"Shana, we don"t like you. You think you"re cute."

"Don"t look surprised, honey, we"ve got proof."

"Remember the bus rides all those years in the past?"

"You were too good to speak on the bus and in cla.s.s."

"You always looked down your nose at us."

"I didn"t say anything, didn"t want to cause a fuss."

"But, you zebra b.i.t.c.h, your cozy days are through."

"We"ll make these school days a living h.e.l.l for you."

With those final words came a slap across my face.

And they taught me that among them I had no place.

ALMOST EVERYDAY.

The fingers. They pinch.

The mouths. They spit.

The feet. They kick.

The hands. They hit.

The fists. The punch.

The teeth. They crunch.

The hands. They shove.

The mouths. They munch.

The feet. They smoosh.

The hands. They push.

The shoes. The squoosh.

The doors. They smush.

And they almost never leave a mark.

THE WORDS.

I tried to tell, but the words got stuck in my throat. And when they were dislodged, they came out all wrong.

The three of us were sitting in the sunroom. Dad, Mom, and me. Black. white, and between. I was eight years old, but my soul felt so much older. I was weary from years of uncried tears.

I looked from mother to father, noting all of their differences. Her softness, his hardness. Her pleasantness, his sternness. Her hope, his anger. Her optimism, his pessimism. I decided to shoot straight down the middle, making my words plain.

"I don"t like my school," I said, then held my breath.

My mother looked up from her book. My father didn"t look up at all.

"Honey, why not?" she asked, her light voice incompatible with the heaviness in my heart.

I inhaled deeply though clenched teeth, gathering strength before saying, "n.o.body likes me."

"Of course, they do. They"re always sharing their snacks with you and inviting you places."

Before I could fix my lips around the words, the dam broke, and my face was flooded with three years of uncried tears.

My mother rushed over to me, scooping me into her arms, holding me so close that between my snot and her sweater, I felt that I would suffocate.

I heard my father"s voice demand, "Is somebody messing with you?"

"Shh," my mother snapped. "Girls don"t cry only if someone is. .h.i.tting them. You should know that by now."

"Well, why is she crying?"

"I don"t know," she said, rocking me. She probably had a bad day."

I heard my father mumble something. Then I heard his heavy feet walk across the sunroom and go into the house. Then my ears were filled with my mother"s humming while my heart was still filled with grief.

FALLING DOWN.

We were at Miles Park for a picnic on Memorial Day. I remember it like it was yesterday because it marked the onset of a series of changes in my life. I should have known that the picnic was just the beginning of imminent change because things always happen in threes.

Mom, determined to bring us closer as a family, had packed a picnic basket of delectable delicacies. Shrimp salad on fat, crusty bagels from Rosensweig"s deli. Corn and tomato salsa to cover gourmet chicken burritos from Don Pepe"s. Sweet Potato French Fries and Surprise Iced Tea from Sugarene"s Soul Food Spot.

Dad had laid out the blanket and was beginning a game of solitaire while Mom had pulled out her latest Danielle Steel fantasy read. I pulled out my jump rope and attempted to jump rope on a flat patch of gra.s.s.

Conversation was spa.r.s.e in our household, and I was used to it, but sometimes under my father"s watchful, wordless stare I grew uncomfortable. It seemed that in his watching, he was waiting. Waiting. Ever waiting for me to make a mistake. Mess up. And when I did, he would pounce.

"Watch what you"re doing!" "You"re making a mess!" "Look at yourself! You"re such a slob." "d.a.m.n it! Can"t you do anything right?"

So I tried to be perfect. Maybe in my perfection, I thought, I could gain his acceptance. That Memorial Day, I gained more that acceptance. I gained his love. At least temporarily.

Tired of jumping rope, I went to explore the "Kiddie Community." There were mini-houses like sheds, complete with flower boxes and benches. Uninterested in the frilly girl"s stuff inside, I peered up to the roof. There boys walked their big-stepped walk, happy and free. The sun beat down on their faces, and under its warm glare, their colors melted into one. They were all golden brown in its rays. I wanted to be up there. In the sun. In with the others. Like the others.

So I climbed up and up like Jack and the Beanstalk until I reached the top. It wasn"t that high, only about seven feet, but on top, I felt like the queen of the world. I tried to do the big-stepped walk, claiming every inch between my feet, on top of the roof, in the world. I wanted to be big, complete, perfect, but in my quest for perfection, I stumbled, and I, like Icarus, came crashing to the earth. The sun, my betrayer, beat down on me.

From outside of my body, I watched my father spring into action. He scooped me up, carrying me to the car. Alone, just the two of us, he charged down Germantown Pike, racing for my life. Through stoplights he sped, pressing his shirt under my chin, trying to stop the bleeding. There in the car, through the fear, through the worry, through the pain, I saw that the way to his heart was through danger. As long as my physical needs were met, he didn"t worry. Yet if I were in harm"s way, he would save me.

THING TWO OF THREE.

I turned nine that summer, and I had my first real birthday party, complete with decorations and a cake. My dad had broken his rule about staying out of North Philly. He had bitten the bullet and gone to Denise"s Delicacies for my cake.

"They have the best cakes in the city," my mother had whined. My father"s jaw had been tight as he clenched his teeth and looked at me. I scratched my chin, and I could see guilt dance in his eyes before he snapped at me.

"Leave your face alone!"

Mumbling, he collected his keys and headed back to the place from which he hailed, the place he grew to despise.

"Mommy, why does he hate going to North Philly?" I questioned after hearing his car pull away.