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When Max talked with Dr. G., he said I shouldn’t go back to school for another three weeks. And they set it up so I can’t get back in without a release from the doctor. So, okay. Three weeks. I’ll work on building my strength and stamina, a little bit at a time. Weights, and some yoga moves that are strengthening, and taking Buddy on walks, a little longer each day for stamina. Yeah, and practicing a few karate moves, too. It’s been a while since I practiced karate, but you never forget that stuff. Even if your brain doesn’t remember, your body does. Next week I’ll start working with William again. Just a few hours at a time to begin with. Rosie picked up homework for me from my teachers. It’s sitting in a big pile on top of my dresser.
Mainly, I work on all the body stuff, but what about...I don’t even know what to call it. My mind? My spirit? My heart? Whatever it is, I’ve got a lot of time to think, and I keep thinking what if? What if I’d been killed? Would my life have counted for anything? And what if William had been killed? And why did anyone want to hurt me so bad? Or, why can’t we all be like the good camp in The Grapes of Wrath, where everyone helps each other out and works together instead of being in one of the bad camps where groups of people are fighting against each other?
By the time Dr. G. releases me to go back to school, I’m strong again. Fit. My reverse mohawk has grown out some, but it’s all uneven. I’ve always done the basic barber thing, but then Max heard about this cool barber that one of the dental patients goes to. So, the Saturday before I go back to school, she takes me to the Cut Above barber shop, and now I’ve got a low fade on the sides and a low brush cut on top. It looks strange, like I’m trying to be all stylish or something. Rosie likes how it looks, though, so that’s good. Also, she says she likes how it feels when she rubs the buzzed top of my head. Calls it a “fringe benefit.” Get it? “Fringe benefit”?
I’m good. No more pain. No more pain pills. Buddy and I are back to walking our longer route. I still have to wear a belt to keep my pants up, but I don’t have to pull it as tight as I did a couple of weeks ago.
Besides taking me to Cut Above, the day before I go back to school, Max takes me to Nunamakers. January is a little cold for ice cream, but tradition is tradition. I get the big sundae because even though I’m strong and fit, I could still stand to gain some weight, and besides, I like it. Just remembering it has my mouth watering right now. So, me and Max talked about hard times, how my getting beat up scared the shit out of her. And how it made me want to hurt somebody back, the way I’d been hurt. We talk about how hard things are for Carla and Arsenio, and how sad it is that people like the Patriots are so scared of change that their fear turns to hate. We talk about families being separated at the border. Wars. Famine. Climate change.
After all of that, we go on to the sweetness of life and the goodness of people. All of the bracelet people, and the people in William’s A Letter to My Daughters book, but more than that, just everyday people. Whenever there’s an accident, people always rush to help. It’s natural. And help poured in for people who lost their homes in last summer’s fires.
“And, a little thing,” Max says, “but think about how all of the choir girls wore hijabs and stoles at the winter concert so the Muslim girls wouldn’t feel alone.”
I’m glad for the ice cream talks. They remind me that the bad stuff that’s come my way is only a tiny piece of my life. So, yeah, glad for the ice cream talks, and glad for the ice cream.
* * * * *
I’M OUT OF WRITELIGHT before the passing bell stops ringing, managing to catch Rosie as she leaves the choir room. She smiles, reaches up and passes her hand lightly over the top of my head.
“Fringe benefit,” she laughs.
Brianna comes rushing over to Rosie, jumping up and down and screaming.
“Why weren’t you in choir this morning?” Rosie asks.
Brianna keeps jumping up and down. “I got it! I got the letter Saturday! I’m in at UOF!”
Rosie hugs Brianna and smiles weakly. Brianna steps back. “Did you get a letter?”
Rosie shakes her head.
“It’ll probably come today!” Brianna says.
Rosie nods. “I hope,” she says.
“It will! Your grades are better than mine! SAT’s better than mine! Oh, I’m soooo excited!!” she says, then rushes away to spread the news.
The hall is crowded with kids rushing to first period in a maze of different directions, the sound level beyond what’s acceptable for hearing health. I lean in to give Rosie a quick kiss before I turn toward Earth Science. Her eyes are watery.
“Hey,” I say. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head and walks toward her English class. I catch up to her.
“Rosie! What’s wrong?”
I put my arms around her, hold her in a tight hug, feel her strong short breaths against my chest, and I know she’s crying. We stand clenched together in the middle of the hall, kids walking around us, paying no attention. There’s always drama in the halls of HH, and ours this morning is just one more drama. Pushing back a bit, I move us closer to the wall, out of the busy middle. “What is it?”
“What if I don’t get in?” she gasps. “It’s the best music therapy program in the country, and Brianna and I’ve planned this together since we were freshmen and...” Sobs. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted!”
“You’ll probably get your letter today, like Brianna said.”
