Blended Read online

  I nodded.

  Then his face got serious again. “But the world can’t see the inside of a person. What the world can see is the color.”

  The doors of Target opened with a welcoming swoosh, and I was instantly distracted. Yeah. Target does that to me. I feel at home. They’ve got stuff I need. Stuff I don’t need. Stuff I didn’t even know I wanted. Neatly placed and waiting for me. I love that place. I was trying to handle what Imani calls “all the feels” I was getting right then.

  Dad was oblivious to the “feels” and kept on talking. “For instance, did you know there are people in this store—in all department stores, actually—who walk around looking like ordinary customers but are really security police making sure no one is stealing?”

  “For real?” I looked around. There was an old lady with a shopping cart full of cat food and three tennis rackets. Maybe she was one! Or that bearded guy who was carrying one of those red baskets. He was buying Cheerios and Coke. Dude, you need some milk!

  Dad put his hand on my shoulder. “And even though it’s not fair, Black folks are followed more often than others. A friend of mine filed a lawsuit a few years ago for a young man—for this very thing.”

  I slowed down. I felt like my head was popping, the Target magic fading a little. “Well, we shouldn’t shop here anymore!” I declared, as if my few dollars would make a difference.

  “Won’t matter. Like I said, every single department store and grocery store—even the dollar store—has security personnel.”

  “I just never thought of that,” I said, fury building inside me. “Well . . . well . . . then I’ll never shop again!”

  He just gave me his You are crazy, girl look. “Ha! Not my Isabella, the shopping queen! She’ll be back.”

  So, yeah, kinda sad, I knew he was pretty much right. I loved this place. I pulled the cart to a full stop near the sporting goods department. Everything was so neatly displayed. There were rackets and rods, balls and bats, and even ropes—for jumping Double Dutch or lassoing cattle, I guess. That made me giggle. I didn’t even need a batting helmet, but I saw one that was so cute I actually wanted to buy it! Yep, Target’s got it goin’ on.

  We wandered around the store, Dad letting me choose anything I wanted. I got a couple of T-shirts for myself, and one for Mom that said, “My favorite child gave me this shirt!” Dad either didn’t mind or didn’t notice—he made no comment. I also picked up some hair gel and scrunchies, and a new pair of sneakers—gold ones! Imani and Heather would love them. I was looking, but I couldn’t spot anybody who might be secret security.

  I wondered if my mom ever thought about this kind of stuff when she shopped. Probably not. She’s got that stupidly perfect, straight, honey-gold hair and is pale and incredibly pretty—random people have stopped her to ask if she’s a model. Nobody has ever asked me that! I can tell it makes her feel good when that happens, though. Even though she looks away, her smile tells me.

  I bet she’s the type of person security folks are trained not to follow.

  CHAPTER 12

  Mom’s Week

  I MAKE IT my goal to practice on my Casio every single day this week, either at Mom’s house or at Waffle House.

  I’m getting ready for a huge piano recital called Pianopalooza—I wonder if the person who thought of that name had too much coffee that morning. But it’s serious—a chance for lots of young musicians like me to show off their skills. It’s supposed to be low stress, but of course all the parents and teachers freak out about it. So then it becomes high stress. The planners call it family friendly. I guess that could be true, if your families are actually friendly to each other!

  It seems like a long time away, but the recital will be here before I know it. It’s gonna be held the second Saturday in June at the University of Cincinnati. It will fall on a Dad week. The university is a really huge place. Inside that big old university is the College-Conservatory of Music. And that’s where you find Werner Recital Hall.

  Getting to perform there is a really big deal.

  I sat in the very back one time when Dad took me to a concert by some famous Polish pianist. There’s a performance-quality piano on the stage—with really loud speakers hooked up to it. And rows and rows and rows of seats—about a hundred fifty of them. The walls and floors are lined with old-time gleaming wood, and the sound is amazing.

  Every perfect note a student plays rings out like a clear crystal bell.

  And every mistake echoes like thunder.

  CHAPTER 13

  Mom’s Week

  WHEN JOHN MARK picks me up from school on Friday, he seems to be in a really good mood. He drives this monster-huge Ford truck, the kind where if another guy driving a monster-huge truck pulls up beside him, they both start all nodding at each other and revving their engines. On his radio somebody named Dolly Parton is belting out a country song about some love gone wrong, but John Mark is all smiles.

