Bronx Masquerade Read Online Free PDF

something new.
That’s when we see it,
a buoy called friendship
bobbing up between us
and we swim toward it
for all we are worth
and we meet there,
somewhere
in the middle.

Tyrone
    Man, that little white girl be getting pretty deep. I figured her for something lame like “Roses are red, violets are blue.” Glad I didn’t have a bet on that action.
    More than half the class wanted to read today, but most of them were girls. I wish a few more of the brothas would step up to the mike, even this thing out a little. Know what I’m saying?

Judianne Alexander
    Good thing Leslie’s cough woke me in class this morning. I nodded off three times. Once more and Mr. Ward said he’d be bringing me a pillow. That’s what I get for staying up late. Again.
    What choice did I have? Open Mike Friday is today and I am not about to stand in front of the class in some funky old outfit. I didn’t realize it would take me half the night to finish something new. I hope I can stay awake long enough to read my poem when my turn comes.
    Me, writing poetry! What a scream. I’m not smart enough to be writing poetry in the first place, though Mr. Ward says I’m smarter than I know. Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have bothered trying to write anything except that Open Mike Friday is one time I know I can get Tyrone Bitting’s attention, and I’ve got a thing for Tyrone. Of course, he’s got a thing for Tanisha Scott—like every other boy in school.
    Too bad we can’t all have good hair and light skin.
    Who am I kidding? She’s more than that. She’s pretty. Which I’m not, as my stepfather reminds me ten times a day. Like I don’t know that from looking in the mirror, or from having kids tease me about my blue-black skin all the way through school. But my body’s good. Nothing wrong with me in that department. That’s why I got to show it off, wear clothes that accentuate the positive. The shorter, the better. And I don’t even have to buy them. I can make them myself. It ain’t much, but that’s one thing I learned from my mother. How to sew.
    Last week, I wore my patchwork denim skirt and vest with the red leather pockets that just about broke my sewing machine needle. Sheila was all up in my face, telling me how cool I looked, like I needed her opinion. Why she’s always trying to kiss up to Black people is beyond me. Anyway, it was Lupe’s compliment I listened to. She took one look at my outfit and told me she was jealous. Said she wished she could sew like me. Honey, I thought to myself, give me some of that pretty skin and hair of yours, and I’ll trade.
    Lupe has no idea how pretty she is. You should see Raul and some of the other guys—Black and white—sniffing round her. And does she notice? Don’t look like it to me. Except for Raul. It’s hard not to notice Mr. Latin Loverboy. Anyway, Lupe says she already has a boyfriend. I’m thinking he’s invisible, though. I never see him. He goes to another school, she says. Others say he doesn’t go to school at all, that he dropped out a long time ago, that he’s eight years older than Lupe. Eight years! But hey, it’s none of my business. At least she’s got somebody. I’m still working on that one. Meanwhile, I spend my weekends alone, holed up in a room with my Singer sewing machine.
    I’ve been helping Mom mark and cut out patterns for as long as I can remember. I even helped her draw a few that Vogue never thought of. They should take a look at my sketch pad! Now, if I could just figure out how to design poetry as well as I design clothing, I could turn myself into somebody special. Wouldn’t that be a neat trick?
    It wouldn’t hurt if I could come up with something deep to write about, like Chankara. I wouldn’t want to have the experience of someone beating up on me, though. It’s bad enough my stepfather talks about me like a dog. The few times my mother gets on him about it, he laughs it off and says he’s just joking. I should cut his tongue out,