Long Division (24 page)

“Holes to where?”

“I don’t know. Never mind, Voltron,” she said. “Just watch out for the roaches down there.”

“Well then, can I just…you know…get up there with you?”

“Don’t get it twisted, okay?” she said and moved over. “I’m really not about that acting ho-ish life.”

“Whatever that means.” I told her and got in the bed. “I been wanting to tell you that the slang y’all use is kinda stale in the future.”

Baize put four of her green tablets between us. She told me that I couldn’t cross over the tablets without getting punched in the gizzard, and I told her not to worry. It’s not hard to explain what I felt about Baize. She had the perfect mix of funk and perfume. And even though she had a Mr. T-style haircut, she was cuter than a cute girl. And she was finer than a fine girl. And she was way smarter than a smart girl. And she was even weirder than the weirdest girls. But she wasn’t as good-smelling, as cute, as smart, or as weird as the girl I loved. And even if she was, which she wasn’t, I really told myself that if I didn’t touch Baize, then maybe, just maybe, Evan and Shalaya Crump weren’t touching either.

I wanted to stay up and ask Baize more questions about life in 2013, but the day had beaten me down. A few minutes after my head hit that crappy pillow, I turned away from Baize and was cold knocked out.

Some time during the night, I had one of those dreams where you know you’re dreaming. Everything in the woods was a different shade of maroon. Shalaya Crump had my hand in hers and she was pulling me through the woods toward the Freedom School. When we got to the door, everything turned black and white.

“Why you talking weird,” I asked her, “like this is a stupid book?”

We walked all the way to the center of the room, into the smell of burning hair and pancakes. When we stood in the room, the sound of one of those TV shows I watched on Baize’s TV was surrounding us.

“He’s different than you think he is, City.”

“Who?”

“This guy.” Shalaya Crump pulled out a picture of a white boy I’d seen before on TV. He looked like Ricky’s friend on
Silver Spoons
. “Evan.”

“That’s not Evan. That boy is way cuter than Evan. Why you using words like ‘guy’ too? You kissed him, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t, but I want to.”

“Wait. This is a dream. I know it’s a dream, but you can’t really think Evan looks like that? For real. ’Laya, he don’t look like that at all. Why couldn’t you pull a picture out that looked all sick and gangly and like he’s smelling something? You know he’s raggedy as a roach, right?”

Shalaya Crump put the picture in her front pocket and put her hands on my shoulder. I’d practiced kissing her enough to know that I was supposed to put my hands on her hips and come in with my eyes closed and my nostrils kinda flared.

“Open your eyes,” she said, and kissed me on the left side of my lips, then on my cheek, then on my neck. Everywhere she kissed felt like a trail of rubbing alcohol and smelled like butterscotch.

Shalaya Crump was coming back toward my lips. “Do I keep my eyes open?” I asked her. “I ate a banana Laffy Taffy before we got in here. You smell it?”

“Shush,” she told me. “Let’s just do what we want.”

“What if Evan finds out?” I asked her.

“I’m gonna tell my guy,” she said.

“Me too,” I said.

Shalaya Crump pulled me even closer and took my bottom lip between her lips. Every feeling in my body sprinted between my wide hips. And for just about ten seconds, all those feelings screamed and tried to blow out these candles I didn’t even know were lit. After ten seconds of blowing hard as they could, the feelings ran from my hips back to my feet, my toes, my knees, my eyeballs, and wherever else they came…

When I woke up, Baize was standing up looking at me like I was straight crazy.

“What?” I asked her.

“Nothing, Voltron,” she said. “I just read more of that book while you were sleeping this morning.”

“So.”

“So nothing,” she said. “Let’s just go.”

We had to get up early enough that Baize’s great-grandma wouldn’t see that I was in the house. She said her great-grandma got off work at eight and went to her second job from nine to two. The plan was to head back to 1964, get Baize’s stuff, save Shalaya Crump, and never ever jump back in the hole again.

