Before, After, and Somebody In Between Read Online Free PDF Page A

with new respect. “Remind me never to fuck with Martha’s mom!”
    Monique speaks up as she twists open a tube of scarlet lip gloss. “Well, my mom burned my head with a curling iron once.Gave me a bald spot for a year.” Shavonne hurls a half-eaten muffin at her head, and I laugh, really laugh hard, for the first time in days.
    Miraculously, Shavonne agrees to come with me to the assembly. We sprawl out in the top bleachers of the gym while the orchestra plays something I actually recognize—“Spring” from The Four Seasons. This is the first time I ever heard it played by real people, and the orchestra sounds great, not what you’d expect from a bunch of kids. High-pitched violins shoot out notes so rapidly, I have no idea how anyone can move their hands that fast. The lower-pitched cellos draw the rest of the music together with a deep, soothing hum I can feel deep inside my chest.
    “Wow,” I whisper, glancing sideways at Shavonne who, already bored, saws at the tips of her gem-studded talons with an industrial-sized emery board. Rubbing away goose bumps, I lean as far forward as I dare without falling out of the bleachers, hypnotized by the stunning sounds below. As the last notes fade away, it strikes me without warning, a mental explosion of truth: Maybe I can do this, too!
    Shavonne looks up long enough to eye me nervously. “You gonna puke? ‘Cause you look sick to your stomach.”
    My limbs spring back to life. “I’m doing it!”
    “What? Wait—”
    But I’m already halfway down the bleachers, knocking my way through the crowd. Violin, violin! I wish I could fly over the crowd and be the first in line, because—yes, yes, yes— I know this could be me!
    But by the time it’s my turn, like a hundred kids have already picked the violin. So Mr. Hopewell, grand pooh-bah of the string section, falls all over himself trying to dump a cello off on me.
    “No fair,” I moan. “I used to play the violin.”
    He squints, reminding me of Dr. Huxtable from The Cosby Show with his craggy dark face and lame checkered sweater. “You took lessons?”
    “Um, no, but—”
    He holds a cello up hopefully, and I think: that big clunky thing? Then I start to remember those low, spooky notes, and cautiously reach out to touch a string… plunk! And that one single sound, so warm and so beautiful, sends a jolt up my spine, smoldering my brain stem and rippling the skin on my arms.
    Never mind Mr. Hopewell’s speech about how playing an instrument is a major commitment, blah, blah. Never mind when he says it costs like twenty-five bucks a month to rent one. By the time that note from the cello string has quivered off into thin air, I’ve made my mind up.
    Shavonne shakes her braids. “Girl, you off the hook. That thing’s bigger than you.”
    “No. It’s perfect.” Now if I can just figure out a way to wring some money out of Momma.
    After school, I head off to the projects with Shavonne. Her building, sprayed with graffiti and unnervingly dark in the hall, reeks like a toilet, so I guess she wasn’t kidding about the junkies. Inside her apartment, though, everything’s bright and colorful, not at all what I expected.
    An ancient fluffy cat, purring noisily, rubs her chin on the toe of my shoe. I love cats, but Momma’s allergic, and Wayne would probably use the poor thing for target practice.
    “That’s Josephine. She’s even older than me.” Shavonne dumps her books and grabs hold of my wrist. “C’mon.”
    Josephine chases my shoelaces as I follow Shavonne to her room. It’s bigger than mine, and she has her own TV with everycable station on earth. One big worktable, cluttered with art supplies, and a tall wooden easel take up most of the space.
    I study the paintings and drawings that decorate her walls. “Man, these are awesome! You oughta go to art school or something.”
    “I know,” Shavonne says smugly. None of that aw-shucks stuff for her.
    We play around with her makeup and jewelry and