The Skin I'm in Read online

  Text copyright © 1998 by Sharon G. Flake

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion Books for Children, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.

  ISBN: 978-1-4231-3251-6

  Visit www.jumpatthesun.com

  To my daughter Brittney Banks,

  my sweet brown beauty.

  I love you.

  And to my editor,

  Andrea Davis Pinkney,

  for believing!

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to

  Grampa Titus and Poppop

  (James ″Jimmy Sax″ Rosseau),

  who had the talent but not the opportunity,

  Mom, Dad, Gramma Marie, Uncle Jimmy,

  Aunt Betty, and Uncle Sam,

  who always knew how to tell a good story.

  Thanks, too, to August Wilson and his sister

  Freda Ellis, to Highlights for Children, Rob Penny,

  Joy Cowley, and Ed and Helen Palascak and the kids.

  CHAPTER 1

  THE FIRST TIME I SEEN HER, I got a bad feeling inside. Not like I was in danger or nothing. Just like she was somebody I should stay clear of. To tell the truth, she was a freak like me. The kind of person folks can’t help but tease. That’s bad if you’re a kid like me. It’s worse for a new teacher like her.

  Miss Saunders is as different as they come. First off, she got a man’s name, Michael. Now who ever heard of a woman named that? She’s tall and fat like nobody’s business, and she’s got the smallest feet I ever seen. Worse yet, she’s got a giant white stain spread halfway across her face like somebody tossed acid on it or something.

  I try not to stare the first day that amazon woman-teacher heads my way. See, I got a way of attracting strange characters. They draw to me like someone stuck a note on my forehead saying, ″losers wanted here.″ Well, I spend a lot of time trying to fit in here at McClenton Middle School. I ain’t letting nobody ruin it for me, especially no teacher.

  I didn’t even look up when Miss Saunders came up to me that day like I’m some kind of information center.

  ″Excuse me,″ she says. She’s wearing a dark purple suit, and a starched white shirt with matching purple buttons. That outfit costs three hundred dollars, easy. ″I’m trying to find the principal’s office. I know it’s around here somewhere. Can you help me?″

  Before I catch myself, my eyes ricochet like pin balls, bounding from John-John McIntrye’s beady brown eyes right up to hers. I swallow hard. Stare at her till John-John whacks me on the arm with his rolled-up comic book.

  ″That-a-way,″ I say, pointing up the hall.

  ″Thank you. Now what’s your name?″ she says, putting down her briefcase like she’s gonna stay here awhile.

  ″Maleeka. Maleeka Madison—the third,″ I say, smacking my gum real loud.

  ″Don’t let that fancy name fool you,″ John-John butts in. ″She ain’t nobody worth knowing.″

  Miss Saunders stares down at him till he turns his head away and starts playing with the buttons on his shirt like some two-year-old.

  ″Like I say, the office is that-a-way.″ I point.

  ″Thank you,″ she says, walking off. Then she stops stone still, like some bright idea has just come to her, turns around, and heads back my way. My skin starts to crawl before she even opens her mouth. ″Maleeka, your skin is pretty. Like a blue-black sky after it’s rained and rained,″ she says. Then she smiles and explains how that line comes from a favorite poem of hers. Next thing I know, she’s heading down the hall again like nothing much happened.

  When she’s far enough away, John-John says to me, ″I don’t see no pretty, just a whole lotta black.″ Before I can punch him good, he’s singing a rap song. ″Maleeka, Maleeka—baboom, boom, boom, we sure wanna keep her, baboom, boom, boom, but she so black, baboom, boom, boom, we just can’t see her.″

  Before I know it, three more boys is pointing at me and singing that song, too. Me, I’m wishing the building will collapse on top of me.

  John-John McIntyre is the smallest seventh grader in the world. Even fifth graders can see over his head. Sometimes I have a hard time believing he and me are both thirteen. He’s my color, but since second grade he’s been teasing me about being too black. Last year, when I thought things couldn’t get no worse, he came up with this here song. Now, here this woman comes talking that black stuff. Stirring him up again.

