Home > Turning Point(8)

Turning Point(8)
Author: Paula Chase

Mo’s heart leaped at the words. She suddenly felt bad for her brother. Lennie wasn’t really good at anything, except hustling people out of whatever he wanted and playing video games. With her gone. who would help keep him out of trouble?

He ruined it by keeping up the fuss.

“I’m happy for her. Just saying don’t be coming back home thinking you all special or you gon’ get back to the hood and get your feelings hurt.”

“It takes a lot to hurt my feelings,” Mo said, meaning it. Yet it hurt hearing Lennie doubt her. Like she’d ever change just because of dance. She’d been in the talented and gifted dance program the whole school year and hadn’t changed. Had danced at La May for three years and hadn’t changed. She wanted to point that out, but it would only make him think he was right. And he wasn’t.

“Is it even gonna be any other Black people up there besides you and Bean?” he asked, giving her the side-eye as he dug into the rest of his food.

Mila hated being called Bean. But the last time Mo had corrected her brother, he’d gone off about people being bougie. Tonight definitely wasn’t the night for corrections.

She took the bait. “I don’t know, Lennie. And so what if it’s not? I’m there to dance. That’s it.”

A smirk spread across his face. “So you gonna come back speaking all proper and stuff?” His fork swayed in the air, a conductor’s baton emphasizing his words. His lips pursing and stretching in exaggeration. “Hell-er, my name is Monique. How are you, today?”

“Stop, Len,” their mother said, but she chuckled. “Leave your sister alone. Going away for the first time is a big deal. Don’t fill her head with nonsense.” She reached over and rubbed Mo’s arm. “Everyone is going to this intensive for the same reason you going—to work on their technique. You and Bean are going to have a great time.”

Mo sipped a noodle into her mouth so she wouldn’t need to speak. She’d been afraid to admit she was worried about the same thing. All the brochures of Ballet America were stick-legged White girls, suspended on their toes so high she wondered if there wasn’t an invisible string holding them in place. Maybe they had Photoshopped it out. Even the one or two Black girls in the pictures looked more like Mila than her, taller and thinner.

Her middle school was nearly all Black and Latino. The few White people at school were in the TAG program. When the school year started, she’d seen them walk down the halls quiet, beating feet to class like the hall was a dark alley where they could be jacked. She couldn’t lie, she’d laughed whenever somebody joked about it or yelled out, “What, you scurred, White girl?” But, the teasing got old pretty fast, and by Christmas break things seemed better. She guessed everybody had made enough friends and realized nobody messed with them if they didn’t mess with anybody. And she had made friends (sort of) with a few of the girls.

If Ballet America was like that, she could handle herself. Though she couldn’t imagine a bunch of ballet dancers coming for her that way. If they had any sense they wouldn’t. One good thing about having older brothers, Mo knew how to take care of herself. Words, fists, whatever.

Still, the thought of feeling out of place made the food in her stomach churn. She hoped her mother was right.

Her mother was saying, “I think this is a good time for you to experience something new, Monique.” She sat back in her chair, fork down, food forgotten. Mo didn’t know how long she’d been daydreaming, but it must have been a minute. Lennie’s eyes were glazed. His plate was empty.

Mo uttered, “Mm-hm,” unusually loud. It worked. Her mother turned her head just enough to focus her words Mo’s way. Lennie sent her a silent thank-you.

“When your little friend, Roland, got shot a few months ago, it just hit too close for me.” Her mother’s eyes closed. “I’d send you away all summer if I could. Both of you. But I can’t.” Mo thought she was about to cry. The moment passed. Gone were the three crinkles in her forehead that meant she was trying to solve a puzzle. She beamed at Mo, then Lennie. “So, look, if it means you come back with a little bit of the culture erased, we’ll just have to take that.”

Lennie jumped on the chance to lighten up the moment. “All right. Go ’head and see. I’m gon’ straight clown you if you come back different. I’m telling you now.”

“What if she comes back and doesn’t want mayo in the potato salad, Len?” their mother said, howling.

“Man-n-n-n.” Lennie’s head reared back, in horror, as if Mo had already committed the crime.

Mo took their teasing. Usually she and her mother teamed up against Lennie. It didn’t take much to make him mad, which made teasing him easy. The least she could do was let him win this one. She let them have their jokes, because reality was, nobody was going to change her. Not in three little weeks. Not ever.

 

 

Rasheeda


Gospel music floated from Auntie D’s bedroom, filling the row.

The lead singer’s growly scream was accented by the choir’s melodic but powerful voices. Sheeda brushed her teeth, stroking back and forth to the song’s beat, as if the toothbrush were a violin. She loved this song. The mass choir (the oldsters and youngsters combined) had sang it at the regional cluster and absolutely killed it. Auntie D had gotten so happy that she’d swooned, and Sheeda watched from the loft as the ushers stood over her fanning, nodding along themselves to the music, used to the spirit reducing people to puddles.

The first time Sheeda had seen that happen, she’d been scared. Thought her aunt was hurt. Yola had teased her later. “Girl, she was all right. She just got the spirit.” She had started imitating Auntie D, pumping her hands and bending her knees like she was trying to lift an invisible boulder off her head before fake fainting into Makita’s arms.

The elders stayed getting the spirit and the First Bap Pack stayed imitating them when nobody was looking. Auntie D was the swayer. Sister Butler did the head shake and run in place. Brother Patterson was the shouter and holy dancer. For real, Sheeda had seen an usher chase him to make sure he didn’t hurt himself because he’d start tearing down the aisle so fast.

Probably Auntie D was in her room now palms up to the heavens, swaying along, her lips mouthing the word hallelujah over and over like she was in a trance. She never said it aloud, just formed the word. One time, Sheeda had counted thirty hallelujah’s in a row—each one coming out faster than the one before until it became one long string: hallelujahhallelujahhallelujah.

Much as she went along with the First Bap Pack’s teasing, there were plenty of times she’d been in church and felt her emotions bouncing off each other like they were working up to something. She’d never actually gotten “happy” shouting, crying, or jumping. But sometimes, if it was a song she loved or when the congregation shouted and waved them on as they danced, her heart felt so full she thought it would burst. At those times, her throat would clog with tears that never fell.

By the time she’d finished brushing her teeth, she was feeling that way. She wanted to go hug her aunt. Hold on to her. Do something to release or pass on some of the feeling inside. It didn’t feel bad. Sometimes it just felt like it had nowhere to go. She guessed that’s why people let it out.

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