Free The Dear One by Jacqueline Woodson Page A

Colorado,” I stuttered, nervous all of a sudden.
    Ma stared at me. Then her face fell and she held her head in her hands. “Why, Feni? What’s wrong with the way things are here?”
    â€œNothing. I just—I just think I’ll be happier in Colorado. That’s all.” I had not seen her cry in a long time, and now my arms hung uselessly at my sides.
    â€œAre you and Rebecca not getting along?”
    â€œShe’s okay.”
    â€œIf you’re upset about the bedroom situation, I guess I can move her into the guest room. It’s just so cold in there.”
    â€œMa, it’s not Rebecca or the room or anything. I just want to live with Dad!” My palms were beginning to sweat.
    â€œI thought we were finally becoming friends, Feni.”
    When did that happen? And anyway, mothers aren’t supposed to be your friends.
    â€œCan I call him?”
    She sighed, then pulled out her address book. Seeing how dejected she looked made my stomach queasy. I held my breath for a moment, then exhaled.
    â€œI’ve been trying to do everything I could to make it comfortable for you here,” she said, turning the pages slowly. “I’ve worked my fingers to the bone so that you could have everything you wanted....”
    â€œI do have everything . . . almost.”
    Ma stopped turning. Without looking at me she asked, “What’s missing, Feni?”
    I shrugged, and when she didn’t turn around, I said, “You don’t want me anyway. You want a career and stuff. You don’t have time for a daughter.”
    Ma’s chair swiveled around and she reached over and pulled me to her. “You listen to me, Afeni Harris. And you listen to me good!” Her breath was hot and angry against my face, but I didn’t dare to pull away. “You know I grew up in a family of seven children! Seven children and one mother. No father. No anything! And before I was twelve years old, three of the seven children were dead. Before I was thirteen, my mother had died. I did everything I could to hold what was left of that family together. And we never hugged and kissed and goo-gooed ‘I love you’ to each other. But every one of us knew in our hearts how the other felt! And when the state came in and separated me from my three brothers, I knew that was the last I’d see of them, but we all knew we’d love each other for a long time. Don’t you ever let me hear you say I don’t love you, because if I’m not showing it with words, I’m showing it with actions! I didn’t grow up saying it, so I can’t start now. But ‘I love you’ is in every meal you eat, every piece of clothing you wear, and every clean sheet you sleep on!” She opened the address book and tore out the page with my father’s address and number on it. “Here!” she said, thrusting the page into my sweaty palm. “Call him and maybe he’ll say ‘I love you’ with words. But if he does, ask him to show it too!” She let go of my other hand and I walked toward the door.
    â€œBut . . . everything is about you, ” I said. “Work and AA meetings and bringing Rebecca here. It’s all about what you have to do for yourself.”
    â€œNo, Feni, you’re wrong. It’s also about what I do for you. I stopped drinking for both of us, but especially for you. I work so you don’t ever have to do some fast-food something after school, so you can have dance lessons if you want them, skating and skiing and vacations and food. So you can have nice clothes and private schools and Jack and Jill—”
    â€œI hate Jack and Jill.”
    â€œYou just don’t understand Jack and Jill.”
    â€œIt’s just about a bunch of kids being snobby.”
    â€œFeni, Jack and Jill is about black people taking care of ourselves. When those Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts and Four-H clubs weren’t letting our kids