Seth and Samona (9 page)

“Good,” I said, seriously. “’cause honesty—”

Chantal grabbed me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for looking out for us, little brother.”

M
anmi grounded me for two days when she finally found out about me missing my piano lesson to go fool around at Mrs. Fabiyi’s house. Mrs. Marshall, the piano teacher, always called the parents when a student didn’t show up for a class. She said it was just in case one of us got kidnapped or murdered but I knew she was just trying to make sure she got paid anyway. I wasn’t lonely though, ’cause both Jean-Claude and Chantal were on punishment for the rest of their lives so nobody could leave the apartment. Manmi and Papi kept looking at us like they didn’t know who their children were— especially Chantal. They listened to all her feelings and they didn’t say anything about American ideas but they didn’t tell her she could stop cooking either. They’re still thinking everything she said through. I think Papi understands about Chantal’s dreams because of his dreams of being a pilot. Granmè agreed with Chantal one hundred percent and made Jean-Claude and me clean the bathroom this morning. It wasn’t so bad.

While I was sitting at home those two days, I had plenty of time to think about Samona entering that beauty contest. It would never work. The more I thought about it, the funnier it became. It got to the point that at any moment, no matter where I was, I would bust out giggling.

The girls in the contest are judged on talent, personality and aptitude—most of which aren’t Samona’s strong points. Why, people run the other way when they see Samona coming. As for talent, Samona sings like a frog and still does dances like the funky chicken—on purpose.

Aptitude is about the only thing Samona does have. She’s at the head of our class in everything. That makes our teacher, Mrs. Whitmore, mad ’cause she doesn’t like Samona. The other thing is that it isn’t obvious that Samona is smart. I mean, it doesn’t show. They weren’t going to be handing out tests at that contest, they were gonna be asking questions. As far as I could see, Samona didn’t have a chance of winning that contest. No use telling my family that, though.

“Okay, Seth, what’s so funny?” Papi said after I had started laughing while I had some red beans in my mouth at dinner the first night I was grounded.

Granmè told everyone that I had been doing this all day and felt my forehead to make sure I didn’t have a fever.

“Don’t pay him any mind,” Chantal muttered. She was in a bad mood. Manmi and Papi had said she still
couldn’t have a boyfriend. And when she went food shopping with Manmi or walked to church with the family, Manmi watched her like a hawk.

“Like sister, like brother,” Jean-Claude added, seriously.

Chantal stuck her tongue out at him. “I wouldn’t talk,
Di-di.”

Jean-Claude gave her one of his looks to kill.
Di-di
used to be his nickname when he was little, and he hated it. When he first went to high school, he made everybody promise not to call him that anymore. Everybody did except for Granmè. She laughed at him and said he must think he’s something special. Everybody who’s Haitian gets a nickname when they’re a baby. Half our relatives still call me
Bou-bou
and Chantal
Chou-chou
from when we were little. Jean-Claude just gives them a look and they smile and call him by his given name. One time Samona heard Tant Renee call me
Bou-bou
and she just about burst a lung from laughing so hard.

“Sa sifi,”
said Manmi quietly, which means “that’s enough.” “Now what is funny, Seth? God knows we need something to laugh about in this place.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Nothing, I guess. Samona says she’s gonna be in that Little Miss Dorchester contest.”

Chantal lit up like a firecracker. “She is? Well, all right. It’s about time somebody with real talent entered that contest.”

“Vraiment?”
Manmi smiled. “We will have to go see it this year.”

“Lap
gen siksè.” Granmè
nodded.

I stopped taking bites out of my corn on the cob and looked at Granmè. “Win? Granmè, Samona’s not going to win that contest.”

Papi tapped my head lightly. “You don’t know that, Seth. Samona has a good shot, just like the rest of those girls.”

Jean-Claude snorted. “Yeah, right, Papi. She has about as much chance as a monkey. Some light-skinned, long-haired little girl that conforms to the judges’ twisted concepts of beautiful will win as usual. When people say ‘Black Is Beautiful,’ they usually mean the brighter the black the more beautiful.”

While I always think it’s interesting to hear Jean-Claude’s side of it, he was missing the point. All of them were missing the point.

“Black may be beautiful, y’all, but Samona ain’t,” I said finally.

I wished I hadn’t said anything ’cause then through the rest of dinner I had to sit and listen to Manmi, Granmè and Chantal raving over Samona’s big brown eyes and skin the color of maple syrup. None of them mentioned the way she dresses or the things she says. Samona’s got this family hoodwinked. Then I thought about what had happened yesterday. I may have gotten us into some trouble yesterday but it was worth it because now there were no more secrets and not as much
fighting. Samona had helped me when I needed to find Jean-Claude. It was my turn to help her out. She needed to see that this contest was a stupid idea. Samona was just gonna embarrass herself in front of everybody.

When I got to school on Monday, I was hoping that I could find out why Samona wanted to enter the contest so I could talk her out of it. I caught sight of her standing on the other side of the classroom in a pair of red overalls, and started to go over there when Bessie Armstrong tapped me on the arm.

For a minute, I didn’t know what to say. Bessie Armstrong never spoke to anybody—especially boys. She had long, light brown hair that she always wore in two fat curls on each side of her head. She was so light-skinned she was almost white. This was on account of the fact that her father is white. She never acted up or yelled like the other kids in class did either. She sat there and “yes” and “no” as quiet as could be.

