Show and Prove (25 page)

F
ifteen minutes before we're supposed to leave for the John Jay Pool, kids race to the gym like wildfire. I grab Stevie before he can rush past me. “Who's fighting now?”

“Nike and Cookie gonna battle!” He breaks free and dives back into the current pulsing toward the gym.

I get there just as Nike hits a button on his boom box. Planet Patrol's “Play at Your Own Risk” starts. “You think you're bad?” he asks Cookie. “Show and prove.”

A massive crowd gathers around them, and I work my way to the front. Cookie has her mouth in a mug, but the wrinkles in her forehead give away her fear. “I need some pants,” she says, motioning to her cutoffs. “I can't dance in these.”

The guys in the crowd let out a sarcastic moan like a choir of ghosts. Nike smirks and says, “She pops all that shit, calls me out, and now she's tryin' to back down…. ”

Cookie challenged him? “Ain't nobody said nothing about backing down. You wish!” she says, and now it's the gals' turn to egg her on. Cookie says, “Smiles, lend me your sweats.”

“What?”

“Lend me your freakin' sweats! What's the big deal? I know you have your bathing suit on under there.” I rip off my pants, ball them up, and throw them in her face. As Cookie steps into them, the guys start to chant.
Go, Nike! Go, Nike!
She turns to the girl next to her and asks to borrow her baseball cap.

King Nike waves at his subjects. “Hold up!
When
I win, what do I get? And don't be offering me no you know 'cause I ain't into nobody's leftovers.” The guys laugh and someone in the back even shouts,
Crab!
Nike says, “When I beat you, you quit camp. You gotta tell Barb you're through, break out right now, and just never come back.”

Damn, this is more serious than I thought. As much as Cookie irritates me, I can't imagine camp without her. She obviously doesn't like the stakes, but she started this. “And when I win, you, Smiles, and the rest of you doofuses better stop dissing me. What I say goes, and I don't want to hear squat but
Yes, ma'am!
” The guys boo while the gals cheer.

“Bet!” yells Nike, clapping hard. “Even though you called me out, and I'm about to rock your world, I'm still a gentleman.” Nike sweeps a hand across the cardboard on the gym floor. “Ladies first.”

Cookie hesitates. Then she says, “Fine. It's over for you.” She motions for me to turn up the radio.

Play at your own risk, girl

Play at your own risk, I'm tellin' you

Play at your own risk, girl

Play at your own risk, I will be cruel

The beat pushes Cookie around the circle.

“How much y'all wanna bet this crab don't even have two rounds in her?” Nike yells to the crowd. “I'ma send her home crying.”

Cookie toprocks with an Indian step, doubling up on her back step to make room for herself. Then she blows Nike a kiss before taking to the ground as the guys ooh and the girls laugh. Now on the floor, Cookie does a few rotations of the baby love. No big thing. They call it the baby love because toddlers do it. She works her way back up and turtle shuffles, and some of the guys in the crowd pretend to yawn. Nike's gonna demolish her.

The girls break out into a defiant chant.
Go, Cookie, go, Cookie, go! Go, Cookie, go, Cookie, go!
Cookie lowers her head and twists her body first into a bridge and then into a baby freeze. Then she flows onto her neck and into a shoulder freeze.

“So freakin' basic,” Nike scoffs in my ear.

“Word,” I say. But this is only her first set, and I suspect that Cook's got more up her sleeve. I shake off that thought and yell, “I seen Snoopy do that.” The crowd laughs, even some of the girls.

Still in her freeze, Cookie bends her legs into a corkscrew. She pushes herself back up to her feet. When she pretends to flick dirt off her shoulder onto Nike, the guys boo her.

Nike dives right in with his classic Latin step toprock, and everyone—guys and gals—cheers. Then he switches to an uprock and does something even I've never seen him do before. Nike makes like he's swinging a bat to Cookie's head and then shields his eyes with his hand as if watching it soar toward Saint Mary's Park. I lead the crowd in a loud
Dis!

