Yolonda's Genius (9 page)

In the powder room, Yolonda began to snicker, thinking of the surprise she'd given those men. She laughed out loud and it echoed, rebounding from cold pink tiles. “Wait'll I tell Shirley,” she said aloud through giggles. How Shirley would laugh, too. Then she sobered suddenly. Shirley was probably not her friend anymore.

Yolonda washed her hands, soaping and soaping with a fragrant leaf of pink soap. She bounced her hair at the girl in the mirror. Her hair was a gorgeous number. “You stupid know-nuthin',” she growled at the girl who pouted back at her. “Who d'you think you are?”

All in all, it wasn't a bad evening. Through the windows by their table, they watched rain come and the Amtrak train pass below them. On its way to Chicago, thought Yolonda. The lights from the town winked; the streets shone wet and black. The steaks were done perfectly and there was a big dessert cart to ponder over.

As they left the hotel, Yolonda thought, We're a pretty family — a pretty fine family. The doorman held the door wide.

Aunt Tiny would be leaving early tomorrow morning. There was only today, Sunday, for Yolonda to corner her — to talk to her about Andrew.

Already half the day had been spent on church and brunch at a lakeside restaurant. Another part of the day would probably have to be used playing Mozart for Aunt Tiny. Yolonda was worried she wouldn't be able to pull off the two horrible trills this time. Which should she try for first — Mozart or Andrew? She felt a rush and tumble inside herself, as though she were hurrying somewhere.

Her momma was busy in the kitchen, stuffing a
chicken for dinner. Andrew had wandered upstairs. Yolonda could hear his pipe sounding from his bedroom — the same phrase over and over. Aunt Tiny seemed to be napping in her big chair. When Yolonda tiptoed past, her aunt murmured, eyes closed, “'Bout time for some Mozart, you think, Yolonda?”

Time for the horrible trills. Aunt Tiny raised her chair to a more upright position. “I can hear you fine from here.”

Yolonda knew she could see her, too, where she sat at the piano in the bay room. She stared at the keys. Here goes nuthin', she thought. Then, miraculously, she remembered to shake out her hands, letting the energy flow into her fingers. She played a few notes to limber up. “Just loosening up this machine,” she told her aunt, hoping to make her laugh. No laugh. She could feel Tiny waiting. She began.

It wasn't easy. It wasn't hard. She stumbled a bit over the first horrible trill, but the next one felt right. When she stopped, Aunt Tiny applauded.

“You play real nice, Yolonda — a little tight in spots, maybe, but real nice to listen to. Don't have to be a genius to play so folks are pleasured with listening.”

And there it was. The opening!

“I'm not the musical genius in this family, Aunt
Tiny,” cried Yolonda, her voice yipping with eagerness. “Andrew's the genius in this family. You should hear.”

Tiny laughed. “That itty-bitty boy child? A genius?” She smiled fondly at Yolonda. “Deuce, your daddy, used to brag that Andrew was the youngest harp man in history.” She gazed on over Yolonda's head. “That baby boy was always tootling away in the background. Never really noticed him much — no bigger'n an M&M, that boy.”

Then Yolonda told about Andrew playing the sounds of old west movies, and Homer Simpson, and how her brother could imitate the voices of newscasters on his harmonica. She told about Andrew playing the bacon and how he could capture car sounds and kids fighting outside their windows back in Chicago. She told about Andrew's waking-up music. She quoted John Hersey on true genius rearranging “old material in a way never seen before.”

At that, Tiny said, “Well, I'm a bit of a genius myself then, I suppose. Family genes filtering on down.” She smiled to herself. “That itty-bitty boy? I'd like to hear that song in the morning.”

“That's just it, Aunt Tiny.” Yolonda almost wept in earnestness. “He's stopped sounding great.” And Yolonda told about Andrew and the Dudes
and the broken harmonica and Andrew burying it. She didn't mention forgetting her brother while she had fun with Shirley.

“Sounds to me . . . ,” said her aunt when Yolonda paused for breath, “ . . . sounds like Andrew has got a lot to sort out. No way he's going to sound like he used to. Charlie Parker, you know, the great horn-playin' Bird himself, said, ‘You can't play it unless you lived it.'”

