November Blues (3 page)

“HOW'S IT GOING, JERICHO?” JERICHO
looked up from digging for a book in his locker. It was Mr. Tambori, his music teacher.

“I'm hangin',” Jericho mumbled, turning back around. He dug in his locker again, pulled out his history book, and avoided the music teacher's eyes.

“It's been a couple of months since you've come for your trumpet lesson. Are you ready to start up again? I still have every Wednesday at three o'clock free just for you if you'd like to try loosening up the keys a little.”

“I don't even know where my trumpet is, man.”

“The trumpet you named ‘Zora' and carried around with you twenty-four/seven? I have a feeling you know exactly where it is.”

Jericho sighed. “I tossed it under my bed a couple of weeks after Josh's funeral. I guess it's still there. When I look at it, all I can think about is Josh and how he's never
gonna hear music again. And I just can't put it to my lips. I'm too big to be cryin'.”

Mr. Tambori put his hand gently on Jericho's shoulder. “I understand, son. I really do.”

Jericho twisted away from the teacher's touch. “No, you don't. Don't nobody know how I feel!”

“You can't blame yourself, Jericho,” Mr. Tambori said, kindness and patience in his voice. But Jericho didn't want kindness.

“Then who, Mr. T?” demanded Jericho. “I told him to jump. I cheered him on, then stood there like a fool and watched him die. I will
never
forgive myself.”

“Music will help you work this out, Jericho. Let your trumpet speak for you. Give Zora a chance.”

“I know what you tryin' to say, Mr. T, and I appreciate it. For real I do,” Jericho said. “But right now every day I feel like I got rocks in my gut. I need more than music. I need Josh back.”

Mr. Tambori nodded. “The music will be there when you're ready, Jericho. I know jazz is your specialty, but you know your place in the marching band next year is always there for you.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Maybe the necessary precision and strict rules will add a bit of order to your life. We need your talent, Jericho.”

“I'll think about it, Mr. T,” Jericho said as he hoisted his book bag on his back. “But the football coach has been talking to me about coming out for the team. Maybe I need a change. All I'd have to do is sweat and run and tackle.”

“Football?” Mr. Tambori asked, sounding shocked. “Have you ever played before?”

“I played all through middle school—defensive end. Actually, I was pretty good, but I got lazy. Coach has been after me since I got here in ninth grade, but I always blew him off. But I'm six-three and I weigh two-sixty, man. All the dudes on the team tell me they could use me on the line.”

“Make sure you're making your decisions for the right reasons, Jericho,” the teacher warned.

“Ain't nothin' right these days, man. Nothin' at all,” Jericho said sadly as he walked away.

JERICHO PUSHED THROUGH THE CROWDED
hallway, head down, a scowl on his face. He went to school because it was required, because it kept him busy, because it was a break from sitting at home every day feeling sorry for himself. But he rarely smiled, said as little as possible to teachers and friends, and kept his grief bottled up inside him. Some days he felt like he would implode.

Then, as he stormed down the corridor, he heard a familiar lilting laugh, and, in spite of himself, his heart did a flip-flop and he looked up hopefully. Arielle Gresham, dressed in bright green leggings and a matching top that flowed as she walked, was heading in his direction. She held hands with Logan Holbrook, giggling as he whispered something in her ear.

Logan was not only captain of the basketball team, but also had his own singing group, which, rumor had it, might
be offered a recording contract. He had an after-school job during the off season, and he always seemed to have a pocket full of money. When the Warriors of Distinction had had their toy drive last year, Logan had donated a hundred dollars to the club to buy gifts for the poor. He walked with a confident athleticism that Jericho could only envy.

Arielle, who'd been Jericho's girlfriend until the horrible events of two months ago, looked directly at him but acted as if he were one of the dull brown lockers that lined the wall. She then purposely gazed up at Logan and whispered something while pointing at Jericho, and they both exploded with gales of laughter. Jericho could still hear them laughing as they disappeared down the hall.

With his mood even blacker than before, he pulled his hoodie over his head and trudged down the hall to his class. He didn't notice the girl coming the opposite way until he had collided with her. Her books flew out of her arms. “Watch where you goin'!” he yelled at her, trying to regain his balance.

“You're the one who's walking like an armed bulldozer!” she replied. “I was trying to get out of your way. What war are you fighting?” She rubbed her shoulder.

Jericho looked at her sharply. “Oh, hey, Olivia. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt nobody. I just got a lotta stuff on my mind.” He helped her pick up her books.

“Like Arielle and Logan?”

