Pinned (9780545469845) (5 page)

P
eaches in front of our door, shivering in a gray tee and her brother's green jogging shorts. She won't come in. She won't go home. The purple hat she knitted make sure snow don't wet up her hair. Flurries shaped like feathers melting on her cheeks, quick as powdered sugar in warm water.

Mom and Dad in the kitchen with that book. It never did get back to the library. Plus I quit reading it again. “Autumn, tell Peaches. You got stuff to do,” Mom saying.

Peaches could come in. Go to my room. Get on the computer. Even eat up there. But she stuck on our steps like a gnome, scared. 'Cause her father is home, mad right along with her mom over that C+ she got on her report card in math.

Punishment in my house never last the whole time. At Peaches's house, you may never get off. “I'm doing the best I can.” She rubbing her thighs, warming 'em. “I study and study. Don't I?” Her eyes look tired, like sleep never came last night. “My mother …” She shaking so hard, I step outside and hold her. “She don't understand … pressuring me only makes it worse.”

Leaning her head on my shoulder, she asking herself how she missed earning twenty-five dumb points on our test. She woulda gotten a solid B if she did. Not that a B's the best she can do, she saying. “But it woulda encouraged me.”

Patting her back, shivering myself, I'm seeing how lucky I am. I did worse. Ds in math, reading, and English. Plus a C in science. I got As in culinary, art, gym. And a B in history — we watch a lot of films in there. I'm happy, happy. 'Cause I'm still on the team. Peaches got a three-point-eight average. Can't even go to after-school activities now. Even cooking with me is out, her mom say.

Miss Pattie only graduated high school. She got five kids. And a old-man husband. Behind his back, I call him Grandpa. When it's just us girls, Miss Pattie tell us to get a good education so we don't end up married to a old man who squeaks, and work a job we don't like.
She and her husband got plans for Peaches. She getting a scholarship to college, they say. Plus going to grad school for her MBA. Peaches got her own dreams. Too many, I think. But they hers.

Peaches's mother walking up my street. Her streaked hair long and wild. “How'd you do?” she ask, kissing my cheek, putting her coat over Peaches's shoulders.

I do not tell her my grades.

She holding a cup shaped like lips, brown, and saying how me and Peaches gotta do better. “Adonis with no legs be running circles around you two.”

I look at Peaches, wishing I could ask her how Miss Pattie know him. She staring up to the sky.

Miss Pattie is petite. Way shorter than Peaches. Four eleven, maybe. She telling me that Cs is the same as Fs in their house. “Can't run your own business with grades like that,” she say, sniffing what I got cooking on the stove.

They walk off together. But separate. Miss Pattie moving fast with her motorcycle feet. Peaches slow, not really wanting to catch up.

Mom and Dad, at the table, when I get to the kitchen. While my gumbo cooking, they wait for me to read. Can't go running if I don't. They letting me complain. Get a drink. Add more okra and red pepper to the pot.
But we ain't leaving the kitchen. Or closing the book, they say. Not until I do what I'm supposed to.

I ain't on punishment. I still get till January to improve. But once they saw my first-quarter grades, they started up again. Reading every night is back on the table. They swear this time, they sticking to it.

Mom slides her book in front of me. Sitting between 'em, with my eyes shut, I wait. And wait. Ten minutes. Then another half a hour. Stirring the pot in between. Finally opening the book, I read. Stuttering. “Hen … Hen … Henry … loved dogs.” The last time I read out loud to my parents, I was in third grade. By fourth grade, books ain't mean much to me. Or them.

Rubbing the shoulder that got jammed when the guy tried to pin me last night, Mom say, “Keep going.”

Daddy's eyes watering. The gumbo is spicy, he say, spooning meat from the pot. Then sitting down, his chair back on two legs, just like me, he say, “This book is overdue.”

I'm waiting for them to say I gotta pay the fine.

He pick out sausage stuck between his teeth. “It been eight years, that librarian said, since it was last checked out.” His arm go over my shoulder. “Just sitting there waiting for you.”

Mom want me to keep reading. “Then you, John.” Already he trying to back out. “Calm down. Visualize.” Mom using Miss Pattie's words. “Pretend we already good readers.”

Pouring gumbo in bowls. Chewing okra like they Pop-Tarts warm out the toaster. I wonder if reading will ever come as easy to me as wrestling or loving Adonis. “The … the … the … plastic cov … er … ing the win … window was … transp …” I make the
P
sound, “pa, pa,” with my lips. Then start the word again. “Trans … The plastic covering the window was tramps … pa … rent.”

My mother and me say the word at the same time. “Transparent.”

She claps. “That's a big one.” My father covers up one part of the word. Laughing, he say, “Hey, look … that's us.
Parent.
”

I ain't notice it till he pointed it out. When you find little words inside a big word, Miss Baker call 'em presents. Mom and Dad still excited. Staring at that word, they find more. “Rent. An. Ran.” Dad jumping out his chair. “You see that. You see that one. Spa!”

I leave 'em in the kitchen, picking over that word like they picking over a turkey neck at Christmas.

Upstairs on the laptop in my room, I text Adonis. We got a match tomorrow. After practice yesterday, I couldn't find my singlet. He supposed to be looking for it.

 

U find it?

Yes.

U washing it?

Yes.

Thnxs. I worried bout it.

Studying, Autumn. Have to go.

How yr grades? Report card?

Exceptional.

Oh. Nice.

Nice? Great! Bye.

Wait.

Yes, Autumn. Busy.

Nothin. CU morow. Hey. U comin 2 practice during
thankgivin break?

 

Adonis don't answer.

Lying 'cross my bed. Feet dangling over the side. I reach under my bed for my jar. Yelling downstairs, I ask Mom to spell that word. “Tranx … paren!”

