to get me to come home. But when I said, It’s not safe
for me as long as he’s there, she left the room.
My choice is to be safe.
This room is dark and musty, but it’s one place
I do know I can answer no when someone knocks.
PART II
WHITE WALLS
I HATE TO BE THE ONE STEPHIE
It’s Friday night. When I left home this morning,
Mom said, We need to talk.
She noticed that I couldn’t eat my breakfast
and she looked at me long and hard—that mix
of sad and angry that I hate.
I can’t face her. I’m not going home.
They probably think I’ve gone home
with Jason. I saw him this morning
before school, talking to a girl we both used to hate.
I walked away before he saw me. Let him talk
to her. My feelings about him are so mixed-
up right now. He used to be so sweet, eating breakfast
with his tousled hair and sleepy eyes. Breakfast
at their house is different than at home.
They’re peaceful. If his brother mixes
a can of juice in a saucepan and leaves it out all morning,
nobody complains. And nobody expects you to talk
to them if you don’t want to. Mom would hate
it. She likes everything in order. Dad too. They both hate
it if we haven’t cleared away our breakfast
by eight o’clock, even on weekends. They talk
about how kids should have a home
where they know what to expect. Every morning
Mom gets up first, makes coffee, gets out a mix
of pancakes or bran muffins. Sometimes I watch her mix
it, like it’s part of her job, like I hate
this job, but someone has to do it. This morning
she was saying, If I get up and make you breakfast
I expect you to eat it. I go, Sure, Mom. Then she goes, I want you home
after school today. We need to talk.
I’m afraid of what she wants to talk
about. I don’t want to mix
her words about this baby with my own. Home
to her and Dad means perfect, and I hate
to be the one to shatter that. Only—where will I eat breakfast
in the morning?
Oh, Mom … it isn’t just the talk I hate.
It’s how we have to mix it up with breakfast.
Can’t we just relax at home some morning?
SURPRISED TO HEAR MYSELF JASON
Stephie’s gone. I went over Friday night
after the game, and her brother seemed surprised.
He said, We thought she was at your house.
She used to do that sometimes. If it got late,
we’d pull out the couch and make a bed
for her, and then we’d go to school
together in the morning. Friday she wasn’t at school.
I didn’t think much of it, but that night
I really wanted to talk. Maybe she went to bed
early, I said. Her brother looked surprised
again. He shook his head. I went home. Then late
that night, her dad showed up at my house,
frantic. Everyone at their house
was out searching for her. They’d called the school
principal at home and found out Stephie had been absent. And late
a lot these past few weeks. Her dad said, Son, last night
she seemed worried. Do you know why? I was surprised
he called me son. And I was half asleep—he got me out of bed.
He looked tired. Three a.m., he hadn’t been to bed
at all, everything upside down at his house.
I told him Stephie hadn’t talked to me all week. Surprised,
he wondered why. Don’t you see her every day at school?
I thought she’d been here every night!
She’s been coming home late
a lot, but we just thought she was with you! Later,
I thought about him sitting there on our couch-bed
in the middle of the night.
He looked like his whole house
had collapsed, like everything he’d learned in school
turned out false where he’d put true. I was surprised
to feel so sorry for him, even more surprised
to hear myself tell him the truth. Her period’s late,
I said. She’s afraid the kids at school
will start to notice something. After he’d gone, I lay in bed
thinking about them all at her house.
And where was Stephie in the middle of the night?
I got out of bed, drove around looking for her all night—
past the school, back and forth past her house,
surprised how much I want her back. Is it too late?
QUESTIONS ABOUT JOE KEESHA
When Katie came, she kept asking questions
about Joe. Since he owns the house, she thought
he’d tell us what to do. She kept saying, I can pay
rent. I can buy my own food. I’ll work
for what I need. There was one room upstairs with a bed
and a window, but she said she’d rather stay
in the basement room. We all stay
out of there unless she asks us in. No one asks questions
about why she keeps her door locked. The bed
in there is just a foam pad on the floor, but Katie said she thought
the room was heaven. We hardly see her, she’s at work
so much. I think she’s worried Joe might make her pay
some other way if she runs out of money. He says we can pay
him if we want to, but not much. Me, I want to stay
in school. I want good grades. So I just work
twelve hours a week, enough for food. I hate the questions
people ask though. Even my ex-boyfriend thought
the girls here must be going to bed
with Joe, or someone else. Not me—I won’t go to bed
with anyone unless I want to. And I don’t pay
for nothin’ with my body! At first I thought
we should do something nice for Joe—he lets us stay
here and he doesn’t ask too many questions.
