Jumped Read online

  I couldn’t have a boyfriend that pretty. I mean, Scotty’s too pretty. Where would people focus when they see us together? That’s why they hang masterpieces apart, so people can appreciate each one. But hey. Dominique never looks concerned and Scotty’s sticking with his ape girl. His boy-girl. His eighteen-wheeler rig.

  He is still too pretty.

  Silent mwack to Scotty.

  24

  Girl Fights

  LETICIA

  YOU CAN FEEL IT UP and down A, B, and C. Girl fight. Girl fight. No one’s talking about it but the buzz is there, like the gray wall tiles are there. It’s in everyone’s eyes. Eager, like how you feel standing outside a party where they’re playing the hot dance jam and you can’t wait to get inside. Rocking hot excitement. Lotta bright eyes, lotta yeahs and unh-hms. Thick. Everywhere.

  No one cares about guys fighting. That’s, like, so what. You see that in the halls during bell change. But girl fights are something else. Girls don’t show off their skills when they fight. They don’t hold up their dukes and weave their heads side to side like cobras and come out quickstepping. Unlike two guys getting down, girls don’t try to look pretty. You know what boxing is, right? Two guys dancing and ducking to see who can stay pretty longest.

  Don’t let me be in my room on Friday night during fight time. Don’t let it be a pay-per-view match. Bernie confuses me with the son he never had and must share the boxing experience with his baby. ’Ticia, pretty, come watch this fight with your daddy.

  Like I did when I could still sit on his lap. We’re a long way from lap days but I’m still Daddy’s baby girl. Sports don’t thrill me one way or the other, but I need new clothes. My closet is stuffed with last year’s rags and I like those skirts that came out this year—but the genuine article—not those Canal Street knockoffs. You think I’d be caught wearing fake shit? I’m a Big Girl. I can’t wear nobody’s fake shit. You know those factory workers packed in a basement are too hungry and delirious to concentrate on the stitching. The fabric and thread are cheap too. Can you imagine, I’m walking down B Corridor and rrrip! Talk about mad and embarrassed. My stuff out in the open. So no. I can’t collect my weekly pennies from Bridgette and Bernie, hop the downtown train to Canal Street to push through the Chinese and whatnot to save a dollar on weak denim that’ll split and show my Vicky Secrets to the world. You know Vickys don’t cover it. Like I said, I’m a Big Girl. I gotta have my rags stitched right.

  Anyway, I give in, sink into the leather next to Bernie, lean in like I care, but it’s all the same Friday night fight to me. Bernie’s happy. He has his baby girl, the hi-def hookup, hot wings, and some beer. What more could he want on fight night?

  Two guys in silk shorts and matching sneaker boots touch gloves at the center of the ring. They have pretty names like Sugar This, Pretty Boy That, not Don’t Mess With Me, cause-I-will-take-these-ten-ounce-gloves-and-thump-your-head-deep-in-your-neck names. They spring back, dancing, showing each other their steps. The first two rounds their silk shorts bounce, sneakers shuffle, heads weave to connect and miss light taps to the air and almost to the rib cage, which the announcer calls the Sweet Science. By round three the gloves are heavy so out come the jabs. They pad a dow-two-three to the body, then wooohm-wooohm to the face, the eyes especially, to score that blood. The bell clangs, and Sugar dances to his corner, Pretty Boy to his, and I’m not even thinking about that hoochie in heels and bikini holding up the ROUND 4 card. The cut man takes a razor to Sugar’s puffed-shut lids so Sugar can see, while on the other side the corner man reaches into Pretty’s mouth and yanks out that nasty mouthpiece so Pretty can spit blood into a bucket. Now remember: hi-def hookup in the living room. Blood, teeth, sweat coming through the screen. I have to wipe my cheek. Why anyone pays money to see this, I can’t tell you, but don’t no one ask me if I work hard for my extra allowance. I fake pick a boxer to win and fake cheer for his red satin shorts. And if there’s a main event, I stick around for that too. I earn my extra change—plus I throw in some love for Bernie. And if Daddy peels me off a bill or two—Daddy’s not stupid, he knows I’m on the clock—then I worked hard. That’s right. I earned those bills. I can go to Bloomie’s or Macy’s and try stuff on, and send the girl out on the floor to fetch me another skirt in my size. That’s right. Let her work for a change.

