The Kid

  I’M LAYING IN BED trying to go back to sleep when the social worker comes. What’s she doing here so early? I was laying thinking about yesterday in the park, climbing up the concrete stairs, thinking about how the green grass can break through concrete and how the water can get in, freeze, crack it. I got ten dollars. On the way down pass the basketball court, one of the guys hold up the ball, do I wanna play? No, I like basketball and handball and all that OK. Yeah, I like it, but I don’t want to be bothered with it right now. Right now I’m scoping my environs, wino on the bench, bitches with baby carriages, trash, why people always throwing trash. Broke glass, dog shit. On top the hill, the college, City College. My mom used to go there? October, November, December, January I’ll be fourteen. What’s that? What the fuck is that! I’ll still be a kid. Fuck it.

  I’m pulling the covers over my head, my eyes closed seeing all the trees in the park rustling, leaves fluttering in the wind, falling falling, when she came in my room. That still sounds so funny, my room. This ain’t none of mine, and if it is I don’t want it. But I can’t have St Ailanthus back, or my mother, or father?

  She flicks the light on. “Come on, git up. You ain’t hear me calling you?”

  Yeah, I heard you, I think, squeezing my eyes shut to see the green leaves, leaves turning to money. I hate her nasty-sounding voice.

  “Come on, Abdul, yo’ caseworker here to see you.”

  Caseworker? Caseworker! Shit, maybe I’m out of here. I throw the covers off and jump into my leather pants. I jump out of them just as fast when I see roach crawling out the leg. I turn them inside out and shake them motherfuckers good. One reason to hang up your clothes at night, even if ain’t no Mrs Lee or one of the brothers hollering at you to do it. OK, yeeow! Finally some help, some money, school, a way out of here back to St Ailanthus, maybe I’ll get adopted, I heard they got some movie stars who want to adopt black kids. Jaime said, no, Asian, most white people want to adopt Asian kids, not niggers, black or Spanish. In the bathroom I slide a stick of deodorant under my arms, splash some water on my face, and go meet social services as they say at St Ailanthus.

  Smell of coffee and out the corner of my eye a pale-haired thin woman staring at the wall as I pad barefoot to the bathroom. While I’m hitting my face with water, eyes closed, I see the trees again, but this time the leaves are disappearing, gone. All gone. I dry my face, wipe my eyes. Yeah, all gone, dude—don’t get your hopes up, I tell myself, and head for the kitchen.

  She has the coffee cup raised to her lips taking a sip, she almost spits it out when she sees me.

  “J.J.?”

  Like she don’t believe it.

  I look at her like she’s stupid.

  “Excuse me, you must think I’m crazy. It’s just I was expecting a much younger boy. And, my goodness, you look so much like my son—he’s eighteen, though. Well, sit down, sit down.”

  Like it’s her crib or some shit.

  “I’m Mrs Stanislowski from the Department of Social Services.” She’s skinny, got on jeans, not pretty.

  “You’re, ah . . . well, Stanislowski is my married name. My husband is African and Jewish. So my son’s black, and that’s how come you could look like him, not that you couldn’t look like him if he wasn’t.”

  It would be hard, I think.

  “But you know what I mean. He’s in college, my son.”

  Slavery Days is standing near the stove with her coffeepot. When I sit down, she advances like some kind of fog, coffeepot in one hand, cup in the other.

  “I’m actually Irish,” Mrs Stanislowski says. “My son is Irish, Jewish, and African.”

  She says this like she won Lotto.

  Oh man, I sigh without making a sound. Good we got milk, I think as Slavery Days plops a carton of milk on the table. Whoop whoop-de-doo. I look at the carton: Marissa Samuels, four feet nine inches, last seen December 9, 19—, that’s over ten years ago. I look at Marissa’s pretty face, coal-black eyes, gold chain. She probably got kids herself now, ran off with her honey. The feeling I had yesterday climbing the corroded cement steps in the park that ended in a patch of dirt green with wine bottles and crack vials, sun blocked out by overhanging branches, the bushes smelling of urine. Marissa’s probably in some space like that by now, bones. I wanna snap Mrs Stanislowski’s stupid neck, that’s how I feel right now. My hand is shaking a little bit as I set the milk carton back down on the table. You done got used to pushing people around. The world ain’t a bunch of little kids. I wonder what she knows, thinks she knows.

