Keesha's House Page 3

  I know wherever Stephie is tonight

  she’s thinking hard about the baby, us,

  herself, and Jason. She’s out there alone

  and I can’t help. Sixteen. I know. She might

  not know how much she’s loved, or who to trust.

  YOU DREAM ABOUT A KID LIKE THIS COACH HARDEN

  Jason hasn’t told me much himself

  but there’s a rumor going around the team

  about his girlfriend. When I heard it, I felt

  sick. You coach for twenty years, you dream

  about a kid like this, an athlete born

  for greatness. Varsity his freshman year,

  state all-star two years in a row. More

  natural talent than I’ve ever seen here

  at Marshall High. And he knows how to work

  for what he wants. He could go anywhere—

  free ride, recruiters calling every day.

  Now what? He’s not one to shirk

  responsibility. He seems to care

  about this girl. But you should see him play.

  IT WOULD BE GOOD FOR HIM MRS. MASON (DONTAY’S CASEWORKER)

  I thought I’d finally found a good, safe place

  for Dontay, far from his old friends and school,

  with such a nice family, of his own race.

  This summer they were going to join the pool

  so he could learn to swim. I hope he meets

  new friends, I said. It would be good for him

  to know some different kids. But Dontay treats

  this like a punishment. I hate to swim,

  he says, I hate that part of town. He can’t

  seem to adapt himself. It’s sad. Now

  he’s run off, and he’ll be hard to find. Three days

  since he left. I’m not sure they want

  to take him back. He’s good at heart. But how

  can I help Dontay if he won’t change his ways?

  LORD, GIVE ME STRENGTH ROBERTA (CARMEN’S GRANDMOTHER)

  I got to get my own self in control

  before I try to talk to Carmen. Right now

  I’m so mad at everyone, the whole

  world look ugly to my mind. I don’t know how

  LaRayne could leave her girl like that.

  It ain’t how she was raised—she knows what’s right!

  But ever since she took up with that ol’ fat

  ugly thing she call a man, seem like she might

  do anything. Now she don’t even know

  her child’s in trouble. Least she could do is call!

  Lord knows, I want to get the child free.

  I want to help her straighten out. But oh,

  it’s hard. Lord, give me strength to carry all

  the burdens people tryin’ to put on me.

  CAN’T RISK TAKING ANY ACTION MR. HYDE (ASSISTANT PRINCIPAL)

  I got a student complaint this afternoon.

  A Harris Murphy claims he was harassed.

  Note in his locker, incident in the lunchroom

  involving Bradley Smith. We could get slapped

  with a lawsuit, either way we go.

  Brad’s mother is a lawyer. I can’t risk

  taking any action until I know

  the facts. This isn’t drugs, where we can frisk

  the suspect, search for evidence. I

  gave the boy a pamphlet. My advice:

  Gain some weight. Consider what you wear.

  Stand up and look the bully in the eye.

  I told him: You’re too young to make this choice.

  Just wait. There’s lots of pretty girls out there.

  NOT MUCH I CAN DO MRS. GOLDSTEIN (KATIE’S ENGLISH TEACHER)

  Katie used to be among the best

  students in my sophomore honors class.

  Her work was careful, A’s on every test,

  good writer, conscientious. For the last

  few weeks, or maybe months—when did this start?—

  her grades have fallen, first to C’s, now D’s.

  She’s not doing the reading; there’s no heart

  behind her writing. She’s in class, but she’s

  half asleep, and when I ask her to stay

  after school, she says sorry, she can’t,

  she has to be at work by three o’clock.

  She didn’t turn her paper in today.

  It’s half her midterm grade. I guess I’ll grant

  her extra time. She doesn’t want to talk.

  PART IV

  THE DEEP END

  ACROSS WHATEVER SECRET STEPHIE

  Keesha found me crying in the doughnut shop across

  the street from where she lives. I was sitting there alone

  late Friday night. Stephie, is that you?

  She sat down in the booth with me. The doughnut shop

  was almost empty, just one old man and me. It stays

  open all night long, and it seemed safe, but I was getting kind

  of nervous. Keesha’s face looks hard sometimes, but she’s kind-

  hearted. Her eyes can look right through you. Straight across

  whatever secret you might carry, she follows and stays

  with you. I must have felt a little more alone

  than I admitted, because when she sat down, the doughnut shop

  seemed brighter. My words just simmered up. I said, You

  won’t tell anyone, will you?

