Forever This Summer Page 3

  “Bet it’s all fancy schmancy.”

  “A few areas.”

  It was more than a few. Daddy used to drive us to gawk at the mansions behind pointed iron gates in Buckhead’s Tuxedo Park, and then onto his favorite neighborhood in Southwest Atlanta, Cascade Heights, which he called the “Black Beverly Hills of the South.” I put that out of my mind and tried to think of something interesting to talk about. But it seemed like she already knew what she wanted to say to me before we even met.

  “You don’t really act like I thought,” Markie Jean said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Thought you be more conceited. You know, full of yourself.”

  “Why would you say something like that?”

  “Everyone talks about you. You get good grades. But I remember hearing that you took your parents’ divorce hard. Grades dipped a bit.”

  “Whose wouldn’t?” I snapped.

  “Just telling you what I heard. Not digging on you or nothing. Wasn’t your sister sick recently?”

  “Meningitis.” I hated the word.

  “Parents both remarried. And you have a stepsister, right?”

  “Yeah, Tangie.” Then I thought for a second. “What you know about me and what I know about you is lopsided, don’t you think?”

  “Nah, probably the way it should be. With two moms, two dads, a baby sister, and a stepsister? That’s family galore. Lots to talk about.”

  If she only knew that not so long ago the thought of all those changes made me cry and my grades more than “dip.” I wanted our lives back the way they used to be until I realized that wasn’t going to happen, ever. I held up my hand to block the glare from a car window.

  “Doubt I have more to talk about than you. You’re working and handling things. Bet no one treats you like you’re in kindergarten. You have freedom.”

  “That’s true. More than I can handle sometimes.”

  In an open yard, a few kids splashed around in an inflatable pool. Two women sat on the porch. One was peeling potatoes and the other reading the Bogalusa Daily News. Whenever I saw that paper, I remembered Grandma Sugar saying how the paper was shut down for a while after Katrina and still only ran three to four times a week years later, but they still called it the “Daily News.”

  “Staying cool this morning?” one lady said.

  “As a fan on turbo,” Markie Jean replied, which drowned out my “Yes, ma’am.”

  The lady’s chest heaved in laughter. “I know that’s right.”

  A splash from the kiddie pool hit me warm as raindrops.

  After we walked a few more steps, it was time for me to speak up, flip the script. “Ahem, haven’t said much about yourself. What’s your deal, Markie Jean?” I liked the sound of two first names. But if she were at Sweet Apple Elementary, someone would have nicknamed her MJ by now for sure.

  “Just Markie. Only adults like to say your whole name.”

  “Don’t I know it. And they love to use your nickname even when you’ve outgrown it.”

  “Oh, the G-baby? What’s that short for?”

  “Grandma Sugar says it means Grandma’s baby. And Daddy says it stands for George’s baby.”

  She chuckled and laughed into her fist the way some kids do when something is extra funny. And when I realized she was laughing at me, I had a quick urge to yank that puff of hair.

  “Of all the things to hate in the world, that’s one of yours? What a life.”

  “It’s not that I hate it, but I’m not a baby. That just helps them treat me like one.”

  “I’m just saying: as far as nicknames go, I’ve heard worse.” She extended her stride. I skipped to keep up. “This way,” she directed. Then she stopped. “Did you need to check in with your mom?”

  I shrugged. “Why would I?”

  “Just asking. Don’t want you to get in any trouble.”

  “I’m good,” I said, hearing Mama’s voice telling me to come straight home from the diner. I blocked that out of my mind and kept moving.

  4

  AIDING AND ABETTING

  We rounded the corner that took us off of Columbia onto Lucy Burt Lane. The houses had more trees than Aunt Vie’s street, but only a few of them were towering and close to homes. Two blocks down, we approached a house that was various shades of brown with shrubs evenly cut, like bangs. A big barrel brimming with peanuts sat next to the door.

  A man whose slender body swam inside a warmup suit called out, “How y’all doing this morning?” and waved. His foot was on a shovel and his other hand squeezed the handle of it.

