When I Was the Greatest (13 page)

I started throwing punches in the shower way back when Jazz was a baby. When John was doing his three years and Doris took on the second job to keep us from begging, I was expected to step up and pick up the slack when it came to Jazz.
Well, not really, but I felt that way. Like I had to be a big boy all of a sudden because now I had a baby sister to look after. But I was only like six or seven, and the truth is, Doris would've never left me in charge that young. She had Ms. Brenda, from upstairs, come down and babysit us both every night, making sure Jazz was all changed and fed, and burped and put to sleep. But Ms. Brenda also could tell that I wanted to be a part of it all, so she would let me hold Jazz and try to feed her. But almost every time Ms. Brenda would put Jazz in my arms, Jazz would start crying and screaming and squirming all over the place. I remember always feeling really nervous, like I was doing something wrong. Like I wasn't holding her neck right. Like I wasn't going to feed her enough, or burp her the right way. Like I wasn't going to be a good big brother like my mom wanted.

It got so bad that I literally got scared to hold Jazz at all. My mother, working with mentally ill people every day, noticed I was acting funny and started asking me questions. She even had a friend, Mrs. Staley, who let us come to her house on Sundays to talk. Mrs. Staley would listen to everything I would say about how I was afraid to “break” Jazz, and she would ask me questions, which I always thought were stupid, and then give me advice that ended up being really good and helpful.

One day when I was visiting Mrs. Staley, she just flat-out said, “Allen, I been thinking. You know what you doing? Beating yourself up.”

That was the first time I had ever heard anyone say I was
beating myself up, and I wasn't sure what it meant, so I didn't know what to say.

“Son, what that means is you just being too hard on yourself,” my mother said. “Babies are babies. They cry because that's just what they do. Jazz cries when I hold her too, sometimes. It's okay.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” I asked. I remember feeling like I was going to cry.

Mrs. Staley smiled. She had a gold tooth in the front that I always thought was funny. “Well, I been thinking about that too,” she said, excited. “When you start beating yourself up, just fight back.”

Of course, that sounded like the dumbest idea ever. I mean, it didn't make any sense—it was like one of those “smarty” answers that I wasn't sure was supposed to be serious or not. So I laughed. But then I could tell she was serious, so I asked how was I supposed to fight myself back. And that's when they came up with the punching-in-the-shower thing. They figured it would be a pretty easy thing for me to do since I had just started boxing training with Malloy, and all that stuff. Ever since then, whenever I get nervous or feel any kind of pressure, I two-piece the hell out of the shower water, pretending I'm in a real fight. Nothing wrong with pretending. It works.

I could smell something coming from the kitchen as I dried off. I cracked the door to let some of the shower steam out so the mirror would clear up, as I planned to examine every bump and hair on my face. The scent came right into
the bathroom and wrapped around my nose like a winter scarf. So good.

“You smell that?” Jazz shouted from the kitchen.

I laughed because if there's one thing Jazz loved to brag about, it was her cooking. This is the only time she gave herself nicknames.

“Yeah, I smell it!” I yelled back. “What is it?”

“Chef Jammin' Jazzy's Spa-ghetto,” she said in a French accent, which made it even funnier, since she had made an Italian meal.

“Spaghetto, huh?” I got as close to the mirror as possible and picked at the only pimple I had, which was right in the middle of my forehead. It was like trying to figure out how to cover up a bull's-eye.

“Yep, and you better come and get it while it's hot, because ain't nothing worse than cold Spaghetto!” Jazz clanged pots and dishes around in the kitchen.

I kept picking at the bump until the smell of Jazz's food got the best of me. I gave the nasty monster on my forehead one last look, and told myself that it would be dark in the party anyway. Plus, I'm wearing the Yankees hat, so screw it. Time to eat.

I threw on some basketball shorts and went to the kitchen, where Jazz was already piling up my plate. I stuck my face in the pot and took a big whiff.

“Back up, Ali, before you drop boogers in it!” Jazz said, slapping at me.

She finished plopping the sauce on my noodles and then pulled a few pieces of toast out of the oven.

“Garlic bread,” she said. “Made the garlic butter myself, because I'm Chef Jammin' Jazzy.”

I laughed. “Yeah, you jammin', you jammin'.”

I took a seat on the couch. Jazz started making another big plate. Too big for her. I knew who it was for. Every time Jazz cooks, the same thing happens. We don't know how he always knows, but he always does.

Sure enough, as soon as she put a piece of garlic toast on that plate, there was a knock at the door. I got up, took the chain off the door, and turned the knob just enough to unclick it. Noodles came waltzing in like he lived with us. Jazz met him at the couch, gave him a hug as usual, and handed him his plate. No questions asked. No hellos or anything. Just a “Thanks, Jazz” and a forkful of food.

“I thought I said nine, Nood,” I teased. I looked straight ahead at the TV as if I wasn't talking to him.

“Yeah, but you know I can smell Jazz's cooking through the wall,” Noodles said, slurping and making the face that got him that nickname. “What is this anyway?”

“My world-famous Spaghetto. Duh,” Jazz chimed in, perfectly on cue.

“And what's in it?” Noodles asked. It didn't really matter what was in it. He was going to eat it anyway. We all were.

“A whole bunch of love, fool,” Jazz said. What that really meant was, a whole lot of everything was in it. Whatever she could get her hands on in the fridge. Leftover this and leftover that. It was like a spaghetti gumbo.

