Second Chance

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Authors: L. Divine

BOOK: Second Chance
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Drama High, Vol. 2
SECOND CHANCE
L. Divine
Dafina Books for Young Readers
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
“The only lasting truth is Change/God is Change.”
—OCTAVIA E. BUTLER
 
 
T
his volume is dedicated to the many Ancestors who, through their sacrifices, opened the roads for new life to come through. Octavia E. Butler's writings, like Alice Walker's, have challenged my thoughts and actions as well as made me realize the true potential of a phenomenal Black female writer.
When I heard she'd made the transition to the Ancestor world, I stood in my kitchen and cried. It was the same pain I felt when Aaliyah, Lisa “Left Eye” Lopez, Professor X, Marvin Gaye, Bob Marley, Gregory Hines, Rosa Parks, Easy E, Tupac, the Notorious B.I.G., Florence “Flo Jo” Griffith Joyner, Joshua Johnson and countless other prolific artists and activists became Ancestors before the world was ready to let them go in the physical.
Thank you, Octavia E. Butler, for not only gracing the world with your presence, but for also leaving behind your inspiring ideas through your timeless words. I pray to channel your ingenuity. Your candle will always be lit upon my shrine.
Prologue
O
kay, I still can't believe they suspended all of us, especially when my girls and I didn't want to be fighting in the first place. Ain't that just wrong? You see what I mean about people just straight hatin' on us up in here? I swear. Well, I'm glad we're at South Bay High and not some school in the hood. Those schools would have no problem calling the police or kicking you out on the spot for something like this.
We didn't even get a real suspension; we got in-house suspension where they just make us sit in the conference room all day and do book work from all our classes. It seems like the teachers really enjoy giving us book work too. Like they've just been waiting to give some student a crapload of work to do that the rest of the class never sees.
We all know why they don't actually suspend us. The administration doesn't want students to be absent from school; South Bay High is known for all its fancy accreditations. And, in order to keep them, having the least amount of student and faculty absences is top priority. So, unless you do something drastic, you won't get sent home, not even for a day.
Well, Trecee did get kicked out, but she deserved it. That heffa came up here with the intent to create drama, and we really don't need any more. Misty got in-house too, but I doubt seriously it'll affect her one way or the other. She'll probably think of it as a damn vacation, knowing her. It's only the first week of school, and already I'm looking forward to June. Enemies can do that to a sistah.
Do you know that broad Misty had the nerve to call me and apologize for almost getting me killed by Trecee's crazy behind? Not to mention the fact she set up the whole thing to bring herself closer to KJ. What the hell kind of apology can take that fact away, I would like to know. She's straight trippin' if she thinks I'm going to give her another chance to make amends. As many times as she's broken her word about starting mess, I couldn't care less. I've had it with her crazy butt.
Then there's KJ. I don't know what to do about him. Ever since all this drama with Trecee started, he's been trying to get back with me, but I don't know if I can trust him. And, I also kinda like this cat Jeremy. Okay, not kinda. I've been jocking Jeremy on the low for a while now, and it's a first. I've never dated a White boy before.
Jeremy and I have grown kinda tight in class this week. The two days I was there—before being banished to the library—he sat next to me and wrote little notes on his notebook making fun of Mrs. Peterson. I've seen him around campus, but we've never had a class together before. When I was sent to the library for the rest of the week he came to visit me every day during class when he was supposed to be going to the rest room. He's just so sweet.
Jeremy and I seem to have a lot in common. He listens to Southern style and East Coast rap as well as West Coast music, like me. He likes to read and just kick it, like me. He works hard, even though he doesn't have to. His parents are loaded. And, he's the finest boy in the entire school.
Even with all of this week's BS fresh in my mind, I'm still looking forward to the weekend. If for no other reason, so I can put Drama High behind me for a couple of days.
1
Press 'n' Curl
“She can walk with a switch and talk with street slang/ I love it when a woman ain't scared to do her thang.”
—L.L. COOL J
 
