Make Way for Dyamonde Daniel (2 page)

Dyamonde Daniel was
a gem waiting to be discovered. Just ask her.

So what if she had wild-crazy hair and was skinnier than half a toothpick? On the inside, she was extraordinary. Plus super smart. As a matter of fact, she had more brains in her tiny little pinky than
most kids had in their whole entire bodies.

When Dyamonde was a little kid, she had to keep that to herself. Why? ’Cause her mom said her being super smart was a family secret. “So you can’t tell anyone,” said her mom.

Puleeze!
thought Dyamonde.
Give me a break!

Back then, she believed her mom, though. What do you want? She was just a kid.

Then one night Dyamonde heard her mom talking on the
telephone, telling someone how smart her daughter was. That was the end of
that
secret! Now everybody knows how smart she is. Dyamonde still doesn’t always go around saying how smart she is, though. It’s not nice to brag.

One morning, in her third-grade homeroom, Dyamonde was feeling down.

If I’m so smart
, thought Dyamonde,
how come I’ve been in this new school three whole weeks and I still don’t have a new best friend?

Dyamonde didn’t have time to
figure it out because her teacher, Mrs. Cordell, clapped to get everybody’s attention.

“Class,” said Mrs. Cordell, “we have a new student joining us today. Please say hello to Free.”

“Hello, Free,” everyone said, like robots.

And what did that boy do? He grunted!

Puleeze!
thought Dyamonde.
How rude!

“Free just moved here from Detroit—it is Detroit, right?” asked Mrs. Cordell.

Free grunted again. Mrs. Cordell,
who Dyamonde decided was being
way
too nice, pretended not to notice.

“I hope you will all make Free feel welcome.”

Dyamonde shook her head. She already knew she didn’t want to have anything to do with that boy. So, of course, he took the seat right in front of her.

Oh, brother
, thought Dyamonde.
Now I have to stare at his fat head every day
.

Well, his head wasn’t fat, really. It was a nice head, covered with tight brown braids. His head was
hard to see over, though, because he was so tall.

When the lunch bell rang, even though he didn’t deserve it, Dyamonde invited Free to sit with her. She knew how lonely it felt to be the new kid in school. But instead of being grateful, he mumbled, “Leave me alone.”

Dyamonde sucked her teeth.
Too rude!
thought Dyamonde. Aloud, she said, “Suit yourself,” and went on to the lunchroom without him.

The seats in the lunchroom filled up fast. Not that it mattered
to Dyamonde. She already knew where she was going to sit.

Dyamonde got in line and bought a milk to go with the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she’d brought from home, then took a seat with Tanya, Tylisha and Tameeka—the three T’s. They weren’t about to let Dyamonde into their little group, but they were nice enough to her at school. Sitting at their table during lunch made her feel a little less alone.

One plus three equals four
, thought Dyamonde.
Four’s a nice, sturdy number, like a table with four legs, or a square, all cozy and zipped up on all four sides
.

Dyamonde liked even numbers. In fact, Dyamonde liked numbers, period. Math made sense to her. Numbers were neat, and easy, and solid. Not like English, which was full of rules that changed all the time. Yes, math was best. Math was something you could always count on. Well, mostly.

For a long time after her mom and dad got divorced, Dyamonde hated math because all she could see was subtraction. Mom’s voice
minus Dad’s. Two for breakfast instead of three. Monday night TV minus the football. It just didn’t feel right, at first. But things were a little better now. Dyamonde plus her mom equaled two, and two was a nice even number, and even numbers rule. So, while the three T’s were not her real friends, sitting with them at lunchtime gave Dyamonde a break from feeling like the odd number she was at school the rest of the day. After all, who wants to feel odd?

Dyamonde couldn’t help but
notice that Free sat at a table in the back, all by himself.
Talk about odd
, thought Dyamonde.

She just shook her head.

Boys
.

Dyamonde was happy
to go home that afternoon. The next day was Saturday, which meant no Rude Boy and no feeling lonely in the school yard. Plus, on Saturdays she could sleep as late as she wanted. And she might as well. She didn’t have anything else to do these days. Well, she had
homework, but that didn’t count. She always had homework.

Dyamonde turned the key in the front door of her apartment building. She was supposed to go straight to her neighbor’s on the second floor and wait there till her mom came home from work. Instead, she slipped into the tiny apartment she shared with her mom, dropped her books on the couch and grabbed her favorite photo album from the bookshelf.

Where is it?
thought Dyamonde, flipping the pages.

There!

She turned to a page of pictures of herself with her best friend, Alisha. Her old best friend. The one Dyamonde had to leave behind in Brooklyn when her parents got divorced and her mom moved them to this new place in Washington Heights.

