At-Risk Read online

  At-Risk

  STORIES BY AMINA GAUTIER

  Lyrics from “God Bless the Church,” written by

  Billie Holiday and Aurthur Herzog Jr., used by permission

  of Edward B. Marks Music Company.

  Published by the University of Georgia Press

  Athens, Georgia 30602

  www.ugapress.org

  © 2011 by Amina Gautier

  All rights reserved

  Designed by Mindy Basinger Hill

  Set in 10.5/14.5 Minion Pro

  Printed and bound by [TK]

  The paper in this book meets the guidelines for

  permanence and durability of the Committee on

  Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the

  Council on Library Resources.

  Printed in the United States of America

  11 12 13 14 15 C 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gautier, Amina, 1977–

  At-risk : stories / by Amina Gautier.

  p. cm.—(Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-8203-3888-0 (hardcover : alk. paper)

  ISBN-10: 0-8203-3888-5 (hardcover : alk. paper)

  1. African American teenagers—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3607.A976A93 2011

  813'.6—dc22 2011010454

  British Library Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

  ISBN for this digital edition: 978-0-8203-4132-3

  contents

  Acknowledgments

  The Ease of Living

  Afternoon Tea

  Pan Is Dead

  Push

  Boogiemen

  Dance for Me

  Girl of Wisdom

  Some Other Kind of Happiness

  Held

  Yearn

  acknowledgments

  “The Ease of Living” first appeared in Colorado Review and has been reprinted in New Stories from the South: The Year’s Best, 2008.

  “Afternoon Tea” first appeared in Notre Dame Review and is reprinted in Notre Dame Review: The First Ten Years.

  “Pan Is Dead” first appeared in the Chattahoochee Review.

  “Push” first appeared in the Southern Review.

  “Boogiemen” first appeared in Notre Dame Review.

  “Dance for Me” first appeared in Southwest Review and is reprinted in Best African American Fiction 2009.

  “Girl of Wisdom” first appeared in Kenyon Review.

  “Some Other Kind of Happiness” first appeared in North American Review.

  “Held” first appeared in Red Rock Review.

  “Yearn” first appeared in African American Review.

  the ease

  of living

  It was barely the summer—just the end of June—and already two teenaged boys had been killed. Jason was turning sixteen in another month, and his mother worried that he might not make it. A week after the double funeral, she cashed in all of the Series EE bonds she’d been saving since his birth and bought him a plane ticket to spend the summer with his grandfather. Distance, she believed, would keep him safe.

  She waited until the day of his flight and told him over breakfast. “It’s not forever,” she said, polishing off her coffee. “Besides, it’s a done deal.” The ticket was paid for, and they both knew she couldn’t afford it. He had no choice. She was taking off the afternoon to ride with him to the airport. She set the mug down and hurried out the door. She had neither finished her breakfast nor cleared the table. On the table she left a small plate holding the crusts from her toast, crumbs, and dollops of jelly clinging to chipped china.

  She had ruined his morning.

  Usually, he couldn’t wait for his mother to leave so that he could go outside and chill. His boys would appear a half hour after she’d gone, and they would have the day all to themselves. This was the time of day Jason loved. The short yellow bus had already come and taken the retarded people who lived in the middle of the block out for a day trip. The adults with jobs were at work; the others were in their homes watching talk shows and soaps. A few girls were scattered on the stoops up and down the block, braiding hair and giggling at nothing. All the boys dumb enough or lucky enough to get summer jobs were out somewhere, supervising kids running through sprays of water, price checking the produce and bagging the eggs separately, or flipping burgers and asking if you wanted fries with that. But not him. Not him and his boys. They had the whole summer to themselves. They could ride down to Coney Island if they wanted. They could go downtown to the movies and sit in the Metropolitan or the Duffield all day to make up for the lack of air-conditioning in their homes. They could each buy one ticket then sneak into as many different shows as they could manage until the evening brought cooler breezes and they could go home once more. Or they could go to the park and watch the girls run around the track in those tiny blue shorts with the white trim. Or they could go to the pool and jump in the deep end with their shorts and sneakers on, dunking all the girls who had slighted them and messing up their hair. They could do anything they wanted. They could even just sit out there on the stoop all day long smoking blunts and saying whatever came to mind. He liked that best of all, but now he had to leave it. He would miss it, the times that couldn’t be pinpointed to a specific action, the times that were as numerous as the days of summer vacation, when he didn’t have to think about school or listen to the things his mother said or accept that the deaths of his two friends meant that nothing would ever be the same again.

  “Hey yo!” a voice called up to his window.

  He pulled out his duffel bag and threw it on the bed. Then he went to the window. He stuck his head out and called, “Be down in a minute!”

  He didn’t know anything about the South or its weather, so he didn’t know what to take and what to leave. His Timberlands, of course, would go. He didn’t need to pack them; they were already on his feet. His favorite baseball cap with the brim broken in half to shade his eyes. His basketball jerseys—Jordan, Ewing, and Starks. His Walkman. His favorite mixed tapes. His clippers so that he could stay smooth. His wave cap and brush. His underwear, socks, and toiletries. The overalls he had gotten his name spray-painted on at the Albee Square Mall. A stack of T-shirts, another stack of jean shorts. A tiny vial of scented oil he’d bought off a Muslim in the street. Everything he needed fit into one bag.

