Why?
Why is there another white paper attached to our front door? Dad has a promotion. He’s been going to AA meetings. He showed us the paid rent receipt! Okay, maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. It might be an invitation from our neighbors. All sorts of community meetings and dinners probably be happening out here. It could even be an advertisement from the landscapers, or—it could be exactly what I thought it was.
I snatch the envelope off the door. And no, it’s not addressed to me, but I rip it open anyway. Ugh. Ugh-ugh-ugh. The last note was on, like, a regular piece of paper, but this one is all official-looking.
From the office of Todd Moreno
Dear Emory Anderson:
Your May rent has not been received as of the date of this notice. As a result and according to your lease, a late charge has been added to your total balance. You currently owe $1,589.00. This entire balance must be paid immediately. This is a serious matter and your urgent attention is required. Failure to act promptly will lead to eviction proceedings.
Just when things were getting better. I knew this was coming. I knew it. Why do we trust Dad for one hot minute, why?
Think. Don’t get mad—think.
What if we explained to Todd—but, explain what? That Dad’ll pay?
What if we can convince him to give us more time? At least till after the talent show.
Yes, that might work. It has to. I unlock the door and slip inside. Maybe Mama could talk to him. No, that’ll lead us straight to Grandma’s. Who else? Think, Genesis. Not Dad, and definitely not Grandma—dang. Not me either. I can’t talk to a landlord. I’m a kid! That’s stupid, ’cause like, how would I even get all the way to Dad’s job? Without money?
I run to my room and dive facedown on my bed. Where to now? A new neighborhood. Another school. I’m not moving again. I’m not! And you know what else? I’m tired of no one doing anything about it!
Shoot. Lying here won’t help. It’s gotta be me, I reason. So I get up and go to Mama’s room. I search her coat pockets, jiggle Dad’s pants, then check their drawers and under the bed. In the living room, AA pamphlets still lay on the table, as if proving that Dad is making good on his promise. Whatever. I dig between the couch cushions and in Mama’s other purses until I scrape up enough change for bus fare—there and back. I should leave a note, but no. The sooner I get there, the sooner I’ll get back.
At the bus stop, I keep my head down, scared of Mama or Dad somehow spotting me. I’m not afraid to go to the city by myself; shoot, I’ve been riding public buses for forever—even to go to school. But wait, how do I even get to Dad’s job? I know he works on Woodward Avenue, and I remember the stores around it. Mama calls them landmarks. If I can just make it to 7 Mile—one of the stops Mom and I used to catch the bus from to get to Dad’s job—I’m sure I’ll recognize the route to his work. I study the map just like Mama taught me, but I can’t figure out where to transfer. When the bus comes, I climb in and ask the driver which bus’ll get me to 7 Mile and then connect to Woodward Avenue. He tries to explain, but I must look confused because he finally says, “Just sit behind me, and I’ll let you know.” Which is very nice of him. People get on and off, and I watch them on the sly. Mama always taught me, You’ve got to have eyes in the back of your head.
The driver informs me it’s time to transfer, and which number bus to take. I thank him, get off, and focus my thoughts on what to sing for the talent show, and not what I’m about to do. I wait, getting peeved at Yvette for dissin’ someone as nice as Nia and Troy—and Sophia, for that matter. I’m still waiting, now in panic mode. What if the bus driver told me the wrong bus? What the heck I’m gonna say to Todd? Fifteen minutes later, the bus chugs up the street, and then I’m asking that driver if he knows the stop for Mumford Manufacturing Company. He frowns, irritated, as if being kind would hurt him. Then he says, “You’ve got about eight or nine stops to go.” I thank him, then find a seat next to an older lady and begin counting stops.
Todd’s note is folded up, safe in my jean’s front pocket. I pull it out and study it. Mama believes Dad sabotages himself because he’s afraid. What can be scary about paying the rent? It has to be more than that. The way I look at it, me scrubbing my skin and putting yogurt on my body ain’t about me just wanting to be pretty. So Dad’s gambling ain’t just about him trying to win money.
The Woodward Avenue street sign catches my eye. Dang it! I almost miss my stop. I leap up and reach over the old lady—“Excuse me”—to ring the bell. Once I’m off the bus, I put on a poker face. A big, open lot sits in front of the plant and a barbed wire fence surrounds the property. I wander around the place searching for a main entrance, then see a crowd waiting at a food truck. The aroma of Philly cheesesteaks drifts in the air. I ignore the tiger clawing in my stomach as I search the faces for Dad’s.
Alongside the building are openings huge enough for eighteen-wheelers to back up into. Dad used to work in press stamping or something like that, but I have no idea what department Todd works in. A Black man wearing a uniform is posted by the fence. I glance around for Dad before approaching to ask if he knows Todd Moreno. He shrugs, points to a white man, and says, “Ask Freddy, he’s in charge.” Freddy stands at one of the truck openings, staring down at a clipboard in his hand. As if it’s perfectly normal for me to be here, I cruise over to him and in my most mature voice say, “Excuse me?”
