Like Vanessa Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Tami Charles

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Charlesbridge and colophon are registered trademarks of Charlesbridge Publishing, Inc.

  Published by Charlesbridge

  85 Main Street

  Watertown, MA 02472

  (617) 926-0329

  www.charlesbridge.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Charles, Tami, author.

  Title: Like Vanessa / Tami Charles.

  Description: Watertown, MA: Charlesbridge, [2018] | Summary: It is 1983 and Vanessa Martin, a thirteen-year-old African American girl in Newark’s public housing, dreams of following in the footsteps of the first black Miss America, Vanessa Williams; but with a dysfunctional family (mother in jail, father withdrawn, drunken grandfather, secretly gay cousin) the odds are against her—until a new teacher at school organizes a beauty pageant and encourages Vanessa to enter.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016053961 (print) | LCCN 2017022713 (ebook) |

  ISBN 9781632896070 (ebook) | ISBN 9781580897778 (reinforced for library use)

  Subjects: LCSH: Williams, Vanessa—Juvenile fiction. | African American girls—New Jersey—Newark—Juvenile fiction. | Beauty contests—Juvenile fiction. | Dysfunctional families—New Jersey—Newark—Juvenile fiction. | Urban schools—New Jersey—Newark—Juvenile fiction. | Self-confidence—Juvenile fiction. | Nineteen eighties—Juvenile fiction. | Newark (N.J.)—History—20th century—Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Williams, Vanessa—Fiction. | African Americans—Fiction. | Beauty contests—Fiction. | Family problems—Fiction. | Family life—New Jersey—Newark—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Self-confidence—Fiction. | Newark (N.J.)—History—20th century—Fiction. | LCGFT: Historical fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.C4915 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.C4915 Li 2018 (print) | DDC 813.6 [Fic] —dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2016053961

  Ebook ISBN 9781632896070

  Production supervision by Brian G. Walker

  Ebook design adapted from printed book design by Susan Mallory Sherman

  v5.2

  a

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Fifty Stinkin’ Years

  Not Even Daddy Calls Me That

  This Part of Town

  And That’s That

  Letting Go

  Ain’t Miss America No Way

  Goin’ Up Yonder

  Pray Myself Invisible

  Tres Tears

  Darlene and a Dial Tone

  Tell Me What?

  Dumb and Dumber

  Baby Steps, Girlfriend!

  Rise of the Undead

  The Left Behinds

  A Thankless Thanksgiving

  The Case of the Rusty Tiara

  Mrs. Walton, Please Stop Dancing!

  Feeding Our Souls

  New Friend, Old Problems

  Junito Shatters the Earth

  A Long Way from Our World

  Water Rising Higher

  Ain’t a Little Girl

  Desperate Times Call for Homemade Pads

  The Sun, the Moon, and the Truth

  Take Me Back to the Merry-Go-Round

  Finding Mama

  Well, Her Name Ain’t Edna!

  Much, Much Too Late

  Me and My Stupid Miss America Dreams

  Dreams Tell Lies Too

  Truth Swells

  This Is for Me Now

  Jell-O Knees and All

  This Stranger Named Daddy

  The Best Prize of the Night

  The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

  Half Full, Half Empty

  I Remember

  The History Behind Vanessa Williams’s Miss America Win

  “Closed mouths don’t get fed.”

      —Marie “Nana” Carlisle (circa 1986)

  Dearest Grandmother,

    I didn’t understand it then, but I get it now.

      Rest easy,

      Mik-Mik

  September 17, 1983

  America

  All them lights, bathing her white, washing away the slightest trace.

  Miss America they call her, smile so bright, eyes shut tight, brand-new day.

  Everybody talking ’bout history’ll be made; we’ll win the race.

  Really? I say, ’cause if it were me, would they feel the same way?

  In the land of the free, home of the brave, we’ll bust up that long-shut door.

  Course it’ll be a light-and-bright, two-shades-from-white,

  least—America ain’t the America we know from before…

  Dear Darlene,

  Miss America’s coming on tonight. You ready?

