Free From the Notebooks of Melanin Sun by Jacqueline Woodson Page A

“They won’t be throwing down anymore.” He looked around at the crowd. “Did someone die?” he asked sarcastically, and reluctantly, the group began to scatter. “Man. This is one nosey hood.”
    Pancho disappeared back inside his store and Ralph loosened his grip on me but didn’t let go.
    â€œI’ve seen her with that white lady,” Sean said. “I saw them sitting in her car last night. Your mama touching her like they were in love or something.” He spit. Someone else said something, but I couldn’t hear anything anymore.
    I was backing away, then I was turning and running fast and hard as hell away from there. Away from everyone. I hated her. I hated her.

EC
    What is this? What makes life so crazy? How come it’s her of all the mothers in the world that has to be a dyke? How come it can’t be Ralph’s mom? Or Sean’s? Or even Angie’s?

Chapter Sixteen
    It started raining again Monday night and didn’t stop. Tuesday and Wednesday came and went without a word from Sean or Ralph—or Angie. On Thursday morning, when I pushed the plants apart to look out the living room window, I could see Mrs. Shirley was back, her damp-looking pillow propped on the sill, a yellow rain slicker draped over her head and shoulders. Once, I kept thinking, I had a life and friends, and a girlfriend named Angie. But that was a long time ago, maybe in a dream.
    Two little girls walked up the block, wearing matching Mickey Mouse raincoats. Mrs. Shirley waved and the girls waved back, then linked arms and skipped around the corner.
    At seven, Mama came home and started cooking silently. Three times since my fight with Sean she had tried to talk to me, and three times I had turned away from her, mumbling, “Nothing. Just leave me alone.” Now, she was finally listening.
    Every night this week, the minute I heard her footsteps on the stairs, I retreated to my room and put on my music. Tonight, when she came in, I was listening to Arrested Development do their version of that song “Everyday People” and drawing pictures of breasts in one of my notebooks.
    Mama stuck her head in and said something, but the music was up so loud, it seemed like her lips were moving without making any sound. I was sitting on my bed with my back against the wall. When her lips moved like that, I felt my chest go hollow. Something about her being so quiet made me think of death and for the first time I wondered what it would mean if she died.
    No father. No mother. No Ralph. No Sean. No Angie. And it was all her fault, but now I couldn’t even blame her because she was all I had.
    I pulled one of the earphones away from my head.
    â€œYou want green beans or peas?” Mama asked.
    Dropping the earphone back against my ear, I mumbled that it didn’t matter and Mama went back into the kitchen.
    If she died, I’d be alone.
    I stared at my bare feet. The two smallest toes on the left one curled, the smallest one over the next one. Mama said these were her toes and once she showed me, pulling off her shoe so I could see where hers curled in the exact same way. Like twins. What if I was just like her? Even if Angie’s kiss had given me butterflies and made me so hard. . . .
    These were my toes! Me, Melanin Sun, the part of me that didn’t have a single thing to do with any bit of her! Or Kristin. It was them and me. And if she died, our little bit of family would be gone. So we had to hold on to the little bit and maybe stretch it, even if holding on to blood meant losing friends. If she died, I would be the only thing left of us. Me and my stupid, stupid notebooks.
    I would be like the beginning of something—but not really, because I’d also be the end with no connection to a past. Like a third-generation slave with no known relatives. I’d be in an in-between world.
    Mama came back in. Her lips mouthed Dinner’s ready and I shrugged again.