“I believe I can fly, I believe I can touch the sky. Think about it every night and day, spread my wings and fly away. I believe I can soar, I see me running through that open door. I believe I can fly, I believe I can fly, I believe I can fly.” I tried to sing, even though I was hoarse from practicing every day. Everyone was listening intently, until a tall, lanky, pimple-faced boy named Terrance walked up to the stage and I heard him say something smart like, “Next.”
I stopped singing and said, “What did you say, Terrance?”
“I said ‘next.’ Get your non-singing ass off the stage.”
“Make me get the fuck off the stage,” I said as I looked around to see if Mrs. Drake, the music teacher, was anywhere in sight.
“Yo, don’t be mad at me ’cause you can’t sing and your chest is flat.”
“Your mom, bitch,” I snapped back.
“You calling my mom a bitch?” He jumped on the stage and acted like he was going to fight me. A few other students intervened and separated us. I was not scared at all. I wish he would have hit me. Other boys were coming up to him saying, “You don’t fight girls, man.” He was still saying stuff and trying to get to me like a little girl.
“Let ’em go, because the minute he touches me I’m going to bring my brother up here to knock him out.”
“Yeah, whatever Dracula. You just need to get that fang fixed and shut up,” he said.
“Make me shut up.” I jumped in front of everyone and put my finger up to his temple.
“You lucky you a girl,” he said, backing away from me. “No, you lucky,” I said as I walked away from his dumb ass. “That’s why I hate immature-ass high school boys.” I stomped down the stage steps. Chantel met me at the bottom of the steps and said, “Don’t worry about him.” She was a petite girl with big uncombed curls in her hair and dark chocolate skin. She was very stylish and coordinated, and everything she wore was a designer name.
“Trust me, I’m not,” I said calming myself down. I had shut him right up. He was just trying to get me offstage so him and his friends could do a stupid dance routine.
“Girl, you know you can sing. Last year at the talent show when you hit that high note, people were crying. I saw it with my own eyes. One day you are going to be rich and famous and he’s going to be trying to get an autograph.”
“You think so?” I laughed as I grabbed my bag off the chair and walked toward the door.
“Definitely. And when you make it big, just don’t forget about me.”
“I won’t forget about you. I’ll let you be my backup singer.” I laughed.
We walked down the hall to our lockers. I was so excited that our school talent show was coming up—and ours was not an ordinary talent show. It was a big deal. Everybody from all these other schools and people who already graduated would come to see it. People would always come up to me and say, “What you going to sing for the talent show?” or “Let me hear you sing.” I had been practicing every single day. I was a senior so it was my last year, and I had to go out with a bang. I was singing R. Kelly’s song “I Believe” because it was powerful and I knew I could do it justice. I wanted to sing a song that was in my range. That’s how people mess up, singing songs that are too strong for their voices. My music teacher said you always have to make a song your own, and I planned to do just that.
“Walk me to the bathroom,” I said to Chantel.
We walked into the bathroom to check my hair. It was black with a part in the middle. My skin was cocoa-brown, I was 5?7?, and super slim. My black hair stopped at my jawline. I really think I’m way too skinny. People think being skinny is the best thing. Being skinny is not cool. I don’t have any breasts and I’ve been called everything from Itty-bitty Committee to Piper, but I know I look good, so it doesn’t even matter.
“Well, I have to get to work. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said as I gathered my belongings and walked out of the bathroom.
“You need a ride?” Chantel asked as we walked through the steel-green double doors and out of the building.
“You driving?” I asked, surprised.
“Yeah, my mom bought me a car,” she said, smiling.
“That is so nice. I’m getting a car too!”
“When?” she asked like she didn’t believe me.
“Probably in like two months. I have been saving my money and my brother is going to take me to get my license.”
“How much you have saved?”
“A couple hundred,” I said.
“I don’t think you can buy a car for a couple hundred,” she said like she knew everything.
“You can. My brother John got his car for cheap. He knows all the places to go. He knows about all that type of stuff.”
“Oh, okay,” she said twisting her lips to the side as if she still didn’t believe me. I really did have four hundred saved for my car.
Chantel was the kind of person who wanted to be the only one who had. She liked to be the center of attention. I only hung out with her at school because she is so some-timey. We’d been cool since ninth-grade homeroom. We walked up to her four-door Chevy Celebrity. It was black with burgundy interior. It was nice. She had a peach air freshener hanging from the mirror and red and black dice. I liked it but I didn’t let her know. When she asked, I said it was okay. Chantel dropped me off in front of my job. I thanked her and walked into Newman Pharmacy. Instantly, I was depressed. I had been working there for three months and hated every moment of it. It was a family-owned pharmacy. I had the most boring job ever. Our school was in this mentoring program that partnered with businesses in the city. I wanted to work at a radio station, a dance studio, or even a law office. Something fun or interesting. But instead they put me here in a boring-ass pharmacy where the bell rings every time someone enters and old men complain about losing their prescription cards. I help grannies buy Ensure and find the cheapest diapers for new moms. Price-checking deodorant and soap powder is my specialty.
Like I said, it was boring except for every now and then I saw someone from my school. I seen this girl, Carla, from my school buying a pregnancy test. And another time this boy named Simon, who ran track at my school, bought some crab medicine. When he saw me he looked down at the box and said his sister had head lice. I knew he was lying.
The only other good thing about this job is we got three credits for a work roster, so I got out of school at one-thirty. Plus I got paid and had access to all the good magazines. I loved to look through the pages of all the glossy ones. I liked the rap magazines—they told me what was cool—and the National Enquirer tabloid types, they were funny—two-headed babies and aliens. I imagined myself one day being on the cover of a hip-hop magazine and being rich and famous.
Mr. Newman would come out from the back every once in a while and have me call people to tell them their prescriptions were ready. He was about seventy-two with a shaky hand and voice. He was always complaining that big pharmacies were stealing his customers and putting him out of business. I would act like I was listening, but really I wasn’t.
After I got off work I caught the 17 bus to City Hall then the 13 trolley home. It was cold outside and the trolley let me off four long blocks from my house. In my neighborhood, people were still outside walking around, standing on the corner in front of the Chinese takeout at seven at night. It had snowed the other day and the snow had turned to ice. I was trying not to slip while walking in the street.
I lived with my mother, two brothers, and two sisters. My sister Alanna was eighteen—we are exactly ten months apart. I’m seventeen and she is