Romiette and Julio Read online

  Romiette and Julio

  Books by Sharon M. Draper

  Tears of a Tiger

  Forged by Fire

  Romiette and Julio

  First Aladdin Paperbacks edition April 2001

  Copyright © 1999 by Sharon M. Draper

  Aladdin Paperbacks

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster

  Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  All rights reserved, including the right of

  reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Also available in an Atheneum Books

  for Young Readers hardcover edition.

  Designed by Lisa Vega.

  The text for this book was set in Bembo.

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Draper, Sharon M. (Sharon Mills)

  Romiette and Julio / by Sharon M. Draper.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Romiette, an African-American girl, and Julio,

  a Hispanic boy, discover that they attend the same high school after

  falling in love on the Internet, but are harassed by a gang whose

  members object to their interracial dating.

  ISBN: 0-689-82180-8 (hc.)

  [1. Internet (Computer network)—Fiction. 2. Gangs—Fiction. 3. High

  Schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction. 5. Hispanic Americans—Fiction.

  6. Afro-Americans—Fiction.] I. Title. II.Title: Romiette and Julio.

  PZ7.D78325Ro 1999 [Fic]—dc21 98-50218

  ISBN: 0-689-84209-0 (Aladdin pbk.)

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4424-2885-0

  To Larry, Who Gave Me The Idea

  —S.M.D.

  Romiette and Julio

  1.

  Fear

  The water thundered into her ears, forced itself down her throat, and burned its way into her nose, her lungs, her brain. This water was fierce and deadly—no cool, gentle waves, but hot, choking liquid flames, sucking the breath of life from her. She struggled, searching for air, for land, for something to hold on to. But there was only the water, pulling her into its depths. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t swim. She couldn’t even scream. The water filled her, seared her thoughts, and she drifted slowly into unconsciousness. The fire cooled, the terror ebbed, and the dark shadow of death embraced her.

  She drifted then—in a haze of colors and swirls and black, frightening void. Voices? Could she hear voices? One voice? Maybe it was a song. No, all was silence. Thick, enveloping quiet that led to despair. No reason to care, to breathe, to live. So easy to let the silence swallow her. That voice. It pierced the darkness. It was calling her name, grabbing her thoughts and making her remember the fear, the pain, the cold, clammy water. The water! She gasped, and the water grabbed her once more, viciously dragging her to its depths. But that voice. A man’s voice. It floated down to where she lay, cradled in the arms of the victorious water. The voice called her one last time.

  Suddenly, Romiette sat up in her bed. Her nightgown was damp and clinging to her body. She was sweaty and disoriented. Her heart, still pounding from the fear of almost drowning, made her breathing jagged and tight in the darkness. She turned on her light, looked around her pale blue bedroom, and started to relax. She got up quietly, changed her nightgown, then opened her bedroom window. The night air was cool and soft; peace and silence ruled the street. No cars, no movement, not even a barking dog. Slowly, Romiette began to breathe more evenly. She took a deep breath of the night.

  This was the third night in a row that she had been awakened by a dream of drowning, but she had been dreaming various versions of this dream for several months. She could find no reason for such a dream. True, she couldn’t swim, but she wasn’t taking swimming at school, and she purposely made her life tiptoe far around anything having to do with more water than a bathtub. So why the terror dream? she thought again. Why? And who did that voice belong to? She could hear it still, and it made her tremble, not with fear, but with excitement. It was not a voice she had heard before—she was sure of that.

  It was 3 A.M. Romiette knew she couldn’t get back to sleep, so she decided to write in her journal. Writing soothed her, relaxed her, and tonight, she thought, was one of those nights that she needed to really chill. This was my favorite Christmas present, thought Romiette as she stroked the smooth leather cover of her new journal.

