Pushin' Read online

  “But there’s a catch,” Mr. Adelizi says, cocking his pale chin forward with a stern look of caution. I knew there was more to it. He almost got me off my game, but not completely. “Your records have a few minor negatives that need to be balanced out. I suggest you either join a sport or cheer. Either will show you can be a team player and that’s an important character trait. That little temper of yours can be played down if your activities are more varied.”

  “I’ll think about joining another club or something, but truthfully, cheerleading isn’t my cup of tea.” The bell signaling the end of third period rings and that’s my cue to roll out. I don’t want to be late for Mr. Adewale’s class, even though we have a quiz in speech and debate this afternoon. It’s always a pleasure to see him.

  “But how will you know until you try?” Was this dude listening to the conversation I had with myself yesterday about trying out for Susy, the lead role in the spring play? Could Mr. Adelizi actually be on to something with cheer? “Think outside the box, Jayd. That’s what colleges look for in serious candidates.” Mr. Adelizi takes the call and leaves me to mull over my options.

  Is my future here already? College always felt so far away from high school, but my senior year is around the corner. I’ll be out on my own soon and I want to have the best options available to me. Wait until my crew finds out that I, Jayd Jackson, Miss “I hate all things ASB, athletes and cheerleaders” is thinking of joining the enemy. I’ll really be coined a traitor then.

  The quiz in fourth period took up the majority of class time, leaving my crew and me no time to chat. It’s a hot, sunny day and everyone’s outside eating. So far, Nellie has dominated the lunch conversation, sharing all the vivid details of her first Lamaze class with Mickey and Nigel. They’re required to have a backup labor partner for Mickey just in case the father’s not there, and Nellie jumped at the chance to take control of another aspect of Mickey’s pregnancy. If I can get a word in edgewise, I can lay out the news about pom-poms in my future for everyone to laugh at. Maybe they’ll even talk me out of it. It’s a silly idea, me a cheerleader in the short skirts and tight sweaters, screaming Go, team, go! in front of a crowd. No, not me. It may be fun sometimes, but I can’t imagine becoming one of them.

  Nellie takes a break from her chattering about the latest breathing techniques to ease labor pains to take a sip of her Diet Coke, finally allowing me the chance to share my news.

  “I’m thinking about trying out for cheer,” I say in between Doritos. Chance, Jeremy, and Nigel all look as shell-shocked as I feel for even considering it.

  “Shut up,” Nellie says, overexcited. “Me too! Finally, one of you is getting involved in the right kind of extracurricular activities. The drama club is so strange,” Nellie says, primping in her MAC compact mirror. I guess she needs to be perfect for her Associated Student Body meeting in a few minutes. It’s the last six weeks of school and ASB is in over-drive trying to raise money for prom and the rest of the end-of-the-year activities, including the cheer tryouts next week.

  “I didn’t know ASB members had to try out for their own activities,” I say, confused about the process. I’ve never wanted to be a cheerleader, but since dance class is over it might be fun to show off my dance skills in another way. I do miss making up routines. Weight lifting is cool but boring. If I make cheer, that will be my PE for next year and that sounds good to me.

  “Of course we do. And besides, I know I’ll make it whether I’m an Associated Student Body member or not,” Nellie says like she’s an officer of the group. Nellie won Homecoming princess for the junior class—not an actual election—making her an honorary member for the rest of the year. If Nellie doesn’t find another way into ASB’s tight-knit social and political circle, she’ll be out. Speaking of which, we’re voting for ASU officers soon and I need to make sure my speech as a candidate for president is on point. Even my haters will find it difficult to ignore the truth. I just hope they vote for it, too.

  “Hey, y’all want to come by after school and kick it for a while? We haven’t had a good session in a while,” Nigel asks, looking at all of us. He’s in an unusually good mood and I didn’t even have to cool him off. What gives?

  “Okay, what did I miss?” I ask, completely shocked by the mellow mood everyone’s in. The last time I checked, Nigel was still in shock over Mickey finally admitting the baby she’s carrying is Tre’s, and Nellie and Mickey couldn’t stand my ass because their boyfriends’ mamas happen to like me, but I was able to calm them down. I didn’t have anything to do with Nigel’s newfound cool. Maybe because Tre, a gangster from our hood, saved Nigel from getting shot by Mickey’s ex-man, he can live with his girl having Tre’s baby.

