“Genesis, didn’t I say cut that TV off?”
“No, you asked if I was done with my homework.” I press the power button on the remote and the TV goes black.
“Don’t get smart; it’s the same thing.” Mama’s already freshly showered from a day’s work. “As a matter of fact, bring your homework to the kitchen table and work on it in here.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“Said so” is technically not an answer, but still I gather my books and drop them on the table. Even though Dad got the promotion, Mama’s still annoyed that he came home drunk last night. And, I’m still annoyed about his teasing. And because he’s not here, we only have each other to let out puffs of madness to.
Mama darts about the kitchen, whipping up dinner. When she’s done, she fixes our plates. I slide my books to the floor, get the silverware, and Mama finally sits down. She takes a breath before asking, “How was school?” as if nothing’s bothering her at all.
“Fine,” I say, as if nothing’s bothering me, either. “I’ve made a few friends, Sophia and Troy, he’s my math tutor—”
Mom suddenly looks alarmed. “You have a math tutor? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it’s not a big deal, they’re on a different math level at this school is all.”
“So, a boy, huh?” Mama smiles. Big. And this is the reason why I don’t talk about school much.
“A tutor, who happens to be a boy.” I make swirls in my mashed potatoes. “That’s all.”
“Okay, okay.” She holds both hands up, surrendering.
“Dad still at work?” I mutter.
Mama glances at her watch. “I think so. He says he’s in training, so his hours are longer. He’s supposed to go to the AA meeting tonight, I believe.”
I notice with sudden dread a few folded-up moving boxes stuffed between the refrigerator and wall. She’s not saving those boxes for us to move again, is she? But no, Dad’s new job will make everything all work out. Right? I pinch off a piece of my chicken, but can’t eat it. I hate those ever-ready moving boxes. I wonder if we’ll ever not have to have them ready.
Then out of the blue Mama says, “Genesis, we need to talk.”
Whoa, did she just read my mind about the boxes? I’m not sure I even want to hear what’s coming: “We need to talk” is never good.
“I’ve been thinking . . . things may not change with your daddy.” There’s worry in her eyes as she studies me, and then she totally throws a curveball. “What’s clear to me is that my mother’s right . . . about me getting my degree, and I need a better paying job to take care of you—us. So—I’ve started applying to different companies.” Then, even though it’s just us two, she lowers her voice and says, “And I’ve been saving money, for school. I’m praying not to have to use it for anything else.”
Mama’s never mentioned going back to school, and she’s never ever admitted that Grandma’s right. And I hope Mama’s only meaning is that Grandma’s right about her education and a better job. ’Cause it sounds awfully like Mama’s planning to leave Dad, but that can’t be the case, could it?
She’s staring at me. Oh. She wants me to respond.
“Genesis, I have to do this. . . . I need to do this,” she presses.
“That’s cool, you should totally go for it,” I assure her. “I could help out around here, do more chores and stuff. Hey, we can even do homework together, right here at the table.”
“Thank you, honey,” Mama says, her face lighting up. “And, Genesis, let’s just . . . let’s just keep this between us, okay?”
I nod. We all have secrets, but Mama’s aren’t like Dad’s—secretly smoking in the house or sneaking off to the casinos. Or mine, singing in the mirror. All of a sudden I wonder if Billie Holiday ever sang in front of the mirror.
“Mama?” I say. “You heard of Billie Holiday, right?”
“Lady Day, of course! Why?”
“My teacher let me borrow her CD.”
“Yeah? I didn’t grow up on her music, but I like it. There’s an old movie about her life, Lady Sings the Blues.” Mama goes on describing the movie. She tells me that Billie Holiday was addicted to drugs and her husband kept trying to help her beat it. Then Mama describes how the doctors strapped her in a straitjacket. Yikes! And that’s who Mrs. Hill pegs me like?
“We should rent it,” Mama says, getting up to fill her water glass. “I swear I drink more simply because it comes straight from the refrigerator’s door.” She takes a sip before continuing. “That Billie, she had a hard life, a real hard life.”
Sure sounds like it! Then it hits me. Billie Holiday’s husband must be to Billie Holiday what Mama and I are to Dad. Did Billie’s husband ever get tired of helping her? Mama always accepts Dad’s promises and stays, but now that she’s planning to go back to school, does it mean his apologies are wearing thin? So I ask point-blank if she’d ever leave him.
