Yolonda's Genius (12 page)

“ . . . It's like a game. We're not really going to be lost. But we need to get backstage. Where the bigtime musicians are. Where all those
instruments
are — like the ones you ask about all the time. Would you like to go backstage?”

She was asking him something he didn't quite understand. He could only look at her, listening for a clue in her voice.

“I don't think we have to actually go onto the stage. Momma would faint dead away. I'll think of a way to get us out of there before that comes. Although . . .” Yolonda's face softened.

Andrew watched expectantly. Yolonda had magic; she could make things happen.
Got my mojo wukin'!
Mojo was a magic charm. Some people, like Yolonda,
were
mojos — could work magic without any extra help.

“Although . . . what would that be like? Sixty thousand people seeing you up on the stage? Calling out to you, clapping their hands, all crazy.”

“Good?” asked Andrew.

“First things first,” said Yolonda.

 

The temporary police post was housed in a big
CHICAGO POLICE
motor van, white with sky-blue trim. Yolonda didn't want to start her plan there — too obvious. Half a block away, past a hot dog booth, were two cops talking together. One was a short, compact black woman whose uniform fit as if it had been sprayed on. Yolonda quelled the worry that she might not be able to fool a sister — that somehow this woman might be able to read her soul. The other cop was a young white guy with a pale mustache. He looked easy.

Yolonda checked Andrew. “Don't get worried,”
she said to him. He looked at her curiously, but his eyes were trusting as always.

Yolonda mustered her terrified-but-innocent look, grabbed Andrew's hand more tightly. She tried to shrink down inside the lace-collared blouse. With wide eyes, she slowly crept by the chatting police. The effect was somewhat spoiled, she realized, by Andrew's bright interest in everything around him. But she couldn't risk worrying him into a frightened face. It might only screw up his playing mood.

The chatting police never once glanced at them.

Yolonda clutched Andrew more tightly, and he looked at her in alarm. “‘S'okay,” she growled at him. “Part of the game.” She slowed her pace to that of a worm. Clutching and staring, she crawled back past the two cops. Their conversation was animated.

Some police officers, thought Yolonda angrily. Supposed to be alert to emergency. Supposed to smell disaster. What's our tax money going for? Chatting police officers. Wait till I'm chief of police.

Then, before she'd thought it through, she bought herself a hot dog. Andrew declined.

“What am I doing?” she muttered aloud. “Lost children are too worried to buy hot dogs.” Well, she thought, maybe I bought it first, before we got
lost. Maybe I'm so scared I don't even eat the hot dog now. Maybe I just clutch it.

Back they walked toward the two police officers, whose conversation showed no signs of slowing down. Yolonda clutched her hot dog, clutched her brother. She rounded out her eyes until she thought they might explode with innocence and terror. She looked right, left, all around — as if she were searching for someone. Her eyes were getting dry. She longed to take a bite of the hot dog, which was giving off a warm, spicy odor. But not eating the hot dog was helping her achieve a suffering expression. She managed a moan when she passed the two cops.

This time the one with the pale mustache glanced up. Yolonda almost tripped in eagerness. Then he went back to listening to the lady cop. Yolonda ground her teeth. She wanted to shout at them. Yo-yos! What's wrong with you? Didn't you get any training? Can't you spot lost children?

She took a deep breath. “One more time,” she gritted at Andrew.

This time, her moan was real anguish. She dragged her feet. She clutched her hot dog. Andrew cried in protest as her grip tightened hard on his little fingers.

It was the lady cop who stopped talking and looked at them, who asked, “Have you lost your mother,
kids?” And the most surprising thing happened.

Yolonda burst into tears. A real Niagara Falls.

They waited on comfy upholstered chairs in the back of the
CHICAGO POLICE
van. Despite the coolness outside, it was warm and stuffy in the van. After Yolonda recovered from the shock of actually crying, the time dragged minute by minute. The hot dog rumbled uncomfortably in her stomach. Andrew fell asleep leaning against the armrest. His perfect little mouth was open, drool collecting on the pink inside of his lower lip.

This is not working right, thought Yolonda. Andrew's body thinks it's bedtime. We can't wait two hours for them to take us onstage. The concert will be all over with.

