Читать книгу Drama High: Culture Clash - L. Divine - Страница 12

“They schools ain’t teachin’ us what we need to know to survive/

They schools don’t educate, all they teach the people is lies.”

—DEAD PREZ

I didn’t get to chill with my girls yesterday at all because I had to meet with Mrs. Malone about my English paper topic. And being that it was a regular short Tuesday yesterday for teacher’s meetings, I had no time to do anything but get to class and sit in my mandatory AP meetings during lunch and break, which are now on Tuesdays and Thursdays until the AP exams are over.

With the AP exams less than two months away, teachers and students alike are feeling the pressure. This is my first year on the AP track, and so far it hasn’t been too different from the honors classes I took last year, except for the meetings. Being a sophomore was bliss compared to my junior year. If it weren’t for my friends, school would be unbearable, especially now that I have to deal with Mrs. Bennett twice a week. I’m just glad that Mr. Adewale is here full-time now, to balance out the evil Mrs. B’s presence in my life.

Speaking of bitches, I talked to Rah briefly about his and his ex Sandy’s living situation, and it was less than favorable for me. I’m not sure what to do about loving Rah, and I know he’s just trying to do the right thing, but I’m convinced that living with Sandy is not it. How can I get him to understand where I’m coming from without sounding like a jealous hater? Until she’s out of his house I can’t be in his life the way he wants me to be. In his mind, he and I, along with his daughter, Rahima, could be the perfect teenage family. I don’t know what dream world he’s living in, but I could never be down with that arrangement as long as Sandy’s receiving mail at his address.

I didn’t share with Mama this latest development in my soap opera with Rah, but I did tell her about my school drama during her regularly scheduled hair appointment at Netta’s shop yesterday afternoon. She and Netta, Mama’s best home girl, gave me advice on how to deal with racial injustice on a spiritual level, and also assigned me spirit homework to accompany the verbal lesson. As if I didn’t already have enough work to do. Mr. Adewale taking over my Spanish class has been a mixed blessing indeed. I have more studying in that class now than ever before. But luckily most of our homework for debate class is writing responses to the topics discussed in class. There’s also some reading, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.

Now that me and my crew have fourth period together and we’re friends again, it’s fun being in class with them. And with the topics that Mr. Adewale chooses, there’s always plenty for us to argue about. And from the look of the topic on the board, today’s no exception.

As soon as we’re all settled in our seats, class begins with a bang.

“So, our debate topic for the day deals with race in society. Is America truly a melting pot and, if it is, does race still matter?” Mr. Adewale’s good at choosing insightful topics to discuss. It’s also interesting being in a general education class, where most of the black students are. I’ve never been in a class at South Bay where the white students are the minority. It feels empowering to free up a bit and not be the only black student.

“Hell no, it ain’t no melting pot. This ain’t nacho cheese,” Del says, starting the debate off with a bang.

“It won’t become one because you all won’t let it,” Candace, one of the few white girls in the class, states. She sounds like she could be friends with Jeremy, who looks at her and smiles. Jeremy sits all the way back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, ready to watch the sparks fly.

“I don’t understand,” Emilio says. He sounds so sexy with his Spanish accent. I know most of the females in here would love an opportunity to hear him say their names over and over again.

“We know you don’t,” KJ says, making him and his boys laugh.

“That’s enough, KJ. I told you no disrespect would be allowed in this class at all,” Mr. Adewale says, checking KJ once and for all.

“What I mean to say is that I’m curious as to why America would want to melt away the uniqueness of each culture. There’s very little individuality in this country, if you ask me.”

“Good point, Emilio,” Mr. A says proudly. He loves it when his students think before they speak, as he states all the time. “Any counters?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a counter,” Jeremy says, sitting his tall frame erect in his seat, ready to give my new crush a run for his money. “This is one country with one constitution and one people, thus one culture. We can honor the various customs of the people within our society. But America is one melting pot.”

“And the people living here should either accept that or roll out.” Matt has been pissed with me since our discussion at the drama club meeting the other day. And I see he’s chosen our debate class as the perfect forum to vent his frustration.

