A Star is Born (7 page)

S
o this recipe is like a road map to get to a supper for twelve people,” Kambui said. “So me and LaShonda are in the backseat reading the directions and everybody else is following our directions, right?”

“Right!” Mom said.

Me, Mom, and Bobbi were going to do the actual cooking, which I liked, because if it came out good I wanted to get credit for it.

“Cut the
ventrèche
into one-half-inch squares,” Kambui said.

The
ventrèche
looked like rolled-up bacon, and I started cutting it up. We had soaked the white beans overnight like the recipe said and boiled them until they were almost done, and they were in a big pot on the stove. I got the
ventrèche
all cut up and Mom put it in a bowl.

“Season beans with salt and pepper!” Kambui said.

Bobbi put some salt and pepper on the beans. She looked serious. I liked that.

“Place half of the beans in the pot. Add the duck legs, the duck sausages,
ventrèche
, and garlic sausage, then pile on the rest of the beans,” LaShonda said. “This sounds good!”

The kit we had bought had all the parts labeled, and Bobbi and Mom found all the duck legs and sausages they were talking about and put them into the pot.

“Mrs. Scott, I don't have any idea how this is going to come out,” Bobbi said.

Mom shrugged. She didn't know, either.

“Mix tomato paste into dissolved demi-glace,” Kambui said. “Then pour it over the beans.”

We did that.

“Drizzle duck fat over everything.”

“This recipe is not politically correct,” LaShonda said. “You don't drizzle fat over food and think you're being cool.”

I drizzled the duck fat. I didn't think I was being cool. I wasn't sure what I was being.

But after a while I could see everybody settling into their attitudes. LaShonda started helping out with the cooking, and Mom sat down. I didn't want to sit down because I didn't think just the girls should be doing the cooking.

The pot we had wasn't big enough, and I had to go downstairs and borrow a pot from Mrs. Santana on the second floor. When she heard what we were doing she came up and started sniffing around.

“It smells like it's going to be all right!” she said.

By the time we put the pot in the oven, it was already smelling like something delicious and I was getting a little excited. Kambui was still trying to be cool, looking over the directions, but my layback had got up and walked out.

What I was seeing was that LaShonda was slowly taking over the kitchen. Bobbi was on top of things and they had me doing the cleaning up. Mom was getting to be a happy spectator and Mrs. Santana was talking about how her family used to cook together in San Juan.

“Everybody cooked!” Mrs. Santana said. “Abuela ruled the kitchen. She always had a wooden spoon in her hand and if you didn't do something right —
whack!
— you got hit. Then afterward we would all sit down and eat together and everybody would be laughing and talking because we had all helped.”

Mrs. Santana was talking about being a family and I could feel what she was saying. In a way, that was what LaShonda was saying, too, and I wished I had thought about asking her to bring her brother over.

Mom wasn't really into cooking that much, but I could tell she was glad to have us all over to the house. I wondered if that's what she missed not being with my father.

“We're going to have enough food to feed an army,” she said. “Start thinking about who else we can have over.”

It took almost three hours before the whole meal was finished. Me and Bobbi put our table together with a card table and covered them both with a big tablecloth while Mrs. Santana put on some yellow rice. We got the table set and put out all our plates while Kambui started calling around inviting people to dinner.

Who we had over:

I asked LaShonda to call Chris and she did, but she had to get Mom on the phone to ask someone to bring him to our place. Mrs. Askew, from St. Francis, came with him.

Kambui's grandmother came over and said that the apartment smelled like “the back door to heaven.” Mrs. Owens was really short but kind of wide and friendly.

The last person to show up was Mr. Santana.

“Don't speak nothing but English!” Mrs. Santana told her husband.

“Voy a hablar inglés! No se preocupe!”
he answered.

There were ten of us altogether when we sat down to eat. Mrs. Owens said grace, and we dug in.

It was good. I didn't like the duck that much and the sausages didn't taste like I thought they would, but it was all okay. Mrs. Santana liked it the most, or maybe Mr. Santana did, but he just sat there eating and mumbling in Spanish.

Mrs. Askew thought the meal was “creative” and “a memorable experience.” Whatever. In the end we had pulled off making a dinner, had eaten some stuff that was good but that we would probably never eat again, and had a new topic to talk about.

Chris sat next to LaShonda and I could see them together, almost as if it was some kind of dance. LaShonda smiled at us and talked when she was supposed to, but all the time she was moving along with her brother. When his arms got to swinging too wildly she held them down. When he began to open and close his hands very quickly, she took both of his wrists and brought his palms close so that they touched. Once she passed her hand in front of his face in a downward motion. It was a dance so subtle that it was almost invisible.

