The Meltdown (8 page)

After a grueling two-hour drive from Long Beach to Ingle-wood down the 405 freeway, I manage to stop by Mom’s apartment, shower, and grab my hair bag, ready to grant Rah’s sole birthday wish from me. I spoke to Jeremy briefly, and he teased me about needing glasses, or so the good doctor said during my short visit. But I’m not taking his word for it. Other than my insane episodes every now and then, my vision is just fine; I don’t care how many degrees he has.

It’s already six-thirty, and I’m apparently the first one of our friends here. Nigel’s probably getting home from practice, and who knows where the rest of the crew is, not that Chance and Nellie are necessarily expected to come with all of the drama they’ve got going on. As long as Nigel and Mickey make it, we should be able to have a good time.

I walk up the driveway and ring the doorbell, half-expecting Sandy to answer. Even after I mentally convinced her it was time to move on, there’s no telling how long the peace will last. Sandy’s about as unstable as they come.

“What up, girl?” Rah says, letting me in through the front door.

I step into the small foyer and notice the house is immaculate. Nope, Sandy’s definitely not here.

“Happy birthday,” I say, handing him the heavy hair bag with all of my tools inside before giving him a hug.

“Thank you,” he says, returning the affection and closing the door. “You want to hook a brotha up now? I’m in desperate need of a touch-up,” he says, taking off his cap and revealing the mess on top of his head. How did he mess it up so quickly?

“What happened?” I ask, reaching up to touch his dilapidated braids. “It looks like a woodpecker invaded your hair.”

“I know. It’s a long story,” he says, leading me into the garage-turned-studio where he and Nigel spend most of their free time. The crew used to assemble here on the regular before he let his crazy baby mama move in. Now that Sandy’s gone, maybe we can get back to kickin’ it here. I miss being a witness to the musical genius of Rah and Nigel.

“I don’t need the details,” I say, opening the bag of supplies Rah placed on his desk and retrieving my personal line of hair-care products. “Let’s begin with the basics. In the bathroom and on your knees,” I say, pointing toward the open door on the far side of the spacious room. It’s hard to believe Rah and Nigel did all of this by themselves, with a little help from some of their homeboys. If the music thing doesn’t work out, they can always go into construction.

“Yes, Miss Jackson,” he says, smiling.

His well-defined cheekbones are set deep into his ebony skin, revealing his perfectly straight teeth. I thought Rah would always have braces he wore them for so many years. They were well worth the wait.

I hope our friends have a good reason for keeping us waiting.
At least I have my work to keep me busy. That way when they finally do arrive, we can be freed up to chill.

In the hour that I’ve been here, I’ve washed, conditioned, blow-dried, and braided half of Rah’s thick hair—a true testament of my professionalism. And Rah has been completely compliant under my command, as usual. The stress I felt in his body when I first started has all but disappeared.

The doorbell rings, and I’m glad Nigel and Mickey have finally showed up. Now we can get this party started right. They called a little while ago and said they were bringing dinner once Mickey’s mom was home from work to watch Nickey. The reality of having a baby has set in for Mickey, and Nigel’s there with her all the way, like a good man should be. Rah and I both rise from our comfortable positions to help our friends with the food.

“Happy birthday, punk,” Sandy says, surprising us both. What the hell is she doing here? “I should’ve known,” Sandy says, glaring at me. I would return the evil greeting, but Rah jumps in before I have the chance.

“Sandy, I thought we had an agreement that you would stay with your grandparents and I wouldn’t have to see you on my front porch anymore,” Rah says angrily.

“Fool, that was then. This is now,” Sandy says, barely able to stand up straight. Something’s not right with this broad—more than the usual.

“You’ve got that Sybil syndrome going on, huh, Sandy?” Rah asks.

“Whatever, nigga,” Sandy says, pushing her way through the front door. “Where’s my daughter? I want to see her.”

I step out of the way into the living room, knowing where this is headed.

“She’s not here, Sandy. Does your parole officer know you left Pomona?”

“No, because I never went. And don’t tell him you saw me, either. You got that, Jayd? I was never here.” Sandy looks around the house, stumbling like a drunk.

“Sandy, how did you get here?” Rah asks, closing the door and following her into the kitchen.

