said she hated the man. Me and Pop, we really didn’t talk much about anything other than sports. It just seemed he took the ruckus everywhere with him like a devil with his pitchfork.
After we finished setting the table, I wanted to go outside and enjoy my last bits of okayness, maybe shoot some hoops, but with Pop and the progress reports I wasn’t risking Ma having to look for me, with the possibility of a slap in the head at dinner turning into a leather belt beat down before we could even eat. Using our good sense, me and Nina took it to the living room to forecast how dinner was about to go. I told her I wasn’t worried. Well, yeah I was. Just not as worried forme as I was for her. For me, science was a C, math and social studies were both Ds, and English was a D-plus. But with no Fs, I was living. No Fs equaled no knots on my head. I hoped.
Nina, she was buggin’. When my eyes rolled up and down her wrinkled progress report, I couldn’t help laughing. Homegirl was rocking it with two Ds in math and science, a D-minus in English, and an F in gym class. I must admit I was impressed that she found a way not to pass gym class. Nina was going to spark the explosion at dinner, I could feel it. On the bright side I got to play the good child for a change. What a great sister, I thought for a quick sec. It was usually me getting in all the trouble. Nina was more like a quiet storm. She moved in silence with her dirt, but there was nothing slick about that progress report.
After I showed her mine, she hissed through her teeth and dropped it on the floor and sat down next to me. I clicked on the TV and we started watching
Rap City
. We could hear Pop downstairs trying to sing through his vibe-triggered Jamaican accent. The deep thud from the kicks of his bass drum rattled the house. The chimes from the vibrating plates and forks acted as the nerved-up countdown music to our soon-to-come Dinner of Doom. Depending on the riddims he was rocking at the time, I could get a good gauge on his mood. Pop liked the old-school classics. Old Bob Marley covers, Toots and the Maytals, Burning Spears.
When I heard Pop screech, “Old pirates, yes, they rob I,” the first line of Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song,” rising through the floorboards I knew he must be in one of those thinking kind of moods. A bootleg Rastafarian in my opinion, there was always someone or something holding his broke ass down, or so he said. Me and Nina sat there on the cream pleather couches in our living room both frisking over themany very accessible hiding spots for our progress reports. Nina tried her hair but after pacing the room a couple times and seeing the tips of white poking out and hearing the paper crunching in her head, she realized that hiding her progress report in the mountain of braids on top of her head just wasn’t going to work out and she settled for her sock. I hitched mine in the elastic band of my boxer shorts.
When Ma started to stir the Kool-Aid, I started to tighten up. Ma’s very precise when she cooks dinner. Making the Kool-Aid was always the last thing she did before it was time to eat. She opened the basement door and yelled downstairs, “Eddy, come up and get some supper.”
I took a deep breath and the countdown was on. As soon as Pop brought his dark lanky frame upstairs it was like pregame warm-ups. When he sat down it was game time. Next call, Ma was going to let me and Nina know the food was ready.
Pop came upstairs with the suffocating aroma of ganja oozing out of him like a glowing force field. Ma sucked her teeth. She wasn’t a big fan of the way Pop blew trees, but her disliking something never stopped him from doing his thing. As we all settled in, I glanced around the table.
“So, Pop, who you think’s going to win the tag team title tonight, the Harlem Heat or the Steiner Brothers?” I blurted out with too much air in my mouth, trying not to sound too phony and overly excited.
Ma and Pop could smell
After we finished setting the table, I wanted to go outside and enjoy my last bits of okayness, maybe shoot some hoops, but with Pop and the progress reports I wasn’t risking Ma having to look for me, with the possibility of a slap in the head at dinner turning into a leather belt beat down before we could even eat. Using our good sense, me and Nina took it to the living room to forecast how dinner was about to go. I told her I wasn’t worried. Well, yeah I was. Just not as worried forme as I was for her. For me, science was a C, math and social studies were both Ds, and English was a D-plus. But with no Fs, I was living. No Fs equaled no knots on my head. I hoped.
Nina, she was buggin’. When my eyes rolled up and down her wrinkled progress report, I couldn’t help laughing. Homegirl was rocking it with two Ds in math and science, a D-minus in English, and an F in gym class. I must admit I was impressed that she found a way not to pass gym class. Nina was going to spark the explosion at dinner, I could feel it. On the bright side I got to play the good child for a change. What a great sister, I thought for a quick sec. It was usually me getting in all the trouble. Nina was more like a quiet storm. She moved in silence with her dirt, but there was nothing slick about that progress report.
After I showed her mine, she hissed through her teeth and dropped it on the floor and sat down next to me. I clicked on the TV and we started watching
Rap City
. We could hear Pop downstairs trying to sing through his vibe-triggered Jamaican accent. The deep thud from the kicks of his bass drum rattled the house. The chimes from the vibrating plates and forks acted as the nerved-up countdown music to our soon-to-come Dinner of Doom. Depending on the riddims he was rocking at the time, I could get a good gauge on his mood. Pop liked the old-school classics. Old Bob Marley covers, Toots and the Maytals, Burning Spears.
When I heard Pop screech, “Old pirates, yes, they rob I,” the first line of Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song,” rising through the floorboards I knew he must be in one of those thinking kind of moods. A bootleg Rastafarian in my opinion, there was always someone or something holding his broke ass down, or so he said. Me and Nina sat there on the cream pleather couches in our living room both frisking over themany very accessible hiding spots for our progress reports. Nina tried her hair but after pacing the room a couple times and seeing the tips of white poking out and hearing the paper crunching in her head, she realized that hiding her progress report in the mountain of braids on top of her head just wasn’t going to work out and she settled for her sock. I hitched mine in the elastic band of my boxer shorts.
When Ma started to stir the Kool-Aid, I started to tighten up. Ma’s very precise when she cooks dinner. Making the Kool-Aid was always the last thing she did before it was time to eat. She opened the basement door and yelled downstairs, “Eddy, come up and get some supper.”
I took a deep breath and the countdown was on. As soon as Pop brought his dark lanky frame upstairs it was like pregame warm-ups. When he sat down it was game time. Next call, Ma was going to let me and Nina know the food was ready.
Pop came upstairs with the suffocating aroma of ganja oozing out of him like a glowing force field. Ma sucked her teeth. She wasn’t a big fan of the way Pop blew trees, but her disliking something never stopped him from doing his thing. As we all settled in, I glanced around the table.
“So, Pop, who you think’s going to win the tag team title tonight, the Harlem Heat or the Steiner Brothers?” I blurted out with too much air in my mouth, trying not to sound too phony and overly excited.
Ma and Pop could smell
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