Authors: Nikki Grimes
Paris roused herself from a deep sleep.
“Oh, no!”
Her bedsheets were soaking wet. She leaped to the floor, tearing off her soiled pajamas in a fit of anger. Shame burned through her straight through till dawn.
P
aris made the bed that morning as usual, as if nothing had happened. When she went back to the room after breakfast, Mrs. Lincoln was there, piling the wet sheets on the floor. Paris wanted to bolt, but her feet refused to cooperate.
Any minute now, and Mrs. Lincoln would scream at her. The woman took a step toward her and Paris flinched, steeling herself for a blow.
“Next time,” said Mrs. Lincoln, in her matter-of-fact voice, “you change the sheets yourself. There are clean linens in the hall cupboard. I’ll change the bed this time. You put these in the washer. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Shaking, Paris did as she was told. She carried the sheets and pajamas to the laundry room and stuffed them
in the washer, wondering what horrible punishment awaited her.
• • •
David and Jordan stared at Paris all through breakfast. She felt their eyes on her, but every time she looked up, they looked away.
Do they know about the bed? No. They didn’t see me with the sheets. Their door was closed when I passed by. Wasn’t it?
Paris did her best to avoid the boys for the rest of the day. That was easy enough where David was concerned. He went off to school right after breakfast. But Jordan was home all day, like Paris. He wouldn’t be starting kindergarten until the next week. As for Paris, Mrs. Lincoln had let her stay home this first week to get used to her surroundings. That had worked out just fine for Paris, until now. She’d give anything to be out of Jordan’s line of sight, at the moment.
When Jordan was inside watching television, Paris stepped out onto the front porch, and stayed there until he came out to join her. When he did, she ran to the backyard. When he showed up out back to feed his rabbit and to play with Jet, she went inside.
But her luck at avoiding the boys ran out when David came home from school. She bumped into him on the stairs.
“Why do you cry every night?” asked David, wasting no words.
“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Paris, trying to push her way past the boy.
“Yes, you do.”
“Excuse me. Can I please get by?”
“I hear you through the wall, every night,” said David, refusing to budge. “What’s that about? You scared of the dark or something?”
“Who says I’m afraid of the dark?” Paris burst out. “I never said I was afraid of the dark. Now, get out of my way. Please.” The very idea of the dark made Paris shiver, giving her secret away.
“That’s it!” said David, triumphant. “Little Miss City Girl’s afraid of the dark! Man!”
Paris balled her fists and shouted at him.
“You would be, too, if somebody locked you up in a closet and left you in there all day!”
Oh, no! Why did I tell him that? I didn’t mean to. Stupid. Stupid! Now he’ll tell everyone!
That was the last thing Paris wanted. If anyone else knew, they might use the information against her, lock her up whenever they felt like punishing her.
“Gee. What kind of creep would do a thing like that?”
said David. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t know, okay? I’m sorry.”
Paris dropped her voice to a whisper. “Please, don’t tell anyone. Please. Promise me!”
David touched her on the shoulder lightly. “I won’t,” he said. “I promise.” Then he let her squeeze past him and watched her disappear into her room.
• • •
Later that evening, after dinner, Paris was upset to see David whispering something to his mother.
He promised! I should’ve known better than to believe him.
• • •
Hours later, Paris went to bed. As she did each night, she shivered beneath the covers, dreading the moment Mrs. Lincoln would switch off the light and plunge her into darkness.
“Good night,” said Mrs. Lincoln. Like a swimmer, Paris took a deep breath before diving into the deep. Mrs. Lincoln hit the switch. But something was different. When she turned off the bright overhead light, a smaller, dimmer spot of light appeared on the wall near the door.
A night-light!
“Sleep well,” said Mrs. Lincoln, with a smile in her voice. She began to close the door, but left it slightly ajar
for the first time. A wave of light from the hall added to the pool at Paris’ doorway.
Paris sighed, relaxing her grip on the bedspread, and slipped into a peaceful sleep.
• • •
The next evening, when Paris and David were alone in the dining room setting the table, David said out of the blue, “I used to be afraid of the dark. And of the bogeyman, and of spiders—all sorts of things.”
