The Opposite of Everyone by Joshilyn Jackson

Author:Joshilyn Jackson [Jackson, Joshilyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2016-02-16T03:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

Joya is sitting sideways on my bed. The rooms here are small, just enough space for two twin beds, a shared dresser, and a closet. There’s a common room downstairs with desks for doing homework, an old navy-blue sofa and loveseat, and some big donated beanbag chairs, but Shar, Karice, and Kim have practically peed in a circle around that territory. Joya rooms with Kim, so we default to my room. We can kick Candace out and lean on the wall, shoulder to shoulder, feet hanging off into space. After a year and a half, my place on this bed is so established I can feel a faint, butt-shaped dent in the mattress where I fit.

I’m out of place today. I have moved up, much closer to the scratched headboard, and put some space between our shoulders. Joya either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. She’s so happy she’s having a hard time sitting still. I look down at our bare feet, my two, then a space, and then her two. She has doll feet, very small with round toes. She flexes them, back and forth, like they are waving. Happy feet, waving good-bye.

“You’re bouncing the whole bed,” I say. My feet are bonier and longer and very, very still.

“Well, you’re bitching up the whole room,” Joya fires back, but she’s smiling and I’m not.

Our voices sound so loud in all the quiet air. We are truly alone, with the whole cabin to ourselves. It’s rare to be the only two people in a building here, but everyone else has gone to the dining hall in the center building. Mrs. Mack said she’d bring me a sandwich if I wanted to skip the meal and hang with Joya. Joya’s going to a real restaurant with her mama. They will have a celebration meal of fried steak and mashed potatoes and pie, because Joya is not coming back. Everything she owns is packed up, sitting in two bags in our cabin’s common room.

The longer we wait, the more bitter and dark-hearted I become. It’s like I am steeping in something awful. I should have given her a quick squeeze, said bye, and gone to dinner.

But that would have meant sitting alone in the dining hall. At meals, the black kids and the two white boys who talk and dress black have the tables near the windows. The white kids, including Candace, have the tables by the door. There are only four Hispanic kids. They keep to themselves, sitting on one end of the eight-top nearest the kitchen, talking Spanish. We Gotmamas own the other end of their table. We’ve been a tiny nation to ourselves for over a year, but the problem of being a Gotmama is now clear to me: Someone’s mama is coming. It isn’t mine.

Sitting alone in the dining hall, I would at least have hot garlic toast. Here, my guts twist, hungry in all kinds of ways, watching Joya get what I want most.

“I’m missing spaghetti night,” I say, mean enough to spark her back.

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