“But some of the people who are here didn’t exactly have a choice in coming to this land, so we should be able to live our culture freely. Isn’t that also a part of our constitution?” Emilio looks across the room at me and smiles. Mr. A also smiles at my statement; obviously proud that at least one of us is speaking the truth. Other than Ms. Toni, everyone else in the administration would shudder at my words.

“Oh, here we go with slavery again. It’s the end of Black History Month, we know. Can we please move on from the past?” Candace says, sounding like the privileged white girl she is.

“Candace, it’s not in the past. That’s the point. The racism from times of captivity may have been more blatant, but the institutionalized racism is worse, because everyone can’t see it and some people actually choose to be blind,” I say, turning my focus to Jeremy. This is an argument we’ve had many times before and will continue to have as long as he thinks with a stick up his ass about the subject.

“Why are y’all always so angry?” Candace asks, silencing every black student in the previously bustling room. If we weren’t afraid of suffering the consequences, I think we would all be down for locking the door and giving her a proper ass-whipping right here and now. But we’ll have to settle this battle with our words instead.

“Because we’re always referred to as ‘y’all,’” I say. For the moment it doesn’t matter that Misty, KJ, and I don’t get along. Mickey and Shae even look at each other, ready to jump the white girl together if need be. Instantly, all the black students are unified against the others in the room. And they know it. Like my very first week at South Bay High as a sophomore, when a notorious skinhead wore a racist shirt on campus and promptly got his ass beat, we join forces when need be.

“That’s why we need a black history class, because y’all fools up here don’t know shit about being black,” KJ says heatedly. I don’t usually have anything nice to say about my pompous ex-boyfriend. But today I’m proud of him.

“We need our own club,” I say, speaking the first idea in my head. Mr. Adewale looks at me, his hazel eyes sparkling as if I said exactly what was on his mind, too. The bell rings, momentarily saving the white people in the room from having to discuss the subject any further.

“Good class today, and don’t forget to read the next chapter in your textbooks and have a valid response ready for tomorrow’s class,” Mr. Adewale says, rising from his desk and walking over to where I’m seated, still hot from the conversation. I don’t know why I always let these people up here get on my nerves. It’s not like the administration would ever teach true tolerance and respect, because they don’t have to. According to them, anyone who’s not white is the minority in every way, damned with how unjust their melting pot is.

“Jayd, if you’re serious about forming your own group, I’ll be happy to consider being your adviser.”

“I’m very serious,” I say, finally putting my textbook in my backpack and rising from my seat, ready to enjoy a relaxing lunch period. I need to cool off, and Jeremy inviting me out for Mexican food is all the chill I need. “It’s long overdue.” I’m so glad we have another black teacher to join Ms. Toni that I could shout it from the rooftop of the main office. If this were a plantation, the office would definitely be the big house, the classrooms the slave quarters, and the vast majority of the teachers would be the overseers. The problem is that most of these teachers don’t see themselves as being racist, and those are the worst kinds of bigots.

“Good,” Mr. A says, his eyes still aglow. If I knew suggesting a black club was all it would take to make him look at me like this I would’ve done it months ago. “Let’s all meet during lunch to discuss the idea further,” he says, addressing the students still in the room—including Jeremy, who’s now making his escape. I guess we won’t be having lunch together after all. “We’re going to have to be at our best to get approval from the administration to make our club valid. I can even pull in Ms. Toni as a co-adviser if she has time. I’m sure she’d be interested.”

“Now?” KJ asks, his fire already dwindling at the mention of sacrificing any of his free time, no matter the cause. And from the heavy sighing from the rest of his crew, I’d say they’re feeling just like their leader.

“Yes, now.” Mr. A’s serious about his shit and so am I. If I can unwillingly give my time to AP, I can certainly give it to my people. “It’s my lunch period, too, and I’m willing to give it up if you are.” At the risk of sounding like a punk, KJ agrees and we all split to get our food. I know half of the South Central clique won’t be in attendance for our first meeting, no matter what KJ decides to do. I can feel him not wanting to join another club, especially with basketball and track practice. But this is necessary, and will do him more good than harm.

