Читать книгу Black Enough: Stories of Being Young & Black in America - Ibi Zoboi - Страница 9

It looks like it snowed last night. The black cottonwood trees are fragrant and sweet smelling and the wind has blown their fluff across the campgrounds. The snow-like flowers stand out bright against the darkness of the fallen brown branches. I am sitting on the porch in a rocking chair across from Mercy, Cat, and Hannah, who are sitting on the steps.

We are waiting for Robin to come down so we can head over to the dining hall for breakfast. Natasha’s group got to the showers first, so my girls had to wait. Natasha and I were smart enough to take our showers last night, because we know how these things go.

“I’ll see you all over there,” Natasha says to me as she leads the Blue Campers out the door, Brooke dragging behind them like the caboose of a train. I was relieved that she wasn’t in my group, but having her this close to me, in the same cabin, is just as awkward.

We still haven’t spoken to each other. What is there to say?

I watch Brooke as she walks to the dining hall and wonder what she is thinking, wonder what she knows about me, my mom. The other Blue Campers are walking side by side up the pathway, close to Natasha, who is leading the way up the steep hill. I watch Brooke trying to keep up, her plump legs climbing as fast as they can. I don’t think Natasha or the other girls realize how far behind she is.

The food at Oak Creek is some of the best eating I’ve ever had. The head cook is from New Orleans, and everything about her meals reminds us of where she is from. The dining hall is a symphony of mouths chewing, mouths talking, mouths laughing, mouths yelling across the room. Mrs. Thompson makes an announcement that it is the last call for the kitchen and if anyone wants more, they should go up now.

The symphony continues. More mouths chewing, mouths talking, mouths laughing, mouths yelling across the room. And then Mercy’s voice cuts through all the noise, like a siren. “You’re too fat to be getting seconds!”

I turn to see who Mercy is yelling at, getting ready to give my lecture about kindness and respect, because I am seventeen and that is what I am supposed to do, be an example. When I turn around, I see Brooke standing there with her tray, head down.

“Yeah,” one of the Blue Campers says, “you think just because you got long hair and expensive things you’re all that. But you’re not. You could barely walk up the hill this morning. You need to go on a diet.”

I don’t know what Brooke’s hair and belongings have to do with her weight. Sometimes, it’s easier to be mean to a person than to admit that you wish you were that person.

All the girls except Robin laugh. I think maybe I should say something since I am a fake big sister to Mercy and a real big (half) sister to Brooke. If Mrs. Thompson was standing here, she’d be disappointed and tell me that she expects more from me. If Mom was standing here, she’d be disappointed and tell me it’s not Brooke’s fault my dad left. She’d tell me I can’t go giving Brooke these feelings that really belong to Dad. But neither of them is standing here, so I don’t have to do what I know they’d want me to do. Besides, before I can even open my mouth, Natasha is already handling it. “It’s none of your business what she eats,” Natasha says. She puts her arm around Brooke, like a big sister would.

I find the words I know I should say and reprimand Mercy and the girl from the Blue group, but something in their eyes tells me they don’t believe I am as upset as I am pretending to be. Once I threaten to tell Mrs. Thompson, they agree to apologize. Brooke doesn’t even acknowledge them when they say, “Sorry.” She just keeps her eyes straight ahead, not looking at me either.

The Green Campers and the Blue Campers walk over to the cabin where workshops are held. Robin walks close enough to Mercy and her clique to be one of them but also close enough to Brooke to say, I see you, I know. I notice Brooke struggling again to get up the hill. She is breathing hard and sweating.

I could walk slower, let the others go ahead and stay behind with Brooke, but instead, I walk with my Green Campers. They are my responsibility; they are the reason I am here.

Natasha and I are outside on the back porch waiting for the botany class to end. The black cottonwood trees are still shedding. It looks like someone made a wish and blew a million dandelions into the sky. I am imagining a million of my wishes coming true, wondering what it would be like to want nothing, when I hear the botany teacher say, “Black cottonwoods are also known as healing trees, as they are good for healing all types of pains and inflammations. Some say this tree possesses the balm of Gilead because of the nutrients that hide in the buds and bark. Throughout centuries people have made salves from the tree to heal all kinds of ailments.”

When I hear this, I think of Grandma’s gospel records and how she is always humming along with Mahalia Jackson:

There is a balm in Gilead,

there is a balm in Gilead.

The botany teacher says, “There was a time when there was no hospital to go to and people knew how to rely on the earth to supply what they needed, how to mend themselves.”

There is a balm in Gilead

to make the wounded whole.

Natasha says, “You listening to me?”

I say yes, even though I am not because she is just talking about her boyfriend again, asking (but not really asking) if she should break up with him.

There is a balm in Gilead

to save a sin-sick soul.