Kirsten Dinnall Hoyte
LWF Award in Fiction
Excerpt from the prologue of Black Marks
"Please, miss," Alice Rowell raised her hand, "may I have Georgie's desk?" But I didn't hear the answer. I grabbed my bag and fled the classroom. As I rushed through the hall, a sixth former tried to stop me.
"Georgette Collins! No running in the corridor. You'll receive a black mark." She reached for my shoulders, but I slipped out of her grasp and headed out the front door and across the yard to the village.
Sarita Cheddie followed. She was the most popular girl in grade six. My first days at the Watson School, everyone else called me a tourist, but Sarita declared that she liked Americans and I could be her friend. Later she whispered to me, "When I moved here from Kingston, the class teased me for being Indian. But I knocked them all down. Then I won the netball tournament for Watson Primary. Now everyone likes me." Sarita was hard and athletic; she was always racing somewhere, her long black plaits flapping behind her. To be honest, I liked her at least as much as soft Nelson Spence.
"Georgie, wait! Miss Celine says to return to class," Sarita said when she caught my arm. I was waving it up and down hoping that a car would stop.
"No, I am going to hitchhike to Kingston. No one will find me there."
"Georgette Collins! Your grandmother will lick you all the way to America if you ride with a stranger to Kingston. And Miss Celine will be angry if I don't bring you back."
"Nina will understand," I said, sounding more sure than I felt. "Besides, it doesn't matter about getting black marks anymore. Miss Celine says I am leaving."
Always ready for adventure, Sarita (who had many black marks) stuck her arm out as well. "I'll go with you then to make sure you stay out of trouble," she said. Unfortunately, the village road was always nearly empty. No one stopped but Mrs. Redfield, the white lady with the BMW. She only gave us a ride as far as the beach, and she half-laughed and half-scolded when we told her it was the first leg in our journey to the city.
We walked through the scratchy grass, over the sand and rocks, and down to the water's edge. Sarita swung her schoolbag in wide arcs while I wore mine across my shoulders so that the sac thumped my thighs with each step. Kicking rocks and bits of seashell ahead, we moved along the coast trailed by a band of shirtless little boys in ragged shorts and bare feet. They seemed to think we were playing follow-the-leader. When Sarita grabbed my hand and began to run, they followed, giggling and shouting. Finally all of us collapsed on the white sand in a heap of arms and legs. We made growling noises as we tickled each other. Sarita crossed her braids in front of her face and roared out, "Look at me! I'm dangerous and fast like the wind."
My screeches sounded thin next to her hearty laughs and the little boys' yelling.
"Miss Sarita," one of the boys said, "yuh gwine give me dollar. Me give yuh fi treasure."
"Cha! Yuh nuh got notink!" Sarita answered. The seven-year-old grinned, opened one fist, and revealed a tin whistle; in the other hand, he held a sand dollar.
"Aaah!" the boys all murmured, crowding around. Sarita gave him a coin but let him keep his treasure. The boys wandered away. We took off our shoes and socks and spent the next few hours wading and sharing the candy bars from the bottom of my satchel where I had hidden them from Chris and Alex. We walked along the edge point where soft dry sand started to become damp and hard-packed under our feet. I could taste the wind--cool and salty.
Suddenly, Sarita stumbled and sat down hard, grasping her right foot with both hands.
"What's wrong?" I shouted.
"My foot. I've stepped on something sharp."
When I reached her, she was glaring at a bleeding toe. I sat down beside her and examined the wound. "It's not so bad, Sarita."
"Papa says that I run too much," she said glumly. "He says that no real girl would behave this way. Do you think I'm not a real girl? Maybe I'm a boy, or an animal in a girl's skin. Maybe I'm a beastly girl like my father says." I didn't know how to answer. It is true Sarita didn't act like other girls. At least not like Alice, all prim and proper with a flurry of skirts and a sugary voice.
"I hate him sometimes," she added in a matter-of-fact voice.
"I hate Daddy sometimes too," I whispered. "In the States, he's always watching me like he's waiting for me to be bad or like he's surprised I'm still there. And he makes Mama cry."
"Don't go back to America," she whispered, lips close to my ear. "Georgette Collins, you are the only one who lets me be real. Everyone else wants me to be a butterfly or a little meek bird."
"I don't think I have a choice." I kissed her cheek shyly.