“Wish we could, but Mickey and I have a meeting with the administration about her staying on the main campus, baby and all,” Nigel says. He sounds like he’s dreading it, as well he should. Athlete or not, dealing with the office is never a fun experience.

“Okay. I’m sure your friends will fill you in. Everyone else, let’s meet back here in ten minutes,” Mr. A says, gathering the homework papers from the empty desks and stacking them neatly on his desk. I follow my friends out to retrieve our lunches and get back here. I don’t know about everyone else, but I’m looking forward to this meeting.

Once we’re all settled with our lunches in tow, we immediately get down to business. With only thirty minutes left in the lunch period, there’s no time to waste. Nigel enters the classroom with a sullen look on his face, and Mickey is nowhere in sight. That can’t be good.

“Nigel, what happened to the meeting?” I ask, settling back into my seat, ready to get this meeting underway. I open my bag of Hot Cheetos and begin the smacking fest. I don’t know what it is about me and these chips lately, but whatever it is has got me sprung.

“Man, they only let me state my case and then told me to bounce. They’ll talk to me about my role in Mickey’s pregnancy later.” Sounds like some typical divide and conquer bull to me. The last time Mickey and Nigel were in the office together during the ditching investigation, they were tighter than Beyoncé and Jay-Z. But now Nigel’s here and my girl’s not. Something’s definitely wrong with this picture.

“How did Mickey feel about you deserting her?” I ask as Mr. A reclaims his post on the corner of his desk. The rest of the group files in, readjusting themselves in the warm room, ready to reengage in the creation of our new club. I wipe my red fingers on my napkin, take a drink from my water bottle, and continue my smacking. There’s a lot of ground to cover, but I’m still going to get my grub on like everyone else. Just as I anticipated, the majority of the class isn’t present, but much to my surprise KJ and his crew are here.

“I didn’t desert her,” Nigel whispers. “And Mickey said she could handle it and that she’ll meet us back here when she gets out of the meeting.” Nigel won’t admit it, but he’s scared for our girl. I am, too, especially considering that I’ve already witnessed what will happen if Mickey leaves the main campus to attend the continuation school on the other side of the football field. She was jealous, paranoid, and made my and Nigel’s lives a living hell. I’ll be damned if I go there again with her.

“There’s power in identification,” Mr. Adewale says, his baritone voice silencing our chatter and officially beginning the meeting. “So, what’s our group’s name?” he asks, taking a drink of his bottled water. He already inhaled his sandwich and apple like it was going out of style. Now he’s downing the water so fast it doesn’t even look like he’s swallowing. I wonder if eating fast comes with being from a long lineage of Ogun priests? Having a warrior as his head orisha or personal path of the creator who is also a great ancestor, must be very different from having a sweet orisha like Oshune crowning your head. Like Mr. A said, it’s all in the name.

“Black People United,” Money says. I’m actually impressed with his forethought in coming up with the name, especially considering he’s always renaming himself something silly. Just last month his name was CMoney. Now he only goes by Money. Next thing I know he’ll be calling himself Dime or something else like that. I wonder if he feels more powerful with each incarnation?

“That’s a good suggestion,” Mr. A. says, writing on the legal pad in front of him. His honey brown skin flexes with each stroke of the pen, making me wish I was the yellow-lined paper in his hands. “Any other suggestions?” he asks, snapping me out of my wishful thoughts.

“How about ‘AHP’?” Shae suggests. “It stands for ‘Authentic Hood People.’” She gets a good laugh from her South Central crew. Even her quiet man, Tony, lets out a giggle at that name. They’re not taking the club seriously. But, unlike me, Mr. Adewale still has hope for them.

“Okay, I’ll write that down,” Mr. A says, smiling as he scribes. I guess you’ve got to love our people no matter how ghetto they can be sometimes. “Let’s have one more suggestion,” he says, looking around the packed room. Half of the black students in the debate class are here. Chance, Emilio, and Alia are also present, solidifying their being down for equality, I assume. Fifteen members is a good start. It’s also fewer people to argue with, and that’s always a good thing.

“How about ‘The African Student Union,’” I add. “Just like the groups on college campuses.” KJ automatically rolls his eyes at my suggestion, but Mr. A seems to like it. KJ’s probably mad he didn’t come up with it himself.

