Darkness Before Dawn (22 page)

She nodded.

“You're going?”

She nodded again.

Tyrone jumped up and screamed. “Hallelujah! Life is good! Happy birthday, baby!” He picked her up and swung her around, hugging her again and again. All of us cheered at the news.

Leon was quiet. “Even though I got accepted to Morehouse a couple of months ago,” he began, “so much has changed since then. I'm not even sure I want to go all the way to Atlanta now. I feel like I'd be leaving behind something that I've looked for all my life.” He glanced at me, and I know I was blushing. “I'm majoring in biology—probably with botany as a specialty. At least I'll get easy A's—I already know the name of every single flower in the universe! I'm not sure what I'll do with it yet, but I do know that roses and butterflies will always be my favorites.” I fingered the butterfly necklace for the hundredth time that day and smiled at Leon with thankfulness.

“What are you going to do, Keisha?” Jalani asked me.

I smiled at all of them and said, “Just a little while ago, it seemed like I was at the bottom of a pit. I didn't know
how to get out.” I thought of Edna, and of Rita. I refused to let Jonathan enter my mind. “Now,” I continued, “I am out of there and about to be out of here! I think I'm going to go to Miami University—the one here in Ohio, not the one in Florida,” I added. “I still plan to be a doctor one day. I want to go away and try it on my own, but I still want to be close to my mom and dad on weekends if I need to come home. I learned the hard way that I don't need to be grown all in one day. I'm gonna take my time.” Leon leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I touched his hand and smiled at him.

The thunder had just about disappeared and the room was starting to feel humid and sweaty when the lights flickered, then stayed on. The CD player upstairs blasted a little too loudly, the air conditioning clicked on, and the dim, dreamy closeness of the last hour somehow disappeared.

“Wow! What a birthday party!” Rhonda exclaimed. “Cake! Ice cream! Thunder! Lightning! Darkness! Bubble gum! You really know how to throw a good one, Keisha.”

“Wait till next year,” I promised. “I'm working on a tornado for you!”

Graduation was one week
away. Exams were over, books had been turned in, and final grades had been tallied by the teachers. The school felt empty and very small, as if we no longer fit in the spaces it allowed. The rooms echoed strangely because teachers had taken posters off the walls and returned books to the storeroom. Seniors walked around with yearbooks instead of physics books. Getting signatures became a full-time job as everyone tried to get one from every single member of the class, as well as many of our teachers and friends from other grades. The weather was pleasant, with warm breezes checking out the flowers and trees of late spring.

The last day for seniors was traditionally the day of the senior breakfast—as well as the senior prank. All of us came dressed in our sharpest threads—new hookups for
the summer with plans and hopes for the fall. Many of the seniors had chosen to go to college, many of them right at home at the University of Cincinnati, or Cincinnati State. Others chose schools all over the country. A few kids went into the military, and some decided to go right to work, but all of us were excited at the prospect of getting out.

After the breakfast of rubbery eggs and crunchy sweet rolls in the cafeteria, we all trooped to the overheated auditorium for recognition and awards. Scholarships were announced. Certificates were given for various accomplishments. A boy named Bruce Bingington had had perfect attendance from kindergarten through twelfth grade. The senior class gave him a special presentation—a certificate that said, “To the student who
ought
to be the smartest, since he never missed a day!” He accepted it and told us, “I started to skip school today, since it was the last chance I would ever have, but I'm glad I showed up!” We all laughed.

After the awards, the seniors were traditionally allowed to go home early. But instead of dismissing us, Ms. Emmalina Wiggersly stepped to the podium. Her wig, as usual, was just a little crooked. “I have a few words I would like to say to this class,” she began in her high nasal voice. “Although I have only known many of you for a short time, I am appalled at the extreme
lack of maturity
that I found among members of this class! I expected more from a group of seniors.” She looked down at her notes. “First of all, those perpetrators who removed the ‘For Sale' signs from homes in the neighborhood and put them on the
lawn of the school must remove them at once and return them to their rightful places! I am
not
amused!”

“I am!” a voice from the crowd cried out.

