The Meltdown Read online

  Texas: that explains it. She’s got privileged Southern girl written all over her flushed face.

  The rest of the squad cheers loudly, jumping on the Southern bandwagon. Ellen puts her arms straight up in the air and flips backward, not once or twice, but across the entire length of the basketball court without stopping. Even my mouth drops at the sight.

  “Damn,” KJ says from the sidelines, much to the disapproval of Misty, who’s seated next to her man with the rest of their crew. She refuses to take those tacky-looking blue contacts out of her eyes, but they can’t hide her jealousy. Basketball players love to date cheerleaders, and girlfriend or not, KJ’s no exception.

  “That white girl’s got skills,” Del says, with Money nodding his head in approval.

  I guess they all like what they see. I’m not hatin’ on Ellen’s talent, either, but something about her instant presence makes me uncomfortable.

  “Okay, ladies. Let’s get started. We have only a few days to get our routine for the final assembly tight. Ellen’s going to show us a few moves like that to really impress the crowd and show them our talent for next year,” Ms. Carter says. Ellen’s even got Ms. Carter on one, and she’s never moved to a state of jubilance by a student’s performance. “This is going to be the best cheer season ever. Get to it,” Ms. Carter says as she; the captain, Shauna; and the cocaptain, Alicia, head toward the bleachers. You’d think Ellen invented cheerleading the way everyone’s acting.

  “That’s right,” Ellen says, picking up the red and white pom-poms and shaking them in the air. “Let’s see what you can do. We’ll start with a basic cartwheel and blackflip combination, then move on to the hard stuff.”

  The hard stuff? Is she insane? I’ve never flipped straight a day in my life—side to side or backward—and today’s not the day to try any new tricks. The two routines we’ve been practicing are challenging enough for me, and I can’t afford to be sore for my final play performance tonight. I want to make it memorable because of my talent, not my stiffness.

  “Hi. I’m Jayd,” I say, introducing myself to the perky chick. Maybe I can talk some sense into her. “Are we all supposed to learn to flip like that?”

  “Nice to meet you, Jayd. And yup, you are.” Noticing my disbelief, she walks up to me and pats my shoulder. Now I’m really not feeling her. “It’s easy, girl. Watch this,” Ellen says, bending backward like a human pretzel. Now she’s just showing off. “Trust me, Jayd. Your body can do whatever you want it to, no matter how much you weigh.” Was that a crack at my weight? Oh, no, this little pencil didn’t just go there with me. I don’t need any more help disliking her ass.

  “You’re tripping if you think I’m doing all that,” I say, my neck in full roll. Before I introduced myself, I was just irritated. Now I’m pissed as all get-out. “Call me crazy, but I could’ve sworn this was the cheer squad, not the gymnastics team.”

  “Oh, Jayd. Cheer is more than dancing and pepping the crowd with boring routines. You’ve got to work for championship trophies, girl.” She repeats the same combination, expecting me to follow suit. Is she deaf or just plain stupid? The other squad members practice their flips, none as perfect as Little Miss Texas.

  “Come on, girl. Let me see what you’ve got,” Ellen says, stepping behind me and putting her hands around my waist in an attempt to flip me backward. She’s stronger than she looks.

  “Hey, back up off me,” I say, pushing her nimble fingers away from my body. I stand up straight, turning around to face her.

  “Jayd, you can’t be afraid to jump or you’ll never fly,” Ellen says, not getting the message. She touches my waist, again attempting to force me into submission. We don’t get down like that where I’m from. What the hell is wrong with this girl?

  “Don’t push it, Ellen,” I say, grabbing her hands before she can clasp them around my stomach. She stares at me, shocked at my reaction. “I don’t need a drill sergeant.” Snatching her hands out of my strong grip, Ellen narrows her piercing gray eyes at me. I know she thinks of herself as the cheer czar of the South, but no one has that kind of power over me.

