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Authors: Z. Z. Packer
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down, then rested her eyes at a point beyond Lynnea’s glare. “Whatever the hell I want to.” Ebony took out a strip of hair from the long plastic bag, doubled it, and hooked it around a spongy black clump of Kyra’s hair, then proceeded to braid. The room was quiet.
“Out!” Lynnea said.
“No,” Ebony said, then sucked her teeth as though annoyed she’d been forced to answer. Ebony kept braiding at a steady pace, as if determined to show the rest of the class she wasn’t paying attention to Lynnea. It was this calm, this nonchalance, that infuriated Lynnea most of all, and she gripped Ebony’s bony shoulder, leaned until her mouth was flush against Ebony’s ear, and blared, “OUT!”
Ebony whipped up from her seat and backhanded her, strands of Foxy Black slapping across Lynnea’s face. Chairs clattered to floor, students stood, screaming like cheerleaders. “Shit! Did you see that! Ms. Davis got banked !”
Lynnea felt her face. No blood. Barely a sting. The girl was gone. Lynnea blinked slowly, then walked out of the classroom. Behind her the class had become a noisy party, and ahead of her, a few yards down the hallway, she saw Ebony make the corner—a flash of short skirt, yellow plastic go-go boots, a trail of fake hair. She heard the squeak of sneakers and knew half her class was on its way down two flights of stairs and out the massive doors.
L YNNEA WROTE out a suspension sheet for Ebony, though no one in the school could track the girl down to give it to her. Whenthe final bell rang, Mr. Morocco, the principal, sat down with Lynnea in her empty classroom. In low, clear tones, he spoke about the need for “greater classroom management.” Then he left, closing the door the way a parent might after grounding a child.
Alone in her classroom, Lynnea thought of Charlesetta Flew, the history teacher down the hall who carried a dish towel to wipe sweat from her face. She was a stocky, penny-colored woman, her looks reminding Lynnea of her quiet aunt Selma, but when a student so much as whispered in Ms. Flew’s class, Charlesetta Flew threatened to sit on them. They believed her and sat at their desks with the solemnity of pieces on a chessboard.
Mrs. Flew would laugh at Lynnea, how Lynnea approached the chalkboard crabwise, afraid that if she turned her back to write anything on it, the students would rearrange their desks. Or a student might just up and leave, or curse her out. Or hit her.
Without quite knowing what led her, Lynnea made her way past a sprinkling of after-school students in the lime green halls, nearly slipping on confetti left over from a pep rally before finally reaching the main office. She plunked her quarter in the normally broken pay phone and called Bonza, who promised to meet her as soon as he could.
She waited outside for Bonza in the gray weather. The front of the school was deserted and the four skimpy trees that dotted the dirt-packed school lawn evaded any pretense of bright New Englandesque fall colors, heading straight to dried-out beige. She could just make out the thunk and dribble of a basketball game getting started on the far eastern side of the school. The boys preferred to primp on the basketball courts where teachers would be less likely to catch them smoking blunts packed with weed. Lynnea had seen—and smelled—them once, watching the boys swirl and fake each otherout. Most of the audience comprised girls she’d seen leisurely walking the halls. They wore their makeup like stains, propped themselves against the school walls, yelling names and dares and sexy invitations. But no one loitered where she waited on the school’s front steps, the wind making her eyes water.
Bonza drove up in a Pinto that looked like it had been dipped in acid. He rolled—then pushed—down his broken car window.
“Having problems?” Bonza drawled. He lit a cigarette and slammed the car door. His head bobbed up and down, as if in agreement with himself.
“Out!” Lynnea said.
“No,” Ebony said, then sucked her teeth as though annoyed she’d been forced to answer. Ebony kept braiding at a steady pace, as if determined to show the rest of the class she wasn’t paying attention to Lynnea. It was this calm, this nonchalance, that infuriated Lynnea most of all, and she gripped Ebony’s bony shoulder, leaned until her mouth was flush against Ebony’s ear, and blared, “OUT!”
Ebony whipped up from her seat and backhanded her, strands of Foxy Black slapping across Lynnea’s face. Chairs clattered to floor, students stood, screaming like cheerleaders. “Shit! Did you see that! Ms. Davis got banked !”
Lynnea felt her face. No blood. Barely a sting. The girl was gone. Lynnea blinked slowly, then walked out of the classroom. Behind her the class had become a noisy party, and ahead of her, a few yards down the hallway, she saw Ebony make the corner—a flash of short skirt, yellow plastic go-go boots, a trail of fake hair. She heard the squeak of sneakers and knew half her class was on its way down two flights of stairs and out the massive doors.
L YNNEA WROTE out a suspension sheet for Ebony, though no one in the school could track the girl down to give it to her. Whenthe final bell rang, Mr. Morocco, the principal, sat down with Lynnea in her empty classroom. In low, clear tones, he spoke about the need for “greater classroom management.” Then he left, closing the door the way a parent might after grounding a child.
Alone in her classroom, Lynnea thought of Charlesetta Flew, the history teacher down the hall who carried a dish towel to wipe sweat from her face. She was a stocky, penny-colored woman, her looks reminding Lynnea of her quiet aunt Selma, but when a student so much as whispered in Ms. Flew’s class, Charlesetta Flew threatened to sit on them. They believed her and sat at their desks with the solemnity of pieces on a chessboard.
Mrs. Flew would laugh at Lynnea, how Lynnea approached the chalkboard crabwise, afraid that if she turned her back to write anything on it, the students would rearrange their desks. Or a student might just up and leave, or curse her out. Or hit her.
Without quite knowing what led her, Lynnea made her way past a sprinkling of after-school students in the lime green halls, nearly slipping on confetti left over from a pep rally before finally reaching the main office. She plunked her quarter in the normally broken pay phone and called Bonza, who promised to meet her as soon as he could.
She waited outside for Bonza in the gray weather. The front of the school was deserted and the four skimpy trees that dotted the dirt-packed school lawn evaded any pretense of bright New Englandesque fall colors, heading straight to dried-out beige. She could just make out the thunk and dribble of a basketball game getting started on the far eastern side of the school. The boys preferred to primp on the basketball courts where teachers would be less likely to catch them smoking blunts packed with weed. Lynnea had seen—and smelled—them once, watching the boys swirl and fake each otherout. Most of the audience comprised girls she’d seen leisurely walking the halls. They wore their makeup like stains, propped themselves against the school walls, yelling names and dares and sexy invitations. But no one loitered where she waited on the school’s front steps, the wind making her eyes water.
Bonza drove up in a Pinto that looked like it had been dipped in acid. He rolled—then pushed—down his broken car window.
“Having problems?” Bonza drawled. He lit a cigarette and slammed the car door. His head bobbed up and down, as if in agreement with himself.
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