Chris never looked directly at anyone. He was an alien among us and we were aliens to him. I knew then that LaShonda was stronger than I could ever be — than I would ever want to be.

For a moment I was loving on LaShonda, thinking that maybe I would grow up and marry her. Then I thought about Chris and how hard it would be and made myself think of something else. That was something I could do that I knew LaShonda couldn't. I could think of something else besides Chris.

I wondered how my father would have fit in, if he would have been comfortable.

Bobbi, Mom, Kambui, and me cleaned up. Mr. Santana fell asleep in a chair, and Mrs. Askew went with LaShonda and Chris back to St. Francis.

I felt really good. We had done something and it had meant something. Different things to different people, but it had all had some meaning to it.

Plus, I had a piece of an idea. I needed to think it through more and maybe talk it over with Kambui and LaShonda. I didn't want to talk it over with Bobbi because I knew that if I did she would think it through in a heartbeat and piss me off.

I called Kambui and told him that the dinner, how we were all together like an extended family, was what LaShonda needed all the time and that maybe we could convince Mrs. Askew to do something about keeping LaShonda and Chris together.

“You going to call her?” he asked, meaning he didn't want to call her.

“I'll think about it,” I said.

Then I called LaShonda and told her my idea.

“She won't go for it,” LaShonda said. “She's got guidelines or something.”

Then I called Bobbi.

“You think we should go to the Virginia Woolf Society and ask them to expand their program to include families?” she asked.

If you could really hate a squinty-eyed white girl who could think faster than a computer, Bobbi McCall was the one to hate.

THE PALETTE

 

A Reply to Zander Scott
By Ashley Schmidt

I am sorry that I wrote so hastily about Tyree Jackson. But there has to be a balance between individual responsibility and personal regard. We cannot offer excuses for bad behavior just because we like the person doing the offensive act or just because the person is usually not one to do bad things. I believe this and I stand by it. I am giving Alexander Scott an opportunity to reply in
The Palette
.

 

A Reply to Ashley Schmidt
By Zander Scott

We have to either judge people by their potential or we judge them by their circumstances. Ashley is saying it doesn't matter why someone does something if that something is wrong in her eyes. But she is setting herself up as a judge and jury. If someone in her family was starving and stole food to keep from dying, would Ashley then condemn that person?

No, she would excuse that behavior as “justified” because she understands the whole picture. Does she understand the whole picture with Tyree? Is she interested?

S
o the plan was really simple. We would call the Virginia Woolf Society, tell them we wanted to have a conference, meet with them at their office, and Bobbi would tell them that they need to expand their offer to LaShonda to include all of St. Francis.

“And don't forget to smile a lot,” Mom said. “Rich people feel comfortable when you smile.”

The Cruisers were not about to go around smiling at people, but I didn't want to get up in Mom's face about it.

Kambui decided we should meet with them on Saturday afternoon, and me, LaShonda, and Bobbi agreed.

“They said they couldn't possibly meet with us on Saturday and that it would have to be either Wednesday or next month.” Kambui was breathless and I knew the phone call hadn't gone well. “At four-thirty.”

One good thing about Wednesday was that it was the day before we were going to put on our play for the community. If the play went badly we might be too down to talk to anybody.

Okay, so the Cruisers got together on Wednesday and hopped into a cab. Kambui gave the driver the address, but the man turned around, looked us over, and then asked if we were sure we had the money for the cab fare.

“Twelve dollars to Thirty-second Street!”

We got the money up and handed it over. I was thinking of saying something about did he know his way downtown but I thought he might put us out so I didn't.

We got to 31 East 32nd Street and told the guy in the lobby we had an appointment on the seventh floor. He gave us the same fishy look the cabdriver did.

“I think it's Kambui,” LaShonda said. “He always did look a little sinister.”

“That's true,” Kambui said, punching the floor button with a sinister finger.

We got to the Virginia Woolf Society office and went into a room that looked like all you should do is whisper because if you spoke out loud something in the room would break. A thin woman pointed first toward a small couch and then to two leather chairs before disappearing behind a door with a frosted glass window.

“I guess she didn't think we could figure out we couldn't all sit on one chair,” LaShonda said.

The room was full of books the same color as the leather furniture. I looked around and didn't see a paperback in the joint. After a while the frosted glass door opened and we were called into the room with a wave of the hand.