“I think that’s a good idea, linking our group to the ones at most universities. There’s power in unity,” Mr. Adewale says. KJ and his crew eye me like I’m the teacher’s pet and that’s just fine with me. I’ll happily wear that crown.

“I agree,” Emilio says, winking at me from across the room. “It’s also more inclusive of other African cultures that may not identify themselves as black, and that’s important.”

“Man, what would you know about being African? Mexico is south of the border, nowhere near Africa last time I looked at a map.” Del thinks he’s so slick, no matter how dumb he may sound. KJ and Money give their boy dap while Mr. A shakes his head, embarrassed at their behavior.

“I am from Venezuela and I’ve never been to Mexico,” Emilio says, leaning back in his chair and smiling coyly. He’s so sexy in a self-assured sort of way. “But I do know there’s African blood present in Mexican culture as well.” Emilio wears his intelligence for everyone to see, which makes it hard to believe he’s only a sophomore. “We are a part of the African diaspora. Maybe you should look more closely at the map next time.” The veins in Del’s neck are really popping now. If his brown skin weren’t a shade darker than my mother’s, we’d all be able to see how red-hot he really is. I finish off the last of my lunch, waiting for the next move.

“And maybe you should learn to speak English so that other people understand what you’re saying before trying to act black, man,” KJ says, coming to his boy’s defense—but it’s no use. They’ve been punked by Emilio and we all know it.

“We’ll talk about acting black at the next meeting. By the way, everyone needs to think of one good day a week to meet. We’ll vote on that next time,” Mr. Adewale says, glancing at the wall clock. We only have a few minutes left in our lunch period and we should be able to agree on at least one thing before our first meeting is adjourned. “Let’s vote on the name before we go any further. Write down your choice on a piece of paper and put it in here.” Mr. Adewale takes an empty coffee mug off his desk and passes it around the room. When everyone’s submitted their ballots he counts them and announces the winner.

“The African Student Union,” he announces, obviously pleased with the result. I’m surprised they voted for my suggestion, but glad they had enough sense to choose the right one. Money’s suggestion was good, too, but I’m with Emilio. We need to include all of the African diaspora in the group’s identity, not just people from the hood as we know it.

“Now that we have a name, let’s define what the goals are,” Mr. Adewale suggests, forcing us to think seriously about what we want to accomplish on our lunch break. He puts the mug back in its place and reclaims the legal pad I’m still quietly envying.

“I think it should center around surviving this place. South Bay is nothing like Westingle, man, for real.” Nigel’s right about that. His old school is very diverse. Rah still attends that school and receives most of the same educational and social perks that we do, while being closer to home. The students are bougie as all get out, but black is black and it’s nice to be around our people on the regular.

“What do you mean by that?” Mr. Adewale asks, tapping his pen against the notepad in his hand.

“What I mean is that I can walk around my old campus and find us anywhere. Here, unless in the South Central clique, it’s like we don’t exist. And we never read black books in class either. My teachers at Westingle always taught with an Afrocentric twist.”

“Well then, that’s the first goal: to read more about black culture,” Mr. A says, writing down the bullet points on the board. We all take notes like we’re in class. Mr. Adewale inspires us to work when any other teacher would get the gas face for assigning more work outside of our required class reading. Ms. Toni walks into our meeting, ready to add some points of her own. I smile at my school mama, even though I think she’s not pleased with me at the moment. It’s admirable that she’s taking on yet another club, with her already busy work schedule.

“Yeah, and black music should be on that goal list too, man. That shit’s for real,” KJ says, throwing his own spice into the mix. That’s actually a good suggestion. If we keep the club up, we all might actually learn something.

“Okay, KJ, but can we hear suggestions without the profanity, please? There’s a time and place for everything,” Ms. Toni says, adding the mother balance we need to do this thing right. “We’ll need to suggest officer appointments before taking our club request to the principal,” she says, taking a seat at an empty desk next to Mr. A’s.

