Taneesha Never Disparaging (6 page)

The fireplace and mantle were behind us. In front of us, paper and books sprawled across the softness of the big plum rug, spilled over its edges, and spread over the wooden floor like sugar glaze over a Pop-Tart.

My stomach growled. I was about ready for a snack.

“Hey, Taneesha,” Carli said, softly. “Look at the altar.”

I looked at it—a large, cherry-wood table with four legs, and, underneath it, a legless, long cubby that was raised on a platform. The cubby had a row of books inside. The altar seemed the same as always.

“So?”

“No,
look
. Don't you see? It's sparkling. It's almost like fairies are dancing on it. Little Tinker Bells.”

And then I saw. That Carli, she was right. Today, like every day lately, had been cloudy. But right then, a beam of sunlight shimmied through one of the living room windows and burst into tiny points, dancing on the altar's polished wood.

Light danced on the extras that sat on the altar table, too—on the shiny, red and yellow apples in a terracotta bowl and on the rounded glass of the sea-green water jar. And light danced on the pair of vases that sat on the oval end-tables at each side of the altar—black, glazed vases, shaped like teardrops and holding evergreens that filled the room with their pine smell.

For a silent moment, Carli and I just sat there on the floor, watching the sparkly show.

“What's it all for, Taneesha?” she asked, dreamily.

“What?”

“The things on the altar. What are they for?”

“I've told you that before. Plus they talked about it when you came to meetings.”

“Tell me again.” Her eyes still followed the lights.

“Everything stands for the five senses plus water is for purity,” I sighed, annoyed at Carli for making me rattle off information that she should have remembered already: “Fruit, taste. Beads, touch. Bell, sound. Incense, smell. Candles, sight.”

“Your altar doesn't have any candles. Or incense. How come?”

“My parents stopped using candles when I was a baby so I wouldn't start a fire. And my father's allergic to incense. Plus my mother says burning stuff's bad for your lungs.”

“Oh.”

There was a pause.

“What about the branches?” She was talking about the evergreens Daddy had cut off the tree in our back yard. “What are they for?”

“Leaves stand for forever, for no beginning or
end, for how long life lasts.”

As irksome as it was to have to answer Carli's twenty-questions, I couldn't help thinking that my parents would have flipped into extreme gush mode if they'd known I was actually telling somebody about Buddhism. Even if it was just her.

“Forever. Hmm. Cool.”

We went quiet again.

“I wonder what happened to him,” she said.

“Who?”

“That boy from last week, the one who got beat up. I wonder if he's okay.”

“Hope so.”

“Me too.”

More quiet.

“I'm going to chant for him,” I said. It seemed like the right thing to do. “Do you mind?”

“No. I'll do it with you.”

I stood and reached for the most conspicuous part of the altar, the part Carli hadn't even bothered asking about. Maybe because she remembered what
that
was, even though she'd apparently forgotten everything else she'd ever learned about Buddhism.

I opened the Butsudan, or Buddha's house, the
towering, oval cabinet that sat in the center of the altar table, up against the wall. The cabinet that reached toward the ceiling as if it were trying to climb the sky. Then I sat in the middle chair of the three that made a row in front of the altar. Carli sat to my left.

The large altar bell—a shiny, black, bowl-like thing—sat on the floor in the space between Carli and me. The bell was on a purple velvet pillow and the pillow was on a golden pedestal (which was really a big, upside-down brass plant pot).

I took hold of the black wooden handle of the mallet that lay in a wooden cradle on the altar table. With the part of the mallet that was covered in purple velvet, I struck the bell.

While the bell's loud
bong
faded away, I looked up at the object inside the Butsudan, pressed my hands together, and started chanting Nam Myoho Renge Kyo
.
Carli did, too. It felt kind of good knowing we were chanting for the same thing. For that boy.

I sent beams of light to him, just like the light that danced on the altar. I imagined him all glowing, not bloody, very safe, and just fine.

