Chapter Four

 

Kimba

13 Years Old

 

 

“Psssst!”

The hiss comes as a piece of notebook-lined origami lands on my desk. I glance nervously from the little square of paper to the teacher at the front of our class. Mrs. Clay is the toughest teacher in the whole eighth grade. She doesn’t play and I don’t test her. Ezra and I were the only black kids in the gifted classes for the longest time, though I know most don’t think of Ezra as black. They don’t know quite what to make of his blue eyes and rough curls and tanned skin. To me, he’s just my best friend.

At the beginning of this school year, another black girl showed up in class, Mona Greene. I didn’t even know how much I needed that until she came. I always have Ezra, of course, but a girl who looks like me? Has hair like me? Understands this tightrope we walk between school and home, striking the right balance between being black enough and just enough black—I love having that. Mona busses in from a neighboring district through a program the city implemented. She’s great, but she always almost gets me into trouble.

I run a finger over the paper on my desk and glance over my shoulder, catching Mona’s wide eyes. She tilts her head, silently urging me to open the note. I jerk back around and eye Mrs. Clay cautiously. When she turns to the chalkboard to write something about Charles Dickens, I slide one fingernail under a fold in the letter and ease it open as quietly as possible.

Kimba, I think you’re so pretty and smart. Will you go with me to the dance?

Yes

No

Jeremy

The dance is in two weeks, celebrating the end of middle school and sending us off in style to summer and ninth grade. Mona, Ezra and I are all going, but none of us have dates.

I glance back over my shoulder at Mona, and a mischievous grin hangs between her cheeks like a hammock.

“Oh my God,” I mouth to her, my eyes stretched.

“I know,” she mouths back, nodding enthusiastically.

A long arm reaches across the aisle and snatches the note. I gasp, grabbing to take the paper back from Ezra, but he turns his lanky body slightly away from me, grinning and batting away my hands. Mrs. Clay suddenly turns around, probably alerted by the small noises I made. Ezra and I instantly go still and inconspicuous. Her narrowed eyes scan the class row by row, but after a few seconds, she turns back to the chalkboard and resumes the lesson.

Ezra’s grin fades as he reads, melting away by centimeters. A frown squeezes between his brows. He places the paper back onto my desk, slumps in his chair and starts scribbling in the margins of his notebook. The words are in Hebrew so I have no idea what he’s writing, but he presses so hard the pencil dents the paper.

“Ez.” My voice comes out like a hissing cat, low and irritated. “Don’t read my stuff.”

“Since when?” he mumbles, not bothering to look up, his wide mouth sulky. His shoulders are parentheses, bowed, bracketing his body like they’re holding him together. “We’ve never kept secrets from each other. I thought you and Mona were just playing around. I didn’t know it was…”

He glares at the notebook and carves the Hebrew letters onto the paper, a torn black ribbon pinned to his T-shirt over his heart, a Jewish sign of mourning. It’s been a hard month for him. Bubbe died two weeks before Ezra’s Bar Mitzvah. The Sterns went up to New York right away for the funeral, even Ezra’s father who has never really gotten along with Mrs. Stern’s family. When they returned, we attended Ezra’s Bar Mitzvah at the synagogue, and the reception after. I didn’t understand everything that happened, but I knew Ezra worked hard to learn Hebrew and prepare for the ceremony. He excelled, like he does in everything. I researched the best things to give, and found out gifts in increments of eighteen are kind of like good luck, so I gave him eighteen Pixie Stix. Mrs. Stern isn’t usually strict about him keeping Kosher, but leading up to the Bar Mitzvah, he did. Pixie Stix are his favorite.

“Hey,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t answer, but the muscle in his jaw knots.

“Ezra, I—”

“Miss Allen,” Mrs. Clay cuts in, her voice like a snapping turtle. “Since you want to talk so much, you can read the passage.”

What passage?

Crap.

I hate reading out loud. On paper, I can hold my own with any of the kids in our gifted classes, but when I read aloud, the words shuffle in my mouth and strangle my tongue.