  “How ’bout we go rolling and knock down some pins?” he asks as I click in my seat belt. “Your mom is off early tonight and there’s no school tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good,” I tell him. John Mark is the manager of Scatterpin Lanes, so I get lots of chances to up my game. “Sounds . . . like it’s right up my alley!”

  He groans. “Spare me the weak jokes!”

  “ ‘Spare me’?” I hit back, slapping my forehead. “I’m getting ready to go all the way—nothin’ but strikes!”

  “Who you talkin’ to?” he replies, puffing his chest. “When I throw a turkey, don’t start shakin’!”

  “You might throw eight in a row,” I shoot back, “but can you finish?” I put my hands on my hips—sort of. The seat belt cramps my style.

  “Be afraid, ’cause I’m rolling eight!” he tells me as we drive to Scatterpin Bowl.

  “Eight gutter balls!”

  “Let’s go hit ’em!” he roars. His face is bright pink with laughter.

  “I hear the bowling thunder,” I tell him, “and my lightning is about to strike you down!”

  Yep, bowling humor. Gotta love it.

  When we get there, Mom’s already all set up. She’s ordered mozzarella sticks for me, a pizza for the three of us, and Cokes all around. Zeke, the assistant manager, waves and gives us a thumbs-up. I run back to John Mark’s office, grab my ball and shoes, and hurry back out to the lanes.

  I was teasing John Mark about the bowling thunder, but I gotta admit, I really do love this—the balls whizzing down the oiled wooden lanes, the sound of the pins falling, and the cheers or groans of folks who got that strike or ended up with a gutter ball.

  Mom’s totally into it too. She has a surprisingly strong arm swing. She throws straight and true, and her delivery is, like, lethal. Me, I’m still learning, but John Mark says if I played in a league with other kids my age, I’d destroy them.

  When it’s my turn, Mom’s got my back. “Quit throwing baby balls!” she cries. “Blow a rack, Izzy! You can do it!”

  “Come on, Izzy!” John Mark joins in as I take my stance. “You got this!”

  “Ten in the pit, Izzy!” Mom cries. “Smash the pocket!”

  I pull my arm back, swing it forward, and let the ball go. Whoa! Perfectly aligned with the center arrows! I am unstoppable!

  “Awesome, Izzy!” John Mark yells. “A perfect pocket shot—right in the center, kiddo!”

  “Strike!” Mom cheers. “Again! Woo-hoo! That’s my baby!” The pins fall with a resounding clatter.

  I dab, all proud. “I am ah-ma-zing!” I crow to whoever’s around to hear.

  As Mom takes her turn, I check out all the folks there—the mother who’s letting her kid have a bowling birthday party, the league players in their matching orange or blue or purple striped shirts, and the couples on dates, taking turns and intently checking each other out as the other one bowls.

  I watch the lady with bright-pink leggings that are way too tight and a family of six dressed exactly alike in red-and-black pajamas. To my left is a balding man who is bowling with an even older gray-haired woman—his mom, maybe? I cheer for the little kid with a tiny child-size ball who finally hits a pin, and try not to stare at the man with so many tattoos that I can’t see his natural skin. John Mark’s got bunches of tattoos, but this dude’s tats make his look like kindergarten drawings.

  I breathe deep. It smells like fun in here. Like family. Like happiness. And pizza, of course.

  It’s late when we finally leave. John Mark had the highest score, as usual. But I edged out Mom by seven pins. And I don’t think she let me win either.

  CHAPTER 14

  Exchange Day

  AFTER THE GREAT Exchange, Dad, Anastasia, Darren, and I take our time ambling down the mall toward the Cheesecake Factory, where we have our every-other-Sunday feast. The servers know us by name.

  I order the four-cheese pasta, which is like mac and cheese all maxed out, and a small Cobb salad because Anastasia insists I eat something green and healthy. I always get the banana cream cheesecake for dessert. It’s crazy good.

