“She’ll be out of town and wanted to celebrate before she left.”
“Well, you still have chores to do. And I don’t appreciate her not asking me. Tell her you can’t go.”
“What do you mean, I can’t go?”
Mom looks at me, telling me with her eyes that she is not going to repeat herself. That I heard her the first time.
“But, Mom, she’s on her way.”
“You are not going.”
“Why can’t I go?”
“Jade, the answer is no. You. Are. Not. Going.” Mom takes butter out of the fridge, gets a knife and plate, and waits for her toast. Once the bread pops from the toaster, she slathers it with butter and eats, standing. “You can go ahead and get that sad look off your face. I’m not changing my mind.”
The doorbell rings.
It’s Maxine.
“I’ll get it,” Mom says. I wish she’d put on some decent clothes. At least take her scarf off. She opens the door, barely giving Maxine a chance to speak. “Good morning,” she says. “You must be Maxine.” Mom has her hand on her hip and won’t let Maxine through the door. “I’m sorry you wasted your time and gas coming over here, but Jade is not going with you today.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping to do an early b-day celebration with her and spend some quality time together,” Maxine says. “Is she okay?”
“Oh, she’s fine,” Mom says. “I would appreciate it if you contact me first before you and Jade make plans. Jade is not grown. Believe it or not, she does have a mother. That’s me.”
“I apologize, Ms. Butler,” Maxine says. “I didn’t mean to disrespect you. It’s just, well, I know you’re not home that often and so—”
“When I’m not at home, I’m working. And what does that have to do with anything?”
I wish Maxine would’ve apologized and left it at that.
Mom says, “Please let this be the first and last time you try to take my daughter out of my house without my knowing and giving permission.”
“Yes, ma’am. Again, I apologize.”
Mom moves away from the door and lets Maxine in. She walks into the kitchen. “Now, you’re welcome to stay for a little while if you’d like. But she is not leaving this house. Jade has some cleaning to do.” Mom looks at me, because she’s already told me twice to clean my room and the kitchen. She takes her coffee and goes into her bedroom, mumbling the whole time about how I must think the kitchen is my art studio. “Got scraps of paper all over the place,” she says. She mentions the paint I spilled last night while I was working, but I don’t hear all of what she says because her voice has trailed off and is muffled behind the closed door.
Once Maxine knows my mom is in her room, she says, “I’m sorry, Jade. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble or make your mom upset.”
“No, I’m sorry. She’s so—”
“Right,” Maxine says. “She’s right.”
I cross my arms. “I really wanted to go,” I tell Maxine.
“It’s okay. We’ll do a rain check. I’ll be sure to speak with her about our plans,” she says.
“Okay,” I say. “You want to see the mess my mom was talking about?” I ask.
Maxine smiles, and I take her into my bedroom. In the center of the room is my scrap box. All around it are patterned and colored paper, maps, and cut-up fabric. In the corner, on my desk, is the half-finished piece I started about York and Lewis and Clark.
Maxine rubs her hands along the different textures. “This is beautiful,” she says. “So many details.” She stares at the piece, taking it all in. “I’m . . . I’m speechless. I mean, it’s one thing to see your sketchbook, but this? This is—this is, wow.”
Maxine stays for about an hour. We talk about art, music, and movies. And I have to admit, just like Maxine is surprised that a girl my age can create this kind of art, I am surprised a woman like her can relate to the movies and music I like. Every time I say something I love, Maxine says, “Me too,” and I guess she sees the shock on my face because she says, “Why are you looking at me like that? You think because I went to St. Francis that I don’t know black culture?” Maxine says, laughing.
I don’t say no, but I don’t say yes.
“I have good taste,” Maxine says. “Plus, I’m not that much older than you.”
Before Maxine leaves, she talks to Mom about taking me to a bookstore downtown. I hear her say, “I’d like to buy her a few art books if that’s okay with you. Your daughter’s got real talent.”
“I know,” Mom says. “She’s very talented—and book smart, too.” Mom always makes it clear that I can do more than draw. Whenever someone tells her how good I am at art, she reminds them that I’m good at science and math, too. Mom says I can go. She tells me to write it on the dry-erase board so she doesn’t forget. “Nice to finally meet you, Maxine. I hope you know I wasn’t trying to give you a hard time. I just care about my child. This is the only one I got,” Mom says. “And at the end of the day, when this program is over, she’s not going to be anyone’s mentee, but she’s still gonna be my daughter.”
14
feliz cumplea?os
happy birthday
I wake up to the smell of pancakes and bacon. Mom is fixing my favorite breakfast. E.J. is at my door, banging like he’s the police. “Come on, birthday girl. These pancakes are getting cold.”
I get out of bed and open the door. “Morning.”
“Happy birthday,” E.J. says.
“Thanks.”
When I walk into the kitchen, Mom is standing at the stove, working her magic. Strawberries are cut and already on the table in the bowl she uses only on special occasions. “There’s my baby girl.” Mom smiles at me and kisses me on my cheek. “Hope you’re hungry.” She adds more pancakes to a pile that is already on a plate. E.J. sets the table and we eat.
Mom asks, “So, what are your plans?”
“I’m supposed to go out to eat with Lee Lee and Sam.”