Forged by Fire Page 7

  Gerald looked up at her, but his good mood was gone. He didn’t like it when Monique came in smiling. He knew that Monique had probably gotten the job, which meant that she would go out tonight to “celebrate.” He was proud of her that she had not returned to the drugs, but she had developed a taste for whiskey and was finding more and more excuses to go out and drink with her friends.

  “Did you get the job, Mama?” asked Angel.

  “Yes, baby, I did!” Monique glowed with pleasure. “I’ll be answering telephones at the YMCA every day from nine to five. Aren’t you proud of your mama? I gotta go celebrate!”

  “That’s great, Mama,” Angel said, hugging her. “Uh, Mama, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, baby, what you need?”

  “A lady came to my school today and she told me about this dance class that I can be in. She said I was really good. Can I be in it? Please?”

  “Dancing? Probably a waste of time. How much is it gonna cost me?”

  “Fifty dollars,” whispered Angel, not daring to look at her mother.

  “Fifty dollars! Good Lord! Hey, Gerald—has the rent been paid this month?”

  “Yeah, Monique. It’s been paid. Let her try it, okay?”

  “Okay, baby. Go dance your little heart out! As a matter of fact, I may do a little dancin’ myself tonight! I gotta go change!”

  Angel grinned at Gerald. She was going to dance! A group from the Dance Theatre of Harlem was spending six weeks at her school, working with talented young people. She didn’t tell Gerald that only forty children had been selected for the class from over two hundred who tried out—and that only twenty of those would dance in the show at the end of the program. She had been afraid to hope.

  Monique left, humming the latest song. The click of her high heels reminded Gerald of that day long ago, and he suddenly felt a little dizzy. The dishes finished, Angel took Tiger into her room and turned on the radio. She danced with her cat and danced with her dreams while Gerald wrestled with memories of pain.

  FIFTEEN

  “YO! GERALD! YOU need a ride to the game tomorrow?” Andy yelled across the gym.

  “Naw, man, I got it covered,” Gerald yelled back. Andy was one of the few boys on the team with his own car. Everybody depended on him for rides, and he loved being the center of that attention. Gerald took the bus to the games. He preferred that to the noise and crowd of Andy’s car. He liked the silence of the bus ride to relax him and prepare him for a really good game.

  Gerald stayed every day after school for basketball practice. It was there that he felt whole and powerful. Rob, who had unanimously been named captain by the team, was tall, skinny, smart, and had the best line with girls that Gerald had ever heard. Andy was Rob’s best friend. He wasn’t a natural at basketball like Rob, but he tried hard and hated for Rob to outscore him. They had known each other since seventh grade and spent weekends at each other’s homes. Both of them lived near the edge of the school district, where houses had neat lawns with trees in the backyard and a fresh coat of paint every other year.

  Gerald no longer felt uncomfortable around them, even though he lived in an apartment building downtown that had a broken elevator, graffiti on the walls, and very little grass anywhere. Andy and Rob breezed through life, collecting friends—and never making judgments about them—with seemingly no problems at all.

  Last month, after a movie one Saturday night, Andy, Rob, Tyrone, B. J., and Gerald had decided they were hungry—maybe even starving.

  “What you want to eat, man? Fast food?”

  “How much money you got?”

  “Four dollars and eleven cents. What about you, B. J.?”

  “Sixty-nine cents. Hey, Gerald, what about you?”

  “I got about eight dollars.”

  “We rich, man. I got an idea. Let’s try that new all-you-can-eat place.”

  “Do they really mean all?”

  “Let’s see, man!” chuckled Andy as they headed for the restaurant.

  They paid for two meals, then went through the line slowly. Andy got six kinds of meat, ten dinner rolls, and four pieces of apple pie. Rob piled eight pieces of corn on the cob, a mountain of mashed potatoes, eighteen chicken wings, and three pieces of cheesecake on his plate. Tyrone picked up a stack of napkins and a bunch of silverware. They were laughing hysterically, but quietly.

  “They watchin’ us, man!” Gerald said fearfully.

  “That’s ’cause you put jelly on your potatoes, man,” B. J. explained, laughing.

