Cold As Ice (3 page)

“Babe, Jayd's not trying to take anything from you. The truth is, my mom asked her because she's known Jayd for years and respects her stride. It has nothing to do with you.”

“The hell it doesn't,” Mickey says. “And whose side are you on anyway, Nigel?”

“Mickey, you make everything so damned difficult,” I say. I'm trying to spare my girl's feelings, but it's not worth it. “Nigel's mom said if I participate in the ball, she'll come to your shower. That's why I'm doing this—for you, not me.” The bell for third period rings in the now still air, causing everyone around us to stir, but we remain at a standstill. For a moment I think Mickey's coming to her senses, but then she opens her mouth.

“Whatever, Jayd. You can't stand the fact that you're not the only girl in your little boy crew anymore, and I'm not falling for it.” This girl needs to get over herself, but that'll never happen. Mickey's nothing if not the truth about her shit. “You can go ahead and have your little ball, but I've got the real deal right here, and you can't take this away from us. Rah's right: You're nothing but a traitor.” And with that final verbal blow, Mickey holds on to her baby bump and struts down the hall. That girl is unbelievable.

“Jayd, I'll talk to you later,” Nigel says, following Mickey out of the building. Chance and Nellie head out, too, after apologizing for the stupid scene. It's cool—I'm not going to let Mickey get to me, especially when I know how ignorant her ass is going to feel once she realizes how wrong she is. There's nothing I can do about it now, and we all need to get on with our day.

 

Unfortunately it's already been a long week and it's only Monday. Not only is Mickey tripping way too hard for me to deal with—and also try to help her pregnant ass at the same time—but Mrs. Bennett dropped a bomb of her own today, announcing that the mandatory Tuesday and Thursday AP meetings were over. Instead, we will have practice AP exams twice a week until the actual exams a few weeks from now. A bitch is a bitch and then some. At least Mickey left a half-assed apology on my voice mail for going off on me earlier, but it wasn't that genuine, in my opinion, and was probably prompted by Nigel, I'm sure. I didn't make a big deal out of it, but as far as I'm concerned, she still owes me a real one.

When I made it home this evening, the house was quiet. I didn't check the spirit room to see if Mama was here, because, honestly, I just wanted a moment to myself before everyone else got home. With my four uncles, grandparents, and cousin Jay all living under one roof, it gets pretty crowded around here. It's days like this that I miss the weekends I spend at my mom's apartment.

“How was your weekend, baby?” Mama asks, coming through the kitchen door from the backhouse in which the spirit room is housed. I jump up from my seat at the kitchen table to help her with her bags of dried herbs and other spirit tools. It looks like she's about to make a spiritual bath. I hope it's for her own use because she looks more tired than usual. Her green eyes look weary, and her shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair is pulled back in a bun—the usual style when she doesn't feel like bothering with her hair.

“It was okay,” I say, retrieving the bags and closing the back door behind her. “How was yours?”

“Busy, girl,” she says, making her way back to her bedroom, and I dutifully follow. “We have an initiation to assist in, starting at the end of the month, Jayd.” Spring and summer are the seasons Mama's called on by other spiritual houses to help with their new initiates, as well as any other rituals that may come up. Mama gets hella cash for participating in ceremonies, even though she never asks for a dime. Sometimes she works for free, saying that her payment will come from Legba, which it always does in one way or another.

“You know, my birthday's also at the end of this month,” I say, reminding her even though I know it's not necessary. I place the items on Mama's bed and follow her back into the kitchen. I guess there's more where that came from.

“So is your mother's, but neither one of the days are holidays, and we still have work to do,” Mama says, stepping out the back door. That's the same thing I told Mickey's unborn child when I walked through Mickey's dream last month. Nickey Shantae is more like me—her spiritual godmother—than I thought. No wonder she chose me to protect her little spirit self.

“Okay, okay,” I say, packing up my schoolwork spread across the kitchen table and putting it in my backpack on the floor. I can see Mama will need this space. Mama steps back inside with a covered serving plate and sets it on the kitchen counter. She opens the top, and I can smell the raw chicken from here.

