P.S. Be Eleven (6 page)

It was a sign. A sign from above. My long arms and legs were good for something. Maybe even part of His plan to come to my rescue.

We were now forced to shop among the junior miss racks. I had a better chance of picking out my own clothes. And if I didn't, I'd at least look mod, although I'd have been happy just to look normal.

Big Ma must have prayed harder to find wool pleated skirts, because among all those mod new jumpers and skirts, she managed to find a rack of babyish pleated skirts. She held one up to me. The hem fell at least five inches below my knee. I would start off the sixth grade looking like a schoolmarm on
Gunsmoke
.

Please. Please
, I prayed. If Big Ma wouldn't listen, maybe the Lord would.

I was tired of staring down every other girl in my grade who snickered at my pleated wool skirts and Peter Pan collars. All I wanted was to look like everyone else. Wasn't fighting with immature boys in the school yard more than enough to bear?

I focused my eyes away from inward prayer only to zero in on Lucy Raleigh, Miss Everyone Else, shopping at Korvettes with her mother. How could a prayer go so wrong? I must have stood out like a giraffe because she saw me
before I could turn away. Mrs. Raleigh called after her, her arms laden with outfits—all mod, I was certain. Lucy ignored her mother and charged our way. You'd have thought Lucy would have been ashamed to be caught shopping in Korvettes when she bragged her clothes came from Macy's and Gertz. Yet, there she was doing the opposite of shrinking and fleeing.

Lucy Raleigh was one of my oldest friends, but she could also snicker at me with the best of the snickerers. We ran hot, warm, and cold with each other. I always adjusted my friendliness to meet hers.

When she made it over, Fern sang, “Luceee, Lucee goosey.” Lucy thought Fern's song was cute and danced to it, and Vonetta had to get in on the Lucy Goosey dance too. Big Ma didn't appreciate any of this finger popping and making a grand Negro spectacle of ourselves in the junior miss section of Korvettes department store.

Big Ma's disdain bounced right off of Lucy. In fact, Lucy was loud and gushy, and she was never too gushy with me. “You're back! You're back!” she said. “Hi, Mrs. Gaither. Nice hat. Jazzy feather.”

Lucy Raleigh always managed to rub Big Ma the wrong way. She once called Lucy my “some-timey friend,” meaning Lucy wasn't true-blue.

Lucy reached into a rack and pulled out a mod jumper and said, “Get this,” and shoved it at Big Ma until she had no choice but to take it. Lucy then squeezed my hand
and led me away from my grandmother and sisters. I was bigger and stronger than Lucy, but I allowed myself to be pulled away.

Lucy held both my hands and jumped small “testifying before the altar” jumps. “Turn on channel seven and watch
The Hollywood Palace
tonight.”

“Why?” I asked her. It was something big. Something important. Lucy Raleigh liked being the one in the know and I couldn't pretend I didn't care.

“Because if you don't, you'll kick yourself from Sunday to Monday and back to Sunday. I'm telling you, Miss Too Cool to Keep Up. You have to watch it. You
and
your sisters.”

“Why can't you tell me who's going to be on?” I asked. “What's so special? And why do they have to see it too?”

“I told you. If you miss it, you'll die. And if they miss it, they'll want to kill you.”

We might have been whispering for a minute but it was a minute too long for Mrs. Raleigh.

“Girl, I'm 'bout to leave these clothes and you in here if you don't come on. What do you mean, running off, Lucy Ray?”

I giggled a little. Lucy liked to put on how she was all Brooklyn when her mother was as country as Big Ma.

“Coming, Mama,” Lucy said, rushing back to her. She turned to me and said, “Channel seven.
Hollywood Palace
. Tonight!”

I had my own grandmother to face. She settled on two pleated skirts for me but hadn't put back the jumper Lucy had shoved in her hands. I got an earful from Big Ma, but she paid for the mod jumper.

Prayer works.

One thing was certain. Lucy Raleigh didn't have a bedtime like my sisters and me. Vonetta and Fern had to be bathed, in pj's, and in bed by eight thirty. My bedtime was nine o'clock or after I finished reading them a bedtime story, scrubbing their tub, and taking my own bath. Since Big Ma counted on me to look after my sisters, my bedtime began to shift and slide past nine. I'd sit quietly on the rug watching an episode of
The FBI
that Big Ma had fallen asleep on. Even after I climbed in bed I'd sleep lightly enough to hear my father's keys jingling at the door around midnight, and I'd go warm up his food.

