Pieces of Why (5 page)

W
HEN
I
GOT
back to Keisha's place, I napped fitfully, curled up on the couch with the sound of the outdoors drifting in through the open window. I imagined I was Danielle Morton—still alive—and tried to see my life through her eyes. I listened to the cars and trucks passing on the street and the clang of people's steps on the fire escape. I heard old Nana Whiskers calling for her cat, and Tyrone Rathbone yelling at Werner Mayfield, who always parked in front of the fire hydrant. I smelled the garbage truck as the men loaded the rubbish, and I could almost taste the odor on my tongue. I shut my eyes tight and let every detail of the day wash over me, painful and brilliant all at once.

At five o'clock, Ms. Evette came in and sat down beside me. She put one cool hand on my forehead. “Do you think you're up to singing at June Fest? Maybe you should stay here instead. I'd be happy to keep you company.”

Keisha was sitting at the opposite end of the couch, and
I knew what she was thinking. That afternoon, Khalil from choir had texted her, wanting to meet up after our performance. Keisha had never made plans with a boy before, not like this, and best friends didn't miss that kind of thing. What if something went wrong and she needed me? And if things went right, who would she tell?

I forced a smile. “I'm just tired,” I lied. “I didn't sleep well last night. I'll take a shower and get ready to go.”

Ms. Evette hesitated, but I got up and headed to the bathroom without waiting for her answer.

Keisha caught my arm as I went by. “I'm glad you're coming tonight,” she said. “I know you're upset about your dad, but I'd bet you anything we're the only ones who know. Nothing's changed. You'll see.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I'm sure you're right.”

But as much as I wanted the truth about my father to disappear like water circling down the drain, I already understood that wouldn't happen.

Like it or not, li
fe goes on, Tia Rose
.

That's what Ma always said. But even that was a lie.

For some people . . . it didn't.

By the time we left for June Fest, the stifling heat had died down a bit and there wasn't a cloud in sight. Jerome was laughing his bubbly baby laugh, and Keisha was playing
peek-a-boo with him behind her mother's back. Her dad, Dwayne, whistled as we walked.

Ms. Evette and Dwayne had met in high school, and the way Dwayne told it, he'd been the biggest geek in the whole of New Orleans, with thick glasses and buckteeth. Dwayne said he'd had a crush on Ms. Evette even in high school, but he couldn't get up the courage to ask her out until he'd grown into his teeth. Now he had huge muscles and a shaved head, and no one would ever think he'd been a scrawny kid with acne.

Watching the two of them walking hand in hand made me think things might not be so bad, but as soon as we arrived at the festival, I felt the tension in the air.

June Fest was an annual community gathering held outdoors, in the courtyard beside the old Catholic church. The Catholics didn't organize the event, but they lent out their courtyard since it was a nice, safe place. The area was large, and there was an ivy-covered wall surrounding the yard, so you could relax instead of always looking over your shoulder.

Every year there was a different theme. Last year was a carnival theme, and this year's theme was supposed to be literacy, but it had obviously been changed at the last minute. The courtyard walls were decorated with baby-blue ribbons, and a huge banner proclaimed,
SUPPORT
VICTIMS OF VIOLENCE
. Giant posters were emblazoned with the
same photo of the baby that had been in the newspaper, and someone had set up a wall with hundreds of photographs on it, all of them victims of violent crime. My heart thrummed with nervous tension. Somewhere on that wall I'd find Danielle's picture.

I stopped, sucking in a deep breath, and glanced at Keisha, but she was studying the crowd, probably looking for Khalil. I wished I'd stayed behind like Ms. Evette had said, but it was too late to change my mind now.

Dwayne carried a long card table for Ms. Evette's jewelry, and me and Keisha carried the boxes with her mother's hand-carved creations. Ms. Evette found a spot in the front and put out her sign—
EVETTE'S T
REASURES
—and then she set about arranging each necklace and earring real artistically. The whole time Dwayne stood behind her, laughing and moving stuff out of place so she'd swat at him. Dwayne will do just about anything to make someone laugh.

On one side of Ms. Evette, Lyle Pots was selling stationery and on the other side, old Mrs. White had embroidered pillows for sale. They both greeted Ms. Evette, Dwayne, and even Keisha, but when it came to me, their eyes slipped away.

“C'mon,” Keisha said, oblivious. “Let's check things out.”

I followed, trying not to imagine people staring.

Keisha and I moved past the risers where we'd perform and the podium where community leaders would make their speeches. The New Heaven Baptist Church had a bake sale
booth, and the YMCA's literacy program was painting faces for the little kids. There were animal balloons and hair braiding, and someone had rented an old-fashioned popcorn machine. It should have been fun, but it wasn't.

“That's the kid whose father shot th
at poor girl.”

“I'm
surprised she showed
up tonight.”

The hair on my neck stood on end. All around me I caught slips of conversation I wasn't meant to overhear, and I could tell Keisha heard them too. She pulled me along the way she usually dragged Jerome, so fast he had to toddle on his tiptoes.

We made our way over to a booth near the back of the courtyard, where a woman I didn't recognize was setting out handmade soaps. I grabbed one and held it to my nose, inhaling its floral scent. Felt good to smell something nice, and my shoulders relaxed a bit. I wondered if this was what aromatherapy meant. Me and Keisha had read about that once in a magazine. The headline had said
10 Ways to Pamper
Yourself
but all the ideas had cost money, like getting your nails done or going to the movies.

“Try this one,” Keisha said, handing me a white soap labeled
PE
PPERMINT
. I could tell she was trying to distract me, and I wanted it to work. We sniffed lavender, sea mist, green tea, patchouli, coconut, lemon-lime, and vanilla. Finally, I picked up a cucumber-scented soap, feeling the smooth weight of it against my palm, but the woman in charge of the booth snatched it away.