  “Well, J.J.—”

  “My name ain’t J.J.!” I sneer.

  “I didn’t mean anything J—Jamal.”

  What’s gotten into me? I want to kill her. Crazy Horse, help me! I don’t want to hear all this crap about her son in college. Slap her down! But he wouldn’t do that. He’d say get out of this one alive.

  “Well.”

  She seems totally tripped out.

  “It says here”—she nods at some papers in front of her coffee cup—“I’m to see a thirteen-year-old African American named Jamal Jones, who is referred to as J.J., that’s in parentheses, and his legal guardian, Toosie Johnston.”

  “I don’t care what that bitch says.” I nod toward her papers. She turns red red. “My name ain’t no fucking Jamal, J.J.”

  I never talked to the brothers like that, no matter what they did.

  “Call me out of my name again . . .”

  I stare her down, all this shit I been through for nothing. Shit, I may as well do something if I’m gonna be treated like a criminal. Bitch, I don’t say it but I kind of breathe it.

  “Well, er . . . um . . . ah . . .” She clears her throat. “I thought J.J., Jamal Jones, was your name, so I called you that. Just so we’ll be clear from now on, what is your name?”

  “Abdul. Abdul Jamal Louis Jones,” I say. She writes something on her pad.

  “And my name is Mrs Stanislowski. Some of the kids call me Stan.”

  “I don’t care what they call you,” I tell her, sucking my teeth like Amir at St Ailanthus.

  “Well, maybe you should, J—Abdul, maybe you should.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because you’re thirteen. You may look eighteen, but you aren’t. You’re thirteen. Somebody’s gonna control your life for the next five years. It could be the two of us working together with the Bureau of Child Welfare, or it could be you against BCW, duking it out until we have to lock you up!”

  “Lock me up for what!”

  “J—Abdul, you’re thirteen.”

  “That’s not a crime.”

  “No, but it’s a state of extreme vulnerability—”

  “What does that mean, you got me by the balls?”

  “Like I said, it could be us, by that I mean you and us. Or it could be us—an arrangement with you totally out of control can’t be a very pleasant prospect, can it? Can it, Abdul?”

  I want to shit in her fucking face, then flip her over and rub her face in it while I fuck her.

  “You gonna lock me up?” I sneer.

  “Well, if it comes to that . . .”

  “You and who else?”

  “If it comes to that, whoever else it takes.”

  Hearing the words “locked up,” it’s like Brother Samuel throwing me, everything happened so fast, the walls moving; losing control. It’s not until I’m flat on my back I realize the wall wasn’t moving, that it was me flying through the air. But right now nothing is moving, it seems like even our breathing, mine, Stanislowski’s, Slavery Days’, has stopped. Until I shout.

  “You think I’m just gonna follow you to jail!”

  “No, I don’t. You’ll run away or fight—hurt yourself or somebody else. But we’ll find you—”

  “You’ll find me! For what? I haven’t done anything! You guys fuck up. Send me to some . . . some . . . whatever, then send me to some shit like this! I was just a little boy! A little boy!”

  “You’re still a little boy!” br />
  She’s crazy. I get up. She gets up.

  “Look, look, we got off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. All this is totally unnecessary. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to lay a power trip on you. I was just trying to make sure you knew how serious your situation is and what for no godly reason and through no fault of your own could happen to you. Let’s back up some. I’m here to help, supposedly. I can’t fix it, but I think I can at least help.”

  “Help?”

  I feel the blood rushing to my face. What would Crazy Horse do to a ugly white bitch like this? A woman with a prison in her mouth. Perfect day to die? But I ain’t ready to die. I sit back down.

  “Some mistakes have been made, and it’s terrible, the situation, the mistakes. You’re not a mistake or terrible—that’s what you have to remember. It’s not your fault. I mean, just erase all that nonsense that just happened between you and me. All I’m here for is to ask you some questions and to determine if your present circumstances are acceptable and to get you back in school. I don’t want to make it harder than it already is.” She looks at me. “Especially after all you’ve been through. I want you to win. I’m on your side, if you’ll let me be, really.”