After a few minutes, I struck the bell again and
Carli and I did Sansho
,
we chanted three times slowly.

“I hope that helped,” she said.

“Me too.”

She returned to her spot on the floor and I closed the Butsudan door and followed her. But I didn't start back on my homework right away.

My eyes stayed on the Butsudan. I thought about how I wasn't even tall enough to touch the top of it.

I remembered Mama saying that the rest of the stuff on the altar didn't even have to be there, it was optional. She said that what was
inside
the Butsudan, protected behind closed doors now, was the most important part. I liked to pretend that the tall cabinet was a strong royal guard protecting me, too.

If I had my way, I would never come home to an empty house. But since I almost always do, I imagine that the altar watches over me until my parents get there.

That's a secret, though. I've never told anybody I do that, not even Carli. It's kind of immature.

But if I had known what was coming, while I was all gung-ho on chanting, for every one time
I did it for that boy to be safe and protected, I would have done it a thousand times for me.

I heard keys jingling.

I raised my head and glanced over my shoulder through the archway that separated the living room from the kitchen. Mama's face was in the kitchen-door window. I popped up to run and meet her.

A gust of chilly wind blew through the house when she opened the door. She stood on the floor mat, stomping snow from her boots.

“Hey, Mama.” I grabbed her around the middle of her frosted black coat and gave her a big hug.

“Hey, little lady.” She squeezed me back. “You did a great job today.”

I thought so, too. But it felt good to hear her say it.

“Thanks, Mama. You know what? I had a good time. Even the tidying part wasn't that bad.”

She laughed a little. “Glad to hear it.

“Hey, Carli!”

“Hi, Ms. Ross!” Carli answered from the living room.

Mama glided through the kitchen, peeling away her black earmuffs, coat, scarf, and midnight
blue nurse's smock with glow-in-the-dark galaxies on it; to me, it was her coolest one. She disappeared into the hallway.

I heard water running in the downstairs restroom—Officer HP doing the same wash-yourhands-for-as-long-as-it-takes-to-sing-“Happy- Birthday”-twice routine she bugged me about doing fifty-leven times a day.

Carli and I fixed a snack—popcorn, baby carrots, celery, peanut butter, veggie dip, and hot cocoa. Sitting at the kitchen table with her, I breathed in chocolatey steam. We slurped from mugs, and chomped, crunched, and munched.

“Can you believe it? Next week's the big day already,” Carli said, scooping up veggie dip with a carrot.

“What day?”

“
Election
day, silly.”

“Oh. Yeah. Time flies.”

The election—the last thing I wanted to think about. Why couldn't I just enjoy my snack and savor the fact that my mother said I'd nailed Take Your Child To Work Day?

“So, before my father comes to take me home, how 'bout I help you with your campaign materials?
I picked up some construction paper at the pharmacy in case you need it.”

I grabbed a handful of popcorn. “Um… Thanks, Carli. But, naw. I'm good.”

“Well... Want me to listen to your speech at least? I can give you feedback.”

“No, thanks. I haven't finished editing it yet.”

How about, I haven't even
written
it yet?

“Okay.”

She sounded a little disappointed.

So. I didn't ask her to nominate me.

Still, I felt a little uncomfortable about the whole conversation.

“Well,” she sighed, “just let me know. You can call me. You can read it over the phone.”

“Sure. Maybe I'll do that. Thanks, Carli.”

Thanks for
everything
.

“Taneesha, I've got news for you!” Mama called from outside the kitchen.

“Yeah?” I was glad for the chance to talk about something besides the dang election. “What is it?” My words were garbled because I had a mouth full of popcorn.

Mama walked into the kitchen and sat at the table.

“What's the news?” I asked.

“Well, I was thinking about how much you really liked meeting the children with diabetes, and how much they liked you, too.”

More praise? I
like
it!

“So, you know my supervisor, Marsha, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I asked her if you could come by the hospital after school sometimes to read with the kids. And she said okay. Do you want to do it?”

“Sure! That sounds fun!”

