Tutored (2 page)

She was a junior and knew she had to make her decision soon, but she was hesitating. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to continue her studies after high school. It was just that all the colleges that approached her seemed so safe and mainstream. She wanted an adventure! She would love to forgo the whole idea of college and just do independent study. Homeschooling seemed to be in, with homeschooled kids cleaning up at spelling bees and science fairs. Maybe she could start a new trend, home-collegeing—work a deal with the state, show proof of her progress, and at the end, voilà, she could have her BA without all the BS.

Turning back to the TV, she watched the bear splash about in the blue water, thinking her dad would throw a natural fit if she didn’t go to a traditional college. As an accountant, Mr. Anderson was so proud of his own advanced education. Something like that (practical, steady) was what he really wanted for Wendy. He wanted her to have her life set. Sometimes when they argued, Wendy wished she still had the buffer of her mother. Her mother could make her dad back off. There were at least a billion
reasons why Wendy longed for her mother to still be alive; that was just one of them.

As she broke off a piece of crusty bread from the bakery, her dad made his way to the club chair holding a steaming bowl in one hand and
Time
magazine in the other. He never changed after work, aside from taking off his overcoat. He seemed comfortable in his pressed trousers, starched shirt, and blue sweater vest.

He located the remote control and switched the channel to CNN without asking her. Without glancing her way, he asked, “So, how are things in the ghetto?”

H
akiam kept his eyes front, jaw clenched, and shoulders hunched as he made his way down Lancaster Avenue. He was thirsty, but every bodega he passed had the same posting in the window:
No more than two students allowed in at one time
. Since it was after three, the owners were busy fussing from the door at their youthful would-be patrons and/or thieves. An already clustering group was yelling back in protest. Hakiam kept his distance, frowning. What were these owners trying to say? “No one else lifts things, just students”? Hakiam never seriously considered breaking the rule by going in; who wanted that much hassle over a Coke? He kept his hands in his pockets and kept making strides.

Next, he passed a Laundromat, a rank rib restaurant, and a wig shop. Strewn about the sidewalk was broken glass from soft-drink and beer bottles as well as car break-ins. At least the shards weren’t airborne, like the
candy and fast-food wrappers that blew across the asphalt streets.

A homeless man passed Hakiam, regarding him with bloodshot eyes of complete resignation. He was ragged and dirty, with a soiled, unbuttoned shirt, and pants that looked five million years old. His hair was also rough, as if it hadn’t felt a comb, ever. Hakiam followed the man a bit with his eyes. He felt sorry for the homeless who were stranded in the hood. They were totally gone, bereft of even the wherewithal to panhandle properly like the homeless in Center City. He imagined the vast emptiness of their lives, with not even a corner to claim, where they could ask for a quarter for a cup of coffee. How low.

Hakiam passed another rib shack. This time the air smelled sweet. He liked spare ribs; his aunt used to fix them when he lived with her. He and his play brother used to polish off so many they’d lose count. A platter and some fruit punch would go great together, but he only had a five on him—not enough for all that. And besides, he was in a hurry. He had to meet his cousin Leesa and pick up her baby.

He turned up Forty-first Street and entered the social services center.

Inside there was life, and plenty of it. He scanned the array of hairstyles in hopes of locating Leesa’s no-drama close crop. He looked past the kinky twists, the butt-length braids, and the good old-fashioned perms, searching and searching.

“Did you sign in?” the intake worker behind the long desk asked him.

Hakiam eyed the desk. All the counselors wore scrubs in various pastels. He couldn’t tell which one had spoken to him.

“I’m just here to find someone,” he said to all six of them. This was the fifth time he’d been here. This was where Leesa (a mother, ten weeks in) picked up her biweekly checks, along with her vouchers for formula, eggs, milk, and cheese (American cheese, of course, not provolone or mozzarella—those were too fancy to be covered).

In this place, some women were pregnant, some weren’t but had kids with them, and some had kids on both the inside and the outside. One girl with a protruding stomach had four children gathered around her. When Hakiam finally zeroed in on his cousin, he also spotted her quivering baby, Malikia. Hakiam hoped that she’d get that pudgy Gerber look any day now, but he wouldn’t bet money on it. Malikia had been fifteen weeks premature, so technically she shouldn’t have even been seen by human eyes yet.