“Did I miss something?” I ask, watching Mama wash her hands and then the carcass in the sink. During certain ceremonies, preparing chicken is a mandatory sacrifice.

“Yes. Netta's son received Shango this weekend,” Mama says. “We finished his ritual earlier this afternoon, leaving us with dinner.” People often forget where fried chicken comes from, with a Popeyes on every corner, but Mama prefers it the old-fashioned way. “And do you know somebody around here had the nerve to call Animal Patrol on us because we had live chickens in the backyard?” Mama places the whole bird on the cutting board next to the sink and chops it into separate parts before placing it back on the plate to marinate.

“What did you tell them?” Voodoo practitioners have always come under attack by animal-rights folks or unsympathetic neighbors. I take out the sea salt, pepper, and other seasonings and place them on the counter.

“I told them the truth. We don't have to hide anymore,” Mama says, seasoning the poultry. She'll fry part of it and bake the rest. “But you still didn't tell me how your weekend really was. Did you get any work done?” She expertly flips the meat, evenly coating every piece. Damn, that's going to be good.

“Yes, but not too much. There was drama with Rah to distract me, as usual,” I say, walking to the dated stove and turning the dial to heat the oven. Mama washes her hands and moves on to the herbs on the kitchen table as I remove the two large cast-iron skillets and place them on the stovetop. This stove is on its last leg, which is why I'm saving up for a new one on Mother's Day.

“How's that beautiful little girl of his?” Mama asks while separating the various plants—some for dinner, some for the bath. How she remembers what goes where is amazing to me.

“She's okay, except she still has a crazy mother. I had to pick up Rahima from Sandy's job one night because of Sandy and her games,” I say, washing my hands in the sink before moving on to my next task. I love being in the kitchen with Mama.

“Sandy's job?” Mama asks, almost dropping some of the rosemary stems on the kitchen floor, which needs mopping badly. That's my uncles' job, but they rarely do their fair share of chores around here. “Doesn't she work at a strip club?”

“Yes, she does,” I say, recalling the less than favorable memory in my head while taking the large bottle of olive oil from the kitchen cabinet and pouring it into the skillets for the fried chicken. “How she could take her baby there is beyond me, but who am I to judge?”

“You are a child of Oshune. That's who you are to judge,” Mama says, looking at me and scrutinizing my thoughts with her eyes.

We finish up the preliminary cooking duties now, ready to get down, which means I need to change clothes. Battering chicken is a messy job, and my Apple Bottoms top is too cute for that.

“We don't do that, Jayd.” Mama takes the herbs in our bedroom to dry, and I follow with my backpack and purse in hand.

“Do what?” I ask. I close the door, take a seat at the foot of my bed, and kick off my sandals before changing clothes.

“Participate in deviant behavior. And taking a child to a seedy place like that is definitely abnormal.” Mama places the herbs with the other things on her bed and lays them all out to get a better look at her collection. After I finish dressing, she takes out a few of them and hands them to me to inhale.

“I know it was a bad judgment call, but I couldn't leave Rahima there. And I told Rah and Sandy that it wasn't a good idea, but they just thought I was making a big deal out of nothing.”

“There is so much power in being a woman. If that girl only knew,” Mama says. “Put those in your bath tonight and sleep in clean whites to remove some of that negative residue you've got lingering on you from your friends. Some people will never learn that all money ain't good money.”

I hear that loud and clear. Unfortunately, much like Mickey, all Sandy cares about is getting a man to pay her bills, and Rah's the lucky guy. She'll have as many babies as it takes to secure her future. Whatever happened to working for yours? It's just like choosing to cook dinner or buy it—either way, there's work involved, but in the end, what you put in is definitely what you get out. And both Mickey and Sandy are in for a rude awakening with the choices they're making. It'll be a cold day in hell before I sell myself out like that.