“Secondly,” she continued, talking much too close to the microphone, “I am appalled by your incredible lack of respect to the junior class!”

“They ain't s'posed to get no respect! They're juniors!” The entire class laughed in agreement. The rivalry between the junior and senior classes had been going on for years. As a newcomer, Ms. Wiggersly couldn't understand that.

“Finally,” she intoned into the microphone, “your misuse of school property is almost criminal!” She paused and cleared her throat. “I am referring to the case of school toilet paper that was used to line the halls yesterday. The perpetrators will be punished!”

“Probably by making them use that stuff,” Leon whispered to me, laughing. “School toilet paper should be classified as a deadly weapon—that stuff can slice through steel!”

“Why can't she compliment us on the good stuff we do?” Rhonda complained. “Like our volunteer projects or our date-rape counseling center?”

Leon looked around at the seniors, who all looked to him for the signal. “We're gonna have to do it,” he said. “She just can't come in here and dis us like this!” He nodded his head and said quietly, “Let 'em roll!”

Thousands of marbles spilled from pockets, purses, and plastic bags that had been hidden under the seats in the auditorium. The noise was deafening, along with the roaring
of the laughter of the seniors, the tiny glass balls rolling swiftly down the aisles directly to the spot where Ms. Emmalina Wiggersly stood. She screamed and ran up the steps to the stage.

“I will find the perpetrators of this crime!” she squeaked. The bell rang, and the seniors gave a mighty cheer and marched out of the auditorium.

“That was
awesome,
Leon,” everyone told him as they hurried out of the school. “And the ‘For Sale' signs and toilet paper, too.” He grinned with pride.

I ran up to him and hugged him. “I'll help you get the signs back tonight,” I reminded him. “Did you get enough money for the collection for the custodians?”

“Yeah, everybody was cool. We got plenty to give them something extra for sweeping up the marbles and the paper. I'd do it myself, but I might be labeled a ‘perpetrator'!” He laughed again. “See you tonight!” He ran to get his car.

“You going home now?” I asked Rhonda.

“No, girl, let's go shopping,” Rhonda suggested.

“You want to come, Jalani? Let's go to the mall to get dresses to wear under our robes at graduation.”

“I'm in!” Jalani said cheerfully. “Let's blow this place!” She laughed. “It's full of ‘perpetrators'!” We drove to the mall with all the windows down and the music up. We sang as loud as we could and rolled with freedom to the mall.

“I remember seniors from past years complaining about how hot those graduation robes can be,” I said as we strolled through the aisles of the first store. “What about this dress?” I asked them.

“That looks like something your mama would wear!” Rhonda laughed and I dropped it instantly. “This is cute, though.” Rhonda added, feeling the fabric of a slim red dress.

“I think red dresses make you look fat,” Jalani teased. Rhonda put the dress back on the rack.

We each picked out several dresses, went to the dressing rooms to try them on, then, still undecided, went to another store to see if they had a better selection.

“Look at this!” Jalani said in amazement. “This same dress was twenty dollars more in that other store!”

“They're always jacking up the prices like that,” I complained.

“That's why I like making my own clothes,” Jalani said. “But sometimes I just want something quick and easy that someone else made.” She sighed and picked out two more dresses.

I found a dress—all white—that I liked right away. “I think I'll try this one,” I said before either of the other girls could grab it.

“That's sharp,” Rhonda commented.

I tried it on and it was perfect—pale and shimmery, light and thin. It seemed to float on me rather than weigh me down. “It makes me feel like a butterfly,” I told Rhonda and Jalani as I modeled it for them.

They agreed, and I bought it, feeling very satisfied with myself. Rhonda did the best of all of us—she found a slim black sleeveless dress to wear under her gown and a sharp little skirt and top of pale turquoise to wear sometime
during the summer to impress Tyrone. But Jalani couldn't find anything that satisfied her. She decided to wait, or go ahead and make something based on the styles she saw today. She had magic fingers—she could make a dress in one night.

“I'm hungry!” I said finally. “Let's all go to my house. My mom made some lasagna to die for!”

