Nikki Grimes - A Girl Named Mister

eating my dust.

Slickwillow@znet.com

“i’m pregnant,” I write.

“i guessed,” answered Sethany.

“there had 2 be some reason

ur sick all the time.

other kids notice 2 btw.

i was just waiting

4 u 2 tell me,

on ur own.”

“yeah. well, i don’t know

how i’m gonna tell my mom.”

“what did trey say?”

“didn’t tell him yet, either.”

“what r u waiting 4?”

I’m not sure

how to answer that.

Eventually, I type in

“armageddon.”

“Shalom!”

A voice melodious as a lyre

fills the family courtyard.

There is only one person it could be.

I throw my arms around Hadassah,

my girlhood friend.

As ever, I am happy when

she comes to visit me.

She greets my parents before

we climb to the roof

for a leisurely hour

of weaving and conversation.

After trading ordinary news,

we work side by side,

silent at our hand looms

while the sun lavishes her warmth

on our spring afternoon.

Too soon, though,

the silence grows heavier than

I am used to.

Hadassah is the first

to shatter the stillness.

“You have changed

since I saw you last,” she says,

noticing that I am larger

than she remembers,

though not knowing why.

Thankfully, the billowing

folds of my garment

do much to hide my belly

four months swollen with child.

I wave off Hadassah’s comment,

as if there were

no truth to it,

and weave on,

wondering if she will

press the point.

Thankfully, she does not.

Yet, I can almost feel her

penetrating stare,

hungry for the one secret

I can never share.

But suddenly I realize

the perfect way

to throw her off the scent.

“Have I mentioned

that Joseph and I

are soon to wed?”

Hadassah’s hands leave the loom

long enough to clap for joy.

“I knew it!” she cries.

“Tell me everything.”

I try on shirts

with Sethany for company.

She stares at me,

stares at my reflection

in the mirror,

eyes lingering on

my lower half.

She makes faces

at my belly

till I have to laugh.

Of course, we both know

there’s nothing funny

about my trouble.

“Time to tell Trey,” says Sethany,

catching me off guard.

I cut my eyes at her.

“Hey! That’s all I got to say

on the subject.”

Which means

she’s just getting started.

“Seth!”

I groan loud enough

for her to hear.

“It’s gonna be rough,

still, the daddy

needs to know.”

On and on she goes.

“I’m not saying

it’s gonna be easy,

but at least you know

God’ll give you the words.”

I snort. “Yeah. If he’s still

talking to me.”

“Ooooh,” says Sethany.

“I see. So, you’re telling me

God forgives murderers,

but can’t forgive you.

Well, that’s a new one.”

Sarcasm aside, she’s got a point.

“Say you’re right,”

I concede,

“so what?”

“Get up in his face

and spit it out,” says Sethany.

“Don’t go shy all of a sudden.”

I nod, whisper, “Okay.”

Then Sethany switches her attention

to new shirts I should

try on.

“Look at this one,” she says,

holding up a green number.

“It’ll bring out your eyes.”

Then, she surprises me

with a hug,

guessing how badly

I need one.

Soft as fleece,

God’s forgiveness

falls over me

like a quilt,

and this time,

I let it smother

my guilt.

The next morning,

I feel strong enough

to carry out my plan.

Today, I’ll tell Trey, I think.

Him first, then Mom.

That settled,

I march into school

and wait by Trey’s locker.

I lean against the door,

close my eyes,

and let the combination lock

dig into my spine-

anything to keep me

from feeling numb.

“I got some treasure in there

I don’t know about?” asks Trey.

I look up, part my lips

and manage, “Hi.”

“Whoa! This mean

you talking to me again?”

Tell him. Go on!

“Trey, I-uhm, I-”

My mouth fails,

my practiced speech

becomes a heap

of dead syllables

crushed between my teeth.

“Cat got your tongue?” says Trey.

I nod, turn away,

but somehow stop myself

from running.

Do it. Do it!

I tell myself,

then turn back,

wrap my tongue

around the truth,

and throw it like a ball,

hard as I can

till it hits home.

“Trey, I’m pregnant.

And it’s yours.”

“I’m too young

to have a kid,

and so, I don’t,”

says Trey.

“You need to take

that fairy tale

to some other fool.”

His words ricochet

inside my head,

hot and deadly.

“There is no one but you,”

I say.

“Oh, yeah? And how do

I know that’s true?

Because you say it?”

Trey slams his locker door

like the period

at the end of his sentence,

and he’s gone.

The bell rings,

and I’m left gasping

in the hall.

Glad there was a wall

to lean on.

Blinded by fear

masquerading as teardrops,

I feel my way

to the school exit,

and leave, lost,

struggling to register

a new definition

of lonely:

the baby growing inside of me

the only company

I can count on.

And, maybe, if I’m lucky,

God.

Odd, that I hardly

feel my feet

as I wander the streets

pointed toward Broadway.

I turn, on automatic pilot,

pass the Audubon Ballroom

and the ghost of Malcolm X,

wishing, if only for a moment-

Lord, forgive me-

wishing I could join him,

that I could simply

disappear.

It’s Friday night.

Mom sticks her head in the door,

waving a video cassette.

I bet it’s some old-school flick

like Casablanca.

She loves that stuff.

Not me, but I love her.

Plus, its our ritual,

huddling on the sofa

close as bone and skin,

in celebration mode,

ticking off another week gone by

and us alive and well

despite the dangers of these streets,

this world.

Just us girls.

But I can’t risk cuddling anymore.

So when Mom says, “Come here, baby”

and reaches out,

I shout, “Stop calling me baby!”

before I’m sure my mouth

is even working.

Mom leaps back from the punch.

Softer, I say, “I’m sorry. It’s just that

I’m not a baby anymore.”

“Well,” Mom says,

“I guess you’ve grown up, overnight.”

She sighs. “Alright. I stand corrected.”

I nod, wanting to hug her,

wanting to squeeze away the heap of hurt

that makes her shoulders slump,

but if I get too close,

she’ll feel the bump and know.

So I sit at one end of the sofa,

and Mom sits at the other.

For the first time

we’re together,

alone.

Mom’s twenty-nine. Again.

So I count out candles for her cake,