There were three women in the room sitting at a long desk, one on either end and the other one in the middle facing us. There were four chairs facing the table and I knew they had just been put there.

“I am Mary Brownstein, this is Elizabeth Poe, and this is Mrs. Turner, our board president. What can we do for you today?”

I turned toward Bobbi. She didn't move. I glanced over at LaShonda. She didn't move.

“We were thinking about LaShonda's going to live in the new place you have in Harlem,” I said.

“This is the young lady I spoke to you about, LaShonda Powell, who has a flair for design.” Mrs. Brownstein turned as she spoke to the woman who was the board president. “We believe she has
so
much potential.”

“But …” For a moment I couldn't think of anything else to say. I wondered what Mr. Lord would have said.

“Yes?”

“The thing we were thinking is that everyone at Da Vinci has potential,” I said. “And we were wondering —”

“We?” Mrs. Brownstein looked at LaShonda.

“We're known as the Cruisers,” LaShonda said. “We look out for each other. I have their backs and they have mine.”

“I see.” Mrs. Brownstein.

“What we see is that you've recognized how talented LaShonda is, and not many people do,” I said. “But we were thinking that instead of just hooking up LaShonda, it might be better if you could give a hand to St. Francis, the group home she's living in now. That way you could help some of the other kids there show their potential, too. And in a way, that would help the entire community, too.”

“That's very unselfish, but I wonder about the focus.” Mrs. Brownstein sat back in her chair and looked over her glasses. “Wouldn't it be more advantageous to the other young people at this group home —”

“St. Francis,” LaShonda said.

“Yes, wouldn't it be more advantageous just to show that such talent exists and to showcase it?” Mrs. Brownstein said.

“I don't think so,” LaShonda said.

“If you don't think that all the kids in the home have potential —”

“St. Francis?” Mrs. Brownstein said.

“Yeah, then it's cool to snatch out one person and hold her up,” I said. “But if you believe that they all have talent and they all have smarts, then it's just a matter of giving them all the opportunity. It's like our school. Everybody in the school is smart. Da Vinci just gives us a chance to show it.”

“We're giving our play tomorrow night for anybody who wants to come to it,” Kambui added. “So it's, like, a community thing.”

“What will your play be about?”

“It's called
Act Six
, and it's what happens to several of Shakespeare's characters at some future date,” Bobbi said.

“Why is it called
Act Six
?” At the other end of the table, Mrs. Turner, the board president, spoke for the first time.

“Because all of Shakespeare's plays had five acts,” Mrs. Brownstein said quickly.

“And how would we be able to help St. Francis?” Mrs. Turner asked.

“They can't afford a full-time person to help raise funds to keep the place going,” LaShonda said. “They have to keep going to the city for additional funds, and they think the city might cut them back so they can't keep paying the rent.”

“And you're all right with not moving, LaShonda?” Mrs. Brownstein asked.

“I am, I really am. There are so many kids who have something on the ball there,” LaShonda said. “I think a lot of them will do well if they have the chance.”

“I'm still worried about the focus,” Mrs. Poe said.

“Isn't Gerald Yorke looking for a position?” the board president asked. “He would be perfect working for this home and he's used to dealing with the city. This might work out quite nicely. We're having brunch with his uncle next week. I'll talk to him about Gerald.”

Mrs. Turner stood up and the other two popped up right behind her and we knew the meeting was over. We were escorted to the hallway and Mrs. Brownstein gave LaShonda a hug.

“One day you'll have to design a gown for me!” she said.

“I sure will!” LaShonda beamed.

In the elevator:

“Bobbi, you were supposed to do the talking!” I said.

“I froze up!” Bobbi said. She was ready to cry. “I always freeze up unless I'm mad.”

“I think we did all right,” LaShonda said.

“At least they didn't say no.”

“They're grown-ups,” Kambui said. “They're going to do what they want to do, anyway.”

“Where did you get all that talk about how everybody had talent and stuff like that?” LaShonda said.

“From that Lord dude when he was mouthing off,” I said as we hit the street.

“That's not how he was meaning it, though,” LaShonda said. “He was thinking you should dumb everybody down so we'd be equally behind.”

We got to the subway and Bobbi found out she didn't have her bus pass. We went to one of the cops in the station and he said he couldn't let her in, but then a transit worker came over and let her go through the gate.

I thought we had done okay, too. We had presented our case and had the Virginia Woolf Society at least thinking about it.

“Yo, folks, I got something else to say,” I said.

“Go on and say it,” Kambui said.

“I'm proud to be a Cruiser.”

FRIENDS
By Bobbi McCall