Broughtupsy by Christina Cooke

Author:Christina Cooke
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781646221899
Publisher: Catapult
Published: 2023-11-17T00:00:00+00:00

THURSDAY

17 Days Left

IT’S MORNING. MY SHEETS LAY CRUMPLED AT the base of my bed. This is how you bear it: in the quiet of night, without moving and without waking, sense the wane of the crickets buzzing and tree frogs chirping as they give way to rising light—then kick the covers off, free yourself of the top sheet before the birds wake and morning heat starts seeping in. This is how, here, at home, you get a good night’s sleep.

Yawning, I stretch and scratch my stomach. My shorts and socks are still dry, my tank top just shy of damp. Eyes open, I reach above my bed to press my palm against the windowpane. It is smooth and hot, glass rattling with the bass riddim from a passing car.

“Come eat!” Tamika yells.

I drop my hand. Did our mother call us like that? I close my eyes, trying to conjure her: face like Bryson like Tamika like me, standing in our old house, in our living room or kitchen. I squeeze my eyes shut and think and think but all I see is darkness. I throw my legs over the side of my bed. Walking into the kitchen, I hold up the plastic bag for Tamika to see.

“I bought mangoes,” I announce.

Tamika nods, chewing her toast at the kitchen table. I put the mangoes in the wooden bowl next to the yellow yam.

“Remember that trick you taught me?” I shape my hand into a lopsided O. “I bought a Bombay, ripest one in the box, then I found a rock—not a sharp one, a smooth one—and then,” knock knock knock, I bang my hand against warm air, knock knock knock, I move my hand in the smooth motion to show her I still understand.

Tamika smiles then touches my arm. “I have a surprise for you,” she says then points to a warped cardboard box on the living room settee.

There’s a netball and old binders spread across the floor, the smell of mothballs rising like nostalgia and death. There are sun-bleached posters, empty pill bottles, a stack of VHS tapes in a neat pile next to the TV. This was all the banging I heard yesterday.

“Sit down,” she says.

I’m curious, so I sit. Tamika pops a tape into the VCR as I set my backpack between my feet.

“Is long time gyal mi neva see yuh,” Miss Lou sings, “come mek mi hol’ your hand.” Tamika sits next to me as the band starts up, unruly and glorious. She watches me, smiling. We’re watching Ring Ding like I would with our mother when I was young.

“Is a long time gyal mi neva see yuh, come mek mi hol’ your hand,” Miss Lou sings. “Peel-head John Crow sit ’pon di treetop, pick out di blossom, let me hol’ your hand.”

My hands clench. “Who’s John Crow?”

“A vulture,” Tamika says.

“Ah,” I respond, still mystified but watching just the same. My empty stomach rumbles with remnants of dry bulla.

“I’m sorry,” Tamika says, “for stealing the tapes. And

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