Teenie Read online

  Kari and Wazi (those demons) are four years older than I am. They’re freshmen at the University of Maryland, and I’m glad they’re gone. I don’t miss their loud mouths and smelly gym shoes. They also have a habit of farting without any sort of warning, the silent, violent joints that can clear a room full of people. I don’t know what they eat, but whatever it is has to be rotten. My dad calls them toxic boxies, and he’s right, because the stink that comes out of their butts has to be some kind of industrial waste.

  After waking me with her sweet voice (Anita Baker ain’t got nothing on my mom), my mother kisses my forehead and heads downstairs to fix Beresford his breakfast. She does this after working the graveyard shift, but just like my morning melodies, my father’s tea and food are always waiting for him on the kitchen table, along with the morning paper.

  My parents have this weird but romantic relationship. Because they work opposite schedules, him during the day and her at night, they only see each other for about thirty minutes in the morning and evening. When Beresford’s waking up and she’s coming in from work, they sit on the couch and talk about each other’s day. When he’s coming in and she’s on her way to work, he’ll get her a flower or some candy. The worst part is how they hug and kiss each other like they’ve been apart for years. It makes me want to puke.

  I love my mother, but I couldn’t be her. How she deals with my dad at all, let alone kisses him, is something I’ll never understand. One week she was sick, and my father didn’t know what to do with himself. Damn near burned down the house making tea. How the hell can you almost burn the house down boiling water? The firemen and police asked the same question. That black spot on the wall behind the stove won’t go away, no matter how many coats of paint Beresford puts over it.

  I try not to bring that incident up too much. I don’t need to hear him start flipping out, calling me lazy and whatnot. He tried to say it was my fault because I wouldn’t get up and make it for him. Okay, buddy, try again.

  My father is old-school, always making comments about men and women having different roles and how women are supposed to carry themselves a certain way, some crap like that. That’s why I have to make sure he’s long gone this morning before I even think about putting on my Wade outfit. He would flip if he saw how tight it is. I’ll have to rush home from school too, make sure he doesn’t catch me hoochied out. I’ve never dressed like this, and I am not about to get caught.

  I’ll stay in the shower until he leaves. That won’t seem unusual, because I take long showers at least twice a day, more in the summer. Of course Beresford complains that I’ve got the water meter spinning. He never stops complaining, ever.

  My mother always tells me, “Cut your showers down a little bit and you won’t have to hear him get upset.”

  She and I both know that even if I cut the showers down, Beresford would find something else to beef about. He’d probably say something about me not washing myself properly.

  The long showers—I have to blame my brothers for that one. They traumatized me as a little girl. They would tell me that my shoes would smell just like theirs, that I would pass gas just like they do. I’m very particular about my hygiene. I just can’t risk it.

  I get out of the shower in time to hear Beresford belching like an ox and singing some old Calypso tune in the kitchen. With the example he sets, it’s no wonder my brothers are two pigs.

  “Da beach is mine!

  I could bathe anytime!

  Despite what he say!

  I gon bathe anyway!”

  I think that’s the chorus of whatever song he’s singing. That means he’s finished with his tea and about to leave for work. Now I can start getting dressed. I have the outfit laid out on the bed. My braids are tight. I slept with a head wrap on, resting my face against my hand so one side wouldn’t get messed up.

  The texture of my hair is so weird, a mixture of about five, six different nationalities. I get West African (slaves in Barbados [Dad] and Grenada [Mom]) from both parents, Irish and Carib Indian from my dad, and Portuguese and Syrian from my mother. I’ll be lucky if these braids last the day.

  Whenever I look in the mirror, I can see little traces of my ancestors. My bronze complexion, like my hair, is probably from the mixture. My full lips show my West African heritage, and my straight, narrow nose has Western Europe all over it. When it comes to my green eyes, well, I haven’t been able to pinpoint that one yet. I really don’t like the way I look because I look so … different and mixed up.

