Jumped (6 page)

I
T'S NOT LIKE YOU'RE MISSING
an actual class when you miss homeroom. I have nothing to gain by sitting through the rest of homeroom, especially when I have more pressing matters to deal with. Mr. Adelman agrees with me. He writes out my pass to the guidance counselor's office and I'm out the door.

 

“Look, Miss Olenbach. You have to put me back in Spanish.”

She sings, “Leticia-a-a…”

I know all the words to the song. We've sung it so many times you'd think I'd be tired of her lyrics and mine.

“I told you. Spanish classes are overflowing. We have
more Spanish-speaking students this year. They need the classes. You know that.”

“N-n-no I don't.”

She sings, “Leticia-a-a…,” in two rising notes and one sinker.

I know my part and when to come in. I sing, “Miss Olenba-a-a-ach,” low, high, high, low.

“Leticia,
what
can I do to make you understand?” Olenbach turns off the melody because I'm annoying her. I'm making her do her job—the one she should have done in the first place.

“This is what you can do. Put the Spanish-speaking kids in French. Even better, give them extra English classes. That should count for their foreign language. Just let me have Spanish. It's not too late to squeeze me into Señora Roberts's third-period class. I'll catch up.”

“Oh, Leticia-a-a. Give French a chance.” And we're back to the melody.

“Have you had French, Miss Olenbach? It's hard. At the end of class my jaw and my tongue be hurting. Feels like Madame LeCoeur reached in and twisted my tongue then socked me in the jaw. I hurt after that class. Really, Miss Olenbach. I hurt.”

Miss Olenbach can't stop laughing. She thinks I'm the airhead teenage daughter in a sitcom. By closing my
folder she clicks the power off on the remote, signifying
The Leticia Comedy Hour
is over. She remembers she's the adult here, excuses herself for laughing, and fixes her face.

“Haven't you ever felt good after doing something really difficult?” She has the nerve to ask me this, wearing a cashmere cardigan she didn't buy on a guidance counselor's paycheck.

“No,” I tell her outright. “I avoid doing difficult things. Difficult doesn't do me any good. And
really
difficult?” I don't bother to finish. “Really difficult” isn't up for discussion.

“Come on, Leticia-a-a,” she sings. “When you do something really hard, you feel accomplished. You take pride in your work. Your potential. Think of how good you'll feel when you pass this class after all your hard work. Don't you want to feel good about your work?”

“I honked like a goose in class today with Madame LeCoeur's hand on my throat. Would that make you feel good?”

She pushes out her chair, stands, and opens her arms. “You need a hug?”

I say, “No. I need a class change. All you have to do is turn on the computer, pull up Leticia Corinthia Moore, sophomore. Click ‘no' on French I, click ‘yes' on
Spanish III, third period, Señora Roberts.”

She steps toward me, away from her desk, away from my file folder and the computer. I get the hint, get up, and say, “If my grade average goes down, it's your fault, Miss Olenbach.”

She says, “Your average won't go down, Leticia. Not if you work.”

“And if my schedule for next semester says zero-period French, I'm dropping out of school.”

“Your parents won't let you drop out, Leticia.” As if she knows Bridgette and Bernie Moore.

She places her hands on both my shoulders and steers me out of her office, singing, “Leticia-a-a. What am I going to do with you?”

It doesn't matter how many notes she sings, if they're high notes or sinkers. She wants me out of her office. End of song.

“H
EY
, T
INY
. Why ya cut out last night?”

“Yeah, Tiny. What's up?”

Only teammates call me Tiny. Not Shayne, not Viv, not Scotty. Reese slugs my shoulder. Bishop slaps my butt. Power center and star forward. Both seniors. Both stars. I'm good but they're trees skimming the rim. Six-one and six-two. Big, broad shoulders. One going to UConn, one going to Rutgers. Next stop, no stopping. They could go pro. I could turn on ESPN2 and be watching them battle. They're just like me. All-ball girls. See, I'm good. Real good. But without them there's no team. No wins. Without Reese and Bishop we're just girls in shorts running up and down the hardwood.