  “We ain’t done nothing wrong,” Robbie said with casual confidence. “Let’s just eat.”

  They laughed and gobbled up every bit of that food, smiling at the customers and making even the restaurant workers laugh along with them. When they finished, they cleared their plates, stood on the tables, and sang, in perfect five-part harmony, a doo-wop version of the old Drifters song “Under the Boardwalk.” Everyone in the restaurant applauded and cheered as they took their bows.

  An old man with dark brown skin, piercing eyes, and slick gray hair had been watching them from the back of the room. He limped over to them, gave them each a ten-dollar bill, and said seriously, “Enjoy your youth, my young friends. Tomorrow it may be gone.”

  Robbie thanked him, then gave his ten dollars to the busboy as a tip, and the five of them left the place, humming and happy. They ended up with a great meal, a satisfied audience, and more money than they started with. They forgot about the old man and his strange words.

  B. J. Carson, as the team’s manager, went to every practice and game. He was short—only about five feet tall—but he was tough and strong. He tried out for the team every year, and although he never made it, the coaches admired his courage and spirit. He loved basketball, and his sense of humor and knowledge of the game made him a natural to hang with Andy, Rob, Gerald, and Tyrone.

  Sometimes taller, older kids who didn’t know B. J. tried to take advantage of him. They only made that mistake once. Last year, B. J. had accidentally bumped a senior with his book bag as he walked down the hall. The senior, a six-foot six-inch, three-hundred-pound football player named Danté, had not been amused.

  “Who you bumpin’, punk?”

  “Who you callin’ punk?” B. J. had asserted without fear.

  “I’m callin you a punk, yo mama a punk, and yo greasy granny a punk too!” Danté was big and grinned cheerfully. He was used to getting his way.

  B. J. put down his book bag, slowly turned around, and tensed his short, wiry frame to face the much larger boy. Danté started to laugh as B. J. crouched in a karate attack position, but his laughter stopped short as he found himself sitting on the floor in the main hallway, a calm and smiling B. J. offering his hand to help him up.

  “How’d you do that, man?” asked Danté, who was more amazed than angry.

  “Black belt. Master Kim. Tae kwon do. Paid for by my mama and my greasy granny,” he added. “Ever need me to watch your back, call me.” B. J. disappeared into the crowd. Danté just shook his head and chuckled at the nerve of the tough little guy with the powerful whip kick. He never bothered B. J. again.

  The five friends had several classes together at Hazelwood High School. Rob, the smartest of them, made good grades with ease. He already had several academic and athletic scholarships lined up as possibilities. Tyrone was more interested in girls than grades, especially Rhonda, who was best friends with Andy’s girlfriend, Keisha. Andy didn’t make very good grades, but it seemed to Gerald that he just wanted attention at home, even attention for bad grades. Andy’s parents rarely came to their games, while Rob’s parents never missed one.

  B. J.’s mom came to games on nights when she didn’t have stuff to do at her church. Even Monique came to the big home games. Gerald never told her, but it made him feel proud.

  It was Friday after the last class of the day, halfway through tenth grade, halfway through basketball season. It was raining. Gerald headed for his locker.

  “Whatcha get on t
hat math test?” Andy asked Gerald.

  “Another C minus. If I study all night or don’t study at all, seems like I get the same grade. I ain’t seen a B in a long time.”

  “Don’t sweat it, man. I got the lowest grade in the class—again. Coach is gonna kill me if I don’t get my grades up. And my dad—he’ll give me lecture number fifty-seven. You know, the one about how he always made straight A’s and why can’t I.”

  “Yeah, man,” said Gerald, but he laughed to himself as he imagined Monique giving him a lecture on good grades. She never even knew when report cards came out unless he told her.

  Rob and B. J. chased each other down the hall, racing to their lockers.

  “And another B for B. J.!” roared B. J. as he tossed his books into his locker. Gerald threw a shoe at him, but B. J. ducked. “Too smooth for you, dude!” He grinned.

  “Who we play tonight, B. J.?”

  “Centerville. Easy win. Your dad comin’, Rob?”

  “Yeah, he’ll be here.”

  “Can I get a ride home after the game, man?”

  “Got room for me?” added Gerald.

