NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month. This November, writers of all ages around the country are engaged in an endeavor to complete 50,000 words by the end of this month. Travel and general life distractions have thrown me off my daily word count, still I am making some headway. My novel is tentatively titled Jane and John: The Shim Diaries. After the death of her mother, Jane's choices land her in Juvi. Once out, she is sent to live in a state run group home, completely disconnected from her family and the life she used to live. With only one year left before she ages out, she must put her life back together all the while figuring out who she is and where the edges of her gender and sexuality blur.
An hour later I made my way back
to Gethsemane to find Franny nursing a bloody nose. Sean Jean’s revenge. I felt
my hands curl into fists.
“It was an accident,” Franny
said preemptively.
“What, Sean Jean accidentally
punched you in the face? Where is he?”
“Jane, it’s not worth it.”
I stomped passed him into the boy’s
side letting the screen slam behind me. This was personal. It wasn’t Sean Jean
who was waiting for me though.
“Hey Jane,” Omar said casually.
“Hello,” I replied back because
he was the kind of person who didn’t like it if you skipped the formalities. I
scanned the living room. Ace and Dodger were playing cards while Wayne watched
baseball.
No Sean Jean.
“Looking for someone?” Omar
asked, knowing full well exactly who I was looking for.
I didn’t answer, just moved
through the doorway into the kitchen which was empty, a glance through the
window revealed an equally empty basketball court.
“If you’re looking for Sean Jean,
he’s up in his room on punishment. You want some tea.”
“No, thank you.”
I started toward the stairs.
“Have some tea with me Jane,” He said in that tone that made sure I understood
it wasn’t a request. I felt the heat all in my face. My fists clench and
unclenched, but I turned back towards him like a good little girl. “Have a
seat,” he directed, so I took my place at the table while he filled the
electric kettle and pulled two mugs from the cupboards. He scanned the tea
basket for the remedy.
“Tension tamer,” he pronounced.
“That’s what we need.”
I rolled my eyes. What I needed
was to take Sean Jean and dribble him like a basketball, pound that hard head
of his into the concrete a few times. It might not solve anything. In this
house there would always be another Sean Jean, but it would make me feel better
and that was something.
“Jane, I’ve read your file. And
after getting to know you, I can tell you’re not a lifer. I mean some of these
kids, they’ve got no chance. They came out of the womb addicted to meth or
crack or just the chaos of being in abusive relationships. It’s not that they
were born bad, it’s just that the way they came into the world didn’t give them
much of a moral compass. Sometimes those kids can catch a break and get
themselves together, maybe get a job or find a way to make it through, but more
often than not they’re stuck. That’s not you Jane. You’re different. Sounds like
you were in a pretty messed up situation. You made some bad choices. But you’re
not out of options. You can still turn things around. That’s why I don’t want
to see you get in trouble. Where you are now? I know it’s not ideal, but you’re
smart, you work hard, and I know you can do better. But Franscico? He’s got his
own path.”
Omar ran a hand over his shaved
head. He had skin the color of caramel and just as smooth. The kettle clicked off.
He paused to pour the tea before sitting across from me at the table. He wasn’t
a big man, but he had a hardness to him, a serious look that warned you not to
fuck with him. And he was righteous, not in that pious out there way like John
Stanford, where it was all an act so that people would like and respect him.
No, Omar, was just one of those good men who did things because he thought they
were right, not because someone was watching. I respected him, but he was wrong
about Franny.
“I know you two are friends. And
I think it’s good. Everyone needs a friend. But you can’t keep fighting his
battles. He’s got his own agenda and I don’t want to see you getting dragged
into someone else’s trouble.”
I guessed my own trouble was
enough.
“You better keep Sean Jean away
from him then. I don’t like bullies.”
“I understand that. And I’ll do
my job, but that is my job, not yours. And I hate to break it to you, but the
world is full of bullies.”
Which was true enough. Though
not all bullies were so out there putting themselves on blast. Those were the
easy ones, the ones you could spot. John Stanford was one of those less obvious
ones. He was the kind that made it hard to tell what was leadership and what
was just bossiness. He made it seem like he was doing the right thing, that he
was only pushing you because he loved you. And maybe he did. Maybe he really
did love me, in spite of everything, but that was a long time ago.