  While we wait for our food, Anastasia and Dad are going on and on, all excited, because Darren has an interview next week with Harvard! Even I know that’s a huge deal. Plus, Anastasia just signed a new contract to decorate the home of the mayor of Indian Hills. She’s crazy hyped, not because the mayor is super rich, but because she knows she can make his home into a “resplendent showplace,” she says. I like her confidence. I wonder how you get to be like that.

  After a stop at AutoZone to get new windshield wipers for Darren’s car (Darren is so proud of his red Ford Focus, not new, but safe, as Dad insisted, that he’ll use any excuse to drive it, even if it’s just to get me at school) we finally head to Dad’s house.

  Every time we pull up into that dr
iveway, I still kinda gasp. The house is three stories, all brick, and it sits back from Indian Hill Road, deep, deep in a yard blanketed with that thick, bright grass you see in lawn care flyers. Its edges are decorated with tulips in the spring, roses in the summer, and mums in the fall. Anastasia likes to hire professional gardeners, but Dad planted the tulips himself. One by one. It’s so pretty in the spring—they open up in the day, then close back up at night. And they come in, like, a zillion colors. I’ve got a dozen pics of those tulips on my phone.

  The house has seven bedrooms, five bathrooms, three sitting rooms, and two kitchens. Yeah, two. One near the downstairs recreation area—which, by the way, has a movie theater—and one for ordinary meals, I guess. Who needs all that? Me, I gotta admit.

  Anastasia insists everyone remove their shoes when they come in. But to be honest—I love the feel of the Persian carpet on my bare feet. Since I’m confessing, I also love the view of the woods from the great-room window, the gleam of the hardwood floor in the family room, and the soft-peach colors of my bedroom. It’s pretty awesome.

  But most of all I love what Anastasia calls the music room. The walls are painted pale cream, the carpet is light blue, and sitting in the middle is a black Steinway baby grand piano. The keyboard is more than four feet long, while the rest of it stretches at least six feet. The lid is like a wing of a bird ready to fly, propped up to show the golden strings that create the sound. The piano, waxed and polished every week, gleams in the sunlight from the curved bay window. I swear that piano smiles at me.

  The tufted leather bench beckons, and the keys sit ready for me to press on them. I never stop being amazed that these eighty-eight slices of ivory and ebony can combine to create harmonies. The keys way down on my left create thunder and booming and power. And the keys off to my right can become morning and sunshine and tinkling laughter. It’s just freakin’ fierce. The music room is always the first place I go.

  Now I sit up straighter than straight. I curve my hands, poise them for just a second above the keys, feel a swell inside my chest, then my fingers take over. I hit several chords and run a few scales. The perfect tones of the piano bounce around the room and back into me. I forget where I am and kinda disappear into my recital piece.

  Anastasia slips into the room and sits quietly in the leather easy chair by the door. When I pause to pull out another sheet of music, she asks, “You don’t mind that I sit here and listen, do you? I love hearing you play.”

  I can’t help but smile. “No, it’s okay. It’s like I can sort of feel your senses suck it all in while you listen.” I grimace. “Does that sound stupid?”

  Anastasia smiles back. “Sounds exactly how I feel. Amazing how music can do that. When you play, it takes me back to when I was a little girl, when I was six, with two bows tied on the tips of my braids, and my grandmother was teaching me a few songs on her piano.” Her face goes soft.

  I’ve never thought about Anastasia as a kid. To me, she’s like a prewrapped package—already finished and perfect. And she played piano? How did I not know that?

  “Did you take lessons too?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Didn’t have the money,” she admits.

  “Well, thanks for signing me up with Madame Rubenstein,” I tell her. “She gets on my case, but I’m learning a lot.”

  Anastasia gets up and says, “May I?” before sitting beside me. Slowly at first, she starts picking out the notes to “Chopsticks.” Dup-dup-dup-dup-dup-dup. Plink-plink-plink-plink-plink-plink. Dup-dup-dup-dup-dup-dup. Plash!

  I can’t help it. I do the same thing one octave higher. Dup-dup-dup-dup-dup-dup. Plink-plink-plink-plink-plink-plink. Dup-dup-dup-dup-dup-dup. Plash!

  She plays her notes faster. So do I. Then even faster! Me too!

