Jumped

  Jumped

  Rita Williams-Garcia

  For the memory of my father,

  James Jasper “Russell” Williams,

  who gave me my first pair of boxing gloves

  Contents

  1 Zero Period

  2 Stretch, Roll, and Go

  3 Killing Time

  4 On Speed Dial

  5 H-o-t C-h-i-c-k

  6 Social Interaction

  7 Imaginary or Not

  8 Polypeptide Jam

  9 All About the Angle

  10 Think Cold War Russia

  11 Honking Like a Goose

  12 Write Naked

  13 Get Involved

  14 End of Song

  15 Turn It Around

  16 Like a Dead Saint

  17 Damaged

  18 All-Ball Girl

  19 Slamming on the Brakes

  20 You’re Going Down

  21 Break Me Off a Piece

  22 It’s On

  23 Boy-girls

  24 Girl Fights

  25 Hey

  26 Ignore

  27 Bing, Bang, Boom

  28 Truth in Art

  29 A Worthless Treaty

  30 Duncan, Bench

  31 Girl Most Secretly

  32 Band Practice at Three

  33 Jumped

  34 Artist to Artist

  35 Celebrity

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Zero Period

  LETICIA

  ZERO PERIOD. You got that right. Fail one math test and you’re up before the first chirp of day. Up before streetlights turn off and sun rays shoot through the blinds. Fail one math test and you’re stepping over a snow-covered homeless lump to get to the stop, shiver, and wait for the city bus to pull up to your boots.

  None of this had to happen to me. None of it. Having to set and wrap my hair at 8:00 PM instead of 10:00. Making Celina wake me because my alleged alarm clock won’t do what it’s supposed to do when it’s supposed to do it. Getting dressed in the dark because a hundred watts are too hard on my eyes at 5:45.

  If not for those missing thirteen points, my mornings would be calm, not chaotic. A 52 on the final and they wouldn’t pass me. They couldn’t scrape up a point here, half a point there to make up the thirteen. They said SHOW ALL WORK in the test booklet, so I did that. I showed them my sides, my angles, line BEC bisecting line DEF. I did my part. What was the sense of showing all that work if they had no intention of doing their part? The missing thirteen are there in the booklet. Had they dug deep enough, they would have found them. I would have passed.

  Mr. Jiang knows he doesn’t want to see my face this spring semester. I aggravated him fall semester like he aggravated me. This was all on him. He should have done the right thing for both our sakes and passed me along to Geometry II with Miss DeBarge.

  Why Bridgette or Bernie didn’t handle things immediately, I can’t understand. Neither took time off from their jobs to confront Mr. Jiang or strike a deal with the guidance counselor. No. They just let Jiang fail me. Bridgette shook her head and Bernie dipped his biscuit into the gravy but no one gave Leticia a second thought when all they had to do was show up. Speak up. Do what they were supposed to do.

  Anabel Winkler’s grandmother loved her. Anabel’s grandmother talked to the guidance counselor and fixed things so Anabel could attend summer school after this semester. That’s why Anabel is still wrapped up tight in her Hello Kitty comforter crunching Z cookies.

  If someone loved me, I’d be turning over in the warmth and safety of my queen-size bed. But no one thought to open the envelope addressed to the parents of Leticia Moore that offered the choice between summer school and rising at an ungodly, unsafe hour in the chill of near night. I know the school sent the letter. The school’s very good about mailing letters to the house, and Bridgette and Bernie are usually pretty good about reading them and following up with the “talking to.” Bridgette and Bernie knew to look out for the letter from the guidance counselor’s office. They knew it was coming. They signed the blue booklet with the big 52 on the cover under Parental Signature Mandatory. But when the guidance counselor sent it, and the postman delivered it, the parents of Leticia Corinthia Moore, aka Bridgette and Bernie, didn’t bother to open the envelope. They just fed it to the recycling bin like it was a bill. That’s right. My do-not-pass-go card was recycled into toilet paper and Starbucks napkins, not doing anybody a bit of good.

