“Well, no one said you were, but I’d avoid it, if I were you.” What was with the attitude? Maybe someone accused her of being chicken. Maybe she’d gone after the old woman on a dare. “You can be suspended for fighting at school, you know. Or even expelled. I guess they cut you a break because you were defending your friend.”
“That an’, like I say, I ain’t never been in no fight before. Mr. Powell, he put in a good word for me, too.”
“Who’s Mr. Powell?”
“Guidance counselor.”
I finished up our interview with some routine questions, a brief description of juvenile court and the probable outcome in her case. I suspected that, as a first-time offender, the court would go easy on Tina, but I qualified every possible result with “maybe,” because you never know for sure.
When we’d finished the formalities, I said, “I loved to read when I was your age. Seems like I hardly have the time now. What else have you read?”
“I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.”
“Maya Angelou. I read that, too.” In high school. She wasn’t lacking in intellect.
Tina’s face remained impassive, but her eyes warmed to the subject of books. “I also read Coldest Winter Ever by Sister Souljah.” She gave me a speculative look. “Whatchoo read when you was a kid?”
“Lots of books.” I tried to think back. Seemed like a century ago, though it was closer to a quarter of that. “Catcher in the Rye. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.”
“I think we s’posed to read that Catcher book in high school. Don’t know the other one.”
“They may not teach it. I guess I liked it because I’m from Brooklyn.”
“Oh, yeah? I got a uncle live in Brooklyn. In Bed-Stuy.”
“That’s where I’m from.”
Her eyes narrowed into a quizzical squint. “But ain’t that mostly black?”
“Yes, it is. And it was when I was there, too.” That was in the 1970s, not the best of times for Bedford-Stuyvesant, once known as the biggest ghetto in the U.S. Not the best place for a pale-skinned white girl like me to be living, either.
Her expression was appraising now, as if trying to gauge exactly who I was in light of this new information. I must have passed some test, because her expression softened and she smiled.
I gave Tina my card which she stuck in her book.
“Call me anytime, if you have questions. Or want to talk about books.”
“Okay, Ms. McRae.”
“Call me Sam.”
Three raps on the door and Shanae poked her head in. I checked my watch. She’d been away an hour, to the minute.
“You done, right?” she said. “I need to talk to you.” To Tina, she said, “Go downstairs and wait,” dismissing her with a wave of her hand.
The animation drained from Tina’s expression as she rose. Glaring at her mother, she slunk out and closed the door.
Shanae shook her head. “That girl trouble. She need to clean up her act, you see what I’m sayin’?”
“She’s at that age, I guess.”
“Yeah, and I don’t know how much longer she gonna live, if she keep up her bullshit.”
“Well, this is her first offense, so to speak. It should go pretty smoothly. It may take a month or two before we get a hearing before a master. A master is like a junior judge—”
Shanae dipped her chin, in a brief nod. “Fine,” she said. “You jus’ let me know when her court date is. I gots another problem to talk to you about.”
I was surprised she didn’t have more questions about Tina’s situation, since she’d been so adamant about staying for the interview. “What is it?”