I looked at Noodles. He was eating like he hadn't had any food since the last time Jazz cooked, which was three days ago. He held his plate right up to his face and shoveled the noodles in like a prisoner afraid of it being snatched away. I looked over at Jazz, expecting her to have her usual devilish grin she always has whenever she thinks people like her food, but instead she looked concerned.

“Dang, Noodles, don't forget to breathe,” Jazz said.

“Dang, Jazz, don't forget to shut up,” Noodles snapped back in a silly voice.

Jazz laughed and shook her head.

“Anyway, it ain't because your food is so good, it's just because I'm starving. I mean, it's good, but . . . ,” Noodles mumbled while shoving another forkful in his mouth.

Jazz smirked. She knew it was a combination of both. So did I. All I could think about was the first day Jazz and Noodles met, and Jazz asked him if his mom didn't cook. It was like déjà vu. Then the old soul in her kicked in. “You want me to fix a plate up for Needles?”

Noodles never even looked up. “Nope. He fine.”

“But if you this hungry, he gotta be pretty hungry too, right?” Jazz persisted.

“I don't know,” Noodles said, shoving a piece of garlic toast in his mouth. Crumbs exploded all over his lap.

“You don't know?” Jazz asked, now getting upset, the Doris in her coming out.

Noodles always had a soft spot for Jazz. No matter how much of a jerk he was to almost everyone else, Jazz had him
wrapped around her finger. It was like she was the sibling he wished he had.

“Naw, I don't know, Jazz. He didn't seem hungry when I left,” Noodles explained, a little nicer this time.

Jazz and I looked at each other. He didn't seem hungry? What was that supposed to mean? Jazz was pissed.

Noodles finished off what was left of his meal, set the plate on the floor, and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. I already knew that he wouldn't take Needles a plate. I also knew that eventually we would have to finish that conversation about why he treats Needles like he doesn't love him, when we all know he does.

“Y'all got some soda?” Noodles asked.

I was about to get up and grab him one, when Jazz shut me down.

“Nope, we don't,” she said.

“Juice?” Noodles asked.

“Nope.”

We had juice and soda. We always did. Noodles knew we did too. But I got what Jazz was up to—making it a point to not give Noodles anything else because of how he treated Needles. I was cool with that.

Jazz stood at the kitchen sink with one hand on her hip. She gave Noodles a look, reached over and turned on the sink faucet, and then did a Vanna White hand gesture as if saying, “Come and get your prize . . . New York City tap water.”

Noodles looked at her, surprised. “Come on, Jazz.
Seriously?” He stood up, brushed the bread crumbs onto the floor, rolled his eyes, and walked toward the door.

“Nine, Ali,” he said, almost like he was giving me some kind of order. Then he closed the door behind him, hard enough to be disrespectful but not hard enough for me to come and kick his tail. Or better yet, for Jazz to kick his tail.

I picked his plate up off the floor and tried to scoop up some of the bigger bread crumbs.

“What's happening at nine?” Jazz asked. She turned the faucet off.

“Nothing much,” I said, walking the plate over to the sink. “Hey, can you make Needles a plate for me? Gonna take it to him later.”

Jazz's eyes lit up, and her smile spread wide as she scrambled through Doris's mountain of Tupperware, searching for the perfect bowl.

9

I checked my cell phone. No missed calls. It was 8:51 p.m., nine minutes before meet-up time. I could hear Jazz talking on the phone in her bedroom, probably to one of her homegirls. I wondered for a second if it could've been Joe Malloy. But I'm sure it wasn't, just because Jazz never went a night without gossiping and giggling with one of her friends. I could tell by her voice that she was already lying down, and had the phone lying on the side of her face. That was her routine every night. She'd be asleep soon. Sometimes she fell asleep with the phone still on!

I laced up my new sneakers, then unlaced and laced them better. Pulled the tongue of the shoe up. Scrubbed the toe with a spitty finger. Gotta be perfect. You never know who might be at this party. Might be the finest woman I ever seen, and she might be looking for a smooth brother like me, with clean shoes.

I checked my pockets and made sure I had everything. Keys, phone, a few bucks. I went in the fridge and grabbed
the “Spaghetto” for Needles. Then I peeked in Jazz's room only enough for me to see in, but not for her to see out. I knew that if she saw all the new clothes, she would start asking questions, and wouldn't stop asking them until she got the truth. Two things are for sure, Jazz ain't no dummy, and she is unbelievably persistent. She'd be a great lawyer, but knowing her, she'll end up a chef, or an Oprah.

“Sleep?” I asked calmly, like nothing was up.

“Hold on,” she said to whoever was on the other end. “Naw, not yet.”

“Oh, okay,” I said. I couldn't really see much, but the light from the hallway created a shadow stripe across her face. Just like I thought, the phone was lying on her cheek. “I'm gonna run this food next door to Needles. Probably hang for a little bit.”

Jazz propped her head up. It was like she knew I was lying but didn't want to say anything. She knew something was up—she knew something was happening at nine.

“Okay, Ali,” she said with a smirk. “I'll probably be asleep. I'll see you tomorrow morning.” Jazz was such a grown-up.

“Just call me if you need me. I'll be next door,” I said lightly, but I suddenly felt the opposite—like my heart was heavy, sinking into my stomach. Like I was making a mistake. Like this was a bad idea. But that bad feeling lifted as soon as I closed Jazz's door and took a glance down at the kicks I had on. Perfect. I mean, not a mark on them and not a lace twisted. Them bad boys were clean enough for a cop to harass me just for having them on. I had three black boys in a Benz with tinted windows, all on my feet.