When she stood up, Andrew stirred and woke.

“Gotta check something, Drew-de-drew,” she said, and went up front to the open door. Andrew followed.

There were no police outside on this side of the van. Yolonda leaned out of the door. There were some of them around front talking with a mounted police officer who leaned from her fine big horse and pointed at something up the street.

“We're outa here,” announced Yolonda, holding out her hand to Andrew. No one saw them leave.

Yolonda headed for the yellow-and-white
awning across the street. She wasn't sure what the next step in the big plan was, but she wanted to get closer to the goal.

A new set of hospitality ladies sat sternly at their tables, checking the passes of a short line of people. Yolonda's eyes zeroed in on a tall, straight-backed woman whose blond hairdo supported a beautiful straw hat. She appeared to be in a hurry even though she was standing still. Occasionally someone would aim a question her way and she would issue a command.

A real boss lady, thought Yolonda. She paused to gather her forces. At that moment, the boss lady turned impatiently and headed out of the gate toward the
CHICAGO POLICE
van they had just escaped from.

Yolonda took a breath — now or never — and stepped directly into the boss lady's path.

Boss lady halted. “Yes?” She was brimming with impatience.

“We're lost children,” said Yolonda, her innocence stretched across her face. “We're supposed to go backstage.”

“Oh!” blew out boss lady. She tossed her hands up, then dropped them, slapping against her sides. She turned and called out to one of the hospitality ladies under the awning.

“Esther, sit these kids backstage. They're lost.
Let Henry take care of it when this set is over.”

It was as simple as that. The big plan had moved into place.

A thrill sent goose bumps up Yolonda's legs. She thought, I can do anything. I can look out for my baby brother. I can dance and fight. I bet I can even turn double Dutch ropes with Shirley-whirley. Why not? One thing I have down is timing.

I suppose I'll have to apologize to Shirley-whirley, she thought. Before we can begin to train. The sync part is important — the rhythm. You have to practice a lot if you want your hearts to beat together in perfect harmony.

The triumphant feeling followed Yolonda to the backstage entrance. And then deserted her.

Backstage was a huge corridor filled with people. No dressing rooms, no couches, no champagne. Disappointment replaced Yolonda's triumph. Where was the man with the foil-covered trays? People surged about them in a rush. Some wore earphones. Others lounged against a wall waiting or sat on folding chairs.

One guy looked like a big-time musician, but Yolonda didn't know him from Adam. Besides, he was a white guy. He wore a white and glittery cowboy suit and a big white cowboy hat. He had a long earring in one ear that swayed and caught the light when he moved. He put one foot on a
chair and leaned into his knee. He was listening to the group onstage and smiling, shaking his head.

Where was Koko Taylor? Little Willie Littlefield? Where was B. B. King? Yolonda found herself irritated by the cowboy musician's whiteness. Where was someone who would be turned on by Andrew's specialness?

Suddenly, into her mind slid a horrible doubt. Suppose she was wrong? Suppose everybody else was right? Suppose Andrew wasn't a genius after all — just an undersized underachiever? Where'd she gotten the idea he was a genius anyway? Desperately Yolonda's mind grabbed for the John Hersey definition — “rearranges old material . . .” She took a breath. Well, anyway, they were all about to find out.

There was quietness but hurrying in the tall place that seemed, to Andrew, like a hallway for giants. Lots of people were moving quickly and softly. They never bumped into one another. At the end of the hallway there was an edge of bright, bright light, and music sounds twinkled and faded, twinkled and faded.

One guy didn't move. He was standing with one foot on a chair. He wore a white cowboy hat and a long, sparkly earring. Andrew was more fascinated by the guitar that leaned against the chair. He
moved closer. The instrument was white and sparkly, too. Andrew looked it over very carefully. He wondered where the guitar's case was. Wasn't this sparkly cowboy worried about his guitar?

Sounds seeped backstage from out front, where now a singer was sobbing, “. . . drivin' me-ah craze-eah. . . .” A slow, soft piano played behind her voice.

Without thinking, Andrew stepped closer to the stage entrance and pulled out his harmonica. He began to slide little notes in and out of the sounds around him.