Aunt Tiny leaned toward Yolonda. “I expect it's the same the other way round — if you've lived it, you got to play it. Andrew's waiting on his new sound, I expect.”

Yolonda was disappointed. She'd thought that talking with Aunt Tiny would lift her burden. She wanted to ask her what to do next. She wanted to know how she could change things back. “I've messed up,” she wanted to cry out. “I'm sometimey. I forgot Andrew. I've lied to Shirley about double Dutch.” The words just wouldn't leave her mouth.

Tiny patted Yolonda's hand. “Don't get so down, Yolonda honey. It's not your fault.”

It is!
Yolonda wanted to cry. Another opportunity. She could confess now. But she held her breath.

“Andrew'll be all right. You'll see. We geniuses are good at hangin' in there.” Tiny struggled to her feet. “How about a little piece of that cake?”

The opportunity had passed. Yolonda let out her breath. There was no way she was going to let her adored Aunt Tiny know how miserably she had failed her little brother. What was the point? She wasn't going to risk losing Aunt Tiny's admiration. It wasn't as if she were telling a lie.

By six o'clock Monday morning, Aunt Tiny was packed and ready to leave. She had rented a limousine and driver rather than fly back to Chicago. It would take her two and a half hours longer than flying, but she didn't think she could tolerate “that itty-bitty plane” again even for such a short flight. Yolonda was disappointed. She'd wanted to watch Tiny's plane take off, imagine her aunt settled across the three backseats like a pampered celebrity being chauffeured through the skies to Chicago.

Aunt Tiny gave Yolonda her wonderful fragrant hug. “Don't look so gloomy, Yolonda. You're coming back home in just a few weeks. We'll have us a grand time.”

The limousine was big and luxurious. “Now this is more my style,” said Tiny as the driver opened the door for her. Her smile through the window was big and luxurious, too. Then she was driven away.

The house seemed deserted without Tiny.
Yolonda picked up the breakfast dishes slowly, then had to rush with Andrew to the bus stop.

In school, Yolonda's hairstyle created a sensation. Heads turned in the hallway. Mr. Johnkoski said Yolonda looked “ravishing.” Stoney Buxton stared in open-faced delight.

“Hey,” he said. “Fine,” he said.

Girls who had formerly paid her little attention now clustered around her,
oh
ed and
ah
ed and asked to touch the glossy, springy curls.

Only Shirley avoided her.

In the noisy cafeteria at lunchtime, Yolonda plopped down next to her at a table.

“I meant
best
friends,” said Yolonda. “I meant I don't believe in
best
friends.” Yolonda had begun to feel her horizons widen, her popularity expand. She was suddenly generous. “Want to come by after school?”

Shirley checked Yolonda warily. “I can't,” she said.

“Oh, yeah? How come?”

Shirley's expression was difficult to read. “I'm grounded,” she said, eyes flicking fiercely.

“No foolin'?” asked Yolonda. Admiration crept into her. “What'd you do?”

Shirley dropped her eyes, turned away. “I cut up my mother's new-bought clothesline.”

“Well . . . ah,” stalled Yolonda, startled. Well.
What? What a dingo. “That was a dumb move. I told you ‘no way.' Didn't I say that?”

“You said regulation size. I looked it up. I got us regulation size.”

That girl just wouldn't quit. Why was she pushing this rope-turning stuff? A flash of memory flickered in Yolonda — two girls in a Chicago school yard, hearts and minds joined. Something she could only envy.

Yolonda turned on her teacher voice, all authority and fact. “You need to be taller, bigger, stronger. Won't matter if the rope is regulation size.
You
aren't regulation size. How could we do ropes together? Besides, no offense, but I'm not sure a white person and a black person could pull it off doin' Dutch ropes. I'm not sure we would have the right vibes.”

Shirley turned a reddening face to Yolonda, tight with frustration. “How can we have vibes,” she whispered, “if you're such a bully? How can we have vibes if you don't want to?” Then her foggy voice rose, croaking angrily. “You're just making up excuses. So forget it! Let's just forget it!”