  You can say that it’s not work watching a couple of guys in silk shorts dancing around showing off their skills, but I put in the time. I do the work. And the two guys are about showing off their skills.

  Girl fights? Girl fights aren’t hardly about showing off skills. Girl fights are ugly. Girl fights are personal.

  25

  Hey

  TRINA

  “HEY.”

  “Hey.”

  “Tree-na.”

  “Hey.”

  Feel all this love. Popular. What? So many fans. So many friends and so many who want to be. They either caught the shaky-shake and stomp in the caf or they saw my artwork in the gallery. I need a Princess Di wave. No diamond tiara because I have my lucky gold chain and all my subjects adore me. The love keeps pouring.

  “Trina. He-ey.”

  “Hey.”

  Back in my old school, I spent more time at home on the sofa watching soaps, TV judges, and paternity shows than I spent in class. What can I say? The old school was full of haters. You know how it is—fresh out of middle school, you’re still a little wild. Still surprised by everything going on with you. So you look at someone who is cool with everything and you’re hating because you’re, like, “What does she know that I don’t?” Translation: I wish I could be her.

  And my appendix burst in gym. That also kept me home on the sofa. They should have believed me when I said I had pain. No one believed me until I was down on the wooden floor sweating, clutching my side. Then they believed. The ambulance came in a flash.

  But it was cool. It all worked out for the best. I don’t mind repeating because I know I’m not dumb. I’m not lazy. I just spent too many days home. It didn’t matter how much my teachers loved me or how well I did, it all came down to the number of days. “We love you, Trina, but you’ve had too many days out. What can we do?”

  The guidance counselor truly loved me. “Trina,” she said, “you’re gifted.”

  Yes, yes. I know.

  “You have a talent for beauty. Color.”

  You can’t miss that.

  “I’ve been talking to your teachers and we agree that you have an aptitude for art.”

  No one had used a word like that for me. Aptitude. She didn’t have to explain it. I got it. I have the habilidad. I am apt to make beauty and color.

  “Look at this brochure. This is your new school.” Her last few words played like music. She said, “They have an art program.”

  The brochure was made of heavy, high-gloss paper. When the guidance counselor put it down before me, the crease made a loud croc against the desk. It was serious paper. Of course they show the school building and kids smiling on the cover, and now that you go here you know that those kids must have been cutting. And then you open the brochure and like the heavy slick feeling of the paper. It isn’t throwaway paper. Inside they have all the high school things: the basketball team, the student government, the science lab, and tucked in the corner, the art program. A man with too much hair and a mustache is showing a girl how to draw. I didn’t know at the time it was Mr. Sebastian, but I put my face where the girl’s face was. Next year some girl would see my face in the new brochure on serious high-gloss paper and wish she were me.

  I knew this was the right place from the beginning. Everyone was like, “Hey,” when they saw me coming down B Corridor. And the school has this art program where Mr. Sebastian calls the classrooms studios. C Corridor outside our studio is the gallery. When we’re painting or sketching or sculpting we’re artists. When he needs to get us quiet we are “Class,” in that flat duck-quack voice. We like being artists. It’s a different feeling than being a math or biology
or social studies student. Mr. Sebastian plays music while we work. A lot of strings and horns and piano fighting for air, but we’re used to it. He gives us a different language in that class and he expects us to use it. Like, you can’t say “That’s deep.” You have to say “That has texture” and “Those colors are vibrant.” You have to use the artist language. “When you’re in Spanish class, you speak Spanish, yes?” he says. “Well, we speak art in the studio.”