Jericho gave her a look. “You don't miss much, do you?”

“I saw them a few minutes ago, headed this way, stuck together like waffles and syrup. She dis you?”

“Every chance she gets,” Jericho admitted, allowing himself a rueful smile.

“Give it up, my man. Girls like Arielle are like champagne bubbles—light, sparkly, and full of nothing!” She smiled at her own joke. “And dudes like Logan…” She paused and frowned. “Nothin' but caramel-covered vomit.”

“Hey, remind me never to get on your bad side. But you're right. How you know so much, Olivia?”

“I just see stuff. When we have our class reunion in ten years, I'll be the one who'll be able to remember everybody's secrets from high school.”

“If they realize that, you might not be invited,” Jericho said.

“Hah! They probably won't invite me anyway! I'll be the one they forget about, the one whose address gets lost, the one nobody cares didn't show up.”

“Talk about dissin' somebody—why you always comin' down on yourself?”

“It's easier if I do it first,” she replied quietly.

“You gonna do marching band again next year?” Jericho asked, to change the subject.

“Probably. Tambori is cool, and I love my sousaphone. Walking around with that big old thing strapped on makes me feel powerful!”

“And tired?”

Olivia laughed. “Wimps like you play the trumpet. You gotta be tough to handle a tuba or a sousaphone! What about you? You know Tambori be drooling over somebody who's actually got skills with an instrument. Most kids
show up in the band with just a horn, a big grin, and no idea how hot those uniforms can get when you're marching.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jericho replied. He suddenly felt he couldn't meet her eyes. “But I may go out for football this year instead,” he finally admitted.

“Talk about wimping out! You want to join the crew of the giant sloths?”

“Hey, don't be talkin' 'bout my boys, now,” Jericho told her with a laugh. “They eat rocks for breakfast and rip their pillows to shreds before they go to bed at night.”

“Sounds like a bunch of Neanderthals to me! You sure you want to be a part of that?”

“I need a change. I need to hurt something, hit something—you feel me?”

“Yeah, actually, I do. Hang in there, Jericho. I better get to class.” She started down the hall.

“Hey, Olivia!” Jericho called.

“Yeah?” she replied, turning.

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Knocking some sense into me. I needed that.”

“If I remember correctly, you were the one who knocked
me
down,” she replied, grinning.

“Maybe I should do that more often!”

“Don't even think about it!” Olivia disappeared into the thinning throng of students.

“HI, SWEETIE, I'M GLAD YOU'RE HOME
already. Did you have a good day at school today?” November's mother, an eighth-grade art teacher, breezed into the living room carrying the day's mail. Her hair, which she wore softly blow-dried, fluffy, and long, seemed to float along with her orange-and-red-hued African caftan in one fluid movement. She tossed the stack of envelopes on the telephone table and reached over to turn on her satellite radio. Soft blues music filled the room.

November sat curled on the sofa, sipping on a diet cola. She held the TV remote in her other hand, mindlessly flipping through the stations. She barely looked at her mother. “Yeah,” she mumbled.

“Don't you do tutoring at the YMCA on Friday afternoons?” asked her mother.

“I didn't feel like going.”

“That's not like you. What's that kid's name—Neelie—
who you're so fond of? You spend so much time down there that little girl must think you're her other mama!” Mrs. Nelson teased. “Won't she miss you this week?”

“I guess,” November said as she stared at a woman selling pearls on the home shopping channel.

“What's wrong, November? Are you coming down with something?” Her mother looked concerned.

“I'm fine. Just a little tired. I think I'll go take a nap.” November clicked off the television.

“You know, I just read in the paper that there's a big sale at Macy's. Why don't you and I go shopping tomorrow? We could take a look at a pair of those new slim jeans you've been wanting.”

November looked at her mother as if she had suggested a brain transplant, and, even though she hadn't really meant to, she exploded. “You are so shallow, Mom! Why is it whenever something isn't quite right you have to fix it with something trifling like shopping? Maybe I don't want any skinny jeans!”

“What on earth has come over you?” her mother replied, looking both hurt and angry—a combination look that only mothers know how to do, November thought glumly. “I'll not have you talking to me like that. If you don't want to go, just say so.”

November looked down at the pale blue carpet. “I'm sorry,” she mumbled, her anger disappearing like an extinguished flame. “I just don't feel good today.”

“It's always fun shopping with you, November,” her mother said. “You know it's not what we buy, but the walking through the mall together, talking about some of the
outrageous outfits people show up in, eating cheesecake in the food court. Maybe we need a day like that real soon.”

