But then I remember yelling at Nia. Yelling at Granddaddy. Even though it felt good to take all my sad and turn it into mad for once, now I just feel kinda bad. Especially since I was s’posed to be tryna get Nia to be my friend again. I bet I just ruined that for good.
“We’re going outside!” The voice comes from behind me, on the other side of the street, where a boy and a girl race down the porch steps. I stop looking for flowers and watch them instead.
The boy looks older than the girl, maybe even older than me. But not older than Nia. I watch as he pulls the girl in a bright red wagon. I always wanted a wagon like that one, but even after begging Momma and Daddy every year for Christmas we ain’t ever get one. What we did get, one Christmas, was one of them Barbie Jeeps. It was shiny and purple and perfect. Well, cept for the fact that it was a hand-me-down from a middle school girl at our church and it ain’t work no more, plus it was covered with old Sesame Street stickers and lots of rust. But we loved that Jeep like it was brand-new. We used to take turns pushing each other down the sidewalk, but mostly Nia would push me, cause when I tried to push her, we wouldn’t get too far. But she ain’t mind. We would play outside together every day, Nia pushing me in that old Barbie Jeep and me laughing til my face hurt.
The little girl is laughing now, just like that. She has golden pigtails that wave in the wind when the boy tugs the wagon. I wonder what it would feel like if I could touch her hair. Probably like rubbing soft yarn that untwists right in your fingers. Even though I been around white people before, it’s never been this kind of white people. The few white girls at my school in Detroit wore their hair in cornrows just like the Black girls.
A shrill voice comes from the house and the boy and girl look back. A woman is standing on the porch, hands on her hips, yelling something I can’t quite hear. I lean closer, make out a couple words. “Over there” and “careful.” She points in the direction of Granddaddy’s house. The boy and girl look unhappy or confused, I can’t tell which, but head back in.
Disappointed, I look down at the clump of flowers in my hands. Things used to be so easy with me and Nia, back when we used to play together just like them kids cross the street. But ain’t nothin’ easy no more. I can’t give these flowers to Nia. She ain’t gon’ smile, I know it. Silently, I take the flowers back to the field, scattering the rainbow petals on the grass like ashes. Daddy’s gone, Momma’s gone. Nia’s still here, but she might as well be gone, too.
* * *
Later that day, I decide that there ain’t much to do in Lansing. Especially since I been tryna avoid Nia and Granddaddy, which leaves me stuck outside with nothin’ but my thoughts.
After what Nia said bout Momma last night, all I can think bout is gettin’ back home. I don’t know why Nia said what she did, but I know she ain’t gon’ tell me so I gotta figure it out by myself. I run back to the house and sneak inside. Luckily, Granddaddy must be in his room and I hear the shower running, so I bet Nia is taking a shower. I rush to the room and dig through my backpack til I find my yellow spiral notebook that used to be for school, but I had some pages left over so now I use it to write down my ideas and my stories. But today, I make a list.
Back outside, I write in block letters at the top of the page: reasons why momma might not come back. Then I put numbers on the left side of the page and chew the eraser on my pencil while I think. I want five good reasons, but I only end up with four:
She’s mad at Nia for being so rude.
She’s mad at me for crying so much.
Without Daddy, she don’t wanna be a momma no more.
Without Daddy, she ain’t got enough money to take care of us.
I think and think but can’t come up with nothin’ else to add. I read number 1 and number 2, then cross them both off the list. Ain’t no way Momma left us here cause she was mad. She always tells us not to act out of anger, cause later you won’t be mad no more but then it might be too late to fix the action. Then I cross off number 3 cause Momma loves being a momma. I know cause once I asked her if she could be anything in the world, what would she be, and she pinched my chin and said, “I would be this. Exactly this.” Then she went back to humming.
That only leaves one thing: money. I circle it on the page again and again, til the words almost disappear. Of course, it’s money. Money always keeps us from doin’ stuff. Paying for field trips on time. Buying school uniforms that fit. Keeping food in the fridge. And now, it’s why Momma had to leave us here in Lansing. Right? I need to find out for sure.
I jump up quickly and run back to the house. It’s not til I push through the screen door and find Granddaddy sittin’ on the couch, sneer on his face, that I remember the oatmeal fight. In the past bout thirty minutes, my excitement took me from sad to happy and back to kinda sad, but look like Granddaddy still stuck on mad. He glances up at me for a second, then turns his eyes back to the TV without saying a word. I don’t see Nia, but I don’t hear the shower no more, so I figure she’s probably in the room sulking, just like Granddaddy. Good, let her sulk. I don’t mind if she’s still mad at me, but if I’m gon’ get Granddaddy to let me call Momma, I might need to be nice to him. At least for now.
“Hey, Granddaddy,” I say sweetly. He don’t respond or even look my way. I try again. “Granddaddy?” I scoot closer, standing beside the arm of the couch. He still don’t speak, but he presses mute on the remote. Now’s my chance.
“I was wondering if it might be okay if—”
“Kenyatta,” Granddaddy interrupts, finally looking me right in the eye with one eyebrow raised and his head cocked to the side. I can tell this ain’t gon’ be good.
“Yeah?” I whisper.
“Don’t you leave this house without my permission again.” He sets the remote down and folds his arms cross his chest.
“Well, I ain’t really go nowhere, just out in the back mostly, and up front for a little but only to watch them kids cross the street—”
“What kids?” Granddaddy interrupts.
“Umm, I don’t know,” I stammer, “them white kids cross the street with the red wagon.”
“Kenyatta, stay away from around that house.”
“How come?”
Granddaddy’s voice becomes somber as he sits up straight and uncrosses his arms. “Cause they don’t like people like us.”
“What you mean, people like us?” I hope it ain’t a silly question. Maybe they don’t like us cause Granddaddy and Nia both so mean.
Granddaddy is quiet for a while, then finally says, “Kenyatta, do you know bout racism?”
I shake my head, even though I heard the word before. A grown-up word that I pretend not to know so Granddaddy can explain it to me. All I do know is from what I hear other kids say. It ain’t ever happened to me, but some kids at school say that white people sometimes do mean things to them just for being Black, like yell at them or call them names. But I wasn’t ever really sure what to believe, since Momma never told me nothin’ bout racism, and the one time I tried to ask Nia, she opened and closed her mouth once, then twice, before telling me to shut up and leave her alone.