  My mother has always told us to be proud of our unique lineage and made a point to tell us about our ancestry. She says it’s important, something about if you don’t know where you come from, you won’t know where you’re going. Well, I know if I don’t get going, I am gonna be late for school. It’s time to put the dress on.

  I look pretty damn good, if I must say so myself. The dress fits me well, a little snugger than when I first bought it, but I guess that’s a good thing. I didn’t think they made clothes small enough to be tight on me. My booty is definitely looking perky in this thing. I have on my silver hoop earrings, the ones with the studs, and a pair of white Pumas. I don’t want to go overboard with the makeup, so just a little dab of lipstick. I call Cherise and tell her to meet me in the subway. I think I’m ready, maybe.

  “Now see, Teenie!! I told you that dress was hot. Look at you.”

  Cherise has a huge smile on her face, even though her eyes are bloodshot red.

  “Thanks.” I’m blushing, trying not to look too nervous. She blows her nose into the most saturated snot rag I’ve ever seen. I hand her a Claritin pill and take some tissues out of my book bag because the paper towel she’s using is on the verge of disintegrating. Cherise and pollen spores don’t get along at all.

  “Thanks,” Cherise says. She leans toward me and says, “In like five seconds, turn your head and look on the other side of the train.”

  “Okay.” I wait, and when I turn, I see some boys standing on the other side of the train. There are a few of them staring at me, licking their lips and tilting their heads to the side, trying to look sexy.

  “Don’t stare too long ’cause they ain’t that cute, but that’s what it’s gonna be like today. You watch.”

  A few years ago my mother sat both Cherise and me down and explained to us why we should stay away from the bad boys, the thugs that every other girl seems to lose their mind over. She told us that those boys were at their peak and that they had no room to grow. They won’t have anything going for them once we get out of high school.

  Her little speech worked on me, but Cherise loves her some thugs—only the pretty ones, though. As long as they come with the basics, starting with fresh shape-ups and crispy sneakers, they got a chance to get some vibes from my girl.

  I don’t know what kind of boys I like, but I know the kind I don’t like. Unfortunately for me, those are exactly the types that always come up to me. Either they’re supernerds like Garth who know the square root of every number from one to one thousand, or they have their pants hanging off their butts and their breath smells like goat cheese.

  It’s not like I want boys to talk to me anyway. I wouldn’t have any idea of what to say because, well, I haven’t had much practice. On the rare occasion that they do speak, it’s to tell me to take my fake green contacts out. I guess I’m a little too homely for them to believe that my eyes are real. One kid said I reminded him of his mother, like I should be in the kitchen baking some cookies or something. He looked confused when I walked away from him. I guess he thought that was a compliment.

  Today, it’s a different story. I’m sharing the spotlight with Cherise. Usually, when guys come up to us, I am the one that they have to keep busy while they work on her. They talked to me because they had to. I didn’t mind playing second fiddle, so I guess it’s only natural that I feel uncomfortable with all the attention. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn this dress.

  “Ugh, my allergies are killing me,” Cherise whine
s, blowing her nose. “My eyes feel like they’re about to explode.”

  Cherise must be blowing a little too hard, because the lady next to her starts cowering away and covers her nose with her finger. Cherise is busy cleaning up and doesn’t notice. A seat opens up across the aisle, and the woman jumps up from where she’s sitting. She knocks a man’s video player out of his hand, and he yells, “Damn, lady! Take it easy.”

  Cherise looks up just in time to catch the woman giving her a dirty look. “Why is that lady looking at me like that?”

  “She was covering her face and looking at you like you had swine flu.”

  “For real? Whatever.”

  I keep my eyes on the woman, and sure enough, she looks up at Cherise again, shaking her head with disgust. I don’t know what her problem is, like Cherise having allergies means she’s radioactive or something. I can’t stand people like that. I wish there was some way I could get back at her.

