“Don’t talk to me like that,” James said. “Give it to me.”
My mother was stricken. “What is it, Dana? Dana, honey, what is it?”
“It’s mine.” I felt like I was watching this whole scene happen, that I wasn’t real y me and these weren’t real y my parents.
“You used to like me,” I said to James. “When I was little, you liked me.”
“What are you talking about?” he said. “I like you now. I just need to know what’s in the bag.”
I looked to my mother. “Tel him to leave me alone. There is nothing in the bag. Tel him to trust me. Please. Make him leave me alone.”
My mother looked at the bag. “What has happened to you, Dana? What happened to my little girl? We used to do everything together.”
“It’s not fair,” I said.
“James,” my mother said, “why don’t you run on home? I need to talk to Dana in private.”
“You can’t send me away,” James said. “You can’t send me away like I don’t belong here. She’s my daughter. You’re my family. I need to see what’s in the bag.”
“There’s nothing in the bag,” I said.
“There’s something in the bag,” James said. “Let me see it.”
“Mother,” I said, “tel him to leave me alone.”
Her eyes flickered between the two of us. She looked a long time at the bag, trying to make a guess as to its contents. She took a deep breath, no doubt taking in the smel of the weed, my anger, and my sweat. She knew I had been up to something; I had no argument, no reasonable cover story, but I wanted her to stand up for me anyway. Isn’t love when you defend someone when you know she’s wrong? I didn’t want her to stand up for what was
“Mama,” I said.
“Dana —”
“Mommy?”
“Dana, baby, just show him what’s in the bag. If it’s nothing, show him that it’s nothing. What has happened to you, Dana? What are you doing?
You come home smel ing like grass. You have this boyfriend, a delinquent. Don’t ruin your life, baby. Just show your father what’s in the bag.”
Keeping my eyes on Mother, I opened the bag, turned it upside down, and poured the jel y beans and peanuts on the floor. They made a beautiful mess. Ronalda had gotten these jel y beans special, from Lenox Square. They were al colors, pink with brown flecks, purple, orange. The flavors had exotic names like Pina Colada and Fig Leaf. The sight of them there on the ugly brown carpet made me want to cry.
“Are you happy?” I said, not knowing for sure if I was talking to my mother or my father. I wondered if weed could make me emotional after al . I couldn’t care this much about a bag of candy and nuts.
My parents looked at the mess on the carpet, and then they looked at each other. My mother worried her rings and my father bucked his head as he tried to free the words stuck in his throat.
“I told you there was nothing in the bag,” I said. “You didn’t believe me.”
“From who?” James snapped. “F-f-f-from M-Marcus McCready?”
What right did my father have to the details of my life? He squandered his chance to be the protective father. You can’t come rushing to the rescue six months later. I wasn’t a person to be saved only when it was a convenient time to swoop in.
My mother said, “This boy isn’t good for you. He’s not going to give you anything but a reputation.”
James said, “I-i-if a-al you end up with is a reputation, you’l be lucky.”
“Do you talk to Chaurisse like this?” I said. “I’ve seen her. She walks around looking like a streetwalker. I don’t see you saying anything to her.”
My mother looked at me sharply. We had gone surveil ing at the JCPenney outlet the week before. Chaurisse was wearing a halter top that was too smal for her.
“Don’t talk about my d-d-daughter,” James said. “You don’t know anything about her.”
“That’s it,” my mother said. “This is enough and getting out of hand. Dana, you go on to your room. You wil not see the boyfriend anymore. That’s that. And James, you need to go home and cool off.”
We each did as she said. My father went to his car and blew the horn twice as he was pul ing away, as though this day were like any other. My mother busied herself in the kitchen; I heard the dishes moving around in the cupboard as I lay on my bed, staring at the water spots on the ceiling.
My mother cal ed my name, but I didn’t answer her.
“Dana,” she said, “I know you are not asleep. Come here.”
I made my way to the den, where she sat on the couch James had just vacated.
“Tel me what you’re thinking,” she said.
“You know what I’m thinking,” I said.
“No, I don’t. I don’t know what’s on your mind; you didn’t even tel me about the boyfriend.”