  “No complaints, Peanut Man,” Markie said.

  “Good morning, sir,” I said.

  His eyes locked on me. “You Mrs. Essie’s people?” He applied his weight to the shovel. The dirt broke.

  “Her grandniece. Yes, sir.”

  He leaned his shovel against the house, and we stopped along the middle of the gate.

  As he strolled up to us, his toes curled over worn sandals and he cracked his knuckles. “Essie told me y’all was coming down. It’s good to have you here in the Magic City.”

  “Magic City,” I said. I thought about what Tangie and I had read up about Bogalusa. “That sounds familiar.”

  His fist opened and his eyes followed imaginary smoke into the air. “In the early 1900s it took less than a year to build Bogalusa to support the lumber company. Appeared just like magic,” he said and gave us another helping of the imaginary smoke.

  “By those tire people,” Markie said.

  “Yeah, the Goodyears, but we the ones made the wheels turn. Black people was only fit to clean the toilets at the mill to them but we didn’t give up. Not in our nature.” He stabbed his chest with his index finger—his thumb was missing.

  “My grandmother said that my great-grandfather worked there. My uncles, too.”

  “Not too many lifelong Bogalusians don’t have some ties to that mill. At times for Black folks it’s been a blessing and a curse. Rather shoot a Black man and anybody who supports ’em than let ’em join the union.” His voice softened. “Don’t mind me none. This not the day to burn your ears with all that.” Then his eye darted toward Markie like he’d pulled a penny from behind her ear. “You just tell Mrs. Essie that I’ll have some peanut soup for her next week. Maybe even some goat.”

  “I’ll get the message to her,” Markie said. She ran her hand along the gold Christmas tree tinsel that weaved along the links of the fence and swirled at the top.

  “Hope you get to taste some of my peanut butter soup before you leave, young lady. Got the recipe straight from my people in Ghana. Best you ever tasted. Peanuts are in my blood.”

  “He’s a great-great-great-great-grandnephew of George Washington Carver.”

  “Two too many ‘greats’ in there, Markie Jean. But I sell the best boiled peanuts in town. I call them the Caviar of the South, trace the roots of ’em back to Africa, though you can do that with lots of southern delicacies.”

  As loud as a school bell, Peanut Man’s house phone blared through his open window.

  “Pardon me, please, young folks. I don’t mess around with those cell phones, ’cept for emergencies. Don’t forget to tell Mrs. Essie I’ll be by,” he said to Markie and leaped up the steps.

  Once he was inside, Markie lifted the gate’s latch and crept up the porch steps. She snatched a crumbled grocery bag out of her pocket and loaded it with peanuts.

  “Come up. I have another bag,” she whispered.

  I thought I was speaking but it was just my head moving so hard I thought it was flinging words out. “No. I’m not stealing.”

  All I could see was Mr. Peanut rushing out of his door and catching her. And here I was—an accomplice. When I told Daddy that I wanted to be a lawyer, then a judge, he let me watch Law & Order marathons as long as I didn’t tell Mama. It was paying off now.

  I kept my eye on the door. It made me think of how I scolded Nikki when she shoplifted some earrings on a dare. I
didn’t know if watching Markie steal from Mr. Peanut was any better. Just as I was about to decide to save myself and head back to the diner, Markie shouted, “Let’s go!” and jetted off. I mean, flat out, Usain Bolt sprinting.

  “You gotta pay for those. You’ll get charged with stealing. And I’ll get… aiding… aiding and abetting,” I yelled to the back of her Afro puff. But I wasn’t a tattletale, so I took off, too. The buckle of my left sandal dug into my skin.

  “‘Aiding and abetting.’ Aren’t you a smarty-pants? Might need to keep you around.”

  I hated that those words made me a little proud.

  As we ran, the colors of trees, cars, houses swirled together like melted crayons. My legs were nothing but noodles, like when you ride your bike too long. And I couldn’t help fearing I could get a bug stuck in my throat.

  “Where are you going?” I forced out, feeling at any moment I was going to spontaneously combust.