Omar and I finished our tea.
“I talked to Rickie. He says you
need to get a job.”
I nodded.
“So what have you got going on
today?”
“Nothing really, I just had to
meet with Rickie.”
“So how are you going to spend
you afternoon?” He prodded.
The required answer was clear.
“Looking for a job,” I said
dutifully.
Omar nodded his approval.
“Good plan. I hear Subway is
hiring.”
“Thanks,” I muttered and made my
way back out to the front porch, my body still coursing with anger, but with no
place better to go. Franny had cleaned up his face, but his shirt still held
the blood stain.
“I’ve gotta get a job,” I told him.
“Me too.”
“Wanna walk down to Subway. I
hear they’re hiring.”
“Yeah sure, just let me go
change.”
I looked down at my own rumpled
appearance, but stayed seated on the porch. I could’ve thrown on another shirt,
but I didn’t really have any nice clothes anymore and I’d just cornrowed my
hair a few days ago, so nothing need to be fixed there.
I ran a hand over my hair and
couldn’t help but think about my mom. I used to sit between her thighs watching
movies while she combed my hair out. I wasn’t tender headed like Emily. She
couldn’t stand getting her hair braided. Me, I used to look forward to it. Mom
would take her time, part my hair into sections, smearing blue magic on my
scalp. And then when she was done she’d say ‘there’s my beautiful girl. Go look
in the mirror.’ And I would. She never did it the same way twice. Sometimes
she’d add pretty barrettes. Sometimes she’d make the rows squiggle. I’m not
fancy like her. If my braids came out straight and roughly the same size, that
was an accomplishment.
Missing her was this dull ache
that never quite went away. I hated days like today. I could just imagine her
up in heaven looking down at me shaking her head, that troubled look she’d get
when things were out of place. She wouldn’t like to see me now.
“Ready?” Franny asked. I nodded
and the two of us set off down the street.
Omar was right, I wasn’t a
lifer. I grew up in the North end, in Queen Anne in a picture perfect house,
blue with white trim and a porch swing. It was me and mom, my little sisters,
and John Stanford. John Stanford was a literature professor at the U and mom
was a stay at home mom, the best, the kind who made cookies from scratch and
sewed Halloween costumes. I grew up with Sunday dinners and walks to the park.
Franny grew up with rotten parents, people so irresponsible that he was in
foster care by the time his 8th birthday. While I was going to
private school and SAT prep courses, Franny was getting molested by his Uncle,
then moving from one house to another, then in and out of Juvi because no one
taught him not to steal when he was hungry. But at Gethsemane, just like in
lock down, it didn’t really matter where you came from or who you used to be.
We were here now. This was life now.
“Stop looking so blue girlie.”
“I’m not.”
“I think a song will cheer you
up.”
“Please don’t sing.”
But it was too late. He had
already started belting out the gayest version of the Sesame Street theme song
that I have ever heard. I didn’t mean to smile. I could usually hold it
together, keep my stoic facade, but as he shimmied and pranced I couldn’t help
it. When he started to do the tootsie roll I lost it completely.
“You are officially insane.”
“You love it,” he grinned. I
kind of did.
Yesterday’s sun was gone, but it
was dry still, just that dull gray that made the green stand out. Except there
was more trash and broken bottles littered across empty lots than shrubs and
grass. The ghetto Subway was just a short walk down the hill. I never ate
there. The floors were dingy and Rita, one of the girls of Gethsemane had
gotten busted turning tricks in the bathroom. That alone, was enough to turn my
stomach, but a job was a job.
“Hello,” I said to the blond
girl behind the counter. She probably wasn’t much older than me, but she was at
least five months pregnant and had this flat ‘I hate my life’ expression that
made her face look ancient.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, we’re here to apply for
the position.”
“Hold on,” she said in that a
tone as flat as her facial expression. “Mr. Rogers,” she hollered. “Some kids
is here about da job.”
“Genevieve what did I tell you
about yelling?”
“Sorry,” the girl replied in a
tone that said she didn’t give a shit.
Mr. Rogers pushed his way
through the swinging doors. He was a stubby looking white guy, with a pot belly
and glasses and sweat stains darkening his work shirt at the arm pits. I really
couldn’t imagine him effectively selling food. His nails were grimy and his
comb over gave him the scum bag look of someone who could guest star on CSI as a
pedophile. Then that thing happened that always happened. He looked me up and
down and then looked Franny up and down, and his whole demeanor changed.