  It was hard, speaking art, in the beginning. The first few weeks when we were getting to know each other Mr. Sebastian stayed on my case for using “pretty” and “cute” and “nice.” Pretty, cute, and nice don’t belong in the studio. But I don’t care. I’m nice, I like pretty, and cute never hurt anybody.

  “Hey, Trina.”

  Princess Di wave. “Hey.”

  26

  Ignore

  LETICIA

  Leticia: Its on.

  Bea: OMG!!!

  Leticia: At 2:45. Coming?

  Bea:

  Leticia: R U Coming?

  Bea: Did U tell her?

  Leticia:

  Bea: Did U tell her?

  Leticia:

  Bea: TSha tell her.

  Leticia:

  Bea: TSHA!!!

  27

  Bing, Bang, Boom

  DOMINIQUE

  BING, BANG, BOOM. BING, BANG, BOOM. Six triangles on my essay. Black ink dug deep in the margin. Bing, bang, boom. A chain of black triangles. Didn’t know I was doing it. Making them. Linking them. Can’t stop myself. Why stop now? Might as well go to the end. Down to the last line. Seven. Eight. Bing, bang, boom.

  It doesn’t matter which book we read. The Red Badge of Courage or Of Mice and Men. She asks the same questions. We write the same essay. At least I do. It’s all the same triangle:

  Point of No Return

  Rising Action Falling Action

  Bang

  Bing Boom

  I felt bad for Lennie in Of Mice and Men. Lennie was set up. He had to do what he did. Even if it was an accident, it had to go down like that. It was all set in motion from jump. I put that down in my essay. Wrote it out, piece by piece. The rising action. How George set Lennie up. How he was supposed to have Lennie’s back but he didn’t. That was all Steinbeck. Steinbeck set Lennie up. Made him big, dumb, and too strong for his own good. Made him like soft things. Made him kill every soft thing he touched. What choice did Lennie have? What else was he going to do when that soft blonde flit came shaking her blonde curls in his face? Putting her blonde curls in his hands for him to grab. Big, strong, and dumb. Kill every mouse, every puppy, every soft thing. Steinbeck did that. Made Lennie too strong, too dumb, and Lennie couldn’t stop himself. It had to play out that way. Point of no return. He didn’t have no one looking out for him. Not really. Not George. Not Steinbeck. No one. Then who comes and tells him to close his eyes? Tells him to dream about the rabbits. Soft rabbits. And Lennie’s crying, man. Big, dumb, strong, and crying like a weak little bitch. And who takes him out? Who pumps a Luger full of lead into Lennie? Who? The one who’s supposed to be his boy. And I wrote that down in the essay. All of it. I laid it out under falling action. Bing, bang, boom.

  28

  Truth in Art

  TRINA

  “ARTISTS, WHEN YOU HAVE A SHOWING, let the work speak for itself. The patrons will study, admire, question, like, or strongly dislike. Let them. It’s art.”

  I stand out in the gallery, shining like one hot, bright star, loving my artwork. Mr. Sebastian forgot to say love. How can you not love what I’m giving? Harriet Tubman has never worn a more colorful dress. “I Have a Dream” never looked so dreamy. How’s this for the language of art?: All of my art has a point of view, and look! Just look. Pretty, pretty, mmmwack! Pretty. Sorry, Mr. Sebastian: Pretty, bonita, and linda are the right words!

  “That doesn’t look like Malcolm.”

  I gasp. “Bite your tongue, it does.”

  Ivan and I go back and forth—does, does not. His art is good if you like cartoons, Japanese kids with big eyes, and comic book heroes.

  Ivan is little-brother cute so I have to tease him. He blushes too easily. I sing, “Someone’s eyes are gree-een. Someone’s eyes are gree-een.” He says I’m tripping but I’m no stranger to the jealous, green-eyed monster. What?

  I say, “You wish you could create like this.”

  He accuses me of sniffing paint fumes. Funny. Too funny. But he’s staring at my belly and he isn’t looking for my appendix scar. What did I tell you?