Nike then takes to the floor, rocks some turtles, swipes into a forward roll, and slides backward until he's almost on top of Cookie's feet. Then he busts out into an inverted hollow back off the floor with his legs twisted to the side, making Cookie's corkscrew look amateurish.

He got you, crab,
the boys yell.
Nike got you but good, yo!

If Cookie's the least bit fazed, she doesn't show it, immediately breaking into a knee slide into the circle. She does a few knee rocks and then switches to back rocks. Then Cookie turns on her head and poses in an elbow freeze with her legs in a figure four. The girls cheer,
That's right, homegirl! School these suckers.
Cookie kicks her legs and raises her body into her own inverted hollow back with her legs opened like a V. Then she shifts her body onto one arm and holds her toe in another figure-four pose. Even the guys yell,
Oh, shit!
while Cookie stands there, nodding at Nike as if to say,
What?

“If that's all you got,” Nike shouts over the music, “this is over for you right now.” He motions to Cookie to clear out his way. After a fast toprock, he does a reverse sweep transition to the floor. There he switches to a one-legged swipe, then flows his legs into a windmill. Nike follows that with a baby freeze into an airchair, one of the cleanest I've ever seen him do.

“It's over,” I say, more to myself than anyone. “She's done.”

“Word,” says a guy behind me. “Cookie can't pull off nothing like that. Girls ain't got that kind of strength in they arms.”

For a second there I actually thought Cookie would surprise me. Why did I ever give her that much credit? I never should've doubted my homeboy Nike.

The crowd presses toward Nike as if he were a magnet. “Y'all need to back up!” yells Cookie. “Make room for us to dance.”

“Stop beggin'!” I shout. “You don't need that much space to bust out whatever girly moves you got.”

Shut up, Smiles!
some girls yell, and some of the boys yell at
them
to shut up. Nike laughs at the commotion, and nobody moves back like Cookie insisted. She whips off the baseball cap and throws it on the floor, but that only makes the fellas tease her.
Oh, she mad now!
Even Planet Patrol taunts Cookie, daring her to continue.

Girl, you betta watch your step

Playing at your own risk

Cookie uprocks for a few seconds but then cuts herself off as if she changed her mind. As she calculates her next move, I think,
Yeah, she's done. She doesn't know what to do. She's got nothing left.
Suddenly Cookie breaks into an exaggerated toprock like she's fixing to stomp on people's feet if they don't give her room. When the crowd inches back, Cookie cartwheels, landing on only one foot while keeping her right hand on the floor. She presses on that hand into a Valdes, walking over and easing herself down onto her upper back. Placing her hands on the floor by her ears, Cookie pumps up her legs, aiming for another portion of the small circle. After pulling up her body into a handstand, she bends her left arm to ease herself back onto the floor.
Go, Cookie, go, Cookie, go!
the girls start to chant again, as if encouraging her to take on Planet Patrol's dare.

P-L-A-Y if you play with me

It's at your risk, girl, I'll set you free

Cookie whips her legs into a windmill. She follows with another and then another, each bigger than the last. Kids gasp and step back to avoid getting kicked. Then Cookie transitions to her stomach and, after easing into a freeze, grabs her back leg
while the other leg lands on her elbow.
The crowd bursts.
Ooh!
Guys and gals alike jump and yell as Cookie stands and exhales. Girls run to hug her, and even a few guys muster up some halfhearted pats on her back.

No way my homeboy's going to let Cookie steal his thunder. But when I look over at Nike, he's bent over with his hands on his knees, shaking his head. The shrill of Big Lou's whistle cuts through the air and reverberates off the gym walls. “Line up!” he yells, and the kids rush off to their groups, buzzing over Cookie's final moves.

I walk over to Nike and say, “She's lucky it's time to go.”

“Word.” Nike snaps off the radio and wipes the sweat from his face with the tail of his T-shirt. He takes his time, and that tells me we both know better. Cookie can break. And not for a girl. Cookie can break, period.

She beat Nike fair and square.

