8
TO DO: Think about aliens and rap music (and Dad)
“HOW WAS PRACTICE?” Momly asked as usual, turning the radio down as I closed the car door.
“Fine,” I said, right on script, as Momly drove away from MLK Park. Even though I felt like I looked normal, apparently I didn’t.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Maddy, who had been kicking the back of my seat, suddenly stopped. Listened closely for my answer.
“Nothing. Why?” The only thing I could guess was that even though all the drama at practice was over, some of it must’ve been lingering in me. On me. You know how you clear your throat? How you force an almost-cough to get the crackly stuff out? Well, I tried to clear my face. Tried to open my eyes wider and loosen my jaw a little to wipe it back to regular.
“You just seem off, that’s all.”
“Nah, I’m cool,” I insisted, then changed the subject. “Maddy, you need me to help you with your homework?”
“No. We already did it. Momly helped me,” she said, then started kicking the seat again.
Momly turned the radio up. No music. Just talk. People talking about people talking about animals like they people. Which Momly thought was hilarious, Maddy thought it was fascinating because of her upcoming field trip to the farm, and I thought was bang-your-head boring.
“My mother used to take her dog to the spa. Like, the spa . . . for humans. Used to get the ugly mutt massages and facials as if her Chihuahua was living some kind of stressful life. It was unbelievable. That money could’ve gone to her grandchildren for college, for goodness’ sake. But since the dog couldn’t get a degree, it was like she didn’t care. I mean, can you imagine?” a lady on the radio went on and on. Yes, I can imagine, I thought, T-N-T and Becca instantly replacing the Krystal track drama in my head (and apparently on my face), reminding me to tell Momly about my group project “after-school meet-up” thingy I had to do the next day. I bet Becca had one of those little dogs. Probably dressed it up like her twin. Oh boy.
“Hey, so tomorrow after practice, can you take me back over by the school to this girl in my class’s house?” I asked. “It’s for the Frida project.”
“After practice?” Momly turned the radio down again. “Will her parents be there?”
“Her grandmother,” I explained.
Momly nodded. “And who is this young lady?”
“Her name is Becca Broward. She’s okay. I mean, I just want to get it over with so I can get a good number on this project, y’know, to keep Ma off my back.” And not to mention, my feet on the track. Momly could definitely understand that.
“Okay.” There was some hesitation in her voice. “Well, you want me to bring you a change of clothes?” I hadn’t even thought about that. The last thing I needed was to show up at Becca’s house smelling like sweat gravy. Before I could even answer, Momly added, “I’ll just pack a little bag for you.”
At home, after homework, turkey wings, and push-ups with Maddy, Maddy and me laid around in her room, looking at old-school music videos on my laptop while I counted the beads left on her braids. I know the nineties videos seem a little weird, but me and Cotton always watched them, let them play one after another. And because we’d been doing it for so long, Maddy liked them too. Knew all the songs and everything. We loved Mary J. Blige, and that came from my mom. She really got on a Mary kick after my father passed and played her nonstop when we were little. It was truly all about Jesus and Mary. And I get it. I mean, just the way Mary be dancing is worth watching, like she a sixty-year-old man who just hit the lottery. Like she got all dressed up in a fur vest and knee boots, full face of makeup and hair fresh-laid, just to go beat somebody up. To go fight life. Like she had all the answers to all the questions.
And I needed some of them answers. Not just for the track, but also for school—and after school—the next day. Answers for Mr. Winston as he went on and on shouting, “ ‘Cannon to right of them! Cannon to left of them!’ Are ye part of the six hundred? Are ye part of the Light Brigade?” Answers for Ms. Teller in math class as she asked us to describe a cylinder. And even worse, when she asked us to describe a trapezoid, which I wanted to raise my hand and say, “A trapezoid is another name for a scary kidnapper.” But instead I decided to save that joke for me and Cotton.
I also needed an answer to the cafeteria, which to me, always asked the same question, “Where you sitting?” I didn’t just assume I was gonna have another spot over at Becca’s table. So instead of me going in there thinking that, and playing myself, I just did my usual. Got my food, which today was short rib, which was delicious and a little weird because I couldn’t help but think about what animal has a rib this short. I know they say it’s beef, but don’t no cow have a little baby rib like this. And then I started thinking about the radio, about the people talking about people who talk about animals like they people, and I just . . . I just . . . lost my appetite.
For like five minutes.
For one lap around the cafeteria.
Then Becca called me over again. And I (almost did my Mary J. Blige walk over there and) sat down and separated the meat from the bone, while Becca, for the second day in a row, went on about music . . . in space.
“Seriously, my father said there’s like all kinds of stuff on this gold record they sent up there back in the seventies. And not just music. But he said there’s digital photos of people eating and dancing and stuff.”
“So you’re saying, somewhere up in the stars, there’s just random information about us floating around?” the girl sitting next to her, the girl I still didn’t know but that I heard Becca call Sasha, asked. She said it in that I-don’t-believe-you voice, and I couldn’t blame her. Becca was buggin’.
“Yep. But it’s on a gold record. They did it thinking that maybe one day aliens would find it and learn about us.”