  “After all I been through?” I hate the sound of her voice. It irritates me, it bugs me. Sounds like the voice that killed Crazy Horse, voice of the lying treaties. If she don’t shut the fuck up, I may receive a message from Crazy Horse to kill her. How do you stab someone, like in the movies? I want to get my joint pierced. Nipple too. I wanna jam. I wanna be able to get my leg up! Be able to split. Stanislowski, or whatever this shit’s name is, ain’t worth my wings. I’ll see her, yeah, I’ll see her one day in the park, or subway. Yeah, one day I’ll catch her coming out the subway, she don’t know it’s me behind her. I’ll say, “Hey, Stan,” real nice, and when she turns around—slice! Her fucking face open.

  “What’s going on in that brilliant head of yours, Abdul?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? I know it’s been rough, especially these last few days, week or so. If you decide to make a statement about what happened at St Ailanthus or about any of the brothers, Brother Samuel . . . I mean, you won’t be the only one. You know what I’m talking about?”

  “No, I don’t.” I don’t want to bust nobody at St Ailanthus. I’d never be able to go back then. I sit there saying nada.

  “Ah, Abdul, still here?”

  Wishing I wasn’t.

  “Did you hear what I said about the brothers?”

  “I said no.”

  “Abdul?”

  “Could we talk about something else?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like where I’m gonna be staying on the permanent side, school, money, clothes. Could we talk about that instead of—”

  “Instead of what?”

  “Instead of bulltwinkie.”

  All this time we been talking, Slavery Days ain’t said nothing. She’s standing by the coffeepot on the stove. I’ve never seen anybody make coffee on the stove. Stanislowski looks at her like she’s crazy, then, duh, she gets it. There’s only two chairs, what else is she supposed to do?

  “Mrs Johnston, did you want to sit down? I could—”

  “Thas alright. Once I’m up, it’s easier to jus’ gon’ ’n stay up.”

  “Well, what do you think about all this?”

  “’Bout what?”

  “Well, Abdul has some pretty strong feelings. You haven’t said—”

  “Forgit ’bout all dat ol’ stuff ’n jus’ gon’ git his butt in school.”

  Stanislowski persists. “Well, how do you feel about . . . ah, what Abdul has to say? I mean, you are the guardian.”

  I guess she trying to give Slavery Days a little test? Is she all there? But what if she ain’t gonna be my guardian? That’s my question, but I’m scared to ask. I been listening to kids talk for years about foster homes, group homes, residential facilities—THE SYSTEM, and none of it good.

  “So what shit happened in de first place, thas what he wanna know. Why he got tooked dere is wrong. But people like y’all don’ nevah admit nothin’.”

  Tooked? But she’s right.

  “So what happened?” Slavery Days says again and picks up the coffeepot and shuffles over to the table and fills up our cups like she’s a robot programmed to pour coffee whether we want it or not. Stanislowski is staring at her like she just stepped out of a flying saucer. In my head a picture of a little boy, not me, some little boy like the prince of England, running across grass, no dog shit, no condoms or broken glass, just green. And his yellow hair is blowing, he’s laughing, holding a balloon red against the blue sky. But there’s something in the grass, a board with nails, knives, snakes? Watch out, stupid boy! Watch out! He loses his grip on his balloon—

  “Hey, J.J., what’s going on?” Mrs Stanislowski snaps her fingers in front of my face, which makes me mad.

  “I told you my name ain’t no fucking J.J.!” I slam my hand down on the table, sloshing coffee all over. Slavery Days comes scuffling over with her dirty rag.

  “OK, OK, I forgot, forgive me. Now, where were we on this little home visit?” Stanislowski is looking kinda bugged out. I think I scared her.

  “School, we were talking about school, clothes, and money,” I remind her.

  Stanislowski has a kind of help-me-out-here expression on her face when she asks Slavery Days, “How do you feel about the language Abdul uses to express himself, Ms Johnston?”

  But before the words are out her mouth, she looks like she knows how stupid she sounds. What she wants to ask is what kind of foul shit is going on here or there where he came from, and are you crazy, or just old, or retarded? She wants to ask shit like that, but instead she says something like the language Abdul uses. Slavery Days is ready for her.

