Cold As Ice (10 page)

“Maybe you should talk to your parents about it.” I grab my backpack and purse off the bleacher beside me and stand up, ready to get out of here. Work calls, and so does my money.

“Oh, I don't think that's a good idea. If my dad found out I had an ounce of black blood, he'd probably jump off the roof out of shame.” I almost wish that were true, but I already know Mr. Carmichael knows about Chance's birth parents, and he's still standing.

“What about your mom?” I glance across the court at Rah, Nigel, and my girls, wishing everything could be back to normal for us. Rah glares at me before refocusing on his conversation.

“My mom's cool. She's real supportive of me finding myself. She's always talking about the world being my oyster and crazy shit like that. She's kind of out there.” Chance smiles and looks down at his watch, thinking of his mom. Part of his struggle with questioning his mother is that he doesn't want to cause her any more pain. He hates the way his father treats her and does his best not to add to her misery.

“Maybe she's not as out there as you think she is.” I look deep into Chance's eyes, praying for some recognition of the fact that his parents adopted him and that his birth mother is half black, but I've got nothing. Mama said my memory is a gift, so should I share my blessing with him or not?

“So, what's up with you and that new sophomore Emilio?” Chance asks, officially changing the subject. “You got that freshman fever a year after the fact, huh?” Chance rises from his seat next to mine, and we walk outside as the final school bell rings. I'd better wrap up this conversation and get to hiking up the hill to my car. Besides, if Nellie comes out here and finds me still rapping with her man, she'll bust a vein, no matter how innocent the conversation may be.

“Nothing. I know you know Jeremy and I are back together, so don't even play like that.” I reach up and push Chance on the shoulder, slightly knocking his tall, thin frame off balance and into his car.

“I'll never understand why you drive this old thing,” Nellie says, following us outside and interrupting our conversation while tossing the catalogs and other crap she's holding into Chance's open car window.

“Nellie, what do you mean? This here is a 1967 Chevy Nova, baby girl. It's one of the fastest hot rods around,” Chance says, pushing a button on his hi-tech car remote and turning on the stereo. He is so proud of his boy toy, but Nellie's not feeling the love.

“I know you can afford something better than this,” Nellie says, flipping her golden locks over her right shoulder. That habit of hers got on my nerves with her naturally brown hair, and it's even more annoying now. “Don't you miss the luxuries of a new car?” That sure is a lot of lip coming from someone who doesn't drive.

“Baby, that's not me. This is how I roll,” Chance says, turning up the bass in his already loud sounds. Nigel, Mickey, and Rah, who are now behind us, look impressed with the Gucci Mane song bumping from his speakers. And Mickey thought he didn't have the type of music we like. She's the main one rocking back and forth, and her baby is probably in her belly dancing, too.

“It just looks so…so…” Nellie says, pausing for effect, I suppose.

“So what?” I ask, already knowing what she's thinking without reading her mind. Nellie's the kind of neighbor who will call the police on your ass in a hot minute if your music's too loud rather than simply ask you to turn it down if it's that serious. She's also the type of Compton native who hates being from there. And Chance is the type of white boy who would love a shot at being from our hood. I'm still torn about telling him he's part black, but the truth just might make his day. Change is an inevitable part of life, as I'm learning. Eventually, my boy's going to have to learn about his heritage.

“So Mexican.” We all pause and wait for Nellie to laugh so we can know that what she just said was a joke, but the laughter never comes.

“What's wrong with that?” Chance asks, putting Nellie on the spot. She looks embarrassed, as well she should, because she's gone too far this time. I guess my morning mouthing-off illness is contagious.

“I love your car,” I say. Nigel and Rah smile at me as I touch the red hood like we're good friends. “Can I drive her up to the main lot?” I ask, redirecting Chance's attention the old-fashioned way because I can't jump in anyone's head right now. I have to get to work and could use a ride to my car.

“Sure,” he says, opening the driver's-side door for me before getting in the passenger's side. I wave bye to my friends and turn the key, feeling the quiet purr of the engine surge up my right leg. I press on the gas while in park and then the brake before putting the classic car into reverse. I love driving this thing.

