Jumped (7 page)

I
LIKE GYM
. I don't cut gym. I don't have a problem with gym. Just folk dancing. I'll sit out if we're folk dancing. Big cramps if we're do-si-do'ing.

Just give me ball days. Show off my ball skills. My hustle. My drive. I'm here for ball days. I'll suit up. I'll play. Yeah. Give me all ball days. I'm an all-ball girl.

Brown ball. That's my thing. That's me. Spanking the court with the brown ball, passing, shooting. Brown ball is fitted for my hands. The right fit in the curve of my hand. Only feels wrong when the ball's not sucked into the curve of my hand. Vacuum sucked. If it's up to me, we'll play brown ball all year long. All-ball girl.

But I'll play what we got. Any ball. Toss it here. I'll play it. Throw it. Hit it. Defend it. Score it. Knock it down. Just let it be a ball day. Not a health film day. Not
a folk-dancing day. As long as it's a ball day, I'll play. You know it: all-ball girl.

 

We're still on the white ball. Volleyball. Nunke and the gym leader, Crawford, demonstrate the spike at the net. Nunke throws the ball up. The ball arcs right. Crawford, in that white student leader uniform, runs and leaps like she's in ballet class. Runs, leaps like she's in a tutu. Runs, leaps, and taps the white ball with her open hand. Just a tap. A ballerina tap. And they do it again. Up, arc, then run, leap, tap.

Enough demonstrations. We get it. Let's do it.

We line up for our turn at the net. Our turn to do it. Spike it over the net. I jump to the front, but Nunke points to the back. “Come on,” I say. Nunke says, “Back of the line, Duncan,” sounding like Coach. I can't believe she won't let me slide, but she's not hearing me. She points. “Back, Duncan.” So I go back. The last girl on line.

It's all right. I'll get my shot. That's what I tell myself while I wait. I watch Nunke set it and the girls try to hit it. Nunke sets it up, right. And if a girl misses it, she doesn't go to the end of the line. That's your turn, you're done. Scram. No. Crawford throws the ball back to
Nunke and Nunke sets it again.

And I'm watching the clock. Watching the misses. Counting the girls on line. Thirty, forty girls ahead of me. A minute a girl. And all I want is a hit. Just one, just one. Let me hit one.

I'm tasting it. When my turn comes up, it won't be about run. It won't be about leap. It won't be about tap. When Nunke sets it straight up, as it falls a little to the right, I'll charge the net, haul back, and
kablam
. A hammer slam. My hand's throbbing, from the back of the line. Throbbing. I'm tasting the smack of the ball. The white, soft, hard leather. That feels good against your hand, yo. That sting is so good, your skin turns white, and then the blood comes back. It hurts, but that hard, hard slap is good. And you want that soft white ball one more time. One more hit.

Let me get one. Let me get one. One good hit. One solid slap.

The line is moving. I'm two girls away. But I take my eye off the clock for a second and the bell rings. Once that bell rings it's chickens fleeing the coop. All balls drop. All the little chick-chicks go running to the lockers, but I grab Crawford and say, “Hey. Just one. Set me up one.”

She says, “I gotta go.”

I pick up the white ball and throw it at her. Crawford's quick. She's not a gym leader for nothing. She catches it and gives in.

“Just one,” she says.

“That's all I asked for.” So I'm in position, right. A few feet from the net, strong side. I'm looking up, ready to charge, haul back, and slap that ball down. She sets, but she doesn't set it right. I can get a piece of it, but it's too low. I'd have to tap it and I'm not here to tap nothing.

“No, no. That's not it. Put it up. Straight up.”

Crawford knows she ain't going nowhere until she does it right. So she sets it, perfect frog arms spring, and it's up, straight up, ninety degrees. I'm off. I'm charging. I'm under it, and it's hanging in the sweet spot, and
pss-slap!
Hammer to the nail. A spinning rocket to the back court line. That was good contact. Good slap. Good sting. My hand is burning. I could hit another.

I
CAN'T MISS
AP S
HELTON
standing in the stream of kids, and he can't miss me, headed right at him. Our eyes lock. There's no turning away from me.

“Miss Moore,” he says.

“AP Shelton,” I say right back. “I was damaged in your school and I want to know what you intend to do about it.”

