ME AND MRS. JONES

JUST A KID IN THE BRONX                                                 

28 SEPTEMBER 2013

HOME SWEET HOME.

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“BOOM!”

SOON AS I STEP IN,

MOMMA’S COOKING HITS ME LIKE A TRAIN, AND I’M NOT WASTING A SECOND.

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IT AIN’T JUST THE SMELL THOUGH, BUT THE WARMTH TOO, 

LIKE THE HOUSE ITSELF HAD BEEN HOLDING ITS BREATH WAITING FOR ME TO COME HOME. 

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I DROP MY BAG BY THE COAT RACK BEFORE I MAKE MY WAY INTO THE KITCHEN

BECAUSE IN THIS HOUSE YOU GOT TO KNOW BETTER THAN TO GET ON MOMMA’S OTHER SIDE. 

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I WOULDN’T EVEN CALL IT A BAD SIDE BECAUSE SHE MIGHT READ THIS AND FLOG ME. TRUST ME YOU’LL FIND OUT ABOUT HER.

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BUT ANYWAYS, GETTING BACK TO THE MOTION, 

I MAKE ROUTE TO THE KITCHEN AT THE END OF THE CORRIDOR AND SHOW MOMMA SOME LOVE. 

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“OH, YOU’RE HOME! I DIDN’T EVEN HEAR YOUR LITTLE LEGS STEP IN THROUGH THE DOOR.” MOMMA’S TONE IS SOFT, BUT ITS GOT THAT EDGE.  THE ONE THAT ALWAYS MEANS QUESTIONS ARE COMING. ITS GIVING SHIESTY….LIKE SHE’S READY TO CATCH ME SLIPPING.

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SHE TURNS OFF THE STOVE AND GIVES ME A SMILE - THE SAME ONE SHE’S BEEN GIVING ME SINCE I WAS A KID AND FELL OF MY BIKE FOR THE FIRST TIME, EVEN THOUGH I HAD TRAINERS ON THEM. 

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I SMILE BACK. “HELLO, MOTHER.”

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WE SIT AT THE TABLE, PLATES FULL OF SOUL FOOD STEAMING BETWEEN US. I CAN ALREADY FEEL HER QUESTIONS CIRCLING, WAITING FOR A CHANCE TO LAND. “HOW’S SCHOOL? MADE ANY NEW FRIENDS? HOW ARE YOU CLASSES?”

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IT’S BEEN THE SAME THING EVERYDAY SINCE SHE STOPPED HOME SCHOOLING ME. SAME QUESTIONS, SAME CONCERNED LOOK. I DON’T BLAME HER.

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BEING THE YOUNGEST KID IN THE FAMILY ALWAYS HAD HER WORRIED. WHILE MY SISTERS HAD EACH OTHER, I HAD HER. BUT I THINK SHE FEARS A DISCONNECT. 

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“IT’S FINE, “ I SAY, SHOVING RICE INTO MY MOUTH BEFORE SHE CAN DIG TO DEEP. “EVERYTHING’S GRAND. DON’T STRESS.”

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SHE GIVES ME THIS LONG LOOK, THE KIND THAT SAYS SHE SMELLS THE CAP BUT DOSEN’T WANT TO PUSH. “IF ANYTHING’S WRONG, YOU CAN TELL ME, YOU KNOW.”

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I NOD, BUT I DON’T SAY ANYTHING. 

MOTHERLY INSTINCTS…..

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LATER, AFTER DINNER, 

I SIT IN MY ROOM AND STARE AT THE WALL. IT’S BEEN A COUPLE OF MONTHS SINCE WE MOVED HERE, AND I STILL FEEL LIKE I DON’T FIT IN. SCHOOLS BEEN ROUGH - KIDS ASK QUESTIONS, LAUGH TOO LOUD, CROWD IN TOO CLOSE. BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT’S REALLY BOTHERING ME. 

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IT’S MRS. JONES.

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BOYS WILL BE BOYS

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FLYING PAPER PLANES, 

KIDS SWINGING ON THEIR SEATS, 

SOME ALREADY HEAD- DOWN ON THEIR DESKS

— IT’S CHAOS BEFORE A SECOND GRADE CLASS KICKS OFF.

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ME AND THREE BOYS

WHO’VE TAKEN A LIKING TO ME HANG TIGHT,

THE TALK AT OUR TABLE TURNING WHERE IT ALWAYS DOES: GIRLS.

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“I’D LOCK THAT DOWN.” RASHAUN SAYS, REACTING TO A PHOTO ON TREY’S PHONE.

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“YEAH?” TREY GRINS. 