“Really?” said Paris.
“Really.”
“What did you do?”
“I started keeping God in my pocket.”
“Huh?”
“It’s something my mom told me once. To keep God in my pocket.”
“I don’t understand. How can God fit inside your pocket?”
“No, that’s not it. It just means to keep God close, you know, like he’s right there, in your pocket, close enough to call on, or to talk to. That’s what I do when I’m afraid.”
“And that helps?”
“Yup. Sure does.” And that was all he said on the subject. But it was enough. It was something she’d never forget.
P
aris tried out David’s advice sooner than she expected. A few days after their conversation, she faced her first day at Claremont Elementary.
Standing before a classroom of strangers, Paris held her books tightly in the crook of her left arm, while her right hand was stuffed deep inside her skirt pocket.
“Class, say hello to Paris Richmond. She’ll be joining us, starting today.”
“Hi, Paris,” came a smattering of voices.
“Paris! What kinda name is
that?”
cracked one boy. “And what’s with the blonde hair?”
“That’s enough, Brian,” said the teacher. “Paris, take that empty seat in the third row.”
Paris, whose legs suddenly felt heavy as concrete slabs,
finally made it into her seat after almost tripping, thanks to Brian, who stuck his foot out in the aisle when the teacher wasn’t looking. Giggles erupted like bubbles all around Paris, but the girl sitting next to her leaned close and said, “Don’t pay them any mind. They’re all stupid. Jealous, probably, ‘cause you’re pretty, and unusual-looking, and you got a fabulous name.”
Paris smiled in gratitude, wondering who this girl was.
“I’m Ashley,” she said. “And you’re Paris. We’ll talk later.”
Paris nodded, grinning at her new best friend.
• • •
At lunchtime, Ashley led Paris to the last table in the lunchroom, the one farthest from the door. That way, Ashley said, when the bell rang, they could take their time, and justify being the last ones back to class because they were the last ones out of the lunchroom.
“You sit here, and I’ll go get our milks,” said Ashley. She held out her hand, waiting.
Paris looked puzzled.
“You
did
bring milk money, right?”
Paris had never worried about milk money. Malcolm had always taken care of that.
Paris was trying to figure out what to do when she suddenly remembered the coins Mrs. Lincoln had pressed into
her hand before leaving her in the school office that morning. Paris rummaged in her pocket and pulled out the coins.
“Here it is,” she said.
“Okay. Be right back.”
As the lunchroom filled, Ashley disappeared into the crowd, then quickly returned, balancing three cartons of milk on a tray.
“I’m extra thirsty,” she explained as she plopped down on the bench. “So, where’re you from?” she asked before biting into her spiced ham and cheese sandwich.
“The city,” said Paris, slowly unwrapping her sandwich like the mystery it was.
“When’d your family move up here?”
“Well, they didn’t, exactly.” Paris folded back the waxed paper and studied her bologna sandwich, trying to think of a good explanation without getting into her whole family saga. “I mean, it’s just me who moved here. Forget it. It doesn’t matter how I got here. I’m here, is all.”
“Oh, I get it. You live with your cousins or something, right?”
“Sort of.”
“So, where do
they
live?”
“Riverview Road. At the top of the hill, up by Con Edison.”
Ashley slapped her milk carton down on her tray, creating a pool of white in the corner. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s backside!”
“Huh?”
“That’s something my daddy always says,” Ashley explained. “So, you live with the Lincolns.”
“How did you know that?” asked Paris.
Ashley smiled.
“I live down the street, four houses over.”
Paris laughed out loud. She could not believe her luck.
P
aris didn’t feel lucky when she had to do homework that afternoon, especially math. She groaned her way through it, though, one problem at a time. She was starting on the last subtraction when she was interrupted by Nat King Cole.
Music floated up from the living room. The song seemed familiar, and Paris strained to make out the words.
If ever I should leave you, it wouldn’t be in summer…
Paris smiled. It was one of her birth mother’s favorite songs. Whenever it came on over the radio, Viola would drop what she was doing and dance to it.
One night during dinner, when Paris was about four or five years old, that song came on and Viola jumped up from the table and started dancing. She invited Paris to join her. “Come on, sugar,” she said. “Dance with Mommy.”