 
M
y weekly hair routine is like a ritual. When Mama gets her hair done, she calls it a
rogacion de cabeza
or a cleansing of the head.
I love the way my hair looks and smells when it's pressed. I like to use Pantene and sometimes Thermasilk. My other tools include a Gold 'n' Hot blow-dryer and flat iron, two hot combs and an oven, five silver clips, a comb, a scrunchie and some Smooth as Silk hair spray. My girl Shawntrese's mom does hair and works for the guy who makes this spray. It's the bomb.
I lightly press my edges before separating and straightening my hair. It's kind of pretty, the way my hair shines and smokes when I press it. It shimmers like ocean water in the afternoon sun. I'm basically frying my hair, but I still love the way it smells. Almost like sweet, burnt cantaloupe.
“Jayd, why do you press your hair when you know you just gone braid it up tomorrow, like some little thugette,” my mom says, while retrieving her manicure set from under the bathroom sink. It's her night to do her nails, before her very social weekend officially begins.
My mom hates having a daughter who wears cornrows in her hair. She's ultrafeminine, and I can be too. But, I also like to wear baggy jeans and boxer shorts sometimes. It's just more comfortable to me. Same with my hair. It's cool to wear it out sometimes. But, truth be told, it's just easier to braid it up.
“Mom, now you know I can't be going to work with school hair. I got to be fresh for the weekend, just like you,” I say, smiling at her. She's standing in the bathroom door, holding her big Tupperware container full of nail stuff: cotton balls, polishes, polish remover, tissue, cuticle cream and clippers, nail files and buffers of all shapes and sizes, a stick-on design booklet, some lotion with a box of plastic wrap to make her feet extra soft, and baby oil for her pumice stone. Her heels are hella rough, just like mine. She tosses me the evil eye before stepping into the living room to tend to her feet and toes.
“Jayd, me doing my hands and feet is totally different from you doing your hair.” She sits on the living room floor and dumps the Tupperware contents onto the carpet. She comes back into the bathroom and fills the container with warm water and soap to soak her hands and feet in.
“You go through this entire three-hour production every Friday night to wear it like some little dude on the street all week. I just don't understand it.”
“Mom, lots of sistahs wear their hair in rows.”
“Yeah, and they're all gay.”
“Mom,” I say. She can be so stereotypical sometimes.
“So, you saying me, Alicia Keys, and Queen Latifah are gay,” I say while pressing the first layer of my hair. I start at the back of my neck and work my way up to my crown, which takes at least a half hour. I have to be careful not to burn my shoulders and chest. I use a thick washcloth under the hot comb while I pull it through my hair. If I do it right, I can get a little bump at the ends without having to use my hot curlers.
“I don't know about them other girls,” my mom says while trying not to spill the water from her Tupperware-container-turned-foot-soaker onto the carpet, “but you better not be. It's a wonder you got any little boys running around after you at all, especially KJ.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” That was more than a little insulting. My mom can stab a sistah when she wants to. I don't know why she gets like that, especially with me.
“Oh, Jayd, you can be so sensitive sometimes. All I'm saying is that dudes usually like sistahs who wear cute, girly stuff all the time. And girls who wear their hair like girls, not like Snoop Dogg.”
“But, Mom, women in Africa have been wearing their hair like this since the beginning of time.” As my mom rolls her eyes again, quickly losing interest in the conversation like she does any time I disagree with her, the phone rings.
“Hello-o,” my mom coos into the phone. “Oh, hey, baby. You know I'm doing my nails tonight. What's up?”
That must be her main dude, Ras Joe. He's a big dude with long dreads hanging down his back. He's hella light-skinned with them funny-colored eyes. And, he's got money. I don't know how he gets it, but he got it. And he loves spending it on my mom.
Maybe there's some truth to what my Mom's saying. I've never had a dude buy me stuff before like she has. Maybe if I showed a little leg on the regular, dudes would treat me more like a lady.
What am I saying? I sound like Misty now. Besides, all that glitters damn sure ain't gold. Ras Joe is cool, but he don't hang around all the time. My mom has to sit by the phone and wait for that fool to call. That ain't treating nobody like a lady, or even a friend for that matter.
I also think Ras Joe got a family at home, but I ain't sure. My mom don't tell me stuff like that. She talks to her girlfriends, my play aunties, about her personal life. But, I do know she ain't never been to his house, and I don't think she ever met any of his kids.
“Baby, now you know Friday night is my night to beautify myself for the weekend. I'm nowhere near ready for you tonight.” I don't even know why she play like she ain't going out with him. She's already taking her feet out of the water and picking out polish.
“All right, baby. See you in a little while.”
See, what I say? Now I'm gone have to speed up my pressing process to get out of her way. I know she's going to want to shower before polishing her nails. But pressing don't take too long, and that's all I need the bathroom for. I can style my hair in her bedroom mirror.
But I can't decide how to do my hair. I want to put some cornrows in, but I'm too tired, and I have to get up to go to work tomorrow morning. Granted, it ain't as early as my 5:30
A.M.
wake-up call on school days, but 7:30
A.M.
is still early to me.
Don't slip up and get caught, 'cause I'm coming for that number one spot
. There's Ludacris announcing a phone call from somebody right in the middle of my hair session. Everybody that knows me knows Friday night is hair night. And, depending on if it's just a simple press and curl or something a little more sassy, it could take all night long.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Jayd,” says a male voice I don't immediately recognize, though something about it does sound familiar—and White. Who's this dude? And then I remember.
