The Kid (24 page)

“You don’t get it, do you? Don’t speak. You do as I say. You want to be a dancer?”

I nod.

He steps closer to me I can smell his cigarette breath, feel it on my face. “Say, ‘Yes, Roman.’”

“Yes, Roman,” I say.

“Good, good, you are capable of learning I see. Those are the only words you’ll need for a while, ‘Yes, Roman, No, Roman.’ Understand?”

“Yes, Roman.”

He turns away from me. The class sighs.

“OK, third position. Kapoot! It’s over, we don’t use it anymore hardly. Don’t nobody really use it in choreography or nothing. Some people use third instead of fifth, their knees is damaged, their thighs is too fat, whatever. If you have to use third instead of fifth, do something else, OK? There are enough people out there who can piss through the eye of a needle while they doing triple tours. If you can’t jump or do this thing or that thing because you fat or injured or structured deficient, forget it now, before you waste any more time or money. Both is very hard to come by.”

Fifth is a bitch. We never used it in Imena’s class. My thighs are big. I look around me, I’m the biggest person in the class, the only black person. I never experienced this before, being the only black person. I remember what Imena said, turn out from the top. Same thing he’s saying. Always, always from the hip socket, not from your knees. You got a good body, use it correctly. Just envision a stream of warm water falling down your back and another one jetting up the front of your belly at the same time, release in back and pull up in front.

It’s fucking shit-ass hell! Everything hurts, and I can’t do anything this guy is saying, and he’s dissed me in front of the class. But I know sure as my ass is black I’m coming back to this motherfucker. I will return. And return.

“I demand everything from
les étudiants
. I give everything. Eventually you will leave after you have sucked me dry, taken everything.”

I look around, not one face seems to disagree. “But you are stupid if you leave before that.”

My thighs are burning, my feet feel retarded, they can’t do what the little funny man with his accent asks. But I’m pulsating, open, I feel like . . . like a big ear. I hear him. Shit, man, I hear him!

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” I lie.

 

 

ON THE TRAIN
back to where I’m temporarily staying, I play the class over in my mind, remembering what Brother John said:
Don’t get hung up on what you can’t do. My mother
(he’s talking about his black foster mother)
would always say, see it, whatever it is, see yourself doing it or having it, and the Lord will provide the way.
I don’t know, but yeah, I’m standing at the barre, I plié, my legs opening wide, wide, my turnout is the best in the class—“145th STREET!” I hop to my feet, I didn’t even hear the conductor call out 125th STREET. Where was I!

The good smell of hamburger frying hits me when I open the door. Her food usually smell better than it taste, I done found that out. But I’m hungry. “BOY!” she hollers when she hears me. It’s more like a dog barking than a greeting. I put my backpack in the bedroom and go in the kitchen. Seeing her small and dark bent over the stove in the greasy smoke reminds me of Batty Boy, his black skinny arm stabbing wieners out a big steaming pot with the long-pronged fork. The wiener buns is damp and cold inside from being frozen. In another room he hits me so hard my nose is bleeding. I put my hand up to my nose, it is not bleeding. If I shake my head, it feels like it would rattle like in the cartoons or like my kaleidoscope. Shake shake turn turn change.

The hamburgers smell really good. She takes out a jar of mayonnaise. OK. Mustard. Jaime useta love cheeseburgers and cheesy fries. I talk about him like he’s dead or something, “useta.” I miss him, the little guys, the brothers. They miss me too, I know they do. If I’d been a grown-up or . . . or I don’t know, white or a girl, I don’t know. I can’t figure out how something like this could happen to me without a trial or a chance to prove myself as a good person. I am! Look how fast that police officer, pig or no pig, kicked that shit to the curb when Richie’s lying ass admit, admit, he didn’t see me move on him. Framed like on TV. I didn’t understand it then, but I was being framed. It was all a setup to make it look like I was doing the shit the brothers was doing. They knew just like on TV eventually they would get busted, sooner or later, so they decide to try and pin that shit on me. Also, they probably knew I was gonna break sooner or later about all that shit happened to me. And, like, fuck Richie Jackson, that little faggot, he want people to hurt him and shit. I’m not a faggot. I don’t want that shit on my ass. So the brothers knew I was getting ready to bust ’em, so they set me up for the bust. But I’m innocent.