T
he room is dark except for a flicker of light coming from a lit candle sitting nearby on an antique writing desk. There's also a feather pen and ink chamber on the desk and a blank writing pad. I walk toward the desk, curious about the ancient writing tools, but I hesitate before I claim them with my hand. I can feel Mama's presence behind me, gently pushing me forward.

“Go ahead, dear. Write it down. It's your story to tell,” Mama says to me, guiding me to sit in the leather chair behind the desk. But how can I write in the dark?

“Mama, I can barely see. Can I get some light in here?” I look around the dark room for a window, lamp, something that will give me a little more brightness, but no such luck. The candle is the only assistance I have, and it's not very bright.

“You have all the light you need, chile. Now go on and get busy. We don't have all night.”

I take my seat at the desk and begin writing as much as I can, but I can barely see the words forming on the white page in front of me. I dip the pen into the black liquid and pray that what I'm writing is legible. I know what I want to say, which is half the battle. But whoever reads it may not
get the full meaning of my words if they can't make out my handwriting. I was never good at penmanship.

“Why am I writing this down when no one's going to be able to make it out? Isn't that the point of keeping up with our history?” I ask Mama, who has since disappeared from the room. I take a deep breath and continue my scribing, more anxious to get on with this assignment so that I can leave this dark space. It's giving me the creeps.

Finished with my story for the moment, I rise from the weathered seat and walk toward the only opening in the dark space. As I reach for the barely visible brass knob and open the door, I feel a cold breeze enter the room, giving me the chills. I take a step outside, momentarily blinded by the bright light coming in from every direction, and immediately fall flat on my ass, hitting my head on the cold, hard ground.

“Damnit! What the hell was that?” I ask aloud, holding the back of my head where the pain throbs. I'm not sure who's listening, but I can feel someone's presence around me.

“Watch your language, young lady, even when your head hurts,” Mama says, gently scolding me, but I know she can feel me. That shit hurt. “And that was black ice, Jayd. It's the most dangerous kind because you can't see it until it's too late. Always watch your step, even in the light,” Mama says, but I can't see her. All I see are the stars in my head, like in a cartoon.

“Ouch,” I say, slapping the alarm clock and rubbing the back of my head where the impact from the fall in my dream has left a knot in reality. Why can't I dream like a normal person?

“Because you're not normal, Jayd,” Mama mumbles from her side of the room. “Now go on and get up before you're late. And put some ice on your head. It'll help the swelling go down,” she says, turning back over to return to her slumber. Isn't it ironic that the same thing that hurt me is the same thing that'll help me heal? I wish I could stay under the warm covers, but I have to get up and start my day—weird dream, knotted head, and all.

 

It's a beautiful spring morning, not that we in California know much about the seasons changing at all. But I can feel the sun's warmth breaking through the foggy ocean chill on my skin, and I welcome the constantly hot days that are ahead. Let's just hope that nothing at school will ruin my mood. So far, so good. It's already lunchtime, and no one's pissed me off as of yet. But it's still early in the day, and I have an African Student Union meeting plus two more classes to get through before I can officially declare this day drama free. But Nellie and Mickey are getting me closer to pissed with this constant baby-shower planning, especially since Mickey has yet to officially apologize for her rude behavior. I could give a damn about what she's going through, being on academic probation, pregnant, or whatever. Mickey accusing me of betraying her ass was cold-blooded and can't be easily forgotten or forgiven.

“Okay, it looks like the shower will have to be the weekend of the twentieth because the following weekend is Easter and we all need to be in church that Sunday and shopping for our outfits the day before.” Nellie and her parents go to church only on the major holidays, paying their tithes and sporting their designer fashions for all to envy. Isn't that breaking one of the Ten Commandments—thou shalt not make people covet your shit?

So far we are the only ones present for the ASU lunch meeting, which is why Nellie's taking over as the official shower dictator. I thought we were planning this together, but I guess I thought wrong.

