Every Body Looking

GRADUATION DAYJust look at methey got me out herewearing a dressheelsmakeup hope Mama’s proud she sure does look like itlooking at me and squealinglike proud mamas do whentheir baby looks something like she came from them her squeals bouncefrom every wall of this hotel lobbyher screams shake fromher fragile body exploding like she’s shocked by her own joy unsteady heels clickagainst the tile toward the person she can saywas the best thing she ever didwith her life Here’s the scene: I’m seventeen and graduatingfrom high schooland this weekend I learn to juggle my father and his new wifeare on their way to the Home of the Chicago Doves decked out, like they’re about to glide down the church’s red carpethim in his crispiest suit, her bulging from a flowered dress my baby brother dressedas Dad’s mini identical twin belted in the back seatof my father’s golden Toyota Camry is giddy knowing nothingabout what day it is or how his big sisterwill survive it after picking up her own mommykeeping her seated somewhere she can fidgetfar from his side of the family Mama fidgetsin my passenger seatmore on edge than memaybe cause it’s beenlike five years since we’ve seeneach other but she is here scoffs under her breaththinking, just like herthis hoopty is proofof yet another thingI don’t need shrugs away small thoughtsnot knowingDad demandedI save and buy my first Camrymyself sits and tugsat her lopsided wigpulls down the mirrorreapplies bloodred lipsticksmudges some on her cheekswith her fingers and I thank god knowingwithout thisI may notrecognize her We pull into my high school’s parking lotfor the last day I will ever have to smile at these people like I ever belonged here / for the ten minutes it takes Mama and me to get to the stands along the football field, a place she has never seen / I imagine the sounds of our heels to be / like a song we are for once dancing to together / today / I’m not angry / at her slurred speech / I’m not angry / at her missing teeth / I’m not angry / at her fuss / I’m not angry / that she looks nothing like / the last time I saw her / or that / I don’t know when the next time will be / for the ten minutes it takes Mama and me to get to the stands along the football field / I’m just happy we’re both here / alive My name is Adabut not reallyit’s what my father’s sidecalls me cause I was born first and on this dayI’m only three monthsfrom leaving this place behind they tell me there’sa big world out thereand they tell me there’s so much I can doand I know nothingbut this city but my fatherbut these schoolswhere I’ve always been one of few specksof dingy brownin a sea of perfect white but I know the bibleand I know how to do the right things so how hard could collegereally be How hard could it be to   1. Find a dress that both Mama and Dad would like.   2. Make sure the dress was loose enough to hide all my heavy.   3. Put on heels I could stand for more than three hours.   4. Pick Mama up in my own car.   5. Get Mama to my soon-to-be old school.   6. Sit Mama somewhere I could see her.   7. Run back and forth between Mama and Dad.   8. Smile for every camera.   9. Smile with Mama.   10. Smile when Mama insists that she be the first, after it’s over, to have dinner with me. Dad smiles for his final picture with meloosening the awkward griptightly held on the outsideof my right arm his sharp signature cologneleft to linger acrossmy shoulders a scent just as strongas the bassin the shifting tone of his voice proud of you, Kidyou did goodhe says as if I’d donemy entire high school bidjust now, all in one day thanks, DadI smile back, bashfulwarm under the way he looks at meon the daysI do right standing back I lookat the softness peeking throughthick folds of my father’s face watch yet another attemptto pull his belted suit pantsover the bottom of his round belly now at the end of a long dayunder the football field sun with beads of sweatfaithfully dabbed across his widow’s peak by an old white cloth always tuckedin his back pocket basking in the praiseof his job well done After the pictures are donecaught back and forthon opposite sidesof the crowded field buzzing with families proudof childrenthey don’t really know we pull into the drivewayas the sky surrounding Dad’s houseis deepening toward black from gray Mama glances towardhis front door and backtoward the road behind us scared I think to place a handon her trembling shoulderbut settle for telling her it’s okay, Mom tell her we’ll be a minutetell her I just need to changetell her they’re not home yet but Dad’s house is my house too Mama looks back at mewanting too much to see where I livebut too proud to admitshe needs my permission stares into the side of my facehungry for any scrapI might drop for her to catch reaches for my handas I lift it just in timefrom the gear stick for her to miss shifting my footfrom