“Yeah, it does,” said Carli.

My thrill faded as soon as I saw her face. I could never stand to see that girl looking droopy. I liked the idea of working at the hospital, but it wouldn't have been fun knowing she missed out.

“Mama? Could Carli come, too? I mean, if Mr. Flanagan says it's okay?” I noticed a little smile curling Carli's lips. That made me smile, too.

“You know, I hadn't thought of that. I bet it'll be fine. I just have to ask Marsha to make sure. How's that?”

“Fine with me!”

“Me too!” said Carli.

One week and four days ago, who would have
believed it? I, Taneesha Bey-Ross, could hardly wait to get back to those little kids at Ontario Hospital—and with Carli at that.

Too bad life couldn't have stayed as sweet as it was right then.

CHAPTER 8

S
nack time's over, everybody. Please toss your trash in the can.”

Gail made that pleasant little request in her pleasant little way. She was the leader of the Elementary School Group, “ESG” for short. Her feathery, blond hair went just past her plump shoulders. And, like me, and a lot of the kids in the ESG room at the Buddhist center my family went to on the southwest side of Cleveland, she had on a sweatshirt, blue jeans, and sneakers. It was Sunday, and it had taken my father about forty minutes to drive to the center from the northeast side of town where we lived.

The ESG room wasn't exactly my favorite spot. But since every first Sunday of the month I had to come to the center with my parents for this World Peace meeting, ESG beat sitting with Mama and Daddy in the Gohonzon room listening to boring speeches and lame music for over an hour. Every once in a while, something fun went on in there, like the African drum and dance group that had played last month, or people would put on a skit or something. But mostly, it was boring.

If it weren't for the snacks I got in the ESG room, I wouldn't have been hanging out there this morning either. I would have hidden in the hallway and ducked into a spare room or the bathroom to stay clear of nosy grown-ups who asked, “Where are your parents, Taneesha?” and, “Why aren't you with the other children, Taneesha?”

Snacks and freedom from big noses was what brought me to those baby meetings where we had to do morning Gongyo
,
our prayers, superslow for new kids. When we went that slowly, it was snooze time for me. Sometimes I snored so loudly I woke my own self up.

“Who knows the story of Bodhisattva Never Disparaging from the Lotus Sutra?”

Gail had a way of sounding so chipper it grated on my nerves. My parents said they'd known her since before I was born. All I knew was she could be too much sometimes.

“Ahmed? Can you tell us anything about him?”

“Nichiren wrote about Bodhisattva Never Disparaging in this letter called—”

That was Ahmed for you. I just knew that one day he'd be a professor of Buddhism or something, with his short, football-player-looking self. But right then, he was just annoying, as usual.

Us kids sat on the floor in a circle. The rug we were on was just like the blue-grey indoor-outdoor carpet we had in Room 509 at Hunter. Except it wasn't as new. The ESG room was like 509 in others ways, too. Actually, it
was
a classroom once. Daddy had told me that the center used to be a one-floor elementary school.

So anyway, there we were, sitting on the floor, all sugared up from granola bars and Hi-C, and Gail and teacher's-pet Ahmed told us about this ancient guy named Bodhisattva Never Disparaging. Gail said people called Never Disparaging names and tried to whop him but he'd run away from
their sticks and stones. She said that nutcase would bow and holler back at the people trying to kill him: “I deeply respect you. I won't get mad at you because you have the Buddha nature!”

“They called him Never Disparaging because he never
dissed
anybody,” Gail said.

It hurt my ears to hear her trying to sound cool.

She went on and on about how great Never Disparaging was for not getting mad while people were hurling rocks at his block head.

Meanwhile, D'Aja, my best bud at Buddhist meetings, who was about my height but a little heavier, leaned her face so close to mine that I almost sneezed from the shampoo smell of the one fluffy afro puff that stuck up on her head like a black dandelion. She whispered: “If those people were so Buddha'd up, why were they trying to beat the mess out of Never Disparaging?”