Piecing Me Together(6)

I have so many more questions, but Lee Lee is on to the next topic. She starts telling me about all the Northside drama—who’s broken up, who’s gotten back together. I know so many of them because we all went to middle school together.

The whole time Lee Lee is talking, I am thinking about York and Sacagawea, wondering how they must have felt having a form of freedom but no real power.





7


arte

art

Lee Lee has been gone for at least two hours. E.J. is in the living room, turning the sofa into his bed. I have on headphones so I can block out the TV show he’s watching. One of those real-life murder mysteries. He has the volume up so loud, I am sure the neighbors can hear.

I am sitting at the kitchen table, which is really a folding card table someone gave us a year ago. It’s not that sturdy or wide or long, but it is enough. Tonight it is holding scraps of paper, the 35 bus schedule, and old copies of the St. John’s Review—our community newsletter.

I am ripping and cutting. Gluing and pasting. Rearranging reality, redefining, covering, disguising.

Tonight I am taking ugly and making beautiful.

I am still thinking about what Lee Lee told me about York. I’m thinking about the walks I’ve taken through North Portland and all the signs that mark the journey of Lewis and Clark. I’ve seen these signs my whole life. Lewis or Clark pointing into the distance, the other one standing with his gun. York is not there; neither is Sacagawea. Or the native people who were already there.

I think about Mrs. Parker. How she has a black son-in-law smiling at me from a frame. How proud she is of her free passes to Winterhawks games. How she wants me to have a mentor. How she’s always ready to give me an opportunity, a gift. Like what she is telling me is she comes in peace.





8


algo en común

something in common

The Book Girl gets on the bus again. She sits in the same seat, reading the same book. I watch her as we ride to St. Francis. A man gets on the bus, his cell phone in his hand, and he is playing music for the entire bus, holding his phone up like it’s an eighties boom box. And singing along. And he can’t sing—not even a little bit.

It is too early for this.

The Book Girl looks around the bus, and our eyes meet. She smiles, the kind of uncomfortable smile people give one another in these kinds of situations. I smile back. The louder he sings, the bigger her eyes get. And then—even though there are plenty of empty seats—he stands right in front of her, as if to serenade her. She looks at me and with her eyes, asks, Is this really happening?

I motion for her to come sit next to me. I pick my bag up from the aisle seat and set it on my lap. She comes over, full of disbelief and laughter. “Thank you for rescuing me,” she whispers. Once the man gets off the bus, we burst into laughter.

“I’m Jade,” I tell her.

“Samantha,” she says. “My friends call me Sam.”

“How do you like St. Francis?”

She looks at me with suspicion.

“I go there too. We have the same Spanish class,” I tell her.

“What? Oh God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize—”

“It’s okay.”

“So you take the bus every morning?” Sam asks.

“Every morning,” I tell her. “I live in North Portland.”

“And I thought I lived far from St. Francis,” Sam says. “I live close to Peninsula Park. Looks like we’ll be bus buddies.”

“Yeah.”

As we ride to school together, I make sure to tell her the shortcuts to get around the crowded hallways. I let her know which teachers she should stay away from at all costs and which ones to get to know even if she doesn’t have their classes.

Sam tucks her hair behind her right ear and clears her throat. “Any tips about lunch?” she asks.

“I eat in the cafeteria,” I answer. I don’t tell her that my meals are free and part of my scholarship package.

“I have to eat in the cafeteria too,” Sam says. “I mean, well, I don’t have to, but, well—”

She doesn’t finish her sentence. She doesn’t have to. “Meet me at the sandwich bar for lunch. We can eat together,” I say.

“Okay. Thanks.”

The bus stops and we get off.

Sam is full of more questions about St. Francis.

I am full of questions about her. I wonder what Sam is exiting from. She must be coming from something.





9


esperar

to wait

September has come and gone. My daily routine is riding the bus in the morning and eating lunch with Sam. Depending on what I have to do after school, we go home together too. But today I can’t because today is the day I meet my mentor. I have to take a different bus after school to go to the first Woman to Woman meeting. It’s at a library in Northeast Portland. When the dismissal bell rings, I make my way to Sam’s locker before I leave.

Sam is looking into a mirror, trying to fix her unfixable hair. Her locker is full of pictures of her cat, Misty, who she found in the rain. Owners definitely look like their pets. Sam’s thick hair sheds all over the place. Her eyes are big, full, and piercing. Her mouth, thin and overshadowed by her cheeks. She swoops her hair behind her ear. “Ready to meet the woman who’s going to change your life?”