Practicing What You Preach. Vanessa Davis Griggs
two years younger than Marcus but only one grade behind him. She lived in virtually the same neighborhood as he, Brother Man, Slim Jim, and Pretty Ricky, except that her house was in the wealthier section across the divide. Growing up, she didn’t have much to do with or say to Marcus, but everybody knew she was crazy about Pretty Ricky and had been spotted on their street a few times throughout the summer. But Pretty Ricky didn’t seem to give Sasha the time of day.
“Don’t get me wrong, now. Sasha’s fine,” Pretty Ricky had said. “But I’m not interested in no jailbait.”
Sasha was a cheerleader and had been since the seventh grade, second runner-up in the school beauty pageant in eighth grade, and voted Most Beautiful, Class Favorite, and Homecoming Queen in the ninth grade.
Then there was Marcus, who still rode the school bus. Sasha’s mother took her to school and paid someone to pick her up every day after school. Or Sasha would ride home with some of her friends who had their own cars and drove to school. Marcus knew this because the bus he rode was the one she would have ridden had she ridden the bus, which she never did.
Sasha smiled. She had the most beautiful smile. “Hi, Marcus,” she said.
“I’m sorry. Hi. I was just shocked to see you standing here. Are you looking for my mother? Because she’s not home yet.” Marcus concluded she had to be looking for his mother, maybe to sell her something. The cheerleaders did a lot of fund-raisers.
“No, actually, I was looking for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes.” She took her hand and, like a choreographed move, pushed her hair that rested on her chest to the back. She crinkled her nose as she smiled. “I’m sort of in need of your help.”
“My help?” Marcus’s voice squeaked.
She smiled even more. “Yes, your help. It’s algebra. I just don’t get it. That’s why I didn’t take it in my freshman year. My mother hired a tutor to help me, but I still don’t get it. I hear you’re a whiz with this kind of stuff. Mercedes tells me you helped her. She was the one who suggested I get with you.”
“Mercedes suggested you get with me?” Marcus realized he wasn’t being cool at all. Here was the hottest girl in school, almost (after Mercedes to everybody else, but not to Marcus), and Mercedes had told Sasha—a girl he had dreamed would one day come to his front door, ring the doorbell, and ask for him—that she should get in touch with him. Marcus was starting to think the power of prayer his mother and the pastor at church always preached about really did work.
“I’m sorry,” Marcus said. “I keep repeating what you’re saying. I did help Mercedes, but I didn’t know she thought all that much of me. She rarely speaks to me when I pass her in the hall at school. I really didn’t think she even remembered me, let alone have anything nice to say about me.”
“Oh, Mercedes speaks very highly of you. Anyway, I was wondering if you could possibly help me with this algebra stuff. I have to pass this class, Marcus. If I don’t make a passing grade this semester, I’m off the cheerleading squad. Please.”
Marcus found it interesting how people in his age group didn’t seem to care about making good grades for good grades’ sakes. Many of them were motivated more by sports-related requirements, other social engagements, or money paid by their parents for A’s, B’s, or C’s. In a few cases, some parents were so desperate they even paid if their child just came home with a D. Only a handful of his peers seemed self-motivated, wanting to make good grades for the pride of what you can achieve if you put your mind and heart to it. He just didn’t get it.
His mother often told him how no one ever had to pay her to make good grades. How she was harder on herself than anyone else, even when she got a B. “We knew education was our ticket out of poverty and into us contributing to a productive society. If we were ever going to attain our dreams, we had to do our best,” his mother had said. “That’s why I’m so proud of you, Marcus. You get it. You get what this is all about. Short-term pain for long-term gain. That’s what life sometimes teaches us.”
Marcus looked at Sasha, who now had placed one hand on her hip as she waited for his answer. “I can help you if you want,” he said. “When do you want to start?”
“Tomorrow. And my mother said for me to tell you she’s going to pay you.”
Marcus adjusted his body to appear a little taller, a little more debonair than he really was. “You can come anytime after six. And you don’t have to pay me.” He bowed as though he were bowing before a queen as he said, “It’ll be my pleasure to assist you.”
“Right. Well, that’s what you say now.” She giggled. “You don’t have a clue how much trouble I can be,” she said. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow at six.” She turned to leave.
Later, when Marcus looked back over his life, he realized what prophetic words Sasha had spoken that day. And had Marcus only listened to her, he might have saved himself a whole lot of trouble later.
A whole lot.
Chapter 9
Folly is set in great dignity, and the rich sit in low place.
—Ecclesiastes 10:6
Sasha and Marcus began her algebra lessons the following day after she came home from cheerleading practice. It was the beginning of September and the leaves were starting to change. There was just something different about autumn air. At least, Marcus thought so. When he opened the door for Sasha, he felt that the air was cleaner, crisper than even he had ever noticed it to be.
“My mother’s not home yet,” Marcus said, trying to decide what he should do. He and his mother, Sharon Peeples, had a great relationship and talked about everything. She had told him and his younger brother not to have anyone in their home when she wasn’t there.
Sharon was a single mother. She had raised Marcus and his four siblings practically single-handed. His father had been to see them maybe three times since he and his mother divorced. She’d moved from Dallas to Birmingham when Marcus was five in order to keep her job, which ended up being outsourced overseas four years later anyway. Marcus and his younger brother, T. J., were the only ones still living at home now. Born on November fourth, T. J. was exactly one year and two days younger than his older brother Marcus.
T. J. usually sneaked off to hang out with his buddies after school. He knew what time his mother got home, and he always made it in the house by the time she arrived. She had no idea he was disobeying her by being with “those thugs,” as she had called them when she had forbidden him to hang out with his so-called friends anymore.
Sasha stood outside his door wearing a short cheerleading-practice outfit and high heels. “I’m sorry, Marcus. I know you told me to come over after six. But we finished practice early today. I was just so excited to get started, I couldn’t wait. Besides, I sort of have a little emergency that popped up at the last minute. I figure if we could get started earlier, we could finish up early enough for me to handle it. But I have to get this algebra or else I’m sunk!”
Marcus looked at his watch, a gift his father had sent him two Christmases ago. It was five thirty-three. His mother normally got home around six—six-fifteen if traffic was backed up. Sasha being there almost thirty minutes early shouldn’t be too bad. And he wasn’t doing anything wrong. Besides, she was a girl. He was sure when his mother said she didn’t want anybody in her house whenever she wasn’t home, she was merely wanting to keep out the boys who would tear up the house.
Still, Marcus didn’t like disobeying his mother even on small technicalities. He saw how hard things were for her. He tried his best not to be the cause of any added stress or problems in her life.
That’s one of the reasons Marcus stopped tattling on T. J. It was really stressing his mother out. Marcus tried doing what he could with his brother. He went so far as to tell their older brother, Ronnie, who talked to T. J., to no avail. His mother gave so much of herself. Marcus knew there were times