Give her a few minutes to find it, she saying, asking what I need it for. Then from the bottom of the steps, she read it, spelling loud and slow.

Writing down each letter. Using the peach calligraphy pen Peaches gave me for my birthday, I stare. “
Transparent.
My big word.”

O
ur principal made a special request. Could I please be a tour guide for visiting state officials today? The state invested a lot of money into our school: built a new cafeteria, put in a pool, created culinary and horticultural programs, plus more. Beyond that, we now offer the most AP courses of any school in the district. That is the most impressive thing to me.

I arrive ten minutes early. The secretary offers me something to drink, and says, “They'll be ready for you in a minute.”

“Good morning, Adonis.” Mr. Epperson walks in, shaking my hand. He is my mentor as well as head of the math department. I tested out of geometry before I arrived here. An accelerated summer course, curiosity, and hard work made that possible. With his permission,
I am taking AP statistics. I am the only ninth grader in the class. I respect him as a teacher. Very non-traditional. He recognizes my need to be intellectually stimulated.

He's quit belching. A new diet pill advertised on television doesn't seem to be helping him much, either. He's gained back the few pounds he lost.

A few minutes later the outer office is brimming with teachers. They are all from Team B. Mrs. Sullivan, the gym teacher, Miss Taliaferro, who teaches French, along with a few others congratulate me once I tell them why I'm here. “If we had a million of you, Adonis, we still wouldn't have enough.” Mrs. Davies teaches art. I'm enjoying studying the Renaissance period in her class.

Finally, the principal walks out. He introduces me to our guests, explaining that Patricia Pressley and I will both be guides. I wasn't aware of that.

Patricia prances in. Late, of course. Winded. “Sorry.” She shakes their hands, and introduces herself. They compliment her on her professionalism and her suit. It's black. She's carrying a clipboard, with leaflets highlighting our school. She hands them out, then offers one to me. She picked them up at the board of education, she says, reaching for my hand and shaking it.

“I already know Adonis.” It's a limp shake, like holding a raw chicken wing in my hand. “He and I are both in the GAT program.” She tells them how much she loves our school. “I know I'm going to get into a really good college after graduating from here.”

We begin the tour on the third floor. This is an historical building. Paintings have been on the walls since 1945, when the building was constructed. The painter is famous locally, I tell them.

Patricia's words trample over mine. “If you go to the museum downtown, you'll see all of his work.” She's giving them a history of our school and tidbits about the painter. I talk about the floor. It's granite, taken from rock quarries in this region.

Walking backward, pointing high and low, using good English as if she speaks it all the time, Patricia impresses them. I can tell. They follow her and listen to every word she says, as if she were a PBS reporter.

I suggest we take the elevator to the second floor, to see a joint project between our English and art classes. Each team had to build a city. One was made of sugar cubes. The other was made of cardboard. “Houses, graveyards, people, stores, alleys — everything was to be included.” The idea derives from the novel
A Tale of Two Cities
. “We are reading that in English,” I tell them.

They are impressed. Leaving the elevator, Patricia pops her head into Mrs. Kline's art class. She asks if we may quietly show our guests the projects
her
class has worked on. “The best work gets displayed in city hall for a month,” we each say at once. We aren't in the classroom very long.

In the hall, she walks faster than is necessary. “We have a lot of really great students here.” Report cards were just issued. “I'm a few points from a four-point average,” she boasts.

I almost run over Mrs. Gatland's foot. Stepping aside, she suggests that I go a little ahead of her. Patting my shoulder, she asks how I did this semester.

“I have tough classes.”

Mr. Summers knows a lot about me. He gives my GPA and names some of the programs and clubs I'm a part of. “Your principal is proud of you. Three AP classes. A four-five average. Amazing.”

They each encourage me to let my light shine, and not to be so humble.

Taking the lead, I explain how vital our school was to the city during World War II. Patricia intentionally stops at the trophy case, asking if they would like to hear about our only female wrestler. They are intrigued to also know that Autumn is Patricia's best friend. We
waste lots of time, with her ignoring my hints to move on. But what Patricia doesn't tell them is that Autumn recently lost several matches in a row. I thought Autumn would be upset about it. She wasn't. She has been staying later at practice. Skipping lunch to run and lift weights. Extra efforts work for math as well. You'd think she'd know.

 

After the tour, the principal thanks us. “You are always magnificent, Adonis.” Facing Patricia, he says they were especially impressed with her. “Check in with me once in a while. There's plenty of opportunity for good students to shine.” He shakes her hand, smiling. He scurries into his office.

With Patricia walking beside me, the hallway feels as small and tight as a box of matches. Near the library, she shows her true colors. She wouldn't have come if she had known I was part of this, she tells me. Now that it's done, she plans to keep it up. “You not the only smart person at this school. There's lots of us.” Her face was soft. Full of smiles earlier. She's frowning now, aiming her eyes at me like they are darts.

Walking ahead of me, swinging that clipboard, she says the principal must be seeing the real Adonis. And perhaps that's why he wanted her to be included. She
turns around, walking toward me. “Autumn will see the real you, too.” When she brings up the pond and how horrible I've been to
her
, I have to speak up.

“Get away from me, Patricia.”

Turning around, making my way up the hall, I feel her eyes on me, as I did at the pond when I asked her to please, please get someone to help me. She stood there like those trophies in the case upstairs, staring at me. Still and quiet.

“Adonis!”

I stop. Gripping my watch, I force that day out of my mind.

Her voice echoes up the hall. “I hate you, too.”

I yelled for Patricia until I was hoarse that day. Clawing mud. Trying to keep my face above the water. Sliding under, I'd come up coughing. Holding my arm up high, I begged her.

I had never wished for legs. That day, I did. I hate her for that.