  Seems like people been teasing me all my life. If it ain’t about my color, it’s my clothes. Momma makes them by hand. They look it, too—lopsided pockets, stitching forever unraveling. I never know when a collar’s gonna fall off, or a pushpin gonna stick me and make me holler out in class. I stopped worrying about that this year now that Charlese lends me clothes to wear. I stash them in the locker and change into them before first period. I’m like Superman when I get Charlese’s clothes on. I got a new attitude, and my teachers sure don’t like it none.

  It’s bad enough that I’m the darkest, worse-dressed thing in school. I’m also the tallest, skinniest thing you ever seen. And people like John-John remind me of it every chance they get. They don’t say nothing about the fact that I’m a math whiz, and can outdo ninth graders when it comes to figuring numbers. Or that I got a good memory and never forget one single, solitary thing I read. They only see what they see, and they don’t seem to like what they see much.

  Up till now, I just took it. The name calling. The pushing and shoving and cheating off me. Then last week something happened. I was walking down the hall in one of Char’s dresses, strutting my stuff, looking good. Then Char walked up to me and told me to take off her clothes. There was maybe eight or nine kids around when she said it, too, including Caleb. I thought she was kidding. She wasn’t. So I went to the girls’ room and put my own stuff back on. That’s when I made up my mind. Enough is enough. I deserve better than for people to treat me any old way they want. But saying that is one thing, making it happen is something else.

  So you see, I got my own troubles. I don’t need no scar-faced teacher making things worse. But I got this feeling Miss Saunders is gonna mess things up for me real bad.

  CHAPTER 2

  JOHN-JOHN THINKS HE SMART. I hear him still singing that boom-boom song under his breath. I don’t have to listen to it, either. So instead of going to fifth period and sitting next to him, I’m going outside. There’s plenty of kids hanging out around the corner at the pretzel place. I just have to get to my locker for my coat and slip out the backdoor. Soon as I get down the hall, though, who do I see but that woman. She’s all up in somebody else’s business already.

  ″Young lady,″ she
says to a girl leaning against the wall with a boy sucking on her neck. ″Get to class.″

  I turn to a locker like I’m trying to open it. When the girl turns Miss Saunders’s way, I almost choke on my spit. It’s Charlese. Man, the stuff’s gonna fly now. Charlese stares at Miss Saunders like she’s out of her mind. Then she laughs. I see Miss Saunders, crunching up her face, and cutting her eyes at Worm.

  Worm busts out laughing and says, ″Dang, who you? Somebody’s momma?″

  ″I’m the new English teacher.″ Miss Saunders has got a real attitude when she says it, too.

  ″Shoot,″ Char says. ″I sure ain’t looking at that face forty-five minutes every day. No way.″

  Worm puts his arm round Char’s shoulder. They walk down the hall right past me. ″Dang. What happened to her?″ he whispers. They head for the stairway to keep on locking lips.

  ″To class or to the office,″ Miss Saunders calls after them real loud and steady.

  Charlese looks at Miss Saunders and rolls her eyes.

  Miss Saunders has got her hands on her hips. ″You have something to say?″

  Big mistake, lady, I’m thinking. Charlese is the baddest thing in this school. She ain’t gonna forgive you for loud-talking to her.

  Charlese, she’s crazylike. Next thing I know, she’s telling Miss Saunders to mind her own business. She says something about her face. Worm’s telling Char to cool it. He’s dragging her down the hall with his hand covering her big mouth. The new teacher don’t know when to quit. She tells Worm to hold on a minute. Then she says her piece. She’s letting Charlese know that she’s traveled all over the world, and there’s nothing Charlese can say about her face that she ain’t heard in at least four different languages.

  Char says, ″If you’re so high and mighty, what’re you doing in a dump like this?″

  Miss Saunders puts down her briefcase. When she does, her Gucci watch flashes. This lady’s got money. Big-time cash.

