“Overlooked me? You didn’t. I’m like that tree over there—always hangin’ around whether you notice it or not.”
“You’re pretty poetic,” I said with real admiration.
Leon grinned as he directed me to get to his house, which was small and white—and just a couple of miles from mine. He insisted that I come in and meet his dad, who seemed to be delighted to meet me.
“So you’re the young lady that Leon seems to be so taken with,” his dad began. Leon tried to stop his father from talking, but it was too late.
“You’re even prettier than your pictures,” Mr. Hawkins added.
I was confused. “Huh?” was all I could say.
“Didn’t he tell you? Leon has a bulletin board covered with pictures of you in his room. He’s been collecting them for years.”
I could see that Leon was about to die of embarrassment. I was amazed at what his dad had spilled, but I knew how parents can sometimes make a bad situation really impossible, so I tried to jump in and help Leon out.
“Leon and I have known each other since kindergarten,” I said. “We’ve always exchanged class pictures. Now that it’s our senior year, I’m glad to finally meet you.
Leon glanced at me with a look that said, Thanks big-time for not flipping out about this.
I smiled back with a look that said, No sweat—I got you covered. After refusing his dad’s offer to help decorate their tree, I told them I had to get home to help my mother finish wrapping gifts, which was at least partially true.
“I hope you don’t think I’m some kind of weirdo, Keisha,” he said to me at the door. “I’ve always admired you. That’s all.”
“It’s nice to know, Leon. Actually, I think it’s kinda cool. I’m just not sure how to act.”
“Just be yourself. I’ll continue to be the kid that goes out for the giggles, and you continue to be the butterfly in the bloom. I’ll be there for you if you ever need me. Know that.”
“I believe you, Leon.” I smiled at him with newfound admiration. “Merry Christmas, and thanks for a really unexpected Christmas gift. There is nothing more important than a friend.” I kissed him lightly on the cheek and left.
I thought about Leon all the way home—what a genuinely nice guy he was, how rough his childhood must have been, and how special it made me feel that he seemed to think so much of me. Strange, I thought. Very strange. When I called Jalani and Rhonda that evening, I only told them that I had run into Leon and given him a ride home. I wasn’t sure why, but I left out the rest of the story. Some things, I decided, are meant to be kept secret.
11
Christmas morning dawned cold and snowy. Several inches had fallen overnight, and my yard looked like one of those pictures on a Christmas card as I peeked out of the window. My parents were still asleep and wouldn’t be up for hours. When I was little, I used to get them up right at sunrise, but as I got older, I started letting them sleep while I got up and fixed breakfast. Gifts could wait. I kinda liked sitting alone in the morning quiet, watching the snow.
The phone rang, startling me. “Merry Christmas!” I said cheerfully as I picked it up.
“Keisha? This is Mrs. Washington, Joyelle’s mom. Have you seen her or talked to her recently?” Her voice was tight and shaking. “I’ve called Angel and a couple of her other friends, but no one knows anything.”
“No, I haven’t,” I replied with concern. “I haven’t talked to her since we got out of school for Christmas break. What’s wrong?”
“One car is gone, and so is Joyelle.” Mrs. Washington burst into tears. “I can’t take this. If something has happened to her, I will just die. I can’t take this!” she wailed.
I knew that Joyelle couldn’t drive. She hadn’t had lessons and wasn’t old enough to have a driver’s license. This was not good.
I couldn’t believe that I was trying to calm an adult down, but I tried to calm down Joyelle’s mom as best I could. “I’m sure she’s OK, Mrs. Washington. Have you called the police?”
“Yes, of course, and my husband is out looking for her. Please call all your friends and find out if any of them has seen her. And please call me back if you hear anything. Anything at all.”
“I will, Mrs. Washington,” I promised.
Just then, she said, “Wait, the other line is beeping. Hold on. This might be my husband from his cell phone.” The line was silent for a moment.
Mrs. Washington returned to the line, hardly able to speak for the huge sobbing gulps. “Joyelle has been in an accident. She was driving her father’s car and has been taken to Good Samaritan Hospital. I’m on my way there now.” She hung up.