  She sat cross-legged on her bed with a blanket around her shoulders, relaxed a bit, breathed deeply, and opened the journal slowly. She carefully wrote her name on the soft cream-colored front page. She blew on it gently to make sure it would not smear, then, with great anticipation, opened to the first page. She liked starting a fresh journal. It was full of possibilities and unanswered questions—of days yet to come and events yet to happen. She decided to start by describing who she was. Maybe somehow she’d find an answer to the terrible dreams.

  2.

  Romiette’s Journal

  My name is Romiette Renee Cappelle. I am brown, like the earth, tall and slim like a poplar tree, and outspoken, like the wind on a stormy day. I like mornings because of all the possibilities, and rainbows when I can find them. I am sixteen years old and I’ll be driving by the end of the year.

  I like chili, macadamia nut cookies, and environmentally safe products. I believe recycling is essential for the future of this planet, so I never throw anything away. In my room, I have collections of buttons, pop-tops, foil, and safety pins. I like to talk on the phone in the dark because it adds mystery and conserves energy.

  I hate picky people, watermelon, and chocolate. I hate gangs, violence, and movies with too much sex and cussing. There are gangs in our school now, and it’s a little scary because they want to control with threats and punches the actions and thinking of kids, and I can’t be bothered with that, so they don’t like me much. That’s fine with me—I don’t need any more complications in my life. It’s complicated enough trying to juggle geometry, boys, and learning to drive.

  I’m not afraid of much. Lots of girls see spiders and snakes and scream. I think snakes are sleek and sexy—not that I’d want to marry one or anything, but I like snakes because they’re smooth and cool, and spiders because they create art out of their own bodies. That’s awesome. Most spiders don’t bite, and if I see one, I go around it rather than step on it. Life is rough enough for a spider without looking out for girls with big shoes. And I do love big shoes. The bigger the better. Three-inch heels and soles. Four inches. Five! My mother said she wore shoes just like those when she was my age. I find that hard to believe. The only other things I’m afraid of are being abandoned, thunderstorms, and water.

  I’m terrified of water. I took swimming when I was little like everyone else, but I never learned. That’s not exactly true. I learned how to swim, I just never got the nerve to let go. I know how to do rhythmic breathing, proper arm strokes, the flutter kick—all of that, but I just can’t get away from the side of the pool. When I’m in the middle with nothing to hold on to, I panic. There’s just nothing solid—nothing to grasp. The water slips through my hands, and I flounder, then I start to sink, then I scream, then, of course, I get embarrassed. So I go to the pool, but I stay on the side, or splash with the little kids in the shallow end so their parents can go swim in the deep water. Even walking by the deep end makes me feel ill. But I’ve never fallen in, never had a near-drowning incident, never even slipped in the bathtub. Which is why that dream freaks me out. I’m going to have to ask my dad. He would tell me what to do without getting too worried
about it.

  My daddy, Cornell Cappelle, is a television newscaster. He’s good-looking and popular, and his picture is on billboards all over the city. I like that. He gets to interview all the stars and dignitaries that come to town. I got to meet Michael Jackson and Michael Jordan last year because of my dad’s job. His show comes on every night at six o’clock with this really goofy lady named Nannette Norris. She’s pretty, but she can’t read very well and keeps mispronouncing words and making stupid mistakes on the air. She once spent the whole show talking about the gorillas in some war in Europe. My dad just smiled, and explained to the listening audience that the guerrilla, not gorilla, warfare was making the war so intense.

  My daddy’s folk come from New Orleans, and we visit every summer with my grandmama Essie and my grandpapa Rudolph. Essie makes the best red beans and rice this side of the Mississippi River, and Rudolph tells me tall tales of ghosts and voodoo and stuff my daddy did when he was little. I bet Grandpapa Rudolph would know why I’m having scary dreams about drowning. Grandmama would say it was something I ate, or growing pains, but Grandpapa would light a candle and whisper a tale of a drowned sailor woman and I wouldn’t sleep for a week. He’d laugh about it later, but then he’d wink at me and I never could be sure when he was joking or when he really believed what he said.