  It’s not enough that I have to get up before the world turns and watch newspaper chunks hit the streets and block-long McTrucks unload McFood crates. I’m stuck watching gears of the working world shift just so I can take an “extra help” math class I get no credit for. It’s like being in school for free. Like working behind a counter without getting that five twenty-five an hour. Or five fifty-five. Whatever next-to-nothing they pay kids to dodge french-fry grease. Except you get up, risk your life waiting in the dark to sit through slow-motion Geometry and get no credit. Two periods later you’re still repeating Geometry I, still looking at Mr. Jiang’s face, and he’s still looking at your face. You get nothing for being in “extra help” math before the world turns. For all this chaos you get zero. Period.

  I dig down in my bag for my schedule but the lady cop waves me through. She knows my jail sentence and my big face by now. Zero period doesn’t miraculously disappear from your schedule. Once a class is stamped in the column that’s grayed out for everyone else, you’re stuck. You’re a zero-period regular and the cops know it and wave you through.

  Miss Palenka isn’t a full teacher. She’s still in college getting her practice on us, probably getting paid zero, and that’s about right. But she’s nice, wears okay outfits, and takes her time explaining until everyone looks like they got it. For the next twenty-five minutes I’m present, taking notes, breaking down the proofs until ten minutes before the bell rings. By then everyone is arriving, congregating outside, and I can’t write another given. To us stuck inside, the milling and laughing sound like a party, and who wants to be inside when the party is going on outside?

  I try to sit through it, but how many ways and times can she demonstrate a ninety-degree angle in a right triangle? How many times can she say right triangles can only have one right angle? How many times can she point to the hypotenuse? Right, right, right triangle. I got it. I got it. Please don’t say it again. But there she goes, working hard for her zero.

  Pen down. I’m done listening to zero for zero. I need to be outside where the dirt is fresh and the gossip is good. I need to catch it all while it’s clicking and flashing: what they’re wearing, who they’re with, and what they’re saying. I need to sashay myself within twenty feet of Chem II James and let him get the ball rolling. Can’t do that from inside here, so I scribble a bathroom pass right quick and raise my hand.

  Can you sign my bathroom pass?

  Miss Palenka points to the clock. I have to wait until the bell rings. She’s determined to be that firm no-nonsense high school teacher, hip to all the tricks.

  I can’t hold it, I say. And I’m squeezing my thighs and sliding from one end of the chair to the other. It’s a standoff: she’s acting tough, and I’m acting my ass off.

  The minute her chest collapses and she heaves that sigh, I rush up there and shove the slip of paper under her nose. There is nothing to acting. If you have parents, you’re a natural-born actress. I’m out the door like pee is shooting out of me. You know I have my bag with me and I’m not coming back.

  I don’t run this fast for gym, but the thrill of getting out and being in the mix has got me trotting like a fat cop on foot in a TV chase scene. I get to the nearest stairwell and stop. Not these stairs
. They’ll lead me too close to the front. Too close to the hall patrols. Instead I go all the way to the back, side stairwell. I’m so happy to be on my way outside, happy to get out of zero period, so happy to be at the top of the stairs. I take one, maybe two steps and—

  Oh my God.

  2

  Stretch, Roll, and Go

  TRINA

  PRETTY, RIGHT? No two browns alike. Squeeze some red, some yellow, black, vanilla, naranja into brown and you come up with pretty people. Míralo. Nice and dry. Ready for the gallery.

  Mixing comes natural. It just ought to. Not only am I mixed to perfection, I have aptitude for art and colors.

  What would that school mural look like without truly, truly yours to add life? The walls would look like the walls at my old school: a couple posters of ash brown Dr. King, Rosa, Malcolm, and the gang to greet you in the morning. But hang my art on the mural, you walk down C Corridor and—¡vaya!—Black History Month, but colorful. Pretty. With a point of view. And that’s what I do. Add color, my crazy point of view, and—bam!—I make you look twice.

  Reds for Malcolm—get it? Harlem Red. My Harriet, stopping traffic in greens and yellows. And my Rosa surrounded by hot pinks and cool pinks—Rosa sin roses? Don’t be ridiculous. What?

