Pieces of Why (9 page)

I
F
I
COULD
have gone back home, I would have, but I couldn't hurt Keisha's feelings. Not after ignoring her for a week. So instead, I went with her family, walking along the River Walk to the French Quarter. Street performers entertained the crowds, and saxophone players lifted up jazz melodies over the bend in the Mississippi River. Dwayne hovered nearby, letting me push Jerome in the stroller, and Ms. Evette asked if I was all right every five minutes.

By the time we got to Café Du Monde for our beignets I would've given everything I owned to disappear. What if Loretta was right? I'd already lost my music and lied to my mother. Maybe without my singing, I
would
become disturbed.

“Hello? Earth to Tia.” Keisha pulled at my sleeve, handing me a tray for my beignets.

“Huh?”

I followed her and Dwayne to the outdoor table where
Ms. Evette and Loretta sat laughing. A trumpet player set up his station outside and began to play. While everyone else ate, I closed my eyes and pictured the notes, dancing through the night sky.

“Hey, Tia.” Keisha nudged me with her elbow and I had to fight my way up for air. She pointed across the street to Jackson Square. “Look. It's Kenny.” We hadn't seen him since before June Fest. “Want to go talk to him?”

Loretta and Ms. Evette glanced from me to Keisha.

“Is that your boyfriend?” Loretta asked. I could just imagine what she was thinking.

Twelve ye
ars old and already
she's wild.

“He's not her boyfriend . . . yet,” Keisha corrected. “Can we go say hi? Please?”

Ms. Evette frowned. “I'll walk over with you,” she said, but Loretta gave her the eye.

“They're old enough to cross the street on their own, Ettie,” she scolded. “They don't want you hanging around while they talk to a boy. Right, girls?”

Keisha grinned. “Isn't my aunt the best?”

I didn't answer. Ms. Evette looked over at Dwayne, but he just shook his head. “Don't look at me,” he said. “If I had my way, these girls wouldn't talk to a boy until they turned thirty.”

Keisha rolled her eyes, then dragged me out of my chair. “Let's go.”

We ran across the street, dodging the flower-covered horse-and-carriages lined up to carry tourists around the quarter. Then we wound our way through the displays of art for sale. When we'd nearly caught up to Kenny, Keisha hollered, waving like mad.

“Kenny! Hey Kenny!” She laughed at my mortified stare. “Sometimes you gotta do things quick,” she whispered, “like pulling off a Band-Aid.”

Kenny's family stopped a few paces ahead of us, and his mother glared, but Kenny jogged forward.

“Hi,” he said, “w-what are you guys doing here?”

He was asking both of us, but looking right at me. Keisha nudged my shoulder so I'd answer.

“Getting beignets,” I said, wondering how a factual statement could come out sounding so dumb.

“Oh,” Kenny said. “I'm g-glad to see you.”

I shuffled awkwardly. “Me too.”

There was a moment of silence while Keisha pretended to study something in the distance.

“So . . . how come you weren't at June Fest?” I asked at last. “You're not quitting choir, are you?” That sounded desperate, and I wished I'd said something else.

Anything else.

Kenny smiled. “No,” he said. “I was on v-v-v—” He got stuck on the sound and struggled to force it out.

“Vacation?” Keisha supplied.

“Yeah,” Kenny said.

“So you'll be back?”

Kenny nodded. “On Thursday.” He paused. “Why? Did you m-miss me?”

I
had
missed him. It felt so good to see him again, I wanted to burst.

“You mean at June Fest?” I blurted. “Yeah. The tenors were flat.”

Keisha groaned like I was about as hopeless as they came, but Kenny didn't seem to notice.

“We're always f-flat,” he said, chuckling. “Lorenzo Reyes c-can't sing on k-key to save his life.”

Keisha snorted. “At least you haven't got Mary-Kate and Amber Allen trying to out-sing the whole choir. I mean, hello? It's called a choir because our voices are supposed to blend.”

Showboating was one of Ms. Marion's pet peeves:
No on
e shines unless we a
ll shine.

“The choir sounds a lot better when you're there,” I said to Kenny, feeling heat spread from my neck to my cheeks. But it was true. Kenny had an amazing voice—clear and steady—and when he sang he never stuttered.

“You think s-so?” Kenny asked, grinning. “M-maybe sometime w-we could—”

This time I really did wish Kenny could talk faster, because he didn't get to finish his sentence before Loretta, Ms.
Evette, Dwayne, and Jerome came up behind us. And if that wasn't bad enough, at the same time, Kenny's family came over.