“I think Jayd should be president, since it was her idea,” Mickey says as she enters the meeting. My girl’s right on time, and she’s got my back without even knowing the full discussion. I wasn’t going to say it, but that shit should be automatic. Nellie and Chance nod in agreement with Mickey and Nigel. Alia and Emilio also follow suit. Besides, I think I’d make a great president, but everyone doesn’t seem to agree. I can already see opposition in my haters’ faces.

“Uhm, no, I don’t think so,” Misty says, leading the hater coup. “This is a democratic society last time I checked, and we should vote about it like any other club.” KJ strokes Misty’s hand as she looks victoriously at our advisers. What kind of magic is she working on my former boyfriend?

“Can you even spell democratic?” Chance asks, making everyone laugh, except for Misty. Even KJ’s whipped ass got a kick out of that one, but he quickly straightens up with a single disapproving look from Misty. Then she returns her attention to Chance.

“Can you spell black? Because if you could, you wouldn’t be here right now.” Everyone falls silent at the obvious truth: Chance and Alia are the only two white people present. Should I tell him that according to one of my dreams, he has just as much right to be here as anyone else? Maybe he already knows but is hiding it for some reason.

“This group is for anyone who wants to learn about black culture, not just students of African descent,” Ms. Toni says. She’s all about racial tolerance and preaches it every chance she gets.

“African descent? Who said anything about Africans?” Mickey asks. Like Nellie, she’s clueless when it comes to our history and chooses to stay that way. For people like them, ignorance is bliss. I, on the other hand, have never had a choice about my knowledge. My ancestors made sure of that.

“We are from Africa, whether we claim it or not. Let’s all agree on that fact right now, so that we never have to have this discussion again.” With that one statement, Mr. Adewale sets the tone for the rest of the meeting.

“Now, back to business. We want to study black books, culture, and what else?” Ms. Toni asks, eyeing Mr. A’s notes.

“The way we talk,” Del adds. “And why ain’t nobody as fresh as we is as Bow Wow would say.” His crew laughs, more out of obligation than sincerity. It really wasn’t that funny, and that song is so yesterday’s news.

“And only Bow Wow can pull that line off and sound sexy,” Mickey says. She loves her some Bow Wow. “You just sound ignorant when you say it,” she adds, voicing my sentiments exactly.

“You’re such a hater, Mickey,” Misty says. Why is she talking when we both know she can’t ever talk about anyone hating. It’s her chosen career to be a professional hater. Hell, if hating was a sport, she’d be on the all-star team.

“Okay, back to the point,” Ms. Toni says, her patience wearing thin. “Are there any other goals of the club we need to outline in our bylaws?”

“Man, why does it have to be so official? We’re black. Can’t we just have a chill club without all the rules and whatnot?” Money says. And by the grunts and nods in the room, I’d say he’s voicing most of the other students’ sentiments, but not mine.

“The reason it needs to be all official and whatnot is because we are black and our voices will never be heard if we don’t go through the proper channels first,” Mr. A says, looking at Ms. Toni, who vigorously nods in approval. As much as she’s had to fight with these white folks up here over one thing or another, I know she’s feeling the importance of this club.

“Exactly,” Ms. Toni says. “And we want to be able to participate as a group in the next Cultural Awareness Festival since it’s already the end of Black History Month. And in order to do that, we have to be on paper.”

“Yeah, I agree,” Emilio states. I don’t know if he said that because he really feels that way or if it’s because he’s feeling me and wants me to be impressed with his little sophomore self. Either way it’s working, because I’m feeling him more and more every day I see him.

“Nobody asked you. And what are you even doing here? You and the white boy,” KJ says. And just like that, my pride in him has shifted to pure disdain.

“Okay, there’s the bell for fifth period,” Mr. Adewale says, rising from his desk. “We’ll reconvene next week. Same time, same place.” The other students say their good-byes and prepare for the last two periods of the day. Mickey, Nigel, and I step aside to quickly catch up, while Mr. A and Ms. Toni step outside to have a word before the next class arrives.

“So, what’s the good word?” I ask my girl. Nigel steps behind his girlfriend and puts his arms around Mickey’s growing waistline, holding her close for support. She doesn’t seem too upset, so it can’t be all that bad.

