Chapter 8 #2
My high-five cosigned my agreement. “We’re pros at navigating budget cuts.
But the White House’s orange Telly Tubby need-a-diaper baby dismantling the nation’s Department of Education is a new kind of crazy.
” Now that entire units and support positions were being eradicated, the district proposed dumping record clerks’ and administrative assistants’ duties onto teachers’ overflowing plates. “They want us working out of contract.”
“I’m not doing it, Nette. I was hired to teach.” Nichelle’s old school approach to teaching didn’t always mesh with policy and our everyone-gets-a-trophy-nation sensibilities. Still, she was a powerhouse in the classroom with more than one Educator of the Year award to prove it.
Those awards garnered recognition for our campus and the respect of our administrators, who weren’t sure how to handle an old school yet unconventional in-your-face, tutu-wearing Black woman.
She was the “puzzlement” they gave a wide berth and lots of head-nodding.
“I’m not recordkeeping or contacting parents of students in other classrooms about absences, behavioral issues, or anything else. ”
I clinked my glass containing virgin key lime margarita to her virgin strawberry. “You know what has me worried more than all the extra ish we’re supposed to accomplish? How pending cuts’ll impact ancillary services like special education. i.e. Justus.”
Nichelle’s fork paused en route to her mouth. She sobered a bit. “I swear these pink people want us to make magic from mayhem.”
I grinned at Nichelle’s preferred use of pink people versus Caucasian, thankful for the Black Educators in America conference I’d attended two years into my teaching career that landed us in each other’s orbit.
Our friendship was instantaneous. We’d been tight ever since.
When she transferred to a position at my school eight years ago, we were ecstatic.
She had five more years in the trenches than me.
An educator for the past quarter-century, Nichelle had activist tendencies.
A wife and mom of four who boldly challenged unfair practices and policy inconsistencies, she was wildly outspoken, a lover of color with an equally colorful disposition.
Her wacky wit reminded me of my sister, Shay, and her fashion sense bordered on the insane.
With Bria and Shay living elsewhere I deeply appreciated our sister-friendship. “Less straw. More bricks.”
“Nette, somebody best tell Pharaoh we been free and ain’t going back to Egypt.” She took a bite of her blackened catfish. “You and Paul bust a nut yet?”
I swallowed hard to keep from spitting margarita across the table. “Really, Nichelle? I barely ran into the man two days ago.”
“Did you squirt a little pee when you collided?”
“Hush up, nut! I shouldn’t’ve even mentioned him.”
“But you did. So… you gonna get with him before he leaves?”
I knew Paul was single from chatting with him late last night. That didn’t mean either of us was sexually interested in the other or wanted anything physical. Yet. Plus, I preferred reconnecting in more meaningful ways first. “No, Nichelle. I’m not.”
“Is it possible for besties to share orgasms telepathically? If so, I’ll send you some when I get home to Clayton.”
I snatched my hand back when she reached across to pat it. “Touch your husband not me, you little degenerate.” We were both cackling when I signaled our server for the check. I grabbed it the moment it was within reach.
Nichelle protested immediately. “Nette, quit playing. It’s my turn to treat.”
I handed our server my debit card and smiled as she left. “I don’t remember it that way.”
“You gonna get enough of that Mighty Mama routine.”
I refreshed my lip gloss, ignoring Bestie’s complaint that fell in line with Shay and Bria’s claims. Per them, I had middle-child syndrome and some imbalanced need to pull my weight. As if proving my capabilities. Or worth.
Truth or fiction, sometimes it was difficult receiving. I preferred being on the giving end. And not being a burden. “Just say thanks.”
“Thanks. But that pride still needs a fix.”
“Whatever, Nichelle. Gather your stuff and let’s get.”
I depressed my key fob and unlocked my driver’s door as we exited the restaurant. Parked beside Nichelle’s extended Escalade, my Nissan Rogue seemed toy-like. With four growing boys, her family needed the extra space.
“How’s Mama Terracina?” she asked as I placed my tote on my backseat.
