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Authors: Nikki Grimes
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arrangements.”
Paris sank into the nearest chair, the winter chill suddenly melting in the heat of her anger.
Ashley came into the room. “Paris?” she said, sensing a change in her friend. “What happened?”
Paris looked up at the girl and shook her head.
You’d never understand
, thought Paris.
Not in a million years.
Chapter 21
THE VISIT
P aris stepped down from the train at Penn Station and slowly made her way to the terminal. Why hurry? It wasn’t as if she wanted to be there.
She is your mother
, thought Paris, feeling guilty.
So what? I still don’t want to see her.
Paris rode the escalator up to the main hall, already longing for the return trip the following day. As soon as she reached the top, she heard her name.
“Paris! Over here,” said Viola. “Hi, baby.”
Viola bent low to give her daughter a hug. Paris recoiled at her mother’s touch, but feeling another wave of guilt, she allowed herself to be held for a moment before wriggling out of her mother’s arms.
Viola pretended not to notice. Instead, she grabbed Paris’ overnight bag and said, “Let’s go home.”
Paris coughed, choking on the word.
Home? What is she talking about? She must mean
her
home. I don’t have a home here anymore
, thought Paris.
Especially not with her.
Paris kept tight-lipped, following the familiar stranger onto one subway train, then another, and finally up the steps that led to a third-floor walkup on 147th Street and Convent Avenue.
The apartment was clean enough, with no bottles of brandy in sight, but Paris knew they could be hiding in cabinets or dresser drawers. She’d even found one behind the hamper, once.
Give me a few minutes
, thought Paris.
If there’s a bottle here, I’ll find it.
Viola noticed Paris giving the place the once-over. “I know it’s small,” she said, misunderstanding.
“Where’s my brother?” asked Paris, before she even knew the question was on the tip of her tongue.
Caught off guard, Viola said, “Well, honey, I don’t think now is the time to—”
“Where is he?” Paris almost shouted.
“In a group home. At St. Christopher’s, in Dobbs Ferry,” said Viola.
Dobbs Ferry. Dobbs Ferry. Paris remembered those words. She’d seen them. Where?
“It’s a few train stops before Ossining.”
“I want to see him,” said Paris.
Viola sighed. “All right. I’ll make arrangements for sometime soon. But you can’t see him today. Now, let me show you around.”
Paris nodded stiffly, then dutifully followed her mother around the one-bedroom, railroad-style apartment. A narrow hall ran the length of it, doors on the right and left opening onto a living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bath. Paris looked but didn’t really see anything. All her thoughts were on Malcolm.
• • •
The day marched by in a most unusual fashion. Viola took Paris out for a lunch of burgers, took her shopping for new boots and sweaters, then made her a dinner of spaghetti and meatballs—her favorite. The food was delicious, and Paris liked her new clothes, but she couldn’t help thinking that her mother was trying to make up for missing Christmas, or maybe even trying to buy her love.
It won’t work
, thought Paris.
I don’t love you anymore.
But even as she thought it, Paris knew it was a lie. She still loved her mother. She just didn’t want to. Loving her meant getting hurt, and Paris had had enough of hurting.
• • •
The following day Paris slept in late and woke to the spicy smell of sausage and the sizzle of pancakes in a skillet.
Over breakfast, Viola ventured a question about Ossining: “What’s the house like?”
At first, Paris was vague. “Nice. Old, but nice.”
“And the family?”
“They’re nice.”
“I hear they have a dog.”
Paris smiled. “Jet. He’s as big as a pony. Malcolm would like him.”
Viola sighed, shifting in her chair uncomfortably. She tried again.
“Have you made any friends since
Paris sank into the nearest chair, the winter chill suddenly melting in the heat of her anger.
Ashley came into the room. “Paris?” she said, sensing a change in her friend. “What happened?”
Paris looked up at the girl and shook her head.
You’d never understand
, thought Paris.
Not in a million years.
Chapter 21
THE VISIT
P aris stepped down from the train at Penn Station and slowly made her way to the terminal. Why hurry? It wasn’t as if she wanted to be there.
She is your mother
, thought Paris, feeling guilty.
So what? I still don’t want to see her.
Paris rode the escalator up to the main hall, already longing for the return trip the following day. As soon as she reached the top, she heard her name.
“Paris! Over here,” said Viola. “Hi, baby.”
Viola bent low to give her daughter a hug. Paris recoiled at her mother’s touch, but feeling another wave of guilt, she allowed herself to be held for a moment before wriggling out of her mother’s arms.
Viola pretended not to notice. Instead, she grabbed Paris’ overnight bag and said, “Let’s go home.”
Paris coughed, choking on the word.
Home? What is she talking about? She must mean
her
home. I don’t have a home here anymore
, thought Paris.
Especially not with her.
Paris kept tight-lipped, following the familiar stranger onto one subway train, then another, and finally up the steps that led to a third-floor walkup on 147th Street and Convent Avenue.
The apartment was clean enough, with no bottles of brandy in sight, but Paris knew they could be hiding in cabinets or dresser drawers. She’d even found one behind the hamper, once.
Give me a few minutes
, thought Paris.
If there’s a bottle here, I’ll find it.
Viola noticed Paris giving the place the once-over. “I know it’s small,” she said, misunderstanding.
“Where’s my brother?” asked Paris, before she even knew the question was on the tip of her tongue.
Caught off guard, Viola said, “Well, honey, I don’t think now is the time to—”
“Where is he?” Paris almost shouted.
“In a group home. At St. Christopher’s, in Dobbs Ferry,” said Viola.
Dobbs Ferry. Dobbs Ferry. Paris remembered those words. She’d seen them. Where?
“It’s a few train stops before Ossining.”
“I want to see him,” said Paris.
Viola sighed. “All right. I’ll make arrangements for sometime soon. But you can’t see him today. Now, let me show you around.”
Paris nodded stiffly, then dutifully followed her mother around the one-bedroom, railroad-style apartment. A narrow hall ran the length of it, doors on the right and left opening onto a living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bath. Paris looked but didn’t really see anything. All her thoughts were on Malcolm.
• • •
The day marched by in a most unusual fashion. Viola took Paris out for a lunch of burgers, took her shopping for new boots and sweaters, then made her a dinner of spaghetti and meatballs—her favorite. The food was delicious, and Paris liked her new clothes, but she couldn’t help thinking that her mother was trying to make up for missing Christmas, or maybe even trying to buy her love.
It won’t work
, thought Paris.
I don’t love you anymore.
But even as she thought it, Paris knew it was a lie. She still loved her mother. She just didn’t want to. Loving her meant getting hurt, and Paris had had enough of hurting.
• • •
The following day Paris slept in late and woke to the spicy smell of sausage and the sizzle of pancakes in a skillet.
Over breakfast, Viola ventured a question about Ossining: “What’s the house like?”
At first, Paris was vague. “Nice. Old, but nice.”
“And the family?”
“They’re nice.”
“I hear they have a dog.”
Paris smiled. “Jet. He’s as big as a pony. Malcolm would like him.”
Viola sighed, shifting in her chair uncomfortably. She tried again.
“Have you made any friends since
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