So if he was tired when he got home from work
I used to cook or do some kind of work
like clean up the house. Once I made his bed
for him, like Mama used to do. That raised some questions
in his mind, I guess. He said, Keesha, don’t you pay
me no mind. Everyone deserves a place to stay.
So now I don’t give Joe much thought.
I appreciate him though. If I thought
I had to find a place to rent, I’d have to work
full-time. I know I wouldn’t stay
in school. This one thing—a free bed—
makes all the difference. I can stay awake in school and pay
attention to the teachers, answer almost all their questions.
I go to school, I work, I eat okay and get to bed
on time. I thought Child Welfare might ask questions,
but as long as they don’t pay attention, I can stay.
I CAN DO IT DONTAY
Ain’t goin’ back there. If I go get my stuff
they’ll yell at me for stayin’ out all night.
I’ll yell back, and I know what comes next—
they call my caseworker: This isn’t working out.
She comes and gets me, lookin’ like she want
to wring my neck. We head out to CYS again. I hate that place—
all those kids waitin’ to get placed
in a foster home or group home, all the stuff
they hopin’ for, knowin’ they ain’t gettin’ what they want.
Everybody act so hard all day, and then at night
you hear ’em cryin’ like some cakes—not out
loud, just quiet, hopin’ won’t nobody notice. Everybody wonderin’ what’s next.
I been there five times, and I swore up and down, the next
time they tried to take me there, I’d find my own place.
I know I can do it. Rather live out
on my own, take my stuff
in my backpack, sleep outside at night
when summer comes. Better that than findin’ out nobody wants
me. Dad and Mama gonna want
to know why I don’t go to visiting hours next
week, but goin’ there just makes me mad again ’bout the night
they got hemmed up. Five-O all over the place,
flashin’ their badges, rumblin’ through our stuff,
findin’ nothin’ and still pullin’ us out,
sendin’ us all different places. When I go out
to see them, Mama’s so sad, and Dad just wants
to do that trial all over. He’s ragin’ about all the stuff
the lawyer didn’t do. They’re innocent! And here I am. What’s next?
I can sleep at Jermaine and Dan’s crib tonight, someplace
else this weekend. I don’t mind sleepin’ on the floor a night
a couple times before they figure out
I got no place
to live. Stay a few days, nobody want
to know why I’m leavin’, nobody surprised the next
time I show up. One good thing about all this stuff—
ain’t nobody kickin’ me out one night
to the next. Nobody actin’ like they want
to make me change. Bad thing—no place to leave my stuff.
WHITE WALLS CARMEN
I wasn’t drunk. Just one beer a couple hours
before. Never woulda got stopped
if I was an adult. Or if I was white.
That half-smoked blunt they found under the back
seat—how would I know it was there?
Coulda been there since Grandmama
bought the car, five months ago. Grandmama
wouldn’t think to look for that! Visiting hours
is over, and she didn’t show up. Only one there
all week was my probation officer. She stopped
by for ten minutes, said she was so unhappy to see me back
in here, got out a clean white
notepad and asked me for an explanation. No little white
lies, she said. I asked her to call Grandmama,
tell her I’m sorry, see if I can go back
there when I get outta here. That was hours
ago, and I haven’t heard from either of ’em. Can’t stop
thinkin’ about what’s gonna happen. If I can’t go back there …
I don’t know. Could be a long ways, anyhow, from here to there.
I talked to one girl today, a white
girl that’s been here thirteen weeks. She stopped
thinkin’ about home, she said. Forget about your grandma.
If she don’t come to visiting hours
the first week you’re here, she don’t want you back.
I want my own clothes back.
My music. The food I like. I see the cars go by out there,
everybody goin’ someplace. In here, hours
stretch out long, nothin’ but blank white
walls to look at. I started a letter: Dear Grandmama,
get me out of here … But then I stopped
and ripped it up. I know I shoulda stopped
drinkin’ that first time I got caught, back
in seventh grade. I know everything Grandmama
would say about all this. I keep thinkin’ there
must be some way to make myself listen, some clear white
light I could shine into my mind those hours
when I can’t see my way back
or forward, the hours I think even Grandmama
won’t care if I stop livin’. These walls are so white.
