Simone breaks all the ru.., p.16
Simone Breaks All the Rules, page 16
“Haaa! Simone, is that you?” calls out Auntie Victoria, letting me inside the house.
“Hello!” I say, happy to see her.
She leads me down to the showroom/workspace in her basement. It’s a much different setting than the boutiques in Jersey City, but one may argue that these seamstresses are just as popular. Wooden-slat stairs and a low ceiling make for a careful descent. But once the workroom comes into view, there’s a lot that catches my eye.
The entire space is no larger than my bedroom. Stacks of beautiful folded fabrics in every possible color and pattern line the walls. Hanging on any free space of wall are fashion images—dozens of them: magazine clippings, old wall calendars, posters, all featuring full-sized models in gorgeously unique designs. In the middle of the room is a cluttered table with a shaded light bulb and, of course, Auntie Victoria’s magical sewing machine.
I stretch my arms out as Auntie Victoria expertly takes my body measurements and I show her how long I’d like my skirt to be.
“Nice length.”
I grin. “I want to show off my shoes.”
Auntie Victoria scribbles all my measurements down with a pencil in an overused spiral notebook. She doesn’t bookmark the page before placing the pad atop a pile of fabric strips. My head aches wondering how it is she’ll recover the info ever again.
“Do you mind if I—um, take a pic of my measurements?” I already have my phone out, and I’m zooming in on the curly figures listed under my name and phone number. “Just so I have them,” I add.
“Excited?” Auntie Victoria asks after I pay her the deposit and thank her.
“Very!” I bounce on my tiptoes.
She tells me to come back in two weeks for my fitting. I can’t wait to see my dress come to life.
Just as I’m leaving I get a text. It’s from Ben.
Hi there. I found a good tailor not far from my house. He said he can get started once I get him more of the material you gave me.
Perfect timing, I write back. On it. I’ll be in the city Friday and can bring you the material.
Perfect timing indeed. I’m on spring break! When can we meet?
I text Ben a suggested time, then return to Auntie Victoria to get an extra yard of a different material. Now that I know Kira’s wearing emerald, this tan-and-green motif is a better match. It works out, because it looks similar to the pattern I’ll be wearing. I love how everything is syncing up nicely.
And even after all that, I’m still on the train and back home before my parents arrive from work.
Whew!
On Friday, it’s time for our next adventure: the trip to NYC. There’s no school today because of the teacher conferences, but my parents don’t know this. And for best practices, neither does Anne. It’s better to share these things with Anne after they’ve already happened. She has a way of trying to talk me out of stuff, just because she’d always rather play it safe.
I get up at the usual time, and after my parents and Anne have left the house, I change out of my uniform. But I carry it with me, folding it up and storing it neatly in a big backpack.
I catch the bus and meet Kira and Amita at the train station again. This time, though, we’re not going to Jersey City. We’re going all the way to the city.
“So will you tell us what your idea for today is?” Kira asks as we walk to our track.
“You’ll see.” I grin.
“No, we won’t see,” protests Amita. “We’ll hear it from you. Like, now.”
“Now see this is why I love this girl so much,” I tell Kira. “She’s the lion to my Dorothy. All growl.”
“Why do you get to be Dorothy?” Amita asks.
“You can be Judy Garland Dorothy. I’m Diana Ross.”
We’re still laughing when we get on the train, and to put Amita out of her misery, I tell her my surprise once we’re all seated.
“Okay, I’m making this way bigger than it is, but we are going bike riding—”
Kira instantly gasps with excitement.
“Across the Brooklyn Bridge,” I finish.
“No freakin’ way!” Amita shouts.
“Yes way.” I pull out the Playlist and hold up my fingers as I name the selections we are rocking today. “That’s number five, Hang out in NYC, and number seven, Ride a bike!”
“And on my favorite bridge, no less,” says Amita. “It’s like a triple-word score.”
We are the loudest people on the train, cheering and talking up a storm right until we arrive in Penn Station.