  ″I want to give something back,″ Miss Saunders says.

  ″You want to give something back?″ Charlese asks, putting out her hand. ″Good. You can start by giving me them designer shoes and that three-hundred-dollar watch you got on.″

  Charlese, she’s got an eye for the good stuff. Her older sister Juju, who’s been taking care of Char since their parents died two years back, has got all kinds of stuff at her house. Most of it still got price tags on it. She’ll sell you a three-hundred dollar-pants suit for fifty dollars, or a nice coat for a Benjamin—a hundred bucks. Good deals if you got the dollars, which I ain’t. Char’s lucky. When my daddy died three years ago, Momma took to her sewing machine to help her ease the pain. I sure wish she’d taken to getting me clothes off a store rack, instead. Her sewing is a shame.

  Worm tells Charlese to forget about Miss Saunders and to get outta here. Charlese don’t let the new broad off so easy.

  ″You don’t scare me,″ she says, putting her hands on her hips, but before Miss Saunders can speak, here comes Tai, interrupting everything.

  ″I see you’ve met Charlese,″ Tai says to Miss Saunders.

  Tai teaches math. She is weird, too. She stands at the blackboard with one leg leaning on the other like a flamingo. She does yoga and hums like a heater on the blink. Tai is a strange chick, I’m telling you.

  ″I see you made it,″ she says to Miss Saunders, grabbing both her arms and squeezing them tight in a friendly girl-to-girl squeeze.

  Tai looks funny standing next to Miss Saunders, who must be close to six feet tall. Tai is short with long hair and two sets of silver hoop earrings in her ears, and a small hole in her nose where she puts her nose ring when she ain’t at work.

  ″We’re old college roommates,″ she says to Charlese. ″You will love having this woman around. She really makes things happen.″

  I don’t know why Tai is telling all this to Charlese. She knows Charlese couldn’t care less. Tai and Miss Saunders head for the office. Tai tells Worm and Charlese to get to class.

  ″Sure, Tai,″ Char says, all sweet and innocent.

  When Char is halfway up the hall, Tai looks over her shoulder at me and says, ″That goes for you, too, Miss Madison.″

  CHAPTER 3

  WE’RE IN THE GIRLS’ ROOM—like always. For once, I’m really trying to pee, not just talk about folk. That’s hard in this school. Ain’t no doors on the stalls. The principal took them off himself, so everything we do is out in the open. Like that’s gonna stop girls from smoking cigarettes, writing on the walls, and cutting class.

  Everybody’s talking about the new teacher. ″Her face looks like somebody threw a hot pot of something on it,″ Char says, frowning. ″If I had a mug like that, I’d kill myself,″ she says, lifting up her arms and smelling her pits. I want to tell her that if I had hair balls as big as basketballs growing under my arms like she does, I’d kill myself. But I don’t say what’s on my mind. I keep quiet.

  ″Just think, if that was your mother,″ Raina, one of the twins, says.

  ″I wouldn’t even claim her if she was my moms,″ Char says, taking out deodorant. Then she pulls up her shirt and reaches inside to roll that sticky blue stuff on.

  The four of us meet in the bathroom every morning. Me, Char, and the twins—Raina and Raise. We talk. Smoke. Stuff like that. I hang in the bathroom to get out of Momma’s homemade rags and into the clothes Charlese brings for me to try on. Today, it’s a skintight navy-blue jean dress, with thick gold buttons.

  Char says the dress would look perfect if I had some hips and boobs to go with it. Char blows a fat ring of stinking gray smoke in my face. I laugh, like everybody else. You got to go along with Char if you want to get along with her. You can’t be all sensitive. That’s what Char says.