Baize was running around the house getting everything ready, so she really didn’t have time to talk to me about what had happened the night before. I waited out on the porch. When she finally came through the door, she had on a backpack and had a little carry case and a brush in her hand.

“What you doing with all the mess? This ain’t no vacation. We gotta go!”

“It’s a diva thing, Voltron. You wouldn’t understand.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Means that you should mind your stanky business, and let this brush touch your beady beads.” She handed me the wave brush. “If I wanna go outta town looking fresh, that’s on me. If you wanna go outta town looking like the number-one driver on the nappy-head truck, that’s on you. Niggas from the ’80s gotta do what niggas from the ’80s do.”

“It’s just that we ain’t going out of town,” I told her. “I bet you brought money, too, didn’t you?”

“Like I said, you wouldn’t understand. If I had some money, I would’ve brought all of it.” I stood there shaking my head. “Wanna be useful and carry my book for me?” She handed me
Long Division
.

We walked across the road into the woods and headed toward what used to be the Shephard house—what Evan had called the Freedom School. It now had a sign that read “Melahatchie Community Center.” Baize introduced me to a Mexican-looking man named Oscar who had a mullet and a yellow short-sleeve shirt. Oscar held out his hands and gave me some dap. Baize said he worked security at her school, and that he was deaf.

I whispered in her ear, “You know deaf Mexicans?”

Baize ignored me and started throwing sign language with the dude.

After a while, we walked down the hall. “What did you just say to that Mexican dude?” I asked her.

“Don’t call him ‘that Mexican dude.’ His name is Oscar. Please don’t tell me that you’re one of those niggas who stay hating on Mexicans.”

“I don’t know any Mexicans,” I told her. “They seem like they work hard.”

She shook her head. “Dude, just be quiet for a few minutes, okay? I didn’t ask you if they worked hard. Hell, some of them don’t work hard, just like some of us don’t work hard. Don’t you get tired of being such a hater?”

I ignored her question and looked around the center. “So is anyone you know gonna be in the contest with you? This reminds me of that first chapter in
Long Division
, where the main character…”

“Say his name.”

“I think his name was City.”

“If you read the first chapter, you know his name was City.”

“Yeah, well I only read the first chapter, so I don’t know what happens, but City and that other dude compete in some kind of contest, right?”

“Right. But that was a crazy contest. This is just a basic real-life county spelling bee. I hope you know how to act around white folks.”

“Girl, I lived in Jackson my whole life until we moved last year.”

“So what,” she said. “Jackson is way blacker than Melahatchie, dummy. You stay catching L’s, don’t you?”

“L’s?”

“Losses!”

“I feel like I’ve done all this before,” I told Baize. I wasn’t lying. Something about the words, the temperature, and the sound of what I thought was about to happen felt like it had all happened before.

“You haven’t done this before,” she told me. “You just read something like it before, or maybe you had a dream about it.”

While we walked down the hall, we had to shake hands with people. Well, Baize did. I had her dictionary in one hand and
brushed my hair with the other. Soon as someone put their hand out for a shake, woman or man, girl or boy, I’d make a fist while gripping my book. I’d never seen that many white people on Old Ryle Road before, and I was surprised that all the white folks we passed knew to give me a pound. I knew it was the future, but white folks in 2013 acted way more familiar with you than white folks in 1985.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Baize,” said this white lady named Cynthia. “Who is your friend?” She took both of our dictionaries and said that there were no aids allowed beyond this point. Baize said hold on, looked up two more words, and gave it to her.

“This is my friend, Voltron.”

“Voltron what?” the lady asked. “Did you compete in the prelims? I don’t remember seeing your name.”

“Voltron Bailey,” I told the lady. “I was out of town during prelims.”

“He’s from Jackson,” Baize told the lady.

“West side.” “Well, bless your heart.”

“Yes ma’am. Well, he was born and raised in Melahatchie, but he went up to Jackson after the storm. He’s just back here visiting for the week because of all that gang violence up there. You know how it is.”

“Why’d he say he was outta town, then?” she asked Baize. “Is his mind right, Baize?”