  —Nessy

  Fifty Stinkin’ Years

  Pop Pop gave me my very first “Darlene” eight years ago and a brand-new one every year after that—custom-made of pressed, dried wildflowers spanning every color of the rainbow. Most kids my age would call Darlene a diary, but she’s much more than a place to write stupid lists of the cutest guys in eighth grade. Darlene’s my chill spot: a place to share the lyrics in my head, the words crawling through my bones, the latest gossip running through Grafton Hill. Today’s hot topic? Miss America.

  Pop Pop and I got a bet going for this year. Miss America’s never crowned a black girl…ever. And that pageant’s been going on every year since 1933! Way I see it, the powers that be have no plans whatsoever to pick a girl who looks like me. Let Pop Pop tell you: everything’s gonna change this year.

  Watching Miss America is our little tradition. Each of us eyeing the screen, clutching onto a memory long gone. His memory is of time with his daughter, my mother. Honey-eyed, vanilla-coated, lullaby-singing angel. Him pretending that on this very day, every year, he could have a piece of his little girl back through me. And me watching alongside Pop Pop. My memory: pushing, hoping, forcing myself to remember her. To remember what having a mother feels like. To, even for a second, drown myself in her beauty even though I don’t look a thing like her.

  I pull out the hot comb, pomade, and all my favorite hair bows. Pop Pop lets me straighten and braid his hair while he nurses a coffee cup of whiskey. Me pretending I’m the one getting my hair done, and Mama’s doing it. Pop Pop pretending the whiskey’s a cure-all. A magic potion in all of its bitter-sweetness, helping him remember too.

  The hot comb glides through with ease. My grandfather has some silky, long, curly hair. Says he gets it from his Cherokee side. That Cherokee blood must have skipped over me.

  Halfway through the show, two black women make it to the top ten: Miss New York, Vanessa Williams, and Miss New Jersey, Suzette Charles. They’re both so beautiful—black, the light-skinned and curly-haired type like Pop Pop and Mama. Maybe they got some Cherokee in them too.

  “This is it, Nessy!” Pop Pop says before they start to announce the top five. “This is our year. Get on in here, TJ, we ’bout to make history!”

  My cousin TJ comes running into the living room, feather boa in one hand, pen and sketch pad in the other. He wraps the boa around my neck, saying, “Here you go, Miss America!” Then he plops down on the couch and starts drawing pageant gowns like mad.

  On the fuzzy black-and-white screen, Gary Collins starts announcing the runners-up. And just as Pop Pop predicts, this is the year black women make history at the Miss America pageant. Because not one but two of us are standing there, waiting to be announced as the new winner. My fists clench with the strength of an army ten thousand strong, hopes flying sky-high, anxiety drowning in my chest. Would the Miss America pageant even let a black girl wi
n? Give girls like me the tiniest piece of hope that, yes, black is beautiful? Even if it means that they’d start with the light-and-bright, two-shades-from-white kind? Because if so, then that means that one day girls like me—the darkest of black—could be seen as pretty too.

  Suzette Charles takes the first runner-up spot. And at this point, I’m thinking, Okay, we came close enough. We ain’t gonna see a day like this for probably another fifty years.

  “And your new Miss America is…Vanessa Williams!” Gary Collins shouts into the microphone.

  And I swear I just about lose my mind!

  The spotlights lower onto Vanessa’s bad-to-the-bone, silver-and-white, one-shouldered gown. The audience thunders with applause. After the crown is placed on her head, she takes her ceremonial walk down the runway. And she’s working it too. Hips swaying. Teeth all shining. And she’s got that Miss America wave down pat. I stare at the screen. Stare real long and hard. Vanessa Williams’s face fades away, and Mama’s sets in. I mean, really, they could be twins.

  It’s like Mama can see me through that television. Right through me. And the way she’s looking, it’s like she’s making a promise. She’ll come back some day. When things are right. When all the broken pieces are mended back together. We’ll go back to the time when we were us—the Martins—minus the booze, minus the stares, minus the whispers.

