Jumped (4 page)

“H
ONEST
, M
ISS
W
OMACK
. I don't mean to be late. I'm handing in my gorgeous artwork to Mr. Sebastian for Black History Month—check it out. C Corridor. And while I'm rushing to get here, AP Shelton stops me in the hall. We had a discussion. You know AP Shelton. He loves chatting with me.”

I don't know why she casts those blue flecks of doubt at me but she does.

“Serious, Miss W. I have an alibi. Check with the AP.”

I slide down in my seat. The metal bottom is cold so I shimmy it warm and pull out my colored pens and my Biology notebook. I take the scenic route through pages of diagrams in my fully color-coordinated notebook. Apple green, baby blue, maroon, hot pink,
naranja
for the
diagrams, Bic black for the info. Soft brown for the first diagram, the monkey-to-man page. (Can't show that to Mami—it upsets her.) Apple greens, deep greens for the plant world. Maroons, hot pinks, and dark blue for the molecules. Get back,
Picassa
! I air-kiss a perfect water molecule, wet smack.

Me? Settle down? Am I disturbing things?

“Sorry, Miss Womack.” The pages flapping, the chair legs rocking, all mess with her teaching flow. She gets really bothered when she's interrupted so I quickly find the right spot in my notebook. A blank page, ready for more Cell World.

I write,
Subject: Polypeptides and Proteins
, then
Today's Aim: Forming Bonds
. Dang! Miss Womack has the full diagram up already. Five minutes with AP Shelton cost me a choice of greens, blues,
naranja
(which sounds better, orange or
naranja
?
Naranja
, right? Prettier). No color coordinating. Just go for it. Catch up. Dang, Miss Womack talks fast.

I lean toward Eduardo's paper to see what's been said so far. I'm his leafy plant, leaning to his open notebook like it's the warm, gold sun. Eduardo leans away, digging the plant biology. He inches his notebook to the right, coaxing,
Trina, lean closer, my way. Closer.
We both think,
Anything for a peek
. Only, I want the cell words, he wants
more Trina. I smile but Eduardo fakes being undercover.

Doesn't matter how old they are—fifty-five or fifteen. They can be so shy. I completely make his day.

Word for word, I copy everything on Eduardo's page. What they are, what they mean, and what they do. Whatever I don't know I'll look up later. For now, I'm done with Eduardo and flip my lovely locks as I face front. Eduardo can live on what I just gave him until the end of semester.

I still want to make my page pretty. I want to get the diagram as good as I can. So what if I can't coordinate like I want to. I can fix it up later.

With the maroon, I draw the big bean, the nucleus. Blue spaghetti strands wrapped with
naranja
, looping like a jump rope in full swing, the wrapping and twining. Bic black for transcription, translation—what?—no matter. I'll catch it later.

I giggle when I get to the ribosome. What? You can't see what she has on the board? I think I'm giggling to myself but—

“
Trina
.”

Again. “Sorry, miss.”

Okay, Trina. Chill.

I mean to listen and write but I can't keep still. I peek over at Eduardo's diagram. Then over to Nilda, on my
left, but Nilda is giving me back a glare, so whatever. I don't dare turn to Krystal, behind me. Miss Womack is bothered enough as it is. Between Eduardo and Al'liah, I'm not the only one to see Miss Womack has drawn a lopsided, goose-bumped boy sac under the bean. The DNA ribbon runs between the big one and the small one but that doesn't disguise a thing. I draw my boy sacs like Miss Womack's, the upper one bigger than the lower. I laugh to myself. Ding, dong, dang, boy. How's it hanging?

“Problem, Trina?”

I can't believe everyone holds their faces together. Don't they want to bust out?

“Nothing, miss. I'm just drawing.” I give her innocence. Nothing but innocence. What?

Miss Womack revs up. She talks really fast, yo! Her words race together but you hear each one crisp and clear. So fast, so crisp and clear, I want to dance to the quickness. It's like a jam. The peptide jam. Then a polypeptide jam. With the polypeptide bond. Check out how fast she spits that: amino acids, proteins, polypeptide bonds. Miss W dates a DJ, for sure. They flip syllables back and forth, fast, fast, fast. I'm picturing it right now.

