Authors: Nikki Grimes
But even as she thought it, Paris knew it was a lie. She still loved her mother. She just didn’t want to. Loving her meant getting hurt, and Paris had had enough of hurting.
• • •
The following day Paris slept in late and woke to the spicy smell of sausage and the sizzle of pancakes in a skillet.
Over breakfast, Viola ventured a question about Ossining: “What’s the house like?”
At first, Paris was vague. “Nice. Old, but nice.”
“And the family?”
“They’re nice.”
“I hear they have a dog.”
Paris smiled. “Jet. He’s as big as a pony. Malcolm would like him.”
Viola sighed, shifting in her chair uncomfortably. She tried again.
“Have you made any friends since you’ve been there?”
Paris thought of Ashley, wondering what her friend was up to that morning.
“There’s one,” said Paris. “Her name’s Ashley. She lives down the street.”
“What’s she like?”
Paris thought for a moment. How would she describe her new friend?
“She’s not like anybody,” said Paris. “I mean, she doesn’t care what anybody thinks, she’s not afraid of anything—she’s different. You could tell that right away.” Then Paris told her mother about that first day in class,
how she’d met Ashley, and how they’d turned out to be neighbors. She described the super Valentine’s Day card Ashley’d made for her, and about the great sled race, and before Paris knew it, she and her mother were smiling and laughing together. Paris loved her mother’s deep-belly, let-it-all-out laugh. She’d almost forgotten that laugh. And the music. There was always music playing in the house, and suddenly Paris realized where her own love of music came from. She’d gotten more from her mother than her eyes and nose. Paris smiled at the thought, feeling more connected to Viola than ever.
• • •
Late that afternoon, Viola took Paris back to Penn Station. Viola escorted Paris onto the train, balancing her overnight case and her extra bags of new clothing. She helped Paris get settled in her seat.
“All aboard!”
It was time to say good-bye, and this time, when Viola hugged Paris, Paris hugged her back.
“See you soon, sweetie,” she said, then rushed off the train.
Paris waved to her mother through the window, a sudden flash of sadness blinding her, stinging her eyes, making them wet.
“Good-bye, Mommy.”
P
aris returned to the welcome routine of school. She slipped into her seat beside Ashley as Miss Broadnax began taking the roll.
“Patti Anderson.”
“Here.”
“Matt Brooks.”
“Here.”
“Where were you all weekend?” Ashley whispered. “Ashley Corbett.”
“Shh,” said Paris. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Ashley Corbett!”
“Oh! Here. Mostly.”
Paris grinned.
That girl’ll say anything.
• • •
Come lunchtime, Paris had made up her mind to tell Ashley straight out. She might as well. Ashley would probably bug her to death until Paris told her, anyway.
“I went to see my mother—my real mother—in the city.”
“Oh!” said Ashley, between bites of her sandwich. “So? How was it?”
Paris considered the best word to use. “It was—weird. At first, I didn’t want to see her at all. Then, I was kinda glad to see her again. Then, by the time I left, I was sad to go, but also happy to be coming back here. It’s all mixed up in my head.”
Ashley nodded as if she understood. Paris knew that she didn’t but she could see that her friend was trying, and that counted for something.
“Want some oatmeal cookies?” asked Ashley, after a time. “My mom packed a bunch of extras today.”
“Sure,” said Paris, happy to return to safer ground. “Hand them over. Mmm, mmm, mmm! Your mom makes the best cookies!” said Paris, licking the crumbs from her fingers.
“My daddy says she’s the best cook in seven states!”
“Where is your daddy, anyway?” asked Paris. “I never see him.”
“He’s a salesman,” said Ashley. “Always on the road. You’ll meet him, one of these days.”
Paris shrugged. It seemed like most of the daddies she knew were ghosts. Why should Ashley’s daddy be any different?
“I’m starving, here,” said Paris. “I need another cookie. Hurry, or I’ll have to call 911!”
Ashley shook her head, and broke the last cookie in half.
P
aris’ math workbook was one colossal smudge.
That’s what you get for rushing
, thought Paris. But she couldn’t help herself. According to house rules, unless she finished her homework on time, she couldn’t go to choir, and if she didn’t get to go to choir, she’d die. No question.
