The Fight (17 page)

Prologue

O
K, I still can't believe they suspended all of us, even though my girls and I didn't want to be fightin' in the first place. Ain't that just wrong? You see what I mean about people just straight hatin' on us up here? I swear. Well, I'm glad we're at South Bay High and not some school in the hood. These schools have no problem calling the police on you or kicking you out on the spot for something like this.

We didn't even get a real suspension. We got in-house suspension, where they just make us sit in the conference room all day and do bookwork from all of our classes. And it seems like the teachers really enjoy giving us bookwork too. Like they've just been waiting to give some student a heap of work to do that the rest of the class never sees.

We all know why they don't actually suspend us where we'll have to be absent from school— because South Bay High is known for all of its fancy accreditations. And having the least amount of student and faculty absences is a top priority here. So, unless you do something drastic, you won't get seriously sent home, not even for a day.

Well, Trecee did get kicked out, but she deserved it. That heffa came up here with the intent to create drama and we really don't need any more. Misty was in-house with us, but I doubt seriously that it'll affect her one way or another. She probably thinks of it as a damn vacation, knowing her. It's only the first week of school and already I'm looking forward to June. Enemies can do that to a sistah.

Do you know that broad Misty had the nerve to call me at Mama's and apologize for almost getting me killed? What the hell kind of apology can undo that? I would like to know. She is straight trippin' if she thinks I'm gone give her another chance to make amends. As many times as she's broken her word about starting mess, she's going to need stitches to repair it this time cause I could care less. I have had it with her crazy behind.

Believe it or not, she was shunned momentarily from South Central, by the Queen herself, Miss Shae. But, by the end of the day she had wormed her way back in by supplying some new dirt on this girl Tania. Shae can't stand Tania. So, the Misty drama continues, as usual.

I don't know what to do about KJ. Ever since all this drama with Trecee started, he has been trying to get back with me and I don't really mind, to tell you the truth. But, I also kinda like this cat Jeremy. OK, not kinda. I've been jocking Jeremy on the low for a while now. I ain't never dated no White boy before.

Jeremy and I have grown kinda tight in class this week. The two days I was there, before I was banned to the library, he sat next to me and wrote little notes on his notebook making fun of Mrs. Peterson. We've known each other for a while but we've never had a class together before. When I was sent to the library for the rest of the week he came to visit me every day during class when he was supposed to be going to the restroom. He's just so sweet.

Jeremy and I seem to have a lot in common. He listens to Southern style and East Coast rap, like me. He likes to read and just kick it, like me. He works hard, even though he doesn't have to. His parents are loaded. And, he's the finest boy in the entire school. Even with all of the bull of this week fresh in my head, I'm still looking forward to the weekend. If for no other reason, so I can put Drama High behind me for a couple of days.

1

Press 'n' Curl

—
SCHOOL DAZE SOUNDTRACK

M
y weekly hair routine is like a ritual. When Mama gets her hair done, she calls it a “
ro-gacion de cabeza
”: a cleansing of the head.

I love the way my hair looks and smells when it's pressed. I like to use Pantene and sometimes Thermasilk. My other tools include a Gold 'n' Hot blow-dryer and flat iron, two hot combs and an oven, five silver clips, a comb, a scrunchie and some Smooth as Silk hair spray. My girl Shawntrese's mom does hair and works for the guy who makes this spray. It's the bomb. It never crunches up and leaves white imprints on my hair when I flatten it.

I lightly press my edges before separating and pressing my hair. It's kinda pretty, the way it shines and smokes when I press it. It shimmers like ocean water in the afternoon sun. I'm basically frying my hair, but I still love the way it smells. Almost like sweet, burnt cantaloupe.

“Jayd, why do you press your hair when you know you just gone braid it up tomorrow, like some little thugette,” my mom says, walking in the bathroom to get her manicure set. It's her night to do her nails, before her very social weekend officially begins.

My mom hates that her daughter wears cornrows in her hair. She's ultrafeminine and I can be too. But, I also like to wear baggy jeans and boxer shorts sometimes. It's just more comfortable to me. Same with my hair. It's cool to wear it out sometimes. But, truth be told, it's just easier to braid it up.

“Mom, now you know I can't be going to work with school hair. I got to be fresh for the weekend, just like you,” I say, smiling at my mom, who's now holding her big Tupperware container full of nail stuff: cotton balls, polishes, polish remover, tissue, cuticle cream and clippers, nail files and buffers of all shapes and sizes, a stick-on design booklet, some lotion with a box of plastic wrap to make her feet extra soft, and baby oil for her pumice stone. Her heels are hella rough, just like mine.

“Jayd, me doing my hands and feet is totally different from you doing your hair.” She takes her container into the living room, and dumps the contents onto the carpet. She comes back into the bathroom and fills the container with warm water and soap to soak her hands and feet in.

