Chameleon (23 page)

I could feel her eyes burning into me as each syllable escaped my lips. She stepped in my face, sticking her hand near my eye.

I flinched. “Whatchu doin’? That hurts!”

“I’ll bet it does. I wanna see how bad it is.” She stepped closer.

Why does everybody wanna do that? My eye is puffy and purple. Of course it’s bad.

“Now, Shawn . . .” she started.

Here it comes.

“Lemme ask you a question.”

I looked past her. “Yeah.”

“Do I look like a fool to you? I mean — look at me, boy — do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck or something?”

“No, Mama, I . . .”

“Look here, boy, I KNOW you didn’t get that from playing no game. Now are you gonna tell me what happened, or am I gonna have to get the strap when we get home?”

The strap? What does she think I am, a kid? Shoot, I haven’t gotten a whippin’ since she found that note with all the bad words on it. That was a bunch of inches ago. Now I’m bigger than her!

“I ain’t no little boy, Mama. I’m gettin’ ready to go into high school, so you can’t treat me like a child.”

I stepped back and folded my arms. Two can play this game.

But she stepped up. “I KNOW you didn’t just back-sass me! Now, did you? I SAID I wanna know what happened, for real! Not some BS story about you playing ball.”

Auntie pulled herself off the couch. “Sis, y’all want some gumbo to take home with you? I got a fresh pot.”

Mama nodded. In the kitchen drawers slid open. Auntie placed a large plastic container on the table with the hot food, then disappeared out of view. Ice cubes tinkling into a glass was followed by the
crack
of a bottle opening — like a baseball bat hitting a home run.

Should I tell Mama about the fight? Maybe I should — get it out of the way and let her see her boy ain’t no baby no more.

“All right, it didn’t happen in a game.” I hesitated. “It happened . . . in a fight.”

Her eyes narrowed on mine, but I stood taller and finished. “Lorenzo’s brother was getting beat up, so we jumped in to help him.”

There, I said it. Just like when I jumped in to help Dayshaun, there was no turning back now.

Auntie strolled in with her “juice” and plopped back on the couch to watch the news. She didn’t realize she had real news going on right there in her own living room.

“We jumped in to pull him out, but each of us took a hit.”

Silence.
MUTE
flashed on the TV screen. Auntie’s tinkling ice mixed with Mama’s heavy breathing. She took a swallow from her glass and asked, “Sis, you all right?”

More silence. Mama’s deep breath let me know a storm was coming. In a low voice, she said, “I’m fine.”

She sat in the easy chair and stretched her legs out. “Now, Shawn, who was beating up Lorenzo’s brother?”

I wanted to sit too. But I didn’t.

“Some Pirus. They came out of nowhere. We were playing ball and . . .”

“
And
what?”

“He was hanging out with”— I hesitated; if I said “Crips,” then all hell would break loose —“some guys, and they were over on the handball courts when we found them.”

“Brenda, what’s he talking about?” Auntie said.

“Well, it seems that Shawn’s black eye didn’t come from no game, just as I suspected. Matter of fact, I think he’s trying to run a game on me. Aren’t you, Shawn?”

Man, I’m getting tired of this. I only did what my friends would have done for me. She wasn’t there; she don’t know what happened.

“No. I told you . . . Lorenzo jumped in to help his brother, and we jumped in to help him.”

She sucked her teeth and stood up. I wasn’t finished.

“They would have done the same for me if . . .”

“If
what,
Shawn? If
you
was in a fight? You probably right. Your friends probably would help you — they’re your friends. But I know you: you don’t get into fights. At least, you didn’t before. But see . . . this don’t make sense. There’s something you ain’t telling me, Shawn. What’s missing?”

I wasn’t gonna tell her everything: the Crips, the weed smoke, the wad of money — uh-uh. She hears all of that and there goes my summer.

“Ain’t nothing missing. That’s it. We were helping our friend.”

I stood tall, crossed my arms, and looked down on her.

“Liar!”

Smack!
Right on my cheek.

“Brenda!” cried Auntie.

My head jerked around. The Piru got my right eye, and now Mama got my left cheek.

“DANG, MAMA! What you do that for?” I rubbed my cheek and got in her face. “I AIN’T NO LITTLE BOY!”

