The Other Half of My Heart (10 page)

Grandmother Johnson nearly rocketed through the roof. “Not that big of a deal?” She paced. “Not that big of a deal? I’m an educator! I have two master’s degrees in education!” She planted her palm on the table near Keira. “And your mother didn’t think to tell me my granddaughter has a learning disorder?”

“Disability,” Keira corrected.

Grandmother Johnson tossed the application onto the table.

“She’s been doing a lot better since they figured out what was wrong,” Minni said.

Grandmother Johnson scowled. Minni scrambled for the Wite-Out and got busy changing her name.

“How will you get anywhere with grades like that?”

“I can’t help it that my teachers just saw me as dumb and didn’t try to help.”

“Did you ask?”

“Mom did, every year. But no one seemed to take her seriously. She kept hearing that I just needed to apply myself more. I think they were being racist, because this year when
Dad
went in—”

Grandmother Johnson snatched up the application. “Never blame others for what is
your
problem.”

Keira crossed her arms. “I can’t help the way my brain is wired.”

Grandmother Johnson straightened her glasses and put her hand to her heart as if trying to slow it from the outside. She sat, took a deep breath and thrust out her ample chest. “Perhaps not. But there is always plenty that
is
within your control.” She started again to read Keira’s application, then stopped and put it down. “Academic excellence has always been critical to the success of our race. It is how we have lifted ourselves from poverty to positions of power and influence. We will have to do something about your performance, but for now, let us focus on the matter at hand.”

While Grandmother Johnson finished reading, Minni snuck her cell phone from her pocket and quietly texted her sister:

L
ater that night, Minni and Keira sat on Keira’s bed in their nightshirts with their backs against the wall and their straight legs touching. Keira put her phone on speaker, and in hushed voices they told their parents the whole buttermilk story, including Minni’s burp. “You did
what?”
Mama said. Then they all laughed.

“Grandmother Johnson freaked about my grades,” Keira said.

The other end of the line was quiet. “Oh, Keira. I’m so
sorry,” Mama said finally. “Of course she would scrutinize your applications.”

“Why haven’t you told her?”

Silence again. “I know I should have, baby. Don’t worry—I’ll be sure she knows we’re on top of things—and to leave you alone about it. Have you done your reading for the night?”

Minni and Keira looked at each other. “It’s kind of late,” Minni said. “We’ll start tomorrow, when we’re fresher.” Keira nodded.

They said good night to their parents and got into bed. Lying in the dark, Minni told Keira what she’d been thinking after Grandmother Johnson had come down on her so hard, including her trapped fart theory. Keira laughed, of course. “You’re not going to let her get to you, right?” Minni asked.

“I
so
don’t care what she thinks.”

“Good.” Minni was about to say good night when something rumbled below. It sounded as if someone had dragged a piece of furniture across the wooden floor.

The rumble came again.

Minni sat up and pushed her ear toward the sound. It kept coming, like waves crashing on the beach—except more jarring, not relaxing like the ocean.

Keira’s covers rustled as she sat up as well. “She’s snoring!” Keira said with glee. “Grandmother Johnson snores!”

She was right. The jagged sound was snoring.
Grandmother Johnson’s
snoring.

Minni clapped her hand over her mouth, trying to keep
herself from laughing, but Keira didn’t bother She just laughed.

Minni was sure they’d wake Grandmother Johnson with their carrying-on, but the snoring kept going and going. The longer it went, the harder they laughed, until Minni forgot all about the pageant and the applications and Grandmother Johnson’s apparent approval of her over her sister.

W
ay too early the next morning, Grandmother Johnson yanked open the door leading to the attic. “Time to get up!”

Minni rubbed her eyes and looked at her watch. Four-thirty. She planned to keep her watch on Pacific time.

Keira groaned. “What time is it?”

“Seven-thirty.”

“That’s only four-thirty our time!” Keira rolled over and put her head under her pillow.

Grandmother Johnson hadn’t left the bottom of the stairs. “There is no time other than the one you’re in. Now, get up and get dressed. We need to turn in your applications at the Black Pearls of America headquarters.”

That worked. Keira got up.

“Put on skirts and sandals.” Grandmother Johnson shut the door.

Keira slipped on a tangerine-orange camisole and covered it with a crisp white button-down shirt. She advised Minni to wear her light blue cardigan over an aquamarine spaghetti-strap tank. They both put on flowery skirts, and Keira donned her red ballet flats.

Then they went to the bathroom to do their hair. Minni sat on the edge of the tub and watched Keira wield her fork comb the way Mama worked her paintbrushes. First she picked out her hair. Then, at her hairline, she sectioned off a two-inch strip, made a center part and slicked down the front on either side of the part with gel. She used bobby pins to hold the hair even tighter to her scalp, then hid the pins beneath a bright pink satin-covered headband.

Minni wound a strand of her own hair around her finger, admiring Keira’s puffed-out curls. Her sister looked even more like a model when she wore her hair like this, big and wild and free.

Minni quickly pulled her own hair into her usual two low ponytails and left her bangs to do whatever they wanted.

“Wait,” Keira said. She took the ends of the ponytails and put them back through the elastic bands without pulling the hair all the way through. Then she gently pulled the loops until they were the same size. “There. That has
twice
the funkiness factor.”

They went to the dining room table, where Grandmother Johnson fed them oatmeal and dry toast. Minni was thankful that this time they got orange juice instead of
buttermilk. She dipped her spoon in the slimy cereal, trying hard not to think of slugs or mucus.

“Can we have some butter?” Keira asked.

“
‘May
we,’ and no, you may not. Terrible for the arteries.”