Paris had giggled, then let her mother drag her out onto the floor. The two of them danced from one end of the small kitchen to the other, while Malcolm laughed.
“Y’all look silly,” he said. But Paris could tell from the brightness in his voice that Malcolm was enjoying the dance as much as she was.
The music was slow and easy, and Paris didn’t have to worry about tripping over her feet, or getting dizzy enough to bump into things, so after a while, she closed her eyes and let her mother dance her around blind. It wasn’t the least bit scary, though, because back then, her mother was somebody Paris could trust. Somebody she could hold on to. For a moment, Paris was lost in the memory of it—the memory of her mother, and the music, and the dance.
But that was a long time ago. Paris shook off the memory. The song was just a song, now. And the words of the chorus were a big fat lie. The singer promised to never
leave, but somehow Paris’ mother had managed to find a way to leave her.
Paris went back to her math problem. She might not like numbers, but at least she could count on them to stay the same, no matter what.
T
he first week at Claremont Elementary felt like a test. When Paris woke up on Saturday morning, she took a deep breath because she knew she had passed it. Or was it Claremont that had passed
her
test? Either way, Paris found herself thinking maybe this place would be all right. She couldn’t help missing Malcolm, of course, but at least she felt a little less alone, now. She had a friend. Plus David and Jordan weren’t half bad. David had looked out for her from the day he discovered why she was afraid of the dark. As for Jordan, it was kind of fun to have a little brother. She liked it when he needed her to help tie his shoes, or make sure his shirt was buttoned up right. She hadn’t made up her mind about Earletta yet, but Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln seemed okay.
That afternoon, Mr. Lincoln made an announcement. “We’re having a cookout. Last one of the season. Who’s with me?”
“Me! Me!” said Jordan.
“Mmm, ribs,” said Earletta, smacking her lips.
“Mmm, burgers!” said Jordan.
“If you’re going to work the grill, James, I need to pick up a few things at the market. Paris, you and Earletta start working on the potato salad while I’m gone. Earletta knows what to do. Boys, you set the table.”
David hunted in the kitchen cabinets for the checkered tablecloth while Jordan counted out the silverware.
Earletta put on a pot of potatoes to boil.
“What can I do?” asked Paris.
Earletta went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bunch of celery. “You can chop this up,” she said. “And try not to cut off your fingers. I don’t like blood in my potato salad.”
That made David laugh. “Was I talking to you?” snapped Earletta. David stuck his tongue out at her, and continued setting the table.
Paris chopped the celery as evenly as she could, all the while wondering why Earletta didn’t like her.
“Chop these, too,” ordered Earletta, handing Paris a
pair of green peppers. Meanwhile, Earletta peeled a red onion over the sink under a spray of cold water.
“What did you mean that first night?” Paris asked.
“About what?”
“When you said I probably wouldn’t be here that long.”
“Nothing,” said Earletta. “Forget it.”
“Tell me,” said Paris. “What did you mean?”
Earletta turned off the faucet, shook the onion, and laid it on a cutting board.
“You really want to know?”
“Uh-huh.”
Earletta shrugged. “Fine. That room you’re in? You’re not the first foster kid to stay there. Five other foster kids have slept in that room.”
Paris stopped chopping the green peppers.
“Five?”
“Five.”
“Well, what happened to them?”
“Two got in trouble and went to juvie, two went back home to their mamas, and one turned eighteen and left the system.”
“Oh,” said Paris.
“So, I’m bettin’ you’re not going to be here for more
than a minute, either. I’m the only one who sticks, and I’ll be here long after you’re gone. So, like I said, don’t get too comfortable.”
Don’t worry
, thought Paris.
I’m never that comfortable anywhere.
She went back to chopping the peppers.
• • •
When the food was ready, Paris plopped down in the chair next to Mrs. Lincoln, licking her lips at the sight of that mountain of ribs, burgers, and toasted buns in the center of the table. She turned to smile at Mrs. Lincoln and she smiled back. That was when Paris saw a can of beer next to Mrs. Lincoln’s plate. Mr. Lincoln had one, too.