I felt like a rock hit my gut—memories of another phone call that I had tried to forget rushed to me and my heart began to beat way too fast.
I called Angel and Gerald’s house. Gerald answered the phone. “Gerald, they found Joyelle.” I paused and took a deep breath. “She’s been in an accident in her dad’s car. She’s at Good Samaritan.”
“Oh, no!” Gerald groaned. “Angel is gonna be really wiped out about this. You goin’ down there?”
“Yeah, I’m on my way. I’ll see you there.” I hung up the phone, woke my parents to tell them what had happened, and headed downtown to the hospital. The beauty of the snow now seemed just harsh and cold. I tried not to think, tried not to cry.
By the time I got to the emergency room, Mrs. Washington was sitting in a chair, crying softly. All she could do was mumble the names “Robbie” and “Joyelle” over and over again. Mr. Washington sat on the other side of the room, biting his fingernails.
Gerald and Angel got there right after I did. Angel looked scared. Gerald walked over to Mr. Washington and took his hand. He said nothing. I remember when Gerald and Angel had to go to court about their stepfather, Mr. Washington had been there for them. The older man returned Gerald’s firm grip and thanked him silently.
The doctor emerged then, called the Washingtons to a small room, and talked to them in whispers. Then he escorted them to the back area where Joyelle had been taken. They were only gone for a few minutes, but it seemed like forever.
Mr. and Mrs. Washington returned finally, not holding hands, but both smiling through their tears. “She’s going to be fine,” Mr. Washington said to us. His voice held a relief that was so great it could be squeezed. “She was saved by the air bag and the seat belt. She has only minor cuts and bruises.”
Our sigh of relief could have filled a huge balloon.
“Is she conscious?” Angel asked fearfully, remembering her own bout with the hospital just a few weeks before.
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Washington assured her. “She’s wide awake, crying profusely, and terrified that she’s in more trouble than she’s ever been in her life. Which she is.” She laughed a little then, mostly in relief. “I’m so glad that she’s not hurt that I don’t know if I can punish her.”
“Can we see her?” Angel asked. Mr. Washington glanced at the doctor who was standing nearby.
“I don’t see why not,” the doctor said, “but just for a few minutes. We’re going to run a couple of tests before we let her go home.” He directed us to an area behind a blue-striped curtain. Joyelle lay there, looking pale and scared. Two Band-Aids decorated her forehead, and an IV ran into her arm.
“Hey, Joyelle,” Angel said shyly. “You tryin’ to take the attention from me?”
“No, girl,” Joyelle replied. “I just wanted to see what tearing up my Daddy’s brand-new Lincoln Continental on Christmas Day would be like!” She smiled a little.
“What happened?” I asked. Joyelle glanced at her parents, who nodded for her to continue. She sighed. “Christmas was gonna be horrible anyway. Mom and Dad were fighting all the time, and I missed Rob so much I wanted to scream. It seemed like nobody cared. I found Dad’s keys on the kitchen counter, and at first, I just wanted to sit in his car and listen to music. Then I got cold, so I put the keys into the ignition and turned the motor on. I just sat there, imag
ining myself driving on the open road in Canada or someplace like that.”
Joyelle continued, “It was so easy to put my foot on the brake and move the gear shift to reverse. The car rolled into the empty street like it knew what to do. I wasn’t even thinking. I was mad at Rob for being dead and mad at both of you, Mommy and Daddy, for everything at home being so messed up. I put on my seat belt, drove to the corner, and stopped at the stop sign. Then I just kept going. It was a piece of cake! I didn’t know where I was and I didn’t care. I just wanted to keep driving forever.” Her mother was crying again.
“I guess I drove about five miles. I saw this car coming, and I figured it would stop, so I turned left, but I guess it didn’t stop. I heard a horn, and a crunching sound, and that’s all I remember.”
