Hopewell says I got a real good chance. And look—ninety percent of their graduates end up at Juilliard. Don’t you get it? I could—”
Momma laughs, but not like she’s amused. “Martha, I hate to bust that bubble of yours, but people like us don’t get into no Joo-lee-yard.”
“What? What people?” Perfectly frozen, I wait for her to say it.
“Jesus Christ, do I gotta spell it out? Poor people, Martha. Hillbillies. White trash.”
“I am not white trash!” I kick the closest chair. “And if we’re so damn poor, how come you can buy all that beer?”
“Hey! If you had to put up with all the shit I’ve had to put up with in my life—”
She launches off on one of her poor-me rants, and I have to shout to be heard. “So what? Just because your whole life sucks, why do you have to screw up mine?”
But Momma can outshout me any day of the week. “My life didn’t suck till I married that father of yours, and you’re just—like—him! Always picking fights, always acting so high and mighty. And both of you with your goddamn music!” Momma kicks that same chair, hurtling it across the floor. “And now I gotta listen to you cryin’ about how I’m such a crappy mother. I don’t deserve this! ”
“Well, you’re the one who lets Wa-ayne slam me around!” Saying his name is like biting into a turd.
“You keep this up, I might let him do it again.”
“Good! Then I will call the cops and both your asses can sit in jail.”
She comes after me finally, but I’m one step ahead of her. “Selfish! That’s what you are, a selfish brat. Me, me, me, that’s all you think about! Never mind that we ain’t got a pot to piss in. Never mind me, never mind that I’m finally happy!”
“You’re not happy!” I scream. “You’re drunk all the time!”
“Since when do you care? All you care about is that good-for-nothing cello.”
“It’s not good for nothing. You’re good for nothing!”
Stone dead silence. As Momma’s face crumbles into blotchy pieces, it hits me what I just said. But before I can think of a way to make it better, she draws herself up and points to the frontdoor. “Well, seeing as you hate me so much,” she says quietly, “maybe Wayne’s right. Maybe you oughta get the hell out of here.”
At first I think she’s kidding. Then I realize she’s not. “Momma, I’m sorry I said that, I just—”
“Don’t you tell me you’re sorry! You think you’re too good for this family? Go find yourself another one.”
Breathing hard, I force my feet into the kitchen. I dial Shavonne’s number with a shaky finger, but it’s busy… busy… and then busy again.
“Didn’t I tell you to beat it?” Expressionless, Momma cracks open another can of beer and stares at the TV.
“I’m trying, Momma. But I don’t know where to go,” I croak, fighting back tears.
“That’s your problem, missy. You better think of something.”
How can I leave with no place to go? Sick to my stomach, I throw some clothes together and climb the fire escape through a torrent of snow. The first thing I hear as I tumble through Jerome’s window is: “I told ya, man, I don’t know nothin’ about no money!”
Jerome’s mattress is hanging limply off the bed, and Jerome and Anthony are nose-to-nose. Neither of them pays me a bit of attention.
“Don’t you be frontin’ me, man. I had it stashed there for weeks. It ain’t even mine, and now they be wanting it back, so stop fucking with me! ” Anthony howls that last part, and I can smell his panicked sweat.
“Well, it ain’t me who took it,” Jerome snaps. “I didn’t even know it was there.”
I sit perfectly still, lips cemented shut.
“You lying to me, nigga, you gonna be dead, you hear me?”
“I ain’t lying, man. Swear to God, I didn’t touch it.”
A car horn blasts and Anthony jumps, eyes bulging in horror. With an eruption of F-words, he shoves Jerome out of the way and bolts from the house.
Because it would
Momma laughs, but not like she’s amused. “Martha, I hate to bust that bubble of yours, but people like us don’t get into no Joo-lee-yard.”
“What? What people?” Perfectly frozen, I wait for her to say it.
“Jesus Christ, do I gotta spell it out? Poor people, Martha. Hillbillies. White trash.”
“I am not white trash!” I kick the closest chair. “And if we’re so damn poor, how come you can buy all that beer?”
“Hey! If you had to put up with all the shit I’ve had to put up with in my life—”
She launches off on one of her poor-me rants, and I have to shout to be heard. “So what? Just because your whole life sucks, why do you have to screw up mine?”
But Momma can outshout me any day of the week. “My life didn’t suck till I married that father of yours, and you’re just—like—him! Always picking fights, always acting so high and mighty. And both of you with your goddamn music!” Momma kicks that same chair, hurtling it across the floor. “And now I gotta listen to you cryin’ about how I’m such a crappy mother. I don’t deserve this! ”
“Well, you’re the one who lets Wa-ayne slam me around!” Saying his name is like biting into a turd.
“You keep this up, I might let him do it again.”
“Good! Then I will call the cops and both your asses can sit in jail.”
She comes after me finally, but I’m one step ahead of her. “Selfish! That’s what you are, a selfish brat. Me, me, me, that’s all you think about! Never mind that we ain’t got a pot to piss in. Never mind me, never mind that I’m finally happy!”
“You’re not happy!” I scream. “You’re drunk all the time!”
“Since when do you care? All you care about is that good-for-nothing cello.”
“It’s not good for nothing. You’re good for nothing!”
Stone dead silence. As Momma’s face crumbles into blotchy pieces, it hits me what I just said. But before I can think of a way to make it better, she draws herself up and points to the frontdoor. “Well, seeing as you hate me so much,” she says quietly, “maybe Wayne’s right. Maybe you oughta get the hell out of here.”
At first I think she’s kidding. Then I realize she’s not. “Momma, I’m sorry I said that, I just—”
“Don’t you tell me you’re sorry! You think you’re too good for this family? Go find yourself another one.”
Breathing hard, I force my feet into the kitchen. I dial Shavonne’s number with a shaky finger, but it’s busy… busy… and then busy again.
“Didn’t I tell you to beat it?” Expressionless, Momma cracks open another can of beer and stares at the TV.
“I’m trying, Momma. But I don’t know where to go,” I croak, fighting back tears.
“That’s your problem, missy. You better think of something.”
How can I leave with no place to go? Sick to my stomach, I throw some clothes together and climb the fire escape through a torrent of snow. The first thing I hear as I tumble through Jerome’s window is: “I told ya, man, I don’t know nothin’ about no money!”
Jerome’s mattress is hanging limply off the bed, and Jerome and Anthony are nose-to-nose. Neither of them pays me a bit of attention.
“Don’t you be frontin’ me, man. I had it stashed there for weeks. It ain’t even mine, and now they be wanting it back, so stop fucking with me! ” Anthony howls that last part, and I can smell his panicked sweat.
“Well, it ain’t me who took it,” Jerome snaps. “I didn’t even know it was there.”
I sit perfectly still, lips cemented shut.
“You lying to me, nigga, you gonna be dead, you hear me?”
“I ain’t lying, man. Swear to God, I didn’t touch it.”
A car horn blasts and Anthony jumps, eyes bulging in horror. With an eruption of F-words, he shoves Jerome out of the way and bolts from the house.
Because it would
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