Chameleon (33 page)

“Our football team has gone to the state finals ever since I been there, which is a couple of years now. That’s because of the Samoans. We got a whole bunch of ’em, especially on the offensive line. As big as they are, you or I could run behind them without getting touched.” He laughed.

He looked to the sky for a moment. “What else? Oh, yeah, our basketball team is good. I know a couple of guys who got recruited by UCLA, Cal State Dominguez Hills, USC . . .”

“So what kind of people go there?”

“You mean what color?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, you know . . . we got a little bit of everything — mostly black and white. Some Mexicans. A few Chinese. And of course, Samoans. We got a lot of them
and
”— he bumped my shoulder —“we got plenty of fine girls.”

That got my attention. The bikini parade on the pier a few weeks back popped into my head. So did Miss Yvonne. So did the guy she was talking to after me.

“That help?”

“A little bit.”

“So what you gonna do?”

“I don’t know, Bri. I still don’t know.”

About a week before I had to make my decision, I ran into Marisol. Me and the boys were cooling off at the Tamale Hut when she breezed in. My back was to the door, so Lorenzo kicked me when he saw her.

“Shawn . . . turn around.”

“Why?”

“Just turn around.”

Trent glanced back, then knocked my shoulder. “Check it out. It’s your hot tamale.”

He grabbed my head and spun it around for me, but I swiveled it back before Marisol had a chance to see me. Andre waved at her to come join us, making me slide down into my seat.

“What’s wrong with you, man?” I whispered.

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? Look at you, trying to hide from her. This ain’t hide and seek. . . . You better talk to her,” he said, sliding out of his seat.

He nodded at Trent and ’Zo to join him outside, and they followed, but not before Lorenzo said, “You better handle that, Shawn. Because if you don’t . . .”

“Will you get out of here, ’Zo,” I said as Marisol started over. Ivy was with her. Marisol whispered something to her, then left her, near the counter.

All right, Shawn. Just like last time with Yvonne. Remember what Dad said: Look at her, talk about her, compliment her, pay attention to her, don’t —

“Hey, Shawn. I haven’t seen you in a while,” she said, taking a seat facing me.

Come on, Shawn. Don’t be nervous.

“I been around. Me and the guys just been hanging out as usual.”

Not bad. Not bad. Ask about her.

“How’s your summer been?”

She flicked her braid to the back. Oh, man. That hair. Those eyes —

“So far so good,” she said with a smile. “How ’bout yours? You do anything special?”

“Not really.”

Not really? Come on, Shawn, you can do better than that.

Her chin rested in her palm, her arm propped straight up on the table, as she looked me in the eyes. Uh-oh. Look away. No. Don’t look away. Come on, Shawn. Relax. Remember Yvonne. What did Dad say? Talk about her.

I looked at her bare arm glowing in front of me, beneath her chin. “Are you a lefty?”

She raised her head. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

She looked surprised. I hope I didn’t embarrass her. I pointed at her arm on the table and said, “Whenever I do that, I do it with my right hand because that’s what’s comfortable for me. You’re using your left, so I thought . . .”

“You thought right,” she said with a big grin.

I put my hands on the table and thumb-wrestled in silence. She surprised me when she reached across and touched my hands. She barely touched them, but she did touch them.

“I almost forgot . . . I’m so glad I ran into you. I never got to officially invite you to my birthday party.” She let go, then said, “It’s this Saturday. You think you can come?”

Huh? Her birthday? Hey now! Go, Shawn! Hold on. Calm down. Be cool. But not too cool. Hurry up and say something before she thinks you don’t wanna go.

“I think so. Lemme check with my mom to make sure we not doing anything,” I said, knowing full well that Mama would probably just clean the house.

“Here,” she said, pulling a pen and a tiny heart-shaped notebook from her purple purse, “let me give you all the information.”

She scribbled on the pad. “Here’s the address and my phone number in case you get lost.” She pushed the paper across the table. “It starts at seven.”

“Really? Seven?”

“Yeah, my brother got a DJ and everything. I hope you can come.”

Me too.

Ivy came over as she stood. “I gotta go, but I hope I see you this weekend.”

Her pale purple sundress leaped just above her knees as she flounced out. Her long black hair, tied into a braid with two yellow bubbles, swayed like a horse tail over her purple-covered butt. Hmmm . . . purple and yellow. I wonder if she likes the Lakers. She flipped her braid aside and gave a wave good-bye as she stepped back into the heat of the day.