I’m glad Rahima’s at Rah’s grandparents’ house with his younger brother, Kamal. They can shelter her from seeing her mother completely lose it.

“The bus, fool. You know that big-ass thing on wheels that rolls up and down the street, stopping every five minutes to let some punk out at the corner? I had to get a bus pass since somebody won’t let me drive their car anymore.”

“Sandy, have you been smoking crack?”

Usually Rah would be joking about anyone we know smoking crack, but this broad is definitely high on something and it ain’t life. This chick’s having a rough day, and she’s got the look to prove it.

“Didn’t you hear? Crack is whack,” Sandy says in her best Whitney Houston impression. “I don’t shoot up, Rah.”

“Okay, then what is it, because you’re acting very strange.”

I’m with my boy. Sandy’s tripping hard, even for her.

“I slipped a little E at this party last night, that’s all. It was some good shit, too, because I’m still feeling it,” she says, eyeing the box of cereal on top of the refrigerator like it’s gold. She reaches above Rah’s head and snatches the box down, tearing into the crispy treats. I can’t believe what I just heard.

“Damn, Sandy, are you serious?” Rah asks, snatching the box away from her. He looks just as crazy as she does with his hair half braided. I need to finish my work and get out of here. As usual, his baby mama can clear a room. “What if Rahima were here? Do you really want our two-year-old daughter seeing you like this?”

“She don’t know nothing,” Sandy says, reclaiming the box.

This is too much.

“Rah, I’ve got to get going,” I say, wanting to leave the kitchen and return to the studio to get my tools and purse. Birthday dinner or not, I have too much work to do to get caught up with their madness. And I damned sure don’t want to accidentally jump into Sandy’s mind again. Her thoughts are more confusing than Esmeralda’s, and that is almost too much to bear. And because she’s under the influence of some man-made poison, I know her mind will be extra clouded this afternoon.

“What about my braids?” he asks, looking sad.

Before I can respond, Sandy leaves the kitchen, heading for the living room.

“You can come over and get them finished when you handle your situation,” I say.

Rah gives me his signature puppy-dog eyes, pleading with me to stay, but they have little effect on me when there’s a dangerous bitch in our midst.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” Rah asks his estranged baby mama, following her.

“I can’t move,” Sandy says, laid out on the couch. Whatever dignity she was born with has long since left the building. Her black pleather, thigh-high boots are holding on by a string. The three-inch heels are worn to the nail, and she’s darkened the faded spots with a Sharpie one too many times. Rah covers her with a blanket—not because he wants her to be comfortable, now completely passed out in his house, but because she neglected to wear a skirt long enough to cover her bare ass when she’s lying down.

“I’m sorry, Jayd,” Rah says, looking at the ugly scene in disbelief.

“Happy birthday, Rah. Holla when you’re ready to finish.” I go claim my bag and purse from the studio, walk through the kitchen, and out the front door. Mickey and Nigel can take over from here. I’m so glad I’m not Rah’s girlfriend anymore. I can’t even imagine feeling like I had to stick around with all of that drama going on in his life. I feel for my boy, but him cheating on me with Sandy, my former best friend, and subsequently lying to me about having a baby was a good thing in retrospect. I’m not his girlfriend anymore, which means I can leave when it gets too hot for me.

I
t’s been a long, long week. Thank God I don’t have any more homework to deal with. Otherwise, I’d really be out of it. Mrs. Sinclair made us rehearse late into the night Wednesday, and after a successful opening night last night, she’s chilled out for our final performance this evening. She even brought doughnuts to class last period, giving us the entire hour to relax—just what I needed to deal with cheer practice this afternoon.

Because of Wednesday’s blind episode during the play rehearsal, I ended up telling Mama about Mrs. Sinclair requesting I remove my bracelets for the show. Before I could finish my story, Mama knew I’d lost my sight again and that I hadn’t been diligent in saying my protection prayer five times a day. When Mama gave the bracelets to me to wear permanently, the prayers from Netta came with the birthday gift. Mama says that losing our sight is a warning from the Mothers to remember that what they give they can also take. I admit I’ve been slacking in the prayer department lately, but I will make it a point to remember from now on.