“Yeah?” I asked finally.

“Did you really go inside Mrs. Fabiyi’s house like Samona said?” Bessie whispered.

“Sure did.” I shook my head hard and long. Bessie was staring at me like I was Michael Jordan or something. For once I didn’t mind Samona’s bragging mouth.

“Was there bats in the corner of the room like Samona said? Did she really have a snake wrapped
around her shoulders? How’d you get her not to eat you?”

I should have known. Samona had made up a story rather than admit the boring truth. Luckily, Mrs. Whitmore came in and saved me the trouble of having to answer.

“You sure are brave, Seth,” Bessie whispered before going back to her seat.

I smiled and went to sit down at my desk in the back. Teachers always put me in the back ’cause I’m tall for my age but right then, I wished I was a little closer to Bessie, who was three seats ahead of me.

Mrs. Whitmore was doing roll call. I could see her sigh when she said Samona’s name. I kinda felt sorry for her. Mrs. Whitmore is the kind of teacher who doesn’t appreciate an imaginative person. Samona just about drives her crazy; Samona can get her so mad that you can see the skin hanging off Mrs. Whitmore’s fat brown arms shake and jiggle and her eyes blink like crazy behind her black owl glasses. Mrs. Whitmore loves Bessie Armstrong.

It wasn’t until the end of the day that I had a chance to talk to Samona. I found her in the yard showing a piece of paper to Bessie Armstrong. Bessie walked away looking confused, and I hurried over to Samona.

“Now, Samona, why do you want to go and bother Bessie Armstrong?” I asked.

Samona raised her eyebrows. “What’s it to you? You got something for that girl?”

I glared at her real hard. The last thing I wanted to do was give Samona the impression that I liked Bessie. I’d never hear the end of it. Besides, I don’t like
any
girls.

“Okay, okay, don’t get an attitude,” Samona sniffed. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was asking her if she wanted to practice for the contest together. I thought she could help me. Do you know she’s been in the contest for the past three years?”

I stared at the white piece of paper in Samona’s hand. There it was, her official entry form, stamped and everything. “Well, I guess you’ve gone and done it now.”

“I told you I would.”

I shook my head. “Samona, why do you want to enter that old contest anyway? There’s no way you’re gonna win.”

“I got my reasons.” Samona lowered her eyes. “Who says I’m not gonna win?”

“My brother, for one. He said there ain’t no way those judges are gonna vote for you ’cause they’re all mixed up about beauty anyway.” I hoped this would make her change her mind. Samona loves to hear Jean-Claude talk. She thinks he’s better than the church preachers. “Besides, you don’t have any of the right qualifications.”

Samona scratched her head and squinted her eyes. “Jean-Claude said I shouldn’t enter the contest?”

I looked down at the ground. “No. He just said you’re not gonna win. Same thing.”

“But what’s he think about me being in the contest?”

I sighed. “He said you got guts.”

Samona lit up. “See? I’m doing the right thing. Besides, I already told Bessie I’d be in it. This contest is going to change my life. You’ll see.”

Now that was a funny thing to say. Since when did Samona care about Bessie Armstrong, who she never even talked to before today? And what did she mean the contest was gonna change her life?

“Well, seeing as you’re going to go through with this, Manmi, Chantal and Granmè said if there was anything you wanted help with that you should come right over. Though I don’t know what they think they can do.”

Samona scowled and turned away. I walked toward the other end of the schoolyard, where my friend Skid was shooting hoops.

I played basketball with Skid as long as I could after school so I wouldn’t have to go home, in case Samona was there. It didn’t work, though, ’cause me and Skid got into a fight over who was going to get into the NBA first. Anybody could see that wasn’t going to happen for Skid, ’cause both of his parents are real short and he’s not likely to grow over five foot three.

“Na-uh.” Skid shook his head violently. “No way, Seth. I’m a be six foot two at least. I’m gonna be just like Sweet.”

I shook my head too. Sweet was Madison High School’s star forward. He was so good, he already had NBA recruiters watching his game. He lived around the corner from me. But Sweet was six foot four. “Man, you’ll be lucky if you make five foot one. You’ve been sitting in the front of the class since first grade.”

Skid’s face scrunched up something awful. His eyes narrowed and wrinkles appeared all over his golden-colored skin. He just can’t stand to be told he’s short. “Least I can shoot.”

My mouth fell open. “What?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” Skid picked up the ball and tucked it under his arm. “You can’t shoot and this is my ball and I don’t play with people who can’t shoot.”

“Skid, I was only kidding,” I said as he left. I felt sorry I had said anything at all now, not because Skid was mad—I knew he would forgive me—but because now I would have to go home.

I walked as slowly as I could, stopping at the corner to buy some gum and looking around to see if there was anyone hanging around at the community center. I saw Sweet there but he wasn’t playing any ball, he was talking to some girl. Probably putting the moves on her. Disgusting.

When I finally got home, it was worse than I thought. There were pink and green rollers all over the place. Manmi’s hot combs were sitting on the stove. I could smell grease, perfume and makeup in the air.

I found Jean-Claude hiding in the bedroom, reading the newspaper.

“Is she gone yet?” I asked, sticking my head in the door.

He shook his head disapprovingly. “They’re in Chantal’s room, making her as fake as they can.”

I was just about to join him when Granmè grabbed me by the arm and began steering me to the room she and Chantal share. “That’s okay, Granmè. I don’t need to see her.”