Rosie wipes her face and walks off toward class.
At lunch Brent’s as happy about his college letters as Brianna was about hers. “M.I.T. No! Cal Tech. No! Georgia Tech. No!” he laughs.
“I bet your dad’s pissed,” Cameron says.
“My dad’s been pissed since the cornhole tournament,” Brent says, “or maybe since I got a C in Algebra when I was thirteen.”
“What’re you going to do, then? Hamilton Heights Community College?” Cameron asks.
“I’m pretty sure I’ll get into Chapman or Occidental, which are my first-tier choices. Maybe major in history. The ones that don’t want me were all my dad’s first choices, not mine. Trouble is, I’ve spent so much of my school life fighting against engineering, I’ve hardly ever even thought about what I do want to study.”
There’s more talk about colleges while my mind wanders around the quad, back to this morning’s classes. Except for that one day a few weeks ago, it’s been almost a month since I’ve been here. The quad, the halls, the classes, the people, it seems strange being here, like I’ve stepped back into some past life where I maybe don’t belong any more.
I go through the motions in afternoon classes. Before I help set up the yoga room 6th period, I step on the scale and am happy to see that I’m up to 147 pounds. Five more pounds and I’ll be back to my pre-attack weight.
After dinner, I go over to Joe’s studio. The lights are on. I peer in the side window to be sure he’s not teaching a class, then tap lightly on the door. He’s barely got the door open a crack when Peppy squeezes through, barking excitedly, jumping on me, running circles around me. I pick her up, laughing, and nuzzle my face in her soft fur. She wiggles around and licks my face. Joe’s laughing now, too.
“I guess she missed you,” he says. “Come in.”
He leads the way into the studio and sits cross legged in Sukhasana. I grab a bolster pillow so I can do a modified Sukhasana ‘cause my left leg’s still a little stiff. Peppy settles onto my lap. “The doc’s cleared me for all regular activities,” I tell him.
“That’s good,” Joe says. “You look lots better than you did a few weeks ago.”
“Feel better, too,” I say, rubbing Peppy’s ears the way I know she likes. It’s funny. Dogs. Buddy loves a belly rub. With Peppy, it’s ears. She never rolls over on her back the way Buddy does, begging for a belly rub. But then, Buddy’s not big on ear rubs.
“I can help out at the studio again on Tuesdays and Thursdays and watch out for Peppy on your long day away.”
“I’ll only be needing you on Thursdays now.”
“What about Tuesdays, when you’re gone until late at night?”
“Well, you know, since you were laid up so long...”
I keep rubbing Peppy’s ears, watch while her eyes slowly close halfway, then pop back open. Her head rests lightly on my knee, and I know that with two more ear rubs she’ll be totally asleep.
“Jason’ll keep covering Tuesdays.”
“Jason!” Peppy jumps awake. “I told you! You can’t trust him!” Peppy jumps off my lap and goes to her bed.
Joe pulls his knees into his chest and leans forward. He gives me a long, searching look, then says, “Calm down. Deep breaths.”
“Fuck deep breaths! Cameron would have walked Peppy, or Brent, or anyone else!”
I push up from the bolster. Joe stands to his full height, feet planted firmly on the floor. Arms slightly bent. Fists tight. Fight stance.
“You. Need. To. Calm. Down,” he says, in a tone I’ve not heard before. Maybe it’s his prison tone.
“You trust Jason? You don’t know shit about Jason!” I say, and I’m outta there.
I start toward my house, then take a turn. Two blocks up Elm Street, toward Palm Avenue. I wonder, why are some streets called streets, and others avenues. And then there are boulevards. Oh, yeah, and drives. There’s Peach Drive over by where Rosie lives. Who decides what’s a street, or an avenue, or a boulevard, or a drive?
A nearly full moon shines through the leaves of one of the giant elm trees that line the sidewalk edge. I guess that explains the Elm in Elm Street. The February air is crisp and chilly, and I pause under the partially moonlit elm and take ten deep cleansing breaths. Not because Joe told me to. Because I want to. Because it’s like I need cleansing. Body and soul.
A text ding. I hope it’s Rosie. It’s Joe.
Come back. Talk.
I stand under the elm for a long time, breathing in fresh air, not wanting to talk to Joe. Like how could he trust Jason to watch out for Peppy? Why would he even let him inside the studio? Another text.
Please.
So, okay. I go back to his place. Joe leads me into the kitchen. Peppy glances up from her bed, then goes back to sleep.
“Tea?” he asks, pouring a cup for himself and waiting for my answer.
“Okay.”
We sit across from each other at the kitchen table, sipping peppermint tea. After a long silence, Joe says, “I don’t understand what got you so upset.”
“And I don’t understand how you could substitute Jason for me.”
“Look. I know you two got off to a bad start...”