She grabbed at her backpack, dragged it past her tray of barely touched food, and fled.

Yolonda stared after her in surprise, shook her new curls, and looked around the lunchroom to see who might have witnessed the exchange. A few
girls at the next table were staring, and Yolonda shrugged her big shoulders at them in mock helplessness and smiled.

They smiled back. When they returned to talking and eating, Yolonda sighed. Only now did she notice how empty she was feeling. She pulled Shirley's tray toward her and began to eat the remaining food — cold fries, the bitten-into hamburger. She drank the faintly warm milk.

Aunt Tiny's presence followed Andrew to school. Sitting at his little desk, he thought about how different his mother was around his aunt. Even Yolonda was different. She seemed smaller. She seemed quieter.

He thought about how they had danced that first evening of Tiny's visit, his mother giggling like the girls at school, Tiny's red-and-gold robe swaying with soft whishes, Yolonda's body rocking over the sliding lift of her feet. Not the harmonica sound, nor the pipe, could say Yolonda dancing. The big curled-up horn, he thought, might do it. He needed a round, big, sweet sound for Yolonda dancing.

Yolonda fighting? In his room, he had practiced on his harmonica a sound swift and sure as a shark attack.

He would have to learn the music writing. He liked the looks of it better than the word writing.
Some of the music marks were black feet, like Mickey Mouse shoes on stick legs; some shoes were see-through shoes; some had no legs at all. Mr. Watts knew about all those other instruments that could make the different sounds come. He had given Andrew music-word homework. He had told him about
A
for
Ahhh-cordian
.

That night Andrew found a picture of a violin in the newspaper and cut it out. He looked through the glossy pages of
Ebony
and found a picture of a bongo drum and a piano, too.

Next day he brought them to Vic Watts. Mr. Watts seemed delighted with the cutouts of the violin, the bongos, the piano.

“Let's talk bongos,” he said. “Buh-buh-bon-gos.”

Andrew watched as Mr. Watts drew a big capital
B
on the board.

“See the two drums?” he said, pointing to the half circles clamped to the stem of the
B
. “
B
is for
bongos
.”

Andrew drew the
B
over and over again on the lined paper.

Bongos
. There could be a bongo sound in Yolonda's dancing.

Andrew stopped making
B
's. This wasn't the writing he needed. He needed the little feet writing — the little Mickey Mouse feet. He looked up at Vic Watts.

Vic Watts sat down, scrunching himself into one of the little chairs next to Andrew. His knees stuck up. Like a grasshopper's legs, thought Andrew. In his head he heard low notes creaking on his pipe.

“What's wrong, Andrew?” asked Vic Watts. “Don't you want to learn to write?” Andrew nodded eagerly. Vic Watts could show him. Mr. Watts reached for the workbook on the table, but Andrew put his hand over the teacher's long fingers.

“Not these,” he said.

He got up from the little round table and walked confidently to the piano. He reached up and pulled down the music book. It was heavy. He carried it back against his stomach and placed it carefully on the little round table. Then he opened the book, letting the pages lie flat.

“These I need,” he said. “I need the little-feet writing.”

Vic Watts dropped his forehead into his hand. Andrew waited, worried a little. Vic Watts didn't seem to want to help.

“Which feet say the big drum beating?” asked Andrew. “Which feet tell the great big round horn to play?”

Vic Watts looked up and suddenly smiled at Andrew. “Sit down, Andrew,” he said. Then he laughed. “The little feet won't tell you all you want
to know. The other writing tells you if it's the drum or the tuba.”

He unbent himself from the little chair and stretched up tall, reaching his arms high and groaning a happy groan. “Oh, Andrew, m'man,” he said, “we have a lot to do. This is gonna take time, a lot of t-t-t-time. But I d-do b-believe I see the light.”

He leaned down and rested his hand lightly on Andrew's shoulder. “Tomorrow, make sure you bring that harmonica.”

Andrew smiled up into his teacher's face and patted his back pocket, like the clearest of words between the two of them.