“How long you been here?” he asked Leesa.

She shrugged.

“Are you next?” he asked her.

She shrugged again.

As Leesa moved her shoulders up and down, Hakiam couldn’t help but look at his cousin’s asymmetrical breasts. On each was tattooed a rose. He wondered why she would get tattoos that accentuated the lopsidedness
of her body. Of course, she had others. She had names, pictures, and phrases, in blue and red ink on the dark brown skin of her upper arms and shins. She had an eagle above her butt crack. Hakiam had seen all this in the short time he’d been bunking at her place; Leesa would never get an award for modesty.

The room was stuffy. No air circulating because (for security reasons) none of the windows were open. The staleness heightened the agitation of some of the mommies. They repeatedly told their kids to “Sit sit sit” like it was a dog-training school. But that was miles better than “Quit crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.”

Kids were grabbed and shoved. The women at the front desk didn’t seem to be making note of it, though, and if they weren’t going to say anything, Hakiam sure as hell wasn’t.

Keep your eyes front
.

“Is there a water fountain in here?” Hakiam asked.

Leesa gestured to the wall and Hakiam walked over to the fountain there. The pressure was low. There was no gush, just a trickle. He sucked in as much as he could; then he heard Leesa’s name called.

He met up with her and the baby by the counter. Leesa spread several forms and documents out on the desk. The intake worker paged through the pile and said, “State or federal ID?”

“I’m looking for it,” Leesa said.

The woman finally looked up to see Leesa still rooting through her bag while hoisting Malikia onto her shoulder.

“You came without ID?” the woman asked.

“Shit,” Leesa said.

The intake worker pointed to a sign. “What does that say?”

Hakiam read aloud, “ ‘Federal or state ID is required.’ ”

The woman threw a glare at him. “What’s your name?”

“Hakiam.”

She checked the sheet. “You’re not listed.”

“I know I ain’t,” Hakiam said. “I’m just with her.”

The woman shook her head. “You have to be on the sheet.”

“Look, I have everything else,” Leesa said. Malikia began slipping and Leesa gave her another boost.

“I’m not losing my job over you. You need to have everything,” the woman said.

“No one’s asking you to lose your job,” Leesa told her.

“Well then, come back when you have everything.”

Hakiam saw his cousin lunge for the woman and he reached out to brace her arm. “Just forget it,” he said.

“I ain’t forgetting nothing,” Leesa said, stepping up her voice. “Who do you think you are, lady? Can’t you see I got a goddamn baby here—”

At that point, Hakiam really got hold of her. He ushered her toward the door. “Why didn’t you inventory your stuff before you were called by the caseworker?”

“What am I supposed to be, perfect? Do you know how many things I have to think of? Malikia was wailing her head off before you came—”

Hakiam blocked out the rest of what she was saying. This was her way. She was a crisis frog; she hopped from one lily pad of trouble to the next. She was never prepared.

Hakiam glanced back at the packed waiting area. There were paternity handouts on a side desk. “Every Child Has the Right to Know Who His Legal Father Is,” one pamphlet’s cover read.

“It’s nearly time for me to be at work. It’ll be next month before I get another appointment. Shit. Do you know how much time I’ve wasted here just to end up with jack?” Leesa asked him.

Hakiam didn’t answer her; he was too busy eavesdropping on a client being asked by a caseworker, “Are you registered to vote?”

Back on the outside, a group of boys were going at each other. Hakiam couldn’t tell if they were playing or not. In the navy blue tie and slacks and crisp shirt of his school uniform, the one in the center was being smacked in the face. The other four were hitting him this way and that.

The group moved and Hakiam stepped out to block any blow to the baby as she was handed off to him.

Leesa asked him for his bus pass.

“I don’t have one. I walked here.”

“Didn’t they give you a bus pass at the GED place?”

Hakiam shook his head.

“Did they at least give you tokens?”

“Nope.”

