Keesha's House (3 page)

So now I don't give Joe much thought.

I appreciate him though. If I thought

I had to find a place to rent, I'd have to work

full-time. I know I wouldn't stay

in school. This one thing—a free bed—

makes all the difference. I can stay awake in school and pay

attention to the teachers, answer almost all their questions.

I go to school, I work, I eat okay and get to bed

on time. I thought Child Welfare might ask questions,

but as long as they don't pay attention, I can stay.

I CAN DO IT     
DONTAY

Ain't goin' back there. If I go get my stuff

they'll yell at me for stayin' out all night.

I'll yell back, and I know what comes next—

they call my caseworker:
This isn't working out.

She comes and gets me, lookin' like she want

to wring my neck. We head out to CYS again. I hate that place—

all those kids waitin' to get placed

in a foster home or group home, all the stuff

they hopin' for, knowin' they ain't gettin' what they want.

Everybody act so hard all day, and then at night

you hear 'em cryin' like some cakes—not out

loud, just quiet, hopin' won't nobody notice. Everybody wonderin' what's next.

I been there five times, and I swore up and down, the next

time they tried to take me there, I'd find my own place.

I know I can do it. Rather live out

on my own, take my stuff

in my backpack, sleep outside at night

when summer comes. Better that than findin' out nobody wants

me. Dad and Mama gonna want

to know why I don't go to visiting hours next

week, but goin' there just makes me mad again 'bout the night

they got hemmed up. Five-O all over the place,

flashin' their badges, rumblin' through our stuff,

findin'
nothin'
and still pullin' us out,

sendin' us all different places. When I go out

to see them, Mama's so sad, and Dad just wants

to do that trial all over. He's
ragin'
about all the stuff

the lawyer didn't do. They're innocent! And here I am. What's next?

I can sleep at Jermaine and Dan's crib tonight, someplace

else this weekend. I don't mind sleepin' on the floor a night

or two. Three or four places I can spend the night

a couple times before they figure out

I got no place

to live. Stay a few days, nobody want

to know why I'm leavin', nobody surprised the next

time I show up. One good thing about all this stuff—

ain't nobody kickin' me out one night

to the next. Nobody actin' like they want

to make me change. Bad thing—no place to leave my stuff.

WHITE WALLS     
CARMEN

I wasn't drunk. Just one beer a couple hours

before. Never woulda got stopped

if I was an adult. Or if I was white.

That half-smoked blunt they found under the back

seat—how would I know it was there?

Coulda been there since Grandmama

bought the car, five months ago. Grandmama

wouldn't think to look for that! Visiting hours

is over, and she didn't show up. Only one there

all week was my probation officer. She stopped

by for ten minutes, said she was
so unhappy
to see me back

in here, got out a clean white

notepad and asked me for an explanation.
No little white

lies
, she said. I asked her to call Grandmama,

tell her I'm sorry, see if I can go back

there when I get outta here. That was hours

ago, and I haven't heard from either of 'em. Can't stop

thinkin' about what's gonna happen. If I can't go back there …

I don't know. Could be a long ways, anyhow, from here to there.

I talked to one girl today, a white

girl that's been here thirteen weeks. She stopped

thinkin' about home, she said.
Forget about your grandma.

If she don't come to visiting hours

the first week you're here, she don't want you back.

I want my own clothes back.

My music. The food I like. I see the cars go by out there,

everybody goin' someplace. In here, hours

stretch out long, nothin' but blank white

walls to look at. I started a letter:
Dear Grandmama,

get me out of here
 … But then I stopped

and ripped it up. I know I shoulda stopped

drinkin' that first time I got caught, back

in seventh grade. I know everything Grandmama

would say about all this. I keep thinkin' there

must be some way to make myself listen, some clear white

light I could shine into my mind those hours

when I can't see my way back

or forward, the hours I think even Grandmama

won't care if I stop livin'. These walls are
so white.

I LOOK AROUND AND WONDER     
HARRIS

Another note in my locker today:
Die,

faggot.
Scrawled in thick marker—red—

on notebook paper ripped in half,

folded to fit through those little slots.

Then later, someone twice my weight shoves me

into a table in the cafeteria. My lunch

goes flying, hits this freshman eating lunch

by herself. She looks like she's about to die,

like she thinks she's the jerk, not him. I apologize; she ignores me,

moves to another table, her face bright red.

There's so many guys like him—they have these slots

they try to fit into; anyone with half

an ounce of individuality gets crushed. Kids spend half

their time just trying to fit in. You look around the lunch-

room and you can see which kids are trying for which slots—

jocks or freaks or “playas.” And everyone would rather die

than be what I am. Even the thugs, wearing red

or blue, with all their drugs and guns, have more friends than me.

Do people think I'm contagious? That if they talk to me

they might turn gay? Or are they scared that half

the school would hate them too? I've read

statistics: maybe one in ten kids in that lunch-

room. I look around and wonder. Kids can die

a lot of different ways if they don't fit in those slots.