  These days, you might as well call us the left behinds. We’re the ones that were left behind the day Mama walked out all those years ago. That was when everything changed: the rest of the family forgot about us, Pop Pop turned to booze, Daddy’s spirit up and died, and we moved to the projects of Grafton Hill. Daddy walked into that empty bedroom of his, soul black as night, and locked his door. And I ain’t seen the inside of that room or his heart ever since. Only comes out to go to work, which can be anytime, day or night.

  Things will get better again. Mama’s voice whispers through the television, sweet like honeydew in summer. A shiver courses through the arch of my back.

  I’m soaking in Mama (well, Vanessa) through that screen, as if she sees me, the real me. It’s like I know I gotta do something to make everything right. For everybody. All I gotta do is find Mama. But how?

  I’m sitting on our brown shag carpet, boohooing like a dang fool, clutching onto Darlene, shoulders shaking worse than an earthquake. My prayers turn to words that I hold on to, fighting to remember, so me and Darlene can talk about it later.

  Next thing I know, I’m up off that floor, wiping away my tears, jumping up and down and clapping my hands. I’m clapping for Vanessa, clapping for Mama, clapping for me. All the years I’ve watched this pageant and not once did I see a black girl win. Nobody ever did. Not before tonight. I know I’m never gonna forget this. I start prancing around the room, doing the Miss America wave. Close my eyes real tight-like. Picture that Miss America crown on Mama’s head. Picture it on mine too. Picture Daddy smiling again, wrapping his big old earthy hands around Mama’s tiny little waist, like he used to do.

  Pop Pop pulls me close to his chest, his liquor-laden scent stinging my nose. “That’s gonna be you one day, Nessy. Your singing is just as good as Vanessa Williams’s. And Miss America’s even got the same name as you. It’s meant to be, baby girl!”

  “Yeah, and when you do make it to Miss America, you already know who’s doing all of your styling! I won’t even charge you full price!” TJ jokes.

  And in that moment I believe what they say could be true for me. That I could be like Vanessa Williams. Long as it doesn’t take no fifty stinkin’ years. ’Cause I’m not sure me and Mama got that kind of time on our hands.

  September 19, 1983

  Unpretty

  The world ain’t so pretty

  if there are no flowers,

  no seeds to bear,

  no sun to cast out the darkness,

  no soil to fill it with promises,

  to remind us

  that like wings,

  hope can take flight,

  even among all things unpretty.

  Dear Darlene,

  I love that part in The Bluest Eye that talks about the soil being bad for certain types of flowers. Pecola thinks that’s why the seeds won’t grow in her town, among the garbage. That maybe it’s just too late. You think Toni Morrison’s ever been to Newark? ’Cause there ain’t nothing but garbage here too. Garbage on the streets. In those needles the dopeheads drop in the alleys. In the elevators that carry me to the eighth floor of my apartment in Grafton Hill. Except there ain’t no flowers in my ’hood. Just that fake, plastic, general-store-looking sunflower Pop Pop puts on the windowsill. Trying to pretend like our crib is some penthouse out in Beverly Hills. But everybody knows you can cover up caca with perfume, but after a while it’s still gonna stink.

  —Nessy

  Not Even Daddy Calls Me That

  It’s sixth-period chorus, and as usual I’m not the only one ignoring the teacher. The scattered noises of gossip and hip-hop rhymes battle it out against the melody Mrs. Walton’s playing on the piano.

  Eighth graders: 35; Mrs. Walton: 0.

  My seat is in the back of our dungeon-like music room, behind the chaos, behind Tanisha, who’s lost herself in her sketch pad. I sink into my chair, placing The Bluest Eye on top of Darlene, and reach for my next read, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Pop Pop says he got it special for me because I’m his little songbird. I turn to the first page, ready to lose myself in the words. Ready to pretend I’m anywhere but here.

  Mrs. Walton stops playing the piano, and suddenly I feel a pair of icy eyes hawking me. “Vanessa Martin, school’s been in session for three weeks now. You think you want to join us sometime soon?”