  They were crowded in on his stoop—four boys with blunts and a forty. A dark stain of liquid made an uneven circle on the bottom step of the stoop, where they had already tipped the forty to Kiki’s and Stephen’s memories. Three weeks ago, they had all attended the double funeral. Now, they passed the forty, quickly demolishing it. Then they lit up.

  “Took you long enough,” Howie said, rising slightly to give Jason a pound. Half of Howie’s hair was braided into cornrows that followed the contour of his head and then ended in tails at the back of his neck; the other half of his head was wild, where he had picked the braids loose.

  “I’m here now, right?” Jason said.

  “What, you was sleeping or something?” Smalls asked.

  “Nah,” Jason said.

  “You wasn’t—I mean—you know,” Dawud said, making obscene hand gestures.

  “No,” Jason said, “I got your girl Tanya for that.” Then he told them he was leaving for Tallahassee in a few hours to spend the summer with his grandfather.

  “Damn,” they all said at once, shrinking away from him as if he had a disease.

  “Florida,” said Howie. “And not even Miami, where all the honeys are. That’s the South for real.”

  The package of E-Z Widers came out for those who didn’t have blunts.

  Smalls and Justice were seated on the same step. Justice laughed. “Man, you still rolling th
em little things?”

  “Shut the fuck up, nigga. This shit is better than nothing like my man over here.” Smalls pointed at Jason.

  Howie said, “That’s all right. I got him. It’s his last day and shit. He know I got him. Right, son?” Howie passed Jason the blunt. Jason took it and lost himself in it, focusing only on getting high one last time before he left.

  Smalls said, “Damn! Come up for air. This nigga act like he on death row or some shit.”

  “Damn near,” Jason replied, coughing.

  “Leave him alone. This might be his last blunt for a while. Who know what the fuck they smoke down there? Trees and shit. Corn husks,” Dawud said.

  “Nigga, you a fool,” Smalls and Justice told him.

  Howie pushed Jason. “Damn, nigga, pass that fucking el. I know it’s your last day and all, but you can’t take all that shit!”

  They all laughed at him sitting there, puffing like his life depended on getting high. Then Howie asked, “Why you ain’t never tell us you had you no rich grandfather?”

  “He ain’t rich,” Jason said. Then he shrugged to show that he wasn’t being defensive. That he could care less.

  “Got enough money to just up and send for you,” Smalls said. “He something.”

  “Just old,” Jason said. “Bored, I guess. Lonely.” His mother had paid for the ticket. He was being sent, not sent for, which made all the difference. Being sent for was a privilege, a vacation, a luxury that meant he could do what he wanted and enjoy himself. Being sent was a punishment and a threat. His mother was sending him to get him away from Howie, Dawud, Smalls, and Justice. Pure and simple, it was surveillance. A more motherly version of prison. But his boys didn’t need to know that.

  “You’d be lonely, too, if you was living in Hicksville, two towns over from the middle of nowhere!” Dawud said and laughed. A girl with braids roller-skated by and ignored them when they called to her.

  “You gonna be down in one of them backwards towns like where all that Freddy Krueger stuff be going down. Little ass towns where people don’t be locking they front doors and be knowing each other’s name and be all up in your business,” Howie said. “Better you than me.”

  “I’ll be back before you know it,” Jason said.

  “Don’t come back up here talking all that ‘y’all come back now ya hear,’ know what I’m saying?” Justice said.

  Smalls said, “This nigga gonna be square-dancing. Talking about yee-ha!”

  “Gonna be listening to some Dolly Parton. He come back and be like ‘Biggie who? Tupac what?’” Dawud joked.

  Smalls said, “Least they got honeys down there. You know, them big-legged cornbread-eating girls.”

  “Church girls,” Justice said.

  “Yeah.” They all said it.

  “Good girls. Go to church on Sunday, turn you out on Monday,” Howie said.

  “Put a hurting on you,” Smalls teased.

  “Yeah, clear up all them bumps on your face. Skin be mad clear from all the play you’ll be getting,” Justice said.

  Dawud said, “Won’t know what to do with yourself. Put some in your pocket and save it for later.”

  “Maybe I’ll just airmail some back to you niggas. Be all you ever get,” Jason finally said. He had let them go on at his expense because he had the feeling he would miss them, because he knew the jokes hid the envy.

  Better you than me. They had all been thinking it when Howie said it. But even if they’d wanted to, none of them could have switched places with him. His mother wasn’t a crackhead. They were poor because she was raising him by herself, not because she was smoking her money up or giving it to some fool who was constantly going upside her head. Jason knew who his father was. Every once in a while he even came by whenever his mother asked him to “talk some sense into him.” Many of Jason’s friends had southern relatives, but none of them would ever be sent down South. He and they were different. He didn’t relish the difference, but he recognized it. He didn’t think it made him better; it just set him apart. And Howie and Dawud and Smalls and Justice all knew it, too.

