Darkness Before Dawn (12 page)

“No, girl,” Joyelle replied. “I just wanted to see what tearing up my Daddy's brand-new Lincoln Continental on Christmas Day would be like!” She smiled a little.

“What happened?” I asked. Joyelle glanced at her parents, who nodded for her to continue. She sighed. “Christmas was gonna be horrible anyway. Mom and Dad were fighting all the time, and I missed Rob so much I wanted to scream. It seemed like nobody cared. I found Dad's keys on the kitchen counter, and at first, I just wanted to sit in his car and listen to music. Then I got cold, so I put the
keys into the ignition and turned the motor on. I just sat there, imagining myself driving on the open road in Canada or someplace like that.”

Joyelle continued, “It was so easy to put my foot on the brake and move the gear shift to reverse. The car rolled into the empty street like it knew what to do. I wasn't even thinking. I was mad at Rob for being dead and mad at both of you, Mommy and Daddy, for everything at home being so messed up. I put on my seat belt, drove to the corner, and stopped at the stop sign. Then I just kept going. It was a piece of cake! I didn't know where I was and I didn't care. I just wanted to keep driving forever.” Her mother was crying again.

“I guess I drove about five miles. I saw this car coming, and I figured it would stop, so I turned left, but I guess it didn't stop. I heard a horn, and a crunching sound, and that's all I remember.”

The room was silent. Angel and I looked at each other. Gerald quietly headed back to the waiting room. Mr. Washington looked at his wife then, and reached to take her hand. “Barbara, I hope that nothing will break up this family ever again. We have to learn to cherish what we have. I love Joyelle, and I love you.” Then he kissed her tenderly on the lips, right in front of us. Angel and I tiptoed out of that room then—this was a family matter.

I thought that was the most beautiful scene I had ever witnessed. True love, in spite of difficulties.
That's the way a relationship ought to be,
I thought.
The way me and Andy might have been.

We all went back home then, some of us to open gifts,
some to give thanks that Christmas still had something to celebrate. I hadn't opened any of my gifts when the phone call came, so I pulled up into my driveway with real joy and expectation. I had called my parents and told them that Joyelle was going to be fine, but that her dad's car was in pretty bad shape. “Cars can be fixed,” Mom said wisely. “People can't.” I knew that all too well.

As I walked to the front door, I noticed a small red package tied with silver ribbon sitting on the door mat. I picked it up, saw that my name was engraved on the card, but again, no other name. I took it inside and ran upstairs to my room. I didn't immediately show it to my mother, although I did stop to give both parents a big hug and tell them I loved them. “Life is too short to forget that,” I told them as I breezed out of their room. Parents like that kind of stuff.

I sat on my bed and slowly unwrapped the package. The silver ribbon was similar to the ribbon that had decorated the roses. The red wrapping paper was thick and expensive, with decorations so deeply embossed that I could trace the design with my fingers. I unfolded it carefully to find a red velvet box hidden beneath the layers of paper. I gasped at the beauty of the box. I was afraid to imagine what was inside. I opened the lid of the small box slowly. Inside was a tiny silver butterfly, delicate and shimmering on a thin silver chain. I smiled with delight.
That Jonathan was something special,
I thought. I put the box away, in the back of my underwear drawer. I didn't show my mother, who probably wouldn't approve and definitely wouldn't understand.

In January the temperature
stayed below zero for two weeks. I hardly felt the cold, however. I spent my evenings filling out college applications after I finished my homework, then I waited, with increasing anticipation, for Jonathan to call. The calls had started slowly, right after Christmas, but it wasn't long before he was calling every night. He was so interesting to talk to—with tales of other countries, strange cultures, music, language, even philosophy.

I never thanked him for the flowers or the butterfly necklace, but he never mentioned them, so I just never brought the subject up. I figured he had his reasons for wanting to keep them a secret, maybe because he knew my parents might not approve, or maybe because he liked the idea of secret surprises.

He hadn't asked me out since the triple movie date,
but that was fine with me, and certainly fine with my parents, who had no idea that I was talking to Jonathan every single night. They knew I was on the phone, but it never occurred to them that I was spending hours after dark talking to Jonathan Hathaway.