The room was silent. Angel and I looked at each other. Gerald quietly headed back to the waiting room. Mr. Washington looked at his wife then, and reached to take her hand. “Barbara, I hope that nothing will break up this family ever again. We have to learn to cherish what we have. I love Joyelle, and I love you.” Then he kissed her tenderly on the lips, right in front of us. Angel and I tiptoed out of that room then—this was a family matter.
I thought that was the most beautiful scene I had ever witnessed. True love, in spite of difficulties. That’s the way a relationship ought to be, I thought. The way me and Andy might have been.
We all went back home then, some of us to open gifts, some to give thanks that Christmas still had something to celebrate. I hadn’t opened any of my gifts when the phone call came, so I pulled up into my driveway with real joy and expectation. I had called my parents and told them that Joyelle was going to be fine, but that her dad’s car was in pretty bad shape. “Cars can be fixed,” Mom said wisely. “People can’t.” I knew that all too well.
As I walked to the front door, I noticed a small red package tied with silver ribbon sitting on the door mat. I picked it up, saw that my name was engraved on the card, but again, no other name. I took it inside and ran upstairs to my room. I didn’t immediately show it to my mother, although I did stop to give both parents a big hug and tell them I loved them. “Life is too short to forget that,” I told them as I breezed out of their room. Parents like that kind of stuff.
I sat on my bed and slowly unwrapped the package. The silver ribbon was similar to the ribbon that had decorated the roses. The red wrapping paper was thick and expensive, with decorations so deeply embossed that I could trace the design with my fingers. I unfolded it carefully to find a red velvet box hidden beneath the layers of paper. I gasped at the beauty of the box. I was afraid to imagine what was inside. I opened the lid of the small box slowly. Inside was a tiny silver butterfly, delicate and shimmering on a thin silver chain. I smiled with delight. That Jonathan was something special, I thought. I put the box away, in the back of my underwear drawer. I didn’t show my mother, who probably wouldn’t approve and definitely wouldn’t understand.
12
In January the temperature stayed below zero for two weeks. I hardly felt the cold, however. I spent my evenings filling out college applications after I finished my homework, then I waited, with increasing anticipation, for Jonathan to call. The calls had started slowly, right after Christmas, but it wasn’t long before he was calling every night. He was so interesting to talk to—with tales of other countries, strange cultures, music, language, even philosophy.
I never thanked him for the flowers or the butterfly necklace, but he never mentioned them, so I just never brought the subject up. I figured he had his reasons for wanting to keep them a secret, maybe because he knew my parents might not approve, or maybe because he liked the idea of secret surprises.
He hadn’t asked me out since the triple movie date, but that was fine with me, and certainly fine with my parents, who had no idea that I was talking to Jonathan every single night. They knew I was on the phone, but it never occurred to them that I was spending hours after dark talking to Jonathan Hathaway.
One night he called me and said, in that bass voice that made me shiver with delight, “How do you know you exist, Keisha?”
“‘Cause I’m lookin’ at myself, and I can see I’m sitting here,” I told him.
“Suppose you couldn’t see. Would you still be there?”
I was quiet for a minute. This was one of those philosophical brain busters that Jonathan liked to create. “Of course,” I said. “I could still feel my body with my hands, so I’d still be there even if I couldn’t see myself.” I could almost feel him grinning on the other end of the line.
“Suppose you couldn’t feel yourself at all—say you’re wrapped in a cocoon and can’t move. Do you still exist?”
This was fun. It made me think, made me use all my brain cells. “Well, I guess other people could see me. They would know I existed, right?”
“OK. Suppose,” Jonathan continued, “all of them swore you weren’t there, ignored you. Do you still exist?”
“This is crazy! Yes, I exist,” I insisted. “I can see stuff, smell the air, hear the sounds of the people who are ignoring me. So that proves it.”
Jonathan paused for effect. “Suppose,” he went on, drawing me deeper, “all of your senses are taken away. You can’t see or hear, can’t smell, taste, or touch.”
“Not much of an existence,” I said. “I guess the only thing that can’t be taken away is my mind, my ability to think. So as long as I can think, I exist!”
“Congratulations!” Jonathan told me with pride. “You just got an A in advanced philosophy. That was our exam question last semester.”