“You go through this entire three-hour production every Friday to wear it like some little dude on the street all week.”

“Mom, lots of sistahs wear their hair in rows.”

“Yeah, and they're all gay.”

“Mom,” I say, sounding shocked. She can be so stereotypical sometimes.

“So, you telling me Alicia Keys and Queen Latifah are gay?” I point out, while pressing the first layer of my hair. I start at the back of my neck and work my way up my head. I have to be careful not to burn my shoulders and chest. I use a thick washcloth under the hot comb while I pull it through my hair. If I do it right, I can get a little bump at the ends of my hair.

“I don't know about them other girls,” my mom says while trying not to spill the water from her Tupperware container–turned–foot soaker on the carpet, “but you better not be. It's a wonder you got any little boys running around after you at all, especially KJ.”

I almost burn myself as I pull the hot comb through my hair. “What do you mean by that?” That was more than a little insulting. My mom can stab a sistah when she wants to. I don't know why she gets like that, especially with me.

“Oh, Jayd, you can be so sensitive sometimes. All I'm saying is that dudes usually like sistahs that wear cute, girly stuff all the time. And girls who wear their hair like girls, not like Snoop Dogg.”

“But, Mom, women in Africa have been wearing their hair like this since the beginning of time.” As my mom rolls her eyes, slowly losing interest as she does any time I disagree with her, the phone rings.

“Hello-o,” my mom says, almost cooing. “Oh, hey, baby. You know I'm doing my nails tonight. What's up?”

That must be her main dude, Ras Joe. He's a big, big dude with long dreads hanging down his back. He's hella light-skinned with them funny-colored eyes. And, he's got money. I don't know how he gets it, but he got it, and he loves spending it on my mom.

Maybe there's some truth to what my mom's saying. I've never had a dude buy me stuff like her before. Maybe if I showed a little leg on the regular, dudes would treat me more like a lady.

What am I saying? I sound like Misty now. Besides, all that glitters damn sure ain't gold. Ras Joe is cool, but he don't hang around all the time. My mother got to sit by the phone and wait for that fool to call. That ain't treating nobody like a lady, or even a friend for that matter.

I also think Ras Joe got a family at home, but I ain't sure. My mom don't tell me stuff like that. She talks to her girlfriends, who I call my aunties, about stuff like that. But, she ain't never been to his house, and I don't think she ever met none of his four kids.

“Baby, now, you know Friday night is my night to beautify myself for the weekend. I am nowhere near ready for you tonight.” I don't even know why she play like she ain't going out with him. She's already taking her feet out of the water and picking out polish.

“All right, baby. See you in a little while.”

See, what'd I say? Now I'm gone have to speed up my pressing process to get out of her way. I know she's going to want to shower before polishing her nails. Pressing don't take too long and that's all I need the bathroom for. I can style my hair in her bedroom mirror.

I can't decide how to do my hair though. I want to put some cornrows in, but I'm too tired and I have to get up and go to work tomorrow morning. Granted, it ain't as early as 5:30
A.M.
on school days, but 7:30
A.M.
is still early to me.

“Don't slip up and get caught, 'cause I'm coming for that number-one spot.”
Ludacris is announcing a phone call from somebody right in the middle of my hair session. Everybody that knows me knows that Friday night is hair night. And, depending on if it's just a simple press and curl or something a little more sassy, it could take all night long.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Jayd,” says a male voice I don't recognize, but it kinda sounds familiar—and White. Who is this dude? Oh, it must be . . .

“It's Jeremy. What's up?”

“Hey, Jeremy,” I say, sounding shocked as I don't know what.

“You sound surprised to hear from me. You didn't think I'd call you, huh?”

He got that right. With all that went down today with Trecee and KJ, I'd kinda forgot that I exchanged numbers with Jeremy in class the other day.

“Nah, actually I didn't. What's goin' on with ya?” I say, trying to sound like I'm happy to hear from him. But honestly, I just got my combs hot and I don't want them to burn.

“Did I catch you at a bad time? You sound a little busy.” He sounds so cute when he's nervous.

“Well, Friday night is my hair night.”

“You're doing your hair? I thought that's what girls said to get rid of guys they don't want to talk to,” he says, sounding like he's half-smiling and half-serious.

“Not Black girls. Depending on what we're doing to our hair, it can be an all-night production,” I say, taking the two pressing combs out of the oven. I use a white washcloth to set them on. If the imprint from the comb is black, it's too hot. But, if it's light–brown, the combs are just right to get my kinks straight. And, if there's no imprint, they're not hot enough, which means they should be returned to the oven immediately. Once my combs are hot, I like to keep them hot, just for the sake of consistency. Once the combs are allowed to cool, it changes the flow of the pressing session and the texture of my hair due to the minutes passed; it's almost like starting all over from scratch.

