P.S. Be Eleven Read Free

banged her fists against her sides. This would be the point where she’d leap on Vonetta, they’d tussle, and then I’d have to pry them apart.
    The kids kept singing their “pee-pee-girl” song, locking their arms in a Mexican hat dance, skipping around to the left, then around to the right. The best I could do was stand to the side of Fern to block her from seeing them and them from seeing her.
    Big Ma turned to Fern and said, “Smile at your friends.”
    Fern folded her arms and said, “They are not my friends.”
    Then Big Ma was ashamed of Fern, and I was ashamed of Big Ma.
    The mother said to the singing and dancing two of her three, “That’s enough.” All three kids stuck out their tongues at Fern.
    Big Ma smiled. She didn’t just fear and love white people. She feared and loved their children.
    I wanted Cecile to be standing here next to us and not Big Ma. Cecile wouldn’t tell us to smile at anyone who tried to oppress us. Cecile would scare them like Black Panthers scare people just by being black and not smiling and by shouting words like power and oppression .
    Finally a Volkswagen bus drove up to the curb and the Mouseketeers waved at its driver. The bus was like one we’d seen in San Francisco painted with daisies, peace signs, and Flower Power written in groovy colors. But there were no psychedelic rainbows and groovy words painted on this bus. Just a greenish-blue color with whitetrim and a white vw below the dashboard. With the bell captain’s help, the family loaded up their bus and, one by one, the kids climbed into the backseats. I was glad we’d soon be rid of them. The father got back into the driver’s seat, but the mother didn’t get in, although the baggage porter was nice enough to open a door for her. She headed straight our way. She walked up to Big Ma and said, “You should have a better handle on these rascals.” To me, she said, “You should be ashamed, young lady.” She marched over to her Volkswagen bus and climbed into the front passenger seat and the baggage porter slammed the door. Pleased with herself, she clunked down a nod, her Mickey Mouse ears still on.
    I turned to face Big Ma to explain. Before I saw it coming, I got the one thing Big Ma always promised in her scolding: the sting of her right hand.
    I couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down my face. My face burned and the salt trickled down my cheek but I wouldn’t utter a sound. The humiliation of being hit like that in front of my sisters hurt more than the slap itself. I held it inside because it was the only power I had.
    Big Ma’s face was screwed up tight around the lips and jaw but she managed to say, “I don’t know what you did, but I know one thing. It was wrong enough for that white woman to come over here, and it was bad enough she thought you had something coming.”
    Big Ma didn’t stop scolding until the bluish-green Volkswagen was well on its way.
    Vonetta inched nearer to me and I felt Fern’s small hands over mine.
    Then I saw the Wildcat.

My Girl
    Big Ma said Pa had been circling around the airport to give her enough time to fetch us. That way he wouldn’t have to pay more than the law should allow to sit his car in an airport lot.
    The tan-and-black Wildcat crawled up to the curb, its growl low and tame. Vonetta and Fern hopped around as if the concrete below them was too hot to stand on. They flapped their arms crazily and shouted, “Papa! Papa!” before he got the car door open. There was nothing Big Ma could do about it with Pa right there, and I enjoyed that like I enjoyed a Mr. Goodbar all to myself. My feet, however, didn’t dare leave the ground, nor did my arms rise up to fly with my sisters’.
    All of the windows in Pa’s car were cranked down, and Big Ma scolded, “It’s your fault they’re out of hand,” shaking her pointer finger at her