“CHARLESE JONES,” THE teacher say.
“Here.”
A few kids look back at me. They know some of what I been through ’cause pictures of me are getting around. I’m proud of myself anyhow. He in jail because of me, waiting for trial.
“Miss Jones. You’re new to our school. Did you know anyone before you came?”
I point to a girl in back of the room. Miss Saunders introduced her to me. Her name is Myra Grace. Her mother is a new teacher at McClenton since last year. She sort of shy, a nerd, reminds me of Maleeka only she ain’t tall or dark. It’s hard for her to make friends. Miss Saunders figured that since I’m good at that, we gonna be a good match. Since Myra Grace is good at math and English, turning things in on time, and obeying all the rules, Miss Saunders figured she would be a good influence on me. I think so too.
I raise my hand and start talking before the teacher give me permission. “There’s another new girl coming,” I tell her. She look down at her book. “She’s in the office,” I say. “With her foster mom. Her paperwork—”
“No problem. I see her name here. She a friend of yours?”
I nod. Kids stare. Guess Roxanne will get the same treatment.
Miss Evans brings up the things I’ll need for this class. I write ’em down with the new pen Maleeka gave me. It came in a skinny white box and cost twenty dollars. She bought it with money she earning from tutoring elementary school kids. She’s proud of me, she say all the time. I’m proud of her too, glad her mother’s doing better. The cancer is in remission ’cause of a new treatment she taking at the university hospital. We both keeping our fingers crossed, saying our prayers. So is JuJu and Miss Saunders.
For a minute, my mind starts drifting. Before I know it, I’m thinking about him. “You’re okay,” I remind myself. “He ain’t win.” I close my eyes. “He got what he deserved.” It took a while, but they charged Anthony with rape, child abuse, transporting minors across state lines, trafficking, murder, some other stuff too.
“When is the trial?” Mr. Bobbie asked the other day.
“It could be in a year; maybe two. It all depends,” I told him.
I’m gonna be in that courtroom for sure. Right there on the witness stand. It won’t be easy for me to go through something like that, people say. Anthony’s lawyers will try to make me and the other girls look bad, like we wanted those things to happen to us or brought it on ourselves. But I ain’t scared to speak up. Not all the time anyhow. Besides, the trauma center gave me a lawyer. A good one. She a district attorney. Her and my counselor gonna practice with me so I’ll be prepared and know what to expect in court. I can even write a victim impact statement if I want and read it in court out loud in front of everyone. That way, I get to say in my own words what happened to me, how it made me feel, how it changed my whole life, and what I think they should do to Anthony.
When I first started counseling at the center, they let me draw and color my sadness and break plates when I couldn’t find words for what I went through or was feeling. None of this was my fault. They say that a lot at the center. It’s what my sister said all the time. Now I know it for myself.
“Charlese Jones.”
I look up, hoping the teacher didn’t ask a question while my mind was somewhere else. “Yes, ma’am?”
Kids laugh at them words.
“Would you prefer to be called by your first name, a nickname, or something else?”
“Call me by my name! Charlese.” I spell it so everyone knows.
A kid behind me say I didn’t have to holler it. Only that’s not true. Anthony changed my name so I would forget who I was. I almost did, I told Maleeka. Then the other day I apologized to her ’cause I used to call her out her name all the time. I used to do a lot of mean things to her. Now I know how it feel to be disrespected, beat down, broken.
“We’re the same, Char,” Maleeka told me. “We both been through a lot. But we still here, right? Not standing still either.”
She right about that. The other girls at the house ain’t standing still neither. Gem is in a group home. Not that she wanted to leave our house. And she still won’t squeal or turn on Anthony. Earle is on the street again, I hear. Gemini said she saw her in an alley—dressed in a cat suit—working. I pray for her sometime. Kate, Katrina, and Kianna are back home with their families. Joining clubs in school, dating. Texting me. Carolina is out on bail. She snitched on Anthony, big-time. Told the cops and FBI about April to keep herself out of jail. She still gonna do time, though. I’m glad about that.
I open my new notebook and smile at the note I wrote to myself. 
I wrote that on the first page of every book I got, even my textbooks. It’s sort of a promise I’m making to myself. A reminder for when things get hard, or I get scared or depressed. I drew the words too. Put them in a envelope and mailed them to Cricket. She living with the bus driver. Him and his wife gonna adopt her, but right now they her foster parents. Solomon said he would be her big brother.
Last month, the driver and his wife drove Cricket to our neighborhood. We had a nice ceremony for April at the park. It was my idea. Miss Saunders came, Maleeka and her mom too. My sister asked if I had any words to say. At first, I said no ’cause me and Maleeka done enough work to make this day special, I figured. So, I didn’t need to do no more work. But they came out, them words, soft and slow, pretty too. “April was worth something no matter how she looked or dressed or acted. And she ain’t deserve what happened to her. No one does. I am glad we was friends for a little while, anyhow.”
The driver opened the box in his hand and seven butterflies flew out. One landed on Cricket’s hand, and stayed there awhile. The wind blew, and the sign me and Maleeka taped to the fence looked like it might rip. Only, it didn’t. It stayed strong and showed off our work. Miss Saunders said, “I’m proud of you, Charlese. You also, Maleeka.” We was proud of ourselves too.
I knew I could color, but I ain’t know I could draw, till Maleeka told me to try. But right there on the sign was the proof, plus Maleeka’s hard work too. All kinds of girls walked and flipped across the paper. They sat at desks in school; played jacks on the floor; jumped rope with friends; went to school in groups; hung out in the bathroom smoking; kissed under the bleachers; crossed against the light—and did all kinds of things that kids do. April was there too. On a bus. Holding Cricket—happy.
Us, it says at the top of the page. I put it there to remind us girls that we need to stick together, fight for one another, look out for each other, and never forget—no matter what people tell us—that don’t nobody own us or got the right to beat or abuse us. I looked at Maleeka and almost apologized to her again. But I had done that already. So, my arm went over her shoulder. And her arm went around mine. Quiet as the sun going down, we left the park together, smiling.
Roxanne ain’t make it to the ceremony for April ’cause social services didn’t have everything worked out with our state and theirs until the other day. JuJu wanted to take her in. Only, she still got her hands full with her new job, and me. That’s why I asked Miss Saunders if she would foster her. “She don’t belong to nobody,” I told her. “And that ain’t right.” It helped that the judge and the police sort of took a liking to Roxanne. She that kind of girl. You like her even if you can’t exactly figure out why.
Walking into Miss Evans’s class smiling, Roxanne waves at me. “Hey Char.” I wave right back at her. She hand the teacher some paperwork. Then asks her if she can sit beside me for the rest of the year. I stand up when she get to our row. Roxanne squeezes me tight. “I knew God wouldn’t let you forget about me,” she say. Then she tears up like she might cry.
I almost cry too … but then I stop myself. ’Cause all I been doing is crying. And I’m tired … ready for good things to happen to me. Like going to school dances and basketball games, joining a art or writing club and going to college one day—Miss Saunders said it could happen, if I work hard enough.
I know I ain’t done healing. I know I still need counseling. But I color myself happy anyway, ’cause I am.