  “No sweat. What about you, Tyrone? You need a ride?”

  “Naw, man. I’m gonna hang with Rhonda after the game.” He grinned.

  “You need a ride too, Andy? Your car still not workin’?”

  “My dad said he was comin’, but yeah, I’m gonna need a ride. He won’t show. He’s ... Hey, Rob, that math test beat you down too?”

  “Yeah, it was rough. But I got an A. Let’s go to Mickey D’s and get something to eat before the game.” Gerald and Andy looked at each other and shook their heads. “What you gonna do, man? A man’s gotta eat. Let’s jet.”

  Every day when Gerald left practice he went by Angel’s school to pick her up from dance practice. She was thriving on the hard work and sweat and hours of practice. Her face would be glowing when he picked her up, and she came home hungry and happy each day. He had watched her dance once when he got there early, and it gave him goose bumps. She was so naturally fluid and rhythmic that all she needed was the music and her body did the rest. He noticed that the instructors pointed to her with smiles of admiration.

  On Friday, she was so bubbly that Gerald thought she’d explode. Her eyes were bright with excitement.

  “Guess what!” She jiggled with joy.

  “You won the lottery,” said Gerald, smiling.

  “No, silly! Better than that! I got picked to be the lead in our show next month! I get to wear a costume! Can Mama sew? How will I fix my hair? Do you think I look okay in yellow? That’s what color my costume is. Do you think I’ll look fat? Where am I gonna find yellow tights? The show is in only two weeks! Suppose I break my leg the night before! What is the—?”

  “Hold on there, sister! You gonna run over me with all them questions at once! Calm down a little! I’m so proud of you! I knew you were the best!” Gerald hugged her then, tight enough to let her know how proud he was and how much he adored her.

  Angel half-skipped, half-bounced the rest of the way home. She was chattering about costumes and rehearsals and the crown she would wear on her hair. Gerald only smiled and let her rattle on. He was so very proud of her, and it made him feel warm inside to know that she was truly happy at last.

  Her long brown hair blew behind her in the breeze, fuzzy and never quite cooperating with brush and comb. Her eyes were sparkling and full of hope. Something in that breeze made him think of Aunt Queen, and for the first time in a very long time, he, too, felt at peace.

  They climbed the six flights of stairs easily—laughing and planning for the dance recital. Angel ran through the door, calling with excitement, “Mama! I’m a star! I’m a sta—!”

  Her words died. She felt as if she were choking, drowning. Sitting on the sofa, cowboy boots and all, was Jordan Sparks.

  SIXTEEN

  JORDAN LOOKED OLDER, harder, and angrier. He smiled, but his eyes stayed cold and unfeeling. Monique was beside herself with excitement. She had fixed Jordan a steak dinner and an apple pie, and Monique was not known for her good cooking.

  Angel screamed, ran to her room, and locked the door. Gerald, no longer an eleven-year-old kid, but a strong, muscular seventeen-year-old, looked him squarely in the face. “You ain’t stayin’ here! Now get out!”

  Jordan didn’t even blink. “Now, what kinda greetin’ is that for a man who just wants to see his children?” he asked in that gravelly voice that Gerald hated.

  “You ain’t my daddy, and you don’t deserve to be hers!”

  “Oh, but I am her daddy, boy, and court says I been rehabilitated. Court says I get visitation rights. Court says you ain’t got nothin to say about that!”

  “Why you got to come back here and ruin stuff? We’re finally almost close to happy, and you show up!” Gerald was almost in tears, but he didn’t want Jordan to see him break.

  “Your mama is still my wife. She done forgave me. Why can’t you? I’ve changed, boy. I’m a new man!”

  Monique seemed flustered and nervous. Jordan sat silent and staring. Finally he got up. His cowboy boots echoed loudly on the smooth wooden floor. Jordan paused at the door. “I’ll be back for you tonight, Monique. Wear something pretty!”

  Monique blushed and tried to hide her excitement from Gerald, who looked at her with disgust.

  “And you,” Jordan growled at Gerald, “don’t mess with me. I’ll be back to visit Angel. I ain’t gonna hurt her. I ain’t gonna even touch her. I told you I’ve changed. Let’s shake on it like men.” He offered Gerald his rough, dirty hand. Gerald didn’t move.