  When the first period bell rings, I throw my backpack over my shoulders and head for class. Char and them are cutting class. Hanging out around the corner, probably. ″I ain’t for looking at that woman’s mug today,″ Char says. ″It’s enough to make you throw up.″

  Char takes out another Kool cigarette, and taps it on her hand like she’s giving herself a needle. She puts it in her mouth, and waits for Raise to light it. Then she closes her eyes, and sucks in the smoke slow and long like she’s making a wish. The next thing I know, she’s blowing smoke in my face again. I guess that’s supposed to be funny. Char’s laughing real hard. She tells me to get out her face. I do what I’m told.

  I didn’t always hang with Char. Last year, I hung by myself. I went to class. Got mostly A’s. Nobody even noticed me till Caleb Jamaal Assam came along. Caleb’s the smartest boy in school. Cute. Friendly. A poet. I should of known being with him was gonna cause me trouble.

  He stared at me half the year. I thought he saw what everybody else saw. Skinny, poor, black Maleeka. But Caleb saw something different. He said I was pretty. Said he liked my eyes and sweet cocoa brown skin. He wrote me poems and letters. He put spearmint gum inside. Walked me to class. Gave me a ring. I ain’t told Momma.

  After a while, everybody knew. Charlese and them laughed when Caleb and I walked by. They’d stuck out their legs and tried to trip me. They wrote Caleb notes saying not even the Goodwill would want my clothes. Somebody said I had hair so nappy I needed a rake to comb it.

  It was that class trip to Washington, D.C., where things really fell apart. Caleb sat next to me. They teased us all the way there. Barks came from the back of the bus. Spit bombs flew my way. Then John-John started singing his song.″Maleeka, Maleeka, we sure want to keep her but she so black, we just can’t see her.″ The whole bus started in. Teachers tried to make them stop. By then, it was too late.

  I looked at Caleb. He gave me the goofiest smile and said, ″Sorry, Maleeka…,″ and moved to the front of the bus with his boys. They slapped him five. Everybody laughed and clapped. I sat there with a frozen smile on my face like that stupid Mona Lisa. Till this day, I don’t know nothing about Washington, D.C., just that I don’t ever want to go there no more.

  Things
got worse after that. Kids picked on me more than ever. They sang John-John’s stupid song whenever I walked the halls. They got on my case about every little thing. My hair. My clothes. My color. My good grades. The fact that teachers liked me.

  I didn’t want to go to school after a while, but Momma said I had to. So I came up with a plan. I went to Char and said if she would let me hang out with her, you know, kind of look out for me, I would do her homework and stuff. She laughed at first. Said for me to get out of her face. That she don’t want no geeks hanging round her, especially no ugly ones. I didn’t listen. I turned up everywhere she was. The bathroom. Lunchroom. The water fountain. I even did her homework a few times to show her I knew my stuff. She gave in after a while, and kids started leaving me alone. After that, Char started bringing clothes to school for me. ″You got to look like something when you with me,″ she said, kicking a bag of stuff my way.

  But even those hundred-dollar pants suits she brought in for me to wear can’t make up for the hurt I feel when she slaps me with them mean words of hers.

  CHAPTER 4

  WHEN THE SECOND BELL RINGS, I run to Miss Saunders’s class like somebody set my shoes on fire. It don’t help none. Soon as I walk in, I know I’m in trouble. Everybody’s got their head down and they’re writing. Miss Saunders nods for me to take out paper and get to my seat. ″What does your face say to the world?″ is written on the blackboard. I laugh, only it comes out like a sneeze through my nose.

  Miss Saunders is collecting papers before I even got three sentences down on my paper. She knows I just slipped in. That don’t stop her from asking me to answer the question, though.

  ″My face?″ I point to myself.

  ″Maleeka’s face says she needs to stay out of the sun,″ Larry Baker says, covering his face with a book.

  ″Naw, man,″ Gregory Williams says. ″Maleeka’s face says, Black is beautiful.″

  Miss Saunders don’t say nothing. She just crosses her arms and gets real quiet. She don’t care if she done embarrassed me again.