Piecing Me Together(25)

“Yeah, well, my mom doesn’t have a car, so there goes that idea,” I say. “And if she did, I’m sure she’d need to be conservative on where to drive in order to keep gas in the car.”

Maxine shakes her head at me. “Always the pessimist,” she says, laughing.

Always the realist, I think. Always the poorest.

Maxine goes on talking, not even realizing she’s so oblivious. We’ve been at the restaurant so long that most of the people who were here when we first came in are gone and a whole new crowd has come.

“How’s your mom?” Maxine asks.

“She’s good. Working a lot,” I say.

“And what is it she does again?”

Again? I never told her. I tell Maxine about my mom working for Ms. Louise. “And now she’s working for another woman on the weekends.”

Even though this is good news, Maxine’s eyes are full of pity. She sounds like those annoying adults who take babies by the hand and talk in gibberish, in that childish voice. “So many people can’t find work in this economy,” she says. “Your mom is lucky.”

I think, She is not lucky. She works hard. Figured out a way to keep the lights on and the bills paid. Didn’t give up. All this talk about my mom makes me wonder about Maxine’s family. I ask her, “What about your mother? What does she do?”

“She’s a surgeon,” Maxine says.

“So she must have been at work a lot when you were younger too?”

“She was, actually. Yeah, she was.”

“Did you have a mentor?”

“No. I didn’t,” Maxine tells me.

I wonder why people didn’t think Maxine needed a mentor. Wonder why Maxine thinks she can be a mentor if she’s never had one.

The waitress asks if we need anything else before leaving the bill. Maxine says no and pulls out her wallet.

“Any other questions for me?” Maxine asks.

I wait for the waitress to walk away and then I say, “Yes. What makes you want to do this?”

“Well, I guess I’m doing this because, well, because I want to make a difference and because I—”

I roll my eyes. “The real reason,” I tell her. “Is it good money? Did you always want a little sister? There has to be a reason.”

Maxine laughs. “Okay, here it is—the money does help, of course. And, um, let’s see, well, I’m really interested in working with young girls and women—especially women of color—in regards to their mental, physical, and emotional health. So I thought this would be a good experience for me,” Maxine tells me.

“But why?” I ask. “I mean, what makes you want to do something like that?”

The waitress comes back with chocolate mints and the receipt. Maxine signs her name. “I guess I’m doing it because I could have used someone helping me out when I was your age. It would have been nice to have someone to talk to.”

“You think I need someone to talk to?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Do you?”

It takes me a while to answer. Not because I don’t need someone, but because I don’t want to say yes and have her thinking my mom is not a good mother. I don’t want her thinking I am some ’hood girl with a bunch of problems she has to come and fix.

“Jade, I know this is kind of awkward,” Maxine says. “I mean, we’re still getting to know each other. I know it’s going to take time, but hopefully one day you’ll feel like you can tell me anything.”

I tune out some of what Maxine is saying because now it’s starting to sound like something she practiced, something Sabrina told her to say. But when she says, “We’re going to have so much fun with the other mentor-mentee pairs. I can’t wait for us to grow and learn from each other.”

I ask her, “How is that going to happen if you keep flaking out on the activities?”

Maxine looks stunned that I actually said this. She takes a sip of her Arnold Palmer even though there’s not much left to drink. “You have every right to be upset with me for being so flaky today,” Maxine says.

“And last month,” I add.

“All I can say is I am sorry and, like I told you earlier, it won’t happen again.”

I don’t say anything. I’m just sitting here, thinking how different we are. How I’m not sure why Mrs. Parker thought we’d be a good pair.

“You have my word, Jade,” Maxine says. “I hope you’ll give me another chance.”

One more chance. That’s all she’s got.





29


la llorona

the weeping woman

I am on my way downtown to walk through the city and take photos. The bus is pretty empty when I get on. Only three people in the front—an elderly man and a mother with her young son, and a few teens near the back. I sit in the middle section and look out the window. The streets are as solemn as the sky. At the third stop a woman gets on the bus, her hair not so straight anymore because of the rain. She has on sandals and jeans that look like they’ve never been washed. Her shirt hangs so low and is so thin, you can see her braless breasts. She says to the driver, “Can I get on?”

He says, “Pay your fare, ma’am.”

“I ain’t got no fare. Can I get on? I’m just going a few blocks.”