Pieces of Why Read online

  “What?!” Keisha demanded. “That’s not true. Why would you say that?”

  I took a deep breath. “I overheard her and your ma talking. Loretta thinks I’m going to turn out like my father.”

  Keisha’s eyes widened. “But she always brings you presents when she visits. And she seems so happy to see you.”

  “I know,” I said, “but she’s just doing that for you. I know you’re crazy about your aunt, and that’s fine, but I don’t think I’ll visit next time she’s here.”

  Keisha was quiet for a long time. “I guess that’s why everyone was so tense the other night. Feels crappy that I didn’t know.” She paused. “I’m really sorry.”

  I nodded. “It’s not your fault, but I bet it still feels good to apologize for it.”

  This time Keisha’s eyes narrowed. “Fine,” she said at last. “You’ve made your point. If you have to do this, I’ll help. It’ll have to be during choir rehearsal, though. This isn’t like sneaking out my window for twenty minutes. It’s gonna take you a long time to get there and a long time to get back, and it’s not like you can just rush in, apologize, and then run right out again.” Keisha paused, thinking things over. “How about this: I’ll tell Mama that you’re going to be late to choir rehearsal because . . .”

  “’Cause Ma’s shift changed again?”

  “Good. That way Mama won’t be looking for you when we get there.”

  “What if your mom decides to stay and watch?”

  “She won’t. She’s got all the sheets and towels to wash from Auntie Loretta’s visit, and Jerome is cutting a tooth, so he’s been fussing way too much. Wearing everyone out.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Then I can head out when Ma leaves for work.”

  “You’ll have to take the bus,” Keisha said. “Have you ever ridden the bus on your own?”

  I shook my head.

  Keisha took my hand and squeezed it. “It’ll be fine. Just stand up front next to the driver and listen for your stop.”

  “Right,” I said. “I can handle that.”

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway and we knew Ms. Evette was coming to check on us. Keisha clicked off her flashlight and we pretended to sleep, but all I could do was lie awake, my eyes wide. Could I do this?

  Was I really going to apologize for murder?

  Thursday morning I was too nervous to eat, and when I did force down a few bites, I had to run to the bathroom to throw them up again. Ma put her hand on my forehead and scowled.

  “Are you sure I don’t need to stay home with you? You’re white as a ghost and your eyes look glassy.”

  Part of me wanted to say yes—to curl up with Ma on the couch and watch mindless television where no one’s problems were real and even the worst stuff got solved by the end of the episode. But I shook my head. “I’m okay,” I said, fear rumbling in my gut. “Probably just one of those bugs. Besides, I’ve got choir rehearsal.”

  “Mmmm.” Ma glanced at her watch. It was four o’clock and Ma was on the five p.m. to midnight shift, but it took her a while to ride the streetcar to the store on Tchoupitoulas. “All right,” she said. “I have to go, but call me if you need anything. Lock the door behind you when you leave. Don’t talk to strangers, and follow the path I laid out for you.”

  “I will,” I said, watching her step outside, knowing how angry she’d be if she knew what I was about to do.

  Suddenly, I couldn’t remember why I’d come up with this plan in the first place. I sat on our tattered sofa, kicking my legs, determined not to chicken out. I waited half an hour just to be sure Ma wouldn’t return home for some forgotten item, and once the minutes had crept by, I grabbed my house key and the extra Jazzy Pass that Ma kept in case of emergency.

  Then I walked out my front door.

  I almost turned around when I reached the last block where I was allowed on my own. Perspiration beaded on my forehead.

  Was I doing the right thing? My whole body felt tight, and I imagined I was the jack in Jerome’s jack-in-the-box and that someone was cranking the handle faster and faster until I popped. I tried to remember how it had felt to loosen up enough to sing, to throw my shoulders back and relax my jaw, but those feelings belonged to a whole other life.

  At the bus stop, I had to wait forever in a crowd of milling people. Part of me wished the bus would hurry up, but another part hoped it had broken down. When it finally did arrive, I stood in line, waiting my turn to press forward up the stairs. I fed my pass into the machine, messing up twice before I got it right, then looked for an empty seat up front.