“That's it, Jayd. Nice and easy,” Chance says, smiling at the sight of me behind the wheel of his winning ride. Whoever worked on this Nova didn't leave anything out. The vibrating bass, leather seats, and fresh air are so therapeutic for my soul. Too bad I can't drive it all the way to Compton. I need to stay in this moment for as long as I can before encountering Mama. I admit it will be difficult moving out of Mama's house, but it'll be worth it in the end. Like all change, it's coming whether we like it or not. I'm always moving too fast for my own good, so I'll just cruise into the eye of the tornado this afternoon and enjoy the calm before the storm that is Mama.

A
fter taking my time getting to my mom's car, I finally make my way to Netta's shop. I'm apprehensive about seeing Mama after this morning's quarrel but equally ready to get it over with. When Netta buzzes me through the front door, the conversation is in full swing. I greet everyone, and they continue their discussion. With the four clients present, I'm sure it's been a lively chat. I walk to the back of the shop and put my purse in my locker, claim my personalized apron, and get ready to work.

“I don't know why black women are so fascinated with James Bond, no matter which white man is playing him.” Netta's in rare form this afternoon. “Did you see that movie
Live and Let Die
where they demonized a voodoo priest? Like they couldn't pick something else to talk about. No, they just had to go feeding my black men to some damn sharks as if we didn't get enough of that bull during the Middle Passage,” Netta says, clamping the hot curlers like they wrote the script. Poor curlers and client at her booth.

“Mmmm-hmmm,” Mama says. That's the most she's said—or not said—since I arrived. Mama hasn't said one word to me directly, and she barely looked my way when I walked in. I know Netta's trying to break the ice, but it's colder than Alaska in here, and I don't feel a warm front coming on anytime soon, especially not after I break the news to Mama that I actually am moving into my mom's place and speaking at Daddy's church for the unholy day. It's like two betrayals in one shot, or at least that's the way she'll see it, knowing Mama. She and Rah have that whole loyalty-to-the-end personality streak in common.

I step into Netta's private bathroom and wash my hands and face in the sink before I officially start my duties. I quickly stop in the shrine room and say my prayers before going back out front, where the topic has progressed to Halle Berry's role as a Bond girl in one of the movies. I could not care less about all that. On my way to the clients' cabinets, I look across the room at Mama, who looks preoccupied with her own thoughts—probably about me. There's no time like the present to break the news to her, but I'll wait until the clients leave. The shop will be empty soon enough, leaving us space and time to talk in private.

 

Once the shop is quiet, Netta and Mama recap the day's events, mostly about which clients' hair is growing stronger and who needs what in her personal beauty regime. I've been replaying my independence speech in my head for the past four hours, trying to figure out which words go where, and have come to the conclusion that I should just let them flow. Here goes nothing. We're all busy washing the various tools necessary for our trade. Hopefully, the water will keep us all mellow when I break the news.

“Daddy wants me to give the young folks' sermon on Easter Sunday,” I say as Mama washes the combs in the small sink. “I told him I'd think about it.” Netta looks up at me from her sink and returns her attention to the brushes she's soaking. I guess she doesn't want to get in the middle of this discussion.

“I'm sure you will,” Mama says, taking the handful of multi-colored plastic hair combs out of the soapy water and putting them on the empty side of the sink for me to rinse. I walk over to where she's standing and begin my duties. “Do you know why he asked you to speak?” Mama continues washing, and I continue rinsing as I think of a response. Even though her eyes are looking down, I can still feel her probing my thoughts the same as if she were looking directly into my eyes.

“Not really,” I say while laying the combs on a clean white towel to dry. “I guess he thought I did a good job at Tre's memorial service a few weeks ago. He seemed proud of the way I stood up in front of everyone and poured the libation for the ancestors.” Mama washes the last of the combs and passes them to me before rinsing out the sink. She takes one of the white towels hanging from the cabinet above our heads and dries her hands.

“I'm not doubting your grandfather's pride in your speaking abilities, Jayd. But I would be doing you a disservice if I didn't warn you about his need to save the poor sinner's soul,” Mama says, taking the clients' boxes out of the same cabinet to reorganize their contents. Netta's now doing the same thing with boxes in the cabinet above her sink. We're nothing if not thorough at Netta's salon.