“Yeah, you're right.” November brightened a little. “I'll never forget how you used to surprise me by coming and getting me out of middle school at lunchtime to take in a movie matinee and a shopping trip.”

“Highly improper and loads of fun!” Her mother laughed. “I'd tell my school secretary, and then the secretary at your school, that you had a doctor's appointment—and we'd blow the day on each other!”

“I hope I can be as good a mom as you are,” November said quietly. “I don't think I could have survived what you did, Mom—all the bad stuff—I'm not strong like you.”

Her mother reached over and gave her daughter a hug. “Years from now, when you finish college and get married and are ready to think about starting a family, you will be an outstanding mother. I'm sure of it.”

November twisted out of her mother's embrace. “Maybe not.”

Mrs. Nelson touched her daughter's forehead. “You do feel a little clammy. Are you sure you aren't getting sick?”

“I might be. Those kids at the YMCA are always wiping their runny noses around me. Maybe I picked up a bug or something.” November stood up. “I'm going to bed early, okay?”

“I think that's a good idea.” Mrs. Nelson picked up the mail then and sifted through it carelessly, tossing sales catalogs directly into the trash. She stopped abruptly and inhaled as she read the return address on the business-
size white envelope. “November! The letter from Cornell is here!” she said, her voice sounding a little shaky.

November, instead of jumping up with excitement as she knew her mother expected, simply shrugged. “It's no big deal—it's just the information about the Cornell program.”

“Of course it is!” her mother insisted, holding the letter as if she was dancing with it to the beat of the music on the radio. “You've been so excited about this! Open it! Open it!”

November took the letter and looked at it without smiling, without comment. She ripped the edge of the envelope, tapped it on the coffee table, and the single sheet of folded paper inside fell out. Her mother, still dancing with excitement, hovered closely. November picked up the letter, unfolded it, and read it out loud in an expressionless voice. “We are pleased to announce,” she began, “that you have been accepted in the Cornell University Summer College. Welcome to what could be the most personally rewarding, academically enriching, and socially exciting summer of your life.” November stopped, then let the letter fall to the floor.

Her mother whooped with joy. She picked up the letter, and did another little dance in the middle of the living room, her face aglow with pride. “I knew you'd get this, baby girl. This is going to get you into an Ivy League school! I'm so proud of you I could just pop! Wait till I call all my friends! Now for sure we're going shopping. This is the best news in the world!”

November, still oddly quiet, nodded her head in agreement. “Yeah, it is.” She paused, then added, “There's
nothing in the letter about a scholarship, Mom. How are we gonna pay for it? This program is almost five thousand dollars for just three weeks. Maybe I better not go.”

“I'll get a summer job! We'll apply for a loan! We'll figure it out and make it happen, baby girl!” her mother said happily. “You're on your way.” She waltzed over to November and pulled her up to join her silly dance, but November pulled away.

“What's wrong, November?” Her mother asked. “Did you change your mind about Cornell? You can still go to Howard or Hampton, you know. You can do anything you want—that's what's so cool about being the smartest kid in high school.”

“I know, Mom. It's really good news.” November forced her face to smile. “I know it doesn't seem like it, but I really am excited. Honest. I just don't feel good today.”

“You run upstairs and get a nap, sweetie, and I'll go down to the drugstore and make a million copies of this letter! I'm sending one to everybody we know.”

“It's just Cornell, Mom, not the Pearly Gates. Get a grip.” Her mother's cheerfulness was starting to get on November's nerves.

“Well, who put salt in your cornflakes today?” her mother replied, an edge to her voice.

“Nobody. I'm sorry, Mom. It really is cool.” As she headed up the stairs to her room, November turned and asked her mother, “Why do you think so many bad things have happened to us, Mom? Gus is all messed up. Daddy's gone. My boyfriend dies on me. Why us, Mom?”

“You just got accepted to an elite Ivy League college
summer program, November! Your future is full of wonderful possibilities. Focus on the good stuff instead of the bad,” her mother suggested as she adjusted the volume on the radio. “Maybe that's why I play the blues every day. All that bad stuff is in the past, and I put all that pain in a box on a very high shelf. Maybe the blues can help you, too.”

“Doubt it,” November mumbled.

“All I know to do is focus on you and what a great kid you are. I'm really proud of you, baby girl,” her mother told her. “You are my heart and my joy, November. You make me happy to get up each morning.”

“Shut up with all that crap, Mom! Just quit!” cried November, unable to bear it. “You sound like one of those drugstore greeting cards!” She ran to her room and slammed the door, leaving her mother stunned and silent.