  There wasn’t one.

  The bus was packed, all kinds of bodies jostling against one another. Little by little, I got pushed backward until I was stuck between a man in a suit and a woman with a crying baby, so I couldn’t see a thing. I tried hard to hear the driver call out the names of the stops, but either he didn’t yell them or I couldn’t hear him.

  All around me, people were squished together and the bus smelled of body odor, exhaust fumes, and fast food. Somewhere the air-conditioning was clunking away, but the wall of bodies stopped the cool air from reaching me. I started to worry I’d never get to the right stop, so in a moment of panic I pushed my way off with all the other riders at Napoleon Avenue.

  It felt so good to be off the bus, I wanted to kiss the ground. I stood on the corner and pulled out my street map even though Keisha had warned me about studying a map in public.

  “You’ll look like a tourist,” she’d said, “and then some idiot might try to rob you.” It was good advice, but we both knew that a person could get robbed even if they weren’t a tourist.

  I looked around to orient myself and then walked down Magazine Street toward Monet. When I was almost there, I saw a building on the corner called Le Bon Temps Roule. Dwayne and Ms. Evette went there sometimes on Saturday nights, and before they left Dwayne always called out, “Let the good times roll!” Then the next day they’d tell stories about late-night music and dancing that spilled onto the street. Keisha and I had always wanted to go, but now I wondered if this was where my father had done his drinking before he’d decided to rob the Morton house.

  The place didn’t look like much. It was an old wooden shack with a sign out front that said BAR AND SANDWICH SHOP. There was a big chalkboard on one wall with the weekly menu, and at the top someone had written Geaux Saints!

  I went a little farther, then turned the corner and walked down Monet Street, searching out the number on each house, but nothing looked the way I’d pictured it. The houses were average. Nicer than the shotgun houses where I lived, but not too fancy. There were a few scattered trees lining the road, and a couple of the houses had cars parked out front. I squinted hard.

  Why here? Had my father stumbled down the street looking for a house that appeared unoccupied? Maybe he’d seen Mr. and Mrs. Morton at Le Bon Temps Roule, so he’d assumed their house would be empty. But how would he have known who they were or where they lived? Why couldn’t he have picked a house without a twelve-year-old girl asleep in her bed? He could have chosen any place, but he’d come here. Right to . . .

  1032 Monet Street.

  A chain-link fence surrounded the small front yard. The house was colorful, with hot pink, yellow, and blue trim around the top to match the bright blue shutters. Two wicker chairs and a small table sat on the porch. But what made my jaw drop was the music.

  All around the porch were wind chimes. They came in every size, from teeny-tiny to one that was practically as big as me, and every one of them had a butterfly on it. When the wind blew, the air filled with crystalline sound.

  I knew immediately that they were for her.

  “Beautiful, ain’t it?” said a voice behind me. “You ought to see how many we’ve got over at the Butterfly Foundation. These are just Louisa’s favorites.”

  I jumped and my heart hammered so
hard, I thought it might come clean out of my chest. I whirled around, then took a step backward, nearly tripping over my own feet. An old guy with light brown wrinkly skin and silver hair stood behind me. He held up his hands as if to show that he hadn’t meant to startle me. The man had a craggy face, and he was wearing the kind of plaid pants old men wear.

  He chuckled softly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

  Then he stopped.

  His gaze fixed on me, and I watched the color and kindness drain from his expression as his eyes grew dark with recognition. He took a step back before reaching up with one bony finger.

  “Your face. Why, you look just like—”

  I didn’t wait to hear my father’s name.

  All thoughts of apologizing disappeared, and I sprinted down the street as fast as my legs would go.

  CHAPTER 19

  I NEVER SAW the sky fill with clouds. I didn’t notice as the breeze picked up and turned into a strong wind. I didn’t even hear the first cracks of thunder. It wasn’t until the clouds opened up and drenched me with a heavy downpour that I realized a storm had been brewing. It was a typical late-day summer storm, here and gone in ten minutes, but it was enough to soak me through. By the time I reached New Heaven Baptist Church, I was shivering despite the heat, and limping from a blister on the sole of my foot.

