Jumped (11 page)

I
CAN FEEL
C
ELINA PURRING THROUGH MY BAG
. It's a text purr, not a calling purr. I don't open my bag to look inside. I know who it is. I know who keeps texting, pestering, and stressing me.

I'm all jittery and can't settle myself. I hear Chem II James talking but it might as well be Bridgette running the vacuum cleaner in the other room: I know there's sound, but it's all in the background.

I'm supposed to be helping James along, getting this party started, making the most of these two minutes before Mr. Cosgrove takes control of the class and before the unbalanced equations get so complicated. I have to be present, all ears and mind, but I'm too cluttered to be present. Too cluttered for James or for Chem II. There's too many voices screaming at me all at once and I can't, I just can't—

“I said, ‘Leticia, why you stressing?'”

He's smiling at me and I can't even roll around in the bliss of it. I just wish he would sit down and leave me alone. Just let me work out these jitters and calm myself down.

“I got it,” he says. It's a face full of charm. One day I'll replay it all and be la-la-ed out, but right now I'm thinking we're incompatible. He's not catching my vibe. This will never work.

James doesn't know he's being cut loose. Still smiling, he says, “You have band practice at three.”

“Band practice?”

“Band practice.” He points to the pen in my hand—my damaged hand—and says, “You've been hitting the desk to the beat. Either you're drumming with the sophomore band or something's on your mind.”

Gasp! I close my hand quick and stash it under my
desk, not believing I had my damaged hand exposed for everyone to see.

“There's nothing on my mind.”

He won't leave me alone. He puts his big hands on my shoulders, presses down hard, and squeezes. “Girl, you're tight.”

On any other day I would have let him massage my shoulders until Mr. Cosgrove made him stop. I'm not the kind of girl who turns down pampering. But right now I don't want to be bothered and I wrestle my shoulders out of his grip.

He gets the message. Chem II James sits down.

That does it! I am through! When the bell rings at 2:45, Celina, I am putting you to bed permanently. All this crying every two minutes. I can't turn off everything in my ear but I can turn you off.

James turns to look at me. Milton turns to look at me. Nettie, then Justin, then Brian, and now the whole class is staring at me. Then Mr. Cosgrove starts walking
down the aisle, not dancing to a ringtone, just walking. He bends down and takes my hand. My damaged hand.

“What's going on, Leticia?”

I look down. I can't stop the pen from tapping.

T
HE BELL RINGS
and I just want to bust out Chem II and out of school, period. Just let me get to the Golden Blossom Nail Salon and take care of my emergency. Once I'm planted in that cushy gold chair, with my fingers soaking in the soapy liquid, and Girl Number Four with the mole on her left earlobe is rubbing my damaged hand, I can relax, say “Ahhh,” because everything will be all right.

I'm fighting to get down B Corridor but there's a thousand feet marching and a thousand kids pushing. And there goes Trina, bouncing and smiling her big-cheese grin. The crowd is with her, carrying everyone along in the stream of excited, pushing kids. And I know she thinks this is a parade and she's the beauty queen in the center of her own float. And the door pushes open and she walks outside and—

TRINA

Sun is still out on this cold, cold day but they're chanting my name, “Trina, Trina,” and it's—

DOMINIQUE

There she is. I got her. I got her.

LETICIA

Oh my God!

I see gold spinning and pink flying. Trina getting slammed down on that concrete. The crowd is swarming like one body around all this mess and—

TRINA

“Hhhuaaawhhhaaat?”

Jonesy! Malik! Mikki! Eduardo! Nilda! I see them all around. Everyone. They're there. All around. I'm reaching out to them. Reaching…

LETICIA

Celina screams and I don't even say, “Who?” I flip Celina open and say, “Dominique's wilding out on Trina. She's punching the shit out of her. Trina's down and Dominique's punching her—ooooh—face!

“OhmyGod, that girl is bleeding and Dominique won't let up. She's messing her up, saying—”

DOMINIQUE

“You see me, bitch?

“You see me, bitch?

“You see my face now, bitch?”

LETICIA

“What? What?

“The crowd is crazy. I can't hear a word you're—”

DOMINIQUE

Get offa me.

Get offa me.

Get offa me, Dyke.

TRINA

Hwhauhmm…

LETICIA

“The cops! The cops are here. Yeah. The big lady cop got Dominique down. Down like they do on TV. Got her knee in Dominique's back. Got Dominique kissing concrete. Yeah. They're cuffing her now. Oh my God!

“Trina? I can't see.

“Oh, Bea! Oh my God! She's not moving.

“They took Trina away. The ambulance. Unh-hunh. Yeah, they got Dominique. Yeah. Squad car.”

 

The minute AP Shelton asks, “Did you see anything?” people start fleeing every which way. He's headed toward
me, looking dead at me. I don't know what it is about AP Shelton, but our eyes lock.

“Miss Moore,” he says, “you seem to know what goes on. What can you tell me?”

“Look, AP Shelton. I'm just trying to get to the nail salon. That's all I'm trying to do.”

“So you don't know what happened here?”

“Not really—look. School's out. I gotta go. Nail appointment.”

I just keep walking. Talking to Bea.

“Y
OUR MOMS JUST STEPPED OUT
. She's in the chapel. She'll be back.”

 

“I've been sitting here for the longest. I just don't know what to say to you.”