  Tension tiptoes up my spine. I sit up straight like I’ve been listening all along, which is a bald-faced lie. But of all the people in the room, she chooses to call on me?

  Everyone turns and looks at me like, What you gonna do now? Even Tanisha’s staring me down, begging me to say something. Anything.

  My lips turn to salt and start to quiver at the thought of being stared at. ’Cause even one second of attention is a second too long.

  Everybody’s got their rep in eighth grade. Mine? I’m like oxygen—you know I’m there, but you don’t see me. I shut my mouth. I make good grades. And when the bell rings at the end of the day, I take my butt home, close my door, and dream of a place far, far away from here.

  “Guidance made me take this class. Singing just ain’t my thing.” My voice is a loud whisper. It’s enough to produce a few oohs. And once that starts, I know the teacher will have a point to prove.

  Mrs. Walton slowly struts to my desk. The click-clacking of her heels echoes through the room. Her tiny frame grows larger as she walks toward me, looking like she’s ready to start something. She’s new to King Middle. Probably never taught a single black kid in her life. And like most white teachers they send here, she won’t last the full school year. Especially once Junito Mendez orders the Latin Diablos to break into her car. That’s tradition for every new teacher—black or white.

  Mrs. Walton’ll be here and gone within a season. Here to feed us with possibility. Blinded by her hope to make a difference. And before the school year ends, she’ll bounce. But I’m used to that. I give her till Christmas.

  “Tell me,” she says, checking out the books that I’ve done a poor job of hiding. “What do you want to do with your life?” My eyes rise up to the ceiling and stay there, glued to the dried-up wet-tissue bombs hanging on for dear life.

  Lady, I don’t feel like hearing one of those save-our-black-youth speeches. That’s what I want to say to her, but I know that sass talk’ll get me sent to the principal’s office. And the last thing I need is Daddy coming up in here. Me and him got enough problems.

  I hesitate before I speak, trying to think of what she’d want to hear come outta my mouth. Say I wanna end world hunger or find world peace. Teachers like that kind of talk. Plus, it seems like a safe enough answer to make her lea
ve me alone until the bell rings. And then no one would have to know the real me I want to be.

  “Nessy wants to be Miss America one day,” spills out of Tanisha’s mouth before I have a chance to lie. “And she can sing.”

  And suddenly I feel naked. Like straight-up covered in layers upon layers of fat and the whole class is looking at me like a tub of lard, naked.

  Tanisha turns around and flashes me a cheesy smile, like she done said something good. My lips turn upward in a weak smile, but what I really want to do is smack her one good time upside the head.

  Sometimes I think Tanisha ain’t too bright upstairs. ’Cause if she were, she would remember that my Miss America dreams are private, for no one else to know about and make fun of…especially Curtis Dumont.

  “Miss America? Yeah, right!” Curtis yells, with a toothy grin. Of course, all his homeboys laugh. I knew that was coming.

  “Maaaan, please! Real black people don’t win Miss America! That’s for them high-yellow girls and white girls with light hair, light eyes, and little bodies,” he shouts. “And last time I checked, yo’ tar-baby self ain’t got none of that!”

  Curtis got a lot of nerve with his busted-behind teeth. The top row is doubled—yes, doubled, as in there are two complete rows of teeth. That probably solves the mystery of the missing ones on the bottom.

  “Calm down now, everyone,” Mrs. Walton squeals, but it falls on deaf ears.

  Not stopping there, Curtis stands up with his fake-behind, wanna-be-gangster, rapper self and spits out a rhyme.

  “Vanessa, Vanessa is wack, wack, ’cause Vanessa, Vanessa’s too black, black!”

  The whole class starts dying. Bust-a-gut, hunched-over, bladder-holding laughing. My skin grows too tight for my body. It wants to split open and empty everything inside out, but I ain’t letting them see me like that. A knot the size of a baseball bulges in my throat, and here comes Tanisha, turning around, looking at me with those sad hazel eyes, mouthing, “I’m sorry.”

  Now would be a good time for the floor to open up and swallow me whole.