When Mama comes home I take a break from The Outsiders. And boy, does she look whipped. I can imagine what she’d look like if I broke Dad’s news to her. Or my own—me pouring out that liquor. There’s no way I can drop either bomb, just look at her. So, I tell her to take it easy, that we can eat leftovers or cereal. She says that sounds about perfect, and lays her head back on the couch and closes her eyes. She does perk up a little when I tell her about auditioning and making the talent show. I go back over to my homework spot by the big picture window, but end up gazing at the orange red of the sun bleeding across the sky. Not a second later, Dad rolls up the driveway like a madman. “Dad’s home,” I announce. Home from where is my question. Such a fraud. He sits in the car—that’s supposed to be parked at the Mumford Manufacturing Company.
“He must’ve gotten off early,” Mama says, pushing herself up from the couch. She’s beside me, watching too. He notices us. And it doesn’t take a psychic to read that he’s in a mood.
“I’m gonna go finish my homework,” I say, picking up my books and escaping to my room.
“Go ’head, it won’t take long to make cereal,” Mama jokes.
I keep my door open a smidge. When Dad comes in, I recognize his tone even before I register the words—it’s the rock stuck in his throat voice. Not a drunk voice, but a mad voice. When I hear Mama ask, “How do you know?” and Dad responds, “Chico,” that’s when my stomach clenches.
I have two choices. One: Wait for Dad to come for me. Or two: Go out on my own. Neither sounds good, but I know what I have to do—even though every muscle in my legs are resisting it. Slowly I step into the living room. They don’t notice me—how can they not feel the electric pulses sparking from my body?
“Wait, wait, wait,” Mama is saying. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me she caught the bus all the way to your job? That’s simply impossible, Em.” She’s staring at my father as if he’s said I flew to the moon.
I try to speak. I have to. Say it! I swallow real hard and say, “No, Mama. I did it.”
Mama spins toward me. “What? How? Why on earth—?” With each word she charges a step forward. I back up, suddenly afraid.
Dad: To get me fired, that’s why.
Mom: How’d you get all the way out there?
Dad: What the hell were you doing snooping around my job?
Mom: How do you even know the route?
Dad: It doesn’t matter how she knew.
Lord, please let the floor crack open so I can fall through and disappear forever.
Mom: What were you thinking?
Dad: She wasn’t thinking. I tell you what she was doing. . . .
Mom: This happen when you came home late that day?
One lie out.
It takes all my energy, but I force myself to say, “I wasn’t snooping.” My voice is shaky. “I . . . I wasn’t trying to get you fired.” I want so badly to call Dad out on his secret, but I don’t have the nerve.
“Then what were you doing?” Dad demands, towering over me.
I struggle to meet his eyes. I give up.
“I said, ‘What were you doing?’ ” His nostrils flare.
“I was trying to save us. Trying to save you.”
“What? What the hell does that mean?” Dad’s voice is so loud that the crystals on the chandelier shake. “Save me? Sharon, she’s talkin’ crazy. You hear her?”
“Emory, calm it down!” Mama cries out. “Genesis, what do you mean?”
When people say they break out in a sweat when they’re scared, it’s true. I’m proof. But somehow, I calm myself.
“We’re gonna get evicted again. If we get evicted again, you said you’re gonna leave. If we leave, then we’ll live with Grandma. So I . . . I took the bus and, I don’t know. I thought if I could just speak to the landlord and convince him to . . .” My voice cracks, but I don’t stop. I tell her about Todd’s notes, and yes, it was wrong for me to hide them, but they are what made me go to Dad’s job. “I’m tired of coming home and our stuff’s on the lawn waiting for crackheads to steal it! I’m tired of staying in people’s basements! Why can’t you just pay the rent? Just stop gambling and pay the rent?”
We all stand in a triangle, letting the words settle. “Wait, wait, wait wait wait!” Mama squeezes out through gritted teeth, “You haven’t paid the rent? You mean to tell me—”
“No, it’s not what you’re making it out to be. . . . I mean, yeah,” Dad stutters, getting tripped up on his tale. “Listen, I’ll tell you everything, but . . . but we gotta deal with Genesis.”