  Markie finally stopped at a clearing. I grabbed my knees, panting like I was in gym class doing laps. Markie hadn’t even broken a sweat.

  “So what was that all about?” I asked, still trying to catch my breath. “Why steal ’em? If you don’t have the money, he probably would’ve let you pay later. Plus, I could have given you the money.”

  “First, where’s the thrill in just paying for ’em? And two, I don’t do charity.”

  “Oh, so you’d rather get in trouble, literally, for peanuts.”

  “You have a sense of humor.” She held out the bag of peanuts to me. I shook my head. She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Two minutes later, we stopped in front of a shotgun house with iron rods over the windows. Mama said some houses were called that because if you stood in the front door and shot a shotgun, the bullet would go out the back door without hitting a wall.

  Markie strolled up and rattled the flimsy gate. “Yo, Scooter! Scoot!”

  Seconds later, a boy scurried from around back with a wobbly baby stroller.

  “Just cleaning it out for you,” he said and paid me as much attention as he did the waist-high weeds surrounding his narrow frame.

  Markie forked over two crumbled dollar bills.

  “Bring it back this evening. My sister might need it tonight,” Scooter said.

  “I got you,” Markie said and dropped the bag of peanuts in the stroller. He stuffed the money in a dingy fanny pack and disappeared around the rear of the house. Markie grabbed the handle in the center and started pushing. Then she stopped for a second to flatten the canopy.

  “You can toss your purse in here if you want,” she said.

  “I’m good. Thanks, though,” I said. “What do you need that for?”

  “Are you hanging out with me or interrogating? Which one is it?”

  I side-eyed her. Not sure if she was serious. “One doesn’t negate the other.”

  “‘Negate.’ I like that word. Adding it to my negotiations repertoire.” She then gave me a long look. “But I warn you, if you use ‘negate’ around here with other kids, you’re going to really need some running shoes,” she said and laughed.

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “I had a wagon. That went missing. So I rented this.”

  Guess she’d answer any question as long as it didn’t really tell me a thing. For another three or four minutes, we ambled along Hopscotch-colored sidewalks, speaking to people and catching glimpses of others going about their daily business, which included everything from braiding hair on front porch steps or kitchen chairs planted in yards to “fixing” cars or frying fish in driveways. While Bogalusa was unfolding in front of me, I was taking it all in, with Markie leading the way.

  If I had the idea of remembering landmarks and street names to make sure I knew where I was, I’d failed. I thought I would use the humongous stacks of the paper mill as a marker but the smoke blew up to the sky like streaming clouds and the distance seemed to change.

  “What street are we on?” I said.

  “Cumberland… Hold this,” she said like she was handing me a dog on a leash. I stood there with the baby stroller, thinking at least it was much better than Great-aunt Vie’s vacuum cleaner. “You want anything out of the store?”

  “No thanks,” I said. Cumberland. Columbia. Fifth.

  The parking lot of the Food Depot was dotted with cars, one with music blaring so loud I could feel it in my chest. They were lined up behind a concrete car wash. The banner said Free Vacuum, and my heart jumped, wondering if that was a sign I should head home.

  For a second I considered it. But when Markie emerged out of Food Depot, with a buggy and two twenty-four packs of water and more peanuts, I needed to see where this was going. After transferring the goods into the stroller, we were on the move again. We stood at a crosswalk and Markie pressed the button to cross. As soon as the light changed, she jetted across the street. I could barely keep up. When we made it across, she said, “If you want to hang out with me, you might need to change those.” She pointed to my sandals.

  “These are okay,” I said, though the buckle was still piercing my skin.

  “Suit yourself,” she said.

  After about fifteen minutes of walking, all the residential buildings disappeared, and we were on a main street with a few fast-food places.

  “This isn’t downtown, is it?” I said.

  “Nah, but if you keep walking straight, you’ll run right into it.”

  I was used to seeing the skyline of Atlanta miles from downtown. “Oh,” I said.

