Pinned (9780545469845) (2 page)

W
hen Miss Baker walk into class smiling — like reading is fun — I pick up my pencil and draw two hearts.

Instead of a test, gonna read a play today, she saying. I don't know what's worse. A test or reading a play. Both are bad. “Open your books.” She walk over to me, squeezing my shoulder. “Autumn. Read the part of Kayla.”

I tap my pencil on my book. Wondering how many freckles she got.

She winks. “I know you can do it.”

I don't like to read. It's boring. I tell Miss Baker this all the time. She say not to give up. She gonna help me read better. That ain't gonna happen. Teachers tried before. I'm still way behind.

My parents moved around a lot. So I went to a bunch of different schools. Sometimes two in one year. You put your head down a lot after a while and don't worry about the new stuff they teaching. 'Cause you might not be there for the test nohow. I missed a lot of stuff, I guess.

My goal is to be the best wrestler ever. Not the best reader. I know it's too late for that.

Miss Baker's picking at her hair. A gray, curly 'fro, short as the hair on my legs. Then she clear her throat. “Autumn.”

I kick the chair leg in front of me. “Awright. Give me a minute.”

Opening the book slow, I read a little to myself to make sure I won't mess up. There's so many words on this page. I know Miss Baker. If I do good on three lines, she'll push me to read more.

The clock on the wall ticks loud as a bomb ready to explode.

I keep flipping pages. Seeing words I never seen before in my life.

This Kayla's sure got a lot to say. Five lines on the first page. Seven on the next. God, she never shuts up. “How long is all this gonna take?”

Miss Baker tells me to begin reading on page one and a few other students gonna be Kayla along the way.

“I can't read with that clock making noise. You got a watch. Why we need a clock, too?”

Miss Baker start counting.

That's all Jaxxon Teagarden need to hear. He sits up, telling everyone to be quiet. “This is gonna be good.”

I start stuttering right off. “May … may … may … maybe …” It happens when I read out loud. I get so nervous and worried, the words I'm reading double, triple, even.

The laughing comes next. “She … she … she … can't talk right when she … she … she … re … re … reads,” Patrick O'Malley say, laughing so hard, hiccups happen.

I read just fine inside my head. Maybe it ain't fast, like the teachers want. Maybe it's not good enough to sound out big words. But it's good enough for me. “Don't use your fingers,” my mother say at home. “You too old for that.” “You don't know that word?” some kid in one of my other classes will say. “My baby sister know that and she was just born.” Then I come to this class for slow readers and Miss Baker say that reading out loud helps us enoun-ciate better and lets
her see how much we improve. But it just make me feel dumb.

I drop the book on the floor. Then kick it. Miss Baker walks over, rubbing my back. Her brown hands feel soft as baby lotion. “Autumn,” she whispers. “You
can
do this, baby.”

No, I can't.

Not right now.

Not today.

Not ever, maybe.

So I pick up my pencil and finish drawing hearts.

P
in him, Autumn. Break his arm if you have to.” Patricia, who Autumn calls Peaches, leaps from the bleachers, shouting. “This is your house. Don't let no boy beat you here!”

It is our first match of the season. I am sitting on the front row, keeping score. Autumn is on her hands and knees, underneath Randy, in the referee's position. Pacing the sidelines, Coach warns her to keep her head up. “Escape and begin to gain those points back.”

Randy perspires profusely. The back of his singlet is soaked. Wiping his forehead, he ignores the sweat dripping from his nose.

Off the whistle, Autumn kicks sideways, flips over Randy's back, standing to gain control.

Everyone is on their feet. Clapping. Stomping. Patricia screams, “Yes! Don't mess with my girl.”

Seconds later, they launch at each other. Hand fighting, they each wrestle for control. Autumn puts him in a headlock. Breaking free, Randy penetrates, lifts, and drops her.

She's strong. Coach says those legs of hers could crush someone. They wrap around Randy like swamp snakes, forcing his body to stay put.

I love wrestling. It's like playing chess with your body. You have to be mentally tough, able to predict your opponent's next move. Lazy thinkers do not stand a chance. That is one reason why Autumn perplexes me.