“Mama, Daddy knows I don't need saving.” As I put the last comb on the towel to dry, Mama looks at my every movement carefully, like she's measuring me up. I turn around, retrieving the same towel she used, to dry my hands before checking the wall clock. My mom still hasn't called me back yet, but I'm sure she got my message. If it's all good with her, I can move my stuff tonight.

“Does he really?” Mama's deep inhalation sounds heavy, like she's breathing for more than herself. The memory she's processing must be serious by the way she's choosing her words carefully.

“Mmmm-hmmm,” Netta says while tagging the various boxes with a list of needed ingredients. I know she wants to comment, but she refrains. Mama looks at me and shakes her head, taking her time responding. Finished with my duties in the wash area, I move back into the main area, awaiting my next assignment. Waiting for Mama to speak, I pick up the salt and pepper shakers sitting on the small table next to the hair driers and begin to spin them around like I used to do when I was a child. We need to refill the other condiments and napkins for the clients who like to munch while getting their hair done. Mama and Netta usually provide them with something good to snack on to pass the time.

“Do you know why we throw salt over our shoulders when we spill it?” Mama asks and then walks over to where I'm standing, claiming the shakers and my attention.

Without waiting for my answer, Mama continues.

“It's for the ancestors. Everything we do is because of the ones who came before us—no exceptions. I'm all for people hearing God the way It comes to them. But as I've said before, the moment when that hearing comes with judgment, it becomes not only dangerous but also disrespectful for those deemed as nonbelievers. And trust me, your grandfather thinks of you as a nonbeliever—someone who needs saving. The day I meet a Christian who doesn't look at me like I'm already burning in hell, with little devils poking me in my backside with pitchforks, will be the day that I set foot back in a church.” I know what she means. When I told my class I come from a lineage of voodoo priestesses, I felt the heat in their imaginations rise under my chair.

“But I don't understand how he could, especially after he's seen the work we do.” Mama looks at me, smiling at my naïveté. “Besides, he wouldn't ask me to give the sermon if he thinks I'm going to hell.” I quickly restock the necessities and dust the table and magazines. I know once I move out of this conversation and into the next one about me moving out, it'll be time to go, in more ways than one.

“He would if he thought it might save your soul.” Mama returns to the wash area, reaches into the cabinet above Netta's head, and claims Netta's spirit book. Walking back over to the table, she sets the heavy book down and turns to a section on sacrifice.

“I know you think I'm being naive about this, but I honestly think Daddy's coming around a bit,” I say, directing my attention to where her red-tipped fingernail is pointing. Mama looks up from the worn pages just long enough to roll her emerald eyes at me before she continues her searching. I wonder what she's looking for? We should get to work on an index for this massive book. Much like ours, Netta's is in need of some serious updating.

“I know you want to believe in the good in everyone, and that's what makes you so sweet, omo Oshune,” Mama says, stroking my left cheek while calling me a child in Yoruba. At least I know she still loves me no matter how hurt she is by my recent actions. “But as a daughter of Oshune, you have to also be aware of when your culture is under attack. That is also part of Oshune's character—to keep our culture alive. And trust me, child, your grandfather is not interested in the retention of traditional African religion, no matter what you may think his true motives are.”

Without saying another word, Mama taps her long, French-manicured nail on a page for me to begin this evening's studies. It's one of her own stories that Netta recorded. She returns to her work and leaves me to my reading. I can understand Mama's caution, but I think she's overreacting on this one. Nothing about Daddy's invitation said to me “save the sinner,” but we shall see. I don't even know if I want to go through with it. I don't mind speaking in front of a crowd, but Daddy's congregation is a whole other story.

“
Diva is a female version of a hustler,”
Beyoncé sings, announcing a call. It's Jeremy. I told him all about this morning's drama, and he's been trying to catch up with me ever since. He'll be the first call I make when I leave work in a few minutes. Mama and Netta have a lot of work to do for the initiation they're helping with, as well as behind-the-scenes work for the shop, neither of which I'm privy to. After I'm done with the impromptu spirit lesson, I close the book, awaiting the customary drill from the two elders in the room, but it looks like something else is on Mama's mind.