  The tallest thing around was a mountainous water tower with the green picture of the state and BOGALUSA written in black letters. If it had swings hanging from it, it could be Nikki’s favorite ride at Six Flags Over Georgia, SkyScreamer. Last time we rode that, my voice was hoarse for hours.

  When I stopped thinking about that, Markie and I were on the graveled lot that led up to the paper mill. Up close, the paper mill was an iron dragon, resting in a spot, exhaling foul smoke. “This is the farthest we can go,” she said.

  There were two food carts near the entrance.

  “We’re gonna sell snacks?” Mama wouldn’t approve, but Daddy would applaud Markie’s entrepreneurial spirit.

  “Correction. I’ll be selling. Not to hurt your feelings or nothing, but you need to give me a little space. I need the money. You, not so much. And I know how to hustle. That’s a win-win. Have a seat over there. This shouldn’t take long.”

  “You don’t know how many Sweet Apple Elementary bake sales I’ve worked. And one year I sold more chocolate bars than any of the other Brownies.” I amped my voice above the traffic and puffed out my chest.

  “Okay, Madam C. J. Walker, I get it. You think you can sell. Maybe later. But for now, have a seat over there, please. My regulars are used to seeing me alone. You’ll cramp my style.”

  “Fine with me. Your loss.” I marched over to the bench. As soon as I sat, I whipped out my phone and googled Madam C. J. Walker. After a million years, the information loaded: She was a salesperson. A millionaire. One of the first Black entrepreneurs. Markie’s jab was there, but not as mean as it could have been. Actually, it was a compliment.

  A deafening whistle rang out, and the gravel lot flooded with people lolling about and crowding the food trucks. Within seconds, Markie was surrounded. Men and women with jeans, T-shirts, others in uniforms with safety goggles atop their heads milled around. When they cleared, all Markie’s peanuts were gone and only a few bottles of water remained.

  She closed up shop and pushed the wobbly stroller over to me. I had out my notebook that was not a diary but where I recorded everyday things I imagined. Not personal, though. My daddy keeps a small notepad in his shirt pocket or glove compartment. Says it’s better than a phone. I picked it up from him.

  “Looka here.” She held up a wad of dollar bills. “Not bad, huh? That’s how you triple your tips within an hour.” She smiled, pleased with herself. “I bet you would have taken your tips and put them in a pi
ggy bank.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  She wasn’t convinced. “Yeah, you got piggy bank written all over you,” she said and laughed.

  “I do not,” I said, thankful she couldn’t see the Volkswagen Bug bank that Daddy gave me for Christmas last year.

  Markie stuffed the money in her pocket.

  “Well, this is where we have to part. It’s been real.”

  “What do you mean? It’s still early.”

  “Yeah. I got a few more things to do. Best to go alone. They are a ways from here.”

  “I can come with you. Long as I’m home before dark, I’ll be fine.”

  “See, I can’t make that promise even. And I’m still getting to know you, feeling you out, sorta speak. Let’s not overdo it the first go-round.” Then she paused and tossed a peanut in her mouth. “Anyways, do you really want your mom upset with you already?”

  I scraped my sandal along the pavement and looked down. “Definitely not.”

  “Well, there you go. She let you come down to the diner today. And your grandma let you go with me. You don’t want either of them to regret that, right?”

  “Nah, guess not.”

  “Go home early, so she’ll let you come back tomorrow. That’s the way you work it. Mess up now and your short leash is going to be that much shorter.”

  “Good point.” Mama made it seem like hanging out with someone a little older would only get me in trouble, but here was Markie looking out for me. I couldn’t tell Mama that because Grandma had already bent the rule for me, and I was the one going to snap it in two if not for Markie. Cumberland, Cumberland, Cumberland.

  “Do you know how to get home from here?”

  “Of course I do,” I said with all the confidence I could summon while my eyes searched for a landmark.

  “Are you sure? You look puzzled.”

  “Oh, no. Just thinking what I’m going to do for the rest of the day.”

  “Well, I’ll be at the diner first thing tomorrow. Ms. Essie will call me if she needs me before then. If your mom lets you out again, guess I’ll see you.”

  “I’ll be there.”