  Pretty soon we are racing through the song, each of us using both hands, harder, faster, louder! My treble! Her bass! Then we play the whole thing again, double time, missing notes, ending with a giant crescendo, splattering the keys, and laughing like maniacs. “Whoa! That was fun!”

  “I was going to enter your piano recital,” she says, all fake serious, “but I decided it wouldn’t be fair—I’d blow all you kids away with my mad skills!”

  I crack up as she plays another few riffs—trilling treble to rumbling bass. Then she breaks into the beginning of a Chopin piece.

  Wow. I had no idea Anastasia could play so well. How could I have missed that? And no lessons! It makes me feel a little intimidated—like, I wonder if she thinks that my playing is not quite up to par.

  But she doesn’t act like that at all. She gives me a hug, gets up from the bench, and stretches. “Now it’s time for the real musician in the family to practice her recital piece,” she says, then curls back into her chair to listen.

  CHAPTER 15

  Dad’s Week

  ANASTASIA OWNS A dog, a Maltese named Fifi. I do not like that dog. And she doesn’t like me. But Anastasia loves the sneaky little beast, who has long white fur that flows around her like she’s a little movie star. Her feet don’t even show. She gets bathed and groomed every other week, with bows and ribbons and sometimes even toenail glitter. Yes, glitter.

  Fifi likes to perch in Anastasia’s lap while she works on her computer. She sometimes snuggles next to Darren while we watch movies on Netflix. She even lets Dad scratch her head and hold her.

  But me? She snarls and shows her sharp, tiny teeth whenever I try to pet her. I honestly think she’s cute, and I would love to curl up with a real live pet instead of a stuffed giraffe, but Fifi wants nothing to do with me.

  So today, after I practice piano, I decide I’m going to try to make friends with the dog. Anastasia keeps little doggy treats in the kitchen drawer. I grab a few and sit on the floor.

  “Here, Fifi,” I call in my sweetest voice. “Want a treat?”

  The dog doesn’t move.

  “Come on, little pup,” I say, trying really hard to sound sweet. “You gonna be nice this time?”

  The dog simply stares.

  I show her my outstretched hand. I move a little closer. Fifi doesn’t budge.

  I toss a treat across the floor. It lands at her feet. At first she ignores it. Then she sniffs it. Suddenly, in one swift movement, she gobbles it. She still has not budged from that spot.

  I toss another treat, this time a little closer to me. Fifi tiptoes a few steps forward. Her bedazzled toenails click on the tiled kitchen floor. She grabs the second treat, then backs up, like I’m some kind of enemy. I leave the next treat right next to my leg. Fifi inches over, eats it, and—doesn’t run away this time! I touch her gently. Wow, her fur is so soft.

  I finally put out my hand, the last treat in my palm. Fifi sniffs it, grabs it, then runs into the other room. She clearly no longer has any use for me.

  But I feel like I’ve achieved a victory.

  CHAPTER 16

  Dad’s Week

  SHOWERS AT DAD’S house are the best—he has one of those pounding, pulsing shower systems that spray water from the sides as well as the top, so the water smashes you everywhere. Sometimes I stay in that shower for half an hour if nobody notices.

  Mom’s shower runs out of hot water in fifteen minutes—gosh, she’d love this! I think back to how tired she’s looked lately. This shower would wake her right up. But I think she’d still be sad—she tries not to let me see, but I know she cries every time we do the exchange thing.

  I open up the bottle of raspberry soufflé shampoo and scrub hard. Mom says my hair lives in its own zip code. No matter what I do—mousse, gel, axle grease—it always looks like I just came in from a windstorm. My hair laughs at those cute hair products I see advertised on TV. Stupid, angry, springy fingers of frizz. It’s a for-real mess. So I scrub and scrub. Soppy strands of my hair drip down and cling to my face. I try to let any thoughts of weekly custody confrontations—Mom and Dad practically snarled at each other today!—swirl down the drain with the sudsy water.

  I pull a towel around myself quick when I get out because there’s a huge mirror on the back of the bathroom door—I have no idea why. It’s impossible to miss, and I don’t like seeing myself naked. I’m a little too skinny—I can see the bones of my rib cage if I suck in my breath. It’s odd to think I have a skeleton of bones hiding under my skin, holding me up.