Cookie appears between us. “C'mon, fellas, we got to motivate.” Her voice is smooth and friendly, even though she is still catching her breath. She hands me my sweats.

“Your handstand's not bad,” says Nike. “If you want, I can teach you how to do it perfect.”

Her half grin shows that she knows the truth, too. “Look, I never wanted any static with you guys.” Her voice is still gentle. “All I want is for y'all to show me respect. No more popping shit, calling me a crab, or otherwise dissing me. Not here, not on the block, not even in private. What I ever do to you guys except try to be your friend? Y'all too macho for that now, fine, but no more calling me out my name.”

“Yo, Little Rascals,” Big Lou shouts at us, and everybody laughs. “If you want the day off, I can arrange that.”

Cookie jogs to where the Champs are lined up and counts heads. I step into my sweatpants and as Nike and I make our way across the gym, I say, “You gonna challenge her to a rematch?”

“Nah, man,” he says. “Everyone knows I can beat her, so I'm going to cut her some slack. We have been kind of on her case.”

I want to ask Nike what gives, but something tells me to back off. He's just not the same since his birthday. I figured he didn't win the competition, because if he had, I never would've heard the end of it, no matter how mad he was at me that night. Then again, Nike doesn't stand a chance of making things right with Sara without buttering up Cookie. That must be it.

I scan the gym for Pedro and find him clinging to Cookie as she marks attendance on her clipboard. He catches me looking at him and wraps his skinny arms around her waist. Cookie gives him a smile, ruffles his hair, and motions for him to get in line. We haven't had an English lesson over breakfast since he caught my tirade in the alley.

For the first time in all my years at Saint Aloysius, I just want the summer to end already.

S
eventeen sucks. I just stare at the reels of my cassette spinning while Pattie Austin and James Ingram sing for me.
“How do you keep the music playing?”
When the song ends, I hit rewind and turn up the volume on my boom box. Someone knocks on my door. “Go away.” I want everybody to leave me alone. Not like they haven't already.

The door opens. Ma. “Willie, turn down that music. I can't hear the television.” I ignore her. “How many times are you going to listen to the same song? What's the matter? You're not feeling well?”

“No.” I may not be sick, but I don't feel well. Last time I got the flu and had to stay home from school for a week, Ma took real good care of me. She rubbed Vicks on my back and chest, tucked me in tight, and made me cocoa. “You got hot chocolate?”

“Sure, I'll make you some.” Ma walks over and places her hand on my forehead to check for a fever. She sits down on the edge of my bed. “First, can we talk? Not fight. Talk.” Ma has never said that to me. I sit up. “Willie, I understand that growing up is very hard, especially around here,” Ma says, “but we can't go on like this. You can't continue to disrespect me the way you do. I'm your mother. You're my son. You're not my boss, and I'm not your maid.”

Those sound like fighting words to me. I jump out of bed and storm into the kitchen. I rummage through the cabinets until I find the cocoa. As always, I have to take care of myself.

Ma's voice follows me. “That's exactly what I mean!” She appears in the doorway of the kitchen. “I was talking to you.”

“Talk.” She's right. Why fight? Talk. That's all it is. It means nothing. It doesn't change anything. I slam a pan onto the stove, then go into the refrigerator for the milk.

“The way you act, Willie, you'd think I was like Dee Dee.”

“You want I give you a medal 'cause you're not a crackhead?” I throw the refrigerator door shut and slap the milk carton on the table. “Sue me for expecting a little more.”

“You think when I was your age, this is the life I wanted for myself?”

“Oh, so it's my fault.” I pour milk into the pan, splashing some on the counter. “I'm the one ruined your life, right? Why didn't you just abort me or give me away or something?”

Ma's eyes water. “I had you because I wanted you.” I swallow hard to force down the lump that bubbles in my throat. This is no time to go soft. I reach for the matchbox on the stove and dig out a match. I strike it across the box and ease it toward the saucepan while turning on the gas. A blue flame circles the burner, and with it come the memories. “Your father is the one that didn't want you.”

