Read Online Another Brooklyn by Jacqueline Woodson - Free Book Online
Authors: Jacqueline Woodson
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her dingy socks. Angela tucked one foot behind the other, bent into herself. Then, saying nothing, he left.
We stayed up late, watching television sitcoms, eating Popsicles and bags of candy. Sylvia and I worebaby-doll pajamas that felt obscene and made us giddy. We slow-danced with each other. Angela showed us how to French-kiss and we spent hours practicing. We practiced until our bodies felt as though they were exploding.
We whispered, I love you and meant it.
We said, This is scary and laughed.
When Jerome asked where Iâd learned what I learned I said, Donât worry about it because he was eighteen and I was nearly fourteen and nothing mattered but hearing I love you and believing he meant it.
There were days when we sat in front of the television watching Clark Kent fall in love with Lois Lane and understood what it meant to hold secrets close. When Angela cried but wouldnât tell us why, we promised her our loyalty, reminded herthat she was beautiful, said Knock, Knock, Angela. Let us in, let us in. We stroked the sharp knots of her cheekbones, moved our fingers gently over her lips, lifted her shirt, and kissed her breasts. We said, Youâre so beautiful. We said, Donât be afraid. We said, Donât cry.
When she danced, her dance told stories none of us were old enough to hear, the deep arch of her back, the long neck impossibly turned, the hands begging air into her chest.
What are you saying, we begged. Tell us what it is you need.
But Angela was silent.
On the Fourth of July, my father took all of us to the East River, where thousands of people crowded to watch fireworks explode above the water. Pressed against each other, Angela whispered into my ear, Iâm gonna leave this place one day.
I promised her weâd go with her.
But Angela shook her head, her straightened hair hot curled into a mushroom low over her brow and ears. She stared straight ahead at the fireworks.
Nah, she said. Yaâll wonât.
That night, as New York and the rest of the country celebrated its independence, everywhere we looked, the world was red, white, and blue. We had shared a joint in the smoky bathroom of a crowded McDonaldâs and felt wild and giddy and free. On the subway home, someoneâs boom box played â50 Ways to Leave Your Loverâ and we all laughed, singing along.
Hop on the bus, Gus. You donât need to discuss much.
Angela nodding, saying, You know thatâs right!
On a different planet, we could have been Lois Lane or Tarzanâs Jane or Mary Tyler Moore or Marlo Thomas. We could have thrown our hats up, twirled and smiled. We could have made it after all. We watched the shows. We knew the songs. We sang along when Mary was big-eyed and awed by Minneapolis. We dreamed with Marlo of someday hitting the big time. We took off with the Flying Nun.
But we were young. And we were on earth, heading home to Brooklyn.
12
I looked for Jennieâs children in the faces of strangers. The terrified girl with her hand closed tight around pieces of bologna, the boy with his too-small shoes. The night the woman came to take them, they had cried late into the day. My brother and I went down to get them, but the door was locked. Open the door, we said again and again. But even though we could hear them crying, they wouldnât open it. So we went back upstairs and turned the radio on.
They were on this side of the Biafran war, filling their mouths with whatever we offered, theirstomachs never seeming full. Same dark skin. Same fearful eyes. Where had they been taken to this time?
Open the door, we said. Itâs us. We have food upstairs. We can play hide-and-seek. Please open the door, we said. We can take you someplace better.
We were not poor but we lived on the edge of poverty.
Alana moved in across the street. She wore menâs suits and did the hustle with her green-eyed girlfriend inside the front gate, her perfect dome of an Afro bouncing. When she
We stayed up late, watching television sitcoms, eating Popsicles and bags of candy. Sylvia and I worebaby-doll pajamas that felt obscene and made us giddy. We slow-danced with each other. Angela showed us how to French-kiss and we spent hours practicing. We practiced until our bodies felt as though they were exploding.
We whispered, I love you and meant it.
We said, This is scary and laughed.
When Jerome asked where Iâd learned what I learned I said, Donât worry about it because he was eighteen and I was nearly fourteen and nothing mattered but hearing I love you and believing he meant it.
There were days when we sat in front of the television watching Clark Kent fall in love with Lois Lane and understood what it meant to hold secrets close. When Angela cried but wouldnât tell us why, we promised her our loyalty, reminded herthat she was beautiful, said Knock, Knock, Angela. Let us in, let us in. We stroked the sharp knots of her cheekbones, moved our fingers gently over her lips, lifted her shirt, and kissed her breasts. We said, Youâre so beautiful. We said, Donât be afraid. We said, Donât cry.
When she danced, her dance told stories none of us were old enough to hear, the deep arch of her back, the long neck impossibly turned, the hands begging air into her chest.
What are you saying, we begged. Tell us what it is you need.
But Angela was silent.
On the Fourth of July, my father took all of us to the East River, where thousands of people crowded to watch fireworks explode above the water. Pressed against each other, Angela whispered into my ear, Iâm gonna leave this place one day.
I promised her weâd go with her.
But Angela shook her head, her straightened hair hot curled into a mushroom low over her brow and ears. She stared straight ahead at the fireworks.
Nah, she said. Yaâll wonât.
That night, as New York and the rest of the country celebrated its independence, everywhere we looked, the world was red, white, and blue. We had shared a joint in the smoky bathroom of a crowded McDonaldâs and felt wild and giddy and free. On the subway home, someoneâs boom box played â50 Ways to Leave Your Loverâ and we all laughed, singing along.
Hop on the bus, Gus. You donât need to discuss much.
Angela nodding, saying, You know thatâs right!
On a different planet, we could have been Lois Lane or Tarzanâs Jane or Mary Tyler Moore or Marlo Thomas. We could have thrown our hats up, twirled and smiled. We could have made it after all. We watched the shows. We knew the songs. We sang along when Mary was big-eyed and awed by Minneapolis. We dreamed with Marlo of someday hitting the big time. We took off with the Flying Nun.
But we were young. And we were on earth, heading home to Brooklyn.
12
I looked for Jennieâs children in the faces of strangers. The terrified girl with her hand closed tight around pieces of bologna, the boy with his too-small shoes. The night the woman came to take them, they had cried late into the day. My brother and I went down to get them, but the door was locked. Open the door, we said again and again. But even though we could hear them crying, they wouldnât open it. So we went back upstairs and turned the radio on.
They were on this side of the Biafran war, filling their mouths with whatever we offered, theirstomachs never seeming full. Same dark skin. Same fearful eyes. Where had they been taken to this time?
Open the door, we said. Itâs us. We have food upstairs. We can play hide-and-seek. Please open the door, we said. We can take you someplace better.
We were not poor but we lived on the edge of poverty.
Alana moved in across the street. She wore menâs suits and did the hustle with her green-eyed girlfriend inside the front gate, her perfect dome of an Afro bouncing. When she
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