New York City, as always, is vibrant and noisy and thrilling. But it feels a lot different without Mummy ushering me through the streets or Papi pointing out traffic offenses. It feels a whole lot bigger. This city is my parents’ stomping ground, but today I’m making it mine.
I’ve plotted out our route, thanks to a trusty subway map app I downloaded—and thankfully we’ll be nowhere near Mummy’s job or her favorite shopping area.
We take the subway to downtown Manhattan and walk to the nearest Citi Bike spot. It’s a bright-sky day, and the weather is not too hot. The streets are crowded and full of conversation and energy. When we get to the Citi Bike stand and select three bikes, I whip out three Goodwill-purchased helmets from my backpack.
“You really came prepared,” Amita says, impressed.
The three of us get on our bikes and pedal onto the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s pretty windy, so I get practice steadying my bike. I want to take in the impressive views, but focus instead on dodging pedestrians in the bike lane and all the cars swishing by below. Amita can’t stop waxing poetic about how this is as sensational as she imagined it would be. And Kira seems to be in heaven, pedaling along with a huge smile.
We reach a spacious area along the path where there are a few benches and an art vendor set up against a tower structure. There’s a crowd here, but we stop to take pictures: selfies and shots of the amazing views. I gasp at the sight of the lower Manhattan skyline and the Statue of Liberty in the distance.
“This is so unbelievable.” Amita looks like she’ll get emotional, and Kira and I stand by with tissues and back rubs just in case. But Amita’s as steely as the bridges she loves so much. She holds it down and continues sharing factoids about the bridge’s features and its architects. A few people nearby mistake us for a guided tour group and listen in.
At one point, I go off to take photos of Kira as Amita answers tourists’ questions. Kira looks like a kid in an Apple store.
“Why don’t you make a plan to go bike riding with your family?” I suggest. “You guys could even come into the city like we did and do this.”
She nods, suddenly too choked up to speak. This time, I’m ready with the tissues and back rubs.
We all get back on our bikes and continue on across the bridge. We pedal the rest of the way in meditative silence.
I get absorbed in a historical memory that Tatie Nadine gifted to me. She’s reminded me of it so often, it feels like my own. Tatie was a few years older than Anne in the spring of 1990 when she marched this bridge, shoulder to shoulder with an estimated 150,000 mostly Haitian people, in protest of the FDA’s ban on Haitian blood donation. The bridge shook with Haitian outrage then as it vibrates with history now.
When the three of us reach Brooklyn, it feels like an accomplishment. We reward ourselves with pizza from the famous Grimaldi’s and then ice cream cones from Ample Hills.
“Thank you so much, Simone,” says Amita.
“This was the best,” adds Kira.
A group hug and a selfie later, we’re headed in different directions. Kira, inspired by our bike ride and the promise of family time, has texted one of her sisters, who works in Midtown, and they’re going to grab coffee. Her sister is surprised Kira’s in the city, but she’s so touched Kira’s reached out that she’s promised not to snitch to their parents.
Meanwhile, Amita is off to visit Pritpal, who happens to be filming in Greenwich Village today. I tell the girls I want to check out the Haiti exhibit at the MoCADA, the Museum of Contemporary African Diasporan Art, which is true. But for some reason I can’t quite explain, I don’t tell them who I’m supposed to meet there.
Which is weird. I was going to ask Kira to come with me, but I remembered how she’d said it would be less awkward if she met Ben in a big group. Then she texted her sister, and it really was too late. Right?
I hop on the bus and head to the Fort Greene address Ben texted me.
From about half a block away, I see him standing outside the brick-face museum, waiting for me. He’s wearing jeans and a concert tee, so I don’t feel underdressed in my black leggings, ankle boots, white tee, and denim jacket.
“So cool that you’re in town during my spring break week,” he says, smiling wide once I’m face-to-face with him. Something tickles my heart when I see that smile, but I clear the feeling away with a forced cough. “I’m glad you could come. I’ve been planning to check out the Haitian exhibit for a minute,” he adds.
