The Twelfth Card (16 page)

Mr. Bell stationed himself outside the door. “I’ll make sure only students get in.”

Geneva stepped inside, thankful for the moment or two of peace, to be away from the staring eyes. Away from the edginess of knowing that somebody wanted to hurt her. Earlier, she’d been angry. Earlier she’d been defiant. But now the reality was starting to lap at her heart and left her scared and confused.

She came out of the stall and washed her hands and face. Another girl had come in and was putting on her makeup. A senior, Geneva believed. Tall, fine-looking, with her eyebrows artistically plucked and bangs hot-combed to perfection. The girl gave her the up and down—not because of the news story, though. She was taking inventory. You saw it all the time here, every minute of the day, checking out the competition: What was a girl wearing, how many piercings, real gold or plate, too much glitter, were her braids phat or coming loose, was she draped or wearing a simple hoop or two, are those real extensions or fake? Was she covering up being pregnant?

Geneva, who spent her money on books, not clothes and makeup, always came in low in the ratings.

Not that what God had created helped much. She had to take a deep breath to fill her bra, which she usually didn’t even bother to wear. She was that
“egg-yolk-titty bitch” to the Delano Project girls, and she’d been called “him” or “he” dozens of times in the last year. (It hurt the worst when somebody’d really mistake her for a boy, not when they were dissing.) Then there was her hair: dense and wiry as steel wool. She didn’t have the time to train locs or tie rows. Braids and extensions took forever and even though Keesh would do them for free they actually made her look younger, like she was a little kid dressed up by her moms.

There she go, there she go, the skinny little boy-girl . . . . Get her down . . . .

The senior next to her at the washbasins turned back to the mirror. She was pretty and broad, her sexy bra straps and thong line evident, hair in a long straightened sweep, her smooth cheeks faintly maroon. Her shoes were red as candy apples. She was everything that Geneva Settle was not.

It was then that the door swung open and Geneva’s heart froze.

In walked Jonette Monroe, another senior. Not much taller than Geneva, though broader, bustier, with solid shoulders and cut muscles. Tats on both arms. A long, mocha-shaded face. And eyes that were ice cold—they now squinted in recognition at Geneva, who looked away immediately.

Jonette was trouble. A gangsta girl. Rumors were she was dealing—could get you anything you wanted, meth, crack, smack. And if you didn’t come up with the benjamins, she’d whale on you herself—or on your best friend or even your moms—till you stood up to the debt. Twice already this year, she’d been dragged off by the cops, even kicked one in the balls.

Geneva now kept her eyes down, thinking: Detective Bell’d have no way of knowing how dangerous
Jonette was when he let her inside. Her hands and face still wet, Geneva started for the door.

“Yo, yo, girl,” Jonette said to her, looking her up and down with a cold glance. “Yeah, you, Martha Stewart. Don’ you be goin’ nowhere.”

“I—”

“Shutup.” She glanced at the other girl, the one with the purple cheeks. “An’ you, get the fuck out.”

The senior had fifty pounds and three inches of height on Jonette but the girl stopped preening and slowly gathered up her makeup. She tried to save a bit of dignity, saying, “Don’t go layin’ no attitude on me, girl.”

Jonette didn’t say a word. She took one step forward; the girl snatched up her purse and fled through the doorway. A lip liner fell to the floor. Jonette picked it up and slipped the tube into her pocket. Geneva started to leave again but Jonette held her hand up and motioned her to the back of the restroom. When Geneva stood, frozen, Jonette grabbed her by the arm and shoved open the doors of the stalls to make sure they were alone.

“Whatta you want?” Geneva whispered, both defiant and terrified.

Jonette snapped, “Shut yo’ mouth.”

Shit, she thought, furious. Mr. Rhyme was right! That terrible man from the library
was
still after her. He’d somehow found out her school and hired Jonette to finish the job. Why the hell
had
she come to school today? Scream, Geneva told herself.

And she did.

Or started to.

Jonette could see it coming and in a flash was behind her, clamping her hand over Geneva’s mouth, stifling the sound. “Quiet!” Her other hand gripped
the girl around the waist and pulled her into the far corner of the room. Geneva grabbed her hand and arm and tugged, but she was no match for Jonette. She stared at the girl’s bleeding-cross tat on her forearm and whimpered, “Please . . . ”

Jonette rummaged for something in her purse or pocket. What? Geneva wondered in a panic. There was a flash of metal. A knife or gun? What’d they have metal detectors for if it was so goddamn easy to get a weapon into the school?