“Position’s filled.”
“But the sign’s still in the
window,” Franny motioned to the crooked piece of cardboard.
“You deaf? I said the position
is filled.”
“Come on,” I grabbed the back of
his shirt, cause I could just see him getting all wound up. He snatched the
sign off the window as we cleared the door.
“Guess you don’t need this
then,” he said and ripped it up dropping the pieces in the entryway. “Stupid
motherfucker! I wouldn’t want to work at that shit hole anyway. Greasy, dirty,
fuck. You think you’re better than me. You’re not shit,” he muttered, though we
were already out the door and out of ear shot.
“Forget him. Who cares? That
place was nasty anyway. Let’s try the Taco Hell.”
Franny nodded, but his face was
one that said he would not forget. He would never forget. We went to Taco Hell
first, then Slaveway, then Kickin Chicken, but it was the same bullshit. It’s
like delinquent was tattooed on our foreheads. No one wanted to hire kids fresh
out of juvi, especially not the Mexican fagot and the black bull dyke.
I could hear John Stanford in my
head. ‘Look at you,’ he would have said if he could see me now. He’d have that
sneer on his face, that look that said you were stupid for even trying. ‘No one
is going to hire you looking like that. Have some respect for yourself. Stand
up straight, make eye contact, shake hands like you mean it.’ It wouldn’t have
killed me to put on a nicer shirt, a button down and some khackis, something
preppy, except all I had left were my court clothes and I couldn’t bring myself
to wear them for any other reason than being legally obligated.
It had started with clothes. I
was an athlete. It was normal that I would be in warm ups and sports jerseys
all the time. All the girls were. It was how we were, and it didn’t seem to be
a problem until around 8th grade. Then suddenly it was ‘Janey, why
are you always dressed like that? No one is going to ask you to the dance
looking like that?’ And though it was true, no one I wanted to go to the dance with
was going to ask me anyway. Still, it’s like all of a sudden he had started to
see what he hadn’t wanted to see. That it wasn’t a faze, the whole tomboy
thing, or if it was, it wasn’t one I was growing out of. It was okay to be a
rough and tumble 7 year old. It was cute even, but the taller I got, the more
my body expanded, it lost its charm. Sports shaped more than my schedule, but
my demeanor the way I walked, my jock swagger. Then I was all muscle, cut, but
not in that fem Buffy the Vampire way. It was more menacing than pretty, the
way my body was shaped and I liked it that way, being able to walk down the
halls with no fear because who would want to fight me.
I’m pretty sure mom knew I was
gay when she caught me making two Barbies kiss. I mean, she was always around.
If she didn’t know me then no one did, but we never talked about it. I just
didn’t know how and she never pressured me or asked about it or said anything
about it one way or another. I was just her oldest daughter, her tall young
lady, her Janey and that was enough. But Dad, he had clear notions. He knew
what kind of daughter he wanted. He drew me a map or the life I would lead,
signed me up for debate team and National Honor’s Society, demanded I maintain
an appropriate GPA, no less than 3.8. He didn’t mind the sports as long as they
didn’t interfere with my academics because that was normal. They would make me
appear well rounded on my college apps. But the dating, that was normal too. I
needed to date and not just anyone, nice boys, brown boys with educated
parents, college bound boys. And he did manage to bully colleagues into setting
their sons up with me. I went to Homecoming. I even went to Winter Formal. Mom
dressed me up, pinned flowers in my hair to match my dress. She even put some
make-up on me. And even though I didn’t want to go, even though I felt like a
fake knowing just as well as those boys knew that we weren’t going to have a
happy ending, she made me feel beautiful. It made her smile to see me like
that.
But then she was gone. It all
happened so quickly. Or maybe it was a long time, between when she first
started to feel sick and when we knew it was cancer, between her first
treatments and when we were sitting with her in hospice. Time became irrelevant.
Every moment was both forever and also so fleeting, smoke through closed
fingers. When she was gone, we lost more than a mom and a wife. We lost
balance. We lost perspective. I keep wondering what would have happened had she
just stayed a little while longer. But she didn’t.
