Chameleon (10 page)

“Mama, how old is Auntie?”

I had to ask twice before she heard me.

“She’s eight years older than me.”

Why does she do that? I can’t remember how old she is.

“And how old are you again?”

“I know you’re not asking your own mother that question.” Her head turned in my direction, and she smiled at me.

It’s hard for me to remember how old she is because she always says something different when anybody asks. Luckily, there’s a way that helps me remember: when she had me.

Let’s see . . . I think she was twenty-five when she had me. Yeah, twenty-five. And I’m fourteen. So, twenty-five plus fourteen is . . . thirty-nine.

“Thirty-nine?”

I turn toward her. “So Auntie is forty-seven?”

“Bravo, Mister Math. You figured it out. Why do you care how old Sis is?”

I told her what Mr. Bremelow said about the liver. I could see her brain working as I explained what damages the liver and that if Auntie’s been drinking hard for so long, then her liver must be in pretty bad shape.

“But she can change that. If she stops now, it would start getting better.”

“I know it’s bad but”— her eyes darted over to mine —“when you spend more time with her, you can tell her what you just told me and maybe she’ll come around.”

I tried to keep from sucking my teeth.

“I doubt it. If she’s been doing it this long, it’s hard to change. How she get like that in the first place?”

Her eyes stared straight ahead. “I really don’t know, Shawn. She’s still my sister and just to even think of her that way, I . . .” She exhaled. “Let’s change the subject. How was your day?”

Uh-oh. The day was cool but had a few not-too-cool moments. Particularly the one that involved a certain pit bull’s teeth shredding my sneaker. I don’t have to tell her about that now, though.

“I told you. . . . We hung out . . . played some ball. You know . . .” She glanced over at me. “Me and Lorenzo won most of the games.”

“You still hangin’ out with that Lorenzo? I thought I told you —”

“He’s not in a gang, Mama. I told you before — that was his brother’s jacket. Besides, that was a couple of years ago.”

Her eyes bounced between me and the road as she spoke. “You know I don’t like him, Shawn.”

“You don’t even know Lorenzo. He’s cool. All my friends are cool. If they hanging out with me, they gotta be.” I patted my hair like I was The Man.

“Yeah, right.” She sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes from the road to me.

At least she hasn’t mentioned the shoes.

“What’s that purple stuff on your shirt?”

She nodded at me and arched her eyebrows down.

“What purple stuff?”

I glanced down to see the front of my white T-shirt spotted with what had to be pomegranate juice. Uh-oh. How’d I miss that? I better answer her quickly or she’ll know something’s up.

“Oh, we had a couple of pomegranates earlier. Trent has a tree. Must be some of the juice.”

“Oh.”

That’s it? Auntie must be getting to her. In the past she would’ve been all over me asking for details and stuff. Why did you go to Trent’s? Where does he live? Was his mother home? And so on and so on and so on.

Oil pumps and car dealerships zoomed by, replacing the malls and banks. The smell of rotten eggs drifted in from a nearby factory. Home was getting even closer.

“Mama, you all right? Everything cool at work?”

Her eyes bounced between me and the road. “Everything’s cool at work. I’m just tired from being on my feet all day. But speaking of work, one of the professors gave me some more names of authors and books for you to check out.”

“You remember any of them?”

I haven’t felt like reading much since summer started, but
you never know.

“I wrote them down. The list is in my purse. I think one of them was a poet.”

“Poetry! You kidding, right? I don’t wanna read about birds and trees and love and corny stuff like that.”

She laughed. “It’s not that kind of poetry. I mentioned that you love music, and he said you would enjoy this poet because his poems sound more like music than poetry.”

“He who? I thought that professor was a woman.” I started to put my feet up on the dashboard but remembered my sneaker. Instead, I swung my body around toward her to give her the third degree like she does me.

Maybe that’s why she was acting so strange.

“So what’s up, Mama? You going out with this dude? How long —”

She cut me off before I could even finish. Her eyebrows arched down at me as she made a left turn. “Shawnie, please stop. Just stop. I’m not going out with him or anybody. It’s really none of your business, but his name is Professor Hopkins and all we talk about is books. For you. He’s one of the nicer professors at the college, and you seem to like what he recommends, so I say ‘hey’ when I see him. Some of the professors don’t say as much as ‘boo’ to me. They act like they have a stick in their butt and think their umm don’t stink.”

“Mama!”

“It’s true. I don’t care if they teach at a college, that don’t make them better than me!”

A branch of veins sprouted on her forehead as she spoke. “My mother, your grandmother, God bless the dead, raised me to treat everybody the same, no better and no worse than I would want to be treated.”

I shot one of her own looks back at her. “Uh-huh. Is that why you don’t want me hanging out with my friends?”

She didn’t face me when she said, “It’s not the same.”

Uh-huh. I got her.

Our house popped into view as we made our way down the hill on our street. I was glad to be home, where I could eat what I wanted, watch what I wanted, and not have to worry about the smell of alcohol drifting through the house.

As we got closer to our house, I saw plenty of kids pedaling around on bikes. There’s more kids here than near Auntie’s, but since I don’t know most of them, I don’t hang out with them. My next-door neighbor is cool, though. I’m friends with him. Not like my boys, but we hang out once in a while. His name is Brian, and he’s gonna be a junior. He still can’t understand why I won’t be going to the local high school with him.

“I don’t get it, Shawn. Manning is way better than Marshall. Our football team is always in the state championships; the cheerleaders are fine; the teachers are better . . .”

On and on he goes, but I tell him the same thing every time: It’s never gonna happen. Mama works closer to Compton, and it’s easier for her to keep dropping me off at Auntie’s.