Geneva squealed, twisting violently.

Then the gang girl’s hand swung forward.

No, no . . .

And Geneva found herself looking at a silver police department badge.

“You gonna be quiet, girl?” Jonette asked, exasperated.

“I—”

“Quiet?”

A nod.

Jonette said, “I don’t want anybody outside to hear anything . . . . Now, you down?”

Geneva nodded again and Jonette released her.

“You’re—”

“A cop, yeah.”

Geneva scrabbled away and pressed against the wall, breathing deeply, as Jonette walked to the door, opened it a crack. She whispered something and Detective Bell stepped inside and locked the door.

“So, you two met,” he said.

“Sort of,” Geneva said. “She really
is
a cop?”

The detective explained, “All the schools have undercover officers. They’re usually women, pretending to be juniors or seniors. Or, what’d you say? ‘Fronting.’ ”

“Why didn’t you just
tell
me?” Geneva snapped.

Jonette glanced at the stalls. “I didn’t know we were alone. Sorry to be wack. But I couldn’t say anything that’d blow my cover.” The policewoman looked Geneva over, shook her head. “Shame this had to happen to
you
. You’re one of the good ones. I never spent any worry on you.”

“A cop,” Geneva whispered in disbelief.

Jonette laughed in a high, girlish voice. “I’m the
man
, yep.”

“You’re so down,” Geneva said. “I never guessed.”

Mr. Bell said, “You remember when they busted those seniors who smuggled some guns into the school a few weeks ago?”

Geneva nodded. “A pipe bomb too, or something.”

“It was going to be another Columbine, right here,” the man said in his lazy drawl. “Jonette’s the one heard about it and stopped the whole thing.”

“Had to keep my cover so I couldn’t take ’em down myself,” she said as if she regretted not being able to bust up the kids personally. “Now, as long as you’re going to be in school, which I think is pretty wack, but that’s a different story, long as you’re here, I’ll keep an eye on you. You see anything makes you uneasy, give me a sign.”

“Gang sign?”

Jonette laughed. “You’d be a claimer in any gang, Gen, nothing personal. You go throwing me a flag, I think everybody’d know something was up. Better you just scratch your ear. How’s that?”

“Sure.”

“Then I’ll come over and mess you up some. Give you some shit. Get you out of wherever you are. You cool with that? I won’t hurt you. Maybe just push you round a little.”

“Sure, good . . . Listen, thanks for doing this. And I won’t say anything about you.”

“I knew that ’fore I told you,” Jonette said. Then she looked at the officer. “You wanta do it now?”

“You bet.”

Then the pleasant, soft-spoken policeman got a dark look on his face and shouted, “What the hell’re you doing in here?”

Screeching: “Get yo’ motherfuckin’ hands off me, asshole!” Jonette had slipped into character again.

The detective took her by the arm and shoved her out the door. She stumbled into the wall.

“Fuck you, I’ma sue yo’ fucking ass for abuse or some shit.” The girl rubbed her arm. “You can’t touch me. That a crime, mother
fucker
!” She stormed off down the hall. After a pause Detective Bell and Geneva stepped into the cafeteria proper.

“Good actress,” Geneva whispered.

“One of the best,” the policeman said.

“She kind of blew
your
cover.”

He handed her back the social studies book, grinned. “Wasn’t exactly working.”

Geneva sat down at a table in the corner and pulled a language arts book out of her knapsack.

Detective Bell asked, “Aren’t you eating?”

“No.”

“Did your uncle give you your lunch money?”

“I’m not really hungry.”

“Forgot, didn’t he? All respect, he’s not a man who’s ever been a father. I can tell. I’ll rustle you up something.”

“No, really—”

“Truth is, I’m hungrier than a farmer at sundown. And I haven’t had any high school turkey tetrazzini in years. Gonna get me some of that. No trouble to get a second plate. You like milk?”

She debated. “Sure. I’ll pay you back.”

“We’ll put it on the city.”

He stepped into the line. Geneva had just turned back to her textbook when she saw a boy look her way and wave. She glanced behind her to see whom he was gesturing at. There was no one else. She gave a faint gasp, realizing that he was indicating her.