My question catches her off guard because she quickly says, “Huh?” When I used to say “huh,” she’d say, If you can “huh,” you can hear. But I ask her again, anyway.
Then she starts with a dragged out, “Wellllll, Gen . . . it is a possibility . . . if things don’t change.”
Mama must’ve been doing some heavy-duty thinking. And Dad’s stupid antics haven’t helped his cause. But we can’t move yet. We just can’t. Yeah, chorus sucked, but . . . I like it here.
My conversation with Mama was deep, so you already know that when it’s time for me to sleep, my brain won’t shut off. I get out of bed, turn on my CD player and slide Billie Holiday’s silver disk inside. And I really listen. Her voice . . . her voice is incredible. It swings up to the high note so smoothly—how does she do that? And then it hovers over the piano chords gently, gently. She sounds sad. But something else, too. Hopeful. I want to belt out Billie’s lyrics. But Billie doesn’t belt. She lets her pain ooze out slow. I wonder what caused her “sickness.” I pick up the CD cover, and Billie’s eyes are lonely, as if she wants someone to notice.
I notice, Billie.
The next day at school, Billie’s songs keep humming in my brain. It’s like I have my own soundtrack; in language arts I wanted solitude and by the time I got to PE, heartache was waiting on the track. So, when my last class is done, I stop at the library to find a book to match my miserable mood. As if it’s my destiny, I spy a hardcover biography about . . . Lady Day! Sitting right there on the shelf. This is way too cool of a coincidence to keep to myself. Who else to tell other than Sophia?
But she isn’t at her locker. I backtrack to the library; she’s not there, either. Not in Ms. Luctenburg’s class, the locker room, the office—where the heck is she? Just as I’ve convinced myself that she left without me, I decide to check the one place I didn’t. The bathrooms. Each one—by our locker and homeroom—is empty. Sophia’s gone. It’s probably my fault for taking so long in the first place.
I stuff Billie Holiday’s biography in my backpack and fling it over my shoulder, already itching to read it, and on my way to the front doors—there’s one more bathroom. If she’s not in here, I’m gonna feel real stupid for wasting all this time searching for her. Still, I push the door open, calling out, “Sophia, are you in—”
Sophia’s standing at the sink. Just standing there, with her face bright red. And I’m no expert, but it looks like she’s been crying. And instantly I get a flashback of me crying in the bathroom just two days ago.
“What’s the matter? What happened?”
“There’re no more paper towels,” she says, washing her hands.
“What? Paper towels?” I check, and okay, there aren’t. “So, just wipe your hands on your pants and come on.”
She doesn’t move. These suburb kids need what Dad calls street smarts. You’ll never find a Detroit kid wiggin’ out about the lack of paper towels. Shoot, we’d be lucky if there was toilet tissue. Sophia still doesn’t move. I start to worry that there’s something seriously wrong. There’s only one real reason that someone would be hiding out in the restroom with a flushed face. And it’s called “Don’t let me catch you after school.”
“Who’s messing with you?” I ask.
“Huh? Nobody’s picking on me. It’s just—” Sophia holds her hands up, water runs down her wrists. “It’s just that they’re out of paper towels, someone should tell them.”
“They’ll figure it out,” I say, considering what’s really up with her. So I ask, “You good? You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?”
Sophia nods, but doesn’t follow me to the door.
“You really need paper towels?” I ask, and she nods a second time. “Fine.” I run all the way to the other bathroom, grab a handful of towels, and run all the way back. “Here.” And then I ask again if she’s okay for real, she tells me that yes, she’s fine and wishes I’d stop asking because it’s starting to weird her out, thank you. Then, she waits for me to open the door as if she’s the queen of England and passes without further explanation. Outside, when the wind shifts our way, Sophia calms down and admits that she freaked out about her social studies test.
“I did awful,” she says.
“Of course you didn’t,” I assure her, but heck if I know. I tell Sophia all about my great library find. And as soon as we part ways, I get the book from my backpack and slowly cruise home, reading Billie’s story. I skim through the pages and catch phrases like “. . . moved around due to poverty . . . income paid for her addictions . . . fragile relationship with her father . . .” I stop right in the middle of the sidewalk. Dang.