  “Jayd, you’re at a ten and I need you at a two,” Ellen says, putting up two fingers, tempting me to break them both. The other forty girls gather around us, making it obvious to Ms. Carter, Shauna, and Alicia that something else is going on other than basic flip lessons. A few of them snicker at this broad’s attempt to clown me, but not everyone finds her amusing. There are now two teams on the squad this afternoon: team Ellen and team Jayd. I need to check her once and for all, or she’ll never get off my ass.

  “You’re about to see me at a twenty if you don’t move your fingers out of my face.” Ellen backs up, realizing I’m not playing. “I don’t know how it works in Houston, but in Cali we don’t go around touching people without their permission. That’s just asking for a beat-down.” I look into Ellen’s gray eyes and leap into her mind without any warning.

  I understand she’s intimidated by me and that she’s not used to working with black girls—Ellen should fit in perfectly here. While I’m in here, I’ll cool her down a bit. Then we’ll both get what we want.

  “Is everything all right here?” Ms. Carter asks, walking to the middle of the gym floor and breaking our bonding session. Ellen shakes her head, trying to gather her thoughts.

  “Yes, Ms. Carter. Everything’s fine,” Ellen says, confused. “I need to take five.”

  She needs to take more than that. I hope she learned her lesson the first time around. I don’t want to have to jump back into her head. It was a little too cool for me.

  “Everyone take a break,” Ms. Carter says, following Ellen toward the locker room.

  Alicia and Shauna join us, assessing the scene before following Ms. Carter into the locker room. They look at me, and I can tell they’re thinking that what they’ve heard about me has some truth to it. No doubt Misty and Nellie shared what they could when they were trying out for the squad in an attempt to get in good with the veteran cheerleaders. Shauna and Alicia took a liking to me the first day of tryouts and never once questioned me about the rumors. Like most people with good sense, they just leave me alone, because, really, if I were a witch, I’d be the last person to mess with.

  The thought of my haters calling me anything but the young priestess-in-training I am makes my blood boil. Trouble seems to seek me out—not the other way around—but somehow I always get blamed for the drama in my life. Even the only two other sistahs on varsity jump to Ellen’s defense before mine because of what they’ve heard. I can’t wait to get to the shop tomorrow afternoon to talk with Mama and Netta about this. If any women know how to deal with vicious rumors and haters alike, it’s my grandmother and godmother. Until then, I’ll have to deal with it on my own.

  The thirty-minute drive from Inglewood to Compton isn’t enough time to cool my head. I’m still upset about my argument with the Texas cheer princess yesterday. Even a standing ovation after last night’s performance and two new clients this morning don’t improve my disposition for long. And with Mama and Netta pretending like they’re Thelma and Louise, I think I’m going to go completely insane.

  Initially their getaway was only supposed to be for a couple of weeks, but now they’re considering extending it until they feel like coming back. Netta’s sisters, Rita and Celia, are flying in from New Orleans this afternoon to take over the salon in their absence and should be at the shop by the time I arrive. I can’t wait to meet the other two women in their sibling threesome.

  “There’s our girl now,” Netta says, buzzing me through the front door. I stop at the threshold momentarily, taking in the thick, sweet-scented air before closing the door. They must be making something real special, because it’s a scent I’m not all that familiar with, but it’s sure working to set my hostile mood straight.

  “Hey, baby,” Mama says from her post in the washroom. Three clients are under the driers reading their gossip magazines and romance novels, giving Mama and Netta a cha
nce to get some other things done around the shop. From the looks of it, they had a busy morning.

  “Did your grandmother tell you about our change in plans?” Netta asks, clinking several hot combs and curlers together before wiping the instruments on a white towel. “We’re driving. First we’re stopping in New Orleans, and then it’s on to Miami. The cruise ship to Puerto Rico leaves from there.”

  “New Orleans?” I ask, opening the cabinet door along the wall to secure my belongings. I claim my work apron, also noticing the cabinets need dusting—yet another task for me to do that can wait another day. There’s much more pressing business to handle this afternoon. “Why are y’all stopping there?” Not that they need a reason to go home, but I’m surprised by the detour. How long are they planning on being gone anyway?

