Skin I'm in, The (8 page)
Mr. Pajolli is right, too. Tai
is
funny. She meditates a lot so during her class break it ain’t unusual to see her sitting on the desk with her legs folded and her arms crossed.
She’s different, but she
can
teach. I used to get all A’s in Tai’s class last year. Since I got this office gig, Tai’s been bugging me about keeping up my average. She came right in here yesterday and asked me where my homework was. Mr. Pajolli was standing right at the desk, too. I lied and said it was in my locker. Tai asked Mr. Pajolli if it was OK for me to go get it. Then I had to fess up and tell her I forgot to do it. She asked Mr. Pajolli if it’s OK for me to use my office time to do my math homework. He said, yeah, but that I’d have to make up the time later.
Teachers don’t do nothing but cause you grief, I swear that’s all they do.
YOU GETTING SOFT, MALEEKA, I SAY
to myself. It’s Saturday morning and I been up two hours already writing this stuff for Miss Saunders. If Char or the twins knew about this, they would think I was out of my mind. Doing schoolwork on the weekend. For fun.
Momma’s trying to work me to death today, too. She got me washing windows and clothes and everything else. I tell her I have to do homework. That’s the only thing that got me off the hook for now. So here I am, trying to think something up before I head to Char’s. It’s coming slow, but it’s coming.
Dear Diary:
The sea is wild and mean. Water is crashing against the boat like a hundred angry lions. My body is wet with sweat and throw-up from the others pressing close around me like sticks of firewood.
They chain us together like thieves and beat us till we bleed. I have made up my mind, though. I will show no weakness. I will be strong. Strong like the sea and the wind.
—
Akeelma
I finish writing, throw the paper in my drawer, and run out of the house. Momma don’t know I’m headed for Char’s place. She wouldn’t like it. She says Char’s sister, Juju, lets Char do anything she wants. Lets her run wild. Momma’s right about that.
Just before I’m about to leave, Sweets calls. She asks why am I going to Char’s if I’m trying to shake Char loose. ″I’m bored,″ I tell her. ″I don’t want to go to the avenue or hang out here at home. Besides, Char asked me to come over. Her sister’s got some new things. I was going to say no. Then she mentioned something about a black-and-gold skirt set.″ I can hear Sweets listening on the other end of the phone. She doesn’t say much before she hangs up.
I thought I would be at Char’s by one o’clock. But Momma keeps finding things for me to do. I have to clean out the cabinets, sweep, and take clothes to wash at the laundromat. I swear Momma thinks I’m her slave. She don’t even want to pay me a little something for doing so many chores. She says it’s my house, too, and that I should be glad to help.
When four o’clock comes, I’m knocking on Char’s door. Can’t nobody hear me, though. The music’s too loud. Some African stuff is playing. Drums are beating. Singers are making animal noises. Maracas are shaking.
I push open the broken screen door and go inside. Juju is jamming. Her and about ten other people are dancing. They’re rubbing up on one another. When I’m halfway across the room, a man with dreadlocks down to his belt jumps in front of me and says, ″Come jam with us, little sister.″ Then he starts moving like he’s a snake. I shake my head and run up the steps. Juju tells the dreadlocked brother to turn up the music and leave me alone. The music gets louder and so do the pots and sticks people are banging on.
I’m thinking that the party’s just got started. But Char says it’s finishing up from last night. I ask her how she sleeps through all the noise. She says she ain’t been to sleep yet. That she gets paid big bucks from Juju to keep glasses clean, ash trays emptied, and food coming. ″I don’t mind missing sleep for a hundred dollars,″ she says, waving the money in my face.
Juju parties all the time. Two, three times a month. People come from all over to go to her parties. Char and I find a place to talk, upstairs, in one of the empty bedrooms. I tell Char I couldn’t stand being around so many strangers all the time.
Char says I’m a wimp. That it ain’t nothing for her to wake up and find somebody she ain’t never seen using her bathroom two days after the party’s done. Folks like being around Juju, she says.
″Don’t they work?″ I ask.
″Some do, some don’t,″ she says, matter-of-factly. ″Juju don’t care as long as they pay to get into the party. She ain’t giving nobody nothing for free.″
I shake my head. I’m thinking, Ain’t no way I could live like this. Cigarette smoke burning your eyes. The house smelling like old chicken grease. Strangers passed out on your living room floor.
None of it bothers Char. As long as she’s looking fine, she’s all right. But today, she don’t look so hot. She’s got dark circles under her eyes and her hair is all over her head.
″You look like you’ve been sleeping already,″ I say, picking lint out of her hair.
She pushes my hand away. ″I caught me a few winks about a hour ago. Juju didn’t even miss me. If she did, I would be in real trouble. She says she don’t pay me to sleep.″
Then Char lets out a giant yawn. She lays herself across the bed. I want to tell her I didn’t come here to watch her sleep, but I feel sorry for her. So I just sit in the chair, watching her nod off.
But before Charlese can get to sleep good, Juju yells at the top of her lungs.
″Charlese,
what am I paying you for, girl? Get yourself down here.
Now.″
Charlese jumps up and runs down the stairs.
Juju’s yelling and screaming at her in front of everybody. I keep asking myself, Why is Char taking that from her? Then I remember that Char hasn’t got nobody but Juju. Juju is only twenty-five.
I sit upstairs by myself for a long while, too scared to go downstairs. Finally, I tell myself to get on outta there. When I do get the courage to go downstairs, it’s still a madhouse. Char’s running around. People are lined up at the door trying to get in the house. Strangers are asking me where the bathroom is and how come there ain’t no toilet paper.
