Piecing Me Together(39)

Maxine says, “I know.” Then: “I need to be better at setting boundaries and letting go.” She takes in a deep breath, releases it real slow, and puts her mentor voice back on. “And you need to work on not giving up so easily. How about we make a deal? I quit Jon; you don’t quit the program.”

“Deal.”





47


orar

to pray

If I don’t leave in the next ten minutes, I’m going to be late for school. I put two Pop-Tarts into the toaster and don’t even wait for them to shoot up. I slide the warm pastries back into the silver sleeve and put them into my backpack. I’ll eat them on the bus. I walk into the living room. E.J. is awake but still lying down, looking at his phone. “Morning,” he mumbles.

“Good morning.” I put my coat on and zip it.

“You hear about what happened Saturday night?” E.J. asks.

“No.”

He sits up and reads from his phone, “‘Vancouver, Washington, police manhandle black teen at house party.’”

“What?” Vancouver is just across the Columbia River. It’s practically in my backyard—just a fifteen-minute drive from my house. Most of the black people I know who live there used to live in Portland. “What’s her name?” I ask.

E.J. looks at his phone, scrolling up and down with his finger. “Natasha Ramsey,” he says. “She’s fifteen.” He turns the phone to me so I can see the photo.

I don’t recognize her name or face, but still, she looks familiar. Like a girl I would be friends with. “What . . . what happened?”

“The police beat her bad. She’s in critical condition.” E.J. reads the article, calling out details as he reads. “The police were called to a house party because neighbors complained about loud music. The cops are saying when they came to break up the party, she was insubordinate.” He reads for a few moments, than tells me, “They are saying they didn’t use excessive force. But this girl has fractured ribs and a broken jaw!” E.J. shakes his head and puts down the phone. “We probably wouldn’t even know about this except people had their phones out, recording.”

“I feel like we should say a prayer or something.”

“Why?”

“For Natasha Ramsey. For her family.”

“And what is prayer going to do?” E.J. asks. “Prayer ain’t nothing but the poor man’s drug.”

“What?”

“Poor people are the ones who pray. People who don’t have what they need, who can’t pay their rent, who can’t buy healthy food, who can’t save any of their paycheck because every dollar is already accounted for. Those are the people who pray. They pray for miracles, they pray for signs, they pray for good health. Rich people don’t do that,” he tells me. “Plus, God isn’t the one we need to be talking to. We need to talk to the chief of police, the mayor, and the governor. They’re the ones with the power to make change.”

I stare at the picture, can’t stop looking at her face, at how she looks like someone who lives in my neighborhood. Maybe she used to? I see the time at the top of the screen. “I’m going to be late!” I yell. I’ve definitely missed the bus.

I rush to the door, but before I leave, E.J. stops me. “Be careful today, Jade. For real.”

“I will.”

When I get to school, the tardy bell for first period is ringing. I go to class, and the entire time all I can think about is Natasha Ramsey. Her smiling face. The bell rings, and I go to my locker. Sam is waiting for me. “Thought maybe you were sick and weren’t coming today,” she says.

“Nope, just couldn’t get out the house on time today.” I almost ask Sam if she heard about Natasha Ramsey, but I figure since she didn’t say anything about it, she probably hasn’t. I go to my next class, saying a prayer in my head as I walk down the hall.





48


fantasma

ghost

It is lunchtime. Sam and I are in the cafeteria, standing in line to fix our burrito bowls. All day long I’ve been whispering prayers. Natasha’s name haunts me. No one speaks her name or mentions what happened. It’s as if no one in this school knows or cares that an unarmed black girl was assaulted by the police just across the river.

My stomach hurts. And all I want to do is talk to my mom and Lee Lee and Maxine. Every time something like this happens, I go to accounting for every person I know who also fits the description, who it could’ve been. Feels like such a selfish thing to do—to be thankful it isn’t someone I know. To call people just to hear their breath on the other end of the line.

“Excuse me, young lady. I’m not going to tell you again. Keep the line moving. Step up, step up.” The voice interrupts my thoughts, and I realize Ms. Weber is talking to me. She is a short woman with hair to her waist. We’ve exchanged hellos every now and then but we’ve never had a conversation. “You too, Hannah,” she says to the white girl in back of me. Sam is in front of us and has already put her rice and black beans in the bowl.

“God, Ms. Weber, don’t have a heart attack about it,” Hannah says.

I turn to Hannah and say, “I know, right? Is it that serious?” I pick up my bowl and get ready to dish my rice.