Skin I'm in, The (11 page)
I’M ALMOST HOME BEFORE I REMEMBER
that I want to enter my writing in a library contest. So I turn around, walk back to the library, and talk to the librarian. She says the contest winner will get one hundred dollars. I sign myself up right away. I tell the librarian I’m gonna turn my papers in tomorrow.
At home after I eat, I go straight to my room and rewrite all of Akeelma’s stuff. I write them up real nice and neat. When I’m finished, I only have five pages. That ain’t enough, I’m thinking. So I stay up half the night writing more. Momma comes to my room a few times and tells me to go to bed. But I beg her to let me stay up till I finish.
Dear Diary:
Kinjari isn’t so skinny anymore. They had him working the crew, so they let him eat good. I cried when I saw him. I curled up in a ball and hid my face. Kinjari came closer, and sat next to me. ″There is no one more beautiful than you, Akeelma,″ he said. That only made me cry more.
″I’ll go where you go,″ he said in my ear.
″You were a good boatbuilder at home,″ I said. ″They will want to keep you here when the ship docks. You will be free, almost.″
Kinjari told me that he could never work on a boat like this just to see the sun and feel the wind whenever he pleased. ″I would rather be a slave with you than be free by myself,″ he said.
Then he held my chin and helped me drink water from a wooden cup. At first I would not look him in the eyes. But then when I did, I was glad. Kinjari’s eyes warmed me like the sun.
—
Akeelma
I never talked to Momma about Akeelma till last night. When I got up this morning, she asks how things turned out. I let her read my diary page.
″You’re a good writer,″ Momma says, setting the papers down gently. ″You could be a professional writer someday,″ Momma continues, sounding just like Miss Saunders. ″Like your father.″
″Daddy wrote stuff? Stuff like this?″ I ask, putting my hand down on the papers.
″He wasn’t as good as you,″ Momma says, going to the sink for a glass of water. She won’t drink cold water from the fridge, just warm tap water. ″But your father, he wrote nice letters, poems, stuff like that.″
″He ever write a poem about you—or me?″ I ask.
″Don’t you remember the poem he wrote about you? The one about you being beautiful?″ Momma asks.
″Me? What?″ I ask, getting excited. ″No, I don’t remember. When did Daddy write that? Where is it?″
″I don’t remember,″ Momma says, getting up for more water. Then she stops in her tracks. ″Well, now, let’s see,″ she says, scratching her head. ″Maybe it’s in that box in my closet. I put stuff there that your dad gave me. I forgot about the poem, though, till just now.″
I run up the stairs, two at a time. I hop over the top step and almost fall into Momma’s room. I push past the shoe boxes full of dream books and no-good lottery tickets and fabric scraps, and go for the one marked with my dad’s name—
Gregory.
I lift the box out of the closet like a fragile piece of glass. But I’m too scared to open it up. When I do, tears come to my eyes. There’s pictures of me and Daddy standing in front of the house. Playing football in the yard. Him carrying me on his back up the stairs. I haven’t seen these pictures since Daddy died.
Momma’s yelling for me to hurry up because I got to go to school in a half hour. I’m looking through all the pictures but I don’t see no poems. I find Daddy’s birth certificate and the driver’s license from when he drove a cab. I just about give up, but then I see a crumpled brown paper bag that’s been smoothed out and folded tight. The words is written out real neat and straight and strong.
Brown
Beautiful
Brilliant
My my Maleeka
is
Brown
Beautiful
Brilliant
Mine
Momma is calling me. I can’t answer. My mouth is full of Daddy’s words, and my head is remembering him again. Tall, dark, and smiling all the time. Then gone when his cab crashed into that big old bread truck. Gone away from me for good, till now.
″Maleeka, you got to go to school, girl,″ Momma says, heading upstairs.
I fold the poem and stuff it in my pocket. Then I take the picture of Daddy with me on his back and put that in my other pocket.
″Find anything?″ Momma asks, sitting next to me on the bed.
″Just some stuff,″ I say, walking out of the room to get my jacket.
Momma doesn’t ask what kind of stuff. It ain’t that she don’t care. She just ain’t ready to look or listen to Daddy again. She shoves the pictures back in the box, and puts the box on the shelf. I kiss Momma good-bye, and soon she’s in the sewing room, threading the needle. By the time I shut the front door, all I hear is that sewing machine going like crazy.
AT SCHOOL I SKIP LUNCH PERIOD
, and go over to the library and hand in my stuff for the contest. The librarian says that over one hundred kids have entered this contest. I almost take back my entry when she tells me that. But then I start thinking about how much time I put into my writing. I ain’t got nothing to lose, I tell myself. I’m almost out the door when I see some books on the table. They’re poetry books, so I sit down and look at them for a while, and think about Daddy all over again.
Working in the principal’s office has got its benefits. You get to see and hear everything. Like parents coming in to tell Mr. Pajolli off. Juju came by today. She didn’t have an appointment. But she wouldn’t leave, so they pulled Miss Saunders out of class and got somebody else to cover her for a while.
Before Miss Carol can open her mouth to speak, Juju is screaming loud as anything. She’s saying her sister is failing because of Miss Saunders.
Mr. Pajolli comes rushing out of his office, asking JuJu to quiet down. He puts out his hand, and introduces himself. JuJu looks at his hand like dirt’s on it. She ain’t gonna shake it. He asks her to calm down. She won’t.
JuJu starts saying who she is and what she’s come for. She’s got on a skintight, fire-engine red dress that swishes like cheddar cheese on a grater every time she moves.