  “Nothing,” Mickey says, kissing her man’s cheek like they’re back in love. Whatever the case, I’m just glad they’re back on point. I know my goddaughter is happy in Mickey’s belly, too. She looks like she’s going to make her appearance sooner than later. Her parents need to get with the program, and it seems like they finally have.

  “Yeah, it’s all good, Jayd. Chance, you down?” Nigel asks, getting the tally from everyone for the spontaneous after-school session. I wonder if Jeremy’s invited even if Rah shows up, which is quite probable.

  “Yeah, man. Why not?” Chance says, kissing Nellie before she walks off toward the main hall. I know he’s thinking the same thing most of us are: Where’s the real Nellie, and who is this imposter who took over her head? Nellie had the most beautiful jet-black hair, and now the blonde has completely taken over.

  “I can’t. Got surf practice. That reminds me, our competition is next Saturday. Hope you guys can make it,” Jeremy says, smiling down at me. I still can’t believe there’s such a thing as a surf competition, but I’m there to support my man.

  “Cool, man. I got you,” Chance says with a strange pitch in his voice, like he’s trying to change the way he speaks. Something’s up with my friend and I can feel he wants to talk about it. I’ll have to check on Chance when we get a minute alone, which is rare. But I can still call him and chat if I have to. There goes the bell. Lunch always seems to go by fast, but it’s especially quick this afternoon because of the short Tuesdays for the weekly faculty meetings.

  “All right, y’all. My house after school it is. Jayd, after work, girl. Promise you’ll come kick it with your peeps,” Nigel says, making me feel loved. How can I say no to an invitation like that, even if a sistah’s going to be wiped out after getting off work at Netta’s this evening? But a girl needs to chill, too.

  “Bet. I’ll see y’all later,” I say, shaking the grass off my jeans before grabbing my backpack and heading down the hill to drama class. I’d much rather eat pizza and watch movies with my friends than sign up for cheer this afternoon. Luckily, it’s Mama’s solo hair day at the shop when Netta does only Mama’s hair, and there won’t be any other clients to take care of, making my job easier this afternoon. A kick-it session with the crew is just what I need to ease up on planning my future and enjoy my present.

  I missed talking to Jeremy this afternoon because I was so busy at Netta’s. As soon as I arrived, Mama and Netta had a grip of laundry for me to do, as well as other tedious tasks resulting from the aftermath of their initiations this past weekend. I’ve never seen so many white clothes and other fabrics. I was so glad to get out of there for the night. It’s almost eight and Nigel has assured me there’s still plenty of Domino’s pizza and breadsticks left over. I’m grateful because I’m starving.

  I pull into Nigel’s gated community off Crenshaw Boulevard, instantly aware I’m turning into the money side of South Central, the local hood. It’s funny how just on the other side of this fancy brick and iron gate there are homeless people, and three families living in one house they’re so strapped for cash. Driving into Lafayette Square is like going back in time to where families were supposedly picture-perfect, like the two- and three-story refurbished homes they live in. I park in front of Nigel’s picturesque home, read
y to get my grub on and watch Gladiator in high definition for the fiftieth time.

  Walking up the driveway I can see Mickey, Nigel, and Mrs. Esop, Nigel’s mom, in the foyer through the screen door, and it doesn’t look pretty. I hope whatever’s going on doesn’t come between dinner and me.

  I knock twice before entering, knowing it’s already unlocked for me. I just want to warn everyone I’m coming through the door in case they want to censor their conversation and let a sistah pass by in peace.

  “Yes, I am well aware of the true paternity of the child in question,” Mrs. Esop says, looking at Mickey like she took a shit on the shiny hardwood floors. So much for me getting straight to the food. I wave to everyone, noticing Nellie and Chance in the living room witnessing the exchange I just walked in the middle of.