When she takes a breather, I jump on the pause and raise my hand to ask a question. Smirks all around. They think I'm going to ask about the lumpy boy sac but I'm
over that. I surprise them all.

“How do they know?” I ask instead.

“Excuse me?”

That's what people say when they need a moment to pull it together, but Miss Womack is a brain. You can't stump the star, so I say it again on the chance she truly missed my question.

“How do they know, Miss W? How do they know what to do? Where to go? Every little piece breaks down to smaller and smaller pieces. Every little piece is something, does something. And those pieces get together and do it.”

It's the way I said “do it” that has the class laughing. But can you imagine? Cells, nucleus, strings, strands, all inside us, doing it. Chatting, hooking up, Xeroxing all the little pieces, making new pieces, making bonds. Isn't that amazing? Polypeptides bond. Amino acids bond. Even water molecules bond. All those little pieces, smaller than a speck of sand, and they know what to do and they just roll with the flow. They do it.

D
O YOU SEE WHAT
I
SEE
? I cannot believe my eyes. And no shame or apology whatsoever!

Mr. Jiang whips out his credit-card-thin cell phone and takes a call in class. He is outright taunting me, like
This is a real phone and that fat little girl in your bag needs to diet
.

To borrow one of those teacher sayings, I am appalled. I find his classroom behavior appalling and outrageous and I won't stand for it. I have to speak up.

“The No Cell Phone rule applies to you too, Mr. Jiang.”

He says, “The work on the board applies to you,” turns his back, and chats away, leaving the class to “Oh, snap!” and “Ah-hah” all around me.

 

Mr. Jiang has every triangle known to man on the board. Right, obtuse, acute, complementary, perpendicular, along with a list of givens. All I have to do is copy them down, but instead of writing “Given: An equilateral triangle is a triangle with all sides equal,” I write, “Given: Bea has more crust than Wonder Bread. A whole loaf of crust.”

I can't believe her.
You gotta tell her, Leticia
.

Just because you thought you saw something doesn't mean you actually saw what you thought you saw. No one knows this better than Bea.

Last semester, she and I were riding the bus, on our way to the MAC counter at Macy's for makeovers. Call it kismet, but both Bea and I looked out the window in time to see Jay and Krystal standing at the corner face on face. Now, the bus was rolling fast, and we caught them at a funny angle, but that was Jay and that was Krystal and they were closer than they should have been. Bea and Jay been going out since freshman year, so she can spot his face in a grainy four-by-six double-exposed photo with fifty other faces on it. Bea knows her Jay.

We rang the bell, jumped off the bus, headed straight toward Jay and Krystal. So what if we wasted a fare. Watching Bea catch Jay with his hand in the cookie jar was worth the lost bus fare and half the lip gloss at the
MAC counter. Dirt didn't get any better than this and I had the best seat in the house.

We were a block away and they saw us. Jay's head jerked. Then Krystal was backing away.

Bea—picture this, right, because Bea's no little girl. She's packed like I am. So Bea was trotting up to Krystal and then Jay jumped in front of her and said, “It's not what you think, Bea. It's not what you think.”

“What did I see, Jay? Tell me, what did I just see?” Krystal was down the block but in Bea's mind she was an inch away so Bea was going after her. Krystal was rocking those new fall boots with the cute heels. Cowboy-style but skinny. Like stiletto but not quite. Anyway, you're not supposed to run in those joints but Krystal was tearing up the sidewalk.

Jay was still saying “It's not what you think and you didn't see what you thought you saw.” Question: How many times can a guy say that before he starts to say something else? Thirteen times. Lucky thirteen! Bea weaved from side to side trying to get around Jay, and Jay kept saying “It's not what you think,” all the while blocking her path so she couldn't go after Krystal. “You didn't see what you thought you saw.”

Me? I was just there collecting every word for the playback. I was enjoying my front-row seat.