“WE HIT WENDY’S TUESDAY, CHILLED OUT BACK AFTER, AND YOU ALREADY KNOW WHAT WENT DOWN.”

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THE TABLE ERUPTS.

RASHAUN HOOTS.

TREY GRINS LIKE A KING.

NAS SLAPS HIS SHOULDER, YELLING, “MA N*GGA!”.  

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I LAUGH ALONG, 

BUT IT’S ALL CAP — I WAS TRYING TO.. BLEND IN.

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TREY, NAS, AND RASHAUN - MY ONLY CIRCLE SINCE I LANDED HERE. THEY COOL AND ALL, BUT KICKING IT WITH THEM JUST REMINDS ME HOW DIFFERENT I AM. THEY’VE GOT STORIES FOR DAYS, BRAVADO, AND ALL THIS SLICK TALK ABOUT GIRLS THAT LEAVES ME FEELING LIKE AN OUTSIDER WATCHING FROM THE CHEAP SEATS.

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“SHH, QUIET DOWN NOW!”

MRS. JONES VOICE SLICES THROUGH THE NOISE, HER TONE SWEET BUT SHARP. WE SCRAMBLE TO OUR SEATS AS SHE GATHERS UP THE TESTS FROM HER DESK.

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I’LL BE HANDING BACK YOUR GRADED QUIZZES,” SHE SAYS, ADJUSTING HER BLACK OVERSIZED SQUARE FRAMES.

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HER EYES CATCH MINE, LINGERING JUST A MOMENT TOO LONG.

NAS NOTICES AND LEANS OVER.

“BRO, MRS. J IS ALWAYS LOOKING YOUR WAY.” HE WHISPERS. 

HE SMIRKS, ADDING, “I’D GRADE HER AN F FOR THAT F*T A*S”

WE SNICKER, BUT MY LAUGH FEELS TIGHT, CAUGHT SOMEWHERE BETWEEN MY CHEST AND MY THROAT. 

MRS. JONES BEGINS ROLL CALL,

HER CALM, STEADY VOICE ECHOING THROUGH THE ROOM AS I GRIP THE EDGE OF MY DESK.

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MISS OR MRS?

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IF YOU ASKED ME WHAT MY FAVORITE SUBJECT WAS IN SCHOOL, I’D SAY GEOGRAPHY. NOT BECAUSE OF THE CLASS, 

BUT BECAUSE OF HER. MRS. JONES.

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HER “10-STAR STUDENT”

—THAT’S WHAT SHE CALLED ME. SHE’D GAS ME UP EVERY CHANCE SHE GOT, TALKING ABOUT MY ADVANCED INTELLIGENCE AND CREATIVE MIND. 

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FINALLY, SOMEONE RECOGNISING MY AMBITION, MY POTENTIAL.

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I DIDN’T THINK MUCH ABOUT THE CLOSE RELATIONSHIP THAT STARTED FORMING BETWEEN ME AND MY EIGTH-GRADE TEACHER. 

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I FIGURED SHE WAS JUST BEING WELCOMING, LOOKING OUT FOR THE NEW KID, BUT SOMETIMES THE WAY SHE LOOKED AT ME FELT… DIFFERENT.

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MRS. JONES WAS UNDENIABLY FINE—A HEALTHY-LOOKING WOMAN WITH FAIR SKIN SOFT AS A NEWBORN’S. HER PIERCING BLUE EYES AND GOLDEN BLONDE HAIR? THAT’S THE MOST DANGEROUS COMBINATION KNOWN TO MAN. SHE HAD THIS GLOW THAT MADE PEOPLE LOOK TWICE, LIKE SHE WALKED OUT OF ONE OF THOSE OLD HOLLYWOOD MOVIES.

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EVERYBODY LOVED MRS. JONES, NO MATTER WHAT KIND OF GOSSIP RAN THROUGH THE HALLS. LATELY, PEOPLE HAD BEEN WHISPERING ABOUT HER AND HER FIANCÉ SPLITTING UP, BUT I DIDN’T PAY IT ANY MIND. ALL I KNEW WAS I HAD HER ATTENTION, AND THAT FELT...GOOD.

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THE ONE THING I KNEW FOR SURE WAS THAT I WAS HER FAVORITE. 

BUT WHY ME? WHAT DID SHE SEE IN A 13-YEAR-OLD BOY THAT MADE ME SO SPECIAL?

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FRESH MEAT

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THE SCHOOL BELL RINGS,

MARKING THE END OF CLASS, AND MY CLASSMATES RUSH TO GATHER THEIR BOOKS AND BAGS BOLTING FOR THE DOOR.