The bell on the door clanged when she left, then again when the guys came in. The heart-shaped paper with her address and phone number sat on the table as they walked over. I better hide it or I won’t hear the end of it. Lorenzo saw me reaching for it and grabbed my hand. “What you got there, Shawnie-Shawn?”

He snatched it.

“Gimme that!”

“I just wanna see what it is.” He held it above my head and waved it around.

“Come on, Shawn, let us see,” Trent said.

’Zo sat down and placed it on the table.

“SHAWN ! You got them digits! AND her address?”

He bumped my shoulder.

“And what’s this?” He pointed to the time. “You gonna meet up for a little . . .”

I snatched the paper back. “It’s for her birthday, fool. Her party is this weekend, and she invited me.”

They jumped up and whaled on my head.

“Shawnie-Shawn got a girlfriend. Shawnie’s got a girlfriend,” they sang for the whole Hut to hear. I tried to put my head down, but Trent held me up while Andre and Lorenzo each sang into an ear.

“Come on, y’all. Stop! Get off me!”

I broke free and rushed out the door. They followed and ran up in front of me to make me stop.

“So you going?”

“What you gonna get her?”

“Can we go too?”

I stopped and looked each one in the eye.

“To answer your questions: probably, I don’t know, and I don’t think so.”

“Aw, come on, Shawn. That’s cold,” Trent said. “At least tell us if you going or not; you know you want to.”

Lorenzo jumped in. “Of course he’s going. He’s a fool if he don’t. And he better take us with him.” He slapped me on the back and shook me.

“She invited me, not you guys.”

Should I bring them? It would be cool if they could go, but I know they’ll do something to embarrass me.

“Don’t worry about us, Shawn. You better get her something nice, though. I hope you got some money,” Andre said.

Shoot. Money. Something I didn’t have much of. Dad’s still out of town, so I have to ask Mama for some. I didn’t care if she knew about the party because she’s gonna have to take me. I just didn’t wanna tell her about Marisol; she’ll try to get all in my business.

The day ticked away, but Marisol stayed in my thoughts. Her purple dress. Her yellow bubbles. Her long black hair. Her bright brown eyes. Her tanned brown legs. Her butt pushing the dress out in the back. Man! The heat got hotter the more I thought about her.

I turned onto Auntie’s block and sketched a picture of Marisol on the empty sky: purple straps on her shoulders, her brown eyes peeking out, sparkling like stars. I was just about to sketch her smile when I bumped into someone.

“Oh, I’m sorry, chile,” a little brown lady said.

“No, excuse me.”

Black covered her from head to toe. She pushed aside her net-veil-covered face to dab an eye with a white handkerchief. Dang . . . who died? I blinked my surroundings into focus and realized I was standing in front of Miss Johnston’s house. A pair of long, black funeral limousines were parked in front. Miss Johnston wasn’t on her porch, and a stream of folks shuffled in and out of her house. This can’t be good.

I approached the woman I bumped into. “Pardon me, ma’am, but . . . is Miss Johnston OK?”

Her wrinkled hand touched my smooth arm. “Oh, chile, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but Nettie . . . has gone home.”

“Gone home? You mean . . .”

“To the Lord. She passed on the other night. In her sleep — praise Jesus. He took her in peace.” Her head dropped into silence.

What do you say to that?

Her head raised up and a thin finger moved her veil aside. “And how did you know Nettie?”

“Oh, I, umm, my auntie lives right there,” I said, pointing. “I pass by here every day during the week. Ever since I was a kid.”

Miss Johnston passed before my eyes as I recalled her old brown hand waving at me, her warm smile and cheerful voice singing out, “I’m just enjoying the light of the Lord on another glorious day.”

“She always had a kind word for me.” I dropped my head, searching for something else to say. I came up with “It was always good to see her. She always asked about me and my auntie.”

“Well, she’s in a better place right now and”— she looked to the sky —“I know she’s smiling down on us all.”

She waddled away but turned back to say, “We just getting back from the services if you wanna come inside.”

“Thank you, but I have to get going.”

“Well, you take care of yourself, chile, and you tell that auntie of yours we all said hey.”

I walked away, my eyes no longer focused on the blue of the sky, but the gray of the concrete. Dang, Miss Johnston is . . . I can’t even say it. She’s . . . I won’t ever . . . Dang.

