When I Was the Greatest (12 page)

My dad was living in his car? Why wouldn't he just come home? Doris would understand. At least I think she would've. Maybe he just didn't want to ask for help, and I could kinda get that. And I knew I couldn't really say nothing about it, because it's just not cool to put people's embarrassing situations on blast. But I felt sad for him. He wasn't some stranger, some bum begging for change. He was my dad.

He dug around a little bit longer until he finally pulled out a hat. A Yankees cap. As he wiggled it out the bag, the bag shifted and I noticed something else. For a moment I couldn't breathe. I looked again—it was the butt of a gun. Sticking up between the console and the driver's seat. It wasn't too
obvious, and if you looked fast, it could've passed as the seatbelt thing. I hoped Noodles didn't see it.

At first I was nervous, just because my father wasn't the type to deal with guns. Not after everything he went through before. After he got out of prison that last time, he only dealt with clothes, not robbery or nothing like that. He said he practically swore off guns. But then I thought about the fact that he was living in his car, and maybe he needed to make sure he was safe at night. Made sense, I guess. I looked away from the gun, anywhere away from it, as he walked back over to me and sat the cap on top of my head. He pulled the brim down over my eyes and then stepped back to check me out.

“Now you ready,” he said with a fatherly smile. I was caught somewhere between excitement and fear. Part of me wanted to ask him what the gun was for, and another part just wanted to give him a big hug for hooking us up with the clothes. Instead of either of those, I just turned and ducked down a little bit so I could see my reflection in the back window. Fresh.

“When is the party?” John asked.

“Tomorrow night.”

John nodded as if he was proud that I was sneaking out and going to a party I was too young to be at.

“Aight, so remember our deal. Text me when you get there and when you get home. You don't, and you'll have me AND Doris to deal with.”

• • •

The next day I got my braids done. I sat on the floor in the living room while Jazz sat behind me on the couch. She ran
a fine-tooth comb through my hair, which she had already unbraided and washed.

“Come on, Jazz,” I begged, squinting in pain. “You really don't have to pull that hard.” It felt like she was pulling my scalp off.

“You know, I could always just cut it all off for you,” she said, tugging on what my mother calls my mane. “Show the world that peanut you got.”

“Yeah, and I could box you up,” I joked, putting my fists in the air.

“Whatever.”

I could feel her grab a handful and separate it into three parts. Then she started braiding. My eyes watered as she wove the hair together, which means she was doing a good job. Whenever she was doing it tight and right, it hurt enough to make me want to cry. Not that I ever did.

I would never tell Jazz this, but I always loved her braiding my hair. Me acting like a punk, her yanking extra hard just to be funny. Even though I was in pain for most of it, I still loved it.

“Jazz?”

“Huh?” she said. I could tell by her voice she was staring at the TV. I don't know why she finds those stupid talk shows so interesting. I could smell the grease. She had a big scoop of it sitting on the back of her hand. My mom does the same thing when she does Jazz's hair. It's for easy access. Dip the comb in it, and take it straight to the scalp. A hood trick. I don't know where Doris learned it. Probably her mom.

“You got a boyfriend?”

I asked her this every time she did my hair, which was about every two weeks. I had to always check because when I was her age, I remember trying to look up skirts and cop feels. And you know . . . I just don't want Jazz to be . . . you know.

“What?” Jazz snapped.

“You heard me.”

“Boy, no,” she said in her most grown-up voice. “These boys around here too young in the mind.”

“Jazz, you eleven.”

“Exactly, and they act nine. I ain't got time for that.”

“So you telling me, there's no boy around here you like?”

“Nope.”

“Not Dante Robinson?”

“Bird Lips? Naw.”

“J. J. Mendez?”

“Who?”

“Spanish J. J.”

“Oh, you mean Pancake? Face too flat.”

“What about Prego across the street?”

“Prego? Are you serious? You know why I call him Prego? 'Cause he waddle like a pregnant woman. He good people, but I can't walk down the block with him looking like he about to lay an egg. Not happening.”

I shook my head. She was a trip. I knew that she at least liked these boys as friends, because she had given them all nicknames. I also knew there was somebody she really liked, because her and her little friends were always giggling about
something, and boys are usually the main thing little girls giggle about.

I stopped asking and let Jazz zone back into whatever was happening with whoever's baby's mother on the TV. At least I thought she was zoning back in. Apparently, though, she was thinking about the boy she liked, and was itching to tell me.

“Ali?” she said, her voice in eleven-year-old mode again. I liked it like that. Killed me when she sounded too grown-up.

“Yeah,” I said, muffled. My head was tilted, and my chin was pressed into my chest. Jazz was combing through the back of my neck. My mother always calls it the kitchen. Seemed like my kitchen was on fire whenever Jazz was cooking.

“I do like somebody,” she said, all shy.

“I knew it! Who I gotta kill!” I shouted, laughing.

Jazz pulled the comb from my hair and leaned back on the couch. When I turned around, she had both her hands covering her face.

“Don't tease, Ali! I'm being serious!” She was so embarrassed, and as bad as I wanted to make it worse, as bad as I wanted to come up with a funny nickname on the spot for her, the protector in me kicked in and I couldn't.

“Okay, Jazz. No jokes.”

“Swear?”