“That's enough,” she snapped.

Keisha and I both looked up, our jaws falling open.

“Go on,” the woman said. “If you're not buying, move along.”

She was staring straight at me. I turned and walked away, willing myself not to cry. For a moment, Keisha just stood there, and I thought she was going to argue, but then she followed me instead.

“What a nasty woman,” she said when she'd caught up to me.

“We should find Ms. Marion,” I muttered.

We walked slower this time, neither of us saying a word. The barbecue grills were heating up, sending waves of stomach-rumbling smoke in our direction. Old Mr. Hill was stirring a big pot of jambalaya, and the Neighborhood Association was making po' boys. I'd hardly eaten breakfast or lunch, so my stomach was clamoring, but I couldn't imagine eating anything now. Keisha followed my gaze, wistfully.

“Better wait until after we sing,” she said.

I barely nodded.

We reached the end of the courtyard, where the instruments were set up for the performers. There would be a steady rotation of music all night long. African drummers, a rock band, the Old Guy's quartet . . . but we were singing first.

“You'll set the tone,” Ms. Marion told us every year.

As soon as we reached her, I could tell she was upset. She was pinching the bridge of her nose again.

“Girls. Good. You're here.” Her words were short and snappy.

Some of the other choir members were milling around, and Keisha waved at Khalil, wiggling her fingers down low, near her hip, like it was a secret just between the two of them. I scanned the crowd for Kenny, but there was no sign of him.

I told myself that was no big deal, but I couldn't help wishing he might appear at my side and take my hand again. I wondered what it would feel like if Kenny never came back to choir. Would his mother pull him out because of the shooting? How could I miss someone I'd hardly talked to before?

“Is it nearly time?” I asked Ms. Marion. I didn't have a watch, and I was hoping it was still early, since only about half the choir had shown up.

“It's six fifteen,” Ms. Marion said as her whole body drooped onto a metal folding chair. “How am I s'posed to keep this up?” she asked, shaking her head. “I imagine you children leading by example, making beautiful music together, but how can I keep this going when the devil steals half my choir?
Half.
”

For a moment I thought Ms. Marion might cry, and that thought scared me deep in my bones. If Ms. Marion cried, I knew it would be a flood of tears, like after Hurricane Katrina,
when my whole neighborhood had been forced to evacuate. I was too young to remember, but you could still see the water marks on some of the buildings.

Ms. Marion stood up.

“Well,” she said, “I guess God never said He was going to make things easy, now did He? But we're going to do what we always do, which is to band together and sing our hearts out. Can you do that for me, Tia?”

I nodded. More than anything, I wanted to make things better for Ms. Marion.

“Choir! Assemble!” Ms. Marion called, holding up her arms. Her voice boomed into the evening air, and one by one, kids emerged. I stepped onto the lowest riser and started a weak hum to warm up my vocal cords.

Mary-Kate brushed past me. “I can't believe you showed up,” she hissed, tossing her long brown curls over her shoulder. “That's nervy. Considering.”

She stepped away before I had a chance to respond, taking her place on the top riser, and I could feel her eyes burning into me. I wondered how she'd found out. Had her mother told her last night, the way Ms. Evette had told Keisha? Or had she known all along? Was that the real reason she'd always hated me?

My knees were weak. Straight ahead of me, Ms. Marion was addressing the crowd, talking about loss and what it means to be a community.

“When bad things happen,” she said, “we must pull together and focus on the goodness all around us, like these beautiful children who will bless us tonight with the power of their music.”

The audience clapped, but I felt the
how-could-she-show
-up
underneath their applause.

“And now,” Ms. Marion said, “the Rainbow Choir will perform in honor of the child that was taken too soon from this world. Our first selection, ‘I Know,' features our lead soloist, the talented Tia Rose Frank.” She turned and motioned for me to step forward.

Everyone waited, but I couldn't move. In the evening sunlight, I could see all the eyes staring at me, and I imagined each person wishing I hadn't come, wondering what right I, of all people, had to sing in honor of a murdered baby.

“Tia,” Ms. Marion said, her brows crinkling. “Whenever you're ready.”

The audience shuffled nervously, and I saw people whispering to one another. A man scowled and then spat on the ground, and several teenagers laughed. My heart was pounding, my palms were sweating, and the silence stretched on, taut as a rubber band about to snap.

But no matter how hard I tried to move, I remained frozen in place.

Finally, I shook my head.

That's when I heard a voice above me. “I can sing the
lead, Ms. Marion.” It was Mary-Kate. I glanced up at her fake angelic smile and knew she was stealing my part.

But I didn't care.

She could have all of my beautiful colored scarves. I didn't deserve them.

Ms. Marion looked at me, concerned, but finally she gestured for Mary-Kate to move down front.

“Ms. Mary-Kate Torelo,” Ms. Marion said to the crowd, sweeping her hand in a dramatic arc. The band started up, and when Mary-Kate began to sing, I tasted the salty tears sneaking past my lips.

Without any warning, I was four years old again, visiting my father in prison, strung tight with fear and grief. I remembered his unruly hair, so like mine, his high forehead, hollow cheeks, and dark stubble. Tattoos peeked out from the collar of his orange jumpsuit, and his upper lip rose into a sneer when he saw that Ma had brought me.

“Don't be bringing her here.”

I'd hid behind Ma, but he'd glared straight at me.

“Look kid,” he'd said, “it ain't your fault you've got a trucker for a dad. Last thing you need is to go through
this
crap.” He'd gestured around the big room where all the inmates were visiting their families, but I'd known he meant the other part—the scary part where we'd had to get searched by a security guard and go through two sets of doors that locked with a loud clang behind us.