Drama High: Cold As Ice - L. Divine Drama High

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and pray that what I’m writing is legible. I know what I want to say, which is half the battle. But whoever reads it may not get the full meaning of my words if they can’t make out my handwriting. I was never good at penmanship.

      “Why am I writing this down when no one’s going to be able to make it out? Isn’t that the point of keeping up with our history?” I ask Mama, who has since disappeared from the room. I take a deep breath and continue my scribing, more anxious to get on with this assignment so that I can leave this dark space. It’s giving me the creeps.

      Finished with my story for the moment, I rise from the weathered seat and walk toward the only opening in the dark space. As I reach for the barely visible brass knob and open the door, I feel a cold breeze enter the room, giving me the chills. I take a step outside, momentarily blinded by the bright light coming in from every direction, and immediately fall flat on my ass, hitting my head on the cold, hard ground.

      “Damnit! What the hell was that?” I ask aloud, holding the back of my head where the pain throbs. I’m not sure who’s listening, but I can feel someone’s presence around me.

      “Watch your language, young lady, even when your head hurts,” Mama says, gently scolding me, but I know she can feel me. That shit hurt. “And that was black ice, Jayd. It’s the most dangerous kind because you can’t see it until it’s too late. Always watch your step, even in the light,” Mama says, but I can’t see her. All I see are the stars in my head, like in a cartoon.

      “Ouch,” I say, slapping the alarm clock and rubbing the back of my head where the impact from the fall in my dream has left a knot in reality. Why can’t I dream like a normal person?

      “Because you’re not normal, Jayd,” Mama mumbles from her side of the room. “Now go on and get up before you’re late. And put some ice on your head. It’ll help the swelling go down,” she says, turning back over to return to her slumber. Isn’t it ironic that the same thing that hurt me is the same thing that’ll help me heal? I wish I could stay under the warm covers, but I have to get up and start my day—weird dream, knotted head, and all.

      It’s a beautiful spring morning, not that we in California know much about the seasons changing at all. But I can feel the sun’s warmth breaking through the foggy ocean chill on my skin, and I welcome the constantly hot days that are ahead. Let’s just hope that nothing at school will ruin my mood. So far, so good. It’s already lunchtime, and no one’s pissed me off as of yet. But it’s still early in the day, and I have an African Student Union meeting plus two more classes to get through before I can officially declare this day drama free. But Nellie and Mickey are getting me closer to pissed with this constant baby-shower planning, especially since Mickey has yet to officially apologize for her rude behavior. I could give a damn about what she’s going through, being on academic probation, pregnant, or whatever. Mickey accusing me of betraying her ass was cold-blooded and can’t be easily forgotten or forgiven.

      “Okay, it looks like the shower will have to be the weekend of the twentieth because the following weekend is Easter and we all need to be in church that Sunday and shopping for our outfits the day before.” Nellie and her parents go to church only on the major holidays, paying their tithes and sporting their designer fashions for all to envy. Isn’t that breaking one of the Ten Commandments—thou shalt not make people covet your shit?

      So far we are the only ones present for the ASU lunch meeting, which is why Nellie’s taking over as the official shower dictator. I thought we were planning this together, but I guess I thought wrong.

      “Um, but that’s when I want to celebrate my birthday,” I say. I would add that I don’t celebrate Easter, but that’s irrelevant right now. It’s a shame that I have to remind these heffas of my birthday when they expect everyone to stop traffic for their special days. Maybe if I had a little more bitch in me like my girls, they’d remember.

      “Oh, Jayd, now, that’s just selfish,” Mickey says. “The baby precedes everything else.” I know this heffa’s not talking about me being selfish. Didn’t we all just duck and dive bullet shots because of her necessity to cheat on her boyfriend, a notorious gangster?

      “Excuse me for not wanting to talk about someone else’s party on my birthday weekend,” I say, looking around Mr. Adewale’s classroom as students file in for the lunch meeting; I am tired of my self-centered friends. “I don’t mean to be a diva, but damn. When is it ever about me in this crew?”

      “Yeah, Jayd. This is so unlike you,” Nellie says. I know she’s not serious. “We have to make sure the baby gets everything she needs.” She flips through the catalogs on her desk like she’s getting paid to do this party.

      “Yes, when she gets here. We still have a couple months before that happens. My birthday is one day, this day, and I want to celebrate it. I turn seventeen only once,” I say, snacking on the last of my pretzels before moving on to my cranberry juice. They were all out of my favorites at the lunch counter today, so I had to switch it up.

      “Oh, speaking of birthdays, can you come with me tomorrow evening to Chance’s house? His mother’s having a little dinner celebration for his father’s birthday, and I need backup. It’s my first time meeting his parents, and I want to make a good impression.” Did Nellie hear a word I just said? Speaking of selfish. If there were a crown for the most selfish broad alive, Nellie would have that title, and Mickey would be first runner-up.

      “Nellie, I don’t think so. I’ve got a lot of studying to do,” I say, officially pissed. “On top of my regular schoolwork, I have the AP exams coming up soon, and I really need to be on top of my game.” I’ve been so distracted with all my friends’ and family’s bull that I’ve been neglecting my own responsibilities, and that’s not a good thing, because I clearly see that my friends don’t have a sistah’s back like I always have theirs.

      “Okay, everyone, how are we doing this afternoon?” Mr. A asks, entering the classroom with a large manila envelope and a smile. He makes my day. “Ready to nominate a treasurer to hold the African Student Union’s precious money?”

      “Hey, Mr. Adewale,” Misty says, strolling into the lunch meeting like she’s not late. Mr. A announced at the last meeting that people who are late will not be allowed to vote on the day’s issues, and if they continue to be late, they’ll be eliminated from votes and field trips for the entire semester. He doesn’t play with time, and time is money, so I completely understand.

      “Miss Caldwell, you are five minutes late, which means you forfeit today’s votes,” Mr. A says, tossing the envelope on his desk and taking a seat in the chair behind it. Misty sits down in her seat next to KJ, for whom she had brought lunch. That’s probably why she’s late. When will she learn that dudes never respect doormats?

      “Oh, come on, Mr. Adewale. I didn’t know the lunch line was going to be so long. The cafeteria helpers really need to speed things up. It’s not my fault they were slow today,” Misty says, taking one of KJ’s fries off his tray, not realizing how serious Mr. A is about his shit.

      “A lack of planning on your part doesn’t constitute an emergency on mine,” Mr. A says to a salty Misty. That’s one of his favorite sayings, and he uses it daily, much to many students’ disliking. “Now, we have several officer positions that need to be filled before we can move on as a group. Secretary, president, vice president, and treasurer are all up for grabs. We should start with the money because we have an envelope full that needs to be taken care of as soon as possible,” he says, gesturing to the envelope on the top of his stack of papers. And I thought I had a lot of work to do. “Any nominations for treasurer?”

      “I think it should be me. I love holding paper,” KJ says, his crew dutifully laughing. He can barely keep up with his own wallet, let alone the African Student Union’s bank account.

      “Yes, baby, and you’re good at it, too,” Misty says, forever his cheerleader. My ex–best friend and ex-boyfriend make the perfect stupid couple, and because of that, they are the last two people in this club who should be taken seriously.

      “Oh no. We need

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