We walk into the airy, modern space and head for the exhibit. My parents have Haitian art on their walls, and a good number of Haitian households do, too. We are world famous for our art, and we are raised to know that. But I don’t know as much about the artists behind these works as Ben does. It’s pretty special, getting to see his excitement over the vivid pastoral scenes on display.
I notice one painting is titled after a famous Haitian proverb. “I’m pretty sure my grandmother used this proverb against my mother the other day,” I say, chuckling.
“Rude,” he wisecracks when he reads the insult the proverb is. “Well then, my sympathies to your mom.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’s counting down the six weeks my grandma will be staying with us.”
We share an easy laugh as we make our way around the gallery, and just as easily, our hands brush together.
My smile melts and I slide my hand away, embarrassed. Ben looks at me, as if trying to catch my gaze, but I turn my head and pretend to get lost in another painting. We’re quiet for an awkward moment when I hear a soft rumble of laughter travel through the gallery. I turn around to see a group of people filing in. It looks like a guided tour has just begun.
“That’s the museum’s executive director,” Ben whispers, gesturing to the stylin’ young woman with long braids. “She’s Haitian American.”
The director catches our stare. “You’re welcome to join us,” she says with a wave.
I’m grateful the tour is about Haitianness. As we pause in front of a painting of a bustling marketplace, the director asks the group how it feels to be Haitian. Even though I’m not one for public speaking, I raise my hand and find my voice.
“To me being Haitian feels like this Venn diagram of experiences that overlaps many cultures,” I say, nervous and hoping that I’m explaining this clearly enough. And then I remember the Brooklyn Bridge, and I go on. “Even though I catch anti-Haitian prejudice on the regular, it’s the dynamic culture that makes it easy to build bridges to other people. I find so many different cultures relatable and I see us and our ways in other people and their ways. It’s like everyone is a little Haitian, and they don’t know it.”
“I love that observation,” says the director. “We only hope one day the world will appreciate how the Haitian cultural experience reflects all humanity.”
I shrug my shoulders and smile wickedly. “And if they never do, we’ll keep marching in our awesomeness, and shaking things up once in a while.”
The rest of the group backs me up with “that’s right”s and “amen”s, and Ben reaches out and squeezes my hand.
After the tour, Ben and I thank the director for an amazing visit. We leave the museum together and breathe in the crisp air outside.
Still feeling the imprint of Ben’s touch on my hand, I busy myself with chatter as Ben walks me to the nearby subway station. If I want to be part of the after-school rush in New Jersey, I have to head home now.
“You should come meet me and Kira and our friends next Tuesday night,” I say, my words tumbling out my mouth one after another.
Ben raises an eyebrow. “Kira, huh?”
“Yup. We’re hitting Club LowKey on their teen night.”
“Oh, there’s a teen night,” Ben says with a lip curl. “That’s cute.”
“And how old are you?” I throw back at him, pretending to wait for his reply.
He grins. “All right, all right, I’ll come to teen night. And hey, I’ll be in Jersey most of next week, so if you want, we can meet up on Rutgers’s campus sometime, too.”
“Maybe,” I say, noncommittal. We’ve reached the Atlantic station, and I search inside my backpack. I pull out the African print fabric for his prom look.
“Before I forget,” I say. “Here you—”
Our fingers brush when he reaches for the fabric, and I forget what I was saying. What is going on with me?
“Here you go,” I recover. “And here I go. Train to catch.”
“Cool, yeah,” says Ben, like he’s just snapped out of a daydream.
I throw on my best pinch-faced-commuter expression and turn all my attention on travel.
“Get home safe,” Ben calls out.
“I will,” I call back, heading down the stairs.
Finally, it’s Tuesday night, and the HomeGirls are about to go to LowKey. But first, we’re gathering at Gabby’s place to get ready.
Anne was nice enough to lend me her car tonight, so I drove here, even though Gabby lives within walking distance from us. But the plan is that I’ll drive Gabby and myself to the club, and then back home at the end of the night. Kira and Amita will take Kira’s car.