Tuesday’s visit to the optometrist was purely to silence my father’s nagging about not using his medical insurance, yet I ended up with a pair of glasses. I don’t care what that eye
doctor thinks. I don’t really need them, which is why I left the specs on my mom’s coffee table. I refuse to wear those things every day. What’s the point of having the gift of sight if I need help seeing? None of the women in my family has needed outside assistance before.

My mom’s become overly concerned about my recent hot flashes: She thinks they are a sign of me holding on to residual energy from my vision quests both in and out of my dreams. My mom also strongly suggested that I give Dr. Whit-more—Mama’s trusted family doctor and loyal friend—a visit since I refuse to tell Mama my problem until she returns from her vacation. I agreed to check out the good doctor after school’s out next Friday. Too bad we have cheer practice all summer. I could use a break from those tricks, too.

“I want you all to welcome our newest addition to the varsity cheer squad—Ellen,” Ms. Carter says, clapping as the boisterous blonde comes jogging out of the girls’ locker room like she’s a celebrity. Where’d this chick come from? She’s obviously not from around here, wearing a fluorescent green scrunchy in her hair.

“Hi, y’all,” Ellen says, waving excitedly at the rest of the squad. “I’m from a little high school in Houston, Texas, home of the second-best cheer squad in the entire country. Now I’m a member of the number-one cheer squad. Isn’t that right, Lady Hawks?”

Texas: that explains it. She’s got
privileged Southern girl
written all over her flushed face.

The rest of the squad cheers loudly, jumping on the Southern bandwagon. Ellen puts her arms straight up in the air and flips backward, not once or twice, but across the entire length of the basketball court without stopping. Even my mouth drops at the sight.

“Damn,” KJ says from the sidelines, much to the disapproval
of Misty, who’s seated next to her man with the rest of their crew. She refuses to take those tacky-looking blue contacts out of her eyes, but they can’t hide her jealousy. Basketball players love to date cheerleaders, and girlfriend or not, KJ’s no exception.

“That white girl’s got skills,” Del says, with Money nodding his head in approval.

I guess they all like what they see. I’m not hatin’ on Ellen’s talent, either, but something about her instant presence makes me uncomfortable.

“Okay, ladies. Let’s get started. We have only a few days to get our routine for the final assembly tight. Ellen’s going to show us a few moves like that to really impress the crowd and show them our talent for next year,” Ms. Carter says. Ellen’s even got Ms. Carter on one, and she’s never moved to a state of jubilance by a student’s performance. “This is going to be the best cheer season ever. Get to it,” Ms. Carter says as she; the captain, Shauna; and the cocaptain, Alicia, head toward the bleachers. You’d think Ellen invented cheerleading the way everyone’s acting.

“That’s right,” Ellen says, picking up the red and white pom-poms and shaking them in the air. “Let’s see what you can do. We’ll start with a basic cartwheel and blackflip combination, then move on to the hard stuff.”

The hard stuff? Is she insane? I’ve never flipped straight a day in my life—side to side or backward—and today’s not the day to try any new tricks. The two routines we’ve been practicing are challenging enough for me, and I can’t afford to be sore for my final play performance tonight. I want to make it memorable because of my talent, not my stiffness.

“Hi. I’m Jayd,” I say, introducing myself to the perky chick. Maybe I can talk some sense into her. “Are we all supposed to learn to flip like that?”

“Nice to meet you, Jayd. And yup, you are.” Noticing my
disbelief, she walks up to me and pats my shoulder. Now I’m really not feeling her. “It’s easy, girl. Watch this,” Ellen says, bending backward like a human pretzel. Now she’s just showing off. “Trust me, Jayd. Your body can do whatever you want it to, no matter how much you weigh.” Was that a crack at my weight? Oh, no, this little pencil didn’t just go there with me. I don’t need any more help disliking her ass.

“You’re tripping if you think I’m doing all that,” I say, my neck in full roll. Before I introduced myself, I was just irritated. Now I’m pissed as all get-out. “Call me crazy, but I could’ve sworn this was the cheer squad, not the gymnastics team.”

“Oh, Jayd. Cheer is more than dancing and pepping the crowd with boring routines. You’ve got to work for championship trophies, girl.” She repeats the same combination, expecting me to follow suit. Is she deaf or just plain stupid? The other squad members practice their flips, none as perfect as Little Miss Texas.