  “Because we need to visit folks and make sure our family plots and shrines are being well taken care of,” Netta says, placing the iron hair tools in a basket. We clean everything in this shop to a sparkle daily. I guess I know what my first duty of the afternoon will be. “My sisters aren’t into our line of worship anymore, so who knows what’s happened to them.”

  I head to the back to say my prayers and give myself a quick head cleansing before beginning my work. The calm office in the rear of the shop where Netta’s shrines are housed could clear the most confused head. I immediately bow to her ancestors and our orishas and pay the proper respect for our blessings before walking into the bathroom across the hall for my mini prework cleansing ritual.

  “I miss our cemetery shrines. Who knows what they look like post-Katrina,” Mama says, folding the clean towels for me to put away next. Luckily Netta’s family was spared most of the damage from the hurricane, but others weren’t so fortunate. “We need to lay eyes on our birthplace for ourselves and do what we can to help while we’re there.”

  “And besides, how can we go through the South and not stop at home? That’s just plain disrespectful,” Netta says, clamping the last curling iron and placing it on top of the pile before heading to the back. I look from Netta to Mama with tears in my eyes. I already miss them both, and they’re not even gone yet. I don’t know what I’m going to do without them here to make sense of the world for me.

  “That’s why driving is better than flying. Birds fly, not people,” Mama says, continuing her folding. Netta emerges from the back porch, directing me to collect the rest of the hair tools at her station.

  “Says the passenger,” Netta says, causing Mama to roll her jade eyes and sigh deeply. Netta can’t help but laugh at her friend. Mama doesn’t drive—period—yet it was probably her idea to drive across country rather than fly. Poor Netta.

  “Why are you giving me such a hard time? You love driving, Netta,” Mama says, unremorseful. “Besides, you were the one who said we needed a road trip, so we’re hitting the road.” Mama pats the stack of towels for emphasis, packing them firmly in the laundry basket before moving on to the next pile of clean laundry to fold. The clients are happily chatting away under the driers in the front of the shop, unconcerned with our conversation.

  “Lynn Mae, there are several ways to get to where we’re going,” Netta says, claiming a spray bottle and cloth to wipe down her station after I finish gathering all of the hair tools to clean. I need to do the same with my own collection when I get home.

  “Yes, there are, Netta. And driving is the best way. That way we can take everything we need and be on our own time.” Mama smiles at Netta, knowing her best friend’s just giving her a hard time out of fun. Netta and Mama are down for each other no matter what and have proven that very thing on more than one occasion.

  “Did your sisters make it?” I ask, anxious to meet Celia and Rita. I’ve heard so much about them I feel like I know them.

  “Not yet but soon come,” Netta says in a convincing Jamaican accent.

  While Mama lived in South Carolina before she married Daddy, Netta lived in Jamaica for a couple of years.

  “Jayd, bring the two large buckets sitting in front of the shrine please,” Mama says, looking around for the next item on her never-ending to-do list.

  I place the basket full of combs, brushes, and hair clips down on the table and do as I’m told. Sometimes I feel like Cinderella. But unlike the character, I get paid for my work. I retrieve the requested items, carrying the heavy liquid-filled buckets by their metal handles and walking carefully across the floor. The scent coming from the covered vessels is the same one I noticed a few minutes ago.

  “We’re going to give you a little cleansing before we leave to make sure you stay strong,” Netta says, checking the clients’ timers, adding another twenty minutes to the automatic hair driers. Sometimes I wish I had the luxury of escaping through my hairdresser, but it’s not the same feeling when you do your own hair. Her clients continue gossiping, happy for a few extra moments of relaxation before returning to their real worlds of cooking and cleaning for the church and their families. It’s funny how Mama has so much in common with these women, yet she’s their polar opposite.

  “I do need some help staying on point. I’ve been feeling a little off lately,” I say, shifting my weight to balance the load. Netta takes one of the heavy containers out of my hand and guides me toward the back porch. She lives for this stuff. I like doing our spirit work, too, even if it is a lot of work. The three of us wash our hands in the basins and walk out the back door.

