But not that day. The rain started the night before, and by morning it was coming down in heavy buckets. Daddy tried to leave, but he opened the door and water from the porch rushed in and covered his feet.
“Maybe you don’t have to go?” Momma whispered from the couch. And for once, that question ain’t start a fight. Daddy stayed, and we played games and ate popcorn and watched movies all day. Even though I caught Daddy staring at the door a few times, he never left, not once. Momma covered his face with kisses every few minutes, I think to thank him for staying. They held hands, me and Nia shared a blanket and a bowl of ice cream, and nobody fought all day long. I thought we were finally fixed. But that night the rain stopped, and it all started again.
Granddaddy’s little room for me and Nia is black dark, so I can’t see nothin’ cept the little bit of light peeking in from under the door. I imagine Granddaddy sittin’ on the porch, rocking and humming in the silent dark, and then I imagine Momma there, too, their knees touching, a smile lighting her eyes. I try to imagine Granddaddy without a frown on his face, but it’s all I can see.
I still got a whole summer here with him, though, like it or not, so I try to start thinking of stuff to do. I wonder if Momma had adventures in Lansing when she was a girl. There ain’t many adventures to have in Detroit, unless you count the times I bought lottery tickets for Momma. Momma don’t believe in spending money on stuff we don’t need, cept lottery tickets. She’d send me to the store with a ripped-out slip of paper filled with numbers, and instructions to tell the man at the counter, “A dollar straight and a dollar box,” which made me feel like a grown-up. Kids ain’t allowed to buy lotto tickets, but nobody ever stopped me.
I must’ve fell asleep, cause even though I don’t remember her coming in, Nia’s knee touches mine in the cramped bed. I can’t see her, but she’s snoring loud as our old, rusty lawnmower Momma taught me to cut grass with after she begged Daddy to teach me for months.
“Nia,” I whisper in the shadowy room. I wanna wake her, make her explain what she said bout Momma. But she only snores louder. I ain’t scared of the dark, but the dark here feels different, like it’s wrapping my whole body in a hug that’s too tight. In my head, I count the piercing cricket chirps. I wanna fall asleep, so I count and count. Seventy-six, then I’m sleep.
2
Granddaddy’s house is quiet in the morning. When we lived with Daddy in the old house—dirt colored and rickety on a dead-end road—summer mornings were noisy: me watching TV, Nia complaining bout her hair or her clothes, Daddy still snoring, Momma humming and cooking buttery pancakes like I like. When Daddy woke, he’d tousle Nia’s fussed-over hair, then spin me around like a carousel to the rhythm of his favorite Al Green records.
This morning don’t feel like those. Granddaddy sits at the table quiet, drinking black coffee from a plain white mug. Nia don’t speak, so I don’t, either. She finds a box of oatmeal in the kitchen and makes a bowl that she puts in the microwave. I hope she makes me a bowl, too, but I don’t ask. Instead, I sit at the table cross from Granddaddy, watching him as he reads.
Granddaddy holds the edges of the newspaper tight in his thick, calloused hands. His eyes barely move when he reads, but I know he’s reading, cause every so often he makes a small grunt in the back of his throat or nods. Nia joins us at the table with two bowls of oatmeal, one for her and one for me. I realize she got the same frown on her face like Granddaddy, and I giggle. Guess we really are family.
I scoot my bowl close and dip my spoon into the oatmeal. Nia made it with brown sugar and butter, just like I like. With Momma gone, I can’t help but be happy that I at least have Nia. She does some things just as good as Momma. I smile at her, my way of saying thank you, but she don’t smile back. I feel the start of tears cramming up into my throat, but I swallow them down, quick. When Nia wordlessly turns to grab more brown sugar from the canister on the countertop, I whisper instead, “You the reason why Momma left.”
Nia turns around so fast she spills a little bit of sugar on the floor. “What you say?” Nia’s head is tilted to one side and her eyes are squinted tight like they almost closed.
“I said,” I start again, louder, “you the reason why Momma left.” I say each word slow, so she can hear me this time. Granddaddy hears me, too, and lowers his newspaper, just a little.
Nia stands there for a few seconds not saying anything. I bet she surprised I said something mean to her for once. Eventually, she rolls her eyes and says, quiet, “You so stupid.”
“Girls.” Granddaddy finally speaks, folding his newspaper and placing it on the table in front of him. I think he’s gon’ say more, but he don’t. Nia comes back to the table and slams her bowl down, hard. I laugh.
“You the stupid one,” I say, feeling confident now.
“Kenyatta—” Granddaddy starts, but I keep going.
“You think you all that,” I yell at Nia, “when you can’t even get good grades in school. All you care bout are your stupid friends, and they dumb just like you. Even Momma don’t like you, and she like everybody! Now I gotta be stuck here with him”—I glare at Granddaddy—“all cause of you!”
Nia and Granddaddy both stand up at the same time.
“Shut up, KB!” Nia yells.
“That’s enough!” Granddaddy shouts.
Satisfied, I grab my bowl and leave the table. I bet Granddaddy and Nia watching as I dump all my oatmeal in the trash, one spoonful at a time. When I’m done, I don’t even look back at them. I grab my book and my rainbow jacket, and I march out the door with a smile on my face.
* * *
With my book in hand for inspiration, I try to see Granddaddy’s world the way Anne would. Everything comes alive as I find the right words to describe what I see. I tread through a patch of mud that covers my sandaled feet. Granddaddy’s house is nestled right in the middle of a quiet street, with towering trees and only a handful of houses on either side. I imagine I’m an explorer at the start of a mysterious journey. Kinda scared and full of questions. There is a giant field in the backyard, and I go there now, cautiously navigating knee-high grass and dodging bugs that fill the air with a whizzing noise like air pushing out of a balloon. I inhale the smell of fresh cut grass. Plants bigger than my head poke up from the dirt in crowded groups, like they ain’t got enough space to stretch. A small, furry animal runs past me and up a tree. I think it’s a squirrel, but it don’t look like them squirrels in Detroit that steal your food if you drop it.
I continue through the squishy mud to the pond, where there’s fish swimming in the murky water and frogs burping on top. Colorful flowers remind me of the rainbows in my books. Back at the dead-end house, we never had real flowers. Momma kept a glass vase on the card table in the kitchen, which mostly stayed empty. But sometimes she would fill it with plastic flowers from the dollar store. The petals on the fake flowers pulled off in mounds with a smell like rubber bands.
I pick a flower that smells like clean laundry and perfume. I pick another, and another. Even though I’m mad at her, picking flowers makes me think of Nia. She never liked Momma’s plastic flowers and would hide them under the sink when her friends came over. I bet, if I picked the right ones and gave them to her, it might finally make Nia smile.