Holidaze (3 page)

When I reach the main office, there’s a long line in front of most of the counselors’ offices, including Mr. Adelizi’s. Rather than join the procession of anxious students who either forgot to request changes in their schedule before the deadline or students—like me—who did, but still got screwed up in one way or another, I look at the available class list posted outside of his open door.

“Miss Jackson, come on in and have a seat. The rest of the students don’t have a pass,” Mr. Adelizi says. The pensive student seated across from him looks up from his schedule to give me a once-over and then back down like he’s about to cry. He reminds me of a disgruntled postal worker, so I’d better make this visit quick just in case he decides to go off. I sit in the other chair across from Mr. Adelizi’s desk in the cramped office, and explain my situation.

“Mr. Adelizi, I don’t know what happened, but somehow my fourth period journalism class got bumped for speech and debate, and it’s not even on the Advanced Placement track. There must be some mistake.”

“Well, good morning to you, too,” he says, trying to make me smile, but I’m not in the mood this morning. “So serious so early?”

“This is serious business. I can’t afford to get off track.” Mr. Adelizi looks at me over his thin-framed glasses and sees I’m in no mood for small talk.

“Miss Jackson, your schedule won’t work if you choose to take the journalism class, which was moved to fifth period.” He’s right. I’d have to give up drama and that’s never going to happen.

“Well, can’t I have a study period or something instead?” I really don’t like the idea of being in a speech class open to all tracks. It leaves the door open for too many unknown variables, like having Misty and KJ as classmates, and that just won’t work.

“Sorry, Jayd, but study periods are for seniors only. The only classes available that will fit into your Advanced Placement schedule are speech and debate, or home economics: it’s your choice.”

“Fine, speech and debate it is,” I say, signing my schedule before getting up to leave.

“Debate class starts tomorrow, so you’ll have a free fourth period for today.” A free period means we have to check in at the library and spend our time studying, which is just fine with me. Normally, I wouldn’t mind being in a debate class, but being outside of the AP track is always tricky, because the environment is less controlled than it would normally be. But I have to enroll in another elective, and home economics ain’t it. I get enough of that subject living with Mama.

“You know, Jayd, you can talk to me about other things. I’m not just an academic counselor,” Mr. Adelizi says. I look down at the schedule printout and notice there’s no teacher listed for the debate class. Damn, another unknown variable. I can’t stand it when that happens. “We heard about the shooting and I know all about your friend Mickey being transferred to the continuation school. You must be having a tough time adjusting to all of this change.”

“The only constant in the world is change,” I say, borrowing lyrics from India. Arie, leaving Mr. Adelizi to ponder how a little black girl could be so insightful when I know the thought is far from original. If I know anything to be true, it’s that statement and, like all the members of our tribe, we keep moving through the change, no matter how painful the move may be.

Driving back to Compton from my high school in Redondo Beach is a pretty straight shot. You never know how many unnecessary stops there are on a bus route until you take an alternate path. I’m also looking for the roads less travelled when it comes to me learning this clutch. Mazda never lied when they made
zoom-zoom
their motto: this little Protégé’s got spunk. The last thing I want to do is accidently hit someone while trying to balance the gas and the clutch like I did this morning before my mom intervened.

There are several ways to get from school to home without taking the freeway, and all of them involve getting caught up in mall traffic. There are two major malls between here and Compton and some people are still taking advantage of the after-Christmas sales. If I had some money, I’d be right in there with them. I haven’t braided any heads since the shooting, and don’t anticipate hustling this weekend either. Mama says I can’t touch anyone else’s head until I get mine straight. I’m pretty sure her and Netta will hook a sistah up tomorrow, whether I’m ready or not.