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“AND REMEMBER—YOUR HOMEWORK IS DUE TOMMOROW!” MRS.JONES SHOUTS OVER THE CHAOS.

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I TAKE MY TIME,

COLLECTING THE LAST OF MY BELONGINGS,

BUT AS I HEAD FOR THE DOOR—“YOU WAIT RIGHT HERE, MR.”

HER VOICE CUTS THROUGH THE NOISE, AND MY FEET FREEZE.

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THE FINAL STRAGGLERS FILTER OUT, THE VOICES FADING INTO THE HALLWAY. I TURN BACK, AND THERE SHE IS — LEANING ON HER DESK, A FAT GRIN PAINTED ACROSS HER FACE.

“CAN I HAVE A WORD? AND CLOSE THE DOOR BEHIND YOU, WILL YOU?”

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I HESITATE, BUT I DO WHAT SHE SAYS. THE DOOR CLICKS SHUT, AND SUDDENLY,

IT’S JUST ME AND MRS. JONES.

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“TAKE A SEAT,” SHE SAYS,NODDING TOWARD HER TEACHER’S CHAIR — THE BIG, COOL ONES THAT SPINS AND SH*T.

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I PAUSE, MY FACE SCRUNCHED UP IN CONFUSION,

BUT SHE JUST LAUGHS, SOFT AND EASY, LIKE THIS IS NORMAL.

“GO ON, DON’T BE SHY.”

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GO ON, DON’T BE SHY

I SIT DOWN SLOWLY,

THE CHAIR SPINNING JUST A LITTLE UNDER MY WEIGHT.

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MRS. JONES

IS STILL LEANING ON HER DESK,

WATCHING ME WITH THAT SAME GRIN — TOO WIDE, TOO LONG.

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“YOU DID WELL ON YOUR QUIZ, YOU KNOW. TOP MARKS.” HER VOICE IS LIGHT, BUT IT MAKES MY SKIN CRAWL — JUST A LITTLE.

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I SHRUG. “THANKS, I GUESS.”

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HER SMILE CHANGES — SOFTER THIS TIME,LIKE SHE KNOWS SOMETHING I DON’T.

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“YOU’RE A SMART BOY. REALLY SPECIAL.”

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HER WORDS HANG IN THE AIR A LITTLE TOO LONG.

AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO SAY.

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I JUST NOD, STARING AT THE CORNER OF HER DESK, COUNTING THE SCRATCHES IN THE WOOD.

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“YOU KNOW..” SHE STARTS, HER VOICE DROPPING JUST A BIT,

“YOU’RE NOT LIKE THE OTHER STUDENTS.”

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I GLANCE UP, MEETING HER EYES FOR A SECOND BEFORE LOOKING AWAY AGAIN. MY HANDS CLENCH THE EDGE OF THE CHAIR.

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WHAT DOES SHE MEAN BY THAT?

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BOY DREAMS OR TRAUMA?

HER HAND RESTS ON MY SHOULDER NOW, A LITTLE LONGER THIS TIME. 

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NOT HARD,

NOT HEAVY,

BUT ENOUGH THAT I FEEL IT THROUGH THE FABRIC OF MY SCHOOL BLUE SHIRT.

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“YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE SCARED,” SHE SAYS, HER VOICE SOFT BUT STRANGE. 

“I JUST WANT THE BEST FOR YOU.”

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MY THROAT DRIES UP.

WHAT DOES SHE MEAN BY “BEST FOR ME?”

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HER FINGERS LIFT OFF MY SHOULDER, DRAGGING LIGHTLY BEFORE SHE STEPS BACK. BUT HER EYES STAY ON ME, PINNING ME TO THE CHAIR.

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“YOU CAN TRUST ME, YOU KNOW. I WON’T TELL ANYONE.”

MY HEART IS THUMPING NOW,LOUD ENOUGH I’M SURE SHE CAN HEAR IT. 

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I WANT TO LEAVE, BUT I DON’T KNOW HOW TO MOVE.

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THE ROOM IS TOO QUIET. I CAN STILL FEEL HER EYES ON ME, BUT I KEEP MY GAZE FIXED ON THE DESK. THE SCRATCHES IN THE WOOD LOOK LIKE A MAP, BUT I CAN’T FIGURE OUT WHERE THEY LEAD.

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“ALL RIGHT,” SHE SAYS FINALLY, SIGHING LIKE SHE’S LETTING ME OFF THE HOOK. “YOU CAN GO.”

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I STAND UP QUICK, THE CHAIR SPINNING BEHIND ME, AND HEAD FOR THE DOOR, MY HAND SHAKING AS I GRAB THE HANDLE.