Dyamonde sighed. More subtraction. Her least favorite kind of math.

In the old days, Alisha had been part of Dyamonde’s cozy foursome: herself, her mom, her dad, plus Alisha made four.

“I miss you,” Dyamonde said to
the girl in the photo. She missed her dad too. And their old apartment where she had her own room. Here, she had to sleep on a pullout sofa. It wasn’t half bad, though. It was plenty roomy enough for her to stretch out on, even sideways. Plus, her mom had offered her the bedroom, but Dyamonde had said no. She figured moms should have their own bedrooms. Even so, it was nice having a bedroom with your own desk and stuff. Dyamonde sighed a second time. Truth is, she missed all kinds of things.

Not that her new neighborhood
was boring or anything. 147th Street and Amsterdam Avenue was pretty much bursting with life. There was the House of Beauty, where ladies got their hair curled and colored. There was Hal’s Hair Shack, where men went for haircuts. There was a Laundromat for folks who didn’t have washing machines in their basements, and a bunch of different restaurants. Some sold Chinese takeout, some sold fried chicken, and some sold nothing but barbecue. There was a great candy store, a newspaper stand and a flower stand. As far as
Dyamonde could see, the neighborhood had just about everything you could ever want.

Sure is nothing like the quiet old neighborhood we used to live in
, thought Dyamonde. The Brooklyn brownstones had been nice enough, but they were mostly filled with old people on Dyamonde’s block.

This new neighborhood was alive, like Dyamonde. The avenue was always busy with all kinds of people coming and going. Dyamonde figured if she sat perfectly still on her stoop, or stared out her window long enough, the
whole world would pass by. Ladies in crisp nurse’s uniforms catching the uptown bus to Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. Men and ladies in suit jackets catching the bus to fancy offices downtown. There were kids like Dyamonde playing stickball or handball against a building, or walking to school like Dyamonde did every day.

The avenue suited Dyamonde just fine. Still, that didn’t keep her from missing the friends she left behind in Brooklyn.

What she did
not
miss were the loud fights her mom and dad
had been having the last few years. Them not living together was definitely better.

Dyamonde ran her finger over Alisha’s photo, then closed the album and put it back on the shelf.

Suddenly, Dyamonde’s shoulders sagged.

Saturdays are a waste
, thought Dyamonde.
No more treasure hunts with Alisha. No more sleepovers. No more pictures together
.

Dyamonde grabbed her books and dragged herself downstairs to
her neighbor’s apartment to wait for her mom. “What’s the matter?” asked her neighbor, Mrs. King.

“Nothing,” Dyamonde said with a sigh. Mrs. King patted her on the head like a puppy, the way she always did. For once, Dyamonde didn’t mind.

By the next morning, Dyamonde felt better, especially when she woke up to a familiar smell.

“Dyamonde!” called her mom. “Your pancakes are getting cold.”

Dyamonde smiled. She liked having her mom all to herself on
Saturdays. Plus there was one more good thing about Saturdays.

Pancakes!

“Coming, Mom!”

On Monday
, Dyamonde tried to slip out of the house without a jacket. It was the end of September and still warmish. She had on her red T-shirt, jeans and a blue vest with rows of red, white and blue buttons sewn on the pockets. She called it her Independence vest, and she didn’t want to cover it
up with a silly jacket. She’d sewn those buttons on with her own hands, and she wanted everybody to see them.

“Bye, Mom,” said Dyamonde, almost out the door.

“Jacket,” said Mrs. Daniel. Dyamonde rolled her eyes but went back to her closet.

Mothers
, thought Dyamonde.

There was no point in complaining. It’s not like she was going to be late for school. Since school started, she’d been leaving early each morning. She didn’t have any special friend to walk to
school with, and she didn’t want to be reminded by seeing groups of other kids walking together. She felt left out enough as it was.

Once she got to her homeroom, Dyamonde read over her homework while she waited for class to start. She looked up when the bell rang, just in time to see Free stomp into the room.

Oh, brother
, thought Dyamonde.
Here comes Rude Boy
.

She decided to ignore him, which was easy enough to do in class because he was quiet as a mouse. He never raised his hand.
He never asked any questions. And when the teacher called on him to read, he slouched in his seat and made up some excuse not to.

Dyamonde shook her head.
I know that boy can read
, thought Dyamonde.
Just last week, I caught him reading a book in the school yard after lunch
. Nobody
reads in the school yard unless they just plain
like
to read. So why is he making out like he doesn’t?
Dyamonde shook her head again.
And why do I even care? Forget him.

Dyamonde turned her attention back to Mrs. Cordell.