A Girl Named Mister (10 page)

“No” used to be

two squiggles on a page

that mostly meant nothing to me.

Now, suddenly,

those letters together

are like prison guards

telling me where to go,

what to do,

who to be.

Or not.

I keep asking myself

where did all my freedom go?

Then I remember:

I forgot to say no

when it counted.

“My sweet boy.” I coo

and cuddle him,

swaddled in white

and smelling of sweet oil,

thanks to the royal rubbing

Joseph gave him

after his birth.

Joseph was amazing,

holding my hand

through every piercing pang,

even though I squeezed his hand

till it was bloodless.

He caught the little one

as if he had done the same

a hundred times.

“Joseph the Midwife,”

I called him,

and he filled this barn

with laughter, startling

the cows and goats, I think.

I might sniff the hay and offal,

and look round this stall

meant for animals, and wonder

what it all means, that there

was no spare room for us

at the inn,

that we were forced to spend

the night in a barn.

But at this moment,

I only have eyes

for the bundle of love

who now lies

in my arms.

Lord,

here is your son,

the one you shared with me.

May he grow strong

in my care, and Joseph’s.

Thank you for this good man,

and this beautiful boy.

Help us, Jehovah-Jirah,

to build a sturdy frame

for his future.

I’m so glad

breakfast is my friend again.

I sit at the kitchen table

dividing my attention

between bites of toasted waffle

and the beginning

of
Mary, Mary.

Why stop at the end

when you can read it

all over again?

“I loved that book,”

says Mom,

peeking over my shoulder.

“I know. You said.”

A thousand times before.

“It helped me when

I was carrying you.”

Food still in my mouth

(who cares?)

I tell her,

“Me too.”

Our trip to the Laundromat

interrupted.

The pool at my feet says

those dirty sheets

will have to wait awhile.

“Mom!”

“I’m right here, baby.

Let’s get this show

on the road.

My grandchild’s about

to make an appearance.”

My knees buckle,

a single thought threatening

to lay me flat:

You’re almost out of time.

Make up your mind

to keep your baby

or not.

I start to pant.

I can’t! I can’t!

I can’t decide.

Not yet.

I waddle into the ER,

my heartbeat

the only sound I hear.

Is this really happening?

I look around,

see the slow ballet

of nurses, doctors, and orderlies

pushing beds and wheelchairs

with patients pale as ghosts.

Are they as scared as me?

Abruptly, a rude noise breaks in,

some tinny voice

squawking from a loudspeaker,

paging Dr. so and so,

and saying STAT

but flatter than they do on TV.

Palms sweaty, knees wobbling,

I wish this were a show

I was watching.

My thoughts bounce off

the cold white walls:

I’m not ready.

I’m not ready.

I’m not ready.

I tug on Mom’s sleeve.

“Mommy, let’s get out of here. Please.

I don’t want to be—”

OH, GOD!

What was
that?

“Looks like labor,”

says a nurse.

“Come this way.”

Not bad,

I thought at first.

A minute of crazy pain,

then several minutes to recover.

I can do this.

I can—

Oh, God!

It’s okay. It’s okay.

Just so long as

it doesn’t get worse.

I lie in a room

with other screaming ladies,

their cries setting

my nerves on edge.

I wish they’d all go away.

Instead, there’s Mom and Seth—

when did she get here?—

plus a parade of nurses

and the social worker

asking every ten seconds,

“Are you okay? Are you okay?”

No! What do you expect me to say?

I’m scared to death.

And by the way,

there’s an alien in my body

bent on ripping me apart!

When will it end?

I float in a river of sweat,

this baby too stubborn

to come out.

Don’t know

how much more of this

I can take.

I’d keep crying, but

I just don’t have

the energy.

Oh, God!

Here comes another

CONTRACTION!

I can’t take this! Why doesn’t somebody

just slice me open like a melon

and get it over with?

My immune system’s resistance

is nonexistent.

I’m wracked with fever,

the tail end of a cold

fanned into full infection.

A film of gunk

covers each eye,

but so what?

Right now, the only thing

I want to see

is this baby

out

of

me!

One more push

I didn’t know

I had in me.

And then

that blood-soaked eel

of a human being

finally squirts out of me,

his cry

the only sound

strong enough

to drown

my pain.

Call it amnesia,

this sweet something that

erases all traces

of birth-pang memory.

I welcome the peace

that blankets me like fleece.

Outside my room,

the social worker waits

for my decision.

I take my time,

stare into love’s eyes,

and count each finger, each toe.

No math

is more beautiful.

I name him Mine,

if only for a moment.

What was it

Sister Pauline said?

Mary trusted God.

Yes.

Yes.

Enjoy this excerpt from Nikki Grimes’ novel
Dark Sons

He calls himself my father.

So why is he sending me away?

This is the question

I’m tired of asking.

Better to accept what I know:

between my mother and me,

we have a bow, a loaf of bread,

a waterskin, and the clothes

on our backs.

No donkey laden with bags of grain.

No tent to pitch against the rain,

or sun, or swirling dust.

Just lonely desert ahead,

a carpet of sharp rock,

a smattering of trees,

miles of dry weed and briar,

without a settlement in sight.

We can expect a company

of wild goats or sheep,

the few sturdy inhabitants

of this terrain.

Fresh well water is bound to be

the stuff of dreams.

My head hurts from

imagining the worst.

I ignore the tears in my eyes,

pretend my father,

a few feet away,

is already dead,

and take my mother’s hand.

“All will be well,” I tell her,

sounding as manly

as I can muster

at seventeen,

knowing full well

that our survival

will strictly be

a matter of miracle.

The moving van

pulls away from the curb,

cutting off my air supply.

My anger a stammer,

I stare through the window

at the guy loading his car

for the move from Brooklyn to Manhattan.

He’s supposed to be my dad.

I’m glad he’s not waiting

for me to smile and wish him luck.

Like I give a flying—

What is he thinking,

leaving Mom in the first place?

Why does he have to run off?

To start some new family?

With
her
?

Like we aren’t good enough,

like I’m not all the son

he’ll ever need.

And what about tomorrow?

Child support won’t put a dent

in the rent,

and Moms hasn’t worked a job

in years.

I don’t want to bring on her tears,

so I keep quiet, and when she

comes up to me

and slips an arm around my waist,

I say, “Yo, Mom. Not to worry.

We’ll be okay. It’s all good.”

Sure, I know better.

This city’s just waiting

to eat us up alive.

How did I get here

at the edge of the desert,

at the edge of tomorrows

as pale as the sand?

Oh, yes!

I was born.

That’s how it all began.

ZONDERVAN

A Girl Named Mister

Copyright © 2010 by Nikki Grimes

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.

ePub Edition JULY 2010 ISBN: 978-0-310-39961-2

Requests for information should be addressed to:

Zondervan,
Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Grimes, Nikki.

A girl named Mister / Nikki Grimes.

p. cm.

Summary: A pregnant teenager finds support and forgiveness from God through a book of poetry presented from the Virgin Mary’s perspective.

ISBN 978-0-310-72078-2 (hardcover)

[1. Novels in verse. 2. Pregnancy—Fiction. 3. Mary, Blessed Virgin, Saint—Fiction. 4. Christian life—Fiction. 5. African Americans—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.5.G75Gi 2010

[Fic]—dc22

2010010830

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All Scripture Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible,
New International Version
®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan.

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Latin quotes are taken from
Latin Quips at Your Fingertips,
compiled and translated by Rose Williams. Published by Barnes & Noble Books, 2001.