AP Shelton is the right person for this job. He is a serious man. He scrunches the lines in his forehead, taking in the gravity of my complaint. He's ready to do what assistant principals do.

“Walk with me to my office,” he says. His voice dips low, in a hush. “I want to know exactly what happened.”

We're walking but I can't contain myself. Something must be done now. The sooner he knows, the sooner he
can take action. I thrust my disfigured hand in his face. I want him to see what class participation got me. I say, “I hope this school has insurance, because this happened in your gymnasium during a volleyball exercise.”

AP Shelton slams on the brakes. We're no longer speeding to his office. He looks at my wounded hand and my severed silk-wrapped nail tip and says, “Go to class, Miss Moore.”

I can't breathe. Not even Bridgette and Bernie believe me when I say I have asthma, but I feel an attack coming on. I manage to find a breath and say, “But my hand. My hand is damaged.”

He sighs.
Sighs
. That only makes my outrage climb. In fact, my outrage is halfway to heaven.

“Go to the girls' bathroom and run cold water over it. I'll write you a pass.”

I stamp my feet. “I don't want a pass. I want action. I was damaged during gym. My hand and my property. Someone has to pay. Someone has to be responsible.”

He alternately nods yes and no and sings, “Oh, I agree, Miss Moore.”

Is that a smirk? A smirk and a song? Oh no, he didn't just smirk at me in my hour of pain and loss of property. I tell him, “My parents will be in your office bright and early, AP Shelton. They'll want to talk to you.”

Now it's out-and-out smirking. He says, “Good, Miss Moore. I'll want to talk to them.”

“I'm serious, AP Shelton.”

“Go to class, Miss Moore.”

 

I need to make a call. I can't worry about getting caught with Celina because this is a medical emergency. Instead of going to class I slip inside the Media Center. Mrs. Thomas, the media specialist, is tucked away in her little office, so I duck down into a PC cubicle, stay low, and hit 1 on speed dial for Bridgette.

“What's the matter?”

“Mommy, it's bad. It's so bad.”

“What, 'Ticia? Tell me.”

“We have to sue the school, Mommy.”

“
What?
”

Her heels are clicking, like she's walking away so she can explode in private. That's right, Bridgette. Let that outrage climb sky-high.

“For what they made me do.”

It was quiet on the other end. She's having palpitations, imagining the worst, which is how it should be.

“They made me participate in volleyball.”

“What?”

“Volleyball, Mommy,” I said. “They made me set the sun and hit the sun and the ball hit me and tore off my custom-designed nail tip. The one with the faux diamond.”

“'Ticia. Is this why you called me at my job? Do you know I'm in the middle of a presentation? Do you know I have an office full of people waiting on me and you're telling me about some volleyball and some fake nail? Girl…”

“It broke down to the skin, Mommy. The meat and everything. I can't even write. My hand is in pain.”

“Go to the nurse's office. Put some ice on it.”

“But I can't write or hold nothing in this hand.”

“You holding the phone, aren't you?”

“Mommy.”

“Deal. It's only temporary, 'Ticia.”

“Didn't you hear me? My nail didn't just chip. It broke. I can barely move my finger, it's so swollen. And the school's not doing anything about it.”

She is puffing hot air on the other end. Celina picks up all of that. “What do you want from me?”

Is that any way to talk to your only child? The only child you will ever have? Is that how you do your beloved child?

“Mommy, please come to school to pick up my nail and then go to the Golden Blossom Nail Salon and
give Girl Number Four twenty dollars to fix it. Tell her I have it wrapped in tissue so she doesn't have to create a new one.”

There is a long silence, like our connection has been dropped. Celina does the best she can but sometimes Celina drops the ball.

Finally she says, “'Ticia, honey. It can wait for Friday. Saturday.”

“Mommy, didn't you hear me? It's a deep wound. Down to the flesh. I can't do anything with this hand. It can't wait for Friday or Saturday.”

Then there is nothing. Dead nothing. In fact, the screen goes from
CALL
to wallpaper. I hit redial. I aim Celina just right so she has three bars. My little girl is trying to get that connection. Celina's ringing, ringing.
Pick up, Bridgette. It's your baby. Pick up.

I gasp. It's worse than AP Shelton slamming on the brakes outside his office. Bridgette either turned her phone off or clicked
IGNORE CALLER
.