  “How you gonna fault him? You gotta look at de peoples who was keepin’ care of him all dis time. He ain’ learnt dat all by his lonesome,” she says sounding almost normal. It’s like she got sense enough to know what someone with sense would say. But I know she ain’t got no sense. Slavery Days is as empty as my pockets.

  Stanislowski stares at her papers. “For now, your grandmother, Ms Johnston, is your legal guardian.”

  Whoa! Slavery Days ain’t my grandmother. Even if she was related to me, she wouldn’t be my grandmother, I don’t think. They ain’t got this shit right at all.

  “She’ll receive money for you and, of course, see to it that your needs are met as far as transportation, food, lunch money for school, and things like that. You’ll get a clothing allowance from us—everything that you need. I think school is the most important thing. Since you were doing so well, I’d like to get you in Boys’ Catholic High downtown, no use in you throwing away everything—the good part, at least—of what you got at St Ailanthus.”

  She stares at my face again like she’s been doing. I know she can’t hold herself back from saying something much longer.

  “What happened?”

  I was right.

  “I fell in some glass playing basketball.”

  “You fell in some glass playing basketball? Where?”

  “What difference does it make?” I press my lips together. I mean it, what fucking difference does it make?

  “Well, in another vein, are you Catholic?”

  Hell no. “Yes.”

  “Was your mom Catholic?”

  “No.” Slavery Days jumps in. “She was crazy, is what she was.”

  Check out who’s talking!

  “Thas another reason you cain’t fault him.”

  Stanislowski look at her like she’s got antennae growing out her head rag.

  “J—Abdul, trust me, I’ll get it right. I mean that in more ways than one. There’s a lot wrong here. A lot. I don’t know all of what it is, but I’m trying to get it right. I mean, I feel terrible about all this shit that has happened to you. It’s not right! You deserve better. I think of my own son. God! At thirteen he nee
ded help tying his shoes, damn near, and you’re just—I don’t know what to say. I mean, this is more than just a . . . a job. I really want to help. I mean, it’s my job, of course, to help. And I want to and am going to, really, really.” She says this in a new sweet voice and looks up and stares in my eyes. “Where was I?”

  Making a play for my feelings. A minute ago she was gonna lock me up, now it’s “really, really.” I’m spozed to wag my tail like a little puppy.

  “Oh, yeah! The YMCA. You dance. Brother John said you were a dancer. We have kids down there in ballet and jazz classes in an after-school program, and I think they have hip-hop and tap on Saturdays. Would that interest you?”

  She fucking knows it would. Wag my tail now, show a crack in the ice. Give her something to write in her report.

  “Cool, that would be cool.”

  She’s happy. Before it’s all over, another half hour or so, she calls me Abdul three or four times with no J.J. shit, and I make her day on the way out when I tell her at the door, “See you, Stan.”

  I close the door behind her. Same shit, different day, like Jaime say, Bureau of Child WellFART! They don’t give a fuck about you. He’s the same age as me but been in the system since he was six. He’s right, don’t nobody really care about you if you ain’t got parents. Like Mrs Washington said, the serfs was fodder for the kings and shit, we fodder for the dickheads like Brother John and Brother Samuel or feel-good fodder for shit like Stanislowski. You ain’t got blood, you ain’t shit! Would she leave her kid in a place like this? Hell no, cunt-ass ho! Remember my mom? What for? It hurts to remember a home, somebody who loved you, maybe it would be better if it was always shit. ’Cause this shit here makes me want to kill something, Mommy’s little boy going to be something one day. What? My whole life turn to shit because she die. Shit shit SHIT! I go to hell because she die. That’s fair? Right? Brother John say forget about the world being fair, learn to work with what is. He say that ’cause he’s big and white and got his CD player and his dick creaming kids’ asses. He got the unfairness working for him. I am a normal boy. NORMAL. They take that away from me? I am a boy. I am intelligent. When all others in the crowd lose their head. What crowd, Mommy? I’m all alone. You said I was gonna be something. What I’m gonna be, police asking me questions, kicked to the curb like dog shit, roaches crawling up my pants? Where am I going? I hate you, Mommy. I hate you.