“No shit, Sherlock!” My mother jumps. “If you want to talk to me, Ma, tell me something I don't know. I know you only wanted me because you thought it would make him stay, I know your little scheme didn't work and he booked to PR, and I know you're the reason why we had to leave Williamsburg!”

“What are you talking about?” But the tremble in Ma's voice gives her away. “We had to move because of the fire.”

“The fire
you
started.” Now that we're finally here, I won't let my mother slip through any cracks in this conversation. Like a DJ strips away a record, I'm pulling out anything Ma can hide behind. She's not going to dodge behind hi-hats or lose me through a stack of melodies, because I'm ripping away everything but the beat. “I saw you, Ma, smoking by the window. I saw you sliding the ashtray with your cigarette still lit under the curtain. I saw you do this every night for three days. For three days you tried to make an accident happen on purpose and then
WHOOSH!
We were freakin' homeless.” A spark from the cigarette finally leaped from the ashtray onto the curtain. I pointed it out to her.
Mami, the curtain's on fire!
Ma insisted that it wasn't.
Silly Willie, go back to bed.
Minutes later Ma burst into the bedroom where Gloria and I were sleeping, a cloud of thick, dirty smoke blowing in behind her.
Willie! Gloria! Wake up!
She coughed and wheezed.
We have to leave now!
I tried to run past her out the door, but Ma grabbed me and spun me around.
No, the window.
She threw it open, and without shoes or jackets, my sister and I climbed out onto the fire escape. Gloria was too afraid to go down the stairs, so I told her to climb on my back, and I carried her down. Ma came behind us, holding a blanket and chancletas. When we reached the street, my mother ordered Gloria and me to put on the slippers and huddle together under the blanket while she went to the pay phone to call the fire department.

The firemen insisted that we go to the emergency room because my mother had inhaled a lot of smoke. We sat in the waiting room of Brooklyn Hospital for six hours before they saw her. Then we waited another eight hours while the hospital social worker tried to figure out where to send us. We ended up in a shelter for three days before my mother finally swallowed her pride and begged my grandmother to let us stay with her until she found us another apartment. Exhausted as I was—you don't close your eyes in the shelter—I couldn't sleep that first night at my grandmother's apartment in the Mill Brook Houses. I was on the hard floor wedged between the sofa and the coffee table, listening to my grandmother in the kitchen forever griping about how if the New York City Housing Authority found out she had so many people in her apartment, they could kick her out. It didn't stop her from taking in my uncle, his wife, and all their kids, but Ma, Glo, and me, we were a problem. I waited for Ma to stand up for us, but she just sat there and ate it.

“You almost killed us,” I say. “You tried to kill us.”

“No!” My mother rushes toward me with open arms. “How could you ever think that?”

“Because I saw it!” I push her off me. The milk for my cocoa is boiling, and the lump in my throat returns with a vengeance.

“Yes, I started the fire, but never to hurt you, Willie, or your sister! I started the fire
for
you!”

“What?” I reel from my mother's confession. I never expected her to ever admit it and only now realize how badly I needed her to convince me that I made up the whole thing. The woozy feeling I had when I first learned how to headspin comes over me, and I have to lean against the wall for balance. “You burned us out.”

Ma begins to cry. “You hate me so badly, and you don't realize how much you're my son.”

“I'm nothing like you!”

“You're exactly like me, Willie. Sometimes it's a blessing, other times it's a curse, but you see only what you want to see and nothing you don't. You hold on to what you want to believe—whether it's true or not—and forget everything else. Don't you remember what it was like to live in Williamsburg?”

“Just like here.” Except in Williamsburg, I already had friends. I had my own clothes. I wasn't the new kid or an easy target.