Three more months of school. There's lots

of things I have to figure out. So far, Dad hasn't found me

and taken back my car. It's old, but with any luck it won't die

on me. If I can find someplace to park and sleep, that's half

the battle. I'll find a weekend job where I can get lunch,

and try for dinner shift on weekdays. I read

an ad that Pancake House is hiring. I can see myself in that red

apron, pockets filling up with tips. Come summer, whatever slots

they need I'll work—graveyard one day, lunch

the next, whatever. Only—how can they call to offer me

a job? Can I clean up and look half

decent for an interview? And not sound desperate, like I'll die

if they don't hire me? I'll go on Saturday at lunch

and see what slots they're trying to fill. I could work half

time, busing their red tables. Okay, I'm scared. But I don't plan to die.

HOUSE OF CARDS     
KATIE

Everything was going okay between

school, work, and living here. Just

time enough in every day, and no time

left for me to think too hard.

Then today, the city bus pulls up on schedule,

I get on, and the driver has these cards

he's giving out. I take one of the cards

and plunk down in a side seat between

a lady and a kid. The lady says,
New schedule
,

so I look at the card and I just

want to cry. Now everything that used to be easy is hard.

Getting to work takes twice the time

it used to. After school I don't have time

to change into my uniform, and we can't punch our cards

until we're ready to start working. It's hard

to change in the employee restroom in five minutes between

when the bus stops at the corner and just

exactly 3 p.m. when my shift starts. The boss won't change my schedule.

I can't change my school schedule.

So—I have three choices: get a new job and work a different time,

quit school, or get a car. Which of course I can't afford just

now. It's like one of those house-of-cards

games—if I pull one out, everything above, below, and in between

collapses. I've worked really hard

to get this all set up—it's hard

to think of doing it all again. Next summer, this schedule

will be fine, but my boss won't let up between

now and then. I asked him for ten extra minutes to give me time

to get from school to work, but he says that's not in the cards.

If I can't do just

what I'm supposed to do, just

when it should be done, too bad.
I know it's hard

for you,
he says,
but I've got a business here. Cards

of sympathy are next door at Hallmark.
My schedule

is impossible. Barely time to sleep, no time

for homework except at the bus stop between

school and work. Report cards come out in two weeks' time

and I have to work hard just to pass. My schedule

will be: school and work, work and school. No time in between.

PART III

ON THEIR OWN

I KNOW THE VALUE     
JOE

I know the value of a house like this.

Old and solid, hardwood stairs and floor.

But when I showed up at Aunt Annie's door

when I was twelve—bruised, scared, clenched fists—

all I knew then was: I could stay.

As long as you need to, Joe
, was what she kept

on saying, right up till she died and left

the house to me. So now that's what I say

when kids show up and I know they can't ask

for what they shouldn't have to ask for. They need

more than I can give them. I know I'm

no Aunt Annie. I ain't up to the task

of tryin' to be their legal foster dad.

But I can give them space—and space is time.

ON HER OWN     
LAURA (STEPHIE'S MOTHER)

It's time to talk to Steph about the boy

who could have been her brother—maybe is

her brother. How can I describe the joy

of holding him, the morning—cold—when his

new parents—married, educated—reached

to take him from me? I don't know his name

or where (or if) he lives. My parents preached

at me. I listened. I won't do the same

to Steph. She has to do this on her own.

I know wherever Stephie is tonight

she's thinking hard about the baby, us,

herself, and Jason. She's out there alone

and I can't help. Sixteen. I know. She might

not know how much she's loved, or who to trust.

YOU DREAM ABOUT A KID LIKE THIS     
COACH HARDEN

Jason hasn't told me much himself

but there's a rumor going around the team

about his girlfriend. When I heard it, I felt

sick. You coach for twenty years, you dream

about a kid like this, an athlete born

for greatness. Varsity his freshman year,

state all-star two years in a row. More

natural talent than I've ever seen here

at Marshall High. And he knows how to work

for what he wants. He could go anywhere—

free ride, recruiters calling every day.

Now what? He's not one to shirk

responsibility. He seems to care

about this girl. But you should see him play.

IT WOULD BE GOOD FOR HIM     
MRS. MASON (DONTAY'S CASEWORKER)

I thought I'd finally found a good, safe place

for Dontay, far from his old friends and school,

with such a nice family, of his own race.

This summer they were going to join the pool

so he could learn to swim.
I hope he meets

new friends
, I said. It would be good for him

to know some different kids. But Dontay treats

this like a punishment.
I hate to swim
,

he says,
I hate that part of town.
He can't

seem to adapt himself. It's sad. Now

he's run off, and he'll be hard to find. Three days

since he left. I'm not sure they want

to take him back. He's good at heart. But how

can I help Dontay if he won't change his ways?

LORD, GIVE ME STRENGTH     
ROBERTA (CARMEN'S GRANDMOTHER)

I got to get my own self in control

before I try to talk to Carmen. Right now

I'm so mad at everyone, the whole

world look ugly to my mind. I don't know how

LaRayne could leave her girl like that.

It ain't how she was raised—she knows what's right!

But ever since she took up with that ol' fat

ugly thing she call a man, seem like she might

do anything. Now she don't even know

her child's in trouble. Least she could do is call!

Lord knows, I want to get the child free.

I want to help her straighten out. But oh,