“So what you're saying is you really do have to do your hair and you can't talk to me now.” God, he sounds so sexy over the phone.

“I can call you back a little later.” I glance over at the radio to see what time it is.

“It's about 8:30
P.M.
now. So, give me until about 9:30 or 10 o'clock and I'll be done,” I say, touching my hot combs to the palm of my hand. They've cooled off completely now. And, my hair is not as poofy as it was when I first finished blow-drying it a half hour ago. I got to go.

“Well, actually, me and my friends are going to hang tonight. I wanted to know if you wanted to join us.”

What! No plans. No warning. Uh-uh. A sistah got to finish her hair and get some rest. It's been a rough first week of school and I need to chill out. But, damn, I want to hang with him and his crew too. I want to get to know this boy. I got to be smooth, but not rude or desperate. And quick. My hair gets dirty from all this airplane pollution by my mom's house. The planes landing at LAX fly right over her building and I know they leave all kinds of particles in the air. Here comes one now.

“What the hell is that noise?” Jeremy asks.

“I'll tell you when it passes,” I shout into the phone. You know folk that don't live near the airport don't understand. My mom's immune to it. She just automatically turns the TV up when she hears one coming. I'm kinda used to it as well. But it can get annoying, especially on the weekends. It seems like a plane passes about every ten seconds.

“That was a Boeing 747.”

“Did it land in your backyard?”

“No. I don't have a backyard here.”

“Where is here?” Jeremy says, sounding a little confused.

“I'm at my mom's house in Inglewood.” Now I really have to go. My hair is cold, so are my combs, and the oven is baking. Electricity ain't free.

“Can I call you tomorrow?” I say, trying not to sound too hurried.

“Yeah, sure. Well, do you want to hang out tomorrow night or will you be doing your nails then?” Oh, I see he's going to be a funny one.

“So you got jokes, do you? Well, let's see how funny you are tomorrow night. I'll call you after I get off work.”

“Work? What time will that be?”

“About six o'clock.”

“All right, then. I'll see you tomorrow, Jayd.”

“Have fun, Jeremy, and I'll give you a call tomorrow—nails done and all,” I say, trying to be funny.

“Later, funny girl.”

I hang up my phone and put it on the counter next to the snag-a-tooth blow-dryer. The teeth in the comb attachment are always breaking on my Gold 'n' Hot.

I have a date with Jeremy the White boy tomorrow night. What am I going to wear? How should I do my hair? Well, I could row it. I mean, he must think it looks cool like that, right? Or should I wear it a little different, show him another side of Miss Jayd Jackson? I don't know. My mom got me wanting to change up my style now.

“Whatcha doin', man? I'm coming for that number-one spot.”
There's Luda again. Who's this now?

“Hello,” I say, sounding hella irritated.

It's a private number. What's the point of caller ID if people can still block their numbers?

“Hey, girl. It's your daddy. Why you sound so snappy?” Why is he calling me this time of night? Usually by now he'd be asleep on his couch.

“Oh, hey, Daddy. I was just doin' my hair and the phone keeps ringing. Why are you calling so late?” It ain't like me and my daddy chat all that much, so something must be up.

“What are you doing the last weekend of next month?”

“I don't know. Working, I'm sure,” I say, a little snide. He don't break me off no money. He gives my mom the court-mandated child support, which she then splits with Mama and Daddy, leaving nothing left over for me.

“Well, can you get the afternoon off that Sunday? We're having a little barbecue for your uncle William. He's moving back to Mississippi with his new wife and I want you to be there.”

He's always trying to make me go to family stuff and I can't stand it. Them people don't like me or my mom. And they're afraid of Mama. The Jacksons are good, Southern Baptist folks. They have a fish fry every Friday night, play Dominoes, Bid-Wiz, and Spades every Saturday night, and go to church all day long on Sunday.

“Daddy, I can't miss work. I need the money, remember? Besides, Sundays are no good for me anyway. You know I got to go back to Mama's and get ready for school.” He don't know nothing about my life.

“What if I pick you up from work and give you a ride back to your grandmother's on Sunday?” This must be big. He don't usually make me offers like that.

“Why you want me to go so bad? I barely know Uncle William, and I don't know his new wife. I didn't even know he wasn't with the first one anymore, to tell you the truth.”

My mom's standing in the bathroom door, looking at me out the corner of her eyes like, “Hurry up and finish in the bathroom so I can get ready for my man.” I better wrap this up without too much protesting. Family is family, as Mama says.

“Jayd, don't be difficult. Just come. You may have some fun. You could even invite your little girlfriends—what are their names?” he says, acting as if he really ever knew.

“You mean Nellie and Mickey?”

“Yeah, them girls. How's school going anyway? Didn't you start back this week?”

“Yes, Daddy, but I really gotta go finish my hair now. I'll talk to you later.”

“So, will I see you in a few weeks?” he asks, not letting me off the hook.