"Can we be blood sisters then? Forever?" Sarita asked pointing her toe upwards. I picked up a sharp shell and pricked my finger. The sharp sensation felt good--it meant our friendship was real. The blood was warm and bright. I briefly pressed my finger to her toe, and then we lay down, her back flat on the sand, my head resting on her stomach. We were still lying there silently when Chris found us.
"Sarita Cheddie, go home to your mother," Chris said. "Georgie, Nina is wanting you."
"How did she know where I was?" I asked. Chris shrugged, a Nina-knows-everything gesture. I shivered. Suddenly the magnitude of my disobedience struck me. While Sarita muttered a quick goodbye, Chris pushed me toward the path into town.
"Is she angry?" I asked. Chris refused to say. He moved a few steps ahead of me on the path to make clear his lack of interest in his younger sister. While I dragged my feet, he strolled, carelessly whistling a calypso song and keeping his eyes on the dirt road to avoid cow patties. Each time he heard the motor of an approaching car, without lifting his head he moved to the grass and then back onto the road after the vehicle passed. As we walked through town, we passed groups of women coming from the market. The women carried babies or boxes in their arms, balancing sacks of groceries on their heads. Several called out greetings that I scarcely heard--it took all my concentration not to cry. The mile from the town beach to the house seemed dustier and longer than usual. And my feet dragged on every step on the long drive up to Nina's villa. By the time we arrived, I was sweating, convinced that Nina had a terrible punishment in store.
Nina's house was painted the colors of the Caribbean, cool greens and a dusty pink. At first glance, the house appeared modest, enveloped by a large verandah, wrapping its entire length. However, its reserved exterior masked ten airy rooms that often hosted an endless rotation of visiting friends and family.
Nina greeted me on the verandah. Her small body bristled with energy, but she didn't look angry at all; instead, she stretched out her hand and guided me through the living room, out the wooden doors, and into the back patio and courtyard. The garden was her paradise with flowers ranging from milky white to deep purple. On very still days, I sat there with my head on her knee listening to the ocean and breathing in the scent of mint and spices.
"Georgie," Nina said as she strolled along the slate path, "I'm sorry that no one told you about returning to the States. I didn't find out until your mother called today. She's very excited to have you children home again. She has a brand new house in Cambridge for you all."
I didn't say anything. I thought perhaps I would never talk again.
"Sweetness, I thought you wanted to go home; that is all you talked about when you first arrived here."
"I'll miss you, Nina!"
"You'll be back during the summers. And you'll be near your mother and father again." Nina put a consoling arm around my shoulder and drew me close.
I didn't answer. I had no interest in being with the mother who brought me here and left me for nearly two years. And Daddy no longer even lived at home. Months ago, a telephone call revealed that he'd moved out for good. "Thank God that's over," Mother had said. I would never forgive her.
"I don't want to leave Jamaica. I don't want anything to change. Ever," I finally admitted. "I want us to stay like this always."
"Sweetness, everything changes sooner or later. Look at the ocean. The waves, they crash in and out, washing some treasures ashore and sweeping others away. It's beautiful, nuh? You like to play there."
I nodded reluctantly. "But what if the ocean takes away something I really love or brings me something I hate?"
"Oh, it will now, Georgie. That you can be sure of." Nina seemed sad for a moment, and then continued, "But you can still collect what the tide brings." She handed me a book sitting on the wicker bench. It was my art prize. "Your teacher says you forgot this at school."
I took a pen out of my satchel. On the new first page, I wrote my name again. Georgette Collins, St. Elizabeth Parish, Jamaica, West Indies. Underneath I wrote, Georgette Collins, Cambridge, Massachusetts, United States of America. I turned over the page, and starting with Nina's garden, I began to sketch the parts of the island that I was going to miss. Miss Celine's solemn face breaking into a smile when I got the right answer. Mr. Craig, reassuring and dull, standing in the school hall as he repeated the same old sermons on duty and honor. Nina and Sonia in the kitchen during the weeks before Christmas, baking, wrapping gifts in brightly colored papers, and cooking a huge feast for the Eve. Saturdays weaving in and out of the crowded market stalls. My cousins' and brothers' angry stances as they fought (always to make up again). And Sarita's braids flapping in the wind. I would always draw everything and write down everything. I would never forget.
Astraea Lesbian Foundation For Justice