For a second, it looks as if Randy will get a pin. A few moves later and he's under Autumn again. Trembling, he tries to keep his shoulders up, while her hands and body work to hold them down.

The ref drops to his knees and counts. Coach eyes his stopwatch. She pins him.

Patricia stands and chants, “Whose house? Autumn's house. Whose house …”

When Randy shakes Autumn's hand to congratulate her, his grandmother grumbles and packs up her things. “She shouldn't even be out there with them
boys,” she says. “They let her win, you know. Would hurt her if they used their full strength.”

LJ from our team is making his way toward the mat.

“All of those boys on her team help her cheat,” Randy's grandmother says, finally moving on.

Wrestling is not like other sports. There's no one to help you win. No one to blame if you lose. She's wrong about Autumn. She accomplished this on her own.

 

“Night, Adonis.” Coach shuts his car door. “I can depend on ya, yeah?”

Autumn scoots over, to be closer to me. I promise not to leave before her parents arrive.

Crossing her legs, Autumn rubs her thighs. I do not answer when she asks if I think a girl's muscles can ever be too large.

It's a clear, crisp night. I can see Mars if I focus.

She brings up the match. How can I not say that she did an excellent job? The problem is, it will only encourage her if I do. But our team won tonight also, not just her.

Autumn asks if I like being a manager. I share the position with someone else. He sanitizes the mats, picks up gear, and videotapes the matches. I tabulate stats, keep score, and help Ma wash and fold the
uniforms. “I love being a team manager,” I tell Autumn. “It will look good on my college application.”

She looks up at the sky. “Ain't it nice out?” She tracks the Big Dipper with her finger. “My mother taught me how to find the little one, too.”

I concentrate on ignoring her, looking over at the grove of trees just past the parking lot. Students who want careers in horticulture, and such, grow food near there. They pick and sell pinecones during the holidays; and mulch leaves and sell those as well.

Autumn jumps up. “A shooting star!” Facing in my direction, she says, “I got my wish already.”

Her parents' car pulls into the parking lot. Putting her wrestling bag on her shoulder, she steps back into her sneakers. “I could wait —”

“My mother is on her way.”

Walking backward, her eyes twinkling, she tells me her wish. “A perfect season. A boyfriend —”

Their car horn blares, covering up her words. Her mother is insistent. “Hurry up, Autumn.”

When they speed from the lot, rolling over a car block, sparks fly.

M
om and Dad done gone crazy. They got this idea. Read. For one hour every night. Together, as a family.

Improving my reading gonna be a top priority, Mom say, handing me a book. Even more important than wrestling.

Sitting at the kitchen table, my bare feet up, I'm wondering,
Why?
Why they wanna do this now? After a match — I'm tired. Don't want to read. Do homework. Or nothing.

Mom pull out a copy of the same book she just gave me. The same one my father is carrying into the kitchen. He sits down beside me, staring at the blister on my big toe. “Your mom and I don't read good as we should.” He turn to the title page. “But we reading better than
we used to.” He rubbing the back of his bald head. Smelling his fingers. “We making you a promise. You gonna catch up … to where you supposed to be. In reading and everything else.”

Mom backs him up. “We promise.”

“Miss Baker called y'all?”

They both shaking their heads no.

“Mr. Epperson?” Me and Dad scratch our foreheads at the same time. “The principal?” Coach comes to my head next. But he would never think up something like this.

Mom was separating recyclables when she found some of my papers, she say. Math quizzes. Reading tests. Crumpled up in balls. She called Miss Baker, who reminded her that my midterm grades wasn't good, either. Dad talked to Mr. Epperson. Both teachers say the same thing. I ain't stupid. I need to work harder. But they not sure I want to.

Mom and Dad didn't have time for stuff like this before. They was always too tired when I was little. Now I'm too far behind to catch up. Anyhow, I just wanna do things I'm good at.

They apologizing. It's mostly their fault that I'm behind, they saying. But this the year they gonna turn all that around.

