"You sure? We could do a session this afternoon."
"Really. I'm down. It's cool."
"I should call your parents."
"They're away."
"You're not alone, are you?" The woman frowned.
"I'm staying with my uncle."
"And we're looking out for her," the detective said. Geneva noticed the woman didn't even ask to see his ID, it was so obvious he was a cop.
"When'll they be back, your folks?"
"They're on their way. They were overseas."
"You didn't really need to come to school today."
"I've got two tests. I don't want to miss them."
The woman gave a faint laugh and said to Mr. Bell, "I never took school as seriously as this. Probably should have." A glance at the girl. "Are you sure you don't want to go home?"
"I spent a lot of time studying for those tests," she muttered. "I really want to take them."
"All right. But after that I think you should go home and stay there for a few days. We'll get your assignments to you." Mrs. Barton stormed off to break up a pushing match between two boys.
When she was gone, the officer asked, "You have a problem with her?"
"It's just, counselors . . . They're always in your business, you know?"
He looked like, no, he didn't know, but why should he? This wasn't his world.
They started up the hall toward the cafeteria. As they entered the noisy place, she nodded toward the short alcove leading to the girls' restroom. "Is it okay if I go in there?"
"Sure. Just hold on a minute."
He motioned to a woman teacher and whispered something to her, explaining the situation, Geneva assumed. The woman nodded and stepped inside the bathroom. Came out a moment later. "It's empty."
Mr. Bell stationed himself outside the door. "I'll make sure only students get in."
Geneva stepped inside, thankful for the moment or two of peace, to be away from the staring eyes. Away from the edginess of knowing that somebody wanted to hurt her. Earlier, she'd been angry. Earlier she'd been defiant. But now the reality was starting to lap at her heart and left her scared and confused.
She came out of the stall and washed her hands and face. Another girl had come in and was putting on her makeup. A senior, Geneva believed. Tall, fine-looking, with her eyebrows artistically plucked and bangs hot-combed to perfection. The girl gave her the up and down--not because of the news story, though. She was taking inventory. You saw it all the time here, every minute of the day, checking out the competition: What was a girl wearing, how many piercings, real gold or plate, too much glitter, were her braids phat or coming loose, was she draped or wearing a simple hoop or two, are those real extensions or fake? Was she covering up being pregnant?
Geneva, who spent her money on books, not clothes and makeup, always came in low in the ratings.
Not that what God had created helped much. She had to take a deep breath to fill her bra, which she usually didn't even bother to wear. She was that "egg-yolk-titty bitch" to the Delano Project girls, and she'd been called "him" or "he" dozens of times in the last year. (It hurt the worst when somebody'd really mistake her for a boy, not when they were dissing.) Then there was her hair: dense and wiry as steel wool. She didn't have the time to train locs or tie rows. Braids and extensions took forever and even though Keesh would do them for free they actually made her look younger, like she was a little kid dressed up by her moms.
There she go, there she go, the skinny little boy-girl . . . . Get her down . . . .
The senior next to her at the washbasins turned back to the mirror. She was pretty and broad, her sexy bra straps and thong line evident, hair in a long straightened sweep, her smooth cheeks faintly maroon. Her shoes were red as candy apples. She was everything that Geneva Settle was not.
It was then that the door swung open and Geneva's heart froze.
In walked Jonette Monroe, another senior. Not much taller than Geneva, though broader, bustier, with solid shoulders and cut muscles. Tats on both arms. A long, mocha-shaded face. And eyes that were ice cold--they now squinted in recognition at Geneva, who looked away immediately.
Jonette was trouble. A gangsta girl. Rumors were she was dealing--could get you anything you wanted, meth, crack, smack. And if you didn't come up with the benjamins, she'd whale on you herself--or on your best friend or even your moms--till you stood up to the debt. Twice already this year, she'd been dragged off by the cops, even kicked one in the balls.