This meetup location was Consultant Gabby’s idea. With my aunt being way cooler than my mom, we HomeGirls feel like CIA agents reporting to a safehouse. Here, we’re free to look one way when we arrive and another when we leave. Except for Gabby, who has the green light to leave the house in black pleather leggings, a cute African-print top, and a pair of classic Jordans.
“Great outfit,” I tell my cousin as she welcomes us inside. Amita and Kira compliment her as well, and Gabby eats it up.
To add to the safehouse mystique, Gabby’s place is undergoing construction.
“You guys are still doing renovations?” I ask Gabby as we all pass various tools and paint cans left in the hallway. Looking around, you wouldn’t suspect only two people, Gabby and Tatie Nadine, live in this house.
“Yeah, my mom fired the last crew because of their shoddy work.”
“Oh.”
Just then, I hear my aunt’s voice. “Hello, ladies! And good-bye, ladies—I’m heading out soon.”
Tatie Nadine breezes into the foyer on a cloud of perfume.
“Hi, Tatie!” I go greet my aunt with a cheek kiss. “Love your skirt.”
Tatie Nadine takes two handfuls of her flowy skirt and starts sashaying around while kicking out her legs this way and that in a dance.
I’m instantly her hypewoman, egging her on rhythmically, in sync with her two-step.
She freezes with a hand-on-hip pose and we all crack up. I give her a hug and introduce her to the HomeGirls.
“Momone, you braved your way over to this house of madness?” she asks me.
“The place is going to look amazing when the reno’s done,” I say.
“It will. I just want the inconvenience to be over,” Tatie Nadine says. She grabs a brown leather handbag from the cluttered counter and starts rummaging through it. “Wooo, if I misplace one more thing, I’ll scream.”
She literally has screamed. I’ve witnessed the hilarity. I love my auntie, but the woman would call the fire department with her personal problems if she could, like, Umwaaaay, send a rescue team—I’m late for work and can’t find my keys!”
It’s the only time she shows the dings in her armor—when something forces her to slow down or wait. Otherwise, my Tatie keep things moving, whether it’s flying off to business conferences, attending fancy grand openings, volunteering for shifts at the pantry, or kicking her ex-husband, Gabby’s dad, to the curb for bad behavior. It’s like stillness is her kryptonite. Even the walls in her house are constantly moving. This is not her first home reno in recent years.
“Welcome, welcome,” she says to Amita and Kira. “Please make yourselves at home. You’ll have to use the bathroom upstairs if you need it. The one down here is being worked on.”
Gabby pokes me with her elbow. “Let’s go upstairs.” We follow Gabby up the stairs. A college-aged girl wordlessly strolls out of Gabby’s room as we’re walking in. Gabby doesn’t even flinch.
“Who was that?” I ask, because my cousin clearly isn’t about to address this.
“She’s a distant relative staying in the guest room until she gets back on her feet,” she says. “My mom and her bleeding heart.”
I still don’t get it, but Amita asks the burning question. “But why was she coming out of your room?”
“The hallway bathroom entrance is blocked off because of the reno, and the only way to get there is through my room.”
For the first time, I notice the new bathroom door in Gabby’s room.
“This is a cool upgrade,” I say, inspecting it.
“Having an en suite bedroom is smart,” says Kira.
Thinking back to Kira’s room that has a whole-house vibe, it’s no wonder Kira is into real estate.
As Amita and Kira admire Gabby’s shiny new bathroom, I set my small duffel bag down, right next to an abandoned pair of jeans and a sweater lying like shed snakeskin on the floor. Then I unzip the bag to reveal the treasures inside.
“What’s all this?” Kira asks.
“I told you I’d coming bearing gifts,” I say with a curtsy. “A few key pieces and accessories to wake up any outfit. You’re all free to borrow anything you’d like.” I’m hopeful someone will let me style them. And okay, if I have to beg for the chance, I’m not above that either.
“Poor thing,” says Gabby, rubbing my shoulder. “Someone please give this girl a shot at her dream.”
“Don’t rub too hard,” I tell her. “My tattoo is pretty faded, and I want to show it off at least this one night.”