“Um, n-n-no, ma’am.” I clamp my lips together and swallow hard, closing my eyes and breathing deeply like my speech therapist suggested. “No, I don’t want t-t-to t-t-talk. I’m sorry. I—”

“It was not a request, Miss Allen.” She leans against the chalkboard, apparently uncaring that she’s probably getting chalk dust all over her beige cardigan. “Read the passage.”

“Um, o-okay.” I gulp my fear down and study the board. “Which one exactly should I—”

“The one we’ve been discussing.” Mrs. Clay huffs a long sigh. “The opening lines of the book, please.”

I glance at the book on my desk, A Tale of Two Cities, and open it to the first page. Thirty pairs of eyes wait on me. The room is so quiet, I hear them breathing, hear my own shallow, panicky breaths. My dry lips will barely part to let the words out. I lick them and try.

“I-i-t was the best of times,” I manage, my voice a croak. “It was the—”

“Louder so we can hear you. And please stand. You know the drill by now.”

A drill I’ve avoided as much as possible the whole school year. I’m all sass and confidence in every other class and every other area of my life, but this one? Reading out loud? In front of everyone? Risking the disdain of the smartest kids in our school when my tongue lets me down? I’m terrified.

Picking up the book, I stand. “I-i-it was the best of times—”

Snickers break out behind me. I pause at my classmates’ amusement, drawing a deep breath and starting again.

“I-it was the best of times—”

Whispers. Chuckles. Gasps from behind stop me again. I look around, glance over my shoulder and find Mona’s eyes. They are wide, shocked. Her mouth hangs open and she covers it with one hand.

Before I can process the amused and surprised expressions all around me, Ezra stands and ties his windbreaker around my waist.

“What are you doing?” I ask him. “What’s—”

He grabs my hand and fast-walks me down the row of desks and out the door without speaking. I look back, expecting Mrs. Clay’s fury, but her face has softened. When her eyes meet mine, they’re compassionate.

“All right, class,” she says, her curt tone back in place. “That’s enough. Let’s get back to it. Darlene, would you read the passage?”

Ezra pulls me out the door and starts down the hall. I tug at my hand, trying to free it.

“What are you doing? Where are we going?”

He doesn’t answer, but just keeps walking. I jerk my hand away and stop in the middle of the hall.

“Ezra, I know you’ve used your, like, twelve words for the day,” I say, hands planted on my hips, “but you better tell me what’s going on right now.”

He stops, too, running a hand through his hair.

“Kimba, I…you…” He groans and closes his eyes.

“Just spit it out. What in the world? You tie this jacket around my…” I trail off, my brain finally catching up to wonder why he did that.

“There’s a stain on the back of your pants,” he mumbles, his eyes glued to the floor as he drags the words past his lips.

“A stain?”

Fire ignites beneath the surface of my cheeks. My fingertips go cold. My stomach lurches. I got my period for the first time two months ago. Kayla told me horror stories about this happening at school, and I’ve tried to be so careful. But today, I wore white shoes and white pants. I sit close to the front of Mrs. Clay’s class, so all those students sitting behind me saw…

“Oh, God.”

I take off running down the hall toward the bathroom, tightening the sleeves of Ezra’s windbreaker around my waist. Ezra’s footsteps behind me only urge me faster. I need to get away even from him.

“Tru!” he calls, but I keep moving. He catches up to me and takes my arm. “You okay?”

“Besides being dead from embarrassment?” I mumble, avoiding his eyes. “Yeah. Peachy.”

“Those kids don’t matter,” he says, flicking his head in the direction of the class we just fled. “And you know you don’t have to be embarrassed with me.”

I look up to meet his eyes, and they’re dark blue, almost violet. I love that color so much, but hate that it only comes when he’s upset. “I’m okay, Ezra. Thank you for the jacket.”

I start to untie it, but he places a hand over mine.

“Keep it until you don’t need it,” he says, his voice scratchy with discomfort. “I’ll get it later. I know where you live.”