He played a sparkle sound — the dazzling cowboy. He played the announcer man standing in the wings with his straw hat and his handful of papers. He played a deep bellowing sound — Yolonda hovering near.

“That there's some pretty fine sound, kid,” said the sparkly cowboy behind Andrew. “You blowin' some good stuff outa that little harp, man.”

Interrupted, Andrew turned to look at the cowboy. But, almost immediately, the guitar by the chair drew his eyes down. “You have to be big to play that,” Andrew said. He smiled at the sparkly cowboy, raised up the Marine Band harmonica in a salute.
I don't have my case either
.

Yolonda seemed drawn, too, by the cowboy. She closed in on him.

“My little brother is a child prodigy,” she announced. At least she didn't say
genius
again. Andrew's dislike for that word surfaced briefly.

“Believe it!” said the sparkly cowboy. “If I ain't mistaken, he was audiatin' a little just then. Who's he studyin' with?”

Audiating
. Yolonda did that, too — used words that closed you in a box.

“I was not,” he muttered into the harmonica. Then he played,
I was not, I was not!

“Okay. Okay,” said the sparkly cowboy.

Andrew was surprised. He never expected a stranger to answer the things his harmonica said — not with words anyway.

“He's not studying,” said Yolonda. “He needs to study. He needs a teacher for a genius. Know anyone?”

There was that word again.

“Is he playin' tonight?” asked the cowboy.

“No,” said Yolonda. Andrew saw that she looked startled. “We're lost children.”

The sparkly cowboy laughed. “This kid ain't lost, sister. You don't look like you lost either. Sure he ain't with one'a the groups?”

“He oughta be,” said Yolonda. “Maybe he oughta be going out on that stage — instead of some others around here.”

Why is she so mad? wondered Andrew.

Then the sound of his sister sharpened even more. “We're looking for Koko Taylor. We're looking for B. B. King. I need to talk to somebody who can listen to my genius kid brother.”

Andrew could suddenly hear his own heart. Was that why they were here?

“He's worth listening to, awright,” said the cowboy. He smiled down at Andrew. Andrew felt a scary warmness flooding through him.

His sister glared at the sparkly cowboy. “There's a lot of stuff he needs to learn, and he needs the best kind of teacher to show him.”

The cowboy had half a smile looking at Yolonda.

Yolonda said, “Takes more than a fancy suit to play great blues. Great blues musicians don't need a whole lot of glitter.”

Whole lot of glitter,
played Andrew on the Marine Band harmonica. He gave it a mean edge like Yolonda's voice had right now. He was trying to figure out the heavy pushing that came from her like the push that came from big trucks — the trucks that broke up cement. He played the cement-breaking truck. Then he mixed in the bustle and short snap of voices in the corridor. He sent the sound out to meet the music that drifted back to him with the faint burning buzz of the crowd. He played the sudden silence of his sister and the sparkly cowboy.

Well, thought Yolonda no problem getting Andrew to play. He's on fire tonight.

Andrew stopped playing, but the listening stayed in his eyes.

“You are right about your kid brother, gal,” said the cowboy, leaning toward Yolonda and looking her straight in the face. “But you don't have to be jealous of my pretty costume.”

Yolonda glared. “I want the
right
people to hear my brother,” she said. “Somebody's got to see what he is besides me.”

Then the cowboy musician did something that startled Yolonda into silence. He smiled; he put his arm around her powerful shoulders and he gave her a midge of a hug.

“You got a gift yourself, girl,” he said. “It comes in a mean sorta package, but it's a gift all right.”

Yolonda glared at the cowboy. But no words, big or small, came to her mind.

“Well, hello there, Davie Rae,” said a voice behind them — a silver voice, resonant and smooth as a deep bell.

Yolonda turned and saw someone as familiar as her father. She stared. Her mind scrabbled for facts — then knew. It was Mr. B. B. King, the Blues Boy himself. He looked like a real person.

“Whatcha got there? New band member?” B. B. King cocked his wide, smiling face at
Andrew. He wore glasses, not like in his pictures.

“Maybe so, Beeb, maybe so,” said the cowboy musician. “He gotta have a tutor. Know anyone wantsa take on a pro-gidy? A pro-digy — whatever?”