  Gotta get there before everyone. Show Mr. Sebastian where to put Malcolm, Rosa, Harriet, and Dr. King. Check it: surrealism. “I Have a Dream” that looks like a dream. Mr. Sebastian will go crazy.

  Don’t get me misunderstood. I don’t love being up this early, but for me, no problem. I don’t do a lot to look this way. My lucky gold chain hangs around my neck, asleep or awake. A quick shower, a spritz of Passion Pink, my killer outfit laid out ready for me to jump into. I just stretch, roll, and go. Yeah, yeah. Rocking the hot-pink warm-up suit because all eyes will be on me. What? Don’t hate because I got it like this. Kisses to Mami—mmwack—still snoozing. Thanks for hooking it up, Mami. I didn’t have to come out all gorgeous.

  In case you’re wondering, that’s not conceit. It’s just fact. It’s like when you see a Picasso—those colors, those shapes, those crazy mixes—and you hear the music in the paintings, you can’t help but say, “That’s dope.” When people see me, they see walking art. They pause because the hair is bouncing, the light brown eyes are twinkling without trying, the skin is caramel and crème, the galletas are shaking, the body’s untouchable tight. What? They can’t help but stare or step up. No milk mami tatas, no big legs, no fatty patty on this rack of perfection. Who needs extras when you can stretch, roll, and go like this?

  Whether I glide down the street, across the way, or down the hall. Nothing to weigh me down. If I want to skip like I’m six, I skip. If I want to run like Road Runner—beep-beep, tchong! But I’m not conceited. I’m not cold. I leave the lookers with the famous Trina shaky-shake. You can’t catch me, but I give you a little treat and everyone’s happy.

  I’m a crowd pleaser, custom blended. Half Latina with a little this and a little that. It doesn’t matter which what, like it doesn’t matter if a girl has a blue eye blinking this way and a green eye blinking that way in a Picasso. It’s all about the colors, the mixes, the shapes, the music. Like me. Color. Mix. Shape. Music.

  Oh, I’ve seen it go wrong. I’ve seen it go totally wrong. Your mother thought she hooked it up, but you come out a Ripley’s Believe It or Not! sideshow. Your mother thought you’d have long Hawaiian silky, but you got Brillo puffs. Your mother thought you’d have golden brown skin, Bit-O-Honey skin, vanilla crème skin, and surprise: your mother’s greasing blotchy red, ashy dull skin. Or your forehead is too damn big, or your nose don’t go with those cheeks, or your lips are too pink for the skin. It can go wrong. Like I say, horribly, horribly wrong.

  People always ask, “What are you?” trying to figure out all the mixes. Instead of “I don’t know” I say, “One hundred percent Trina.” Go ahead. Ask. How much time, how much money I spend on hair? Answer: next to nil and hardly nada. Shampoo, conditioner, blow, and go. What? My hair is like my face, is like my body. Good to go, so why mess with it?

  Officer DaCosta can use a shot of joy. She can’t be happy, wearing that navy blue uniform every day. No color. No shape. No variety. Don’t she wish she could wear this hot-pink joint or something like it? She is navy and black from head to toe. Silver-plated badge, nameplate, white stripes on her sleeves. When she stands you can see her accessories on her belt. Club, cuffs, radio, thick writing pad, space where a gun would go. Wears flat, black cop shoes. Her nails are square and unpainted. No rings. No jewelry. No makeup. Not even gloss.

  I arrive just in time to brighten her day. Instead of trouble, I have nothing but prettiness to show her. I peel off Harriet from my tube of painted beauties. You’ve never seen Harriet look so good. I gave her a green and yellow dress with matching head scarf instead of that gray you see her wearing in the history books. Makes sense. Camouflage, for hiking in the woods.

  “I have my own spot on C Corridor,” I tell Officer DaCosta, “for Black History Month. You should come. Check out the gallery.”

  She nods and gives me all the compliments. Creative. Interesting colors. Different. Talented. She doesn’t know the artist’s language, but that’s all right. I translate how she means each word.

