“You like it?” she asks me, shaking her head from side to side so the beads make lots of noise.
“Yeah, it’s nice,” I say. Miz Rita comes in and I stand and hand her the money.
“Mama said to tell you thank you.”
“Uh-uh, you tell your mama not to worry about it.” Miz Rita shakes her head at my hand holding the money.
“She said to give this to you—”
“And I’m telling you to give it right back to her,” Miz Rita says. “And make sure she gets it, Isaiah. Don’t be buying candy or something with it.”
“I’ll give it to her,” I promise, putting the money into my pocket. “C’mon, Charlie. Say thank you to Miz Rita.”
“Thank you, Miz Rita!” Charlie says, giving her a big hug. “Can I have some of what you have for dinner?”
“Charlie!” I say, cuz I know Mama wouldn’t want her asking for anything. Inside, though, I’m wanting some of Miz Rita’s food, too.
Miz Rita just laughs. “You want a plate of food, baby? Isaiah, you think your mama will mind?”
“Um, no. I don’t think so.” I lie.
“Well, y’all come on to the kitchen.”
I follow Miz Rita and sit at her table while she fixes us some chicken, rice and gravy, corn bread, and string beans. It smells so good, I have to close my mouth real tight so I don’t drool. When she sets the plate in front of me, I’m already into my first bite when Charlie starts to say grace.
“Thank you, Miz Rita, it’s really good,” I manage to say around swallows.
“You’re welcome, baby.” Miz Rita gets another plate. “And I’ma fix a plate for your mama, too, okay?”
This time, my mouth is full, so I just nod.
Miz Rita asks if we want seconds, but I say no. I can’t turn down Miz Rita’s pound cake and butter pecan ice cream, though. I let the sweet ice cream stay in my mouth as long as I can, then crunch up the pecans. The ice cream reminds me of Daddy. Butter pecan was his favorite.
We thank Miz Rita again and take the plate of food for Mama. On the elevator, Charlie swings her head and clacks her beads all the way to the seventh floor.
“This is way better than how Mama did my hair, right, ’Saiah?” she asks.
I think about the giant afro puff that Charlie had been wearing for almost a month.
“Yeah, it is,” I agree.
The apartment’s dark when we go inside. I turn on the lamp and peek inside Mama’s room. She’s in bed again.
“Mama? Miz Rita sent a plate of food for you,” I say quietly.
“Mmmmmm” is all Mama says.
“I’ll put it on the counter.”
Mama doesn’t answer, so I just go out and close her door. I help Charlie take a bath and tuck her into bed. She’s so sleepy, she don’t even fuss. Then I turn on the TV in the living room, real low, and wait for Mama to come eat.
I fall asleep on the couch and wake up at 2:17 a.m. When I check the kitchen, the plate’s still on the counter. I put it in the fridge, turn off the TV and the lights, and get into bed thinking that if Daddy had known things would be like this, he probably wouldn’t have died.
JANUARY 10
I wish me and Sneaky were in the same class, like last year. We had mad fun in Ms. Clancy’s class, and she always let us work together. This year, Sneaky has Mr. Pollard, who’s real tall and kinda looks like Kevin Garnett. I’m stuck with Mrs. Fisher, who gives the most homework of all the fifth-grade teachers.
Even after school, I don’t get to hang with Sneaky. Mama told me to walk to the library instead of catching the bus and that she would pick me up at five. The library is quiet inside and has the same book smell that the one at school has. The computers are all taken, so I sit at a table by a window and start my homework.
I decide that social studies can wait when I spot the gold notebook hidden behind my Pistons hoodie. I don’t know why, but my heart is beating fast, and my stomach is karate-chopping when I hold the notebook. Daddy would always say, “It’s not quite ready yet,” when I’d ask what he was writing. Now it’s like he’s sitting here with me, grinning and excited for me to finally read what’s inside. I open the notebook and see The Beans and Rice Chronicles of Isaiah Dunn written in my dad’s handwriting.
“Whoa!” I whisper. Daddy must’ve been writing about me! I start reading. In the stories, Isaiah Dunn is a kid who gets superpowers whenever he eats his mother’s rice and beans. He travels around the world to help kids in danger, and the president always calls on him for secret missions.
I forget about the time and keep reading until a guy taps me on the shoulder.
“We’re closing in fifteen minutes,” he says.
“Okay,” I say. I keep reading until I get to the bottom of the page, then I close the notebook and put it into my backpack. It’s dark outside and I know it’s way past five o’clock.