  My mother’s name is Lady. I think black folk have the most creative names for their children. We don’t bother with ordinary names like Sandy and Mary. We like flamboyant names like La Shandra and LaMarietta or Quinesia or Appolinia. Each name is distinct and descriptive. Anyway, my mama, Lady Brianna Cappelle, is from Cincinnati, where I grew up. Her parents are strict, churchgoing, hymn-singing college teachers who taught me to love music and reading and God. They named their only daughter Lady because that is what they expected her to grow up to be—not a woman, but a lady. And she is. She is six feet tall, with very short dark hair, dark skin, and a figure better than mine, and I’m sixteen and supposedly at the prime of my life. She was a model when she was younger. She walks like an African queen. Grandpa told me that we are direct descendants of African kings, and when I see my mama walk, I believe him.

  She never frowns, never yells, and never loses her cool like I do all the time. Once we were shopping and the saleslady started to wait on these teenagers who had come in at least twenty minutes after us. Mama didn’t raise a fuss. She said quietly, with that powerful, musical voice of hers, “Excuse me, madam, but the reports of my invisibility have been greatly exaggerated. I’m sure you never intended to overlook my six-foot body and the hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise I am holding in my hand.” The lady mumbled apologies, Mama smiled sweetly, and we walked out of there like royalty.

  My mother owns a boutique downtown. She sells African artifacts and cloth, and imported items from all over the world. She also carries prints from black artists, and lots of books for children and adults by black writers. Anybody who wants a unique outfit or some authentic African artwork, they know to come to Lady Brianna’s Boutique. I work there three days a week after school, and most Saturdays. It’s not like a job to me, because I love being there. I’ve read all the latest books, and I’ve got some really sharp outfits that my friends all admire. People from all over the world come to Mama’s shop. Her shop is right between two large hotels, so we love tourists. A couple of times, we’ve even had visiting kings and presidents of African countries come in. She, the queenly person that she is, was simply charming to them. They appreciated her style and bought lots of stuff.

  I like being connected to royalty. I’m tall like my mom, but not tall enough to have that queenly walk. She says it will come later, but I don’t know—I may be doomed to walk like a jock all my life. I tried modeling for a while, but I felt stupid grinning when I wasn’t happy, and walking when I’d rather be sitting down. Last year I played basketball on a team of girls from my neighborhood. We could beat most of the boys we know, but the boys would never admit it. I don’t have a boyfriend and I don’t want one. Boys are smelly, noisy, and confusing. They call you and tell you they like you, then they don’t call back. They like to act macho, and don’t like a girl who is smarter or tougher than they are.

  I’d like to find a guy who could talk to me about more than the latest singing group or the scores of last night’s game. I want a boy who wonders about life on other planets or if there ever was a continent called Atlantis. I’d like to be able to talk to him about adopting children or the World Wide Web or whether there’s a Heaven and a Hell. I want a boy I could tell my dreams to and he wouldn’t laugh. He’d understand my fear. I want a boy who would go see a play or a ballet, not just a hockey game or a car show. I believe a relationship should be well balanced. But boys who are smart, good-looking thinkers, if they go to my school, they’re hiding from me. I don’t think I look too bad, but nobody has seemed to notice yet.

  I have soft brown skin, dark brown hair, and light brown eyes like my dad. My favorite color is orange because I think I look good in it. I’ve got a big smile and even, white teeth that my dad paid a whole lot of money for when I got my braces at twelve. I like school and make good grades most of the time. I have a computer, which really helps my homework look good, and I have friends who I talk to regularly on the Internet. My parents love me, my friends think I’m OK, and I like myself most of the time.

  Just as Romiette closed her journal, the alarm clock sliced the silence. It was 6 A.M., and time to get up for school. All of a sudden she was really sleepy, and sorry she had missed two hours of sleep. She sighed, glanced at her pillow, put the journal away under her mattress, and headed to the bathroom for a shower.