Today Macy Franks was sitting directly across from me. She dragged hunks of meat across her plate, sopping up sauce before lifting her fork to her mouth. She chewed, swallowed, then pointed her fork at Becca and asked, “But if aliens do find it, won’t they need a record player to play it on?”
“We don’t even really use those things down here anymore!” Sasha said.
“Plus, what makes you think aliens don’t already know about us? Shoot, I know a few aliens in this school,” Macy added.
The other girls laughed.
“Oh yeah? Like who?” Becca asked.
I looked down at my plate. Chewed my lip for a second like it was a piece of beef.
“Like me,” Macy replied, shaking her head. “And obviously, you!”
Phew. Shoulders back, Patina.
The conversation went on, Becca leading the way, now asking everybody if they could record anything on whatever gold record she was talking about, what would it be.
“I mean, choose carefully, because it’s gonna last forever and might be seen or heard by aliens,” she reminded us.
“I wish I could send what my older brother’s shoes smell like,” Sasha said. “I feel like aliens won’t want anything to do with us, not attack us or anything, if they knew what kinds of smells come out of teenage boys.” I chuckled at that one, only because I spend so much time around boys, I can definitely cosign. It’s like their toes be made of week-old cheesy bread or something.
“This is true,” Macy said, now folding her meatless plate. “I’d probably send some origami. Maybe a fortune-teller with instructions on how to use it. And under every flap it would say, Come to earth, destroy Chester Academy, located at . . . What’s the address here? Whatever . . . destroy the school, find your sisters Macy and Becca, and take them home.”
“Speak for yourself!” Becca’s voice rang an octave higher than normal, putting her at almost glass-shatter level. “Anyway, what about you, Patina? And don’t say anything about Frida Kahlo, either. That’s cheating.”
I could’ve used some short rib to stuff into my face to keep me from having to say anything. The seat was enough, and to be honest, I wasn’t really expecting any actual words to come my way. So I wasn’t ready. Caught off guard. But everyone was looking at me, waiting for an answer. I ran through—and this is gonna sound silly—everything I would want an alien to know about me. About Barnaby Terrace, and my folks. Where I’m from. But I couldn’t really figure out what I would want to go up into space. Pictures? Movies? Red beads? All my first-place ribbons? Better yet, get rid of my stupid second-place one?
“Um . . . it could be anything?” I stalled.
“Yep. I mean, when they first did it, they sent a bunch of music recordings and stuff.”
“They send rap music?” I asked.
“Good question,” Macy propped.
Becca looked stumped. She tapped her temple. “Hmmm. I don’t . . . I don’t think so.”
“Probably not,” I agreed, “because it wasn’t really a thing at the time. So . . .” And then it hit me. Something I never really thought about. Something I never even really heard. But it was important to my family in a weird way. Important to me in a way that kinda lived in the part of my brain that I can’t even think with. It’s like an under-thought or something like that. Hard to explain. “Back in the day, my father used to make beats. I think I’d try to send one of those up there. Either that, or maybe his favorite cupcake recipe.” I sorta shrugged. “I know, super random.”
“I want some cupcakes right now,” a girl whose hair was spun into a tight bun the size of a biscuit on the tip-top of her head said. I hadn’t caught her name yet. I don’t think anybody said it.
“Cupcakes would be cool,” Sasha agreed. But Becca’s mind was somewhere else.
“Yeah, they would be, but what would really be cool is beats, right? I mean, especially if some alien DJ got ahold of them.” Becca did a fake DJ thing with her hand on her plate, like she was scratching records. And then she added, “Does your dad still make beats?” But her voice seemed to slow down, stretched out and distorted all crazy in my ears.
D o e S Y O u R d A D S t i L L m a K E B e A t s ?
My throat. Did I eat the plate without knowing? Did the pointy fingers of the fork break off? Did I swallow them, so now plastic nails were poking the inside of my neck? I never, ever, ever talked about my father in public. Not because I didn’t want to, but because it just never came up. I was more used to talking about my mother. My mothers. The mom situation always became a conversation about why I have two, but never about why I don’t have a dad. If anything, most people just assume Uncle Tony’s my pops, which is cool, but it just never hit me that I don’t really talk about my actual dad. Not even to Cotton. Not to nobody. And so this simple question about whether or not my dad still makes beats tightened the skin around my bones.
“Patina?” Becca’s voice wah-wah’d in my head. “You okay? You look sick.” I had no idea how long I was sitting there, stuck.
“No . . . um, sorry,” I tried to answer. “My father . . . yeah, he, um . . . he’s . . .”
Gone.
But before I could actually say it, the bell rang and it was off to history class, where I had to sit with it all. Had to let the thought of my dad splash around my stomach with whatever a short rib was, while my regular-size ribs felt like they were being bent. A tiny hammer, the one that always knocks on the back of my throat whenever I need to cry, knocking away! And usually, whenever I feel this stuff, it’s soothed by the thought of track practice. By running. But since it was now thundering out—causing Becca to almost jump out of her skin every five minutes in Ms. Lanford’s class, which, along with me struggling to get myself together, kept “Group Frida” from getting any work done—Coach sent out a text saying practice was canceled. The world was proving it hated me. It was like the ultimate hair flip. Like the Earth’s ha-ha-ha.