  To Officer DaCosta I’m a cup of coffee, extra sugar con crema. Her eyes are open and smiling although she gotta be Officer DaCosta: on the job. With just a little color, a little smile, I’ve made her day. She nods me and my artwork through.

  I have only a few minutes before the halls are flooded. I don’t want anyone else to get a sneak peek. Can you imagine all those adoring kids going crazy for my artwork? They might tear the paper or smudge it trying to get a closer look. They’ll crowd me and be like “Tree-na, hey.”

  I almost can’t stand myself. I have that sugar-rush hyper feeling because it’s my day. I’m already a standout, but today I’m set to star.

  I’m bouncing along, my artwork in hand, and then I ease through these girls where B meets C. “Hey,” I say, though I don’t really know them. The boyed-up basketball girl barely moves. The others, her girls, appreciate the hot pink and step aside.

  It’s okay if they don’t speak. I know how it is. They can’t all be Trina.

  3

  Killing Time

  DOMINIQUE

  I PUNCH VIVICA.

  Vivica punches Shayne.

  Shayne punches me.

  I punch Viv.

  Light punches. Sweet punches. They don’t mean anything. Just us killing time in the cold. Waiting for the cars to fill up the lot. No. One car. Waiting for one car to pull in.

  We have business. I have business. Business with Hershheiser.

  Shayne and Vivica are my girls, not my backup. Backup? I don’t need backup. I handle my own stuff. Vivica and Shayne are just hanging. Being my girls.

  Scotty? He’s not up yet. Or he’s just leaving his mother’s. Scotty’s a punk and a baby in the cold. Come on, ’Nique. Keep me warm. Boy tries to bury himself in all this here, but I can’t think about Scotty. I have things to handle. Important things. Can’t have Scotty here. Scotty wanna be lovey, hanging all over me. Slow me down. Need love, Scotty? Hug your mutha.

  “Hope he gets here. It’s freeeezing.”

  I ignore them. How long it takes is how long I’ll wait. Just thinking about it. How he caused this whole situation. Me, out on the sidelines. Me, out. Benched.

  All the above makes me mad. Mad enough to—

  Viv starts jumping around. “Oh, wow. Look at ’Nique’s breath. That’s ill. See how you’re breathing.” Viv points too close to my face. If that wasn’t Viv, boy…I’da blocked and blocked hard. That’s from instinct. From 4th Street Court. I can’t fight it. That’s in me. I have hard, fast reflexes. A hand goes up, I block. Block or charge. But I’m all right and that’s Viv, not a baller, so I step back, smack my fist into my other hand. Viv’s lucky. She don’t know. She just don’t know. I coulda hurt her in a flash, so I’m like, chill.


  Viv’s pointing at my face. My mouth and nose. How my breath shoots out in short jabs, smoky ice. That’s cracking her and Shayne up.

  Shayne says, “Damn, girl. You all right? You’re like a bull snorting steam.”

  I shrug, say I’m all right. But I’m heated. Waiting. Got things to do. Business to handle. Life and death. Important.

  “Let’s get hot chocolate from the corner. It’s cold,” Shayne whines. She’s Scotty in girls’ jeans.

  I say I don’t want no hot chocolate. “Y’all can go. I’m staying.”

  “Then stay. Don’t have none,” Shayne says. She hooks an arm in and around Viv’s arm. “We’ll be back.”

  I turn away. Go. Go get your hot chocolate. They’re yakking too much while I’m trying to stay focused. They think I’ll let him slide by for some hot chocolate? They think I’m going to blow my shot to grab him for some Swiss Miss and hot water?

  Before Viv and Shayne get anywhere I hear, “’Nique!” Viv is heads-up loud, pointing to the gate. “Green Bug!”

  Before Hershheiser can finish parking, grab his briefcase, his plastic coffee mug, I’m on him.

  Hah! Got him! He’s scared to leave the car. A rat in a trap. He knows what he did. He knows what he took. Yeah, Hershheiser. You know. You know. Shitting square ones, aren’t you?