Piecing Me Together(14)

Mom slugs her way into the kitchen, yawning her sleep away. “Morning,” she says.

“Good morning.” I hand Mom her favorite mug, the one Dad gave her a long time ago, one of those Valentine’s Day mugs full of chocolates. No corny hearts on it, but it is red. All this time, she still has it. No one drinks from it but her. “I made coffee,” I say.

“Thanks.” Mom pours her morning wake-me-up. “You’re dressed early for a Sunday,” she says. “I didn’t see anything on the calendar.”

“Oh, it’s a last-minute thing. Maxine called and asked if I wanted to do brunch with her to celebrate my birthday.”

“Do brunch? You mean go to brunch?” Mom laughs. “How does one do brunch?” Mom pours milk into her mug, then opens a packet of sweetener and sprinkles it in. She stirs. “That woman has you talking like her already, huh?”

“Mom—”

“I haven’t even met this girl, and she’s taking you out?” Mom sips her coffee and then puts two slices of bread into the toaster.

“It’s for my birthday,” I say.

“Your birthday isn’t until next weekend.”

“She’ll be out of town and wanted to celebrate before she left.”

“Well, you still have chores to do. And I don’t appreciate her not asking me. Tell her you can’t go.”

“What do you mean, I can’t go?”

Mom looks at me, telling me with her eyes that she is not going to repeat herself. That I heard her the first time.

“But, Mom, she’s on her way.”

“You are not going.”

“Why can’t I go?”

“Jade, the answer is no. You. Are. Not. Going.” Mom takes butter out of the fridge, gets a knife and plate, and waits for her toast. Once the bread pops from the toaster, she slathers it with butter and eats, standing. “You can go ahead and get that sad look off your face. I’m not changing my mind.”

The doorbell rings.

It’s Maxine.

“I’ll get it,” Mom says. I wish she’d put on some decent clothes. At least take her scarf off. She opens the door, barely giving Maxine a chance to speak. “Good morning,” she says. “You must be Maxine.” Mom has her hand on her hip and won’t let Maxine through the door. “I’m sorry you wasted your time and gas coming over here, but Jade is not going with you today.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping to do an early b-day celebration with her and spend some quality time together,” Maxine says. “Is she okay?”

“Oh, she’s fine,” Mom says. “I would appreciate it if you contact me first before you and Jade make plans. Jade is not grown. Believe it or not, she does have a mother. That’s me.”

“I apologize, Ms. Butler,” Maxine says. “I didn’t mean to disrespect you. It’s just, well, I know you’re not home that often and so—”

“When I’m not at home, I’m working. And what does that have to do with anything?”

I wish Maxine would’ve apologized and left it at that.

Mom says, “Please let this be the first and last time you try to take my daughter out of my house without my knowing and giving permission.”

“Yes, ma’am. Again, I apologize.”

Mom moves away from the door and lets Maxine in. She walks into the kitchen. “Now, you’re welcome to stay for a little while if you’d like. But she is not leaving this house. Jade has some cleaning to do.” Mom looks at me, because she’s already told me twice to clean my room and the kitchen. She takes her coffee and goes into her bedroom, mumbling the whole time about how I must think the kitchen is my art studio. “Got scraps of paper all over the place,” she says. She mentions the paint I spilled last night while I was working, but I don’t hear all of what she says because her voice has trailed off and is muffled behind the closed door.

Once Maxine knows my mom is in her room, she says, “I’m sorry, Jade. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble or make your mom upset.”

“No, I’m sorry. She’s so—”

“Right,” Maxine says. “She’s right.”

I cross my arms. “I really wanted to go,” I tell Maxine.

“It’s okay. We’ll do a rain check. I’ll be sure to speak with her about our plans,” she says.

“Okay,” I say. “You want to see the mess my mom was talking about?” I ask.

Maxine smiles, and I take her into my bedroom. In the center of the room is my scrap box. All around it are patterned and colored paper, maps, and cut-up fabric. In the corner, on my desk, is the half-finished piece I started about York and Lewis and Clark.

Maxine rubs her hands along the different textures. “This is beautiful,” she says. “So many details.” She stares at the piece, taking it all in. “I’m . . . I’m speechless. I mean, it’s one thing to see your sketchbook, but this? This is—this is, wow.”

Maxine stays for about an hour. We talk about art, music, and movies. And I have to admit, just like Maxine is surprised that a girl my age can create this kind of art, I am surprised a woman like her can relate to the movies and music I like. Every time I say something I love, Maxine says, “Me too,” and I guess she sees the shock on my face because she says, “Why are you looking at me like that? You think because I went to St. Francis that I don’t know black culture?” Maxine says, laughing.