“Them fools said that I’m on academic probation or some shit, for the rest of the semester, saying my already marginal grades have fallen in the last few months.” Mickey and Nigel rub her belly, loving their unborn child, and I’m glad for it because little Miss Thang can hear and feel everything in there. Those are part of the perks of being a caul baby like myself.

“I’m sorry, Mickey,” I say, hugging her tightly and causing her to back up. I forget she’s not one for affection unless it’s coming from her man.

“Okay, shawty. It ain’t that serious,” she says, patting me on the shoulder like I’m a mere acquaintance and not one of her best friends.

“The hell it ain’t,” Nigel says, backing up from Mickey and looking at her over her shoulder. “If they kicked you out and made you go to the continuation school I would go crazy up in this place.”

“Yeah, and the administration would love it if their star quarterback did some stupid shit like that,” I say, laughing at my boy. But I know he’s not joking.

“Well, I still have to bring my grades up by the end of the semester and keep a good attendance record if I want to stay at South Bay High School,” she says, throwing her hands up and mocking a cheerleader.

“Then that’s just what we’re going to do, baby. From now on, you and I are study buddies.” I don’t know about that one. Nigel’s serious about his education, but Mickey thinks of school as more of an annoyance than something she should take seriously.

“That sounds like a great idea,” Mr. A says, interrupting our conversation. “But you’re all going to be late if you don’t sprint to class right now,” he says, pointing at the wall clock. Ms. Toni walks in after him with a smile on her face.

“Ah, man, I can’t get another tardy in math or my teacher’s going to put me in detention,” Nigel says, letting go of Mickey to grab his backpack and run for the door. As usual, Mickey couldn’t care less about the time, and I’m not too worried because I’m heading to drama class. As long as I’m there within five minutes of the late bell, Mrs. Sinclair won’t mark me tardy.

“Here’s a hall pass just in case. But don’t make it a habit,” Mr. A says, passing us each a yellow slip with his signature on it. What a cool-ass teacher. Now I can take my time and go to the bathroom while I’m at it.

“Thanks, man. And for real, thank you for being our adviser,” Nigel says, shaking Mr. Adewale’s hand before he and Mickey exit ahead of me.

“Bye, y’all,” I say to my friends. “And thanks again for the meeting,” I say to Mr. Adewale and Ms. Toni, who look like they still have business to handle.

“You’re welcome, Ms. Jackson,” Mr. A says before focusing on Ms. Toni, who waves her good-bye.

The bathroom is calling me and the bell is ringing as I walk. Rather than try to make it to the bathroom in the drama room, I’ll have to stop at the one in the main hall. I can’t wait to tell Mama and Netta all about our first meeting of our new African Student Union. They’re going to be so proud. With a new club to focus on, maybe the racist plays we choose in the drama club won’t bother me so much. They can have their version of the story. With ASU, we’ll tell our own version without apology, and I can’t wait.

The line for the girls’ restroom is always long after lunch, no matter which one we choose to use. It’s like none of the girls want to interrupt their precious lunchtime to go pee before the warning bell rings, so we all end up standing in a long-ass line and running late to fifth period. The boys’ restroom never has that problem. They go in and out ten times faster than we do. I usually go in the drama room because there’s less competition down there. But today was just one of those days.

“Jayd, let me talk to you for a minute,” Ms. Toni says, calling me out as I exit the girls’ restroom. I knew this moment was coming, and I’m still not sure how I should react. If Ms. Toni were any other teacher, I wouldn’t care too much what she thinks about me. But when Ms. Toni’s mad at me I feel like I’ve disappointed my own mama.

“What’s up, Ms. Toni?” I ask, repositioning my backpack on my back, ready for my hike down to the drama room. We haven’t had a real conversation in a while. I know she has a ton of questions about my role in Laura’s losing her voice on opening night of the last play we did. And I never had the chance to comment on her accusations about me having the hots for Mr. Adewale, but I hope she focuses on one issue at a time.

