Chameleon (11 page)

Here’s my chance.

“Yes, they do. Speaking of which, I’m getting older and bigger every day, you know, and I can’t stay at Auntie’s forever, so . . .”

I swung my feet off the couch to look her in the eye.

“I know what you’re gonna say, Shawn. I know you’re getting older and bigger, but you know my job situation. It’s still much easier for me to leave you at Gertie’s.”

“Yeah, easier for you. But what about me? You saw how she was today. She’s like that every day, you know?”

Her right hand moved under her head, and she lowered her eyes down at the curlicue pattern on the carpet.

“I know that, Shawn. We’ve had this conversation how many times now? And every time I tell you the same thing: it’s easier for me to have you go to Marshall than go to school here.”

“Yeah, easy for you, Mama. But what about me? You ever think about what I might want?”

“Boy, where is this attitude coming from, huh? I’m too tired for all this right now.”

“I know, Mama, it’s just . . . It’s not only about Auntie,” I said, catching my breath. “Do you know about the pink slip?” I sat up and folded my arms across my chest.

“The what?”

“The pink slip. It’s officially called ‘Permission Form to Discipline,’ and it goes home on the first day of school asking if it’s OK for the principal to whack your child in front of everybody if they act out.”

“What do you mean ‘act out’?”

“Well, I don’t mean shooting spitballs in the back of the class. More like . . . pulling a knife on your teacher.”

“Who told you that? One of your little hoodlum friends? I find it hard to believe that the principal can get away with whacking a child.”

“Well, it’s true. And no, I didn’t hear it from one of my ‘hoodlum friends.’ I heard it from some girls, as a matter of fact.”

She sat up straighter and swung her legs toward me.

“Girls? What girls?” A smile crept over her face. “You never mentioned any girls before, Shawnie. You got a girlfriend you’re not telling me about?”

I knew she would say that. Does she think that just because I hang out with guys that I don’t even
know
any girls?

“No, I don’t have a girlfriend. But I do have some friends that are girls.”

That wiped the grin from her face, and she folded her arms and pushed back into her seat.

“And my friends that are girls have brothers and sisters that go to Marshall. Their siblings told them, and they told me all about the pink slip. They told me about the principal whacking students, mostly ’bangers, with a paddle in an assembly so everybody could see. When I asked if he could do that, that’s when they mentioned the pink slip. They said you don’t have to sign it, but most parents do just to make sure their kids don’t act out. Would you ever sign it?”

“Now, Shawn, you should know me better than that. Why would I let somebody else spank my child when I can have the pleasure of doing it myself?” She laughed, patting me on the leg — hard.

“
Ha-ha,
very funny!”

“Besides, my mother always told me to believe none of what you hear and only half of what you see. Now that you’re gonna be a freshman, you’re gonna hear all kinds of crazy things. I remember when I started Marshall, the seniors told the freshman they had to buy ‘elevator tickets’ to get to the second floor. Never mind the fact that we didn’t even have an elevator in school. Luckily, Sis and my cousins had already gone there, so I knew what to expect and didn’t fall for it.”

“Yeah, but see? Since Auntie went there, you believed what she told you. How is that different from what the girls told me? They could be telling the truth too.”

“You’re right. They
could
be telling you the truth. I’m just saying . . . It’s basically illegal to spank in school, so I find it a little hard to believe. Although, now that I think about it, I wouldn’t be too surprised because of the knuckleheads that go there. Or shall I say, are
enrolled
there.”

She emphasized the word “enrolled” because everybody knows the ’bangers spend most of their time hanging out and causing trouble.

One minute I’m talking about going to school here; the next minute I’m telling her about the pink slip.

“So, Shawnie . . . tell me about these girlfriends — I mean ‘friends who are girls.’ Will I be meeting them anytime soon?”

How did we even start talking about this?

“I’m sorry, Mama, did you say something? I was watching this commercial about minty-fresh breath and didn’t catch what you said.” Two can play that game.

I relaxed into my seat and kicked my legs out.

“Shawn, what is that?” She sat up straight and pointed at my trimmed sneaker.

Uh-oh. What’s the story again? Stall. Shoot . . . what’s the story again?

“What is what?” I sat up, pretending to look around while hiding my sneaker.

“Your foot? What happened to your sneaker?”

The story. What’s the story? Style. New style. That’s right. A cut-up sneaker is the new style.

“What? This?” I pointed to the trimmed part of the sneaker. “This is the style now. You trim one of your Stars until it’s real low. I saw these guys on the court today with sneakers cut like this, and my boys told me it was the new style. They call it a Lowrider.” Lowrider, that was good.

“Lowrider? Are you kidding me? I didn’t spend good money on those sneakers to have you destroy them.”

She jumped forward in her seat. “Wait a second. . . . Lowrider? That better not be gang-related. I know the knuckleheads have all of their codes and stuff, but you better not be getting involved with them. For all I know, it could mean you’re about to join.”

See, she did it again. Maybe the Lowrider thing wasn’t a great idea after all. I thought I had every angle covered, but once again Mama proved me wrong.

“Come on, Mama, you know me better than that. These guys we saw playing were older and real ballers. Since they did it, we thought it looked cool and did it too.”

She exhaled and sat back. Her feet found their original position on the couch before she spoke again.