We chuckle.

“Yup, right across the street.” I smile, but squeeze his hand over mine. “Thanks, Ez. You always take care of me.”

“We take care of each other,” he says, his voice subdued when he looks up from our hands, his eyes intense. “Hazak, Hazak, Venithazek.”

It sounds like Hebrew, but I have no idea what it means. “What’d you say?”

“Be strong, very strong.” His fingers tighten on mine and he doesn’t drop his gaze or slide a hand in his pocket, or any of the other Ezra things he does when he’s unsure. “And we will strengthen each other.”

The words are seeds sinking deep into my soul, into my heart. They take root and bloom. We’ve taken care of each other our whole lives. I don’t know what to do with these feelings. What I feel for Ezra is as old as we are, and yet brand new. It’s familiar, but blushing and breathless.

“Mr. Stern, Miss Allen,” the vice principal calls from a few feet down the hall. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“I have a female issue.”

I’ve only had my period twice, but I’ve already discovered you only have to refer to it for men to start stumbling and looking uncomfortable.

“Well, yes.” He tugs at his tie and clears his throat. “You, um, do what needs to be done.”

He points to Ezra. “You don’t have a, um, problem like that, Mr. Stern. Get to class.”

“Yes, sir.” Ezra looks at me, a small smile on his lips. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Yeah, later.”

With one final glance at the vice principal, I push through the restroom door. Thank God I’m the only one in here. I stumble into the very last stall.

Shoot!

I have no supplies. My bag is still in the classroom. I have no quarters to buy a tampon or pad from the machine. Mortification and helplessness bring tears to my eyes, but I swipe at them impatiently. The bathroom door swings open, and I stiffen, listen.

“Kimba?” It’s Mona’s voice. “You in here?”

“Last stall.”

I open the door to find her standing there holding my backpack.

“Thought you might need this,” she says with a tentative smile.

“Thanks.”

I accept the backpack and close the door again, rifling through the bag to find a tampon and pad. Once the business is done, I come out to wash my hands. Mona’s leaning against the counter.

“Everyone was laughing at me?” I ask, rubbing in soap under the water.

“Not really.” Mona shrugs. “I think everyone was just surprised and kind of reacted at first, but then it just died down and we moved on when Mrs. Clay made other people start reading.”

I hold my hands under the forced air to dry them.

“I’m not sure who was more traumatized,” Mona continues. “You or Ezra.”

Our eyes catch in the mirror. By some miracle, our lips start twitching simultaneously. And then the tension that’s held my shoulders stiff and my back too straight for the last twenty minutes snaps, and I’m giggling. Mona giggles, too, hopping up onto the counter and leaning against the mirror.

“He hauled you out of there like he was the Secret Service or something,” Mona says.

“I know, right?” I chuckle and shake my head. “That’s Ezra.”

The air dryer stops and I grab my backpack and head for the door. The hall is empty, a stretch of muted voices behind closed doors.

“I saw him as he was coming back to class.” Mona lets the bathroom door swing closed behind her. “Told him this was girl stuff and I got it.”

“Bet that went over great,” I say dryly.

“I know you guys have been friends a long time.”

“Literally since we were babies,” I say, smiling as memories over the years run through my mind. I’ve always had Ezra and he’s always had me. I can’t imagine it any other way.

“Yeah, well, he’s a guy, and he’s gonna have to get used to sharing you with friends who are girls. I mean, he’s got Hannah now, and you don’t have a problem with it, right?”

“Hannah?” My smile dims then fades to nothing. “Ezra barely knows her. They don’t have any classes together or anything.”

“Weren’t they in that Bar Mitzvah thing, or whatever together at the synagogue a lot?” Mona nods even though I don’t respond. “That’s when it started. He didn’t tell you?”

“Um, well, I’m not sure there’s anything to tell.”

“From what I heard,” Mona says, looking around like the empty hall might be bugged before looking back to me, “her brother was mad about it.”

Stay away from Hannah.

That’s what the boy yelled that day they attacked Ezra.

