ALL THE COMMERCIALS are sayin’, “Get Dad what he really wants this Father’s Day,” and it makes me hate TV. I turn the channel each time a commercial comes on, and finally I just toss the remote to Charlie and go to my room. Sneaky’s off visiting his grandparents for a few days, so I can’t run up to his place. I just wish I could be somewhere that has no Father’s Day. I read for a while, until Miz Rita pokes her head in and hands me the second letter from Mama. After I read it, I almost want to ball it up and shoot a Kobe jumper into the trash can.
Mama says she’s doing good and has so much to do when she comes home, blah blah blah. But all I see is one part. She’s coming on June 29. June 29 is seven days after my birthday. And Mama doesn’t even say she’s sorry that she’ll miss it!
Miz Rita makes us turkey sandwiches for lunch, and though it tastes really good, I don’t feel like eating.
“Well, go on and tell me,” Miz Rita says after I take only a few bites.
“Huh?”
“You been mopin’ around all morning,” Miz Rita says, “so go on and tell me what’s the matter. I’m old, so my mind-reading skills aren’t what they used to be.”
“Oh. Nothing.” I take a bigger bite out of the sandwich, and crunch on the plain potato chips like they’re the best thing ever.
“Ummm-hmmm.” I can tell Miz Rita doesn’t believe me. “I’m surprised you ain’t running off to the library today. Been going almost every day this week!”
That’s just it! I’ve been working hard at the library, clearing out the room for Mama’s surprise, and she won’t even be here for my birthday!
“I wanna go to the library!” Charlie says. She sprays my arm with potato chip crumbs. Gross!
“No talkin’ and eatin’, baby,” Miz Rita tells Charlie. Then she looks at me. “If it makes you feel any better, my friend Ida can’t stop talkin’ about the poem you wrote her. She says you real talented.”
That does make me feel better.
“Can you write a poem for me, Isaiah?” asks Charlie. This time, no food comes flying out her mouth.
“You can stand in line, little girl,” Miz Rita jokes, “cuz he gotta do one for me first!”
So that’s how we spend the afternoon: no more Father’s Day commercials or Mama-missing-my-birthday letters. Just me writing poems about Charlie’s Afro puff and Miz Rita’s yummy pound cake. And lots of laughs.