“Not here. Let’s talk in my office,” she says, leading me back down the main hall where her office is housed. She smiles to other students passing by and I follow, like a child waiting for her punishment. She unlocks the door to the ASB room and continues through the empty space to the back, where her headquarters are located. It’s been too long since I’ve been back here. The stale smell of cigarettes mixed with her expensive, sweet-smelling perfume linger in the air. She must’ve gone off campus for a smoke break during lunch. Ms. Toni smells like home, and I’ve missed being in her presence.

“Have a seat, Jayd,” she says, pointing to one of the two chairs by the door. She walks behind her crowded desk and sits across from me. The ASB students are out and about during fifth period, passing out flyers and making announcements in other classes, so we shouldn’t have any interruptions for our impromptu counseling session.

“Nice plant,” I say, noticing the orchids sitting on the corner bookshelf behind her desk. She looks like she’s been reorganizing her crowded space. There are boxes of books and papers where stacks of the same used to be. Spring cleaning is a necessary chore for everyone, and I guess a person’s workspace is no exception.

“Thank you. It was a gift from Laura and Reid,” she says, smiling at the gift. “They wanted to show their appreciation for my help with Macbeth, even though Laura wasn’t able to perform.” I wish I had known that before. I would’ve reserved my compliment for something else not presented to her by the king and queen of evil. “Which brings me to why I want to talk to you. I won’t keep you long. I know you’re anxious to get to class.”

The tardy bell for fifth period rings loudly in the quaint space. After the sound passes I remain quiet, waiting for the question I’ve been dreading.

“What really happened that night, Jayd? And don’t tell me you had nothing to do with it, because I don’t believe that for a second.” I look into Ms. Toni’s bright eyes and notice two flecks outside of the brown pupils, similar to the ones present in my own. I can’t lie to her, but I also can’t tell her the truth. What do I do?

“You tell her what she needs to know, nothing more,” my mom says, answering my thought with one of her own. “I know you think she’s one of us because she looks familiar, Jayd, and she may be. But all of us aren’t always understanding, so be careful what you choose to reveal.”

“I know you’re right, Mom. Thank you,” I think back. Ms. Toni looks at me inquisitively, like Jeremy does when my mom drops in on my mind. I’d better say something so I can get out of here. Not that I’m in any rush to get to drama class, especially after what happened Monday. But I do want to get off of the witness stand.

“Ms. Toni, I can’t explain what happened that night. All I know is that one minute Laura was harassing me and the next she couldn’t speak.” I readjust myself in the wooden chair and continue with my fiction. “I was just minding my own business, getting ready for the show.”

“Minding your own business, huh?” Ms. Toni asks, unconvinced. She taps her long red fingernails on her desk, patiently awaiting the truth. But I can tell that her patience with me has just about run out.

“Yes. I was sitting at the vanity, doing my hair, when Laura started talking trash to me. I swear I didn’t start the argument; she did. I know better than to strain my voice before curtain call.” Ms. Toni smiles at me, but it’s not a friendly one. What does she know that I’m not privy to? I feel like I’m being set up.

“Jayd, I’ve known you for over a year now, and if I know one thing about you, it’s that you can’t keep quiet when you feel threatened or slighted in the least bit. What Misty and Laura did to you is reprehensible, but what you did was worse,” she says, now tapping her desk with a pencil. “Do you want to know why?”

I’m not sure if Ms. Toni’s question is rhetorical or if I should answer, so I’ll just be quiet for now. It sounds like she’s on my side, but not really.

“It’s because I know you know better than to fight fire with fire. You’re not petty, Jayd, and I expect more from you.” My eyes begin to well up with tears. Ms. Toni’s the only teacher at this godforsaken school who can make me cry. Hell, she’s the only one who I’ll let see me shed a tear.

“I was just defending my part,” I say, without completely confessing my role in the twisted tale. If I tell her about how my dream of Laura snatching the crown off my head basically came true, she still wouldn’t excuse my behavior. “With Misty’s help, Laura stole my crown and I had to get it back.”

“Not like that, you didn’t.” Ms. Toni puts down her pencil and rises from behind her desk. She’s a good six feet tall, but today she looks much taller than usual. Or maybe I just feel smaller in her presence.