the brake pedalchecking my phone for the time I tell Mamawe’ve got thirty minutesbefore my father and that woman come home Some kids grew up coming hometo the smell of mustard greensspecial recipe mac and cheesecornbread from scratch and cookiesbaking in the oven to the sound of their mamascreamin at somebody on the tvgetting on her nerves for the tenth timewhile she watches the same shows announcing to the whole housethat this will bethe last time I tripover a child’s raggedy school shoes or telling them you betterclean up that funky alleywaythat you like to callyour bedroom some kids grew upbeing asked aboutwhy their grades ain’tbetter than that and fussinover homework they need to do but my mamawas differentmy mama justwasn’t reallythe type  To keep tabs on me like thatwasn’t really my mama’s style I learned years agowhen she started asking me my age I’d look back at her and wonderhow she could forget when she had me how she could push out a whole personand just forget Mama and I both forgetabout time the minute I turn the keyunlocking the front door to Dad’s house suddenly it’s like we’re surroundedby a museum of forbidden family knowing she can look but not touchMama is everywhere her feet take her wanting to see what we’vebeen up to while she’s away the walls covered with me at every agethat she struggles to remember Mama getting lost in all the picture framesmy fancy life of birthday parties and school plays my first dance recital on a park stagedressed in colorful West African cloth like the other girls a buzz from my phone reminds meto get her upstairs so I can change my clothes From upstairs I can hear Dad’s car door slamand I know they are home alreadyMama’s fidgets come back againand I’m angrywhen just seconds agoher soft hands were glidingacross my picturesmy clothesmy animalsstuffed with loveand a pillow with her picturestuck inside its plastic cover frame freshly painted red fingernailstouching just about everythinghappy to be in the roomwhere her child sleepshappy to be insideand here she isnow filled with fearfilled with how they will see hera stranger squattingin her own daughter’sbedroom I run from my roomclosing the door behind me /down the stairs / I run / so I cansmile and twirl / real sweet once more /for Dad / and his new wifeto dance / in their still-freshpride of the new high school graduate where is she, Dad asks I tell himshe is upstairstell himwe’ll only be a few minutestell himthis is my house too his new wife looks and sucks her teethupstairs, one of the first, down here the lastmy baby brother off playing and obliviousand suddenly I know somewhereit’s written, somewhere it saysmy mama shouldn’t be here Mama shouldn’t be hereso we’re gone quick and quiet five minutes later to eat anywhere but here and Mama is cussin but I smile and turn on the radio, blast the ac cause it’s just her and me I ask her where she wants to go and she tells meanywhere girl I’m with my babyI knew we shouldn’t have gone in there! chile, did you see how she was lookin I pretend it’s all nothing and drive us to my favorite restaurant thumping my fingerson my lap to the beat, leave Mama to keep talking and talking to the tune of herself She already answered this herselfwhen I come back to the motel for her the next daya question she asks in the car on the wayto my graduation party and it sounds like somekind of silly joke where she’s playing or must haveforgotten the party where we are headed is for me I don’t really feellike bein botheredwith all them peopleall them people I don’t knowand they just gon belookin at me and I’m just gon besittin by myself and I just ain’tin the mood to be bothered, you know I ask her what she wants to do insteadbut tell her I’m going to my party, after allit was thrown for me, it’s either she comesor she gets on the next train back, causetoday is supposed to be about me oh I don’t know butI don’t feel like bein botheredI really ain’t tryna go to no partyshe says Away from the party on this drive to the train stationit’s only silent for a few minutesbefore I’m called every name I’m sure I’m not supposed to becalled by my mama but I know this is how she says she’s angrythis is how she says this is her day too this is how she says she’s sorryin her own way, as a mother for breaking all the rules The first thing I do after everyone is goneis shut the doorclose the blinds sometimes being dramaticis my thing but this really wasthe first time I’ve seen this much cashever the room I’d slept infor the past seven years painted a Pepto-Bismol pinkwas now marked an old greenat the center I’d opened eachgraduation card alone skipped Hallmark notestelling me Good Job! and Great Things Ahead! skipped every Congrats on your big day!in search of what mattered most told Dad I didn’t feel likebeing mushy in front of allthose people but truth isI just wanted to count my moneyin peace