“Don’t tell me what we gotta do. I know what we’ve got to do—and paying the rent is one! So, don’t think we’re not gon’ talk about it.” Mama turns to me and with that same strong voice she says, “And Genesis Anderson. You had no business going to your father’s work, traveling across town like that. You should’ve come to me, let me handle it.” I want to say, And then what? She’s only threatened to leave too many times already—and two weeks ago when we did leave—we were right back before he even had a chance to be sorry.
Dad doesn’t say anything at all. And stupid, stupid me, I’m still hoping. Hoping he’ll say the magic words, “Everything’ll be all right.”
Something flashes in his eyes and now it is he who can’t meet my gaze. Even though I’ve broken into a full sweat, I go on, “Why don’t you just tell the truth, Dad?” I take two steps forward, praying that he takes two too.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even raise his head. He swipes his hand down his face and breathes out, “Naw, I got nothin’ to say.”
Nothing to say? Nothing? Mama’s now looking at me like I’m the guilty one. Yes, it was wrong of me to go to Dad’s job. And yeah, it was stupid of me to lie about it. But she doesn’t even care why I went. And now, her eyes bear down on me, and I can’t take it. Doesn’t she see I was only trying to solve our problems? Doesn’t she see how tired I am of having to move and make new friends over and over again? So tired of keeping secrets—Dad’s secrets, hers, and mine.
Well, I’m done with that. I’m not even aware of what I’m about to say, the words just tumble out. “And it was me who poured out Dad’s booze.”
“I should’ve known,” Dad groans.
Mama cocks her head, as if trying to decode what I just said. “You?” Then her face goes furious. “You let me go through all that with your father and didn’t say a word? Not one word?!?”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I thought that if I got rid of it, then he’d stop—”
“I don’t want to hear it!” Mama yells. “Can’t anyone tell the truth in this house?!”
The truth? And then I can’t stop. If not for me, then for Mama. She’s dreaming of planting periwinkles and going back to school, and she’s clueless that Dad’s about to snatch those dreams away. Again. She deserves the truth.
And Dad. He’s so mad, steam might as well be spouting from his ears. He’s going on about me being punished and needing to take responsibility. But him? When he gets in trouble, nothing happens. And I’ve covered for him. I didn’t say one word about him smoking inside the house, did I? Or about the notices from Todd. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. But Dad doesn’t deserve me keeping his secrets. Not any longer.
“But, Mama?”
Mama’s looking wild. “Better not say nothin’ that’ll get you in more trouble,” Dad warns.
More trouble? I know he’s right; what I want to say will be trouble for us all. But Mama’s right too—it’s time for the truth.
“Mama.” I try to be strong, I really do. So I blurt, “Dad doesn’t have a job. I found out when I went up there.”
Dad’s eyes narrow. “Genesis, shut up now,” he orders.
It takes all of twenty seconds for the news to register in Mama’s brain. Then she goes ballistic, swings toward Dad. “You don’t have a JOB?”
“Baby, listen—”
“You don’t HAVE A JOB?”
“It’s not what you think—”
“YOU DON’T HAVE A JOB?!” Mama screams, and I swear she’s about to throw something. “Where in the—what have you—when were you—” Mama can’t even get one question finished before another barrels up.
Dad tries begging, but Mama’s not hearing it. “They gave that promotion to somebody else—somebody I trained! What did you expect me to do?” Dad’s excuses keep coming, until finally, he grabs his jacket and says, “I ain’t gotta go through this.”
Mama and I stay where we stand until the engine’s roar fades. And without saying a word, Mama wraps her arms around me. Then everything—from this last month—hits me. Me pouring out the liquor, hiding Todd’s notes, Dad’s secrets, his sadness about Charlie’s death, Grandma’s sister, the brown bag, the lemons, the yogurt, and the bleach. So many secrets. So many. And I let go.