When I get home, I know the first thing Mama’s going to ask me is if I made the appointment with our family physician, Dr. Whitmore, yet. I have insurance through my mom’s job with Kaiser, but Mama doesn’t trust them with shit like my sleepwalking. I don’t blame her, because the last time something like this happened to me and my mom took me to my pediatrician, they tried to give me antipsychotic drugs, as well as send me to a shrink. When Mama found out she wanted to crucify my mom, and I was right there with Mama.

Walking up the driveway and up the porch, I look over my shoulder to make sure the alarm lights come on, indicating my mom’s ride is somewhat safe parked in front of the house. I doubt anyone will jack it because we protect our own on our block, even if Gunlock Avenue is notorious for being the spot to take jacked cars to get money for the parts. So a sistah still has to be cautious.

As soon as I walk through the front door, Mama walks into the living room from the kitchen. She looks ready to harass me about my sleepwalking incident this morning.

“Hi, baby. You didn’t forget any of the details from your dream last night, did you?” she asks, wiping her wet hands with a kitchen towel before giving me a hug.

“No, ma’am,” I say, returning the hug. It feels good, embracing my grandmother, whose vanilla scent is comforting.

“Good. And did you call Dr. Whitmore to make an appointment? I had Bryan put a reminder in that fancy phone of yours.”

“Mama, I just got home,” I say, putting my pile of school-books down on the dining room table before taking off my shoes. It’s been a long day and I’m in no mood to get drilled.

“Don’t you sass me, young lady. Tomorrow afternoon we’re at Netta’s, but you tell him that Wednesday works for me. And now that you’re driving your mama’s car, it should be good for you, too. Now, get on that little pink phone of yours and make the call.” Damn, Mama can be harsh sometimes. You’d think she was the one sleepwalking instead of me.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, near tears. Mama looks up from her spirit book, also on the dining room table, and sees the emotion written all over my face. She pats my hand with hers, letting me know she’s here for me.

“Look, Jayd, I know it’s hard right now, but it won’t always be this way. We need to immediately get to the bottom of why you’re sleepwalking, and Dr. Whitmore will be able to help me see what I can’t right now. And more importantly, he’ll be able to help you get some solid sleep. The sooner we take care of this, the better.” I couldn’t agree more with her final statement. The last thing I want to do is have another episode like the one I had this morning.

“I know, Mama. I know.” I take my phone out of my purse and put it on top of my stack of books. I look around the living room and notice my backpack isn’t where I left it by the dining room table. Mama follows my eyes as I search the room.

“Your backpack’s in my room, Jayd,” she says, reading my mind. “You have to be careful, girl. You know these fools around here will snatch it and anything else up without a second thought.” Mama’s right. I have to be more careful and pay attention to what I’m doing. Maybe a visit with her doctor is just what I need to get myself together after all. Between his work and Netta’s head cleansing tomorrow, I should be straight by the weekend.

After Monday’s eventful day, I opted to hide out all day yesterday, and with it being a usual short Tuesday because of the weekly staff meetings, it went by pretty quickly. Mama, Netta, and I also had a quiet afternoon at the shop. But even with Netta’s
rogacion de cabeza
and Mama there to assist with the head cleansing, I still didn’t sleep well last night. It seems like as soon as I close my eyes, it’s time to get up. There’s no dreaming, no hard sleep, nothing. Just lying down and getting up. That’s what usually leads to more sleepwalking episodes and no one wants to tune in for that show, least of all me.

There was still no teacher for the debate class scheduled to start yesterday, so I had another free period in the library. According to Mr. Adelizi, today we will definitely start speech and debate.

I haven’t seen Mr. Adewale this week and I miss his presence. I’ve become accustomed to seeing our AP substitute teacher on a regular basis. I hope they find some work for him to do soon.

Walking down the main hall gives me the same familiar feeling I had when I walked down these same halls during the weeks before Christmas break. It’s only the third day of the new semester and ASB has already moved on to the next holiday. Valentine’s Day is over a month away and they’ve already got fliers up advertising the annual dance and secret valentine telegrams. Who knew a holiday supposedly about love could provide so many different fundraising ideas?