Kenny's mother glared at me, as if I was already a bad influence on her son. I wondered if she knew about my father. All the adults said hello and made small talk, and the whole time I was crushed like a vise between Loretta and Kenny's mom.

I guessed Kenny had been about to ask if we could sing together, and I wanted that so bad, but right then, I wasn't sure if I'd ever sing again. What would Kenny think if he knew what my dad had done?

When I finally risked a glance in Kenny's direction, he was watching me with his head cocked to one side, studying me with warm, kind eyes.

They were the eyes of someone who knew what it felt like to be judged.

If all the adults hadn't been around, I would have reached out to hold his hand. I imagined myself squeezing lightly, the way he'd done the night of the shooting, offering up the silent truth that maybe we could do this together.

Since Loretta bunked with Keisha whenever she visited, Ma had swapped shifts that night, so I could sleep at home. I was relieved to be in my own bed, but I still tossed and turned, unable to sleep. I couldn't stop thinking about what Loretta had said to Ms. Evette.

One way or a
nother, that girl is
going to be disturb
ed.

Was that true? Did being the daughter of a murderer mean I'd grow up to do horrible things? It was as if my father had stolen my future. But really, Danielle was the one whose future had been stolen. How could I complain when at least I was still alive?

My window was open, and outside I could hear my neighbors gambling on their front porch. There was music in their voices.

Roll them bones.

Sna
ke eyes, snake eyes.

C'mon, lady luck.

Whenever a breeze came by, the leftover Mardi Gras beads caught in the branches of the trees rattled like their dice. The sound of a calliope drifted on the wind from a riverboat far away on the Mississippi. Something about that bright, cheerful sound made me think about that other hot, humid day when I'd sung my heart out, feeling like a magician pulling scarves out of my sleeve. Then I thought about Kenny's face lighting up when he thought we might sing together.

He didn't think I was evil spawn.

But what if he was wrong?

I smacked the wall in frustration. Ma must not have been sleeping well, because in an instant, she was in my doorway, bleary-eyed with her hair sticking up in patches.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

I flopped back onto my bed. “Fine. You must have been dreaming.” I wondered how come I'd never noticed how much lying Ma and I did. It was like a song on the radio that I swore I'd never heard before, but once I recognized it, I realized the DJ played it every five minutes.

“What are you still doing up?” Ma asked. “It's late.”

I took a deep breath. “Ma,” I said, willing myself to form the word.

Were you ever
going to tell me why
my father really we
nt to prison? Did yo
u think I'd never fi
nd out?

What I actually said surprised me. “Do you ever think about moving?”

Ma let out a little laugh and lay down onto the bed next to me. “Trust me,” she said, “I've daydreamed about moving more often than you could ever guess.”

I turned over, propping myself up on one elbow so we were facing each other.

“Then why don't we? We could start over someplace different. Someplace where no one knows us, and we could be anyone we want.”

Ma looked at me strange. “Wouldn't you miss Keisha too much?”

The thought of missing Keisha tore through me, but I shook my head. “We'd keep in touch. Please, Ma. Let's do it.”

Ma stroked my hair. “Where would we go?”

I thought it over, excitement building at the possibility that she might say yes. “California,” I said. “We could live by the beach and I could audition for musicals.”

Ma wrinkled her nose. “California? Really? Too crowded for me. I'd choose someplace vast and open, like Nebraska or Wyoming.”

“Those would work too,” I said, even though I didn't really want to live in the middle of nowhere.

Ma just sighed. “Sure would be nice if we could afford it. But you know we're lucky to have this house. If my grandmother hadn't left it to me in her will . . .” Ma closed her eyes. “Moving costs money we don't have and, frankly, I don't know where I'd be without Ms. Evette to help out with you. I know this isn't the best area, but we have to make do with what we have. You understand that, don't you, Tia?”

I stared up at the ceiling. Tears stung my eyes.

“Yeah,” I said. “It's just . . . I wish . . .”

“What do you wish, honey?”

I wish I didn't live in the same ci
ty as Danielle Morto
n's family.

I shook my head. “Nothing. You should go back to bed. I know you have to work early tomorrow.”

“That's true.” Ma got up slowly. She walked over to the doorway and stopped. “You know I love you, right? If there's something bothering you, you'd tell me?”

Ma looked so concerned, standing there in her tattered
nightshirt, that I didn't have the heart to hurt her. “Nothing's wrong,” I murmured, but the minute I said it, I understood something important.

Lying was exhausting.

So was hiding. I didn't want to be the person Keisha's aunt Loretta thought I'd become. I wanted to be the girl who'd dreamed of changing the world with her voice. I wanted to be the girl who could sing duets with a really great guy if he asked her to.