Ever notice how crying wears you out? Like really, if you’ve ever cried hard and long, afterward all you wanna do is sleep. Maybe that’s why babies are always sleeping. And on Saturday that was me, like a baby, knocked out. Mama was dragging around drained too. And you can about guess that after walking out, Dad didn’t make an appearance for the rest of the weekend. You know what’s a trip? You’d think Mama would’ve drilled me with more questions, rehashing every single detail. But no, it was a lot of quiet in the house. Like, thinking quiet. No, a kinda scary quiet. The kinda quiet that made me keep questioning . . . What did I do? What’s gonna happen now?
Needless to say, Monday morning I’m too distracted to volunteer to read my paragraph on what the author is emphasizing, yet Ms. Luctenburg calls on me. Then in PE, I’m too wiped to do push-ups, and I’m forced to tune out Coach’s barks to dig deeper. And by the time I get to math, well, you already know there’s no chance of me untangling an algorithm when my own mind is gnarled in tangles.
And what’s also not on my mind is Yvette’s and Belinda’s offer. I’m reminded of it when I see them at their lockers. When they first asked, I was so hype imagining Dad seeing me onstage with them. Who knows if that’ll even happen now? Stop it, brain! Gosh, do I sound hopeless or what? Yvette and Belinda are laughing, smearing on lip gloss, and looking like nothing but rays of hope. Shoot, this might be my one chance ever to rock a stage with a crew. So I shove my funky mood aside, go straight up to them, and say, “I’m in.”
“Cool!” Belinda smiles big.
“Yeah, cool,” Yvette says, busy puckering her lips, snapping a selfie.
And heck, why not go all in and do it big, right? So I ask, “Will you still do my hair?”
“Well, yeah! We can’t have you in our group looking janky.” Yvette laughs at her own joke, which doesn’t sound like a real joke. “It’s going to be so stinking cute!”
And you know what? I’m starting to feel a little bit excited again. I won’t have a shirt draped over my head—I’ll be performing, in a hot dress, hair swaying down my back, and fans screaming our names. Well, maybe not that. But close enough. Which is way better than nothing.
When I meet up with Sophia after school, I gently break the news to her. Sure enough, she thinks they’re using me, just like Jason. But what she doesn’t get is that with them, I’m guaranteed to win.
Sophia grasps my arm, stopping me in the middle of the sidewalk. “Did you even stop to think about it first?” She unzips her jacket.
“It’s just so much going on, Sophe. And me learning a song and creating a routine, in, like, barely a week, well, it’s just too much.”
Sophia zips up her jacket.
“I wasn’t even going to audition in the first place,” I remind her.
We continue on. She unzips her jacket.
“Plus, it’s scary up there on that stage, with all the lights,” I say, regurgitating Belinda’s words.
“Since I’m new they’re going to like, ease me into it, you know.”
“Funny . . . ,” Sophia says at last. “I thought you were from big bad Detroit.”
“I am. But it’s not like I was going to win, anyway.”
“You don’t know that.” She unzips.
“Yes, I do. You saw them; they were super good.” She zips. Then unzips. “Would you please stop with the zipping?”
She stops. Her fingers hang loosely on the zipper. “I didn’t know it bothered you so much.”
“It doesn’t. I didn’t mean it like that, Sophe.” My nerves are jangling. I calm myself before saying, “Call me stupid, but I thought you’d be excited for me.” Then I make my appeal to her. “Sophe, remember when we shared those secrets? And I told you the one about me singing in the mirror, with a shirt on my head?” Sophia nods. “Me, on the stage, looking beautiful and winning? That’s all I’ve ever wanted. But if it’s going to make you mad at me, then . . . then I’ll have to think twice about it, I guess.”
Sophia zips her jacket up to her chin and stuffs her hands into her pockets. “If you’re joining them just to win, then yes, go ahead, join them. But I have to say, it’s people like Troy that you should learn from. He does it even though he knows he won’t win.”
“Which is kind of silly,” I say jokingly.
She raises one eyebrow. “Genesis, it’s not always about winning. You know that.”
She’s right. It’s not always about winning, and yes, I know that. But Sophia can say that because she has a dad who takes her to carnivals, wants to sit beside her at dinner, kisses her forehead, and pays the rent. So I look her straight in the eye. “Right now, for me, it’s only about winning.”