Read Online Make Way for Dyamonde Daniel by Nikki Grimes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nikki Grimes
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into the tiny apartment she shared with her mom, dropped her books on the couch and grabbed her favorite photo album from the bookshelf.
Where is it?
thought Dyamonde, flipping the pages.
There!
She turned to a page of pictures of herself with her best friend, Alisha. Her old best friend. The one Dyamonde had to leave behind in Brooklyn when her parents got divorced and her mom moved them to this new place in Washington Heights.
Dyamonde sighed. More subtraction. Her least favorite kind of math.
In the old days, Alisha had been part of Dyamonde’s cozy foursome: herself, her mom, her dad, plus Alisha made four.
“I miss you,” Dyamonde said tothe girl in the photo. She missed her dad too. And their old apartment where she had her own room. Here, she had to sleep on a pullout sofa. It wasn’t half bad, though. It was plenty roomy enough for her to stretch out on, even sideways. Plus, her mom had offered her the bedroom, but Dyamonde had said no. She figured moms should have their own bedrooms. Even so, it was nice having a bedroom with your own desk and stuff. Dyamonde sighed a second time. Truth is, she missed all kinds of things.
Not that her new neighborhoodwas boring or anything. 147th Street and Amsterdam Avenue was pretty much bursting with life. There was the House of Beauty, where ladies got their hair curled and colored. There was Hal’s Hair Shack, where men went for haircuts. There was a Laundromat for folks who didn’t have washing machines in their basements, and a bunch of different restaurants. Some sold Chinese takeout, some sold fried chicken, and some sold nothing but barbecue. There was a great candy store, a newspaper stand and a flower stand. As far asDyamonde could see, the neighborhood had just about everything you could ever want.
Sure is nothing like the quiet old neighborhood we used to live in
, thought Dyamonde. The Brooklyn brownstones had been nice enough, but they were mostly filled with old people on Dyamonde’s block.
This new neighborhood was alive, like Dyamonde. The avenue was always busy with all kinds of people coming and going. Dyamonde figured if she sat perfectly still on her stoop, or stared out her window long enough, thewhole world would pass by. Ladies in crisp nurse’s uniforms catching the uptown bus to Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. Men and ladies in suit jackets catching the bus to fancy offices downtown. There were kids like Dyamonde playing stickball or handball against a building, or walking to school like Dyamonde did every day.
The avenue suited Dyamonde just fine. Still, that didn’t keep her from missing the friends she left behind in Brooklyn.
What she did
not
miss were the loud fights her mom and dadhad been having the last few years. Them not living together was definitely better.
Dyamonde ran her finger over Alisha’s photo, then closed the album and put it back on the shelf.
Suddenly, Dyamonde’s shoulders sagged.
Saturdays are a waste
, thought Dyamonde.
No more treasure hunts with Alisha. No more sleepovers. No more pictures together
.
Dyamonde grabbed her books and dragged herself downstairs toher neighbor’s apartment to wait for her mom. “What’s the matter?” asked her neighbor, Mrs. King.
“Nothing,” Dyamonde said with a sigh. Mrs. King patted her on the head like a puppy, the way she always did. For once, Dyamonde didn’t mind.
By the next morning, Dyamonde felt better, especially when she woke up to a familiar smell.
“Dyamonde!” called her mom. “Your pancakes are getting cold.”
Dyamonde smiled. She liked having her mom all to herself onSaturdays. Plus there was one more good thing about Saturdays.
Pancakes!
“Coming, Mom!”
Here Comes Rude Boy
On Monday , Dyamonde tried to slip out of the house without a jacket. It was the end of September and still warmish. She had on her red T-shirt, jeans and a blue vest with rows of red, white and blue buttons sewn on the pockets. She called it her Independence
Where is it?
thought Dyamonde, flipping the pages.
There!
She turned to a page of pictures of herself with her best friend, Alisha. Her old best friend. The one Dyamonde had to leave behind in Brooklyn when her parents got divorced and her mom moved them to this new place in Washington Heights.
Dyamonde sighed. More subtraction. Her least favorite kind of math.
In the old days, Alisha had been part of Dyamonde’s cozy foursome: herself, her mom, her dad, plus Alisha made four.
“I miss you,” Dyamonde said tothe girl in the photo. She missed her dad too. And their old apartment where she had her own room. Here, she had to sleep on a pullout sofa. It wasn’t half bad, though. It was plenty roomy enough for her to stretch out on, even sideways. Plus, her mom had offered her the bedroom, but Dyamonde had said no. She figured moms should have their own bedrooms. Even so, it was nice having a bedroom with your own desk and stuff. Dyamonde sighed a second time. Truth is, she missed all kinds of things.
Not that her new neighborhoodwas boring or anything. 147th Street and Amsterdam Avenue was pretty much bursting with life. There was the House of Beauty, where ladies got their hair curled and colored. There was Hal’s Hair Shack, where men went for haircuts. There was a Laundromat for folks who didn’t have washing machines in their basements, and a bunch of different restaurants. Some sold Chinese takeout, some sold fried chicken, and some sold nothing but barbecue. There was a great candy store, a newspaper stand and a flower stand. As far asDyamonde could see, the neighborhood had just about everything you could ever want.
Sure is nothing like the quiet old neighborhood we used to live in
, thought Dyamonde. The Brooklyn brownstones had been nice enough, but they were mostly filled with old people on Dyamonde’s block.
This new neighborhood was alive, like Dyamonde. The avenue was always busy with all kinds of people coming and going. Dyamonde figured if she sat perfectly still on her stoop, or stared out her window long enough, thewhole world would pass by. Ladies in crisp nurse’s uniforms catching the uptown bus to Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. Men and ladies in suit jackets catching the bus to fancy offices downtown. There were kids like Dyamonde playing stickball or handball against a building, or walking to school like Dyamonde did every day.
The avenue suited Dyamonde just fine. Still, that didn’t keep her from missing the friends she left behind in Brooklyn.
What she did
not
miss were the loud fights her mom and dadhad been having the last few years. Them not living together was definitely better.
Dyamonde ran her finger over Alisha’s photo, then closed the album and put it back on the shelf.
Suddenly, Dyamonde’s shoulders sagged.
Saturdays are a waste
, thought Dyamonde.
No more treasure hunts with Alisha. No more sleepovers. No more pictures together
.
Dyamonde grabbed her books and dragged herself downstairs toher neighbor’s apartment to wait for her mom. “What’s the matter?” asked her neighbor, Mrs. King.
“Nothing,” Dyamonde said with a sigh. Mrs. King patted her on the head like a puppy, the way she always did. For once, Dyamonde didn’t mind.
By the next morning, Dyamonde felt better, especially when she woke up to a familiar smell.
“Dyamonde!” called her mom. “Your pancakes are getting cold.”
Dyamonde smiled. She liked having her mom all to herself onSaturdays. Plus there was one more good thing about Saturdays.
Pancakes!
“Coming, Mom!”
Here Comes Rude Boy
On Monday , Dyamonde tried to slip out of the house without a jacket. It was the end of September and still warmish. She had on her red T-shirt, jeans and a blue vest with rows of red, white and blue buttons sewn on the pockets. She called it her Independence
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