  3.

  Early Morning

  It was the first day back after Christmas vacation. The weather was cold—high about twenty, the weatherman said, and snow was predicted. Romiette hoped it would snow all day and all night, enough to call school off for tomorrow. Not likely, she thought, but even after a two-week break, the prospect of an unexpected free day looked great. Romi wore her new pale yellow sweats and shoes, and knew she looked good. She was a little sleepy, but she had grabbed a cup of coffee and a doughnut on the way to school, which she figured would get her through the day.

  She entered the front hall, still sipping the last of her coffee. Kids were crowded into the hall, trying to escape the cold, waiting for the bell to ring. Everyone was laughing and joking, comparing new shoes that had been Christmas presents, and talking about the parties and the big basketball game from last week. Romiette had known many of these kids since kindergarten, and she felt comfortable and accepted in the crowd. Destiny, Romi’s best friend, dressed in bright pink sweats (they had planned their outfits last night on the phone), her hair newly braided, yelled all the way across the hall, “Hey, Romi! Girls in the house!”

  “Hey, Destiny—what’s my ’scope for the day?” Destiny did everyone’s horoscope and sun signs. She really believed that the stars control the lives of everyone and she did nothing without consulting one of the many books she carried for reference. Some of the girls asked Destiny to do a chart for a boy they liked, and even though half of them didn’t really believe it all, it was fun, and it was better than just guessing what he might be like.

  “Looks good for you, girlfriend. New man coming into your life, but you won’t know it for a while.”

  “Well, I guess I better get rid of the old one first. Marcus, you’re outta my life, as of this morning. Destiny has spoken.”

  “I wish I hadda known I was your man. I woulda taken advantage of it, for sure.”

  “Yeah, I bet you woulda tried! See, that’s why I never told you.”

  “My heart is broke to pieces! I guess I’m gonna have to keep my girl Ebony here. You the one, girl!” Marcus bowed with fake respect.

  “You better watch it, Marcus! Playin’ games right in front of my face!” Ebony complained.

  “Aw, you know I was just teasin’! You my sweet little Ebony treat. I could just pick you up and sling yo
u to those stars that Destiny be talkin’ about all the time!”

  “Put me down, Marcus!”

  She screamed like she was about to die, but she was laughing, and everyone knew she loved the attention. Destiny and Romiette laughed; they’d both known Marcus and Ebony since fifth grade. They got ready to head to their lockers then, planning to meet again at lunch. Both girls were juniors, but they had very few classes together. Only English with Miss Berry. It was a big school, with about five hundred in each class, so they felt lucky to have lockers close together and one class to share.

  “I got something to tell you, Destiny,” Romi confided.

  “What’s up, girl?” Destiny was instantly interested.

  “I’ve been having this dream ….”

  “The same dream every night?”

  “Yeah, almost,” admitted Romi.

  “Ooo, I love it! Dreams aren’t my specialty, but I got this book ….”

  “I knew you would.”

  “What’s it about? Trains? That means you’re gonna travel. Bridges mean you have a decision to make. And bears mean, well, that means you’re scared of bears!” Destiny declared.

  “No, this one is really scary,” Romi said quietly.

  “Tell me.”

  “In the dream, I’m drowning,” Romi began. “In deep water, like almost dying. It’s terrible, and I’m almost afraid to go to sleep.”

  “Anything else?” Destiny’s eyes were intent.

  “Yeah, the water is so cold, it’s hot.”

  “That doesn’t make sense!”

  “Dreams aren’t supposed to make sense! And I’m choking and almost dead, then there’s this voice ….” It was getting difficult for Romi to tell her friend all of this. It was hard enough to experience, but to say it out loud made it more real and much more frightening.

  “Whose voice? Mine?”

  “No, it’s a male voice. A voice I’ve never heard before. Not my dad’s. Not any dude from around here.”