They dropped out in tenth grade, she worked at McDonald's, cooking. Quit there to clean hotels. Soiled sheets and wet towels is heavier than people think, she always say. Dad was a dishwasher. Plus he sold blood so him and Mom could go on nice dates. After I came, they moved to another city. Kept moving. Trying to find good jobs with benefits. And not let the landlords know they couldn't pay.

Last year, they got their GEDs. It took 'em two years going to school at night. But soon as they got in the program, we quit moving. Now Dad's got a job threading pipes. Mom's working the register at Kohl's. Right before school started, they told me things was gonna be different. Now I see. They serious.

Mom lays her hand over mine. “You gonna read good enough to get into college.” She been believing that since she met Peaches's mother over the summer.

I don't wanna go to college. I wanna be a chef. Run my own restaurant. We got the name: Pinned. Peaches drew the symbol. It's a peach with a diamond safety pin stuck in it. She made us up a saying, too. Pinned: Food so delectable, it sticks to your soul.

Opening her book, giving me more bad news, Mom say I'm off the team if my reading don't improve. “By report-card time.”

Jumping outta my seat. My voice louder than a siren. I'm telling them they wrong. “September … y'all shoulda said something back then.”

My father swears if I yell once more, he gonna let what I'm thinking really be true. Mom saying it didn't come out right. “November's report card comes out soon. You got till your January report card to get yourself together.”

“But —”

Dad's opening his book, advising me to do the same. Mumbling, I'm doing what I'm told.

The story is about a boy and his dog. Dad was supposed to read it in seventh grade. He threw it in the trash so he ain't have to. It was too hard for him back then.

Tiny words. Old, yellow pages. That's what I'm seeing. One page even falls out when I touch it.

He went to three different libraries, he say, in three different parts of town to get the books. Mom reads the title. I go to the fridge for grape juice. “Can we do this later?” I take a shot glass full at first. Then I fill up a juice glass. My insides still shaking.

“Autumn.” Mom sits a bag of peanuts in front of Dad. “You paying attention?”

I sit down. Reaching for peanuts. Drinking more juice.

Dad goes first. He been thinking about this book since middle school, he say, letting out a big breath. Mom squeezing his hand. Then she give a cheer, like he about to step on the mat or a football field to wrestle or tackle somebody.

When I hear him read, I hear myself. Skipping words. Stopping in the middle of a sentence like a car at a red light. Looking ahead to see what's coming. A big word? One with too many syllables? Words that ain't pronounced the way they spelled?

He smashing a peanut with his fist saying he gotta stop in a minute 'cause he hungry and dinner ain't for a while. His book closes. He walks over to the sink, asking Mom if she want to read.

“He wasn't the kind of boy to get into trouble. It's just … trouble always seemed to find him. Serundididy.” She put the book to her nose like she need glasses. “That how you say that?”

Dad's looking over her shoulder. “Sirin … searin …”

I try to sound out the word for them. Miss Baker say that's what good readers do. “Sirin …” I pause. “Dip …”

“Diddy.” Mom smiles. “Sirindiddity … tity …”

She pointing to another word. “What's that?” Sliding her fingernail underneath it, she spells out loud.
S-P-UM-E
. We don't know what it means, how to exactly say it.

“Firstly?”
Dad asks if we ever heard of that word. It's on page twenty-two.

I find another one. “
H-A-R-A-N-G-U-E
,” That makes me think of lemon meringue pie.

Dumping more peanuts on the table, Mom ask Dad if he sure this a seventh-grade book. Dad smashes peanuts with his fist, leaving brown skins on the table.

When my turn come to read, I excuse myself. On the toilet. Watching wallpaper birds fly across the ceiling, I wonder what they trying to do to me. Then Mom comes knocking. Dad and her been thinking. Maybe this ain't the right book. Too many big words makes it so you don't know what you reading, she thinks. “He going to the library next week or maybe the week after. Who knows … for another one.”

I knew it. They don't like reading, neither. I'll get to stay on the team. Finish the season in March.

I'm celebrating, when that word pops in my head.
Firstly.
Don't know why. Maybe 'cause it's got the word
first
stuck inside it. I like being first. Number one. Winning.