Читать книгу Black Enough: Stories of Being Young & Black in America - Ibi Zoboi - Страница 14

I have spent seven whole days with my sister.

Today is the last day of camp. Most times I am happy to see the campers go. Most times I am ready to get back to my regular life. But not this time.

Word has spread that Brooke broke the curse. She met the Oak Creek Monster and lived to tell the story. No one else has done that. It is all everyone is talking about until Mrs. Thompson comes into the cafeteria. Then, all the voices fade to whispers and everyone keeps pointing and oohing and aahing at the girl who looked a monster in the eyes and survived.

After breakfast the Blue and Green Campers head back to our cabin to pack. It is tradition that the last day is a free day, which usually ends up being me and Natasha doing the girls’ hair. After a week of being in and out of the rain, most of us need a touch-up, some a complete do-over. I spend the afternoon braiding and twisting. I have done Robin’s and Cat’s hair, and then I ask Brooke, “Do you want me to do yours?”

She sits in the chair in front of me and I start parting and flat-twisting the front. The girls orbit around her. “So tell us again what happened,” Robin says.

Brooke retells the story of meeting the Oak Creek Monster.

The girls respond with “Really?” and “But weren’t you scared?” and “I can’t believe you did that.” I fan the flame, telling them “You should have seen her” and “I’m so proud.”

Mercy sighs. “All this talk about Brooke conquering the Oak Creek Monster, but there’s no proof. We said you had to prove it.”

I take my phone out of my pocket just as Brooke’s voice rises, “You think I had time to get proof while I was escaping a monster? Besides, my sister was there—she saw everything. She’s my proof.”

I put my phone back in my pocket, keep our secret. Watch everyone looking at me, at Brooke, as we rotate around our sun.

“You two are sisters?” Mercy asks.

Brooke says, “Yeah,” so matter-of-fact that no one says anything else about it. Natasha looks at me and, with my eyes I tell her I’ll explain it all later.

Standing here with a handful of Brooke’s hair in my palm makes me wonder what it would have been like to grow up with a little sister. Natasha has two younger brothers who she helped teach how to read and tie shoes and throw punches on the playground if someone was messing with them. I think about how even though I have Mom and plenty of cousins and friends, I don’t know what it’s like to have a sibling.

Maybe it would be like this. Me doing her hair and chaperoning sleepovers, me making sure she knows which way to walk, how to get where she’s trying to go. Me knowing that I would do anything to make sure she is safe.

Just before the campers board the bus to leave, Brooke turns to me and whispers, “Don’t forget to send me the picture,” with a smile stretched across her face. She takes my phone and puts her number in it. When she gets on the bus, she sits with Robin, and as they leave they wave big elaborate goodbyes. I wave back until I can’t see them anymore.

I take out my phone to text Brooke the picture, but when I look at the photo, I realize it is blurry and Brooke is not even looking at the camera and half of the woman’s face is cut out of the frame so you can’t really tell who we’re standing next to. I text the photo to Brooke anyway because I promised I would. It’s not the proof we thought we’d have, but we’ll always have this memory; we’ll always be able to tell the story.

I head back to my cabin. The wind has settled and the branches of the black cottonwood trees are still. There are no snow-seeds blowing furiously in the sky, but remnants from last night’s storm cover the damp ground. The sweet fragrance from the fallen fluff fills the air.

I breathe it in, sing Grandma’s song.