I filled her in on the attic escapade, minus my amniotic tasting. “I hate seeing her decline. I don’t know how it’ll hit when she no longer recognizes us.”
“Girl, you know I know. I’m here for you just like you were there for me with Mom.” She’d recently laid her mother to rest after a long battle with colon cancer. “No matter how hard it got, and it did, I’ll never regret taking that leave of absence and spending those last three months with Mom.”
A wave of gratitude hit me as the shadow of Nichelle’s sorrow kissed the evening breeze.
My bestie’s mother had spent her final days in a hospice facility, albeit attended by a loving family.
Granny’s health didn’t merit such measures.
Yet. As of now, Mama and Aunt Bert’s professional skills allowed them to provide her daily care. We were blessed.
Nichelle shivered as if experiencing a private chill. “Let’s get home before we turn into pumpkins.”
It was nearly eight. In teacher time—with quizzes to grade, emails to check, and our own children’s homework to review—it might as well have been midnight.
We hugged and climbed into our respective rides. I started mine and lowered my window when Nichelle motioned me.
“Answer the phone when I call later and tap into the shuddering. Bestie telepathy!” that nut yelled as I reversed from my parking space, laughing and shaking my head.
“That girl needs cerebral intervention.” I exited the parking lot and took advantage of traffic being stopped at a red light to launch my email app. “Let there be something from UT Austin.”
There wasn’t. I exhaled disappointment and started texting Mama that I was en route to pick up Justus when an incoming text chimed.
U didn’t tell me Fisher’s reopened! R U free 4 ice cream?
Paul’s message put a smile on my face that evaporated as a horn blared.
I looked up to see the light had turned green. The motorist behind me had zero patience for my text-reading. She veered into the right lane, flipped me the bird, and sped away.
“It’s not that serious, chick…” My words drifted like dandelion pappus in the wind as I pulled forward only for a woman waiting at the crosswalk to steal my entire attention. Twilight softened her edges and elongated her shadows, making her seem less real, more imaginary.
Grandma Zinnie?
My plans to dive into family archives after church yesterday never manifested.
Now, I was being haunted by specters on city streets looking like Granny’s mannequin?
I stomped the brake and blinked hard, dispelling what proved nothing but an illusion.
I drove off wondering if I saw what I saw. Or was I on my way to cray-cray?
Paul arrived after Justus was showered and ready for bedtime prayers, a bag of ice cream in hand. Hugging him as he entered, I was glad it wasn’t dress-down Friday, and I was wearing my cute clothes. Navy slacks. Burgundy blouse. Chunky jewelry. Costume. Not gemstone.
“I’m making up for missing Sunday dinner yesterday.” He’d declined my invitation, citing prior plans. A container of pecan praline from the recently reopened old school malt shop we frequented in high school was acceptable atonement.
“Are you a philatelist like me and my dad?”
Paul looked at me when my son pointed at his t-shirt emblazoned with a large, colorful stamp. In its center was the proud profile of a Black man and the text “Ancestor Approved.”
“Justus and his dad enjoy stamp collecting. Philatelist… stamp collector…”
Justus jumped in as “ah-ha” floated from Paul’s lips. “My dad and I have a bunch of stamps. And not just from the U.S. The last one I got was from China. You can see it if you want. Did you like kissing my mom when you were young?”
“J., wanna have ice cream with us?”
“I already brushed my teeth, Mom, so no thanks.”
I exchanged a humorous look with our guest, glad I’d averted my child being in grown folks’ business.
“Good night, Mr. Giles. I have two minutes to be in bed.” Justus quickly shook Paul’s hand. “Come on, Mom. I gotta say my prayers.”
I sent smooth jazz from my phone to the Bluetooth speaker in the great room and invited Paul to make himself comfortable before accompanying my son to his room.
I smiled thinking he was the only child I knew who could decline ice cream.
But, for him, adhering to his regime was more important than a sweet treat.
He’d already brushed his teeth, and it was hard for him to pivot. Maintaining normalcy was imperative.