“It's Jeremy. What's up?”
“Hey, Jeremy,” I say, sounding shocked as I don't know what.
“You sound surprised to hear from me. You didn't think I'd call you, huh?” He got that right. With all that went down today with Trecee and KJ, I'd kinda forgot I exchanged numbers with Jeremy in class the other day.
“Nah, actually I didn't. What's goin' on with ya?” I say, trying to sound like I'm happy to hear from him. But honestly, I don't want my combs to get cold or burn because I'm talking to him.
“Did I catch you at a bad time? You sound a little busy.” He sounds so cute when he's nervous.
“Well, Friday night is my hair night,” I explain.
“You're doing your hair? I thought that's what girls said to get rid of guys they don't want to talk to,” he says, only half joking.
“Not Black girls. Depending on what we're doing to our hair, it can be an all-night production,” I say, taking the two pressing combs out of the oven. I use a white washcloth to set them on. If the imprint from the comb is black, it's too hot. But, if it's light brown, the combs are just right to get my kinks straight.
“So what you're saying is you really do have to do your hair and you can't talk to me now.” God, he sounds so sexy over the phone.
“I can call you back a little later.” I glance over at the clock radio to see what time it is. “It's about eight-thirty now. So, give me until about nine-thirty or ten o'clock and I'll be done,” I say, touching my hot combs to the palm of my hand. They're cooling off now. I got to go.
“Well, actually, me and my friends are going to hang tonight. I wanted to know if you wanted to join us.”
What! No plans. No warning. Uh-uh. A sistah got to finish her hair and get some rest. It's been a rough first week of school, and I need to chill out. But damn, I want to hang with him and his crew too. I want to get to know this boy. I got to be smooth, but not rude or desperate. And quick. My hair gets dirty from all this airplane pollution by my mom's house. The damn planes going into LAX fly right over her building, and I know they leave all kinds of crap in the air. And speak of the devil, here comes a plane now.
“What the hell is that loud-ass noise?” Jeremy asks, sounding almost annoyed.
“I'll tell you when it passes,” I shout into the phone. Folks that don't live near the airport just don't understand. My mom's immune to the noise. When she hears one coming she just turns the TV up. I'm kinda used to it too. But it can get annoying, especially on the weekends when it seems like a plane passes every ten seconds.
“That was a Boeing 747.”
“Did it land in your backyard?”
“No. I don't have a backyard here.”
“Where is here?” Jeremy says, sounding a little confused.
“I'm at my mom's house in Inglewood.” Now I really have to go. My hair is cold, so are my combs, and the oven's baking. Electricity ain't free. “Can I call you tomorrow?” I say, trying to sound unhurried.
“Yeah, sure. Well, do you want to hang out tomorrow night, or will you be doing your nails then?” Oh, I see he's going to be a funny one.
“So, you got jokes? Well, let's see how funny you are tomorrow night. Are you going to Byron's party?” I ask, momentarily forgetting all about Mickey and Nellie wanting us to make an entrance together.
“I wasn't planning on it. But, if you want to go, we can cruise by,” Jeremy says. Is he always this easygoing?
“I already told my girls I would be there, so I should make an appearance. I'll call you after I get off work.”
“Work? What time will that be?”
“About six o'clock.”
“All right then, I'll see you tomorrow, Jayd.”
“Have fun, Jeremy, and I'll give you a call tomorrow—nails done and all,” I say.
“Later, funny girl.” I hang up my phone and put it on the counter.
I have a date with Jeremy the White boy tomorrow night. What am I going to wear? How should I do my hair? Well, I could row it. I mean, he must think it looks cool like that, right? Or should I wear it a little different, show him another side of Miss Jayd Jackson? I don't know. My mom got me wanting to change up my stylo now.
Whatcha doin', man? I'm coming for that number one spot
. There's Luda again. Who's this now?
“Hello,” I say, sounding hella irritated.
It's a private number. What's the point of Caller ID if people can still block their numbers?
“Hey, girl. It's your daddy. Why you sound so snappy?” Why is he calling me this time of night? Usually by now he's asleep on his couch in front of the TV.
“Oh, hey, Daddy. I was just doing my hair and the phone keeps ringing. What's up? Shouldn't you be asleep on the couch by now?” It ain't like me and my daddy chat all that much, so something must be up.
“What are you doing the last weekend of this month?”
“I don't know. Working, I'm sure,” I say, a little snidely. He don't break me off no money. He gives my mom the court-mandated child support, which she then splits with Mama and Daddy, leaving nothing left over for me.
“Well, can you get the afternoon off that Sunday? We're having a little barbecue for your uncle Willard. He's moving back to Mississippi with his new wife, and I want you to be there.”
He's always trying to make me go to family stuff, and I can't stand it. Them people don't like me or my mom. And they're afraid of Mama. The Jacksons are good, Southern Baptist folks. They have a fish fry every Friday night, play Dominoes, Bid Wiz, and Spades every Saturday night, and go to church all day long on Sunday.
“Daddy, I can't miss work. I need the money, remember? Besides, Sundays are no good for me anyway. You know I got to go back to Mama's and get ready for school.” He don't know nothing about my life.
“What if I pick you up from work and give you a ride back to your grandmother's on Sunday?” This must be big. He don't usually make me offers like that.
“Why you want me to go so bad? I barely know Uncle Willard, and I don't know his new wife. I didn't even know he wasn't with the first one anymore, to tell you the truth.” My mom's standing in the bathroom door again, looking at me from the corner of her eye as if to say, “Hurry up and finish in the bathroom so I can get ready for my man.” I better wrap this up without too much protesting. Family is family, as Mama says.

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