“Your mother called me this afternoon to talk about your move,” Mama says without looking at me. I can hear the tears in her voice, but neither one of us will let a tear drop. Stubbornness is in our genes. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Netta looks up at me from her work with a concerned look in her eyes. I know they mean well, but I can't deal with my uncles and their rude-ass behavior any longer, nor should I have to if there's a better option available.

“Mama, I have exams this month that could make the difference between me getting into a good college or not getting in at all,” I say, hanging my work apron on the hook next to the large cabinets taking up one side of the room. “I'm not leaving because I want to. I'm leaving because I need space to concentrate on my schoolwork.” I glance at the clock and feel suddenly rushed for time with the looming lateness. It's almost eight, and I need to call Jeremy back before he goes night surfing with his beach crew.

“And what about your spirit work? How are you going to study if you're not at home with me?”

“With us,” Netta says, now beating the shea butter she's mixing harder than necessary.

“Mama, you act like I'm not going to see you every day,” I say, taking my purse out of the locker, ready to go. “And besides, just because I don't live with you and Daddy anymore doesn't mean I won't be back to visit.” I dip my finger into the sweet butter Netta's making, to moisturize my hands.

“There's a reason you don't live with your mama, Jayd. First of all, she's never home, and you're still a minor. You need supervision.” Mama's not going to let up on this, and I don't want to argue anymore. I wish I could jump in her mind and chill her out, but my mom's powers are not easy to master. How can I get Mama to understand that I deserve a break?

“Mama, I'm not a little girl anymore. I can take care of myself. I've been doing a good job so far.” I look at Mama and Netta, who look equally shocked by my statement, but it's true, and they can't argue with the facts. No one makes me do my schoolwork, buys my supplies or my clothes. That shit's all on me, and because of that, I should at least be able to study in peace.

“Jayd, please. Your grandfather and I provide for you, and your mother helps out when she can, or have you forgotten about groceries and bills?” Mama asks, reading my mind. I didn't think about the fact that my mom doesn't even keep the refrigerator stocked for me on the weekends, and I doubt she'll kick in for my weekday meals, especially because she's not there. Karl provides all her meals now. I'll make do on milk and cereal, if need be. It'll be worth it to have my own space.

“I'll be all right, Mama. Don't worry,” I say, taking my keys out of my purse and making my way toward the front door. I would kiss them both good-bye, but I don't think they're in the mood for any affection. “I'd better get going before it gets too late.”

“You're moving too fast, Jayd. But you'll soon learn your lesson.” Mama sounds like Daddy, who always says I'm moving so fast that no grass can grow underneath me. I don't know what that means, but it must be old folks' way of saying I need to slow my ass down. But this time I disagree with them both. If they knew what my friends were up to all the time, they'd count their blessings that I move the way I do. Speaking of which, I guess I'd better get going if I'm going to move my stuff out of Daddy's closet and make my move official. There's no time like the present to see how green the grass is on my mom's side of town.

“I'll see y'all tomorrow,” I say, waving to them as I close the door behind me. I feel like I'm doing the right thing, and, hopefully, they'll grow to understand my decision.

Earlier, I sent Jeremy a brief text saying to call me when he gets home tonight, no matter how late it is. I also texted Nigel and asked him to meet me at my mom's apartment and help me move my shit upstairs if he's not too tired from playing ball. I don't have a lot of stuff, but it's heavier than I thought it would be. Luckily, it's Friday night, and the house is empty. I take this as a good sign that I'm moving in the right direction, even if I am whipped from packing my belongings into the car.

I stack the last of my things in the dining room, ready to load them into my mom's car parked in the driveway. Daddy pulls up, parking in front of the house and walking up beside my mom's car and onto the porch steps.

“Hey, Daddy,” I say, passing him by as I carry my things out.

“Hey, Tweet,” he says, kissing me on the forehead as he eyes my actions. “Jayd, can I talk to you for a minute?” Daddy takes my bags and helps me to the car. I'm glad Mama's not here. I don't think I could handle moving while she's watching. It's bad enough I'm causing her so much pain, but, even worse, I wouldn't want her to see that me staying here would be painful for me. I hope she understands I'm not doing this to spite her, even if it feels that way.