I flung the front door open and rushed down the steps and into the car. I’m tired of hearing her voice. Tired of her telling me “who I am.” I
know
who I am. Does she? Does she know the stuff I gotta deal with every day out here?
Hell no!
She thinks I’m still a kid. Kids don’t get into fights with Crips and Pirus. Kids don’t talk about having sex. Kids don’t hang out with dudes getting high. Kids don’t do nunna that.

“I’m a let your father deal with you on this. I lost my patience with you, boy,” she said, thrusting the container of gumbo in my lap before heading home.

The ride went quickly, and my anger got stronger with each mile traveled. I know I ain’t grown, but I’m fourteen years old and can take care of myself. Mama only saw what she wanted to see, and what she saw was a child. So that’s how she treated me.

Still . . . if she found out everything that went down today, she would freak out and shackle me to Auntie’s, where I’d be doomed to lazy days of slurred words, drunken moans, and boring soap operas.

When we got home, she put the gumbo on the counter and went straight to her room. She closed the door, but I heard her talking on the phone, probably to Dad. I couldn’t wait to see him. He would understand. When it came to stuff like this, it was a dad thing and definitely not a mama thing.

I couldn’t think about that now, though. My stomach’s been growling since before I got hit, so I jumped on the gumbo. Mama swooped back in and busied herself around the kitchen, trying to avoid me.

“Put this on your eye. It’ll help.”

She flung an ice pack on the counter toward me and disappeared again. The purple fire surrounding my eye cooled as I pressed the pack into action on my way to my room to work on the gumbo. The latest
X-Men
sat on my bed, so I flipped through it as I blew on the hot, bubbling stew. Nightcrawler and Wolverine were racing to save Professor X when the doorbell rang.

Dad.

Mama didn’t leave her room, so I got the door.

“Boy, what happened to you?”

Mama walked in before I could answer.

“Yeah, Shawn, tell your father what happened. Minus all the lies and game playing of course.”

Awwww, man . . . here we go.

We went into the living room. Mama and I took our spots on the couch. Dad remained standing, hands in pockets.

“You not gonna sit, Dad?”

“Shawn, tell me how you got a black eye.”

I told him the same thing I told Mama, after the whole game lie. I played up the fact that I was helping a friend. Since he’s a guy, I thought he would understand where I was coming from. His hands stayed in his pockets, jangling change, as he listened. His eyebrows didn’t dance. His head didn’t shake. His arms didn’t fold and unfold. And his eyes looked at me; they didn’t burn through me.

“So let me get this straight. . . . You guys were playing ball and you ran into Lorenzo’s brother?”

“Right.”

“Then, out of nowhere, some Pirus came and started beating him up.”

“Right.”

“And that’s when you and your three friends jumped in.”

“Right.”

He was cool about it, like he is about everything, until his hands emerged from his pants and he crossed his arms.

Uh-oh.

“Why did Pirus just start beating him up? Were they Crips?”

Uh-oh. Stick to the story. You mention the Crips, Shawn, and . . .

“Why you hesitating, Shawn?” Dad said, his eyes questioning everything I just said.

“Yeah, Shawn . . . why you hesitatin’? Thinkin’ of another lie?” Mama accused, shaking her head.

I hated when she did that. Think fast.

“To tell you the truth . . . I don’t know who they were.” I scratched my head and tried to believe it myself so it came out right.

“See that, Shawn, I don’t know what to do with this boy. I can’t believe a word out of his mouth.” Mama threw her hands up to Dad, who has my name — I mean, I have his name.

They were quiet. The whole room was quiet. Maybe they believed me. I hope so. I didn’t wanna keep lying, but I didn’t wanna lose my freedom. Dad tapped his foot on the carpet like he always does when he’s about to make a decision.

Mama spoke with her hands, “I mean . . . between the lying, the back talk, the scrapes . . .”

“What scrapes?” Dad asked.

“Take a look at his sneakers and ask him.”

Dad sighed and finally took a seat. “Shawn, lift up your feet.”

I was about to, but Mama beat me to it, jerking my sneaker into the air to show him. When Dad acknowledged it with a shake of the head and a pursing of the lips, she dropped it. OUCH! Lucky’s fangs reappeared.