Keira crunched on the toast. She made her eyes big and exaggerated her chewing, as if trying to moisten the bread enough to get it down. Fortunately, Grandmother Johnson didn’t notice.

They ate mostly in silence, although the bread was so crunchy and dry and the cereal so slimy it was hard not to hear every swallow. Minni felt as if she was on the verge of another laugh attack their entire time at the table.

Just when she thought she couldn’t hold in her giggles a second longer, Grandmother Johnson finished. She picked up her empty bowl and looked at Keira. “Before we leave, you will make that head of yours presentable.”

“What’s wrong with my head?”

“You need to get that unruly hair of yours under control, preferably locked up in some braids. Two will do.”

Why did Keira have to “lock up” her hair to be presentable? Grandmother Johnson made even a simple hairdo sound like prison.

“I haven’t worn braided pigtails since I was in second grade!”

Grandmother Johnson’s left eyebrow arched high. Her glare would have sent a bear running for cover, but Keira held her ground.

Minni was about to jump up and pull her sister away
when Keira stalked off, but not before muttering, “At least I don’t snore.”

Grandmother Johnson’s prune lips got even more wrinkled. “How dare…I don’t snore—” she snapped, but Keira was gone. Grandmother Johnson smoothed her jacket like a hen trying to get its feathers unruffled. “I just breathe heavily.”

She turned to Minni. “Are you finished?”

Minni still had plenty of oatmeal in her bowl, but if Grandmother Johnson wasn’t going to make her eat it…

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then go wash up. And let your hair down. I want the program director to be able to see how nice it is.”

“But you just told Keira—”

“Never mind what I told your sister. Now, go finish getting ready.”

Minni went to the bathroom and took out the loops Keira had given her. She hated that she would have to go through the day brushing her scraggly, flat hair out of her eyes and mouth. She put the elastic bands in her skirt pocket for later and stepped into the hallway.

Keira appeared from the attic carrying her brush, spray conditioner and barrettes. Her eyes took in Minni’s loose hair. She opened her mouth to say something, but Grandmother Johnson called Minni to the kitchen.

Minni shrugged at Keira and scooted down the hall.

“Much better,” Grandmother Johnson said, eyeing Minni’s head. “Now we just need to do something about your sister’s tight curl.” She made it sound as if Keira’s hair
were a problem of global significance, like greenhouse gases or something. “Bring this chair and come with me.”

Grandmother Johnson held a ball of twine and a huge pair of clippers with thick metal blades.

Minni looked at the chair she’d been told to carry. Did their grandmother plan to tie Keira down and cut off her hair?

Grandmother Johnson stepped out the back door.

Minni thought about running to warn her sister.

“Hurry up, now!”

Grandmother Johnson was no small woman, but if she tried to nab Keira, Minni would jump her. It was still two against one, and Grandmother Johnson was old.

Minni lugged the chair down the back steps, noticing the neighbor’s lush garden with cornstalks already sprouting, a gnarled old apple tree, and a compost pile next to a toolshed. Whoever lived in the lavender house must be all right. Composters were earth-friendly by definition. Two bird feeders hung from branches in the apple tree and one hung outside the back window. A small bird with a yellow head landed on the feeder near the window. She thought of Bessie Coleman, and a wave of homesickness swept over her.

“Minerva!”

Minni jolted.

“The
chair.”
Grandmother Johnson leaned over a rosebush in the side flower bed near the front of the house.

Minni dragged the chair behind her. A warm breeze stirred up the pink roses’ sweet scent.

“With all that hair, your sister’s going to be a while.”
Grandmother Johnson pulled on a pair of gardening gloves and sat in the chair. “And idle time is wasted time.”

Minni was relieved the woman just wanted to prune her bushes and not Keira’s head. She pretended to watch, but her attention was fixed on the house next door. The second-story balcony would be a great place to escape to with a book and some iced tea.

The breeze picked up and the neighbor’s many and varied wind chimes tinkled and clanged. A
clink-clunking
wooden sound made Minni think of one of Mama’s recordings of African music. “Those chimes sound pretty,” she said.

“Unneighborly inconsideration is all I hear.” Grandmother Johnson closed the shears on a thick stem with a grunt.
Snap!
“That woman is single-handedly bringing down the property values of all the homes on this street, with those cornstalks—they attract raccoons, you know—and that disgusting compost pile; her hideous yellowing yard; and the dishes of pet food all over her porch, attracting every kind of mangy mutt and tattered cat to tramp through
my
perfectly groomed grass. I work hard to keep my yard looking respectable, and I
will
protect my investment.”

From the looks of the lush green grass, the only hard work Grandmother Johnson had done was to lift a pen and write a check for someone to come spray a bunch of yucky chemicals. Very environmentally
unfriendly
chemicals.

“Next thing you know, she’s going to have vagabonds showing up for handouts. Not to mention she practices voodoo. I’ve seen the shrunken heads in her kitchen window. And she’s always burning candles—probably doing
some kind of ancestor worship or séances. She’s going to burn our houses down one of these days.”

Snip, snip
.

She peered at a flower. “She doesn’t even garden with
gloves!”

Snap!

“Has she lived here a long time?” Minni asked. She had become more intrigued with each new bit of information.

A scruffy dog with floppy ears and wiry, matted fur slunk up the woman’s front steps and disappeared.

“Here
as in next door? Only a year or so. But she’s a Raleigh-Durham native, same as me.”

“Did you know each other growing up?”

“Our families were friendly, I suppose, but I never liked her. Too brash for my tastes. Spent her whole career at Shaw University—the historically black college here in town—teaching African studies and anthropology. Very strange people, those anthropologists. Why she had to move next door to me of all places, God only knows.”