I don’t tell Char I’m going. I just walk out the door. Last I seen, Char was rubbing her eyes and handing out drinks. Juju was shaking her hips and smoking a cigarette, yelling for somebody to turn up the music.
AS SOON AS I GET TO
the street two boys I ain’t never seen before start hassling me.
″Hey, bean pole,″ one of them says.
″You mean,
black
bean,″ his friend says.
Across the street, some lady yells, ″Y’all leave that girl be.″
That just makes those boys tease me more. But I ignore them and keep on walking. Soon I’m halfway home. I’m getting hot, so I take my jacket off and sit myself down on some steps to cool off. Most of the houses on the block are vacant. I’m sitting on the curb, imagining what this street would look like if people picked up the trash and gutted some of the buildings. Then, when I look down the street, here come the two boys who were bothering me. I get up and start walking as fast as I can.
I keep putting my finger in my mouth and scraping off nail polish. I cross the street even when I don’t have to. They keep coming.
″I like a girl with long legs,″ one of them says, catching up to me. ″A sweet, chocolate brown baby with long legs.″
One of the boys is wearing biker pants. He laughs and starts walking faster. I walk fast too.
″Baby, baby, baby,″ he says, ″you my kind of woman.″ Then he gets in front of me. His friend gets behind me. He’s dressed in big, drooping pants that show his underwear.
″Give me a little kiss,″ he says. ″Right here on my soft, juicy lips.″
His friend twists my hand behind my back. I yell for him to let me go. But he doesn’t.
He’s big. He’s got muscles in his neck and everywhere else. ″Give my friend a little kiss,″ he says, pushing me toward the other kid.
I tell them to leave me alone. I tell them my dad’s a cop and he will lock them up. They don’t care. They are having fun.
The boy with the biker pants says that if I just give him a kiss he’ll leave me be. ″I wanna see what you taste like, is all.″
″No,″
I yell. But nobody can hear me. Ain’t nothing alive on this block except mangy cats and stray dogs, and they look like they want to jack me up, too. My heart is beating so fast I can’t breathe. ″I ain’t playing,″ I say, trying to pull loose from the big one with the droopy pants.
″You pretty black thing,″ the biker pants kid says. ″I ain’t gonna hurt you.″ Then he closes in on me. Tears come running down my face. My head is shaking no. His friend is laughing. Laughing and shoving me closer. I want to scratch his eyes out. Only I can’t get my hand loose. Next thing I know, the biker pants guy is standing over me, his breath smelling like green peppers and garlic.
I’m crying. Thinking what to tell Momma. She will be mad at me for walking down a street where nobody lives. I kick the guy who’s holding me. He looks like he wants to scream. He lets up on one of my hands for a second while he’s yelling for the other kid to hurry up. I dig my fingernails into that other boy’s stomach and hang on tight like a crab. He hits me so hard a knot starts to swell on my arm.
Then he puts his hand over my mouth. My heart’s about to beat me up inside. I open my mouth, grab hold of his hand with my teeth like a mad dog, and don’t let go. He’s trying to pull his fingers free. But he can’t. He’s screaming for me to let him go. But I hang on. He’s punching me upside the head, screaming and punching, till finally I set him free.
″You black thing,″ he says, putting up his big fist like he wants to slam me again. My big teeth marks have left a dent in his hand. He starts loosening his belt with his good hand.
″Forget it, man,″ the other one says. ″She ain’t worth it.″ He shoves me hard. ″Next time we see you, you better run,″ he says.
I don’t give those evil kids no second chances. I run like the wind. I run and run and run till I can’t breathe no more. When I’m almost home, I sit down on some steps near my house, and cry. My whole body is shaking and seems like it won’t ever stop. Tears and snot are running down my face. No more back streets, fool, I tell myself.
When I’m just about home, I run into Sweets. She’s headed to the corner store to buy her dad some snuff. I tell her what happened. ″Please don’t tell Momma,″ I beg. Sweets agrees. She gives me a sorry look. I know she knows all this happened ’cause I had to be around Char. But she says she’ll keep it quiet anyhow.
She gives me a used tissue to wipe my face clean. I don’t have no choice but to take the tissue. I can’t let Momma see me like this. By the time I get home, I don’t look so bad. I tell Momma that some boys was picking on me, but I don’t go into no real detail.
Momma studies me for a long minute. ″You better be careful out there,″ she says, setting a plate of pinto beans, rice, and pork chops down on the table. I rub my sore arm, and try to scoop some beans and rice into my mouth. But my throat won’t swallow them down without a struggle.
″I ain’t that hungry,″ I say, leaving the table before Momma can say anything. I go to my room and cry myself to sleep.
IT’S BEEN A MONTH NOW, AND
all I think about is that thing with those boys. Momma’s been saying I got my head in the clouds. She keeps asking if I’m in love or something. I spend a lot of time in my room and don’t even talk on the phone, not even to Sweets. Mostly, I’m thinking and writing in my diary—
our
diary, Akeelma’s and mine. Lately it’s hard to know where Akeelma’s thoughts begin and mine end. I mean, I might be starting off with her talking about how scared she is with the smallpox spreading around the ship and killing people. Then I end up the same paragraph with Akeelma saying she’s scared that maybe people will always think she’s ugly. But I’m really talking about myself.
I’m
scared people will always think
I’m
ugly.
Miss Saunders says it’s good that I’m getting so close to Akeelma.
″Good writers get close to their characters,″ Miss Saunders says.
I’ve even written in our diary about that thing with the boys, only it ain’t
me
the stuff is happening to, it’s Akeelma. She’s there on the boat, up on deck when the men running the ship come after her.
Dear Diary,
