Keesha's House by Helen Frost Page B

food, no ride.
    I didn’t run off. I shivered in the backyard, waitin’ for the sun.

SOME LITTLE THING      CARMEN
    I’ll be sixteen in seven months,
    and I know how to drive.
    When Dontay had to find his own ride home,
    Grandmama was asleep. I know where she keeps
    her keys. I borrowed them and drove as careful as I could
    out to that house he’s stayin’ at. By the time I left
    him off, it was after curfew. I turned left
    on Main Street, thinkin’ ’bout the time we all got stopped last month
    in that same place, thinkin’ I could
    go a different way. Shoulda done that, but I thought I’d drive
    that short way, take my chances. Tried to keep
    an eye out, but I got stopped before I made it home.
    That is, to Grandmama’s house—what I call home
    since Mama and her boyfriend left
    for Cincinnati. I keep
    thinkin’ she’ll be back, but it’s five months
    now, and I’ve about stopped hopin’ she’ll drive
    up any minute. I guess it could
    happen—prob’ly won’t, but could.
    Anyhow, for now, Grandmama’s house is home.
    Or was until she woke up to flashin’ lights and saw the cops drive
    up. They gave her back her keys, told her I was DUI. Left
    me handcuffed in their car tryin’ not to cry. I’ll prob’ly get two months
    this time. Don’t know why I keep
    on gettin’ in this kind of trouble. I keep
    tryin’ to do right—thought I could
    help out with this month’s
    rent. Now it looks like I won’t be home
    or makin’ any kind of money for a while. I’ll miss what’s left
    of school, or at least too much to make up. This could drive
    you crazy: Just try to do some little thing like drive
    a friend that needs a ride, and you keep
    findin’ yourself locked up, nothin’ left
    to do but sit around thinkin’ how you could
    be out with friends—or home.
    You think about that stuff for months,
    and when those months are finally over, everything you left
    behind is different. You feel like jumpin’ in the nearest car and drivin’
    outta town, keepin’ goin’ till you find someplace that feels like home.

THAT ONE WORD      HARRIS
    I got invited to the winter dance.
    Think how that’s supposed to be: Mom, Dad,
    there’s someone I’d like you to meet,
    someone special in my life, someone
    who loves me as much as I love him.
    Freeze frame on that one word: Did you say
    him ? I used to try to think of how I’d say
    it, how I’d let them know there’d be no dancing
    at my wedding, no grandkids. Finally I just told them about him
    and watched my world explode. What it meant to Dad
    was that he didn’t know me. I turned into someone
    he’s hated all his life. He wouldn’t meet
    my friend. Why would I want to meet
    the person who ruined your life? I couldn’t say,
    No, Dad, I ruined his. They couldn’t imagine just someone
    I loved who loved me. Now Mom and Dad and I can’t dance
    around the subject like we used to. Dad
    said if I didn’t have enough respect for him
    to act normal , how could I expect him
    to keep supporting me? I couldn’t meet
    his eyes when he said that. I was ashamed of Dad
    and myself at the same time. I didn’t say
    much, but after that, the winter dance
    seemed like a childish game. Overnight, I became someone
    different—older, tougher, on my own. Someone—
    me—with no parents to support him.
    I was scared enough to ask a girl to the dance,
    thinking I could bring her home to meet
    my parents. Maybe they’d let me come back. I’d say,
    It was just something I went through—really, Dad,
    it isn’t true. But she said no. Anyway, Dad
    would never have believed me. I can’t pretend to be someone
    I’m not. No matter what Mom might say
    (and she’s not saying much), to him
    I might as well be dead. There’s just no way to