“And I got it right?” I was amazed.
“Of course. You’re brilliant, Keisha. I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”
I was grinning into the phone like he could see me. Jonathan made me feel like a grown-up with a mind, not a girl with a phone number like the boys I’d meet at the mall did. At school, I often saw Jonathan in the halls. He was always dressed like a model out of GQ and he always bowed when he saw me.
Rhonda and Jalani giggled whenever he did that and thought it was really cool. “That dude sure can rag tough! He can go shopping with me any time.” Rhonda said, teasing me. I was a little embarrassed, but pleased.
I even started dressing differently when we went to school after Christmas break. Instead of jeans and T-shirts, I started wearing tailored slacks and silk blouses. It made me feel kinda mature, like I was ready to be responsible or something. I figured it was about time to leave the high school girl behind. I had no idea what a college girl was supposed to look like, or act like, but I was gonna figure it out. Rhonda told me that I was trying to dress like Jonathan, but I told her, “I dress to please myself.”
One day I ran into Leon Hawkins in the hall. We didn’t have any classes together this year, but I saw him at lunch and sometimes after school. I gave him a big hug. He spun around in the hall like an ice skater does in his routine, bounced himself off a row of lockers with a huge rattling commotion, and grinned.
“How’s it goin’, Leon?” I asked as he picked himself up from the floor.
“Things are cookin’!” he cheerfully replied. “I just got admitted to Morehouse—early decision! I’m charged!”
“Hey! That’s awesome! I’m so proud of you! I just mailed my application to Spelman, so I guess it will be awhile before I know if I’ll be joining you in Atlanta. I applied to four other colleges, too.”
“Where?” asked Leon.
“Oh, the University of Cincinnati, of course, Miami, Georgetown, and Pepperdine in California.”
“Wow, those are some good schools. Hey, you look dynamite, Keisha—different somehow,” Leon told me.
I blushed and grinned. “I guess I’m just learning to be happy again. It’s a good feeling.” I was in kind of a hurry, so I rushed on down the hall.
“Take care,” he called after me.
That evening, I got a call from Joyelle. Everybody at school, of course, had heard about her Christmas Day ac
cident. I think some of the ninth graders even admired her for driving a Lincoln Continental for several miles without hitting anything. The older kids were amazed that she had lived to tell about it.
“How you feelin’, Joyelle?” I asked her as I looked in the refrigerator for a snack.
“Much better today. I’m more embarrassed than anything,” she admitted. “I was really stupid.”
“You got that right,” I told her. “You can’t be doin’ stuff like that to your folks. Parents can’t handle too much, you know.”
“Yeah, I know. Hey, Keisha, let me ask you something. I was talking to Leon Hawkins in the hall today. And he says to me, ‘I know all the girls in this school got some kind of invisible hot line that links you all with pagers and phones and voice mail and stuff. Probably E-mail, too.’” I laughed, ’cause he had it just about right.
“Yep!” I said.
“Then he says, ‘And I know that all of you somehow know every single relationship in the building. You know who’s talkin’ to who, who’s got no chance, and who’s got possibilities.’”
“Leon said all this to you?” I asked, a little surprised.
“Let me finish, Keisha! I say to him, ‘I know where you’re going—this is about Keisha, right?’”
“You’re kidding!” I said.
“If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’!” Joyelle said. “Then he says to me, ‘I feel stupid having to ask a ninth grader, but I know you got the connections and information.’”
“So what did you say then?”
“I told him, ‘If you’re trying to talk to Keisha, give it up. She’s hooked up to something that’s not even in your league, not even in a high school league anymore. You know what I’m saying?’”
“What did he say?” This was pretty amazing.
“He just frowned and said, ‘It just ain’t cool for a coach to be hitting on a student, even if he is the principal’s son. Big phony—all that bowin’ and grinnin’—makes me want to puke.’ Then he went on to class.” Joyelle really sounded like she was glad to be able to tell me all this. I knew that as soon as she hung up, she’d be on the phone to every girl she knew—telling them the story.