flashback

t e n

 

Danyelle

            I was excited as a fish out of water that Thursday during school. My excitement was undeterred, even when in the hallways kids pretended to bite their ears and pat their chests. I was still excited, even though during Special SSR when I kept reading words wrong. The words were swimming in the page in front of me. I became even more excited, when Mario, who for some strange reason, had the same lunch period as me, and joined me in the cafeteria for the first time. We walked together to our table. With Mario by my side, I didn’t have to use my tray to fend off the spitballs that were being shot at me. Mario was in the in-crowd, and no matter unpopular I was, his presence with me prevented people from being jerks. I saw Bertha scowling at me from the corner of my eye, sitting in a corner with her loser friends. I had a strong urge to give her a grimace, but Mario did that for me.

            We sat together at the table of jocks, with whom Mario sat. I sat awkwardly next to them and stared at the chicken wrap Mario bought for me. “So, who’s this, Mario?” one said leaning over the table. “This is Dan—I mean Danyelle. She’s a sophomore.” Then he glanced farther down the table and introduced me to each of the jocks: “This is Zion, Federico, Corey, Eric, Kyle, and Jeremy,” he said pointing to each of them. I waved shyly. Federico leaned over my tray. His hand hovered over my chicken wrap. “You want this?” he asked me, his mouth already full of potato chips he grabbed from Kyle’s tray. “It’s alright; you can have it,” I said. Zion slapped his hand away. “Leave her wrap alone.” He turned to me. “Federico eats a lot. He’s a quarterback for the Eagles, and when he’s nervous he eats a lot. Especially sweets.” I watched Federico as he grabbed a Hershey’s bar from Jeremy’s tray. Jeremy just smiled as Federico tore into his candy bar. Mario smiled to me. “Jeremy doesn’t say much. But he’s a heck of a basketball shooter. He even makes full court shots.” Jeremy just smiled and shrugged. Zion turned to me. “But when he does say something, it is worth listening to.” I smiled. Kyle picked up his bag of potato chips and just handed them over to Federico. “They’re half done, anyway.” Mario smirked. “We call Kyle the Giver. He’d give his last dime away even if he was in need of it.” Kyle just smiled, “That’s not true guys. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t.” “I’m pretty sure you would,” said everyone at the table, even Jeremy. Kyle just smiled. Mario gave me the other piece of his own chicken wrap that Federico hadn’t snatched up yet. I declined. I was far too excited to eat. “Federico,” said Corey, “You gotta stop eating all that food, chico. Fats, especially the trans-fats, will go right to your arms, bro. To get some energy without the weight, try this choco-special K.” The jocks cheered. I cheered as well. The rhyme Corey made was really clever. I liked it, and was beginning to like Mario’s group of friends. Zion, still smiling, turned to me. “Corey, if he doesn’t get into the NBA, wants to do something with his cool rhyming skills. He wants to be a rapper. Or a poet. Or a health teacher. Notice how much he knows about health and all that stuff? I personally think it’s pretty cool.”

“A health teacher?” yelled Corey. “Just because I know a lot about health doesn’t mean that I should be a health teacher! I want to get into the NBA. I watch what I eat because I need to stay fit.” Corey rippled his muscles. “I actually love junk food!” And he went off into another rap about junk food while everyone cheered. “Junk food, junk food, can’t stay away. Doritos, Cheetos, I adore Frito-Lay. Popcorn, pretzels, salt and vinegar chips are ready and waiting to pass through these lips.” Everyone cheered again, and I laughed with glee. “That was an amusing rhyme, Corey,” said Eric. “What do you do, Eric?” I asked. I must have looked confused because everyone at the table laughed. “I don’t play a sport,” said Eric, his eyes behind his glasses twinkling with amusement. “Oh,” I said. “So what—’’ Zion interrupted me impatiently. “Eric, here, Danyelle, is absolutely brilliant. He may not have muscles and can’t throw a football—’’