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“AND DON’T FORGET…” HER VOICE STOPS ME JUST AS I’M ABOUT TO OPEN IT. “ANYTIME YOU NEED ME. I’LL BE WAITING.”

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GOD IS IN THE GUT

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AS I GRAB THE DOOR HANDLE, HER HAND COMES DOWN LIGHTLY ON TOP OF MINE, STOPPING ME.

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“WAIT,” SHE SAYS, HER VOICE LOW AND URGENT. I FREEZE, NOT SURE WHAT TO DO.

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WHEN I LOOK BACK AT HER, SHE’S CLOSER NOW—TOO CLOSE. HER BLUE EYES LOCK ON MINE, AND FOR A MOMENT, I CAN’T MOVE. SHE LEANS IN JUST A BIT, HER HAND STILL ON MINE, AND MY STOMACH TURNS IN A WAY I CAN’T EXPLAIN.

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“YOU DON’T HAVE TO RUSH OFF,” SHE SAYS, HER SMILE FAINT NOW, HER WORDS SOFT BUT HEAVIER THAN BEFORE.

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MY HEAD'S DOING BACKFLIPS, AND SOMETHING IN MY GUT—SOMETHING I CAN’T PUT A NAME TO—IS TELLING ME TO DIP. I SLIDE MY HAND BACK AND TAKE A STEP AWAY, MY LEGS FEELING FUNNY, BUT I KEEP IT MOVING.

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“UH, I SHOULD GET HOME,” I MUMBLE, MY EYES FIXED ON THE FLOOR.

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SHE STAYS STILL FOR A MOMENT, WATCHING ME, HER SMILE GONE.

“OF COURSE,” SHE SAYS FINALLY, HER VOICE FLAT. “I’LL SEE YOU TOMORROW, THEN.”

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I NOD WITHOUT LOOKING UP AND WALK OUT THE DOOR, MY WHOLE BODY BUZZING LIKE I JUST DODGED SOMETHING BIG. THE COOL AIR OF THE HALLWAY HITS ME LIKE A WAVE, BUT IT DOESN’T WASH OFF THE FEELING THAT I NEED TO GET HOME—NOW.

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SON OF A MOTHER

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FINALLY, THE GOSPEL MEETS ME AT THE DOOR AS I ARRIVE HOME.
MOMMA LOOKS LIKE SHE’S BEEN DEEP IN PRAYER, HER HANDS RESTING ON THE WORN BIBLE OPEN ON HER LAP.

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THE LIVING ROOM FEELS SMALLER THAN USUAL, FILLED WITH THE SCENT OF INCENSE AND THE LOW HUM OF A GOSPEL HYMN STILL PLAYING ON THE RADIO. THE COUCH PILLOWS ARE STACKED CROOKED LIKE SOMEONE HAD BEEN KNEELING ON THEM, AND THE FLICKER OF A CANDLE ON THE COFFEE TABLE MAKES THE SHADOWS ON THE WALLS DANCE.

THIS TIME, I DON’T HEAD STRAIGHT FOR MY ROOM LIKE I USUALLY DO.

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I GO TO HER.

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MOMMA LIFTS AN EYEBROW WHEN SHE FEELS MY PRESENCE, HER LIPS STILL MOVING IN A QUIET PRAYER. WITHOUT A WORD, SHE HOLDS OUT HER HAND, PULLING ME INTO HER RHYTHM LIKE A RIVER CARRYING ME DOWNSTREAM.

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SHE PULLS ME DOWN BESIDE HER, THEN HOLDS MY HEAD CLOSE TO HER HEART. MY TEARS COME BEFORE THE WORDS DO, SOAKING HER PEARL BEIGE CARDIGAN, BUT SHE DOESN’T FLINCH. SHE JUST HOLDS ME TIGHTER, ROCKING SLIGHTLY AS IF TO TELL ME, WITHOUT SAYING IT, THAT EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE ALL RIGHT.

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THE ROOM IS QUIET NOW, EXCEPT FOR THE SOUND OF HER VOICE AND THE RHYTHMIC BEAT OF HER HEART IN MY EAR.

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IN HER EMBRACE, I FELT SAFE, LIKE MAYBE GOD WASN’T JUST WATCHING — HE WAS HOLDING ME TOO.

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HER PRAYERS WEREN’T JUST FOR HER—THEY WERE FOR ME.

FOR THE MAN SHE BELIEVED I COULD BECOME.

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THIS IS OUR 002 PIECE, ONLY ON IN10MACY.

THANK YOU FOR READING ME AND MRS. JONES.

#10OUT

#IN10MACY

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