I didn't know how much longer past eight thirty my sisters could stay awake, but for once I'd listen to Lucy
Raleigh. I told Vonetta and Fern we had to watch something on TV and to be ready when I came to get them.

“You have to be quiet,” I told my sisters. “You can't wake Big Ma or we'll miss it.”

“Miss what? You still didn't tell us,” Vonetta said.

I didn't know, but I didn't want to come off not knowing. I said, trusting Lucy Raleigh, “It's a surprise. The best surprise. You just have to be quiet and watch.” When we got out in the hallway, I said, “We're on a spy mission. Top secret.” I zipped my lips. They did the same and followed me into the living room.

It was half past the hour. The show was already on, and I hoped we hadn't missed the surprise.

Big Ma snored ferociously, her body sunk peacefully into her comfy chair.

I turned the sound all the way down and clicked the dial to channel seven. With each click I waited for Big Ma to awaken and send us to bed without our seeing the surprise. Big Ma snored on.

We sat before the glowing television, careful to not make a noise.

So far, we had seen Diana Ross without the Supremes, wearing a glittery gold jumpsuit. Even gold came across as gold on a black-and-white television set. I smiled to myself and thought, Miss Diana Ross wasn't hardly digging any ditches in her sparkly gold pants.

Before you knew it, Sammy Davis Jr. had joined her
on the stage and the two joked around with each other. We couldn't hear the jokes, but even if we could, I knew the two performers were not the surprise we waited for. I liked Diana Ross and the Supremes. I liked Sammy Davis Jr. in his sharp black suits, tap-dancing and singing all cool with his hair slick and shiny. If it were the afternoon on
The Mike Douglas Show
, my sisters and I would have been glued to the TV screen, shouting, “Black infinity!” because black folks were on TV for more than a minute. But it was late into the night and I had pulled my sisters out of bed on a spy mission that wasn't worth a whipping. I had put my trust in Lucy when I should have known better. After all, Lucy wasn't my best, best friend. Frieda Banks was.

I turned the sound up just a little and we moved closer to the screen. We could hear Diana Ross telling Sammy Davis Jr. something about five Jacksons and the lead singer, whose name was Michael. That was the last sane and clear thought I had before I saw at least a hundred bright lightbulbs and five boys onstage singing that new Sly and the Family Stone song. Our television screen didn't seem big enough for all those Jacksons. Afros bopping, arms swinging, and feet stepping and spinning in sync. And they wore wide bell-bottoms like crazy! The voices in the back were smooth and together. And the little boy singer let out his lungs like James Brown and
Jackie Wilson rolled into one.

Our mouths opened to scream, but we were on a spy mission. Vonetta and I covered our mouths with our hands. Fern stuffed the bottom of her nightie in her mouth. And we shook and silently screamed.

Then the Jackson boys had gone from singing the Sly and the Family Stone song to singing a slower song. A love song about remembering.

The camera kept showing the youngest boy, but he wasn't the one I watched. I felt myself tremble every time they showed the tallest Jackson brother. And I swore—and I didn't swear—if Big Ma was whipping my legs with her lightning strap, I wouldn't have felt a lick. I could only feel my heart beating and my eyes tearing every time they showed him on the screen. He had to be the oldest. And tall. So tall.

Every time the youngest one sang, “Can you remember?” Fern whispered, “Surely do!” We didn't bother to shush her.

The camera kept putting Michael up on the screen and that made Fern happy. Vonetta too. But I was happy to get a glimpse of the oldest one and wished he sang the love song. As tall as he was, he danced smooth. Better than all of his little brothers put together.

Then a commercial came on and we all squeezed one another and bit our hands to keep from screaming. We
had to sit through the other performers, but finally it was time for the five brothers to return, and Diana Ross introduced them: The Jackson Five.

The youngest one started things off, telling us they had an album coming out, and then the piano rolled hard and the guitars twanged electric and loud and that little boy was begging his girlfriend to come back while his brothers “ooh-hoo-hooed” and Vonetta, Fern, and I screamed and danced with the Jackson Five.

