Piecing Me Together(32)

“Well, my, yes. That . . . that sums it up,” the woman says.

“She was also the first black person to perform with the New York Metropolitan Opera,” Maxine adds.

“Yes, well, looks like you know music history. I think that’s great.”

I hear Maxine’s breathing intensify.

“Now,” the volunteer says, “let’s get you all to your seats.”

We walk to our reserved seating and sit down, watching people file into the auditorium, dressed in their pearls and ties. Maxine whispers to Carla, “Can you believe that woman? Talking to us like we’re some poor black heathens who don’t know anything worth knowing.”

Carla says, “I know, right? First of all, I don’t even listen to hip-hop.”

Listening to Maxine and Carla, I think maybe they aren’t only offended at that woman’s stereotypes, but maybe they are upset at the idea of being put in the same category as me and the other girls.

The lights fade.

My emotions are all mixed up and jumbled inside.

For the first two songs, all I can think about is that white woman’s smiling face, her annoying voice. And even though we’re all dressed up in our new clothes, even though none of us had opened our mouths and talked to her, she thought we were the kind of kids who wouldn’t appreciate classical music. Makes me feel like no matter how dressed up we are, no matter how respectful we are, some people will only see what they want to see.

I try to let the music wash away that feeling that comes when white people make you feel special or stupid for no good reason. I don’t know how to describe that feeling, just to say that it’s kind of like cold, sunny days. Something is discomforting about a sun that gives no heat but keeps shining.

I close my eyes and try to listen to the music, really focus.

The melody is like an intricate collage. If you take it on all at once, you hear one song, one whole sound. But if you listen for the viola and cello, the flute and clarinet, you hear how each note lies next to the other to complete an image, how the French horn and tuba complements them all. How the piano and xylophone, the cymbals and drums hold them up like a base color. How the picture wouldn’t be the same without each note in its just-right place.

I did not know about James DePreist, and I’d never heard of Marian Anderson. But tonight I feel myself dancing with them. Feel myself traveling the world.





40


el río

the river

The past few weeks have been slow and quiet. Mom is working extra shifts because she is determined to start saving money so she can put a down payment on a car. E.J. practically lives at the studio, so I am usually home by myself. Which is good. The house stays cleaner this way, and the food lasts longer.

I haven’t spent much time with Sam. Partly because I usually have something to do after school, but mostly because I don’t know how to be around her when I know she doesn’t think that salesclerk treated me wrong. I don’t even think she feels the tension between us. She has moved on and acts like everything is fine, but me? I’m stuck wondering if I can truly be friends with someone who doesn’t understand what I go through, how I feel. I don’t expect Sam to always agree with me, but she didn’t even give me that generic I’m sorry that happened to you or I’m sorry you feel that way response.

Today, though, I have nowhere to go after school, so there is no avoiding Sam. She sees me at my locker as I swap out one book for another, and waits for me. “I have to stop by Mrs. Parker’s office before I leave,” she says.

“Okay.”

We walk to Mrs. Parker’s office, and when she sees us, she smiles and opens her jar. “What’s your pleasure today?” she asks. She holds the jar out.

Sam takes two sour apple Jolly Ranchers. I take a cherry one.

Then Mrs. Parker says, “Jade, do you mind if I speak with Sam alone? Just for a moment.”

“Oh, ah, okay. I’ll wait out there, Sam.” I point to the sitting area outside Mrs. Parker’s office. I take one more Jolly Rancher and leave. When I step into the waiting area, I dump my bag onto one of the chairs and walk over to the alumni hall of fame wall. Here, the counselors have posted photos of graduates from last school year, each photo with a small sign under the name that lists the college the former graduates are attending. I smile, knowing my picture will be here one day.

Sam comes out of Mrs. Parker’s office, an envelope in her hand and the biggest smile on her face. She can’t even get words out, she is breathing and smiling so hard. “Oh my God, Jade. This is so unreal. You are not going to believe this!”

“What happened?”

We walk out of the counseling center and make our way to the bus stop. “I’ve been nominated for the study abroad program,” she says. “This year the trip is to Costa Rica.”

When she says this, there is a pain in my chest. A real physical pain. What I really want to do is turn around, go back to Mrs. Parker’s office, and ask, What about me? Instead I say, “That’s— Wow, Sam. That’s— Congratulations.” I feel horrible that I can’t do better than that. I try again. “That’s really amazing. What did Mrs. Parker say?”

“Well, she said I was nominated by Mr. Flores,” Sam tells me. We get to the bus stop and wait. I can barely look at Sam right now, because I’m afraid she’ll see my eyes and know how I really feel. I sit down and look out at the street. Sam opens her envelope. “There’s an information session happening in two weeks. I have to bring an adult.”