  I smile when I realize what she’s reading. I turn to Cherise and whisper, “I read that book.”

  “Which one, the one that lady’s reading?”

  “Yup. It was good too, one of those thrillers where they keep you guessing right up until the end.”

  “Really? How did it end?”

  “The main character’s family dies in a plane crash, and he jumps off a bridge.”

  “Word?” Cherise gets a look on her face like she’s plotting something. As we get up to leave the train, the woman flashes one last nasty glance in our direction; exactly what Cherise was waiting for. On our way out of the door, Cherise leans over to the woman, points at her book, and says, “He dies in the end.”

  It feels like ten thousand eyeballs are following my every move. Brooklyn Technical High School, Tech for short, is a ginormous structure, one city block wide, two deep, and eight floors high. Four minutes never seemed like enough time to get to class, but today I can’t wait to get out of the hallway. The older boys lurk around every corner and flirt with me one after the other. I thought I would enjoy it more, but the way they look at me makes me feel like they can see right through what little I have on.

  There are boys grabbing at my arm, pssting at me, trying to get my attention. I try to keep my head down and walk as fast as I can. Cherise is no help. She is relishing the attention, which today is even greater than normal because of her tight dress.

  I can see the doorway of my class. There’s one more group of boys coming down the hallway, the only thing standing between me and that door, my forty-one minutes of safety. I go to drop my eyes, hoping they won’t notice me. My eyes never reach the ground. I stop, and stare. The sight of him, the glow, the way the light hits off his face, the boy in the middle with the sleeveless V-neck sweater. His name is Gregory Millons.

  He’s six foot four, senior captain of the basketball team, and hot to death. He’s smiling at me. The dimple on his left cheek draws my attention for a second, but then I lock eyes with him again. My feet are stuck to the floor. I don’t think I would be able to move even if someone pushed me. My mouth is hanging slack and my eyes are open wide, really wide. I can’t take them off him, let alone blink.

  “Yo, son, come on.” The boy who was standing on his right is talking from somewhere behind me.

  “Y’all go ahead. I’ll catch up.” Greg never stops looking at me.

  He’s walking over to me, leaning down to talk to me. I can smell his cologne. It’s making me dizzy; it’s Issey Miyake. I bought it for Beresford last Christmas, but he never wears it. He should, because it smells sooooo good. My knee buckles when Greg leans in, reaches for my hand, and says, “Hi, cutie, what’s your name?”

  If I open my mouth, I’ll throw up.

  “Her name is Martine.”

  Cherise comes over to save me from embarrassing myself. He’s looking at her and now at me. He says, “I’m Greg. I haven’t seen you before, Martine. What year are you in?”

  “She’s a freshman, like me. I’m Cherise.”

  Now I’m looking at them, following their conversation about me but not participating at all. God, he is beautiful, and he’s smiling again, a different expression this time, amusement maybe? Does he see me staring at him? Can he hear my heart pounding? He looks at me funny and says to Cherise, “What’s wrong with her, she don’t talk or something?” because I’ve suddenly become mute.

  I try to take a chance, save some face, but pay for it with a dry heave. Cherise helps me out again.

  “She has laryngitis. She won’t be able to talk for a week or so.”

  I would never have thought of that one. He lets her finish, then turns to me, studying me. I like how he looks at me. I feel sexy.

  “Hmm. That’s too bad. I was gonna ask her for her math, but since she can’t talk, guess I’ll have to settle for her MySpace.”

  “She doesn’t have one.”

  “Facebook?” he asks. Cherise shakes her head to that one too.

  My brothers cyberstalked me right off MySpace, so I never bothered setting up a Facebook account.

  “Well, I guess her screen name will work,” Greg says.

  He’s so smooth and quick. He knows I can’t talk, so getting my phone number would be pointless. Don’t know that I’d give him my number anyway. I’m not trying to give Beresford any reason to start with the yelling.