Then Big Ma woke up.

“Go to bed! Y'all better get in your beds. Now.”

We stopped dancing but we couldn't stop watching. We were frozen by fear of the strap and frozen by the Jackson Five and the most electric song ever played, sung, or danced to. We didn't know what to do.

“Where's my strap?” Big Ma said. “Delphine, get me my strap!”

I managed to say, “Can we see the rest, Big Ma? Can we see it?”

“Please, Big Ma.”

“We gotta, gotta see it!”

“Do you know what time it is?” Big Ma asked, searching for the clock. “It's nighttime. There's nothing on TV for children this time of night.”

“They're children,” I answered. “They're our age.” Although the oldest Jackson had to be in the eleventh or twelfth grade. And then there was the guitar player. The
one with the eyebrows. He had to be in high school. And the other guitar player, too.

“That should be against the law,” Big Ma said. “Children singing and dancing on TV late at night.”

“Please, Big Ma. Please.”

She wagged her finger at us. “This is your no-mother-of-a-mother's doing. Y'all come back here as wild as a bunch of untrained, back-talking chimps sneaking around in the night.”

“Please, Big Ma. We won't ask for nothing else,” I begged.

“Ever,” my sisters chimed in.

But Big Ma got up out of her chair and turned off the TV set. She picked up her Bible from the end table and sat back down.

“You seen 'em. Now if those boys have any kind of mother and father, they'll snatch those children off the stage and get them home to bed. Now y'all get in your beds before your father comes home and sees you're up.”

“But it's not over,” Vonetta wailed.

“We want Michael,” Fern said.

“Michael? Michael?” Her face was like Cecile's when we said things that made her think we were Martians, or at the very least, not her children. “What you want is my strap.” It was when Big Ma lifted herself up and out of her comfy chair that we knew she wasn't just fussing with us, and we scooted back to our rooms.

I turned out my light and fell into my bed. I had never cried so hard in my life. Not because I couldn't see the rest of the show, but because I saw him, and he was tall. Taller than me.

The front passenger seat in the Wildcat belonged to Big Ma when the whole gang of us piled into the car. If Big Ma stayed home, Uncle Darnell sat up front next to Pa. If it was just us girls with Pa, that seat was mine, and I loved being up front, stealing glances at my pa as he hummed but didn't whistle to Otis Redding's “Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay” and, of course, to “Old Man River”—all songs that suited my old pa. Sometimes he'd pass me the smallest grin and I'd feel wonderful bumping along as the tires hit every pothole on Atlantic or Fulton Avenue on our way to wherever we were going. Vonetta would wail, “Why does
she
”—meaning me—“get to sit up front all the time?”

“And not us,” Fern would chirp.

Then Pa always said, “To keep an eye on the road,” as if I was really doing something when all I did was keep Pa company. I'd ride along bubbling up with things to say but I never uttered a one, which suited Pa fine. He just wanted me to be with him. That was how it was between Cecile and me when I was little and she kept me with her while she wrote poems and listened to Sarah Vaughn records on our deluxe stereo while Vonetta howled in her crib.

When Miss Hendrix bent down and slid her bottom onto the passenger seat, swinging her legs in last, I knew my days of riding up front next to Pa in the Wildcat were numbered.

“Can we go to the RKO after Central Park, Pa?” Vonetta asked.

Miss Hendrix snickered and gave Pa a playful tap. “Pa. That sounds old. And country.”

Pa shrugged it off, but I didn't. I took note of everything she did and said.

We were close to the Brooklyn Bridge when Vonetta cried, “Look!”

“What?” I asked, convinced it was nothing at all. I had been staring off into the blur of Miss Marva Hendrix's curly Afro.

“Look-look!” she cried out.

And then I saw it. We all saw what Vonetta could see
from hundreds of feet away. A billboard of Jackie, Jermaine, Tito, Marlon, and Michael sporting big applejack caps over their even bigger Afros. We screamed. The letters on the billboard shouted at us:
THE JACKSON FIVE AT MADISON SQUARE GARDEN
. And underneath those words:
DECEMBER
. The inside of the Wildcat became a cage of screaming and seat-jumping until we finally heard Pa shouting, “All right! All right back there!” Miss Marva Hendrix laughed and laughed.