“Um, but that's when I want to celebrate my birthday,” I say. I would add that I don't celebrate Easter, but that's irrelevant right now. It's a shame that I have to remind these heffas of my birthday when they expect everyone to stop traffic for their special days. Maybe if I had a little more bitch in me like my girls, they'd remember.

“Oh, Jayd, now, that's just selfish,” Mickey says. “The baby precedes everything else.” I know this heffa's not talking about me being selfish. Didn't we all just duck and dive bullet shots because of her necessity to cheat on her boyfriend, a notorious gangster?

“Excuse me for not wanting to talk about someone else's party on my birthday weekend,” I say, looking around Mr. Adewale's classroom as students file in for the lunch meeting; I am tired of my self-centered friends. “I don't mean to be a diva, but damn. When is it ever about me in this crew?”

“Yeah, Jayd. This is so unlike you,” Nellie says. I know she's not serious. “We have to make sure the baby gets everything she needs.” She flips through the catalogs on her desk like she's getting paid to do this party.

“Yes, when she gets here. We still have a couple months before that happens. My birthday is one day, this day, and I want to celebrate it. I turn seventeen only once,” I say, snacking on the last of my pretzels before moving on to my cranberry juice. They were all out of my favorites at the lunch counter today, so I had to switch it up.

“Oh, speaking of birthdays, can you come with me tomorrow evening to Chance's house? His mother's having a little dinner celebration for his father's birthday, and I need backup. It's my first time meeting his parents, and I want to make a good impression.” Did Nellie hear a word I just said? Speaking of selfish. If there were a crown for the most selfish broad alive, Nellie would have that title, and Mickey would be first runner-up.

“Nellie, I don't think so. I've got a lot of studying to do,” I say, officially pissed. “On top of my regular schoolwork, I have the AP exams coming up soon, and I really need to be on top of my game.” I've been so distracted with all my friends' and family's bull that I've been neglecting my own responsibilities, and that's not a good thing, because I clearly see that my friends don't have a sistah's back like I always have theirs.

“Okay, everyone, how are we doing this afternoon?” Mr. A asks, entering the classroom with a large manila envelope and a smile. He makes my day. “Ready to nominate a treasurer to hold the African Student Union's precious money?”

“Hey, Mr. Adewale,” Misty says, strolling into the lunch meeting like she's not late. Mr. A announced at the last meeting that people who are late will not be allowed to vote on the day's issues, and if they continue to be late, they'll be eliminated from votes and field trips for the entire semester. He doesn't play with time, and time is money, so I completely understand.

“Miss Caldwell, you are five minutes late, which means you forfeit today's votes,” Mr. A says, tossing the envelope on his desk and taking a seat in the chair behind it. Misty sits down in her seat next to KJ, for whom she had brought lunch. That's probably why she's late. When will she learn that dudes never respect doormats?

“Oh, come on, Mr. Adewale. I didn't know the lunch line was going to be so long. The cafeteria helpers really need to speed things up. It's not my fault they were slow today,” Misty says, taking one of KJ's fries off his tray, not realizing how serious Mr. A is about his shit.

“A lack of planning on your part doesn't constitute an emergency on mine,” Mr. A says to a salty Misty. That's one of his favorite sayings, and he uses it daily, much to many students' disliking. “Now, we have several officer positions that need to be filled before we can move on as a group. Secretary, president, vice president, and treasurer are all up for grabs. We should start with the money because we have an envelope full that needs to be taken care of as soon as possible,” he says, gesturing to the envelope on the top of his stack of papers. And I thought I had a lot of work to do. “Any nominations for treasurer?”

“I think it should be me. I love holding paper,” KJ says, his crew dutifully laughing. He can barely keep up with his own wallet, let alone the African Student Union's bank account.

“Yes, baby, and you're good at it, too,” Misty says, forever his cheerleader. My ex–best friend and ex-boyfriend make the perfect stupid couple, and because of that, they are the last two people in this club who should be taken seriously.

“Oh no. We need someone responsible, and we all know that ain't you,” I say, causing others in the room to snicker through bites of their lunch.