As with all holidays, the true meaning is hidden behind the commercial bull. The original Valentine’s Day is based off of bloodshed, just like Thanksgiving. It seems that no matter the celebration, there has to be a sacrifice of some sort, and usually the person with her ass on the line has no idea she’s about to be butchered.

“Ah, look who it is, baby. The bitch who death follows,” Misty says. I don’t know why, but her words give me the chills, and not like when a cold breeze blows across my face. I feel like she just invited someone—or something—into our space, and whatever it is doesn’t feel good.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Misty’s eyes look cold and empty as she thinks of a response to my question. I never thought I’d see the day Misty reminds me of Esmeralda, but today she does. Our evil next-door neighbor has been incognito ever since Misty and her mom became Esmeralda’s godchildren in the religion. Mama says that some twisted voodoo priests use their godchildren like vampires, and this newfound family they’ve concocted is a prime example of that type of sick relationship.

“It means that wherever you go, someone gets hurt. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone cursed you.” Misty, KJ, and his crew laugh at her joke, but it’s anything but funny to me. Those sound like fighting words, but I’m too tired to front her physically, so my words will have to serve as fists today.

“So, KJ, I see you have a thing for voodoo girls.” He looks at me like he wants to eat me up, but he knows better than to try to get with me again. That’ll never happen.

“Not anymore,” he says, playing off his obvious attraction to me while adding to their morning comedy routine.

“Oh, Misty did tell you she’s in the same religion as I am, didn’t she? Or did you forget to mention that little fact?” I say, wiping the smiles right off all their faces. The last thing KJ or his hella Christian parents want is to be associated with any hoodoo mess, as they call it. But all priests know that hoodoo is simply the work. Voodoo, Santeria, Ifa, or whatever branch of the religion we choose to refer to ourselves as, is a whole other world KJ and his folks want no part of.

“Don’t pay her any mind, KJ. She’s a very troubled girl,” Misty says, rolling her neck and hips at me. Misty’s eyes aren’t the only thing that’s different about her. She’s also lost a lot of weight over the break. When I saw her at Tre’s house after the shooting, I could tell she was shedding the pounds, but now she looks like she’s been starving herself.

“Whatever, Misty. You and I know the truth, and whenever you’re ready to come with it, bring it on,” I say to Misty’s back as they exit the main hall, heading in the same direction I’m going. KJ looks back at me and I nod my head to confirm my words. If Misty’s going to call me out on my shit—which I’m not ashamed of—then I’m calling her on hers. One of the rules of our religion is to not out other practitioners, but Misty’s far from being a true devotee of the Orisha, our West African Gods. And because she’s a fake, I think it’s my duty to out her wannabe ass for the trick she really is, in as many ways as I possibly can.

I take my class schedule out of my purse to check the room number for my new fourth-period class. It’s in the language arts hall at the opposite end of the building from my English class. At least it’s not far from my third period government class. Jeremy conveniently ditched third period today, starting out his second semester the right way, as far as he’s concerned. Lucky for him the absences start over again at the beginning of each semester, which means he’s working with a clean slate now.

“Lost?” I hear a familiar voice ask. As if my prayers were answered, Mr. Adewale comes walking down the main hall looking as fine as ever. Damn, why does he have to be my teacher and too old for me to date?

“Hey, Mr. A. Fancy meeting you here.” Mr. Adewale looks down and smiles at me, falling into step with my quick stride. As we walk down the long corridor, we notice the crowd of students waiting at the other end of the hall. Among the masses are KJ, Misty, and their crew. Please tell me they’re not in class with me.

“Not really. Seems they had another opening for this semester and I’ll still be subbing for Mrs. Peterson when she needs me, as well as the other teachers, just like I did last semester.”

“So what do you do when you’re not teaching here?” I ask, all up in his business this morning. We never have a lot of time to talk so I have to get in the important questions whenever I get the chance.