Even though I fight it, I'm smiling like a bitch in love. I tell them, “You all don't need me. You got Ellen.”

They start slapping me around. Just playing like we do. Reese says, “Ellen's all right, but Tiny, you're a guard.”

That feels good, real good, but I don't suck it all down. They're starting this Thursday and every game this season. I'm benched.

I say, “Tell Coach that. Tell Coach to put me back on the floor.”

Yeah, see. One minute I'm a guard. Big love for Tiny. The next second there's silence. No one says a word.

“Come on, Reese. Bishop. You know I feed you. I take care of you on the court. The ball in my hands means the ball's in your hands. Come on.”

Reese says, “You know Coach.”

Bishop adds, “And Coach's rules.”

You'll break before I bend the rules.
Yeah. Heard it a thousand times. Coach's thing. Her saying.

Reese gives me a nice little shoulder slug. She says, “Just fix it, Tiny. You can do it. Turn it around.”

 

I see him through the door's window. All alone in his hole. Little brown mouse. Hunched over in a curve, grading papers. Red pen up and little blue books in stacks.

I just want to talk. Just want Hershheiser to let me in. Hear me out. Understand that it's not just a science grade.
It's not about lab work. I'm not trying to go to college when I get out. I'm not trying to be a doctor. A teacher. A lawyer. Colleges don't want shorties. Five-eight guards. They want trees. Trees to grow a championship on. They want Reese and Bishop to win big, and Ellen because she's Miss Who's Who. What does Coach call Ellen? An all-arounder: scholar-service-athlete. That's who colleges want. I get it. I'm not that.

I'm just a baller. A guard. A floor general running the show. Making plays happen on the court. That's from having eyes on the court; seeing where to be; beating the ball for the steal; reading the D; getting the ball in the hot hands, the open hands; charging into the paint or taking a charge; shooting from the high post.

All I have to do is make him understand that I need my minutes. My ball time while I can still get it. I'm not dumb. This is it. This and Fourth Street is what I got. I have to fight grown men just to be picked to play. They be knocking me down just to make me sit down. Ride the bench. Know my place. So this team is all the shot I get. I'm done once I'm out. So this can't come down to five points in science. This isn't “Do better next time, Dominique.” This is “Fix it now.”

I turn the knob but it won't move. It's locked. I'm on the outside and the little brown mouse is safe. I knock on
the glass.
Rap/rap/rap
.

Little brown mouse looks up. He's way over by the window but I know those whiskers are twitching.

I use hand signs and say,
Mr. Hershheiser, let me talk to you
. I'm loud enough. He sees my hands motioning
Come here
.
Open up
. He hears me but he shakes his mouse head
No
.

“Come on, Hershheiser. I just want to talk. Make you understand.”

He won't get out of his chair. He lifts his red pen and waves
No
, or
Shoo
, or
Go away
, or
I'm scared
.

Come on. Let me in. Let me talk. I just want to talk.

N
ORMALLY
I
SIT THROUGH HOMEROOM
and draw in my little notebook or chat with the guys to give them hope, but I can't sit myself still. I'm all shaky-shaky on the inside, my feet and my chair legs quake against the floor, Shakira-hip-shake fast. I can't sit still for another fifteen minutes. Not when I know Mr. Sebastian is hanging my artwork. None of my classes are near the gallery so how would I get there to see the mural? I'll have to wait until lunch or until seventh and eighth period when I have Art. But I'm sorry. That is too long a time to wait. I just have to see my work and how Mr. Sebastian is hooking it up.

True, I admired my beauties when I had them spread out on the floor at home, but seeing them displayed in the gallery is entirely special. When you stand before all
your work hanging up like that, you appreciate the colors, the music, the mixes. That's your work, your talent out on display. It's like the world can witness your greatness and you don't have to say a word.

I don't even have to lie. My homeroom teacher knows I have the antsies and lets me go.

 

Pobrecita
. She needs a mirror. Doesn't she know how dumb she looks, waving her arms like an ape, banging against that teacher's door? Where is AP Shelton when kids are acting up?