  “Okay then, so stop tripping, Mom. Please.” Nigel looks from Mickey’s stomach to his mother’s eyes and she softens her glare. “Tre took a bullet for me. If it weren’t for him, I might not be here right now. The least I can do is raise his seed like it’s my own, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” Nigel grabs Mickey around the waist, unable to fully fasten his fingers around her, but he’s made his point. Nigel’s not letting go now or ever, and that’s good news to us all, except for Mrs. Esop.

  “Nigel, I am grateful for the boy saving your life, but we don’t owe her or that thug’s child a damn thing.” Mrs. Esop is no joke. “Now, this discussion is over. There will be no babies or baby-mamas in this house or their mother’s.” Mickey looks at Nigel, horrified by his mother’s stance. Mickey was counting on Nigel being her ticket out of the hood and her parents’ full house. I hate to lay it on my girl, but her plan was never a sure thing. I hope she’s got a back-up arrangement because if not, she and her baby will be sleeping in her parents’ living room.

  “Mom, I’m not letting this go,” Nigel says to his mother, who’s halfway up the first flight of stairs. Her and her husband’s suite is on the third floor of the massive home. There’s plenty of room, none of which Mrs. Esop’s willing to share with Mickey, no matter what her son says.

  Looking back at us and smiling at her son’s vehemence, Mrs. Esop looks at me as if her son didn’t say a word.

  “Jayd, I’ll see you at the tea on Sunday. And please dress appropriately. It’s customary for our debutantes to dress as the young ladies they are becoming,” she says, looking from me to Mickey and then walking up the remaining stairs. Mrs. Esop’s so serious about her shit. I’m actually starting to admire her no-nonsense swagger. If nothing else, Mrs. Esop’s consistent about what she’s about and what she’s not. I could learn a lot from that kind of thinking. But Mickey’s not feeling Nigel’s mama at all, or the fact that Mrs. Esop obviously favors me over her.

  “You’re such an ass kissing little heffa, you know that?” Mickey says to me as if I went after Mrs. Esop on my own accord, forgetting whose idea it was for me to suck up to Nigel’s mom in the first place.

  “Mickey, I’m not having this argument with you again,” I say, walking into the living room and putting my purse on the couch. Mickey and Nigel follow me into the large space, standing near the couch across from the television screen. “The whole reason I agreed to be in the cotillion was to get Mrs. Esop to come to your baby shower, which she did. Don’t shoot the messenger, Mickey. I did my job.” I walk toward the kitchen through the formal dining area to wash my hands before eating. Mickey follows me, ready to unleash all her anger for Mrs. Esop on me because I’m an easy target. I don’t care what she says, as long as I get my food.

  “Jayd, you’re supposed to help me, not get in bed with my enemy,” Mickey says. If I had the time I’d tell her how silly her point of view is on so many different levels, but I can’t deal with her reasoning tonight.

  “I’m not getting in bed with anyone, Mickey. But I am getting tired of always being the bad one. Can I eat and watch the movie now, or do you want to keep blaming me for your beef with Nigel’s mom?” Mickey looks at me walking out of the kitchen without waiting for her answer. She knows she’s out of line. Scratching her growing belly, Mickey walks back into the living room and claims her space next to her man on the couch. I sit in one of the two oversized chairs across from the loveseat Chance and Nellie are sharing, ready to relax, when I notice Rah’s missing. I’m not even going to ask where he is if no one’s offering to tell me. Like Mickey, Rah needs to grow up and deal with the real. Until they do, I have to keep my friends at arm’s length because I’m ready to spread my wings and fly, right after I eat a couple of slices and chill out for the rest of the evening.

  3

  Stretch Marks

  “I’ll always come back to you.”

  —ISLEY BROTHERS

  Carrying water on my head like one of my African fore-mothers, I balance the clay jug expertly, holding the right side with my hand and placing my left arm out by my side, helping me still my heavy load. Reaching my destination—a small, one-room house—I open the curtained entry-way and place the jug down on the floor, rushing over to the woman lying on the bed straight ahead. There’s blood everywhere and she’s breathing hard and gripping the once white sheets with all her might.