But now I knew that wouldn't happen unless I
made
it happen. If Ma wouldn't be leaving this city any time soon, then there was something I needed to do.

Something that made my heart pound and my throat constrict.

Something that scared me straight down to my bones.

T
HE NEXT NIGHT
I was back at Keisha's. We'd begged for this sleepover, since we'd missed the one on Monday night.

“Are you sure you need to do this?” Keisha asked. Her room was dark and we were hiding under the sheet, lighting the space with a tiny flashlight. “I just don't see how going to Danielle Morton's house will do anything other than make things worse.”

I shook my head. “I told you already. I need to go back to where things went wrong, and if I don't apologize, no one ever will.”

Keisha groaned. “But it wasn't
your
fault! You were four! How exactly were you supposed to stop your butt-brained father from using his stupid butt-brain to do something stupid?”

She was getting riled up, but I didn't care.

“It's not about whose fault it is. Now that I know what
happened, I need to tell Danielle's family that I'm sorry my father was such a stupid butt-brain!”

Despite ourselves, this made us both giggle, and moments later we heard Ms. Evette's voice holler up the stairs.

“Girls, quiet! Go to sleep!”

Keisha and I exchanged glances, listening for footsteps in the hallway, but there weren't any.

“Too bad Auntie Loretta went back to Mississippi,” Keisha said at last. “She would've driven you there. I'm sure of it.”

I started to agree, but then I stopped. This was as good a time as any to start telling the truth.

“Keisha,” I said. “Your aunt Loretta hates me.”

“What?!” Keisha demanded. “That's not true. Why would you say that?”

I took a deep breath. “I overheard her and your ma talking. Loretta thinks I'm going to turn out like my father.”

Keisha's eyes widened. “But she always brings you presents when she visits. And she seems so happy to see you.”

“I know,” I said, “but she's just doing that for you. I know you're crazy about your aunt, and that's fine, but I don't think I'll visit next time she's here.”

Keisha was quiet for a long time. “I guess that's why everyone was so tense the other night. Feels crappy that I didn't know.” She paused. “I'm really sorry.”

I nodded. “It's not your fault, but I bet it still feels good to apologize for it.”

This time Keisha's eyes narrowed. “Fine,” she said at last. “You've made your point. If you
have
to do this, I'll help. It'll have to be during choir rehearsal, though. This isn't like sneaking out my window for twenty minutes. It's gonna take you a long time to get there and a long time to get back, and it's not like you can just rush in, apologize, and then run right out again.” Keisha paused, thinking things over. “How about this: I'll tell Mama that you're going to be late to choir rehearsal because . . .”

“'Cause Ma's shift changed again?”

“Good. That way Mama won't be looking for you when we get there.”

“What if your mom decides to stay and watch?”

“She won't. She's got all the sheets and towels to wash from Auntie Loretta's visit, and Jerome is cutting a tooth, so he's been fussing way too much. Wearing everyone out.”

“Okay,” I said. “Then I can head out when Ma leaves for work.”

“You'll have to take the bus,” Keisha said. “Have you ever ridden the bus on your own?”

I shook my head.

Keisha took my hand and squeezed it. “It'll be fine. Just stand up front next to the driver and listen for your stop.”

“Right,” I said. “I can handle that.”

Footsteps sounded in the hallway and we knew Ms. Evette was coming to check on us. Keisha clicked off her flashlight and we pretended to sleep, but all I could do was lie awake, my eyes wide. Could I do this?

Was I really going to apologize for murder?

Thursday morning I was too nervous to eat, and when I did force down a few bites, I had to run to the bathroom to throw them up again. Ma put her hand on my forehead and scowled.

“Are you sure I don't need to stay home with you? You're white as a ghost and your eyes look glassy.”

Part of me wanted to say yes—to curl up with Ma on the couch and watch mindless television where no one's problems were real and even the worst stuff got solved by the end of the episode. But I shook my head. “I'm okay,” I said, fear rumbling in my gut. “Probably just one of those bugs. Besides, I've got choir rehearsal.”

“Mmmm.” Ma glanced at her watch. It was four o'clock and Ma was on the five p.m. to midnight shift, but it took her a while to ride the streetcar to the store on Tchoupitoulas. “All right,” she said. “I have to go, but call me if you need anything. Lock the door behind you when you leave. Don't talk to strangers, and follow the path I laid out for you.”

“I will,” I said, watching her step outside, knowing how angry she'd be if she knew what I was about to do.

