The Mare (16 page)

We went to stay with these people who lived in a building with a glass door and a shiny stone hallway. We went up in a big elevator with too many buttons and came out into a hall with a sign somebody wrote in crayon that said “Take off shoes, please.” Ginger's friend was the only apartment on the floor. The door was open and the man that came out was dressed in white and he was smiling and I wanted to cry.

Because this place did not look like a house is supposed to look. It was too big and bright and everything was white, all the furniture and even the floor. The windows were so big you could see buildings everywhere; it was like being outside up in the air in the middle of buildings. We sat in little white chairs at the white table and the lady put food on the white plates. She was pregnant and she was nice, but I couldn't eat. I was thinking of my mother and how it felt to be next to her. I was thinking these people knew I was a girl whose mother did not come for her. I was thinking if I could only get back to her, I would never go to Ginger's again. Even if it meant I would never see my mare. Everybody was staring at me. I was crying. The pregnant lady tried to hide it, but she was starting to cry too. Ginger was looking like she always did, only more. She said, “Please eat something. It will make you feel better.” I said, “I want to call my mom.”

So Ginger gave me her phone again. And finally my mom answered.

So after that she relaxed. She ate and even talked with my friends, smiling, wanting to feel Carolina's pregnant belly. They found her delightful. Mrs. Vargas told us a story about having to take the brother to the emergency room because his stomach hurt. I didn't believe her, but I was just glad she was all right. Even if she said it was too late for Velvet to come home, and asked if I could keep her for the night.

Julian said we were welcome to the guest room. We had to sleep in the same bed, but Velvet didn't mind. We got under the covers and settled in back-to-back, with the excited feeling of a sleepover. “Good-night,” I said.

“Good-night,” she answered.

“Good-night!” I said.

“Good-night!” she replied.

We were quiet and I thought I could feel her sinking into sleep. Then she said, “I need to ask you something.”

“What?”

She didn't answer right away. I turned my head to encourage her.

“Why is it…” She stopped. Her voice came very earnest in the dark. “Why is it that white people can walk their path in a way that black people—and people of my color—cannot?”

“Honey,” I said. “You just don't know enough about white people.”

“What do you mean?”

“The white people you see where we live have money. They all know each other. They're not going to start trouble, because they have something to lose. White people start with advantages, you know that, right?”

She said, “Yeah,” but uncertainly.

“And still, sometimes they wind up going down the toilet anyway. Have you ever heard about the Hell's Angels? They were worse in their day than any gang you've heard of. Murderers, rapists. And they were all white. They had the advantages. They became what they were because they wanted to, not because they had to. My sister was like that. That's what I mean when I say ‘self-destructive.' ”

I felt her thinking. I knew she wanted to say something but didn't know what. I waited. She didn't say anything. I said, “We can talk about it in the morning if you want.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay, then. Good-night for real.”

That night I dreamed of horses running together like they were water with a brain that could decide where to go. Except you could see their faces and their feet and tails coming out and then going back into the water of themselves. Ginger was there and so was my mom and Strawberry and Alicia. But I don't remember them. I remember the horses and that they were running toward a giant red sun and that nothing could stop them and that I was with them.

The next day I asked her if she wanted to ask me any more questions like she did during the night. She said no. So we went out of the room and ate breakfast with Julian and Carolina.

Then I took her to meet a cousin at Penn Station. Dante was with her, but he barely nodded at me when I said hello. The cousin was an exhausted-looking, heavyset woman with eyes that were hard, quick, and reactive. Without looking at me, she patted Velvet and greeted her in Spanish. She didn't seem to realize I was there until Velvet hugged me good-bye. She finally said good-bye to me and then, as they were walking toward the subway, she added, “Thank you,” as if she'd realized she hadn't even greeted me.

People of my color.

Her tone when she said that: forthright, courageous. With the purity of expression I had recognized at first sight. It made my heart hurt.

I went into the station and sat down to wait for my train. It was not very crowded; the usual businesspeople were at home, celebrating with their families still. The people seated around me were slumped and threadbare, carrying their possessions in shopping bags or cheap canvas totes. A bearlike young black man in baggy too-long pants with torn filthy hems paced around cursing at somebody on his cell phone. A dry-haired stringy white woman my age sat very erect, gripping a purse and a computer bag. I knew none of them were homeless because you had to show a ticket to sit in this area. But somehow even this stringy woman with a purse had a homeless feeling about her.

When we first left Penn Station there were people in the subway with happy faces: people with nice clothes, and kids with parents that had bought them things who were laughing and playing with each other. I had my things too, but my cousin and Dante were quiet and looking up at the ads about Dr. Zizmor taking pimples off your skin and people on TV. I was getting a sick feeling. The happy-looking people started getting off. More and more dark people were there, sitting and staring quiet. The farther we went, the more there were. A lady across from me had a shopping bag that said
GET MORE JOY!!
but under her glasses she looked like she was going to cry and not stop.

I remember what I said to Ginger about people like me not walking our path and I did not like myself for that.

