Free At-Risk by Amina Gautier Page B

going to tell me something.”
    â€œNothing,” Blue answered. “Come on, now. It’s cool. Hey.”
    Our mother looked at Peter. He didn’t answer.
    I did. “Blue got out of the car and he met a man and he shook his hand and then he—” Peter pushed the back of my knee in with his and I stopped talking.
    â€œShaking hands? What is she talking about?” our mother asked.
    â€œJust an old friend I ran into,” Blue said, watching us. “Nothing happened, baby.”
    Our mother didn’t know what to believe.
    â€œNothing happened,” Peter finally said. “We just went for a ride. That’s all.” Then he went to our room.
    Our mother wore a borrowed dress the day of the awards banquet. A mixture of royal blue and black, with four panels that intersected at her waist, held together by a thin black strip of a belt, cut low in both front and back. The dress looked as if meant for dancing, for spins and turns, whirls and dips, not for an awards ceremony. “How do I look?” she asked, pirouetting in the living room, making the panels fly. She was more than a little drunk; she and Blue had killed a bottle of Grey Goose an hour earlier.
    â€œYou look nice,” I said.
    â€œIf looks could kill, baby!” Blue said, clapping and whistling.
    â€œWhat do you think?” she asked Peter.
    â€œWe’re going to be late if we don’t leave now,” he said, pulling on his suit jacket and leading the way out.
    When we arrived and gave Peter’s name, they treated us like royalty. The woman at the table consulted a seating chart, then looked up at us with a bright smile. “Oh yes, our scholarship recipient,” she said. She sent one of the hostesses into the room to tell them we were here. Then she embraced Peter as if he were her own son. “We’ve got a special table up front just for you and your guests.”
    â€œHis guests,” our mother whispered to Blue. “How’s that for something?”
    The first woman handed us to a different woman. She was statuesque, dressed in one of those voluminous dresses that seemed to have no arms or sleeves yet managed to flow over her arms to her wrists like the wings of a dove sweeping down. “Here you are!” she said to Peter, leaning down to hug and kiss him, leaving a lipstick mark on his cheek. Shaking Blue’s hand, she turned to us and said, “This must be your lovely family.” She leaned down to me, managing to smile widely and talk through her teeth at the same time, and said, “You’ve got a tough act to follow, miss. But we know it must run in the family.”
    Then she stood up to meet our mother and kissed her on both cheeks. “And you—you must be so proud.” Then she led Peter away with her, stopping every few minutes to introduce him to someone. Her pride in him was clear. Her arm never left his shoulder.
    We followed a hostess to our table. For the first half of the ceremony, Peter sat at the dais table, his face blocked by a pitcher of unsweetened iced tea and a vase of fresh-cut flowers. Once the meal was served, he joined us.
    â€œYou ever see anything like this before?” our mother asked.
    All of the tables wore skirts. The carpet matched the chairs and drapes. A silver place holder sat in the middle of the table, a rectangular white square nestled securely within it, announcing that our table was reserved.
    Blue watched the well-dressed hostesses. “There’s more gold in here than in Fort Knox.”
    We sat down to plates of salad and we poured our dressing from a bowl like Aladdin’s lamp. Each guest had more silverware and china than I’d ever seen. Three different glasses, four spoons, two forks, two knives, a coffee cup and saucer.
    Sometime during the meal and all of the speeches, our motherbegan to slouch in her seat and sit sideways, propping her feet in Blue’s lap. More than a few people