“I swear.” I held out my pinky. She locked hers with mine. We touched thumbs. The contract was sealed.

“You know Joe?” she asked, leaning forward again. I turned around, and she put the comb back in my hair.

“Joe who?”

“Malloy.”

“Of course I know Joe Malloy. Malloy's grandson. You like him, Jazz?”

I could feel Jazz's face turn red without having to turn around. It was like it was putting out some kind of heat that I could feel on the back of my neck.

“Don't tell nobody, Ali,” she said desperately. “But yeah. He kinda cute. And he nice. And he smart.”

At this point I pretty much didn't want to talk about Jazz's eleven-year-old love life anymore. But I knew Joe Malloy, and the reality is, he was a pretty good choice. Never into no trouble. Always polite and respectful. No fighting, even though he could probably whoop anyone his age, and mine, on this block, because he grew up with Malloy training him to be a boxer, so at least I knew he could protect her. Joe was kind of geeky, too, which I liked. He was always dressed up. Shirt tucked in his pants. Pants up on his butt. Glasses. Braces. All of it. And he walked around like he was okay with that. Never caught him trying to fit in. Of all the too-cool knuckleheads running around this neighborhood, Jazz picked a good one, and I wanted to believe that was because she had a good example in me.

“Okay, Jazz, I won't tell.”

“Not even Noodles?”

“Not even Noodles.”

Finally Jazz was finishing up my braids. She had maybe two or three more to do. My scalp must've been numb, because I could no longer feel her tugging on the hair.

She stopped for a moment and reached down and grabbed my cup of tea. She had finished hers a half hour earlier, and she knew I wasn't going to finish mine, mainly because it got cold—I could never seem to finish it before it got cold. She liked it either way. “Can I ask you something, Ali?”

“Of course.”

She slurped from the cup and made that ahh noise after she swallowed.

“You think Mom and Dad will ever get back together?”

I turned around and faced her again. Her face was pure innocence.

“Aw, Jazz, I don't know. I really don't. I know they still care about each other, though, and whether they get back together or not, I know they both love us.”

Jazz grinned, big, and then took another sip of tea. I smiled back, the way a big brother does when he knows he's made his little sister feel better. Little girls shouldn't have to worry about their parents' issues, but I guess when you're eleven going on eighteen, it's normal.

Jazz finished braiding the last patch of hair I had left. Then, like we always do after she does my hair, we passed out on the couch. We were out until around five thirty, when my mother came clunking through the door. I opened my eyes just enough to see what was on the TV. News again. We had been asleep for almost three hours. I looked over at my mother, who was like a blur moving fast around the room. My eyes still had sleep in them, but once I blinked a few times, I could see her clearly getting ready for her next job. Changing bags.
Taking one pair of heels out, putting another pair of heels in. Same flats on her feet, for the train. Keys jingling. Fridge open, dinner in the Tupperware with the burgundy top tossed into the bag. She finally noticed I was awake. She gazed at me and Jazz for a moment, and smiled.

“Hi, baby,” she said softly.

“Hi, Mom,” I replied, half-asleep.

“I'm gone to work. Take care of Jazz. Love you.”

“Love you too,” I mumbled.

She bent down and kissed Jazz on the head. Then she left.

Click, click. Door locked. Flats don't make the
click-clack
sound that heels do going down the steps, but I could still hear her. Door open. I could hear her speaking to someone but couldn't make it out. Door closed. Then stomping coming up the steps. I could tell the person coming was skipping every other step. Then bang bang bang on the door.
Bang, bang, bang
again. Jazz moaned and rolled over on the couch, burying her head in a cushion.

I got up and staggered over to the door.

“Who is it?” I asked, loud enough for the person outside to hear, but soft enough not to wake Jazz.

“Ali,” the voice came back, loud.

“Shush, man, Jazz is asleep,” I whispered while unlocking and cracking the door. It was Noodles.

“Oh, aight, my bad, man. Just wanna see what time we meeting up tonight,” he said. His excitement was kind of an overload to me because I was barely awake.

“I don't know, man, nine?” I figured nine was a good time,
because that would put us at the party around nine thirty. And I figured hopefully, just because it's a MoMo party, it would be jumping by then.

“Cool, meet us on the stoop. Man, this is gonna be so live. So live. We gonna be in there, Ali!” Noodles started bouncing around like he had to pee.

“Yeah, we in there,” I said lazily. I slid my hand through the crack in the door and gave Noodles a five before closing it. I heard him take about three steps and then jump down the rest of the stairs. The fool was so excited, I thought he was going to mess around and break a leg before we even got to the party. Then I thought, if that happens, Needles and I are still going. One monkey don't stop the show.

8

Around seven I jumped in the shower. The shower has always been a place for me to think about stuff and just, sort of, work my nerves out in my head. Sometimes I rap, but most times I just throw punches at nothing. I know—crazy, but I really do swing at the water, jabs, uppercuts, hooks, pretending that the splash is the sweat spraying off somebody. It sounds more violent than it actually is. I like to pretend sometimes that I have some kind of superpower or out-of-this-world fighting skills, but most of the time it's just me beating the crap out of my own nerves. And knowing I was leaving Jazz alone and going to a party I just had to go to, but had no business being at, I was nervous. And after thinking about even hitting on an older girl, a woman, the nerves really started to take over.