  I fumble with the pen Cherise shoves into my hand. I write my email address and Instant Messenger screen name and pass it to her. She looks at me like I’m retarded before giving Greg the small piece of paper. He looks it over and puts it in his wallet, satisfied, I guess. His eyes are on me. The smallest, sexiest grin breaks at the corner of his mouth.

  “Appletini, huh? I’ll link with you later tonight, sweetheart.”

  Cherise lifts my arm and helps me wave as he walks away.

  Cherise starts running in place, smiling like crazy. I’m still in shock, so she sort of guides me into my seat. We have a couple of classes together, and first-period American studies is one of them. I still can’t believe that Greg talked to me. It doesn’t seem real, but every time I look up at Cherise, she has a dorky smile on her face. Now I have the same dorky smile on my face because the reality of it all is finally hitting me. Gregory Millons talked to me; that’s right, to me.

  I don’t even groan with the rest of the class when Mr. Speight springs a pop quiz on us. He’s one of my favorite teachers, so it doesn’t bother me that he tries to keep us on our toes. He swears he’s a comedian, and is always cracking some lame joke. The class is American studies, but on our schedule cards it says “American Stud,” to save space. The first day of class Mr. Speight pointed out, “Hey, they wrote my name on the class schedule twice.”

  Corny, but from there, I knew he would be different. It’s not hard to do well, since he keeps the material interesting.

  This quiz is a joke, to be honest. Question 6 asks:

  6. Which one of these names is not that of a Native American nation?

  a. Sioux

  b. Navajo

  c. Hellahwee

  d. Mohawk

  Easy stuff, if you pay attention. I remember the funny story he had used that held the answer to this dumb question. He told us that it’s politically incorrect to refer to Native Americans as Indians. First of all, the land of the so-called New World was nowhere near India. Second, he said, the people here were so distinct in culture and practices that it was unfair to lump them together with that incorrect name.

  Mr. Speight mentioned the Blackfoot, the Sioux, and the Hellahwee as examples. Everyone in the class wondered out loud about the Hellahwee, having heard of the previous two nations. He said, “Yeah, the Hellahwee. The folks that get lost in the desert and say, ‘Where the Hellahwee?’ ”

  Everyone laughed. That’s why I like him. He’s not a prude like my other teachers.

  I breeze through the quiz and look up to check on Cherise. She was one of the students who groaned the loudest when he sprung the quiz on us. Her pen just happens to be hovering over quest
ion 6 as she searches for the answer. Wow, I have to cough to keep Cherise from circling a. Oh my God, she needs me to cough again to keep her from circling b. She circles c. I stay quiet. Beresford always says she ain’t wrapped too tight.

  Chapter 3

  Cherise and I meet up again fifth period for gym. Today is field hockey out in Fort Greene Park, so we both fake an injury. Her head hurts and my ankle is sore, or is it the other way around? The gym teacher (I can never remember his name) doesn’t seem to care and leaves us on the sidelines.

  Cherise has that dumb smile on her face again. “I know your head is all swoll up from Greg coming up to you today. Did you see what he had on?”

  “Yeah, he looked nice in that sweater.” Those chiseled arms have been on my mind all morning.

  “The sweater was alright, but I was talking about his jeans.”

  “His jeans were nice.” I really didn’t notice them.

  “Nice?! They were True Religion.”

  True who?

  “Brand-new, limited-edition True Religions.”

  Nope. I still don’t get it.

  “They cost like three hundred dollars.”

  Oh! “Oh yeah. They were some hot jeans.”

  “Ice in his earrings and some hot Louis Vuitton shoes. He’s fine, girl.”

  She stressed “fine,” sounded more like “foyne.” I was too busy looking at Greg’s face to notice his jeans, but if Cherise says he was wearing three-hundred-dollar jeans, then he was. She knows more about fashion than anyone I know.

  “He plays ball and he’s a senior. Mmm. You’re so lucky, Teenie.”