“Ezra better be careful,” Mona says. “He might be all ‘Bar Mitzvah,’ but this is still Georgia, and Hannah is still white and Ezra is still black.”

Mona’s grin tips to one side, and she leans against a locker. “Well, semi-black. Her daddy would say he’s black, though I doubt she’ll be taking him home to meet the parents.”

“He’s black when it’s convenient for other people, and white when it’s not,” I say. “If Hannah can’t introduce Ezra to her parents, then she doesn’t deserve him.”

She doesn’t deserve Ezra, period.

“I’m gonna go.” I shift the backpack on my shoulder and tug on the sleeve of Ezra’s coat. “I need to call Mama and have her pick me up. These pants are ruined.”

“Okay.” Mona’s mischievous smile returns with a vengeance. “What are you gonna tell Jeremy?”

An image of Hannah comes to mind, a memory from Ezra’s Bar Mitzvah. Hannah dressed in pink, her face pretty and smooth and sprinkled with freckles. Her long, curly hair had been loose and hanging down her back. Is that what Ezra wants? Someone who looks more like his mother than like me? A lump burns in my throat like lit coal, and I have trouble swallowing past it.

“Yeah.” I turn and head toward the office to call Mama. “I’ll go to the dance with Jeremy. Whatever.”

I call and leave a message at the elementary school front desk since Mama’s teaching.

How long will she take?

In the hall, I lower my eyes every time a student walks by. Even seated and with the safety of Ezra’s jacket, it feels like they can see my stain.

“Kimba,” Mrs. Stern says from the office door. “You ready?”

I grab my backpack and tighten Ezra’s windbreaker at my waist. She climbs behind the wheel of her green Camry and I take the passenger seat. Mrs. Stern pulls carefully out of the school parking lot like she’s testing for her driver’s permit.

“Your mom’s in class, obviously,” Mrs. Stern says. “So she asked me to come.”

“Thanks,” I mumble.

We ride in silence. It’s not awkward exactly. More like the kind of quiet where you don’t have to say anything and it’s okay. Mrs. Stern often makes me feel that way. Maybe that’s where Ezra gets it.

“So I heard you had a little accident,” she says, shooting me a quick glance when we come to a stoplight. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want, but if you do…”

I shake my head and fix my gaze out the window, staring at the trees dressed in their brightest colors, celebrating spring.

“Well, just know it happens to all us girls at some point,” Mrs. Stern says. “Anyway, having just Ezra, I don’t get to deal with the girl problems. I thought we’d have another, but we haven’t been able to.”

She doesn’t sound sad exactly. I can see how Ezra would be enough for anybody.

“I do have a question,” I say after another few seconds of silence.

“Oh, of course.” Her voice is eager, and she flashes me an encouraging smile. “Anything.”

“Why do you want to move so much?”

The smile slips and falls, and she presses her lips together like she’ll only let so many words out at a time. “I miss my family, Kimba. I want to babysit my sister’s children. I want to be in the synagogue where I grew up. I want meat from the deli around the corner and all the things that made New York not just a city, but my home. I want the little part of it where my faith and my community and the things that made me who I am all live.”

She looks at me with sad eyes, with Ezra’s eyes. “I was so glad to leave, to set off and do my own thing, go my own way, but my mother died and I wasn’t with her. I want the wandering to be done.”

I think about my grandfather, my parents, our huge family having dinners together every Sunday. Borrowing Kayla’s things without asking. Cleaning the house together on Saturday mornings with my siblings, music blasting, and Mama singing Earth, Wind and Fire’s “September” at the top of her lungs. Daddy’s secret stash of cigars. The gazillion-piece puzzles Mama insists we do together sometimes when we’ve been going our own way and haven’t been at the same table at the same time all week.

“I get that,” I say. “But I don’t want Ezra to go.”

We pull into her driveway, and she stares at the garage door, the flowering bushes standing guard at the bottom of her porch steps, a hard little smile on her lips. “Don’t worry, Kimba. I doubt we’ll ever leave.”