Then a man got on and sat next to the woman, and I could tell he was Spanish. He was by himself, but he did not look sad or quiet. He looked strong and happy in his body. He was looking at me like he liked me, like he
knew me.
I looked at him and my sick feeling opened up and became deep feeling. I remembered my dream of the horses, running into the bright red sun, moving in and out of each other. The subway ran faster and faster in the underwater tunnel. We moved into Brooklyn toward my cousin's house. My feeling went deeper. It was like we were the horses, moving together, in and out of each other, going someplace we needed to go. Even though Dante told me my ring looked like something you get from a gum-ball machine and I smacked him and my cousin said my mom gave her permission to whip me, so quit it.

Even though my mom screamed at me all night that I was lazy and she wished she didn't have me and then took my CD player in the bedroom and played Celia Cruz on it with the door closed.

Even though when I tried to show Strawberry my ring she wouldn't look and just walked past me. Even though I saw her on the street and she was with Dominic with their arms around each other, which I wouldn't even care about, except she was smiling her evil smile at me and I knew she
wanted
me to care so she could laugh at me for it.

Even though when I put my ring with my cotton-ball-box things it didn't look nice anymore because it made everything else look ugly.

Because when we got up in the morning and my mom did her push-ups and we all got washed and dressed and my mom made our oatmeal with brown sugar, and we all went out—we were moving like the horses. And I was going to let my mare out again one day and she was going to run too. With the others or alone or with me riding her.

I wanted to tell my mom this, but I couldn't. It didn't make any sense. And also my mom thought the horses would kill me.

When I called her for our homework session after Christmas, she told me she got spat on. She said she wore her blue Gap shirt that we gave her and her new ring. All morning people stared at her and then while she was waiting in the cafeteria line, girls walked by and spat on her. They spat on her while she walked to her seat with her tray. So she waited till nobody could see, and then she hit somebody. They told, she said they lied, then she got detention. I said I didn't care if she got detention, I was glad she hit the bitch who spat at her. I told her how I'd hit somebody in school once too. I asked if she had any friends who would help her. She said, “I don't got no friends.” I asked about the friends she'd talked about, Strawberry and Alicia. She said they were the ones that spat on her. I told her she was better off without them. We read then, a book that was technically under her age range about a little boy who meets a dragon. I kept thinking, But that shirt wasn't even very nice. I listened to Paul; I didn't buy something that was too fancy. That shirt was cute but normal. They spat at her for wearing a normal shirt.

The next day I called the social worker, Eliza Lopez. She said she knew Velvet had gotten detention, but she didn't know anything about spitting. She said that Velvet talked instead about her mother hitting her. I asked if she thought it was true. She said she knew the mother was verbally abusive, but she couldn't be sure about anything physical. A year ago she said her mom beat her; they brought in Child Protective Services and Velvet took it all back. So now the woman didn't want to call anybody unless she saw bruises and when she asked to see bruises, Velvet couldn't show anything.

I thought about why Velvet had not wanted me to call the police, that she didn't want to be “taken away”; I did not tell Ms. Lopez that Mrs. Vargas had not come to meet me. Instead I repeated to her what Velvet had asked me about how white people “walk their path”; I told her my answer, that she didn't know enough white people. “Do you think that was appropriate?” I asked.

“Oh,” said Ms. Lopez, “I think it was perfect. I've told her the same. I told her I've been in poor white neighborhoods and they are so disgusting she wouldn't
believe it.
More disgusting than anything she has ever seen in her life. That's what I tell her.”

When I hung up I thought, Now we are really in it. We can't go back. It was the first time it occurred to me that Paul had been right.

She came up every few weeks all spring. She went on long walks with Ginger; she was over at the barn; she spent time with Edie. I saw her mostly at dinner and after, when I would make sure she helped out with the dishes—she washed, I dried or vice versa. The three of us went to the movies together sometimes; she liked to sit up front in the car with me, and the soft curve of her brow rhymed with the roundness of her stomach and early breasts and also with the soft hilly landscape rolling past in the dark. I began to feel that Ginger was right, that in spite of all the dangers, this really was a good thing to be doing.

And then Edie said to me, “Is she going to come and stay with you? She said Ginger was going to homeschool her.”

I fell off Little Tina. We were in the round pen, and we were cantering and I was making her stop and start and sometimes walk backward. Then somebody started shooting. Behind me Pat said, “What the hell?” and I got scared and Tina started moving too fast. I turned around in the saddle to ask why they were shooting, and the rein came loose in my hand, and then they shot again and Tina moved sideways
hard,
and I slide off her and I hit the ground; her back legs kicked up and I rolled over and
prayed.
But she just kind of moved off sideways and Pat was there saying, “You okay?” and I said, “Why are they shooting?” And she said it was idiots target shooting out of bounds, was I okay? And I was. So she told me to get Tina and get back on her. I didn't think I could, but Tina let me. I walked to her and turned around like,
Follow me,
and she did. That's when I took her bridle and took her back to the mounting block.