  “I can’t take it anymore. The baby’s never going to come,” the laboring woman says in tears. She looks scared and overwhelmed. I get closer to her, hoping that I can provide her with some comfort, recognizing the woman as Chance’s birth mother. The dream I had months ago of the day he was adopted was the beginning of my knowing his family secret.

  “It’s time. Wet these towels to clean the baby when it comes,” the elder midwife says from the corner of the room. She sounds like Mama and has the same feel as Mama does, but she doesn’t look like my grandmother at all. This sistah is tall and thick with the same ebony complexion my mother has.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, taking the white towels from her and soaking them in the tepid water. I ring the water out, seeing my reflection in the clear liquid, and don’t recognize myself, either. I look like I could be the midwife’s daughter.

  “I’m going to need for you to push as hard as you can now,” the midwife says, holding Chance’s mother’s legs back while the laboring woman lifts her shoulders off the bed and gives it her all. But it’s not enough. The young mother’s exhausted and can’t take any more pushing, but the baby has to be born.

  “I’ll help you push,” Mrs. Carmichael, Chance’s adoptive mother, says, appearing by the laboring mother’s side and placing both hands on the bulging stomach, helping to push the baby out on the next contraction. “There he is,” Mrs. Carmichael says, looking at Chance’s infant self in the midwife’s hands. “My son.”

  “Your son? He’s my baby,” Chance’s birth mother says, looking at Mrs. Carmichael like an imposter instead of the woman who ends up raising Chance as her own child. She and Chance are closer than any mother and teenager I know. Mrs. Carmichael lets go of the angry woman’s stomach, looking dead at me, her eyes red with pain.

  “Jayd, help me, please! I’m losing my son,” Mrs. Carmichael pleads, looking me in the eye, but I feel like she’s actually talking to me outside of my dream. The urgency in her eyes reaches my core, making me feel partially responsible for Chance’s identity crisis. I have to help them both if I can. The midwife hands the baby to his mother to nurse, leaving Mrs. Carmichael completely out of the first bonding ritual between a mother and child.

  “No! He’s my baby. He’s mine,” Mrs. Carmichael says, fading into the background from where she first appeared. Again, Mrs. Carmichael looks dead at me, now clearly in my head. “Jayd, don’t let them take away my son. Please, I need you.”

  “What the hell?” I say, shaking out of my sleep and almost hitting my head on the coffee table I neglected to push away from the couch that doubles as my bed. I was so exhausted after hanging with Jeremy last night and my friends the night before that I couldn’t be bothered with taking the usual environmental precautions. I just wanted to sleep. Had I known I was going to exper
ience a crazy dream like that, I might not have been so anxious to rest.

  I’ve been meaning to talk to Chance all week, but he’s been very evasive lately. Today I’ll make it a point to catch up with my friend, come hell or high water. But first I have to get the day started, and that means getting to school. Jeremy and I have gotten into such a good groove it’s hard to know when to quit. If I keep having late nights like we did last night, it’s going to make me unproductive and we can’t have that.

  Our late-night sessions are also affecting Jeremy. I hope he was able to get up this morning. He’s been practicing for his surf competition every afternoon, and for an hour every morning before school. I’d be surprised if he makes it to school today. I, on the other hand, have to get going regardless of my exhaustion. I have a long school day ahead of me as well as having to work all evening. Some people look forward to Friday as their chill day. For me it’s the beginning of my weekend grind, and I’m ready.

  Today is the last day for cheer tryouts and I still don’t know what to do. I watched some of the cheerleaders practicing yesterday during sixth period and they actually looked like they were having fun. There are two black girls on the varsity squad and they hold it down. Because they are a part of ASB and seniors, I’ve never really talked to them, although we say hi on the rare occasion that we do run into each other. They don’t hang out in South Central, where the other two dozen or so black students hang, and because they all have white boyfriends and friends, I just assumed they were the girls that Nellie aspired to be like: as close to white as black girls can get.

  I hate to admit it, but my thinking may have been wrong in more ways than one. Is it possible that I might have fun as a cheerleader? I don’t know, but it may be worth a shot. And if I don’t make it, at least I tried, and that might be enough to let Mr. Adelizi know I’m serious about being in the college program. I’ll sign up for tryouts at break and see how it goes from there.