“So if the style was to walk around with your pants on backward or something stupid like that, you would do that too?” The sarcasm in her voice meant the argument would soon be over.

“I’m just saying . . . it looked cool.”

“Boy, if I had a dime for every time you did something you thought was cool . . .”

A shake of her head and an “umh-umh-umh” ended her sentence and the discussion. Her hand found its way under her chin, and her eyes drifted back to the TV.

Whew, another bullet dodged.

WE HUNG OUT, watching TV, laughing at the screen, but when Mama’s occasional laughter disappeared into silence, I knew she was nodding off. Same as every other night.

I don’t know how she does it, but I couldn’t work on my feet all day. Especially not in a cafeteria. Mama says she likes it because the other ladies are cool, she gets to do what she loves, and she gets to make whatever she wants — well, almost whatever she wants. I met a few of her coworkers a couple of years ago and they’re all big women, but they know how to cook — man, do they know how to cook: biscuits, sweet rolls, ham, ribs, sweet-potato pie, chocolate cake . . . Dang, now I’m getting hungry. I’ll see if we have anything to eat after she goes to bed.

“Mama . . . bedtime.”

She sat up, wiped her groggy eyes, and headed off to bed. All right. Let’s eat. What’s in the fridge? Dang, Mama, you gotta go shopping. All I see is mustard, hot sauce, barbecue sauce, and . . . wait a second . . . what’s this . . . wrapped in foil? A couple pieces of Auntie’s chicken. Oh, yeah. When was the last time she made chicken? Last week? I hope it’s still good — sniff — smells good.

Since school is out, I usually stay up late and watch movies. Sometimes I make it all the way through, sometimes I don’t. Comedies, kung fu flicks, and Westerns keep me awake. Dramas and love stories knock me out. I flipped through the channels and stopped at an old Clint Eastwood Western. Cool. Which one is this?

A close-up of Clint’s squinting eyes and rugged face flashed on the screen but was replaced by an older, uglier face. A dirt-covered face wiped by a dirt-covered arm cackled a laugh, then said: “Come on, Blondie. We’ll work together.”

Blondie? Wait . . . is that . . . ohhhhhhhh, shoot . . .
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.
I hadn’t seen this in a long time. It’s one of my favorites. I propped my feet up onto the couch and settled into the old West. My teeth ripped apart the cold chicken and in a few short minutes it was gone. I turned my attention to Clint and the Ugly.

A gunshot echoed across the desert.

Where’d that come from?

Two red-bandanna-covered faces raced from the general store to the saloon.

Are they shooting at me?

Pale yellow smoke curled from the barrel of the gun at the end of my arm.

Where’d that come from?

The yellow smoke became green.

A voice called out: “Brutha man. Hey, brutha man!”

Bright green tumbleweeds rolled past my feet. Rust-colored desert dust scratched my eyes.

A whisper: “Follow me.”

I looked down at my feet to find the desert dust replaced by a brown hardwood floor. Music danced on piano keys. Voices bounced off mirror-covered walls. I swung my head around. No one. The music stopped.

Faces flashed in front of me like ghosts, disappearing before I could make any of them out. A spray of bullets whizzed by my head and shattered bottles of whiskey on the bar behind me. I spun around and found myself in front of a shattered mirror. Two women tied a yellow bandanna over my reflected face; Marisol stood behind me on the left and Janine on the right. I turned around to face them. The echo of their voices lingered as they disappeared with the breeze.

“Come on out, podna! Don’t make me come in there to get you.” A man’s voice echoed through the saloon.

Who said that?

The music started up again. So did the voice.

“Come on out, podna, or I’m coming in.”

Where did that come from?

Cherry-red lips planted a peck on my cheek.

“Good luck,” the lips said, disappearing again.

Another pair of lips did the same. And said the same: “Good luck.”

“Who’s that?” I shouted.

I stood in the center of the saloon. The bar began to spin. Slow. Then fast. Then faster. And faster. My body remained still as the mirror-covered walls reflected me from all sides. With each spin of the room, I grew larger and taller.

“I’m comin’ in!” My voice punched through the swinging saloon doors.

The room stopped. I tried to run, but gravity tugged on my legs.

“Blondie . . . you in there?” I heard.

My body jerked. I jumped up to find myself standing in our living room with the Ugly talking to Clint — on TV.

I must have dozed off. A moment later rolling credits replaced their faces.

I’m tired. I hope that dream finishes itself off when my head hits the pillow. Not the part with the gun and the voice calling me out, but the two pairs of lips kissing me.

Yeah, that would be nice.

THE NEXT MORNING found me in the same place as the morning before. Mama had reminded me to spend more time with Auntie as we pulled up, but Auntie had lots of errands, so she sent me out of the house the moment I stepped through the door. Cool with me. So now . . . Same friends. Same dilemma.

“Whatch’all wanna do today?” Lorenzo asked.

“Let’s go play some ball!” Andre said.

He would say that. That’s all he ever wants to do. Normally, I’d wanna go play too, but last night . . . something changed. I don’t know if it was the dream, but a change of scenery would be nice. Once my head hit the pillow, Janine and Marisol reappeared in a dream, but everything was different. I don’t remember much because it disappeared the more I tried to think about it. But when I woke up this morning, my sheets were wet. And sticky. That wasn’t the best way to start the day, but I didn’t think anything of it because I’d had a big glass of juice before I went to sleep last night.