“No, Willie, it was worse. Much worse in that building. You don't remember how the landlord wouldn't give us heat? How we had to boil water on the stove to take baths and wash dishes? The huge cracks in the walls and ceiling? I would wake up in the morning and find Gloria and you covered in chips of plaster.” My mother chuckles through her tears. “One morning you said to your sister,
Look, Glo, it snowed inside again last night.
”

I don't want to smile, but I can't help myself. I don't remember that, but I recognize that Willie. He was the one part I didn't want to give up, but I had to. I turn my face against the wall so my mother can't see me. I won't let her off the hook that easy.

My mother walks over to the stove and turns down the flame. She reaches for the metal Nestlé's container with one hand and a large spoon in the dish rack with the other. After prying open the lid with the spoon, Ma uses it to scoop and drop some cocoa mix into the saucepan. “You and Glo would be in school, and I'd come home from buying groceries or washing clothes to find the hallways and staircase full of people freebasing and shooting up. But the landlord wouldn't fix the front door.”

As she speaks, scenes flash in my head like a movie. Waking up to speckles of white paint dusted across my arm. Bringing the garbage to the basement to find some guy nodding off behind the boiler. Overhearing my mother fighting with the landlord in the hallway, wondering why she was refusing to pay the rent when the welfare check had arrived like it did every first and fifteenth. I had buried all these memories beneath break beats and choreography routines. All except the fire. That scene refused to fade to black when the music played.

Ma stirs the cocoa. “The final straw was the condena'o rats…. ” She stops to catch her voice. “I tried leaving food for them at night in the bathroom, hoping that would keep them off of you, but it made no difference.” Now my mother's sobbing. “Willie, I pray you never know what it's like to see rats run across your sleeping babies.”

But I wasn't a baby. I was twelve, and Gloria was ten. And watching my mother break down makes me feel for the first time in forever that maybe she did want me after all, irregardless of my father.

I turn away from the wall so Ma can see my face, but she doesn't look at me. Instead she reaches for a mug and pours the cocoa, skimming off the skin because she knows I don't like the way it feels on my tongue. Then Ma opens the cabinet and pulls out the green tin of soda crackers. As she opens it and puts some crackers on a plate, I push away from the wall and go into the refrigerator for the government cheese.

Ma sets the mug of cocoa and plate of crackers onto the kitchen table. She sits down and slides the mug and plate over toward the empty chair. I grab a knife from the drainer, sit down, and slice the cheese.

“Why didn't you just move us to the projects?” I say, but I already know Ma has an answer. She always does. The difference this time is I just might believe her.

“You think I didn't think of that?” Ma smiles. “I put in a housing application to NYCHA for a two bedroom. You were getting too old to be sharing a room with your sister, and I figured Gloria and I could just take the master bedroom. I hoped that if I didn't request three bedrooms, NYCHA would give us an apartment sooner rather than later.”

“So what happened with that?”

“Nothing, Willie. Absolutely nothing. We got wait-listed. The list was always long, and when the city started moving families from the welfare hotels into the housing projects, it went from bad to worse. And that's why I did what I did—to move us up the list.” Ma suddenly gets restless, rising out of her chair and walking to the stove. She puts the saucepan in the sink and runs the water. As I stare at her back, I realize she can't look me in the face, and not because she's preparing to lie to me. On the contrary, Ma can't face me because she's about to tell me nothing but the truth. “There was a special report on the news about slumlords purposely burning down their buildings. That's how I got the idea.”

I remember the article Sara brought to camp that I tucked in my bag and never read. “Why would they do something like that?”

Ma stops washing the saucepan to glance at me over her shoulder. “Willie, some of these landlords never wanted our kind for tenants. That's why they let the buildings fall apart. They were hoping to drive us out, but we're poor, so where else could we go? So the slumlords paid the addicts to set their buildings on fire.”

Sara's words come back to me.
They'll get more money from the insurance than rent.

Ma's silence boxes me in with the hate that I never wanted to believe existed in the world. I can't escape the hatred, and it burns worse than the fire. I'm desperate for Ma to continue so I don't have to sit with it. She says, “So I got to thinking…I wasn't about to give what little money we had to some crackhead to burn down our whole building. I couldn't risk him running off with our money or selling us out to the landlord…. ”