Me, AP Shelton would catch, but boy-girl banging against the door—he'll walk the other way like she's invisible. What? Oh, who cares? Let me tiptoe down these stairs and skip over to the gallery.

 

Mwaam, mwaam, mwaam.
Is it conceited to want to kiss your own work? I can truly, truly say I know what it is to be like Picasso. People will gather around and will not be able to move from wherever they're standing. This is even better than the “Oh, shnikies.” Better and deeper. I could die right here and now, with my artwork the last thing I see, and I would die happy. Like I filled in that
blank Ms. Bauer wanted me to complete in my journal.

Now, Mami wouldn't appreciate me leaving her all alone, but I would be like a dead saint and she would keep my room like a shrine and gaze at my artwork and miss me.

Oh, look. Mr. Sebastian gave me my own nameplate.

I
DON'T SEE THE PURPOSE OF GYM
. You go down to the lockers. Three minutes. Take off your street shoes and take off your clothes. Three minutes. Remove your earrings, bracelets, chains, and rings. Two minutes. Put on your shorts and T-shirt, stretching the neck wide to protect your hair. Two minutes. Then put on your sneakers. Add it up. A lot of time already, right? Then you go to the gym, find your spot, and squat on that dirty floor a mop hasn't touched because there's only one janitor in this whole building. You watch Ms. Capito if you're in Part B, or Ms. Nunke if you're in Part A, demonstrate how to hit a ball, throw a ball, kick a ball, block a ball, catch a ball, and then for the next fifteen minutes it's your turn. You hit, throw, kick, block, or catch whatever ball it is. After, Ms. Capito blows the whistle and you run down to the
lockers, throw yourself together in six minutes, and be in the hallway fresh and ready for the next period.

My point is, you spend more time changing than getting exercise, and if you care about your hygiene a little bit, you have to push some girl out the sink so you can splash water where you sweat, towel off, and roll on Secret. We have showers but my naked piggies aren't touching those mildewy tiles while that hard, rusty water hits my delicate skin. One janitor, remember?

Gym is one inconvenience on top of another. It might be a big-girl thing but I don't like to sweat. Nothing good comes from hard work and sweat dripping off your body. For one, you stink and you don't want stink-dried stains under your arms when you sit next to Chem II James in eighth period. All because you put effort into catching, kicking, and running after a ball. Leave that to Dominique and the gym leaders. Leave that to folks who care. All I have to do to pass this class is get dressed, line up, bounce whatever ball we're bouncing once, then get back into my clothes. That will get me a 70 and enough credits to move on to the next round.

Today we're all lined up, six girls by six girls, doing arm raises. I'm hiding behind Anabel Winkler because Anabel stands out with her long arms and legs. If Ms. Capito focuses on Anabel, she's not focusing on me. My
arms are sort of up. Not over my head, but you shouldn't be able to see that. I'm chilling, not sweating.

Just when I think she's not paying me any mind, Capito snags me anyway. “Come on, Moore. This is good for you.” She strolls between the rows with her whistle and clipboard. Ms. Capito is cute with her Dutch boy haircut, those tight little muscles on her pencil legs and arms. But don't let that little lady fool you. Ms. Capito doesn't mess around. Ms. Capito demands all-out participation, which is why I hide behind Anabel.

“I'm doing it,” I say. “See?” This time I raise my arms a smidge higher, making a wide V. All the way up and all the way down makes you sweat. This is only one of the warm-up exercises. I'm pacing myself.

“All the way. Come on, Moore. You can do it.”

“How's this good for me, Ms. Capito? You know I'm sensitive to sweat.”

“You're fat. This will break up that lard.”

Ms. Capito will snap on you without smiling. Lucky for her this isn't a new conversation. No one laughs or waits for my reaction. Instead her snap sounds weak, like she's saying, “How ya doing, Leticia?” I don't stress. I know she loves me.

“Sweating is good, Moore. If you'd shake it up, you'd sweat. You sweat, you lose.”

“What makes you think I want to lose anything? I want all this here.”

Plus I have asthma. I do. I'm supposed to take my time and not exert myself. I'm supposed to take it easy.

