Nikki Grimes - A Girl Named Mister

to an anxious couple

waiting for a child

to pour their love into

like a holy, healing potion.

So trash the notion

of throwing your baby away.”

My pulse pares down

to a steady rhythm.

“Did you ever consider

giving me away?”

“Things were different then,”

says Mom.

“I never would have seen

your sweet face again.

Nowadays, with open adoptions,

that’s all changed.”

I nod, understanding

at least a little.

“No promises,” I tell her,

giving Junior

a reassuring rub.

“I’ll think about it.”

At least,

I can chew on it now

seeing as how

the word adoption

no longer leaves

a bad taste

in my mind.

These days

when I pass Trey

in the hall

smooth-talking

his latest,

all I feel for him

is sorry

‘cause underneath those

lovely lashes,

his eyes are dead.

Funny how

I finally

notice that now.

Damn.

Sorry Lord, but

some gremlin must’ve

snuck into my room

in the middle of the night

and jammed syringes full of water

into my ankles. Again.

Tell me they don’t look

like blowfish

attached to the anchors

of my feet!

LaVonne squeezes up

to the lunch table

at eight months,

her belly nearly big enough

to rest her tray on.

She’s an island in a sea

of cool kids

and I can’t stand to see her

all alone, again.

That will be me real soon.

I pay for my sloppy joe

and OJ, and make my way

across the cafeteria.

“Mind if I join you?” I ask LaVonne.

“You sure you want to?

Might give you a bad name,” she says.

“The way I figure,” I tell her,

“we’re two of a kind.”

LaVonne snorts,

eyeing my middle.

“Not yet.

You’re hardly showing.

Just wait.”

Why do the last two words

weigh heavy on the air?

I don’t care to examine that question,

so I distract myself with another.

“Are you going to keep it,

or give it up for adoption?” I ask,

settling on the bench.

“Keep what?”

“The baby. ”

“You crazy?”

LaVonne explodes.

“You see the way it’s already

messed up my life,

like the fact

I ain’t got one?

Keep it? Hell no!

The second this thing

is outta me, it’s history.”

I shudder, afraid to fathom

exactly what she means.

“If you feel that way, then why-”

I catch myself

sticking my nose in.

“Never mind.”

LaVonne’s cheeks balloon

then, ever so slowly,

her anger fizzes out, like air.

“I waited too long,” she mutters.

“So sue me.”

I hunch over

my mediocre lunch,

wolf it faster than I should,

and jet at the jangle

of the change bell.

As I hurry through the halls,

I touch my stomach, thinking,

Don’t worry, Junior.

It’s not like that

with you and me.

Lonely, my disappointment

pricks like a needle

burning through my skin.

“It’s all right,”

God whispers in my ear.

I hardly hear him, though.

I’m just glad it didn’t take long

to find out how wrong I was,

thinking LaVonne and me

shared more than

a superficial similarity.

Last night,

I caught a news byte

while I set the dinner table,

something about

another baby being found dead.

“A needless tragedy,”

said the news woman.

Apparently, there’s this law:

If the mom was afraid

to keep her kid,

all she had to do

was to leave him

at the nearest hospital.

No questions asked.

The newswoman moved on

to the weather,

and I went back to

arranging utensils.

In between the clink

of knife, fork, and glass,

it hit me.

I maybe had heard something

about this law before.

I couldn’t exactly remember when.

Besides, I wasn’t paying

attention then.

Banana pancakes

are Mom’s favorite

Mother’s Day meal,

and I don’t disappoint.

I’m less messy than

when I was a kid,

but I still hold my breath until

she takes that first bite

and smiles.

She doesn’t know it yet,

but I’m treating her to a movie,

after church.

When we get there,

the pews are filled with moms

all dressed to kill.

Evangelist Pauline Devereax

gives the message.

It’s all about the mother

God handpicked

for his own son,

how she’s the one

we should look up to.

Don’t ask how many points

Sister Pauline ticked off

to prove her argument.

My human computer

only clicked Save on one:

She trusted God.

Who made her son on purpose,

who had a purpose for his life.

She trusted God

to see her child through.

“And so should you,” said Sister Pauline.

And all the church said,

“Amen!”

This evening on Joseph’s return

from the day’s labor,

his face is long, his jaw

unusually firm, as though

he has news I will not wish

to hear.

“I must go to Bethlehem,”

he says.

“Our family must be registered

for the Census.”

This makes no sense to me.

Yes, I understand that

the emperor’s decree is law,

but leave me? Now?

I breathe deep,

forcing my heart to slow.

“Husband,” I say,

“the child will be here any day.”

Joseph sighs and wraps me

in his arms.

“Forgive me, Mary,” he whispers.

“But I have no choice.”

I purse my lips and nod, thinking,

Then neither do I.

I nod, preparing

to bid my midwife farewell.

I nod, planning

what I will pack

for the journey.

“It is settled, then,”

I tell Joseph.

“We will both leave

in the morning.”

What was I thinking?

The long, dry road to Bethlehem

is littered with rough rock

and regret.

Mother, I miss you!

Maybe Joseph was right.

Maybe I should have clung

to the comfort of home,

or else remained behind

with my parents until

Joseph’s return.

What kept me from it?

Only that this baby feels

ready to come into the world,

and when he does,

I want both his fathers near.

And what is there to fear,

midwife or no?

Women have born children

since time began, yes?

Besides, I will not be alone.

The Lord of Heaven is at my side.

The donkey ride is slow and bumpy,

but eventually, we are there.

“Look!” says Joseph, excited.

“The foothills of Shephelah!

Bethlehem is just beyond.”

The baby begins kicking me fiercely,

ready to see Bethlehem

for himself.

What if

I keep my baby?

Mom lays it on me straight.

“I won’t lie to you,” she says.

“I’m here to help you,

no matter what.

But you need to understand

your life will be harder

than you can imagine.”

I try to. I do.

What would it be like,

daily diaper duty

and me still in school?