Paris solved the last problem on the page, slammed the workbook on her desk, and grabbed her jacket.
• • •
Easter was less than two weeks away, and Star of Bethlehem’s choirs were getting ready. The youth choir had two songs to sing: “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today,” which they’d sing together with the adult choir, and a punched-up version of “Because He Lives,” which would
show off all their hard work on three-part harmony. Paris couldn’t wait.
“What’re you wearing?” asked the girl standing to her right.
“What?”
“On Easter. Did you get your new dress yet?”
Paris shook her head, suddenly concerned.
Briana’s right. What am I gonna wear?
Half the kids in the choir had been buzzing about the new clothes their moms had bought them for Easter. New hats, too. Not everyday boots and sweaters like Viola had bought Paris, but patent-leather Mary Janes with bows on them, flouncy taffeta dresses with poofy sleeves for the girls, and navy blue suits with crisp white shirts for the boys. Nobody had taken Paris shopping for those kinds of clothes.
I’m gonna be the only one wearing old clothes
, thought Paris.
I’m gonna stick out. Shoot! Why can’t we wear robes like the grown-up choir?
“Good evening!”
The youth choir director tapped the music stand with her baton to get everyone’s attention.
“All right, kids. Time to focus. Let’s get serious, now. Remember: God is watching.” Paris looked up, as if to catch a glimpse of him.
The director led the choir in scales, as a warm-up. Then she tapped the music stand a second time.
“Good! Now turn to ‘Because He Lives,’ page two hundred thirteen. Although most of you should know the words, by now.”
Good thing the music arrangement was up-tempo. Otherwise, Paris would have rocked herself to sleep in its rhythm. As it was, she closed her eyes while she sang so that the words could sink into her.
Because he lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because he lives, all fear is gone…
Paris sang the words and they became true for her. She wasn’t afraid anymore. Not of being beaten, or being locked in a closet. Not of the dark, or of never seeing Malcolm again, or of nobody wanting her. And she wasn’t even afraid of sticking out on Easter. Paris could hardly recognize the fearless person she was turning into.
Because I know he holds the future…
She was learning to keep God in her pocket, and because she had him to talk to, she was beginning to have faith that she’d be all right.
S
aturday morning found Paris playing hide-and-seek with David and Jordan. Jordan was It, which meant that he was hiding in the shed. David and Paris both knew that because it was where Jordan always hid. Either he didn’t quite get the game, or he liked being in the shed, they couldn’t figure out which. Either way, they took their time “finding” him to stretch the game out.
“I wonder if Jordan’s behind this bush,” said Paris, loudly. “Nope. Not here.”
“Hey! I know,” said David. “I’ll bet he’s in Jet’s doghouse!” A giggle came from the shed. That was when Paris pushed the door open.
“Gotcha!” she cried. Still giggling, Jordan stepped out onto the grass. Now, it was Paris’ turn. She loved the
game. She was better than anyone at hiding. That was the main reason David agreed to play. Paris made it a challenge.
The boys both covered their eyes and started counting to ten.
“One.” Paris sprinted toward the house. There were more places to hide inside than there were in the yard.
“Two. Three.” Paris opened the screen door gingerly, careful not to let it bang behind her.
“Four. Five—”
“Kids!” called their mother from the living room. “Get in here.”
Paris groaned. So much for hide-and-seek.
“David! Jordan! Now!”
The boys joined Paris, wondering how their mom was going to ruin their Saturday fun.
“Wash your hands and get in the car. Jordan, tie your laces before you trip over them.”
“Where are we going?” asked David.
“Get in the car and you’ll see.”
With bottom lips dragging on the floor, Paris and David grumbled and headed out the door.
Paris slouched in the backseat, disinterested in the view out the window. Jordan bounced up and down in the front. He was always excited to go for a drive, no matter where.
David hated being cooped up in a car. To keep himself from going stir-crazy, he counted every black car they passed.
A few minutes later, the car came to a complete stop. Paris looked out the window and saw that they were parked in the center of town.
“Let’s go,” said Mrs. Lincoln.
