here quick, Sebastian. Come and see what he's doing.

If Ivan gets the nod, like “Good” like Sebastian gives me, I'll relax. If he gives Ivan the “That's enough” stare-down, then I'll freak because the face on the pad is a joke.

No. Even better. Let Ivan make his comic book joke of me. I'll tell Mr. Sebastian
he
has to draw me. And then sell it for hundreds—no, thousands—to pay for art supplies next year. It could go in the school brochure to talk about the art program.

Yes, yes, yes! Draw me, Mr. Sebastian. Draw me.

Finally Sebastian stops messing around with everyone else and he's at our table. He opens my sketch pad, finds my portrait of Ivan, nods. Okay. I'm used to it. Typical. I have something smart for Ivan but I keep it in my mouth.

Mr. Sebastian stands behind Ivan. His eyes go to me first and then down to the sketch pad. No nod or “Good” like I get. Instead Ivan gets “Hmm.” And the eyebrows go up. Mr. Sebastian actually moved the upper part of his face for Ivan's drawing. Ivan got face movement. And a “Hmm.”

I don't know what to think. I know the portrait is beautiful. What else can it be? But my face isn't round like that or black like that. I have color. Perfect blended color. And my shape is oval, and maybe a little heart shaped. But not round. Just because the portrait is beautiful doesn't make it right, and I am disappointed at Mr. Sebastian. This is the art place. Art is beauty and beauty is truth and my face isn't round.

And why do I get “Good” and a nod, and Ivan gets “Hmm” and the eyebrows?

My day, my wonderful, hot-pink, set-to-star day was almost perfect. Now it has a smudge on it. A round charcoal smudge.