Kevin Cheaney was pushing away from the table where he and his homies sat and started loping toward her. Oh, my God! Was he really coming this way? . . . Kevin, a Will Smith look-alike. Perfect lips, perfecter body. The boy who could make a basketball defy gravity, could move like he was a break-dancer competing in a B-Boy Summit show. Kevin was a coal institution at all the jams.

In line, Detective Bell stiffened and started forward but Geneva shook her head that everything was fine.

Which it was. Better than fine. Totally def.

Kevin was destined for Connecticut or Duke on scholarship. Maybe an athletic one—he’d been captain of the team that won last year’s PSAL basketball championship. But he could make it on grades too. He didn’t have the same love of books and school that Geneva did, maybe, but he was still in the top 5 percent of the class. They knew each other casually—they shared math class this semester and would also find themselves together in the hall or in the school yard from time to time—coincidentally, Geneva told herself. But, okay, fact was that she usually gravitated to where he was standing or sitting.

Most of the down kids ignored or dissed her; Kevin, though, actually said hi from time to time. He’d ask her a question about a math or history assignment, or just pause and talk for a few minutes.

He wasn’t asking her out, of course—that’d
never
happen—but he treated her like a human being.

He’d even walked her home from Langston Hughes one day last spring.

A beautiful, clear day she could still picture as if she had a DVD of it.

April 21.

Normally Kevin would hang with the svelte model wannabees, or the brash girls—the blingstas. (He even flirted with Lakeesha some, which infuriated Geneva, who endured the raging jealousy with a gritty, carefree smile.)

So what was he about now?

“Yo, girl, you down?” he asked, frowning and dropping into a battered chrome chair next to her, stretching out his long legs.

“Yeah.” She swallowed, tongue-tied. Her mind was blank.

He said, “I heard ’bout what happened. Man, that was some mad shit, somebody trying to yoke and choke you. I was fretting.”

“Yeah?”

“Word.”

“It was just weird.”

“Long as you okay, that’s cool, then.”

She felt a wave of heat wash over her face. Kevin was actually saying this to
her
?

“Why don’t you just roll on back at home?” he asked. “Whatcha doing here?”

“Language arts test. Then our math test.”

He laughed. “Damn. You down for school, after all that shit?”

“Yeah. Can’t miss those tests.”

“And you cool with math?”

It was just calc. No big deal. “Yeah, I’ve got it covered. You know, nothing too heavy.”

“Straight up. Anyway. Just wanted to say, lotta people round here give you shit, I know that. And you take it quiet. But they wouldn’t’ve gone and came in today, way you did. All rolled together, they ain’t worth half of you. You got spine, girl.”

Breathless from the compliment, Geneva just looked down and shrugged.

“So, now I see what you really about, you and me, girl, we gotta hang more. But you’re never ’round.”

“Just, you know, school an’ shit.” Watch it, she warned herself. You don’t have to talk his talk.

Kevin joked, “Naw, girl, that ain’t it. I know what’s what. You dealin’ crank over in BK.”

“I—” Nearly an “ain’t.” She refused to let it escape. She gave him a self-conscious smile, looked down at the scuffed floor. “I don’t deal in Brooklyn. Only Queens. They got more benjamins, you know.” Lame, lame, lame, girl. Oh, you are pathetic. Her palms bled sweat.

But Kevin laughed hard. Then he shook his head. “Naw—I know why I got confused. Musta been yo’
moms
selling crank in BK.”

This seemed like an insult, but it was actually an invitation. Kevin was asking her to play the dozens. That’s how the old folks referred to it. Now you called it “snapping,” trading “snaps”—insults. Part of a long tradition of black poetry and storytelling contests, snapping was verbal combat, trading barbs. Serious snappers’d perform onstage, though most snapping took place in living rooms and school yards and pizza parlors and bars and clubs and on front steps and was about as sad as what Kevin had just offered as his initial volley, like “Yo’ mama so stupid, she asks for price checks at the dollar store.” “Yo’ sister so ugly, she couldn’t get laid if she was a brick.”

But today, here, the point had nothing to do with being witty. Because playing the dozens was traditionally men against men or women against women. When a male offered to play with a female, it meant only one thing: flirt.