“I just don’t know what’s gotten into him lately. Maybe you can talk some sense into that hard head of his,” Mama said.

She rose from the couch and went into the kitchen. Dad asked me about the sneaker, and I told him the same story I told Mama, only I left out the whole “lowrider” thing.

“Shawn”— he pointed —“I know something’s going on that you ain’t tellin’ me, but you
and
your mother seem a little stressed right now, so we’ll talk about it later.”

Mama strolled back in with a big bowl of gumbo and reclaimed her seat.

“See, I think it’s them boys he been hanging out with.” Chew-chew. “Lord knows what you guys do during the day.” Chew-chew and a point with the spoon. “I don’t know how much more of them you’ll be seeing this summer.”

“Now hold on, Brenda, the boy is a teenager. That’s half of it right there. You can’t just not let him see his friends anymore,” Dad said.

Thank you, Dad. I knew he would see things my way. I knew he would . . .

“But still, Shawn . . .” He reclined back into his seat and rubbed his goatee. “I can’t help but think you might need a change of scenery.”

Mama jumped in. “Whatchu mean ‘a change of scenery’?”

Her spoon dropped into the bowl and she eyeballed Dad.

“I mean, Brenda, look at the situation. You got Gertie watching him and . . .” He knew better than to bring that train into the station, but he kept going. “He’s gotta deal with this gang stuff, and . . . I don’t know, maybe a change of scenery would . . . help things.”

“So what are you trying to say?” Mama asked, sitting a little straighter.

This was getting good. But what was Dad talking about, “a change of scenery”?

He stood and made his way over to the fireplace. Pictures of me through the years sat on the mantle. He plucked up one of me missing my two front teeth and stared at it as he spoke: “Y’know, he
is
about to start high school.” He put down the picture. “Maybe he should go to school here.”

Mama’s eyes jumped when Dad finished. Her head was already shaking as she put the bowl down, “Uh-uh. No. I don’t think so. You see how this boy is right now, Shawn? I couldn’t trust him in this house alone.”

Me go to school here? No Crips . . . no Pirus . . . no Auntie . . . no pink slip? Shoot, I could get with that.

“Brenda, listen, you gotta face the fact that Shawn ain’t a child anymore. He’s
our
child, yes, but he’s no longer
a
child.”

Tell her, Dad. Wait a second — that would also mean no Lorenzo, no Trent, no Andre . . . and no Marisol.
Dang!

Mama sighed and settled back into her seat. She tapped her foot as Dad finished.

“Now, Brenda, I know I’m not here all the time, and I don’t get to see Shawn the same way you do. But you and I both know that we raised Shawn the right way and that he’s a good kid. You gotta trust that.”

Dad looked me straight in the eye. “We know he ain’t no man yet. But we gotta let him grow.”

Tell her, Dad.

Mama finished off the bowl, put it on the coffee table, and stared at Dad. “So what should we do with him?”

He sat back down, sighed at me, and said, “Maybe it’s time he started making a few decisions of his own.”

He leaned back into the seat and put his arms behind his head like he was ready to do a sit-up. “I mean, that’s what being a man, or an adult for that matter, is all about: making decisions”— then he leaned in for emphasis —“and dealing with those decisions.”

What? I looked at Mama. Did she think this was a good idea?

“Wait . . . what are you talking about, Dad?”

Mama stood, then jumped in.

“I hate to say it, but your father’s right: you need to start making some choices on your own and dealing with the results. I know we raised you well, Shawn, but sometimes, boy . . . that mouth of yours writes checks your behind needs to cash.”

I was lost. “What are you guys even talking about?”

“What your father is trying to say is we should let
you
decide where you go to high school. I knew the day would come sooner or later that Gertie wouldn’t be watching you; I just didn’t think it would be today.”

She stepped into the kitchen to let Dad finish.

“So what do you think, Shawn? You wanna go to high school here, or you wanna go to Marshall? You get to choose. Me and your mother will talk about when you need to make your decision by, but ultimately the choice is yours.”

Hmmm. Go to school at Marshall with my friends and deal with Crips and Pirus, or go to school here and avoid the gangs but leave my friends behind?

Shoot, I thought I wouldn’t have to deal with stuff like this until I was out of high school, not before I even started.