  She looked at me and shook her head, kind

  of like nothing is a secret. She told me, There’s a shop

  that sells used baby stuff, two blocks down from here, across

  from Pizza Hut. I knew about it. I’d gone in there alone

  the day before, thinking, if this baby stays

  with me, how will I take care of it? Keesha stayed

  and talked (well, listened) for two hours. When I asked, Where do you

  live? she brought me here. She lives here alone,

  I mean no parents; the kids who live here kind

  of fend for themselves, I guess. A room across

  from Keesha’s is empty, sort of. A guy set up a shop

  to make jewelry out of colored wire, and in one corner of the shop

  there’s a bed. Keesha said, No one stays

  here right now; you can use that bed. Across

  the street, people were fighting, a woman was yelling, You

  bastard! I pulled down the shade, tried not to hear. That kind

  of thing, these days, makes me throw up. Keesha left me alone

  and I kept thinking, Can I raise a child alone?

  Do my homework every night and then go out to shop

  for formula and Pampers? What kind

  of mother would I be? Not one that stays

  home and sings lullabies, that’s for sure. Not someone you

  would trust to guide a child across

  the kind of world I see out there. You

  can’t shop for what you really need: patience, strength, a man who stays

  with you. Can I even get myself across the years ahead? Alone?

  HOME COURT JASON

  It’s like I’m playing forward for one team

  and guard for the other

  in the final quarter of the last

  game of the season. I want two things

  at once—Stephie safe, back home,

  trusting me like before,

  and my name in the sports page headlines. Before

  the game today, some of the guys on the team

  helped make missing-person posters. Stephie’s brother took them home

  and her mom and dad and a bunch of other

  people put them up. It’s one of those things

  where if she is okay, she’ll be embarrassed, but the last

  thing anyone wants is another story like the one last

  year, where a girl was missing for two weeks before

  anyone reported her, and then they found her body in the river. Th
ings

  like that can happen, and I’m scared. Coach said the team

  could play without me if there were other

  things I had to do tonight, but it’s the last home

  game of the season, and what could I do at home

  besides wait for a call that probably won’t come? In last

  week’s game, I messed up bad. I want another

  chance to get it right before

  the tournament. We’ve got the best team

  the school’s had in ten years—big things

  could be ahead for us. And for me, next year. Things

  I’ll have to turn my back on if I stay home

  with Stephie. Stay home and watch ESPN, watch the team

  I could have been on, knowing I missed the last

  chance I had to make it big. Sometimes before

  I take a shot, all the cheering and other

  sounds on the court fade out. It’s like I’m in some other

  place where everything

  is clear and silent. When that happens, especially before

  a free throw, I know I’ll sink the shot. It only happens on the home

  court, and the moment never lasts,

  but how can I describe it? It’s like the two teams

  are playing with each other, not against, like it’s home

  court for everyone, and everything’s okay. I used to feel (before

  this baby) like Steph and I were on one team. Could that feeling last?

  THE RIVER KEESHA

  So. That’s that. Stephanie runs

  off; her parents search until they find her,

  bring her home; everyone lives happily ever after, I guess.

  So much fuss about one girl. Of course I’m glad

  she has a home, a brother, parents

  that want her there. Whatever.

  Good for Stephie. She’ll be fine, whatever

  happens with the baby. If she runs

  into trouble, her boyfriend or her parents

  will be there to help her out. This morning, when she called her

  family and they came to get her, they were all so glad

  to see each other. I stood back and watched. I could’ve guessed

  it’d be exactly like this. I’m glad she’s gone. Now I guess

  I can get my homework done, and whatever

  else I got to do today. I should be glad

  (I am glad) I got a bed. Not every kid that runs

  off is so lucky. Like that one girl that used to roll her

  blankets out under the Fourth Street Bridge. I never saw no parents

  look for her. No missing-person posters. Oh well. Who needs parents?

  Only—sometimes, like today I guess,

  I think about that girl, how no one seemed to notice her

  or come and take her someplace safe. It was like, whatever

  happens, happens. The river running

  under that bridge still sings its glad

  and endless song, whether that girl is there or not. I’m glad

  I found Stephie Friday night. Before she left today, I said, If your parents

  ask about me, just say the simple truth: I’m a girl that runs

  track with you. Don’t tell them how I live. I guess

  I’d rather stick with what I got than take my chances on whatever

  someone else might think is good for me. Some caseworker with all her

  rules and regulations. I don’t need her

  stickin’ her nose in my business. I’d be glad,

  though, if I thought my father asked, just once, Whatever

  happened to Keesha? Tried to find out where I’m at, like parents

  are supposed to! Tobias knows I’m here, and I guess

  if anybody asked, he’d tell them. Now I see he runs

  with older kids. They’re prob’ly glad he doesn’t have strict parents.

  Whatever they want from him, he’ll do it. If Mama was alive, I guess

  her heart would break. But me, I’m strong—no tears run down my face.

  LOW-KEY, KEEPIN’ QUIET DONTAY

  I thought I could chill at Carmen’s house a couple

  nights—her grandmama’s usually cookin’ up

  some food. There’s always kids and good times

  over there. So I stopped by, but it was quiet—

  just two of Carmen’s little cousins playin’

  while her grandmama was talkin’ on the phone.