“But what about you? You ain’t exactly a baby, you know.”

Yeah. I know.

I wonder if she’s ever gonna stop taking me to Auntie’s.

“SHAWN, SET THE TABLE while I get the oxtails.”

Mama grabbed the food from the car while I tracked down the plates, glasses, and silverware for dinner. I found everything except my favorite fork. It’s hard to miss because it’s the biggest one in the drawer. Dad got it in the navy, and
USN
is etched on the handle. It’s been in the house ever since he left and always reminds me of him.

Mama brought the food in and stuck the oxtails in the microwave.

“Am I going to Dad’s this weekend?”

“It’s supposed to be his weekend.”

I stood in front of the counter and glanced over at Mama. I’m about a head taller than her. She returned my glance and straightened her hunched back.

“Boy, you are getting big, huh? Don’t think I haven’t noticed how fast you’re growing.”

I walked over and compared our height. Her hair grazed my chin.

“Dang, Mama —” I said, cutting myself off. “I mean — you sure you not shrinking? I’m a whole head taller than you.”

“No, I’m not shrinking. You may be bigger than me, but that don’t mean I can’t still smack your butt. I will always be your mother.”

“I know that. How can I ever forget?” I stepped back and found my spot against the counter.

“So am I going to Dad’s or not this weekend? I mean, he’s not on the road, is he?”

“As far as I know. He didn’t mention any trips to me recently, but then again I don’t talk to him every day. Why don’t you call him and see?”

“Maybe after dinner. I’m starving.”

The microwave dinged, so I pulled out the steaming container and hustled it over to the table. Mama grabbed a big spoon and the rice and sat down.

My father, Shawn senior . . . the man I’m named after. My folks got divorced a long time ago, but I still see Dad every couple of weeks on the weekend. Even though I don’t see him every day, we’re still tight. He’s a photographer for the
Times
here in L.A., which means he doesn’t have the same hours as most people. He also spends a lot of time on the road. Mama says that’s the main reason they got a divorce. She couldn’t deal with his funky hours and the fact that he wasn’t making much money when they were together, so a few years after I was born, they split up. For good.

They’re still cool with each other and talk, and one thing they agreed on was that Dad would still spend time with me. Mama knows he’s a good father and wanted me to have a male figure in my life, so I get to see him every couple of weeks — unless he’s traveling. Then it changes. That doesn’t make Mama too happy because she says it messes with her weekend schedule, but that’s a lie; all she does on the weekend is clean the house.

“Shawn, could you get me some water, please?”

My fork was inches from my mouth when Mama asked her question. I exhaled hard, put my food down, and got it. Am I ever gonna get to eat?

“I know you didn’t just huff at me, boy.”

“I’m hungry and I was this close to finally eating.” I held up two fingers about an inch apart to show her how close I was to getting some food in my belly.

“Ummm-hmmm.” She laughed and stared me down as she plunged the food into her mouth. Her face lit up with each chew. Auntie must have done a good job on the oxtails.

“MMM-mmm. Sis did it again. Her ’tails are still better than mine,” she said, shaking her head with pleasure.

I sat back down and finally tasted my food. I had to agree with Mama; Auntie had outdone herself again. I devoured the food to my belly’s content. Happy sounds and slurps from our water glasses interrupted the comfortable silence.

“So, Mama, why did Auntie start to drink?” I motioned toward my glass.

“Oh, Shawn, not this again,” she said, swallowing her food.

“I’m just sayin’, I don’t understand how the same person that made this could . . .” I said, not wanting to finish.

“Well, Shawn, your auntie, my sister . . . has a disease. She can’t control it because it’s something her
body
wants — it doesn’t know how to function without it.” With that, she wiped off her mouth and pushed her plate away. “Make sure you take care of the dishes.”

Dang! Every time I bring up Auntie, she throws me attitude. She went into the living room and clicked on the TV. Oh, well. I gobbled up a second helping, then cleaned the kitchen. I called out to Mama about the books and authors.

“The list is in my purse, on the counter.”

I hunted through the loose change, lipstick, tissue, and pieces of candy until I found what looked like a list of books.

“Is this the same Alex Haley that did the TV show
Roots
?” I shouted to the living room.

She shouted back, “Yeah, that’s what he said.”

Hmmm. I know he wrote the book
Roots
and they turned it into a movie, but I didn’t know he did other stuff. I’ve heard a lot about Martin Luther King Jr. over the years but not much about Malcolm X. I should check that out. I don’t know about the poetry, though. All that “how do I love thee” nonsense . . .

I finished the kitchen and plopped onto the couch to join Mama with the list in hand. My presence jerked her out of a tired nod.

“If I read these books, I hope my high school teacher gives me credit for them. My last teacher wouldn’t even give me credit for
Invisible Man,
you know.”

Her head spun around. “Really? But I thought you got credit for anything extra.”

“Only if it’s on the list. And let me tell you, there’s mostly white dudes on that list — the rest are white women.”

“Really?”

“I’m serious. I called my teacher on it, and she didn’t have nothing to say. Just that I wouldn’t get credit. Ain’t that a blip?”

“Watch your mouth, boy.” She eyeballed me. “Hopefully high school will be different.”

“I hope so, ’cause if I don’t get extra credit, then I might not read them.”

She sat up more alert than ever. Her once-nodding-off head now shook her hairdo as she spoke. “What kind of stupid talk is that? Who cares if you get credit for a certain book or not? That shouldn’t keep you from reading what you want. Knowledge for the sake of knowledge is better than knowledge for the sake of a grade any day. My parents told me that, and I’ve always told you that.”

“I know, Mama. I’m just saying.”

“Besides, a lot of things change in high school.”