  I wouldn’t want to peek inside his sketch pad. I don’t want to see his drawings of me. Even worse, drawings of us. I can imagine what he has us doing. But I’m used to little boys. I know he’s deep down suffering for me. I can’t do nothing about that. Face it. If I treat him to the famous Trina shaky-shake, we will have a disgusting puddle of boy right at the gallery underneath my magnificent showing. Instead I respect him as an artist and share my process.

  I tell him how I took a big picture of Malcolm from the library. Then I hit ENLARGE on the photocopier. Then I took it home, and with my special mix—sorry, secret—I painted over the face. Then, when it dried, I took the face and cut it up. You know. Cubes. Rectangles. Picasso. Then I painted the different parts of the face in black and red because Malcolm was assassinated, you know, so blood is red, his hair was red, so red was my theme. Anyone who rents the movie X will see my point of view right away.

  Ivan says, “That’s wack.”

  Oh my God! My face is turning colors. I’m hot and sweating and it reminds me of my appendix bursting.

  I don’t let myself get hot and angry like this. I don’t let people do that to me. Instead I do what I do when people hate on me. I turn them off, click, drown out their negativity, and tell myself loud, loud, loud I have talent and aptitude. Yes. Aptitude. Habilidad.

  I caress his face from the cheek to the chin. So smooth. He has a way to go before becoming a man. I say, “So young. So immature.”

  He wipes away the trace of my finger. Even though we’re the same age, I know through Ivan what it’s like to have a little brother. But it works. He is madder than I was a second ago so I win.

  Ivan, a boy who draws his head on musclemen’s bodies, can’t stand it. What? He wants to get back at me. Green eyes don’t lie. He wants to start up about Rosa and Harriet, but that’s too much in one day and Mr. Sebastian is ready to begin. I leave Ivan in the gallery.

  I try to close the door behind me but Ivan doesn’t stay left for long. He follows me into the studio over to our worktable. There is enough room for him to work elsewhere, but who does he want to sit with? What a puppy dog.

  There’s only two charcoal pencils on each worktable. They’re already sharpened. Mr. Sebastian doesn’t believe in wasting time standing at the sharpener so he prepares everything before each class. Even our sketch pads are waiting for us.

  Every year Mr. Sebastian sells one of his paintings and uses the money for our art supplies. He gets us the best stuff. Professional. What? Feel the sketch paper. The bumps. Excuse me, excuse me. Texture. Once you caress the paper you don’t want to draw stupidness, tear out and crumple up the sheets. It isn’t throwaway paper. And there is the newspaper article on the wall about Mr. Sebastian selling his painting. You care about the paper. I do.

  I try to make him smile. I give him the goodness that is Trina but he won’t let me break through. He isn’t easy like Shel-E-Shel. When I break through Mr. Sebastian we will both be glad. Here he is, Mr. Art Man with a studio down under the Brooklyn Bridge, all of this art, all of these colors, paints, pens, pencils, and music, and you would think happy. Young. Right? I have never seen serious like Mr. Sebastian. Personally I think Mr. Sebastian has a broken heart. His fiancée told him the baby isn’t his. His best friend is dying a horrible death. Mr. Sebastian is too serious. Too sad.

  “Artists!” he says. “Sit facing your tablemate.”

  Ivan and I face each other. His
eyes are still green with envy. My eyes sparkle at him.

  “It’s portrait day. For this period one of you will pose and one will draw. Next period, switch.”

  I raise my hand. Before he calls on me I blurt out, “Where are the colored pencils, Mr. Sebastian?”

  He shakes his head. “In your charcoal.”

  “You mean he”—I point to my annoying hermanito—“will draw me black and white and I’ll draw him black and white? That’s all? That’s all?”

  Now, you will not believe this. There is a smile on Mr. Sebastian’s face. He should do it more often, but that’s not the point. I give him crazy point of view, surrealism, cubes, unheard-of mixes for the color brown, and for those I get a nod and a “Good.” But I want color and for this he cracks a smile.

  In a cartoon voice, Ivan laughs, “An-hanh.”