I wonder what Mrs Washington think about all this shit. What lies they done told her? I left
Macbeth
on the first page. When Mrs Washington makes a mistake in class, she says, “God ain’t through with me yet.” Ladies is funny, Mrs Lee, Mr Lee’s wife, is like that too, always saying stuff like a grandmother or some shit. I tell you one thing, if there is a God, he’s through with the motherfucking brothers! What would I do if I was God, vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord? I bite down on my burger which is not charbroiled like the TV gourmet cook. The TV gourmet cook when they peel tomatoes, they put the long-prong fork through the tomato then “immerse the tomato in boiling water for about thirty seconds. Then peel away the skin with a small knife.” That’s what I would do to Brother Samuel. Peel his skin off. Take a sharp knife or a straight razor and start with the skin on his fat pink neck, peel slow, then pull slivers of skin off his back, his butt, then his big hairy belly, then bit by bit pull the skin off his dick. His love-a-kid dick, his hate-a-kid dick, his turned-me-into-not-a-kid dick. I hate him. Did I get to be like I am because of him, wanting to do the stuff ’cause of him? If I hadda been left alone, I woulda been a good kid. Maybe I would already be a dancer like that girl in the paper at ABT, thirteen! But them’s the kids with parents behind ’em. I ain’t got shit behind me except Brother John and them, and they turned against me in their cover-up shit.

Brother John? POW! Bust a cap in Brother John’s big almost-a-nigger head—POW! POW! But first bend down Brother John and eat your dog shit! Uh oh, poor baby, you spilled some, come on, Brother John, and eat it. You must be a good little brother or I’ll have to slice your balls off and throw them to the dogs that live under the train tracks. You wouldn’t like that, would you? Where they go, I ask her, looking out the window at the trains passing, shaking the bottles of cologne on the windowsill.
Connecticut and shit, where white people live.
Her soft skin brushes against my cheek, her black hair silk like Jaime’s. She sprays me with cologne.
Come on, we’re going to say good-bye to your mami.
OK, Brother John raised up on the mean streets of Harlem by a black foster mother. I pick up my hamburger finish it off in a bite. Brother John, did I ever tell you I get tired of hearing that same old story? Did your old black mammy teach you to fuck little kids, did she tell your big sissy ass to get little nigger boys and stick ’em under your black dress, remember that! Bend down! I said. I’m gonna kick your motherfucking face dead in that shit. And then grind your nose in it.

“You finished?” she says loud. Can’t she see? Maybe not, I realize.

“Yeah.”

Brother John’s nose ain’t in no shit. It’s mines that’s in shit! What is this here but shit! Yeah, Brother John probably got another little kid by now up there talking about you have a future here with us. Is this my fucking future? I look at her, rag tied around her head, bent over, then back at the table where, as usual, a determined roach is advancing toward my plate. I believe she’s my relative like I believe Brother Samuel is a man of God and the police is there to protect and serve our ass. Save that for thirteen-year-olds dancing at ABT, they get to believe the world is a good place. Slavery Days, this whole thing is like some story on TV or some shit Mrs Washington give us to read, where the protagonist wake up in another time, or another body, or as a beetle or some shit. Or like the stories where there’s like a cave or something and you go in and find the monster or old witch, her, and they tell you something to make you rich or get married. But she ain’t got nothing to make me rich. I feel like spitting on her old ass, I feel like shouting, TALK, TALK, TALK! Tell me what you did to get me up in here.

I look around the kitchen. Two big skillets and a big aluminum pot like at Miss Lillie’s on top the stove. Hmmm, Miss Lillie’s, try to forget that. I shoulda asked her for some cheese, I know she got it. What’s she saving it for? I wish I had a Quarter Pounder with Cheese right now. Peeling paint is hanging off the ceiling in dusty gray flaps. It’s so smoky’cause there’s no ventilation, no windows, not even a fan. In the kitchen fog, a lightbulb dangles yellow light from a cord hanging from the ceiling. Over the sink is a big clock with a second hand, the cord hanging from it another transit route for roaches. The handles of two of the cabinets on the wall are looped with a chain and padlock. I’m almost fourteen. I got to stay here till I’m eighteen? Four years? Four years! What happens if she dies? She’s going to or she could, old as she is, that weird smell come off her, that swollen leg—what’s that? I stand up.

“What happens if you die!”

“Well, I’ll be damned! All dese days you done sat up here ’n said nothin’, ’n when you do open yo’ mouf, it’s bullshit.”