I LOOK AROUND AND WONDER HARRIS
Another note in my locker today: Die,
faggot. Scrawled in thick marker—red—
on notebook paper ripped in half,
folded to fit through those little slots.
Then later, someone twice my weight shoves me
into a table in the cafeteria. My lunch
goes flying, hits this freshman eating lunch
by herself. She looks like she’s about to die,
like she thinks she’s the jerk, not him. I apologize; she ignores me,
moves to another table, her face bright red.
There’s so many guys like him—they have these slots
they try to fit into; anyone with half
an ounce of individuality gets crushed. Kids spend half
their time just trying to fit in. You look around the lunch-
room and you can see which kids are trying for which slots—
jocks or freaks or “playas.” And everyone would rather die
than be what I am. Even the thugs, wearing red
or blue, with all their drugs and guns, have more friends than me.
Do people think I’m contagious? That if they talk to me
they might turn gay? Or are they scared that half
the school would hate them too? I’ve read
statistics: maybe one in ten kids in that lunch-
room. I look around and wonder. Kids can die
a lot of different ways if they don’t fit in those slots.
Three more months of school. There’s lots
of things I have to figure out. So far, Dad hasn’t found me
and taken back my car. It’s old, but with any luck it won’t die
on me. If I can find someplace to park and sleep, that’s half
the battle. I’ll find a weekend job where I can get lunch,
an ad that Pancake House is hiring. I can see myself in that red
apron, pockets filling up with tips. Come summer, whatever slots
they need I’ll work—graveyard one day, lunch
the next, whatever. Only—how can they call to offer me
a job? Can I clean up and look half
decent for an interview? And not sound desperate, like I’ll die
if they don’t hire me? I’ll go on Saturday at lunch
and see what slots they’re trying to fill. I could work half
time, busing their red tables. Okay, I’m scared. But I don’t plan to die.
HOUSE OF CARDS KATIE
Everything was going okay between
school, work, and living here. Just
time enough in every day, and no time
left for me to think too hard.
Then today, the city bus pulls up on schedule,
I get on, and the driver has these cards
he’s giving out. I take one of the cards
and plunk down in a side seat between
a lady and a kid. The lady says, New schedule,
so I look at the card and I just
want to cry. Now everything that used to be easy is hard.
Getting to work takes twice the time
it used to. After school I don’t have time
to change into my uniform, and we can’t punch our cards
until we’re ready to start working. It’s hard
to change in the employee restroom in five minutes between
when the bus stops at the corner and just
exactly 3 p.m. when my shift starts. The boss won’t change my schedule.
I can’t change my school schedule.
So—I have three choices: get a new job and work a different time,
quit school, or get a car. Which of course I can’t affo
rd just
now. It’s like one of those house-of-cards
games—if I pull one out, everything above, below, and in between
collapses. I’ve worked really hard
to get this all set up—it’s hard
to think of doing it all again. Next summer, this schedule
will be fine, but my boss won’t let up between
now and then. I asked him for ten extra minutes to give me time
to get from school to work, but he says that’s not in the cards.
If I can’t do just
what I’m supposed to do, just
when it should be done, too bad. I know it’s hard
for you, he says, but I’ve got a business here. Cards
of sympathy are next door at Hallmark. My schedule
is impossible. Barely time to sleep, no time
for homework except at the bus stop between
school and work. Report cards come out in two weeks’ time
and I have to work hard just to pass. My schedule
will be: school and work, work and school. No time in between.
PART III
ON THEIR OWN
I KNOW THE VALUE JOE
I know the value of a house like this.
Old and solid, hardwood stairs and floor.
But when I showed up at Aunt Annie’s door
when I was twelve—bruised, scared, clenched fists—
all I knew then was: I could stay.
As long as you need to, Joe, was what she kept
on saying, right up till she died and left
the house to me. So now that’s what I say
when kids show up and I know they can’t ask
for what they shouldn’t have to ask for. They need
more than I can give them. I know I’m
no Aunt Annie. I ain’t up to the task
of tryin’ to be their legal foster dad.
But I can give them space—and space is time.
ON HER OWN LAURA (STEPHIE’S MOTHER)
It’s time to talk to Steph about the boy
who could have been her brother—maybe is
her brother. How can I describe the joy
of holding him, the morning—cold—when his
new parents—married, educated—reached
to take him from me? I don’t know his name
or where (or if) he lives. My parents preached
at me. I listened. I won’t do the same
to Steph. She has to do this on her own.