  I’d lost track of the time, and I hoped I wasn’t arriving when parents would still be lingering at the back of the church. The last thing I needed was for Ms. Evette to see me like this. She’d call my mother at work and then there would be an interrogation like none other.

  I slipped into the building, sliding noiselessly through the heavy wooden doors, dripping a trail onto the carpet. The Rainbow Choir was singing a gentle, rocking spiritual that Ms. Marion said was one of her favorites, and for a moment I stood still, pressed up against the back wall, watching the chorus sway. Ms. Marion’s hands danced in the air as she directed them.

  She’d reorganized the choir to make up for our lost members, changing some of the altos into sopranos, and I was surprised to realize we sounded good. The melody lifted like a breeze, and though my knees felt like they’d give way, the music held me up.

  Then Ms. Marion stopped abruptly in order to correct the bass section’s harmony. I caught Keisha’s gaze and her eyebrows furrowed when she saw my dripping wet figure. Her hand raised and waved like mad, but another hand had gone up before hers.

  “Yes, Kenny?” said Ms. Marion.

  “Can I go to the bathroom?”

  He didn’t stutter at all, but the other kids snickered anyway. Ms. Marion clucked, but she motioned for him to go.

  Keisha put her hand down, half raised it again, and then she looked at me and shrugged. I swiped at my wet, tangled hair, wondering what I’d say to Kenny.

  He came up beside me. “Follow me.”

  “But I—”

  “Trust me.”

  Kenny led me down the steps to the adult choir room. A row of wooden lockers lined the wall, and Kenny went over to one of the lockers and pulled out a backpack.

  “Here,” he said, handing me a wad of black-and-white clothing. “You can w-wear this. It’s my band uniform. I come straight to rehearsal from p-practice. Might be a little big for you, but it’s d-d-d . . . dry.”

  I shivered again. The air in the basement was cool and my clothes clung to my skin. “Thanks.”

  The bathrooms were down a narrow hallway, and I went into the ladies’ room to change. It felt strange to be alone down here with Kenny. A voice inside my head reminded me that soon I’d have to tell him why I’d showed up late for practice, limping and drenched, but I was too numb to listen. Instead, I stripped off my wet clothes, piece by piece, and replaced them with Kenny’s uniform. Then I draped my things over the sink. Maybe I could use a hand dryer on them later and return the uniform when practice was over.

  Kenny’s shirt smelled like him: kind of spicy with a hint of mint soap. I held the sleeve up to my nose and breathed in. Then I froze as a fragment of memory came back to me. I was a little kid, hiding under Ma’s bed, clutching the shirt I’d stolen from my father’s side of the closet, breathing in his clean, fresh scent.

  I’d missed my father so bad, it had hurt.

  My mouth fell open.

  No. That couldn’t be. It was like Keisha’s aunt Loretta had said: A man had to be disturbed to pull the trigger. And I’d missed him? I thought of the way that old man had looked at me. My father’s face must be branded into his mind, like a nightmare he’d never wake up from. But I’d loved him?

  I couldn’t help the choked noise that escaped my throat.

  “Are you o-okay?”

  I opened the door and shook my head.

  Kenny’s brown eyes looked worried, his dark lashes brushing his cheeks. He motioned to the bench in the choir room, and I followed him over. “You look really upset. Do you w-want to talk about it?”

  I paused, not sure if I’d be able to get the words out, but if anyone could understand that problem, it was Kenny.

  “Does it have to do with the night you f-fainted?” he pressed.

  My mouth struggled to form an answer, and I was grateful that Kenny didn’t rush me. Grateful, and guilty for all the times I’d rushed him.

  “That night,” I said at last, “I was thinking about my father. I didn’t know it then, but he killed a girl. Her name was Danielle, and she was our age.” I paused, waiting for Kenny’s reaction, wondering if he’d known.