 

“Damn, girl…you must be jacked under all those bandages. Messed up. Look at all this hookup. Tubes. Machines beeping. Oxygen tank. You don't know how sci-fi you look. Like an astronaut. A mummified astronaut.”

 

“Hey. You didn't get my face right. That's a lousy thing to
say with you lying here like this.

“Yeah. I snuck a peek at your sketch pad. You got some ideas. A few. But you can't do portraits, though. You don't have mines right. You know, artist to artist. You didn't shade my eyes right. Look at these. Dark, Trina. My eyes are dark. You shaded them too light. And the nose. See this thing? Been in my family for generations, but how would you know that? Anyway, you made it too perfect. Like, cute. Gives me hives, girl. Hives. But I liked what you did with the ears. That was mad funny. I got the joke. The little pointy ears. Not too pointy but enough for me to get it. Nice dig. That was funny, man.

“I'm gonna keep on talking, okay? That's what they say. Play music and talk. Familiar sounds. Well, I don't know what you like to hear so I guess I'll just talk until your moms get here.”

 

“Where's your mother, girl? She must be a praying woman. She been in that chapel for an hour and a half. Okay. That's all right. What else is she going to do but pray?”

 

“You know your stuff's still up. Black History Month's long gone but your crazy Malcolm and Martin, and all
those roses, and the old lady in the green dress still hanging in the gallery. Yeah. Your own showing in C Corridor. Extended run. Solo act. Starring Trina.”

 

“Oh. Okay, nurse. Just a sec.

“They booting me out, Boo. Guess they gotta do stuff to you. Check this out. I brought you something. I'm setting it right here. A giant card. Everyone signed it. All your friends. Some teachers. The cops.

“Okay, nurse. A second, a second.

“And I brought your portrait. The one I did. Redid. I'm pinning it on your bulletin board, for when you open your eyes. Thought you'd want to see yourself.

“Yeah, nurse. I know. I'm going. Oh. Check it out. This is what she really looks like.”

“B
EA
! B
EA
! T
URN ON THE
TV!

“No. Put that book down! Yeah. Channel nine.”

Bea can't believe it. Neither can I. Channel Nine News is doing a whole news story about girl-on-girl violence and how it's on the rise for God knows what reason. Pressure is the best they can come up with.

Anyway, it's six months since that drama between Dominique and Trina, and who is on TV, in my bedroom, wearing an orange jumpsuit, talking about how she was “correcting the situation”?

“Check her out!” I holler into Celina. “She is unreal! She's not even sorry!”

Bea is shushing me but this is hot and I'm excited. Here is Dominique, saying “No, I'm not sorry” and “No, I didn't learn anything,” being all hard rock.

“Do you hear her?”

“Hush!”

Then the scene switches from the correctional facility to a living room. The newsperson is setting the stage, the way they do, telling the story about a once-promising art student forced to transfer after a violent attack on school grounds. The newsperson talks about the senselessness of it all, the coma, how the victim regained consciousness, the victim's first words, and all the reconstructive surgeries she'll need.

“Oh my God! It's Trina!” Trina, live on TV.

Even though the two people are sitting behind a screen so you can see only their silhouettes, you know it's Trina and her mother. The girl's not hyper and bouncy, but it's Trina. While she's trying to talk, her mother is crying and speaking Spanish. I mean, my Spanish is pretty good but I can't make out a single word. Doesn't matter. The translator is on top of it. Besides, it's not the mother who's hard to understand.

Trina's silhouette says she doesn't know why she was attacked. She remembers seeing everyone around her. All her friends and…She can't even talk about getting jumped. She says everything went black.

“Bea. Listen to her. She's not stuttering. It's like her speech is, I don't know—”

“Delayed,” Bea says all fast and handy. Then she shushes me again.

It's pathetic. The newsperson wants Trina to talk faster but it's like she can't. Every time she utters a sound it's as if she's learning how to talk. Like she's searching for lost words. She's definitely not all fast and crazy, like old Trina. But you can still hear that it's Trina.

They show her artwork and they talk about how beautiful and confident she once was. Then they show a black-and-white portrait that one of her classmates did. Trina is all over the news. There's even a foundation set up for her. They're flashing the Web site and the toll-free number. She's like a celebrity.

Once the news story goes off, I'm ready to tear into it—I'm good for a few hours' worth of talking—but Bea's going out tonight. Someone new. Yeah. She dumped Jay. And she has to finish her book before her date comes. That's Bea for you. Bea and her true-to-life novels. It's like I lose her every time she picks a book up. So we hang up and I plug Celina back into the charger. We'll talk later.

I keep clicking with the remote, looking for something good. Something juicy. You know, it's by pure luck that I caught Dominique and Trina on channel nine. And I'm like, wow. I finally know real people on television. And
to think, I was there when it all went down. I could have been on that news program being interviewed. I knew all about it from start to finish. I just look at the TV and I can't believe it. I just can't believe it.

This novel could not have been written without those who offered support, let me roam their hallways, and gave me a seat in the back of the class: Behind the Book, Beach Channel High School, Benjamin N. Cardozo High School, Brooklyn Community Arts and Media High School, DeWitt Clinton High School, Franklin K. Lane High School, and Thurgood Marshall High School.

To Rosemary Brosnan, who once again gave me space to write.