“Yes, ma’am. His mind is fine. He’s one of the best spellers in Jackson. He won eighth place in the Jackson Spell-Off last year, didn’t you, Voltron?”

“Yeah, I umm, I made that Spell-Off tap out.”

Baize put her hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “Go ’head and chill with the ad-libs, Voltron. I’m working something here.”

The lady took off down the hall. She kept looking back, though, saying, “Don’t leave. I’ll be right back.”

“Why you lie to that lady?” I asked Baize while we walked into the room.

“Because now I know she’ll let you spell.”

“Why? I don’t even want to spell.”

“Because these folks think Jackson is a shark tank and you’re a black boy and they want to save you before you turn into a shark.”

“Wait,” I said. “Who is a shark?”

“Wow! I’m so glad I didn’t grow up in the ’80s,” she said.

The room we walked into was only thing I’d been in since I’d been in 2013 that felt like home. Everything else from the shiny hubcaps to the six-foot TVs to the music to how folks wanted me to compete in a Spell-Off seemed different. I guess I should describe the room or something since it felt like home, but there ain’t really nothing to say about it except it felt like home. Looking back on a room, you can make up all kinds of flowery stuff about it if you want to, but this room had four dirty walls, a high ceiling, and a dusty floor, and it was empty just like most of the rooms in 1985.

“Let’s do this,” Baize said, and we walked toward the stage.

Even though Baize and I were there together, I felt embarrassed. Embarrassed, I understood on that stage, was just another way of saying I felt alone. It was the first time I’d felt alone since I’d been in 2013 and that was mostly because of Baize.

Right there, though, I remembered that I’d forgotten about Shalaya Crump. Even though I’d dreamed about her, I’d forgotten
how I needed her. If Shalaya Crump would have been there, we could have dealt with the cameras and the crowd together. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do on that stage in front of those people. And even more than that, I couldn’t believe I was on some raggedy stage in 2013 when the girl I loved was 50 years away from me, probably doing something fun and nasty with the ugliest boy I’d ever seen in my life.

I couldn’t see anybody in the crowd because the lights were shining so bright. I sat on the left side, third seat from aisle, and Baize was in the same seat on the other side.

The judge made us stand up for the Pledge of Allegiance. While everyone stood, I walked over to Baize, who stayed sitting. “Look,” I whispered in her ear. “I’m gonna go, okay? Shalaya Crump needs me. Thanks for everything. If I find your computer, I’ll bring it back to you, okay?”

“You can’t leave yet,” she said.

I started walking away from Baize when I heard, “Baize Shephard is our first contestant. I’m sure most of you know that Baize tied for fifth place in last year’s Spell-Off. Baize lost her parents and brother in Katrina eight years ago and she actually lives right down the road. In addition to doing her homework, Baize is an aspiring hip hop performer and entrepreneur. Sounds fantastic. She writes in her bio, ‘If you get it twisted, please tighten it back up, Boo Boo. My name is Baize Shephard, a.k.a. the Baddest Baize in Mississippi. I do not need to win the Spell-Off to know I’m special. This is Baize Against the World, not that
Akeelah and the Bee
life. Hashtag Baize killed swag hashtag my hood to your hood.’”

I looked over at Baize and she was frowning.

“Baize, your first word is ‘abnegations.’”

Baize stepped to the microphone with her fist clenched, looking down at her red, black, green, and yellow hightop Nikes.

“Um, I don’t know how to spell it,” she said. “I thought we were supposed to introduce ourselves.” Baize walked right back to her seat, still frowning. The crowd and the spellers started clapping in spurts. I was clapping loud and hard as hell for her until they called my name.

“Voltron Bailey, from Jackson, Mississippi, we’d like to welcome you. Voltron has been added as an alternate. He is a special wild-card competitor in our Spell-Off. Voltron was born in Melahatchie but moved to Jackson after the storm hit. As a result of all that gang violence, he is back in Melahatchie, where people know how to act. We expect great things from him. Since you didn’t provide us with a bio, Voltron, would you like to say something about yourself?”