On the fourteenth try, the needle on the record broke. Jay said he bent down to tell Krystal something and we must have seen them at that precise moment, that precise angle. He said it's all in where you're standing or riding by. It's all about the angle.

Jiang never made angles sound this good. If he had, I would have popped back with a snappy “given” topped off with a “therefore.” Unfortunately I didn't know jack about angles and said nothing.

Jay was doing it. Working his game on Bea. Her body held tight but her eyes gave in. I was glued to the TV set, like
damn
. I couldn't believe it was playing out like this. Jay rapped a side-angle-side talk and Bea gave in. What a letdown. And I was anticipating a show with Bea going buck wild for a change, and it wasn't going to happen.

Think, Leticia, think, I told myself. Bea's your girl and you have the best seat in the house. And then it came to me. Just before Jay sighed his dodged-the-bullet sigh of relief, I asked, “So, Jay. What did you have to tell Krystal you had to be in her lip gloss?”

Pay dirt! Jay was not loving me at that moment. “Mind your business, Leticia, and let me mind mine.” He pointed to him and Bea and said, “This is between me and she. You are outside the equation.”

“Brackets, Jay? That's algebra. That's last year. We're
talking about this year. This day. Explain the geometry, Jay. You know. The triangle. Go on.” All that was missing was the guy who yells, “Cut! That's a wrap! Good job, Miss Moore.”

Bea sprang back to life. “Tell me what you were telling Krystal, 'cause I'm going to find out.”

Still, I stepped back, pretending to give them privacy, but it was a small step back. My front-row seat was too good to give up completely.

Maybe Jay cared about Bea or maybe he was just rapping as a reflex: Deny all accusations, even if caught red-handed. Maybe it was a little of both. It's definitely a guy thing. Got to keep his cake but must have some cookies on the side. But don't let another guy glance Bea's way. Jay is on the scene, visible, hovering, playing the boyfriend role for the Academy Award. He may want his chocolate-chip cookies in his pocket but he's not giving up that rich chocolate cake on his plate.

Anyway, he could have come clean and said, “Bea, you and me's been forever but it's just time to move on…” Nope. Jay was rapping his heart out like he was about to be signed to a record label.

“First, I'm up here,” he said. “Krystal's down there.”

We gave him the “Yeah.” And it's true. Jay's tall.

“Eddie likes Krystal but Eddie's too shy, y'know. I
was just greasing it as a favor to Eddie. But everything I said, Krystal kept saying, ‘Huh? Huh?' And I had to keep repeating myself so I bent down. And when y'all saw us, I was at her ear at that moment telling her for Eddie. Come on. You know Eddie. Ask him. Call him now and ask him. It's just that what you thought you saw wasn't that at all. You just caught it at the wrong angle at the wrong time so it looked like something it wasn't.”

 

Now, if Bea went for that, why's she so sure I saw what I thought I saw? I could have been wrong. I could have been seeing it from the wrong angle. Just because Dominique looked like she was going to kick Trina's ass doesn't mean that's exactly what I saw. And this is my point. Why would I get involved in Trina's life when I don't know for sure if I saw what I thought I saw? Who is to say that Dominique doesn't mean something else? Who is to say I wasn't seeing it from the wrong angle?

“C
OME ALIVE
,
CLASS
. C
OME ALIVE
.”

Delmonico's funny, man. Flapping his arms like a duck or a chicken.

“Cold War, remember? You read about it last night. Come on, folks. Get with it.”

The class draws a collective blank. That doesn't stop Delmonico. Those arms are flapping. If we believed he could fly we'd start talking about the Cold War.

“Just because they fought a common foe doesn't mean—” He scopes the room for a hand. “What?” Still scoping. “What?”

I get it but I don't answer. I don't volunteer. My hands stay in my lap and I lean back in my chair. Getting it is enough. Enough for the surprise quiz. It's never a surprise. Delmonico flips that comb-over, winks, and says, “Study
extrahard tonight.”

He's desperate.
Throw me a rope. Anybody. Anything
. Eyebrows on both sides of his head slant upward like praying hands.