Suddenly, I couldn't remember why I'd come up with this plan in the first place. I sat on our tattered sofa, kicking my legs, determined not to chicken out. I waited half an hour just to be sure Ma wouldn't return home for some forgotten item, and once the minutes had crept by, I grabbed my house key and the extra Jazzy Pass that Ma kept in case of emergency.

Then I walked out my front door.

I almost turned around when I reached the last block where I was allowed on my own. Perspiration beaded on my forehead.

Was I doing the right thing? My whole body felt tight, and I imagined I was the jack in Jerome's jack-in-the-box and that someone was cranking the handle faster and faster until I popped. I tried to remember how it had felt to loosen up enough to sing, to throw my shoulders back and relax my jaw, but those feelings belonged to a whole other life.

At the bus stop, I had to wait forever in a crowd of milling people. Part of me wished the bus would hurry up, but another part hoped it had broken down. When it finally did arrive, I stood in line, waiting my turn to press forward up the stairs. I fed my pass into the machine, messing up twice before I got it right, then looked for an empty seat up front.

There wasn't one.

The bus was packed, all kinds of bodies jostling against one another. Little by little, I got pushed backward until I was stuck between a man in a suit and a woman with a crying baby, so I couldn't see a thing. I tried hard to hear the driver call out the names of the stops, but either he didn't yell them or I couldn't hear him.

All around me, people were squished together and the bus smelled of body odor, exhaust fumes, and fast food. Somewhere the air-conditioning was clunking away, but the wall of bodies stopped the cool air from reaching me. I started to worry I'd never get to the right stop, so in a moment of panic I pushed my way off with all the other riders at Napoleon Avenue.

It felt so good to be off the bus, I wanted to kiss the ground. I stood on the corner and pulled out my street map even though Keisha had warned me about studying a map in public.

“You'll look like a tourist,” she'd said, “and then some idiot might try to rob you.” It was good advice, but we both knew that a person could get robbed even if they weren't a tourist.

I looked around to orient myself and then walked down Magazine Street toward Monet. When I was almost there, I saw a building on the corner called Le Bon Temps Roule. Dwayne and Ms. Evette went there sometimes on Saturday
nights, and before they left Dwayne always called out, “Let the good times roll!” Then the next day they'd tell stories about late-night music and dancing that spilled onto the street. Keisha and I had always wanted to go, but now I wondered if this was where my father had done his drinking before he'd decided to rob the Morton house.

The place didn't look like much. It was an old wooden shack with a sign out front that said
BAR
AND SANDWICH SHOP.
There was a big chalkboard on one wall with the weekly menu, and at the top someone had written
Geaux Saints!

I went a little farther, then turned the corner and walked down Monet Street, searching out the number on each house, but nothing looked the way I'd pictured it. The houses were average. Nicer than the shotgun houses where I lived, but not too fancy. There were a few scattered trees lining the road, and a couple of the houses had cars parked out front. I squinted hard.

Why here? Had my father stumbled down the street looking for a house that appeared unoccupied? Maybe he'd seen Mr. and Mrs. Morton at Le Bon Temps Roule, so he'd assumed their house would be empty. But how would he have known who they were or where they lived? Why couldn't he have picked a house without a twelve-year-old girl asleep in her bed? He could have chosen any place, but he'd come here. Right to . . .

1032 Monet Street.

A chain-link fence surrounded the small front yard. The house was colorful, with hot pink, yellow, and blue trim around the top to match the bright blue shutters. Two wicker chairs and a small table sat on the porch. But what made my jaw drop was the music.

All around the porch were wind chimes. They came in every size, from teeny-tiny to one that was practically as big as me, and every one of them had a butterfly on it. When the wind blew, the air filled with crystalline sound.

I knew immediately that they were for her.

“Beautiful, ain't it?” said a voice behind me. “You ought to see how many we've got over at the Butterfly Foundation. These are just Louisa's favorites.”

I jumped and my heart hammered so hard, I thought it might come clean out of my chest. I whirled around, then took a step backward, nearly tripping over my own feet. An old guy with light brown wrinkly skin and silver hair stood behind me. He held up his hands as if to show that he hadn't meant to startle me. The man had a craggy face, and he was wearing the kind of plaid pants old men wear.

He chuckled softly. “Sorry. Didn't mean to—”

Then he stopped.

His gaze fixed on me, and I watched the color and kindness drain from his expression as his eyes grew dark with
recognition. He took a step back before reaching up with one bony finger.

“Your face. Why, you look just like—”

I didn't wait to hear my father's name.

All thoughts of apologizing disappeared, and I sprinted down the street as fast as my legs would go.