  When she got off the phone,

  she told me Carmen got locked up a couple

  days ago. She said, This time it’s serious, they ain’t playin’

  with her now. I asked when Carmen’s court date was comin’ up,

  but she didn’t say. She was bein’ quiet,

  the way old folks do sometimes

  when they be really mad. Might be times

  she blamin’ me for Carmen’s troubles. I wish I could phone

  Carmen, but there ain’t no way. I found a quiet

  place in the downtown library, spent a couple

  hours there, then came over here to see what’s up

  at Jermaine and Dan’s. New CD’s playin’

  on the boom box; some girls come over; everybody playin’

  ’round, just chillin’. It’s a good time

  over here tonight; things lookin’ up

  for me. Jermaine got on the cordless,

  called out for pizza. Dan has a couple

  six-packs, and everybody feelin’ pretty good. Just a quiet

  group of friends together on a quiet

  night. I’m tryin’ to stay out of trouble, playin’

  it safe, hopin’ Mrs. Mason gonna get a couple

  extra kids so they’ll take up her time

  and she’ll forget about me. Every time I hear a phone

  ring, I wonder if she’s tracked me down, settin’ up

  another placement for me, or maybe makin’ up

  a mess of trouble, listin’ all my problems in her quiet

  voice, then gettin’ on her cell phone,

  callin’ some authority or other. I’m through playin’

  ’round with all that drama. It’s too many times

  now she takes me out to meet some nice couple,

  tries to cheer me up with all her talk about good family times.

  Couple weeks or months go by, phone rings again,

  I’m on my way. Nope. I’m playin’ this low-key, keepin’ quiet.

  MY INSIDE SELF CARMEN

  You wanna know, for real, what keeps me alive

  in here? They try to think of everything

  so you can’t kill yourself—Velcro shoes

  instead of laces, special bags for sleepin’

  so you can’t make a rope out of your sheets,

  and that little camera in the corner

  starin’ at you, seems like into every corner

  of your thoughts. They think I stay alive

  just ’cause they make me. I could fill a hundred sheets

  of paper if I wrote down everything

  they do to keep us in control, awake or sleepin’.

  But it ain’t that. I wake up every day, put on the shoes

  they gave me, and think about the day I’ll get my own shoes

  back. I get way back in a corner

  while my roommate’s still sleepin’,

  and I can just see out the window. I stay alive

  by lookin’ hard at one tree branch. I watch everything

  that happens on that branch. One day last week, sheets

  of ice covered every inch of it. Sun on those ice sheets

  was shinin’ like glass, and I remembered those shoes

  Cinderella wore. You know how in that story, everything

  turns out okay when she comes out from her corner

  and that glass slipper fits her? Sometimes I stay alive

  by thinkin’ of those stories. Rapunzel, Sleeping

 
Beauty. (The tangled branches in front of Sleeping

  Beauty’s castle—remember those? Asleep between her sheets,

  almost dead, but then the girl comes back alive.)

  I know they all just stories. I sure ain’t got no glass shoes,

  or any prince to find me in a corner,

  get me out. It’s just that sometimes, everything

  in here makes me feel dead, and everything

  alive is someplace else. Instead of sleepin’

  off the hours and days, I find some corner

  of my mind to keep alive. They give us two sheets

  of paper, once a week, for letters, and I treat them like new shoes

  to take me where I want to go. I write things down to keep my inside self alive.

  Last night I dreamed a little squirrel was sleepin’ in my shoe

  in a corner of my room at Grandmama’s. There was sheets

  of colored light on everything. Me, Grandmama, and the squirrel was all alive.

  I DON’T CALL THIS STEALING HARRIS

  I need a sleeping bag and a change of clothes.

  I need some food.

  I know where my parents hide the house key

  and where they keep $100, in case

  of an emergency. I know when they’re at work.

  And I know my rights.

  They don’t have the right

  to throw me out with just the clothes

  I’m wearing. I might not start work

  for a couple weeks, and I need food

  till I get paid. In this case,

  I think two wrongs do make a right. Still, this key

  feels wrong somehow. Calm down. Put the key

  in the lock; turn it to the right.

  I don’t call this stealing, but I have a bad case

  of nerves all the same. I’m only taking my own clothes

  plus some cereal and cans of food

  that my parents should’ve given me. If Dad came home from work

  and caught me here, would he say, Look, I’m sorry, let’s work

  this out, or would he take my car keys

  too, so I wouldn’t have a place to keep the food

  I “steal” from him? I don’t know. Right

  now, I think I better grab my clothes

  and get out fast. King wants me to play. Sorry, boy, it’s not a case

  of me not having time for you. It’s a case