She’s banging her fist like a gavel on the front desk. She sticks her long, bony finger in Mr. Pajolli’s face and says, ″Before that woman came, Char got A’s. Now, all she gets is D’s. What’s up with that?″ she shouts.
JuJu’s right about Char’s bad grades. As soon as Miss Saunders came here, she separated me and Char’s seats. I guess she could see I was letting Char cheat off me. I ain’t been doing Char’s homework like I was, neither. Lately, I been making up excuses, saying Momma’s keeping me busy with chores, stuff like that.
Before Mr. Pajolli answers JuJu, JuJu is on to a new subject. ″Char’s all the time talking about that woman at home. Mostly how mean she is. And ugly. That teacher can’t be taking her problems out on my sister just ’cause she got burnt on the face or something.″
Mr. Pajolli asks JuJu to come into his office. ″No,″ JuJu says. She’s not leaving until she sees Miss Saunders. Mr. Pajolli finally tells Miss Carol to send for Miss Saunders.
Miss Saunders comes into the office with her head up and her grade book under her arm. She’s wearing red today, too. She seems calm, maybe because she’s never met JuJu before.
Mr. Pajolli waves his hand for JuJu to follow him to the office. JuJu shakes her head ″No. We ain’t hiding this behind no closed doors. I want this thing out in the open. Right is right, so let’s handle our business here,″ JuJu says.
Mr. Pajolli stands his ground. ″Business is handled in my office or not at all.″
JuJu’s still mouthing off but she follows behind Mr. Pajolli. ″This is Char’s third time in seventh grade,″ she’s saying. ″Char can’t afford to do no more time here. Her other teachers know that. They’re giving her the grades she needs to move up.″
Miss Saunders hands JuJu some papers. Most of them are incomplete, she says. Charlese would rather pass notes than do assignments, Miss Saunders tells her. JuJu eyes the papers.
I don’t know what happened next. Miss Carol told me to go get the janitor and tell him the principal wants him to clean up the mess in the boys’ room. Miss Carol could have called the janitor on the intercom. She wanted to get rid of me, is all. The next time I see JuJu, she’s stomping out of the office, saying Char better not flunk seventh grade. Her feet sound more like bowling balls falling to the ground than feet. Then all of a sudden she stops and stares Miss Saunders up and down. ″You don’t know what you’re doing. You never even taught kids before. You flunk my sister, you won’t teach nowhere else. I know people. Big-time people,″ she says, walking out of there.
MISS SAUNDERS DOESN’T KNOW
what she did, pissing off Charlese and JuJu. Now, all Char does is talk about getting back at Miss Saunders. She ain’t joking, neither.
Last year when the gym teacher flunked her, Char ripped a hole in the top of her convertible. Hot-glued another teacher’s grade book together when he told her sister she was missing too much class.
Me and Char and the twins are hanging out behind the school when Char says Miss Saunders is gonna get it the worst, that we’re gonna meet tomorrow at school at the crack of dawn to start messing up Miss Saunders. I’m watching the sky. Lightning is flashing across it like God is trying out his electricity. And the clouds are black, like rain’s gonna pour any minute.
I’m scared of storms. Char ain’t. She loves watching rain beat on people and lightning chase people inside. ″We gonna jack Miss Saunders up,″ she says, putting another coat of blueberry grape polish on her nails. ″I hate that ugly woman. Hate her.″
I think about telling Char about the conversation I heard between Miss Saunders and Tai in the auditorium, but I don’t. I ain’t no squealer. Never was, never will be.
″Give me five,″ Raina says, walking over to Char, ignoring me. ″What’s shaking?″
Char tells Raina how she’s gonna get even with Miss Saunders. ″It’s payback time,″ Char says, laughing out loud.
I ignore them and keep watching the sky.
″You know that big globe Miss Saunders got in her room? The one she says cost all that money. Well, that’s gonna be the first to go,″ Char says. ″Gonna carve that sucker in two like a Thanksgiving turkey.″
Raina and Raise slap each other five and talk about spray painting the walls.
″You gonna do all that, just because you got in-house detention?″ I ask. Char and the twins turn away from me. I swallow hard. ″You been on detention before, Char. Why you getting all crazy now?″ I ask.
Char keeps polishing her nails. ″Ain’t nobody ugly as Miss Saunders gonna be embarrassing me every time I turn around. Then go ragging on me to my sister JuJu. I can’t just let that go. Just wait. Tomorrow morning’s just the beginning.″
″I can’t get in no more trouble with Miss Saunders,″ I whisper.
″Shut up, Maleeka,″ Raise says. ″Char knows what she’s doing.″
″I sure do,″ Char says, throwing her nail polish at my head. The bottle misses me, but breaks open on the steps.
″I can’t get in no more trouble. That’s all I know,″ I whisper.
If things ain’t bad enough already, here comes John-John McIntyre and his crew. ″The sky’s gonna be as black as you in a minute, Maleeka,″ he says, looking up at the clouds. His friends think he’s funny. They laugh and give a few high fives. Then they start singing, ″Maleeka, Maleeka, we sure wanna keep her….″
″Shut up,″ Char yells. ″John-John McIntyre, I will kick your butt,″ she says, going after John-John.
″Jack up Char,″ one of his friends says. ″Who she think she is coming at you that way?″
John-John don’t say nothing. He just looks at Char with a stupid smirk on his face.
″See you later, Midnight,″ he says to me.
I can feel myself getting mad, my fists balling up at my sides.
Then I remember a poem about midnight that I seen in one of those poetry books at the library. The words of the poem come tumbling in my head, and I start to smile.
