From the Notebooks of Melanin Sun (2 page)

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

It had been pouring all week
. Some rain had managed to leak past the crumbling wood around the windowsill, puddling in the corners of it. Now the sky was dark and vague.

“What time is it?” I asked Mama, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I sat down across from her at the kitchen table. It was Thursday morning. Somewhere along the way we had fallen into this routine of me waking up and joining her at the kitchen table, rubbing my eyes and asking what time it was—as though I had someplace important to be. School was out for the summer now and all that was left was hanging with Ralphy, Sean . . . and Mama when she had time.

“Your growing time,” Mama said, a smile curving up at the sides of her mouth. Usually she just told me the time and we left it at that without all the philosophy.

I stopped rubbing my eyes and stared at her impatiently but she was looking off, past the sheets of rain cascading over the windowpane.

The apartment felt damp and cold even though it was the beginning of July.

After a few minutes, Mama turned away from the window, took a long sip of coffee, pulled the sweater she had draped over her shoulders closed, and put her feet up on the small cabinet next to the stove. She's always putting her feet up on something because she says since her legs are so long, she bumps her knees against the undersides of tables.

“I boiled some water for you.”

I got up and made myself some tea, then sat down again.

“What growing time?” I asked finally, not being able to stand the quiet any longer.

Mama looked at me as if I had just spoken another language. I hated when she was like this, mixed up and distant. She called this her “traveling mood.” I call it “distracted.” Sometimes she just goes off somewhere right in the middle of a conversation with you and you practically have to scream to get her attention again. I wondered what was so heavy on her mind this morning that was taking her so far away from me. And why there were bags under her eyes on a Thursday morning.

After a moment, she was back, focusing in on me and although I hadn't noticed my stomach was tight, I felt it loosen, relax. She shifted her legs, took another sip of coffee, and sighed. I stared at the tiny gold hoop in her nose. Last summer she let me pierce my ear and gave me her other hoop. Sometimes we just sit across from each other, playing with our rings. It might seem kind of strange to anyone outside of our family—our tiny, tiny family that's only Mama and me—but to us, it's just something we do. Mama says that's what matters—what feels right to us.

I put my elbows on the table and watched her. Outside, thunder clapped hard, then rumbled back into oblivion. For some reason, I started thinking about my father. He and Mama had never been in love. They went on a few dates or something. Then he moved off somewhere and said maybe they could stay in touch once he settled in a new place. But I guess he never really settled anywhere because he never called.

I frowned and thought about how stupid people can be sometimes. They're always asking me how does it feel not to have a father. How can I know the answer to that? I don't have anything to compare it to. It feels the way it feels. Like if you were born blind. I hate when people start talking about how they feel sorry for blind people because they can't see the beauty of a rainbow or the soft yellows and grays and browns of new kittens. Like a blind person's life isn't as good because they don't have something that other people have. I mean, how could you miss something you never had? People are so caught up in trying to force their own world onto everybody else's that they don't even get the fact that the other person doesn't care. It feels like it's been me and Mama since the beginning. It feels right and whole and good.

“Do you ever think about Jonathan?” I asked.

Mama laughed. The laughter sounded kind of nervous but I wondered if I was just imagining.

“Jonathan was a long time ago,” Mama said, looking off again.

“But I'm part him,” I said. “I mean, he's my father.”

“Depends how you define ‘father,' doesn't it?”

When she looked at me, she was smiling but there was a lot of sadness behind it. Maybe she was missing him. Maybe I shouldn't have even mentioned it.

“Actually, I have been thinking about him, Mel. I've been thinking about all the men in my life . . . a lot.”

“Don't get corny on me, Ma. If you're thinking about getting married, forget it. A couple of dates here and there, but that's it. I'm not going to be calling anybody Daddy.” I laughed, thinking about this. “Can you imagine
me
calling someone
Daddy
? That's craziness.”

Mama didn't say anything but she wasn't smiling. Then she rose and walked past me into my room, which is off of the kitchen. I kept watching her. Waiting for her to say more. Waiting for her to explain that “growing time” thing. But she just mumbled something about having to get dressed for work and walked on through the house to her bedroom. If anyone would have asked about that moment, I would have said I didn't feel anything. Maybe I didn't.

 

 

Our apartment is small. There's a living room at the front of the house. The next room is Mama's, so you have to walk through it to get to the living room and back through it again to get to my room. Then there's the kitchen and the bathroom, which falls off of my room like the bottom of an “L.” Sliding doors, made out of heavy carved wood, separate Mama's room from the living room, where there are so many plants in the two windows that when the doors are slid open, it looks as though you've walked into somebody's jungle. I water them, feed them, and keep them growing. Mama pushes them aside sometimes to look out onto our noisy block. There's a door separating my room and Mama's but we never close it, except if I'm studying late at night and don't want to keep her up or on Saturdays when she likes to sleep in.

 

 

After a moment, I got up and followed Mama into her bedroom. She had sat down on the edge of her bed and was leaning forward to check herself in the full-length mirror on the wall.

“You didn't explain the ‘growing time' thing,” I said, leaning against the headboard. “Don't keep me hanging.”

Mama smiled. “I'm bringing somebody home tonight I want you to meet.”

I made a face. “Why do I have to be here for your date?”

“Because this
somebody
is important to me.”

“And?”

“And
you're
important to me. So I want the two important people in my life to come together.”

“Can't we go to a restaurant?”

Mama smiled again. “Your treat?”

I watched her paint half circles along the bottom part of her eye with black liner. “Don't put that gunk on,” I said. “It makes you look old.”

“I don't mind looking old. Everybody over thirty looks old to a teenager.”

It actually didn't make her look old. It made her eyes look bigger and prettier and made me wonder who was out there so worth impressing.

“Can Ralphael and Sean come?”

“Uh-uh. No friends tonight.”

“Please . . .”

Mama looked at me, smiled, and shook her head. “Don't even try it,” she said, knowing if I wanted to, I could say please with enough sweetness to make her change her mind.

“This isn't about marriage or anything, is it, Ma? 'Cause I'm not walking down anybody's aisle.”

Mama laughed nervously again. “I can't get married, Mel. The world doesn't work that way.”

I had no idea what she was talking about but I was relieved so I backed off the begging for Sean and Ralphael. Shoot. Let them eat at home for once. Mama didn't bring men home that often. I figured the least I could do was sit down and have a meal with one. After all, Mama's dates never hung around too long. And usually, after one or two dates with the same guy, Mama was ready to move on.

Chapter Two

Ralphael and Sean came over
a little while after Mama left for work and went straight to the refrigerator before coming into my room.

“Man, put those faggot stamps away!” Ralphael said, leaning over my bed to watch me separate land tortoise stamps from baby seals. The stamps had just come in the mail from Greenpeace.

“This is the last one,” I said, pressing an elephant seal stamp over its picture in my book. I knew it was faggy to collect stamps but I didn't care. It was something I liked and as long as I didn't start wanting to kiss on Ralphael and Sean, I was okay. A long time ago, I figured out there was two kinds of “faggy.” There's the kind that I guess if I thought real hard, I kind of was. That's the “faggy” that really isn't super macho and has notebooks to write stuff down in. Not diaries. Notebooks. Girls keep diaries. The other kind of “faggy” was the really messed-up kind. That kind actually wanted to be with other guys the way I get to feeling when Angie comes around. That kind made me want to puke every time I thought about it—which wasn't a lot.

Sean sat down on the edge of my bed and eyed my notebooks. “What's those?” he asked. The three of us had been friends for forever and they had been coming to my house for forever. Forever Sean had been asking “What's those?” every time he saw my notebooks.