We read about Avi, who was so happy when his grandmother came and got him and then he ended up throwing her out the window. Front page of the
Daily News
. Avi was old, though, seventeen. I don’t know if I hate her like that. I know I can’t stand being scared all the time, I can’t stand that this, this is . . . is my life.

“Yeah.” I don’t care how she feels. “What’s gonna happen to me if you decease?” I want to say it’s a legitimate question, like I would in class. I like Brother John, he never makes fun of us when we’re trying a new word, anything. Yeah, bitch, decease, die, expire, terminate, delete, cancel, passing death like my mom. Answer me, lady. I don’t even know if her ass get what I be saying.

“If I die? Boy, I believe you got a serious problem. Serious.” She turns from where she been leaning on the stove to face me. The lightbulb glowing down on her in the greasy air. She shakes her rag head. I do hate her, because at St Ailanthus I had a future, I could see it, I can’t now, not if she’s my . . . my
anything
. A big water bug is crawling out from under the clock on the wall behind her, like yo! He’s saying time to get shit straight, Granny! Time for Granny to start talking. But maybe she can’t, maybe she’s a for real nut?

“Who are you! Say something!” I holler.

“Who you hollerin’ at!”

“Why I’m here! Who are you! What the fuck is going on, how I’m related to you. Who’s my father, who’s my mom? What kinda shit you walking around mumbling to yourself. I gotta stay in this house five years?” She walks over to the kitchen table slow.

“Nigger, you got it good. You got somebody. Whether you likes me or not. I ain’ had nobody, nothin’. You hear me, nothin’. You got a place, food, you ain’t got to do nothin’ for it. I’m de only kin you got left—yo mama’s dead, gran’mama, if dey’da brought you six months earlier, you’da seen her, yeah, six months earlier you’da seen yo’ gran’mama, dat was my daughter, Mary. I’m yo’ great-gran’ma, hear me, thas who I am!” She snorts. “Hmph! ‘Who are you?’” she mimic me.

“Mary had stopped talkin’ ’fore she died, eatin’—movin’. She hadn’t been out de bed in years. It’s not like I forgot ’bout her, but one day I jus’ went in dere ’n, you know, she layin’ up dere dead. Firemens had to get her out. Five hunert pounds, Lawh Awmighty.”

I totally am not getting it. I think of Brother John talking about how the shopkeepers on 125th roll down the gray metal gates at night to keep their shit safe. Brother John say we got to do the same, the devil’s a looter. Keep yourself safe, roll down the gates, hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. I feel the rattle in my mind, the metal gates coming down. But Mrs Washington say,
Humph! Do no evil and you won’t have to worry about the rest of the mess. There’s a time to see and hear evil.

Yeah, what about Hamlet’s father’s ghost? Spoze Hamlet hadn’t listened to his father’s ghost? I’ve lost control again. Some big hand turns the kaleidoscope. It’s awful. And whether I like it or not, it’s a different picture. I don’t get to choose. If it was me choosing, my life would be a
Cosby
rerun from the olden days. Someone who loved me would say, “Get up from here! You don’t need to listen to this old witch darker than Shakespeare’s shit.”

“Yo’ name Jamal, mean ‘comely,’ like Solomon in de Bible.”

But this ain’t TV or Shakespeare. “Comely”? How does she know what my name means? Ugh! On the table next to the salt shaker is a glistening roach egg sac I feel like when the chalk goes down the blackboard the wrong way, ugh, the creeps. Where did I get my kaleidoscope? I know I got my chess set from Mrs Washington.

“Say sumptin’? Oh, I like to talk, ha, ha, yes I do, only ain’ usually nobody to talk to.”

I forgot what Brother John said about the deers stopping in front of the oncoming cars, frozen in the light. Why they do it? Just stand there and get killed.

“You ain’ stupid, what can I tell you ’bout yo’ mama you don’t know? You was wit’ her every day of her life, damn near. If she evah let you outta her sight, I don’ remember it. She didn’t even bring you round, nothin’.”

“She died of AIDS?”

“I don’ know what she died of, know what dey say she died of. Shit, dey die of it too. Thas promised, death. I don’ know what part of de Bible thas in, find it ’n read it for yo’self. You can read? Then you can find it. Taxes, death, ’n locusses, which is what dese roaches is. Locusses! So stop worrying ’bout dat, it’s in de Bible.