I couldn't be him. Poor bastard. Beg when no one wants to be bothered. But that's his job. Give a damn when we don't. When we won't show it. Keep coming up with the lesson, the plays. Keep talking it, writing it, quizzing it. And he does. Got to give it to him, poor bastard. He shows up. Suited. Ready. This is his game. His minutes. It's gotta suck when you're the only one ready on game day.

So I call out, “Trust. It doesn't mean they trust each other.”

Delmonico's so grateful for the full chest pass. “You're on it, 'Nique,” he says, and he's crazy excited. “You're right on it.”

Imagine this is your game. This is what you live for. He's got the ball and now he wants to pass it. He's looking out at the players. Who has the hot hand? Who's open?

“Come on, people. Come on. Why don't they trust each other?”

And there's no one to pass it to. He's dribbling, dribbling, keeping one eye on the ball.

“Lucia.”

Lucia sucks her tongue in her mouth. A hard you-make-me-sick suck.

“You're marrying Omar this Saturday,” Delmonico says.

This has nowhere to go. Nowhere to go but silly. The guys all woof like big dogs to say Omar's a lucky dude. Lucia says she'll kill herself first. But look at her. She's soaking it up.

The ball's about to drop out of Delmonico's hands. He's about to lose control but he pushes through. Like he doesn't hear her begging him to choose a different guy to marry. He raises his voice, talking over her whining. “Your mother meets his mother to plan the wedding but it doesn't go well. They can't agree on anything.”

She says of course they can't agree. Her mother doesn't speak whatever Omar's mother speaks.

“Exactly! So how do they communicate?”

“Interpreters.”

“Telepathy.”

“Smoke signals.”

“They IM each other.”

“And send text messages.”

“Wedding's off.”

Delmonico doesn't care how stupid it gets in here. As long as we're with him. He can deal with stupid. He pushes through it.

“Let's go back to what Dominique said.” He winks my way. “Why don't they trust each other to make the right plans for the wedding?” Blanks all around. “Come on, folks. Look alive. Same reason why Lucia's mother and Omar's mother can't agree.”

I get it. I get Russia. I feed him another. “They don't speak the same language, so they don't understand each other.”

He, like, has it near the basket and wants to sink two easy.

“Chances are, they have what in common?” He pivots.
Anyone? Anyone?

Another player steps up from the bench. “Nothing.”

“Bingo! They have
what
in common? They have nothing in common.” Delmonico's wild for that one little “nothing.” He's excited and has too much head action. That comb-over's flipping like crazy. He's writing out the players and the plays. Three Os and one giant X. The thirty-second clock is winding down and he can run away with this. “Now let's look at the USSR, the U.S., France, and England. Starting with economies. How are they different?”

More players step up from the bench. Delmonico's hearing the crowd go wild for the buzzer beater. He's teaching his teacher heart out. He's funny as hell to watch but I get it. He just wants to play his full game.

“And if we're in class in Cold War Russia, what are you studying? Here's a hint: it isn't Shakespeare and it isn't Music Appreciation. Come on, people. Think Cold War Russia.” And he's winking on “War.”

Then that simple flit Lucia says, “You mean that's it? No more wedding?”

Omar tells her it's okay. Don't cry. He still wants her. Lucia's mouth is full of sucking sounds and “You wishes.”

I don't bother to throw her a look. She irritates me. Yeah. She's an irritant. Irritating simple flit.

Not everyone is meant to get along. Not everyone should be in each other's faces. Fenster doesn't say that in SI but it should be up there on her list. I don't have nothing in common with girls like Lucia. Girls like that. It's all an act:
Pick me but don't pick me. Get away from me but come here
. A bitch should be clear, you know. She should say what she means and mean what she says.

I'm clear.

I'm not confused.

I don't act.

I don't play cute.

I know what I want.

I have my priorities. My rules.

You can trust me to mean what I say, do what I say.

I don't give off crossed signals. No smoke signals.

I don't make confusion. I keep it clear.