Without saying a word, Ms. Toni walks over to the bookshelf and scans her collection of titles. Last year I borrowed some great books from her and read them faster than any of the texts I read in my classes. Her selection constantly changes, and I love that. After careful consideration, she pulls one of the books off the shelf and thumbs through the pages as I await my sentencing. I wish I could share the tricks of our trade with Ms. Toni. I also want to get in that permed head of hers, but that’s a conversation for another day.

“I want you to read this novel and let me know what you think of it,” she says, walking around her desk and passing me the tattered book.

“Voodoo Dreams,” I read aloud. I’ve heard of Jewell Parker Rhodes, but never read anything written by her. I have enough work to do with my AP exams coming up in a couple of months, not to mention the rest of the school and spirit work already on my shoulders. But from the way Ms. Toni crosses her thin arms across her chest, I don’t think she cares about my personal dilemma right now. What she has made clear is that she knows Laura lost her voice opening night of the play because of something I did, whether she has proof, a confession, an eyewitness or not. And I can’t continue telling Ms. Toni that her instincts are wrong when she obviously knows better.

“It’s about a young girl reclaiming her African roots and the power that comes with that pride,” she says, eyeing me carefully for a response, of which I give none. “It also shows what happens when you allow other people to dominate your psyche to the point where you get down to their level.” Ms. Toni’s dark brown eyes pierce mine. I can feel exactly what she’s not saying, which is that I let Misty take my crown and went about getting it back in an underhanded way. I don’t agree with her, especially when it comes to dealing with Misty, but I’ll keep my opinion to myself.

“Sounds interesting. Thank you,” I say, unsure of where this leaves the two of us. I hate it when she’s mad at me. I feel like there’s a heavy weight on my shoulders when Ms. Toni and I are at odds. But I hate it even more when Mama’s on my case, which she would be if I ever confessed to a teacher that I used a potion on someone at school, no matter how cool I may think the teacher is. Mama would literally have my ass in a sling.

After a moment of silence, Ms. Toni takes a deep sigh and smiles at me as I read the introduction to my latest pleasure read. It’s about my lineage, but fiction. It’s not the first text I’ve ever read about my infamous great, great, great—and then some—grandmother, but this one looks hella juicy just from the opening lines. I can’t wait to really get into it this weekend.

“You have to be responsible with your talents, Jayd. I know it seems as though I don’t understand what you’re going through, and that’s why you turned to Mr. Adewale. But I know more than you think I do. I may not be a fine black man like Mr. A, as you call him, but give me some credit,” she says, lightening the serious mood. “I’ve been here for you since last year, and I’m not planning on going anywhere.” Now the tears are free-falling down my cheeks. I’ve missed my school mama.

“I know, Ms. Toni. I never meant to make you feel like I preferred talking to Mr. Adewale instead of you. It’s just that our histories so are similar.” Ms. Toni reaches over and pats my hand.

“I know. He filled me in on your commonalities,” Ms. Toni says, choosing her words very carefully. “And I must say, I was surprised to know that he knew more about your family lineage than you’ve ever shared with me. But if you expect me to continue being on your side, you’re going to have to let me in. We all have enemies in the administration and we have to stick together, capiche?” Ms. Toni says, sounding more like a mafia lord than a teacher. She stands up and opens her arms to let me in. I know we’re cool now.

“Capiche,” I respond, rising to accept her embrace. I’ve missed her hugs. I’ll try not to do anything to ever get on her bad side again. “I’d better get to class now.”

“Just remember what I said, Jayd. Your talents are nothing to be ashamed of, but be careful how you use them.” I take my book and leave her office, ready to deal with the racist jerks in drama. Now that I’ve decided not to participate in the auditions for The Crucible, I have nothing but free time on my hands in class. And this novel is just the distraction I need to keep from cussing anyone out.

I didn’t realize how tired I am until just now. I don’t know if it was all of the arguing I did today or the emotional reunion me and Ms. Toni just had, but whatever it is has got me yawning all the way down the hill. I still have one more class to go after drama and work to do once I leave campus. I can’t wait to get home, handle my business, and pass out for the night. We only have two more days of school before the weekend hits, and I’ll be so happy when Friday finally does come, I probably won’t know how to act.