One night he called me and said, in that bass voice that made me shiver with delight, “How do you know you exist, Keisha?”

“‘Cause I'm lookin' at myself, and I can see I'm sitting here,” I told him.

“Suppose you couldn't see. Would you still be there?”

I was quiet for a minute. This was one of those philosophical brain busters that Jonathan liked to create. “Of course,” I said. “I could still feel my body with my hands, so I'd still be there even if I couldn't see myself.” I could almost feel him grinning on the other end of the line.

“Suppose you couldn't feel yourself at all—say you're wrapped in a cocoon and can't move. Do you still exist?”

This was fun. It made me think, made me use all my brain cells. “Well, I guess other people could see me. They would know I existed, right?”

“OK. Suppose,” Jonathan continued, “all of them swore you weren't there, ignored you. Do you still exist?”

“This is crazy! Yes, I exist,” I insisted. “I can see stuff, smell the air, hear the sounds of the people who are ignoring me. So that proves it.”

Jonathan paused for effect. “Suppose,” he went on, drawing me deeper, “all of your senses are taken away. You can't see or hear, can't smell, taste, or touch.”

“Not much of an existence,” I said. “I guess the only thing that can't be taken away is my mind, my ability to think. So as long as I can think, I exist!”

“Congratulations!” Jonathan told me with pride. “You just got an
A
in advanced philosophy. That was our exam question last semester.”

“And I got it right?” I was amazed.

“Of course. You're brilliant, Keisha. I've never met anyone quite like you.”

I was grinning into the phone like he could see me. Jonathan made me feel like a grown-up with a mind, not a girl with a phone number like the boys I'd meet at the mall did. At school, I often saw Jonathan in the halls. He was always dressed like a model out of
GQ
and he always bowed when he saw me.

Rhonda and Jalani giggled whenever he did that and thought it was really cool. “That dude sure can rag tough! He can go shopping with me any time.” Rhonda said, teasing me. I was a little embarrassed, but pleased.

I even started dressing differently when we went to school after Christmas break. Instead of jeans and T-shirts, I started wearing tailored slacks and silk blouses. It made me feel kinda mature, like I was ready to be responsible or something. I figured it was about time to leave the high school girl behind. I had no idea what a college girl was supposed to look like, or act like, but I was gonna figure it out. Rhonda told me that I was trying to dress like Jonathan, but I told her, “I dress to please myself.”

One day I ran into Leon Hawkins in the hall. We didn't
have any classes together this year, but I saw him at lunch and sometimes after school. I gave him a big hug. He spun around in the hall like an ice skater does in his routine, bounced himself off a row of lockers with a huge rattling commotion, and grinned.

“How's it goin', Leon?” I asked as he picked himself up from the floor.

“Things are cookin'!” he cheerfully replied. “I just got admitted to Morehouse—early decision! I'm charged!”

“Hey! That's awesome! I'm so proud of you! I just mailed my application to Spelman, so I guess it will be awhile before I know if I'll be joining you in Atlanta. I applied to four other colleges, too.”

“Where?” asked Leon.

“Oh, the University of Cincinnati, of course, Miami, Georgetown, and Pepperdine in California.”

“Wow, those are some good schools. Hey, you look dynamite, Keisha—different somehow,” Leon told me.

I blushed and grinned. “I guess I'm just learning to be happy again. It's a good feeling.” I was in kind of a hurry, so I rushed on down the hall.

“Take care,” he called after me.

That evening, I got a call from Joyelle. Everybody at school, of course, had heard about her Christmas Day accident. I think some of the ninth graders even admired her for driving a Lincoln Continental for several miles without hitting anything. The older kids were amazed that she had lived to tell about it.

“How you feelin', Joyelle?” I asked her as I looked in the refrigerator for a snack.

“Much better today. I'm more embarrassed than anything,” she admitted. “I was really stupid.”

“You got that right,” I told her. “You can't be doin' stuff like that to your folks. Parents can't handle too much, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. Hey, Keisha, let me ask you something. I was talking to Leon Hawkins in the hall today. And he says to me, ‘I know all the girls in this school got some kind of invisible hot line that links you all with pagers and phones and voice mail and stuff. Probably E-mail, too.'” I laughed, 'cause he had it just about right.