“I'm with you, girl,” Rhonda agreed. “Shopping takes it out of me!”

“Shopping ought to be an Olympic sport!” Jalani added, laughing. “It takes a well-fed athlete to do it right! So let's do the lasagna thing.”

We chattered and giggled as we drove to my house. Surprisingly, both my parents were at home—Daddy had taken a couple of vacation days, and Mom had decided to take a day off with him. It was kinda nice to have them home in the middle of the day. Jalani made lemonade, Rhonda made a salad, and I heated up the lasagna. There was more than enough for all of us. Daddy teased Jalani and Rhonda about our shopping trip and asked them about college plans and such. Mom seemed to be glad to have a house full of giggling girls—making the normal noisy sounds that girls are supposed to make.

The doorbell rang and Mom ran to get it. “Are you expecting anyone else, Keisha?” she asked me.

“I don't think so,” I said.

Mom called with an edge of alarm in her voice, “Victor, I think you better come here.” Daddy wiped his mouth and ran to the door. Rhonda, Jalani, and I followed.

I gasped and stared. Standing at our door, looking somehow much older and more worn about his face, was our former principal Mr. Hathaway. It seemed as if time stood still. The smell of the lasagna, the laughter of just a few minutes ago—all of that disappeared as I tried to calm myself. I felt dizzy—like I might throw up.

No one had seen Mr. Hathaway since he had resigned. He and his wife had moved from their home, even though it had not been sold. They had an unlisted phone number and stayed away from all of the places they used to go. And still no one had seen Jonathan.

My mother took a deep breath and said finally, “Hello, Mr. Hathaway.” She didn't smile.

“May I come in, please?” He looked as if he was about to cry.

My father frowned, but he said, “Come in. Have a seat.”

We all sat in the living room—waiting. Finally, Mr. Hathaway sighed and looked directly at me. He said, “First of all, although I know it means very little, I am so very sorry—for everything. Keisha, there is no way I can say enough to apologize to you.”

“I'm learning to get on with my life, Mr. Hathaway,” I said quietly.

“There are some things that you should know,” he continued. “I have been meaning to come to your house, but I've been so overwhelmed with recent problems that I just couldn't. Again, let me apologize.”

“What do you want to tell us?” my father asked. Rhonda
and Jalani had scooted their chairs closer so they could hear what he was saying.

Mr. Hathaway began as he cleared his throat, “Jonathan
did
come to our home that night . . . the night of the Valentine's Dance,” he began. “His face was badly cut and he was almost hysterical. He refused to go to a hospital. I forced him to tell me what had happened.” He sighed.

“Did he tell you everything?” I asked harshly. “Did he tell you that he tried to rape me? Did he tell you that I cut his face trying to get away from him?
Did he?”
I was almost yelling, hating that I had to remember once again.

Mr. Hathaway bowed his head. “Yes, he told us everything, dear. I'm just so very sorry ...”

“Quit apologizing!” I yelled. Then I said, more quietly, “It's not really your fault.”

“This was not the first time he had done this,” he said sadly.

“I know,” I said coldly. “Why didn't you get him some help—do something to stop him?” I demanded.

“I tried. The last therapists we had him with said that his inclinations were under control. That was six years ago.”

“Tell that to Rita Bronson!” I said harshly.

“Rita Bronson? Another attack? I didn't know about her.” Mr. Hathaway sighed with great sorrow.

“Where is he now?” my father demanded. “He needs to be in jail!”

“That's where he is,” Mr. Hathaway said sadly. “Let me explain. That night, his stepmother, who is a doctor, was
able to put the necessary stitches in his face. I drove him to Lexington, Kentucky, where I have cousins. I know it was wrong, but he is my son,” he added simply.

“So how did he end up in jail?” I asked.

Mr. Hathaway continued. “Jonathan was devastated about his face. He is very vain, and he worried about having a scar.” I smiled with grim satisfaction. “His face had barely healed,” Mr. Hathaway continued slowly, “before he was out every day, hanging around the local high school, trying to charm the young ladies.”