“What are you talking about? I'm very responsible,” KJ says, pleading his case. “Have you seen me take the ball up the court? You can always trust me to do my job.” He seems sincere, but even he can't be that clueless. Nothing about KJ screams treasurer.

“Does Trecee ring a bell?” I ask. KJ had unprotected sex with her, and she was nothing close to clean. If that's not being irresponsible, I don't know what is. I hope Misty's being smarter about using protection than he's known to be. “If we can't trust you with your own body, we sure as hell can't trust you with our money.”

“That was cold, Jayd,” Del says, shaking his head at my low blow. Before KJ can respond with his visibly steaming head, Misty interjects, defending her man.

“Oh, this coming from you, Miss ‘I'll babysit from downstairs while the baby is upstairs.' Real responsible, Jayd.” What did this heffa just say to me? And how did she know about my sleepwalking incident when I left Rah's daughter, Rahima, upstairs late at night while I walked downstairs, unaware that I was dreaming at the time? If my mom's neighbor Shawntrese hadn't woken me up, I don't know what would have happened to Rahima or to me. Luckily, Rah doesn't know about that, and Shawntrese doesn't remember because with my mom's and Mama's help, I erased all of Misty's evildoings from when she and Esmeralda decided to hijack my dreams during the holidays. But I guess Misty still remembers every damn thing. We'll have to work on that before Misty does unnecessary damage with her loose lips and hips working overtime these days.

“Misty, you don't know what you're talking about.” That's all I can say without further incriminating myself. Nellie and Mickey look from me to her, wondering what they missed.

“Okay, here's what we're going to do,” Mr. A says, rising from his seat and standing at the whiteboard behind him. “We'll have an actual runoff for all the officers next month. That'll give everyone plenty of time to think carefully about who should be in which position. So let's shoot for at least two nominees for each office.”

“That's a great idea, Mr. Adewale,” Emilio says, the best teacher's pet ever. “We should also consider a logo for our club. I've taken the liberty of sketching down a few ideas.” He stands up behind his desk next to the teacher's and passes the sketch pad to a visibly impressed Mr. A, who looks over the drawings carefully before commenting.

“Very talented, Emilio. And I like your initiative.”

If I didn't know better, I'd say Emilio was gunning for president, when just a couple of weeks ago he was rooting for me to claim the throne. I guess he's not completely over the rejection I served him for kissing me without my permission. It's not my fault he came on too strong and self-righteous for me. And I see I was on point about his ego after all.

“Thank you, Mr. Adewale.” Mr. A passes around the sketch pad of ideas about how we should represent ourselves. When the pictures finally make it to me, I look at them carefully, noticing that Emilio conveniently left out my deity, Oshune. From what I can see, most of the images are of the main orishas, with an outline of the African continent in the background, but the rest of the club members don't know, nor could they care less. To them, they're black superheroes, and, so far from their reactions, they like what they see.

“Ah, man, these are tight,” KJ says, passing the pad around to the rest of his crew. “The black man and woman together—man, that's where it's at,” he says, looking dead at me. If staying so-called “true to my race” means I have to date these idiots, I guess I am the sellout everyone's calling me. That's why Emilio left out Oshune—because he knows she's the only female orisha who knows no boundaries and is as powerful as any of the male orishas alone or all together.

“Okay, there's the bell for fifth period. We'll continue this discussion next week, and be ready with your nominations.” Ready's right. I'll be damned if Emilio and KJ take over this club when it was my idea, sneaky bastards. I know Emilio's new to the game, but he's acting like an old player. We each gather our lunch trash and other belongings, ready to get the last two classes of the day over with.

“I like your drawings, Emilio. Have you been sketching the orisha very long?” I ask, easing into my threat. He needs to know I'm not afraid to go up against him or anyone else who tries to keep me from my spot. I didn't really want to be president, but now that it's officially up for grabs, I want it bad. Misty's conniving ass can wait until I get home. I'll give her a piece of my mind in private.