It takes me a minute to recover. Outrage on top of outrage. I only have so much time, so I pull myself together and hit 2 on speed dial.

“Daddy…”

By the time I finish it's understood that Bernie is to skip lunch, pick up the nail at school, and then drive
down to the Golden Blossom Nail Salon and pay Girl Number Four—the one with the mole on her left earlobe—twenty dollars for Big Sweetie. That's what Girl Number Four calls me. Big Sweetie. “And leave her a tip, Daddy. A good tip so she'll take care of me.”

I know how to look out for people, and I don't appreciate a sloppy job.

“C
ARMEN, YOU SAW IT
, up on C Corridor? What did you—”

Aw, yeah! They're doing my stomp. Cup of spinach and slice of pizza has to wait. I got to get in on this.

“Watch my tray, Carmen?”

In I jump, next to Mikki on the end. Right in time to come in on

How fly does that look? Me and the Boosters stomping feet, shaking booty, doing the cheer, five right hands pointing in unison:

Oh! Here's my part. In double time:

Mikki's going off, yo. Her feet are so fast it's like she's trying to lose me, but I keep up. I don't disappoint my girl. For her “Unh/unh/unh” I've got “Unh/unh/unh/unh/unh/unh.” And I'm laughing, not huffing and puffing. Stomping tight with the Boosters. They're in their blue tees. And I'm the hot-pink dot. The standout in the exclamation point. What? The lunch crowd is wowed by the hot pink. The hot chick. All you hear is
Mikki, Renee, Connie, Pam, and Trina. Go, Trina. Go, Trina.

Jonesy, Malik, Devin, and the rest of the basketball team all want me to try out for cheerleaders. I'm like their lucky charm. They want me on the floor in the crunch. Can you see me out there, in the short-short skirt, the tight blue V-neck, and white pom-poms? Angie, the head cheerleader, gets blue and white stars painted on her cheeks for games. Don't get me started painting colors on my face. All my fabulous mixes. What?

I was gassed when they begged me. “For you, Malik, I'll try out.” But first I went to check out the squad, and thank God I saw it for myself. All I can say is no cheerleading for Trina. Angie, Nettie, and them only have two cute cheers. The rest of it is posing, doing air traffic controller signing, keeping their arms stiff and their hands fisted. They make a pyramid and who do you suppose climbs to the tip-top of nine girls? Body untouchable tight, little, and perfect, that's who. You can't throw me in the back. People would say, Where's the cute one? Don't get me wrong. Angie, Nettie, and the other girls on the squad look good. You can't have ugly cheerleaders. Your girls take the floor and the other team points and laughs at your ugly cheerleaders. Forget about cheering the game. The other squad got cheers for the ugly girls' faces alone.
Pretty cheerleaders aren't stereotypes. Pretty cheerleaders with bouncy hair and pom-poms are a necessity.

But see, I'm already pretty. I need to bounce. I need to shake it with a bang. Stomp in double time. Not pose and crash from the top of the pyramid. I'm practically in with the Boosters. And they wear those cute tight sweats with the matching hoodie. Add the stomp/stomp/stomp with the famous Trina shaky-shake and you set off a frenzy. The cafeteria is on fire.

So I'm going back to my table to have my pizza, collect my rah-rahs, listen to everyone tell me about my art in the gallery and my stomping with the Boosters. I thought Mikki, Pam, Renee, and Connie were about to sit down but they're starting up another cheer.

“Carmen, please, please. Just watch it for me.” We're getting ready to go again. They'll want me with them. Pizza's getting cold but I'll eat it hard and cold later.

Aw yeah. The whole lunchroom is stomping.

Uh-oh. The lunch cops get up and stroll to the center of the cafeteria to cool things down. I call out to Officer DaCosta, “Hey.”

She keeps a straight, tight face.

“I bet you didn't know I had so much talent.”

She remembers me from the early morning. From the smile I put on her face.

“It's lunchtime, not dance time,” Officer DaCosta says.

Officer DaCosta's got juice. The cafeteria starts to chill.

Mikki, Renee, Connie, and Pam go to their table. I know I should join them but I can't leave Carmen sitting there with my cold pizza and spinach. That wouldn't be right.