“He’s a dick.”
“Eddie. Hear me out...Jason could use a little work, and I needed some help with you out of commission. I know I could have used Brent, or Cameron, or any other number of kids. They would have been fine. But I have a sense that Jason’s a guy who needs something good in his life, and I’m pretty sure Jason needed work in a way the others didn’t.”
Every time Joe says Jason’s name, I hear that squeaky voice in my head saying, “Enough! Let’s get outta here.” It plays in my head at the weirdest times.
Joe goes on, “I know you can pretty much get as much work as you want with William, and cutting you back a day shouldn’t be a big deal. I still won’t charge you for yoga...”
“Wake up! Jason’s a scumbag!”
“I know you don’t like him...”
“I fuckin’ hate him!”
“That’s a little extreme, isn’t it?”
“No!”
I get a heart pounding surge of adrenaline and want to shout out the truth about Jason, that he’s one of the guys who jumped me. But first...I wanna give Jason a taste of what he gave me.
“Forget it,” I say.
“He’s been doing a nice job on Tuesdays. Peppy...”
“Just forget it.”
* * * * *
ONLY THREE DAYS BACK at school, and then it’s a long weekend for Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. There’s always a big MLK march down Main Street past City Hall to Dodsworth Park where there’s music and dancing and a big BBQ dinner, unless it rains. Then everything shifts to a church that’s close to the park and has a big covered outdoor space. Max and I’ve been walking with William and Imani every year since they moved in with us. It’s a reminder of what MLK stood for, and it’s also a big party.
People may not be in as much of a party mood this year, what with the decision not to press charges against the cops who shot Devon Parker. And then last week, police in L.A. shot and killed another black guy who came at them with a pocketknife. The guy’s wife had called 911 asking for help—said her husband hadn’t been taking his meds lately and he was acting all crazy. When the police got there, the guy was outside his wife’s house stabbing at the door with his pocketknife. When the police called to him to drop the knife and put up his hands, he lunged at them, and they shot him. So, the guy was a nutcase, but did they have to kill him? Between that, and all of the white supremacist talk going around lately, the MLK march will be serious.
Rosie’s going to the march, too, with her church group. She invited me to walk with them, but, as much as I like to be with Rosie, I’m not into the church group thing. We’ll meet up at the park after the march. But today, Saturday, she’s in the garage with me and Max and Imani and William, making signs. We always make a bunch of extra signs for the march for people who don’t bring their own. Besides, William’s got all of the paint and clean-up supplies, and masking tape and heavy-duty knives, and with the overhead garage door open, we get plenty of light and air.
Text from Cameron:
Helping Dad paint the kitchen. Borrow a ladder?
I show the text to William. “Sure, as long as it’s back by Tuesday morning.”
K, I text back.
Imani has painted two signs. One says “We’re who MLK” and the other says “dreamed about.” She and Olivia plan to walk side by side. Rosie’s sign is “Standing on the Side of Love.” She says that’s what her church is emphasizing this year. Max’s sign is “Together We Can!” which was one of the mottoes of Cesar Chavez and the farmworkers. William’s is “Live together as brothers, or die together as fools.” Imani doesn’t like it.
“It should be brothers and sisters!” William looks at her blankly. “Live together as brothers and sisters, Daddy!”
Rosie high-fives Imani, who adds a fist bump.
William nods, gets the white paint, covers the quotation marks, and changes it so it reads: “Live together as brothers and sisters, or die together as fools.”
My sign says. “3 Words” at the top and “Equality for All” beneath it. “3 Words.” It’s a good contrast to the “14 Words” I’m still seeing all over the place. William and Max have painted a few more signs to hand out at the march: “No Justice. No Peace.” “Know Justice. Know Peace.” “Black Lives Matter.”
The signs are laid out to dry on the garage floor when Cameron stops by for the ladder. “Whoa! What’s all this?”
“What holiday are we out of school for?” I ask him.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, walking around the garage to read the signs. “For the march? But isn’t that mostly...?”
William’s stopped painting and is watching Cameron, whose face turns pink.
“I mean...” Pink turns to red.
“The march is for everyone who wants Dr. King’s vision to be real...The ladders are over there,” William says, nodding toward the wall where six ladders hang from giant hooks. “Take your pick.”
Cameron chooses the six-foot ladder. “Thanks,” he says to William.
William picks up the “We must live together as brothers and sisters, or die together as fools” sign and hands it to Cameron. “Take this, too.”
“Daddy...!”
“I know, Shug. I’ll make us another one.”
Cameron holds the sign, looking puzzled.
“Go on,” William says. “Take it with you. Sleep on it.”
“Well, okay,” he says to William, “Thanks. See ya,” he says to me and Rosie, as he walks past us, taking the ladder and sign out to his dad’s car.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