Pictures of Miss Johnston painted themselves on the concrete as I hung my head low to remember her. Always outside. Always in a housedress. Always smiling. Always nice. To everybody — not just this person or that person — everybody. Mama’s been bringin’ me here for a long time now, and I’ve seen her out on that porch every day since the first time I walked to school. She was old then and only got older. I guess it was a matter of time. Hard to believe I won’t ever see her again. She was part of my day as much as my boys were. I saw her on the way to see them, plus I saw her on the way back. Dang, Miss Johnston — I mean Nettie — I’m gonna miss you.

Miss Bricknell was watering her lawn as I strolled by. Does she always have to be in her garden when I pass by? I wish she would have died instead of Miss Johnston. Why did God have to take her when this old hag would have done just as well?

“You need to tell that auntie of yours . . .” she started.

“Why don’t YOU tell her?” I shouted.

Shawn! Where’d that come from? In all the years she’s shouted at me and Auntie, I never said a word. But not today. I didn’t know Miss Johnston that well, but I knew her well enough that whenever I passed her house, I felt good. I got the exact opposite feeling when I passed Miss Bricknell’s.

“What did you say to me, boy?”

I stomped past her into the house, leaving her jaw open to catch flies. Silence greeted me as I made my way around the house searching for Auntie. Not again.

“Auntie,” I called out.

Nothing in the house was on. No TV. No radio. Not even the stove. What the heck was she doing? A box of old pictures lay scattered across her spot on the sofa. But no Auntie. I checked the kitchen and there she was, sprawled on the floor.

“Come on, Auntie, get up.”

I scraped her limp limbs from the floor and spied yet another empty bottle looming over her from the counter.

“Avery? Baby . . . is that you?”

Who was Avery? “Auntie, it’s Shawn. Come on, we got to get you up.”

I helped her up, and we staggered into the living room. I cleared the pictures on the sofa for her to sit. She plopped down with a groan and tilted to the side. I caught her before her head hit the lamp on the end table.

“Come on, Auntie . . . sit up.”

I propped her up so she sat straight, then got her some ice water. I tinkled the ice-filled glass in front of her, making her eyelids flutter. “Whas this?”

“Drink it — it’s good for you.”

Her eyes noticed the clear fluid in the glass, and she smacked it to the floor, scattering ice and soaking the carpet. I picked up each individual cube. Fine. Let her take care of her own self. I glanced at the pictures on the sofa and saw what looked like a mini Mama; I had seen a few pictures of her as a child before, so I knew what she looked like. The photo was brown and white, and she stood next to an older girl with an older couple behind them. Auntie . . . Grandma . . . Grandpa? I grabbed the pictures and sat down with them on the other couch. Auntie’s head swayed side to side, and when she finally did hit her head on the lamp, she snapped awake. I jumped up to help her, but she waved me off.

“I’m OK . . . jes need some . . .”

She tried to stand but plopped backward against the wall, making the picture hanging over her fall with a loud
thunk.
It just missed her head by a couple of inches. She’s gonna hurt herself.

“You all right?”

“I’m fine. I jes need my . . . jes need a . . .” She paused to hiccup, then held out her hand to help her finish. “I jes need my cup . . .”

She tried to stand but got the same result as last time. I flicked the TV on.

“Auntie, you wanna watch anything special on TV?”

Her head bobbed in my direction, then swung back toward her clock.

“Wha time is it?”

“Almost five? Why?”

“Awwww, no! I missed my stories.” Her fist flew up to rest beneath her head, and two long sighs later, she was asleep.

Oh, well, I tried.

I clicked the TV off and flipped through the pictures. Most of them were in black-and-white or brown-and-white, and a lot of them had people I had never seen before. I recognized what had to be Mama in a few of them. A bunch of others had just Auntie. What looked to be Grandma and Grandpa were in most of them too. They died when I was little, so I don’t remember a whole lot about them, and the few pictures that Mama has shown me are of them when they were old. Some showed Grandpa holding just Auntie. Some showed him holding just Mama. Some showed all four of them. And most of them looked like they were taken in Louisiana, because they didn’t look like any place around here. Auntie had a silly face or a big gap-toothed grin in most of her pictures, while Mama looked serious in hers. Looking at Auntie passed out on the couch across from me, it was hard to believe she was ever a kid. Or ever had a grin on her face.