I looked down at Eric’s “muscles”. They looked like little brown uncooked sausages. “But he’s brilliant!” said Zion, more excitedly than ever. “Eric knows the names of all the baseball, basketball, football, and foosball—don’t ask—from 1932 to now. He knows each of their signature plays and how many homeruns, dunks, or touchdowns they’ve made in their lifetimes. He knows their dates of birth and death. Eric is a genius!” Beside me, Mario nodded vigorously in agreement, as did everyone at the table. I smiled at Eric, and he smiled a brilliant smile back at me. “And you Zion?” I asked. “What about you?” Zion shrugged modestly, but the rest of the jocks simultaneously answered for him. “Bull.” They all said together. “Bull? Bu—what does that mean?” “Zion is a defender,” said Federico through a mouthful of Mario’s leftover chicken wrap. “A defender? What—’’ “He’s loyal.” Said Mario. “He would defend us to the death,” said Kyle. “Yeah, not to mention he’s great at running track, with the highest record for long distance running in the whole state!” Corey agreed. Zion smiled with his dimple piercing through his chin. “Now,” said Zion. “What about you, Dan?” he asked. “I’m good at math…?” I offered. Zion laughed. “Come on, be serious.” Corey said. I shrugged, and Mario answered for me. “Danyelle’s really brave.” “So are you, Mario. And a heck of a basketball player, too.” I said, to which the jocks all agreed. They all smiled at me, and Federico paused from eating to bring up a conversation about Michael Jordan, which of course got all of the jocks talking, just as the bell rang. “Bye, Danyelle!” they all waved. “Bye, guys!” I waved back, leaving the cafeteria for the first time with a smile on my face.

Ceon

            That Thursday at work was really distressing. It was pay day, and if I didn’t want that jerk Mr. Kublai (a.k.a my boss) to make any of his frequent reductions on my paycheck, I would have to make it through the day without any customer complaints. I don’t think I did anything wrong. I just think that rich snobs didn’t want a scruffy little kid bagging their groceries. I didn’t see the logic in that. I think that anyone would want their groceries, bagged by anyone, if they went to that disgusting Mini-mart on Studebaker Avenue anyway. This day, Mr. Kublai was extremely tense. He kept walking around checking on everyone. The cashier, who was my closest thing to a friend that I had at the mini-mart, Roshawnda, was extremely annoyed with Mr. Kublai’s incessant checking.

            Roshawnda was a hefty dark-skinned woman about 50 years old with kind eyes and broad shoulders, who judging from her accent, had lived far south of Cottondale. “Boy,” she said, turning to me after Mr. Kublai had looked over her shoulder for possible the fifth time that half-hour, “If you get the chance, get out of this here Cottondale.” Could she have read my mind? I didn’t know. “You don’t belong here,” she said, not meanly, but just stating facts. You have no idea, I thought. She swept her thick brown hand over the mini-mart, melodramatically. “This ain’t the place for you, boy.” For some strange reason, Roshawnda never called me by my right name. “You don’t belong nowhere ‘round this here ghetto place, boy.” I looked down at my hands. Roshawnda raised my chin up and forced me to look her in the eye. “Get out of here, boy. I ain’t never gon get outta here, but you the closest thing I got to any son of my own, after Joe—bless his lil’ heart, done dead and gone.” Roshawnda had had a son with cerebral palsy who lived to be eight years old. She made reference of him in everything she did. A customer bought Vienna wiener sausages? “Oh, gee,” Roshawnda would say. “My lil’ Joe used to love these. Gee, he would gobble ‘em down like a lil’ wolf ev’rytime I brought ‘em home for ‘im!” She would wipe her damp eyes on the back of her hands and smile a sad smile in memory of Joseph Stacey Peters. I don’t know how many times I had heard her mention that name in a conversation, but Joseph Stacey Peters was quite a mouthful. She just called him Joe, but I called him JP.

            “Promise me you ain’t gon let go of the goal I’m gon give ya, boy. Leave this place, and don’t look back. Ya promise me?” I nodded emphatically.

            Only a few more customers and Roshawnda and my shift was over. Collecting my paycheck and pushing the check into my worn work satchel, I waved goodbye to Roshawnda with a smile and saluted Mr. Kublai. So long, sucker, I thought to myself. I gave Roshawnda a last hug and as I opened the mini-mart doors to leave, I heard Roshawnda’s voice trailing me: “Don’t look back y’hear? Don’t look back!”

I didn’t.