“Everybody else I know got at least that from them.
Make sure you get what you’re supposed to get,” she told him.

Leesa booked it to the corner to catch the number 21 bus downtown.

“I’ll be home the usual time,” she said before she left them. She raised a hand to wave goodbye, more to him than to her baby.

Hakiam stood there for a moment, the eight-and-a-half-pound infant twitching in his arms. It was clear now that those kids were in the thick of a beat-down. Another vagrant went by in yellow-stained jeans, rolling a shopping cart filled with tin cans and scrap metal. Hakiam thought for a moment about why he had moved in with his cousin. His fresh start was quickly turning to an SOS (same old shit), and God was he ever thirsty.

T
he ghetto
. Wendy’s father’s comment was typical of him. His favorite saying was “I help poor people all the time—by not being one.” He was very proud of the fact that he had yanked himself up by the proverbial bootstraps, and he wanted the world to know it. Though he was raised in one of the don’t be there sections of the city, he had been able to not only stay out of trouble with the law (not so much as a parking ticket) but also go to college (Indiana University of Pennsylvania on a one-thousand-dollar minority scholarship; the rest he made up with work-study and loans) and become gainfully employed (bringing home the high end of five figures yearly).

Wendy knew it was one of her father’s goals in life not to look back, and certainly not to give back. She was just the opposite, which usually put them at odds. Like last term, when Wendy was involved with a volunteer organization that cleaned and painted inner-city schools. Her father had insisted on picking her up after these
sessions, although it would have been fine with her to ride public transportation.

One day when they’d swung by Tannery Duckery Elementary School on Diamond Street, he had surprised her by suggesting they grab a bite to eat.

“You want to eat out here?” Wendy asked. “You must be starving.”

“I am.”

He decided on a Broad Street eatery that was on the cusp: the Temple University students in one direction, neighborhood people in the other.

“This looks decent,” he said.

Wendy’s father ordered a strawberry malt and a quarter-pound burger cooked rare with guacamole, jalapeño jack, and pico de gallo. Wendy ordered a mini-hamburger, well done, and a cherry Coke.

They sat near the front and were just starting to make small talk about the weather when a ruckus started.

From where Wendy was sitting with her back to the counter, she heard raised voices and turned to see what was going on. A man who looked about her dad’s age was arguing with the restaurant’s manager.

“I saw you fill it up with soda. Water is clear.”

“No it ain’t, sucker.”

“That’s stealing. I saw you.”

“You think that just because a black man comes up in here he’s looking for trouble.”

The other man spoke in a calmer, more even tone. “You don’t have to bring race into this.”

“Race
been
in this, you goddamn cracker!” he roared.

“Calm down, please.”

“I hate stupid crackers like you.”

“That man is certainly loud enough,” Wendy’s dad said.

“Dad,
shhh
,” Wendy told him with a here-we-go roll of her eyes. The last thing she needed was for her dad to get into this scuffle.

“He could pay for his drink like everyone else,” her dad told her.

Wendy was watching the rest of the patrons. She marveled at how this man had single-handedly changed the mood of the entire restaurant.

Two people had pulled out their cell phones and started recording. Everyone watched in complete silence, not moving a muscle. If the accused soda thief was looking for hand-to-hand combat, he would have done something by now, Wendy figured. He also had no buddies with him; he would have called them for backup. Still, all seemed whipped into a near panic by this guy who wanted a free soda. What was everyone afraid of?

Wendy eyed a man with a strawberry sundae whose forehead was tense with alarm. Then she turned to watch another woman, who was hastily packing up her belongings. The woman slipped out the door, leaving a half-finished turkey club behind.

All at once, the man at the center of everything left, and there was a collective sigh of relief. People went back to enjoying their meals.

Then it started again.

Wendy saw a little boy’s eyes widen. “Ma, he’s back,” he told his mother.

Someone asked, “What’s he want now?”

Wendy turned around.

“Listen, you goddamn racist, I want to speak to the manager!” the man shouted.

“I am the manager.”

“That figures, you old racist goddamn cracker!”

“I’m going to call the police in five seconds.”