  “No,” Gerald stated quietly. He walked into the other room, shaking with fury and helplessness.

  Gerald wanted to spit. Instead he just ran out of the room. He knew he had to find Angel. He knocked on her door. He could hear her crying.

  “It’s me, Gerald. Let me in.” He heard the lock turn and he gently opened the door. Angel’s eyes were glassy and unblinking. All of the pain and memories of the past filled her so that only tears and shudders escaped her. Gerald hugged her for a long time. She quieted down gradually and was able to focus on the cat, which she stroked as she shook with swallowed sobs.

  “Is he gone?” Angel asked nervously.

  Gerald nodded and sighed. Angel, taking deep breaths, made sure she heard the clink of the lock in the outside door, and ran past Gerald into the bathroom. He wanted to beat something, to cry, to scream, but all he could do was listen to Angel as she threw up the way she used to, the only way she knew to purge the tension of Jordan’s presence in the house.

  Monique, as usual, was no help. She pretended not to notice Angel’s discomfort, or Gerald’s hatred. She was fluttery and excited that Jordan was back and that he still wanted her.

  Gerald walked back into the living room. Jordan’s cologne, which smelled to Gerald like horse sweat, hung strong and overpowering in the small room. “What’s the real deal, Monique?”

  “Well, Gerald, uh ... Jordan is out and uh ...”

  “He can’t stay here.”

  “No—I mean yes—I agree—at least for now. But you have to give him a chance, Gerald. He’s changed. He’s gonna try to show you. You gotta try, okay?”

  “He can never be alone with Angel.” Gerald’s voice was hard and demanding.

  “I think that’s a good idea for now, Gerald. Let’s see if we can all work together to make this a happy family once again.”

  “This was never a happy family while he was here, Monique. Your memory don’t work so good, it seems.”

  She smiled weakly, refused to look Gerald in the eye, and went to fix her hair.

  Gerald picked up the telephone.

  “Hey, Rob, what’s up, man? Is your dad home?”

  “Yeah, he’s in here acting like he knows how to fix a bathroom sink. Mom told him to call a plumber, but no, he’s gotta prove he’s Superman. Now we gotta brush our teeth in the kitchen sink. Hey, Dad, telephone. It’s Gerald,” called Rob, laug
hing.

  “Hi, Gerald, what’s up, son?”

  “Hey, Mr. Washington. Sounds like you got plumbing problems.”

  “Nothing I can’t solve. All I need is one small piece of pipe.”

  Gerald could hear groans of laughter coming from the background. Rob’s family was always laughing about something—even Mr. Washington’s mistakes. Gerald couldn’t remember much laughter ever coming from his own house.

  “Well, I got some bathroom problems too.” Gerald paused. Rob’s dad waited quietly.

  “Angel’s in there throwing up again. Jordan is back.”

  Mr. Washington gasped. “Oh, no! Has he . . . has he done anything?” he asked with severity in his voice.

  “No. He’s clean—so far, at least. He says he’s got rights, but Angel is a nervous wreck. She can’t live like this. Don’t we have rights too? What can I do?”

  “Look, I’ve got to run out and pick up this pipe. Let me come by and get you. We’ll talk.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be waiting out front.”

  Thirty minutes later, Mr. Washington drove up in a new blue Buick. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Actually, it was the same thing that Jordan had been wearing, but on Jordan it looked sinister and criminal. Rob’s dad smiled at Gerald as he opened the car door, laugh marks making walnut brown wrinkles in the sides of his eyes.

  “Is Angel okay up there?” he asked, glancing up at the bleak and depressing apartment building.

  “Yeah, she’s asleep now. And Jordan won’t be back for a couple of days.”

  “What about Monique?”

  Gerald shrugged. “Probably doing her hair for when Jordan comes by later to take her out. That’s all she thinks about. She just wants to please him. She doesn’t even care, or notice, how upset Angel gets.”

  Mr. Washington said nothing, but listened carefully.

  “She wants Jordan to move back in. Can they do that?”

  Mr. Washington sighed. “Probably so. Especially if Jordan doesn’t do anything to get a negative report from probation.”