Ginger just said, “Oh, I know where she got that. In this movie I saw with her, the character is homeschooled. She asked what it meant and I told her. I guess she liked the idea.”

She insisted she said nothing to make Velvet think she was coming to live with us, that the girl was just “experimenting with scenarios in her head.” She said she would speak with her—God knows if she did.

And then the girl turned twelve and Ginger took her shopping. Velvet came back to the house with all these bright bags, but she had to catch the train and I never saw what “we” had bought her. I heard about it later, though. From Edie, not Ginger.

Ginger took me to this store. I told her I was going to a party, and I was. It wasn't my party; nobody gave me a party. But Alicia was inviting me to a party. I didn't know why. Maybe because I gave her the paper I wrote with Ginger and because we got in trouble together and I made her laugh. Maybe because Strawberry wasn't there anymore. Really, I don't know why. She still acted like she hated me, mostly. But she invited me and I wanted to wear something good. Ginger said, “Let's buy you something, it's your birthday soon.” And she took me to this store with things in it nobody in my neighborhood would wear. I said, “This is too fancy,” and Ginger said, “No it's not.”

But when I came out of the dressing room in this shirt she gave me, the lady in the store said, “A twelve-year-old shouldn't wear that.” Ginger said, “I'm clueless.” And the store lady picked something. She picked out a short blue skirt that showed my legs and then this shirt. I felt weird, but the store lady said, “It's very cute.” I said, “It shows my body.” And she said, “But not in a bad way.” I didn't understand because it showed as much of my body as the other thing that she said a twelve-year-old shouldn't wear. But in a way I did understand because it didn't have lace and it wasn't black.

I looked in the mirror and I was ugly and stupid. I looked and I was pretty. In the store I
did
look pretty. In my house I knew I would not. At the party I didn't know. But I wanted the outfit. I wanted it.

I wore it to the party. And nobody spat. They looked at me. I could see they were looking like I looked in the store: I was ugly and stupid and then I was pretty. That is how the girls looked. The boys looked different. And I wished Ginger had not taken me to that store.

But then that boy Dominic walked in. And I was glad that she did.

He wasn't alone—he was with Chris, who Helena got in Strawberry's face about. Also this thin tall boy with very dark skin and long straight-black hair who walked like he was somebody famous. And a girl, somebody older than us. She was black but light, with red hair and a silver belt with a buckle that spelled
SONDRA
, and she walked and turned her little head
so
beautiful. My gladness turned sharp in me; I remembered Dominic's arm around Strawberry with her red-streaked hair. Sondra looked at me, but Dominic did not. I looked back at her, then looked away, and then the boy who acted famous was next to me. Up close he had nasty teeth; brown and rabbit-y, but two of them long on either side, like he's a vampire. His eyes, though, were like warm candy, like a song where the singer sounds like a liar, but you believe it anyway.

He said, “Hey, shawty. Who got that dress for you?”

Across the room, Alicia and Helena were looking like they didn't believe.

“It's not a dress. It's a skirt and a top.”

“Your boyfriend got it for you?”

This song came on:
Supersonic, hypnotic, funky-fresh
—and I just smiled.

“Aw, your boyfriend got it for you. That's nice.”

—beat flows right through my chest—
he touched my arm. “But I could get you something better. What's your name?”

“Hey, Shawn,” said Dominic, “what you talkin' to my little cousin about?” He was there with Sondra, who looked at me very chill. “Sondra, this my cousin Velvet.”

He remembered my name.
My glad was back, big and soft; I looked down and mumbled hi to Sondra's hi.

“Just inviting her for a smoke, thass all.”

“She too young for that.” He looked at me with the little dent in his nose and his eyes soft like—

Suddenly I felt Sondra standing there, strong and perfume-y, with covered eyes. Not saying anything. Not having to.

“She old enough for a boyfriend,” said Shawn.

“That don't mean old enough to smoke.” Dominic punched my arm real soft. “But you can hang with us if you want.”

So we went to somebody's bedroom with clothes all over their bed. Shawn went to sit next to me, but Dominic moved too fast for him, between me and Shawn so close that his leg was against mine. Shawn didn't say nothin'; they just talked about something else. Sondra talked to me separate. She said, “Your boyfriend bought you the outfit? It's cute.” Her voice was nice.

“I didn't say it's from a boy. My godmother got it for my birthday just today.”

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Twelve.”

“It looks like money. She rich, I guess. Really, you don't look twelve.” And then she passed me this sweet-smelling rolled cigarette, but I didn't take it. Because Dominic was there and he didn't want me to. So I just sat and felt Dominic's leg like it was breathing his life into my leg, up into my whole body. What they talked about after that didn't matter. I was just breathing in life. When we walked out of the room, Alicia and Helena gave me eyes like they did not know who I was and hated me anyway. But I didn't care. Dominic was walking in front of me. He had his arm around Sondra, but he turned his head to look at me. And his look was not candy. It was tight and hot, joking and serious. Like a song I never heard before.