  He let his breath out in a long, slow whistle, and I knew he was steadying himself so he wouldn’t stutter. “No kidding?”

  I nodded.

  “I’d heard your father was in jail, but . . .” He stopped. “W-when did it happen? W-was it an accident?”

  Every part of me wanted to lie, but I’d come this far.

  “No,” I said. “He was robbing her house. I was just four years old at the time, and he got sent to prison. For life. Ma told me about the robbery, but not the murder.”

  “That’s aw-aw-aw—” Kenny made a rasping sound, then paused. “Awful.”

  “Not as awful as it must have been for Danielle’s family.”

  We were both silent for a long time, and I was glad Kenny didn’t try to make me feel better. Sometimes, better didn’t exist.

  “Anyway,” I said, once the silence got to be too much, “ever since I found out, I can’t stop thinking about what it must be like to lose someone, or to be the one who gets lost. So today I went to the girl’s house to apologize, only . . .” The sound caught in my throat, and I bit my lip until I tasted blood. “I couldn’t do it.”

  Kenny reached over and took my hand the way he had the night of the shooting. “Is this why you aren’t s-singing anymore? I heard w-what happened at June Fest.”

  I nodded.

  Kenny was quiet, as if he were thinking hard. Then he leaned forward. “You’re too t-tough on yourself, Tia.” He paused. “If you ask me, your f-father’s the one who needs to apologize. Has he ever done that?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, but I doubt it.”

  “W-well, maybe it’s time to make s-someone else step up for a change.”

  Even with the stammer, Kenny’s voice was firm, and suddenly I understood that there was something noble about Kenny. He fought hard every single day for something the rest of us took for granted.

  “Tia,” he said, “d-did you know I joined the Rainbow Choir because of you?”

  I looked up, feeling a little zing of heat under my skin. “Really? Why?”

  Kenny shrugged. “Your s-singing is the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard in my life. And I think . . .” He paused. “I think you’re really p-pretty. No. Not just pretty. Beautiful.”

  I drew in my breath. No one had ever told me I was beautiful. I thought of my reflection in the mirror—shades of my father’s
face staring back at me. I looked just like him with my brown hair and high cheekbones. How could anyone think I was beautiful?

  “Did that sound d-d-d . . . dumb?” Kenny asked.

  “No,” I said. “It sounded—”

  I wanted to say perfect, but I never got to finish because that’s when Michael Slater came to find Kenny. He stood on the staircase peering down at us.

  “Ms. Marion sent me. What’s taking you so long, dude?”

  We both jumped, and Michael’s eyes lit up when he saw me wearing Kenny’s uniform. He hooted, pointing at Kenny. “You dog! Down here makin’ out with your girlfriend?”

  Kenny stood, and we both tried talking at once, but Kenny couldn’t get a single word out, so Michael held up one hand. “Chill,” he said. “I won’t be telling nobody. But you better hurry up before Ms. Marion comes down here herself.”

  Kenny nodded. Then he turned to me. “You should visit your f-father,” he said. “He owes you. He’s the one who ought to ap-ap . . . apologize.” He said each word slowly and carefully, and then he leaned in and kissed my cheek before bounding up the stairs and out of sight.

  CHAPTER 20

  THAT NIGHT Keisha and I managed to finagle another sleepover even though it meant calling my mother at work, which I was only supposed to do in emergencies. Now we sat on the fire escape in the glow of the streetlights, talking about my failed attempt to visit Danielle’s family. And Kenny.

  Mostly Kenny. Wasn’t much to say about me wimping out.

  “Man, that kid is so in love with you,” Keisha said. “Imagine a boy joining a choir just to be with you. Even if it is c-c-crazy Kenny.”

  “Yeah,” I said, distracted. My mind still buzzed with all the things Kenny had said. “Do you think I should visit my dad?” I asked aloud. “I mean, what if—”

  Keisha cut me off. “No freakin’ way! Your father doesn’t deserve a visit from anyone, least of all you. Besides, how would you get to the prison and back without telling your mother?”