Page 2 of Lennox Lane

Lane lowered the paper a little. “No, ma’am. I didn’t say that.”

“You ain’t have to say it.” Jeanette leaned forward, her voice rising with every word. “You come in here waving that paper in my mothafuckin face talking about college and scholarships and all them white folks at that school telling you how special you are. What you want, Lane? You want me to clap?”

Lane’s fingers tightened around the report card. “I just thought you’d want to see it.”

“You thought wrong.”

The words stung more than Lane wanted them to. She had heard worse from Jeanette. She had been called things no daughter should ever hear from her mother’s mouth. She had been blamed for bills, bad moods, bad men, headaches, hunger, and the simple inconvenience of existing. Still, some foolish part of her had believed straight A’s might be different.

“I wasn’t rubbing anything in your face,” Lane said quietly.

Jeanette’s eyes flashed. Lane knew then she had made the mistake of having a voice. Jeanette pushed herself off the couch, unsteady but mean enough to find balance. “What did you say?”

Lane took one step back. “Nothing.”

“No, you got so much to say now. Miss Straight A. Miss Scholarship. Miss I’m-gonna-leave-my-mama-in-this-damn-place-like-She-ain’t-sacrificed-nothing-for-me.”

Lane’s throat burned. Sacrificed. Jeanette loved that word. She wore it like a church hat. Tall and dramatic, even though Lane had been raising herself for so long she sometimes forgot she was still a child.

“I didn’t say I was leaving you,” Lane said.

“But you thinking it.” Jeanette stabbed the cigarette toward her, letting the ash fall onto the carpet. “I know you thinking it. You sit up in this house with your nose in them books looking at me like I’m stupid.”

“I don’t look at you like that.”

“Yes, you do.” Jeanette’s voice cracked into something uglier than anger. “You think because I didn’t finish school and I gotta get help by standing in them offices and let them people look down on me so you can eat—that you better than me.”

Lane shook her head hard. “No.”

Jeanette laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You just like them. Judging me. Everybody always judging me. Your teachers, them caseworkers, them women at the office, and now my own damn child.”

“I’m not judging you, Mama.” Lane hated how small her voice sounded. Hated that she still called her Mama when Jeanette had never made the word feel safe. “I wanted you to be proud of me.”

Something moved across Jeanette’s face then. It was quick and fleeting but almost compassionate. For one small second, Lane thought maybe she had reached her.

Then Jeanette slapped the report card out of Lane’s hand. The paper fluttered to the floor between them. Lane stared at it, stunned. It was as if the grades might crawl away and hide from the shame of being seen. Before she could bend down, Jeanette grabbed her by the arm and yanked her forward.

“You think you slick?” Jeanette snapped. “You think I don’t know what this is? You trying to make me feel bad. Trying to show me what I ain’t do. Trying to prove you ain’t gonna end up like me.”

Lane tried to pull away, but Jeanette’s nails dug into her skin. “Let me go.”

That made it worse. Jeanette shoved her hard enough that Lane’s hip caught the edge of the coffee table. Pain shot down her leg, bright and immediate. Even in pain, she bit back her tears because crying only fed her mother’s anger. Jeanette had always taken tears as either disrespect or weakness, depending on which excuse gave her permission to hit harder.

“You got a smart mouth now too?” Jeanette said.

“I said let me go because you’re hurting me.”

Jeanette’s face twisted. “Hurting you? Girl, you don’t know nothing about hurt.”

Then she swung.

Lane’s head snapped to the side, and for a moment the room went soft around the edges. The soap opera voices blurred with the ringing in her ear. Her cheek burned. Her eyes watered despite every bit of effort she made to stop them.

Jeanette kept talking, but Lane didn’t catch all of it. Something about disrespect. Something about being ungrateful. Something about how nobody helped Jeanette when she was young and had to figure it out. How Lane should be thankful she had a roof over her head at all.

Lane stood there and took it because she knew the rules. If she fought back, Jeanette would tell everyone she was out of control. If she ran to a teacher, Jeanette would cry, charm, and make Lane look dramatic. If she called the police, maybe they’d show up, maybe not. If they did show up, eventually they would leave, and Lane would still have to sleep under Jeanette’s roof.

So Lane fixed her eyes on the report card lying near the couch and went somewhere else inside herself.