  “A quick rogación de cabeza will also cool your head. I can feel your heat under my skin,” Mama says. Having a head cleansing is as close as I get to having my hair done—allowing anyone else to touch my head is taboo unless it’s one of my mothers.

  “Get comfortable,” Netta says, pointing to one of three wooden stools in the corner of the roomy deck. Mama claims the one to my right while Netta takes a white lapa from a stack of clean laundry on top of the drier and wraps it around my body. She and Netta also cover themselves with the large cloths, ready to hook me up.

  “You’ve been sweating so much you can’t even keep your press in,” Mama says, touching my hair and taking it all in. I didn’t tell her about the confrontation I had with Ellen’s flexible ass, but I have a feeling she’s already in the know about it all.

  The alley behind the salon is quiet this afternoon. Usually there’s a steady flow of pedestrians who like to use it as a shortcut to the gas station in the lot next to the shop. Netta’s husband made sure to secure the porch while Netta and Mama added the finishing touch of draping it in white cloth—keeping our business private from spying eyes.

  “It’s been a rough week,” I say, allowing Mama’s soft touch to ease my thoughts. “Everyone’s got an opinion about what I should do and how I should do it.”

  “You know what they say about opinions,” Netta says, gathering the grated shea and cocoa butter to mix with the other ingredients. Mama will handle the actual application. “Everybody’s got one and they all stink.”

  “That’s the truth,” I say. “Especially when they don’t know what they’re talking about, like Misty always spreading rumors about me being a witch when she’s the one up to no good.”

  “Shhh, child. I’m working back here,” Mama says, concentrating on my healing and probably still worried about traveling. She really dreads too much movement, even if it’s local.

  “People will always talk, but you have to find a way to honor your lineage, obey your readings, and live in this world. It’s a hard balance, but you’ve got more than what it takes to get the job done.” Mama places a white cover over my eyes and begins the ritual.

  “Honor your ancestors no matter what,” Netta says, opening the containers and letting the scent take over the intimate space. It’s the same intoxicating smell that welcomed me to work. Mama and Netta begin singing softly in Yoruban, reminiscent of my dream a few nights ago when I jumped.

  The front doorbell rings through the peaceful area, interrupting our healing ceremony.

  “Nettie!” a loud woman’s voice calls from the front
of the shop.

  Mama and Netta stop singing and uncover my eyes.

  “They’re here,” Netta shouts excitedly. She leaps to her feet and dashes through the shop to greet her sisters.

  “We’ll have to finish this later,” Mama says, slightly annoyed at the untimely intrusion.

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Mama isn’t as happy to see Netta’s sisters as I’d assumed she’d be. It wouldn’t surprise me if Mama’s got beef with Celia and Rita. I don’t think she has too many drama-free associations. It must be a Williams women trait because I can testify to that fact of life myself.

  “Let’s greet our guests,” I say, undraping my cloth. I return the lapa to its place and head toward the back door. I can hear Netta and her sisters laughing, happy to be reunited.

  “I’ll be up in a minute,” Mama says, prepping the ingredients Netta left behind. Mama’s energy has gone from one of intense calming to sadness. What gives?

  “Mama, are you all right?” I ask, concerned for my grandmother’s well-being. She’s always going above and beyond her duties as a mother and a priestess. She needs to take a break now more than ever.

  “Yes, baby. I’m fine,” Mama says, looking me in the eye and smiling, but I can tell there are tears under her mask. “Go on and say hi to the Bell sisters so we can get back here and finish our work,” Mama says with plenty of salt.

  I forgot Netta’s maiden name, which her unmarried sisters still carry. At least she’s allowing me to greet them. Depending on the enemy, Mama strongly suggests when I should speak and when I shouldn’t.

  “Jayd, come on up here and meet my sisters,” Netta says, conveniently leaving out an invitation for my grandmother.

  Now I know there’s something to my suspicions. I’ll have to get the real story later.

  “Hi, I’m Jayd,” I say, walking up to the trio and putting my right hand out, but they’re not having such a formal greeting.