“Yeah?” he says harshly, and then looks up from his clipboard and sees me. “What’re you doing around here?”
“Uhm . . . I’m looking for Todd Moreno.”
“Todd Moreno?” He taps his clipboard, thinking. “Todd Moreno in stamping?” I nod, guessing he’s right. “Whaddaya want with him?”
“I have a message for him, that’s all.”
“Hold on, he might’ve gone for the day. Who’s asking?” He lifts the walkie-talkie to his mouth.
“Uhm . . . Gen-nie,” I say.
The man calls for Todd. My palms are sweaty. I scan the place, expecting Dad to step up at any minute. Would he come from inside or the loading dock? A voice clicks back, “He already left for the day.”
“There you have it. Wanna leave the message?”
“No, thanks,” I say.
He shrugs as if it makes him no never mind.
This could’ve been disastrous. I turn to leave, but I stop myself. Hold on, I didn’t travel over an hour for nothing, did I? Yes, the scared part of me screams, hoping to jet from this place with a swiftness. But the part of me that talks big and bad about what I should’ve done after it’s too late—well, that part of me turns back to Freddy and asks, “Excuse me, do you know Emory Anderson? I think he’s in stamping too?”
Freddy looks at me, impatient. I get to tapping my foot because he’s staring me down. Just as I’m about to fly out of there, Freddy says, “I know him. Why ya’ asking?”
My throat tightens. I swallow and say, “Uhm . . .” I cannot think of one single story to tell this guy—especially with him glaring at me. The only thing I come up with is the lamest, corniest lie on earth: “We heard he got a job promotion and wanted to know his new hours so we could surprise him with a party.”
We? Who the heck is we? Freddy cannot possibly believe this story. Especially since he bursts out laughing. When he finally catches his breath, he says, “Well, Gennie, you tell your people that Emory will never get a promotion here. He doesn’t even work here anymore.” Then he laughs again.
All the brain cells in my head start to pinball, knocking around the question: Did I hear him right?
Freddy calls over to someone else. “Hey, Harry, listen to this, will ya?”
Yeah, I heard him right, so I hightail it to the gate as fast as I can without actually running. I pass the Philly cheesesteak truck, the smell now turning my stomach.
“Hey!” A man in the food truck line calls out to me. “Hey, remember me? Chico.”
I stop in my tracks.
“It’s been a while, but you still look just like your old man. What’s your name, again? Wait, don’t tell me.” He snaps his fingers and says, “Jordan? No . . . Janice? No . . .”
I turn and hoof it out the gate.
“Hey wait, you looking for your dad?” Chico calls.
I don’t turn back. And I don’t stop moving till I reach the bus stop.
“Where have you been? I’ve been worried half to death!” Mama hits me with a barrage of questions and doesn’t take a single breath before launching into the next. I couldn’t answer them, anyway. I don’t even recall getting on or off the buses home. All I know is that I’m too numb to consider her anger and fear. Too stunned to create a story to tell her. An easy lie falls from my lips. “I was working on a project with Sophia.”
“It’s after seven o’clock. What project was so important that you couldn’t pick up the phone?” I hang my head as Mama continues, “Don’t act like crime doesn’t happen out here.”
The only thing to say besides “sorry” is the truth: No, I didn’t think to call because I just found out Dad doesn’t have a job! He’s been leaving the house every day, pretending to go to work. Forget not getting a job promotion, Dad’s NOT GETTING PAID AT ALL. He’s probably even lying about going to the meetings, too. But I’m not laying all that down yet—I gotta think.
“Don’t let another ‘project’ stop you from calling or coming straight home, you hear?” Mama continues to rant, her voice ringing throughout the house.
When Mama’s done, I quietly close my door. I dig the eviction notice out from my pocket. Dad’s nothing but a LIAR, talking about promises and job promotions. I should tell Mama and get this whole moving thing over with now. It’ll be way better than having our stuff sitting on the curb. I can’t get over it—DAD HAS NO JOB! Since when? If it weren’t for that note and me having the courage to go speak to Todd, then we would never have known till it was too late.
I can’t unthink this, no matter how many times I try to push it out of my head. I get the Ella Fitzgerald CD from my bag, find a song to match my mood, and relief comes in the form of woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo’s as Ella tells me to “Cry Me a River.” And now I will, thank you very much! But Ella doesn’t let me. She doesn’t sound at all sorry for me, and pretty soon I stop feeling sorry for myself too.
Ella can sing a sad song with a jubilant twist, and she secretly switches your mood. She’s smart and tricky like that.
Tonight I did something pretty dumb. But part of me feels kinda proud because I did something. And I made the talent show.
I did something. Twice in one week.
Take that, Dad.
And Dad . . . well, he ain’t here. Nine o’clock. Ten. Ten thirty. He’s still not home. And now my thinking is ramped up again. Where does he go all day, with no job to go to? What is he doing? How is he getting money? Is he even trying to get the rent money before Mama finds out? What else is he lying about?