“Yep!” I said.

“Then he says, ‘And I know that all of you somehow know every single relationship in the building. You know who's talkin' to who, who's got no chance, and who's got possibilities.'”

“Leon said all this to you?” I asked, a little surprised.

“Let me finish, Keisha! I say to him, ‘I know where you're going—this is about Keisha, right?'”

“You're kidding!” I said.

“If I'm lyin', I'm flyin'!” Joyelle said. “Then he says to me, ‘I feel stupid having to ask a ninth grader, but I know you got the connections and information.'”

“So what did you say then?”

“I told him, ‘If you're trying to talk to Keisha, give it up. She's hooked up to something that's not even in your
league, not even in a high school league anymore. You know what I'm saying?'”

“What did he say?” This was pretty amazing.

“He just frowned and said, ‘It just ain't cool for a coach to be hitting on a student, even if he is the principal's son. Big phony—all that bowin' and grinnin'—makes me want to puke.' Then he went on to class.” Joyelle really sounded like she was glad to be able to tell me all this. I knew that as soon as she hung up, she'd be on the phone to every girl she knew—telling them the story.

“He had to know that you would tell me. It sounds like he wanted me to know.”

“You didn't know he liked you?” Joyelle asked.

“Yeah, I did, sorta. He's nice, even kinda cute, but he's just a kid—you know what I mean?” Just then my line beeped to let me know that I had another call. I clicked over, found it was Jonathan, and told Joyelle I had to go.

“Hi, Jonathan,” I said. I'm glad he couldn't see me grinning like a stupid kid.

“Hello, my butterfly,” Jonathan said, his voice as smooth as silk. “How are you keeping warm on this bright and chilly day?”

I tried not to sound childish and excited, but he didn't know how close he came to truth when he called me that; his voice made my stomach feel like it was full of butterflies. “I'm dressed in dirty sweats, sipping hot tea, and dreaming of the Bahamas!” I answered, laughing.

“Slip into some clean sweats and let me take you to the museum. There's a special display of Romantic and Impressionist art, and I want you to see it.”

“Right now? My parents aren't even home from work yet,” I told him, but I immediately ripped off my dirty sweats and opened my closet for a fresh pair of jeans.

“We'll be back in two hours—I promise,” he said in a tone that seemed to indicate he knew that I was already digging frantically for my purple sweater. “Leave your parents a note. Just tell them that you had to go to the museum for a homework assignment, which is not completely untrue. I'll be by in ten minutes.”

“I'll be ready,” I heard myself say.

“See you.” Almost before the phone had dropped back into the receiver, I rushed into the bathroom to brush my teeth, pin up my hair, and douse a slight spray of Earthen Essence cologne behind each ear.
But of course, I'm not excited,
I kept telling myself.

I left a garbled note for my parents which talked vaguely about a school project, grabbed the new leather jacket that I got for Christmas, and closed the front door just as Jonathan pulled into the drive. He grinned, jumped out to open the door on my side, and I eased into the warmth and soft leather smell of his Cherokee.

“You look wonderful,” Jonathan murmured as he leaned over to help me with my seat belt. I didn't need the help, but I let him anyway. He paused to look directly into my eyes. It seemed like he was going to just dissolve
me with those golden hazel eyes. I was the first to look away. I was finding it hard to breathe.

He moved back into place in the driver's seat, and drove smoothly and silently to the museum. He hummed along with the music on the CD and turned to smile at me at every red light. I put my hand to my face while he wasn't looking, feeling my face for zits or blackheads. I wondered if toothpaste was as effective as mouthwash, if early-morning deodorant really lasted all day, and if my hairstyle looked like some kind of junior high school kid's.

The art exhibit, as he promised, was awesome. He guided me through the pieces, telling interesting stories about the artists, pointing out colors where I hadn't noticed them and details that I had overlooked by simply blinking. I was amazed and impressed and stimulated—so many colors and sights swirling in my brain, the pale cool tones of the artwork, the touch of his hand on mine, the scent of his cologne, the soft silkiness of his shirt, the warmth of his breath on my ear as he whispered another secret about an artist. I felt melted, soft, and alive.