 

Ours is one of the biggest gyms in the city. The wooden divider keeps two boys' classes on one side while we have two girls' classes going on this side—Gym Part A and Gym Part B. We're both learning volleyball, except our class is a day behind Nunke's class. I know that because they already did what we're doing today. We're learning how to pass it to each other. They're smacking it hard over the net. It's not that I care what's going on in Part A, but it dawns on me when I look over there. Dominique is in Part A with Ms. Nunke.

I don't want to stare at Dominique too hard but I can't turn away either. She wants Nunke to let her smack the ball but Ms. Nunke sends Dominique to the end of the line. It's kind of funny, but I don't want Basketball Jones catching me grinning. You know she used to carry her basketball—I'm not lying—to class, until AP Shelton made her stop.

I face front. Who knows what sets her off. I mean, what did Trina do to her, besides skip by being Trina?
And even if I saw what I thought I saw, maybe it's over. A thing of the moment. Over and forgotten. Now all she wants is her turn at the net. She's not thinking about Trina.

I don't know why Bea's getting all excited. All
You gotta tell her, Leticia
.

 

Capito says, while our gym leader demonstrates, “Raise your hands with your elbows bent, forming a triangle. Cup your hands slightly, like this. Then release!”

I look at the gym leader and do what she does. Hold my hands, fingers curved, then pop my fingers open for the release. We do that ten times in a row. Triangle, cup, pop. I'm not sweating so I don't mind the finger exercises. I admire the shooting stars on my square-tipped nails while I cup and release my fingers.

The gym leader pops and releases the ball up into the air. Capito runs under the ball, holds her hands up in the triangle, and then pops it back. The ball balloon floats between them. They stand in place, not even running for the ball. Not grunting or sweating. Just lightly popping the ball back and forth. I almost like it. It looks easy.

“Imagine the sun setting,” Capito says, “and it's hot. You don't want to get burned so you release it quickly
with your fingertips.” Then she pairs us with partners so we can pass the white floaty sun back and forth.

I say to Anabel, “Look. I'm not running to get under the ball, so set it right.”

Tall Anabel says, “I'm just gonna throw. Whatever happens, happens.”

I make the triangle and wait.

Anabel doesn't even try to set the sun like Capito showed us. Instead she throws the ball over my head and I look at her, then I look at the ball sail by.

“I'm not chasing after no ball.”

Anabel stands there tapping her large sneaker. She's not chasing after it either.

Another girl kicks the ball to me and I kick the ball back to Anabel. This time when Anabel tosses it up, it falls just right. I don't even have to move. Just cup my fingers into the triangle and tell myself,
Here comes the sun. Don't get burnt
. And I pop my fingers to release the ball, like Capito showed us. Then—

Pop!

My nail! My silk-wrapped, hand-painted, custom-designed, three-quarter-inch, square-cut nail tip with the sparkling faux diamond flies off my finger and shoots across the gym. I am knocking down girls in white Ts and blue shorts to rescue my custom-designed nail. As I rush
to my nail, all of those months of manicure appointments, fillings, and retouches flash before me. I dive and scoop up my nail tip, saving it from being crushed by some girl thoughtlessly running to get under a volleyball.

I am so busy blowing gym dirt off my custom-designed nail and assessing the damage that I am just now feeling the pain inflicted by that volleyball. And then I see my hand. My damaged hand. Four perfectly painted silk-wrapped nails and one fat and useless finger standing out, dead center.

I march up to Capito and shove my custom-designed, hand-painted nail tip at her.

“Who's gonna pay for this?”

She says, “Pay for what?”

“My silk-wrapped tip, Ms. Capito. Who gonna pay?”

She laughs at me like we was doing our daily joke, but joke time is over. I am serious.

“Someone's got to pay,” I tell her. “Someone's got to take responsibility. This cost money. This happened here and you're the adult in charge. What are you going to do about this, Ms. Capito?”

Ms. Capito holds my hand to get a good look, then says, “I'll write you a pass to get it cleaned up.”

I snatch my hand back. “I don't care about a pass. I want action. I've been damaged.”