The kids piled out and followed her into a clothing store. She waved David and Jordan over to the boys’ section.
“Start looking around for a suit you might like for Easter,” she said. “I’ll be over there to help you in a minute. Go on.” Then she turned to Paris.
“As for us, we are going to go find you a dress.”
“A dress?” said Paris. “For me?”
“You see any other little girls here?” Mrs. Lincoln read the surprise on Paris’ face. “Easter’s almost here,” she said, “and every Easter, I buy my kids new clothes. You’re one of my kids now, Paris. And I treat all my kids the same. I’m taking Earletta shopping next week. So, come on. Let’s find you a dress.”
Paris nodded, the lump in her throat making it impossible to speak.
For the next hour, Paris tried on nearly every dress in her size. She ran her fingers over yards of silk, nylon, dotted
swiss, and sheer cotton. She pulled the last dress over her head. It was a beautiful sea-foam green and picked up the flecks of green in her hazel eyes. She didn’t even like dresses, but she loved this one.
Paris stared at her new self in the mirror. She couldn’t help wondering how long this all would last. How long she’d get to be one of Mrs. Lincoln’s kids.
She closed her eyes and shook off the thought, turning her imagination to her next choir practice.
Just wait
, she thought.
I’ll get to brag about my new Easter clothes like everybody else.
This thought made her smile inside and out.
“I like this one,” said Paris.
“Well then,” said Mrs. Lincoln, “it’s yours.”
F
or once, Viola kept her word.
She made arrangements for the two of them to visit Malcolm. She had Paris take the train down to Dobbs Ferry and met her at the station. A short taxi ride later, and mother and daughter were on the grounds of St. Christopher’s Home for Children.
An attendant directed them to the visitors’ lounge, then sent word to Malcolm’s housemother that they had arrived.
Paris sat on the edge of a chair, drumming her thighs anxiously as she waited. The minute Malcolm crossed the threshold of the entryway, Paris flew into his arms. They stood right there, holding each other until other visitors were forced to squeeze by.
Malcolm looked over his sister’s shoulder and nodded hello to Viola. She nodded back.
“Go on,” she said, motioning toward the door that led to a small picnic area. “I’ll join you two later.”
Hand in hand, brother and sister walked into the sunshine. They found a table cloaked in shade, and sat opposite one another.
Paris kept staring at her brother to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. “I missed you, Malcolm,” said Paris.
“I missed you, too, squirt.”
Paris wore a smile bright as a Fourth of July sparkler at first, but the smile faded as she noticed a hardness in her brother’s face that hadn’t been there before.
“How are you, Malcolm?” Paris asked.
Malcolm shrugged, lowering his eyes. “I’m okay,” he said. “It’s not so bad here.” His voice told Paris something different. “The room I stay in is kind of crowded. There are three other guys in it besides me.” He shrugged again. “It could be worse. I’ll tell you one thing, though. The food here stinks!”
They both laughed at that. Paris and Malcolm had shared some pretty awful meals together at the Boones’. Not to mention those disasters Malcolm tried to make for the two of them when Viola was AWOL, back in the city.
Once, Malcolm had dished up some uncooked oatmeal with buttermilk. Yuck!
“Forget about me,” said Malcolm. “Tell me about you.”
And so Paris told him. About the house on the hill. About Jet. About Ashley. About school. About how she tricked the psychologist with that stupid inkblot test. About the choir. About her Easter dress. She even told him about the letters she wrote to him when she first got to Ossining.
Paris rambled on and on and didn’t stop until she saw something in her brother’s face break open. She watched as the beginnings of a familiar smile took shape.
“What is it?” asked Paris.
“He listened,” whispered Malcolm.
“Who?”
“God,” said Malcolm, looking up. “I bugged him, every single day since I got here, I bugged him to look out for you, to take care of my little sister. And he listened.”
Paris and Malcolm locked eyes. She was relieved to see a bit of the old Malcolm shining through. She reached across the table and took her brother’s hand.
“You’ve just got to keep God in your pocket, and everything will be all right,” said Paris.
“What?”
Paris pursed her lips, trying to figure out how to explain what she meant. “Put your hands in your pockets,” she said.