  Which is why they left him out of some things. They never asked him to walk to the store with them because they didn’t want him to see them using food stamps and their sister’s WIC checks. He didn’t have any children either, and some of the boys his age already had two or three. He was almost sixteen, and he was still a punk. Whenever he and his boys caught the train and jumped the turnstiles, he always went second or third to let someone else get caught. Inside he turned to jelly each time while he waited to see if a police officer would come out from behind the door to the fake janitor’s closet. He sold weed only to people he knew. He broke into the public pool only at night when it was all full and no one would be able to pinpoint him specifically if the cops came and broke it up. He didn’t go anywhere with his boys on the first of the month if he could help it. He wasn’t into robbing old ladies and their home attendants for SSI checks. He was a punk in thug’s clothing and he knew it and they knew it, but they were kind enough not to say it out loud.

  He was with them because there was nowhere else for him to be. He wasn’t smart; he wasn’t athletic or artistic or talented in any way. He played basketball and tried to freestyle because everyone else did, but he wasn’t even good enough to be mediocre at either. He had no plans and no prospects. He was a black boy without exceptional height or skill who could not ball and who could not rap, and as such, no one cared what he did or where he went or what he became, least of all himself.

  He didn’t talk to his mother as they sat on opposite sides of his duffel bag and let the taxi take them to the airport. She cast worried glances at his profile; he pretended not to notice.

  “I’m sorry I had to do it like this,” his mother said, “but you know how you are.”

  When he didn’t answer her, she pressed her hands into the cracked leather of the seat. She was still dressed for work and she began to play with the cuffs at her wrists. “It’s just the summer,” she said. “Just a change of scenery. I just want you to get away from all this—this madness for a little while.” Madness, she said, as if it were temporary and had only just come. As if it would not still be there waiting when he returned. As if he could come back and find out that a joke had been played and Kiki and Stephen were still alive.

  She continued as if she couldn’t stop. “Spend some time with your grandfather.” She turned to look at him. He could feel her eyes on his face. He continued to watch Queens’s fast approach as they neared the airport. “He hasn’t seen you in a while and he’s getting on in years. He can’t move around like he used to.”

  To Jason, her words sounded like the plot for a made-for-TV movie. Or like those programs that cities and states were coming up with where they thought that sticking a city kid out in the country for a month would solve all of the kid’s problems. He felt like an experiment.

  When the cab pulled up to the curb, she didn’t get out. His mother kissed him and pushed a wad of crumpled bills into his hand. She laid her moist palm against his cheek and whispered hopefully, “Maybe tonight you’ll be able to get some sleep.”

  His grandfather’s home attendant met him at the airport. She was holding up a cardboard sign with JASON printed carefully on it. Though unnecessary in the small regional airport, the sign made him feel important.

  She introduced herself as Miss Charlotte. When she spoke, her voice made him think of family gatherings and holiday dinners. “I know Cal would have wanted to be here to pick you up himself, Jason,” she said, “but he can’t do all the things he wants anymore.”

  Two years ago, his grandfather had fallen in the shower and had a stroke. Jason’s mother had flown down to Tallahassee to look after her father, leaving Jason with the apartment to himself for two whole weeks. He’d used that time to convince Chanelle to come over and stop playing hard to get. He had not thought of the paralysis that took over the left side of his grandfather’s body. He had thought of that time a
s a vacation.

  This was not the house his mother had grown up in. His grandfather had moved from a two-level three-bedroom house to a one-level two-bedroom home after the stroke made it difficult for him to climb the stairs. Miss Charlotte gave Jason a tour, taking him all over and through the house, showing him what she clearly thought of as the main attractions. She took him to the bathroom and pulled the shower curtain back to show him how the bathtub had been altered to fit his grandfather’s special needs. “Now he won’t have any more nasty falls in here,” she boasted.

  Jason pointed to a large silver-looking handle shaped like an upside down U reinforced in the middle of the side of the tub. “What’s that?”

  “That’s so he’s got something solid to hold onto when he climbs in and out of the tub,” Miss Charlotte said.

  A small rubber mat with upraised bumps lined the bottom of the shower so that his grandfather wouldn’t slip. A wide white plastic chair sat on top of the mat. It looked like more than one person could sit there. Jason lifted it up easily and set it on the small square of tiled floor in the cramped bathroom. The plastic was hard; it didn’t bend or give. It was bone dry. It would have looked like something he could take to the beach if it hadn’t had so many perforations in it to allow the water to run freely. Miss Charlotte explained that his grandfather had to sit to take his showers because one of his legs wasn’t strong enough for him to stand long enough to shower on his own.

  “That’s his shower chair. I set it in the hallway to dry each time Cal is finished with it so that it won’t get mildewed,” she said. “You can go ahead and put that back the way you found it now.”

  She was about to take him to the kitchen and show him the bottle opener, which she used to keep lids loose on all of the bottles in the house, when Jason heard his grandfather’s raspy voice.

  “Is that you, Charlotte?”

  “Coming, Cal!”

  “Hurry up. I want to see him!”

  “We’re coming, you old goat! Keep your pants on!”