Jazmin's Notebook: Chapters 13–16

Miss Warren, the high school art teacher-slash-sculptor, has been rhapsodizing about my profile for a week now.

I’m usually referred to as cute-without-the-glasses, and that’s exactly the way it’s said, run together, as if it’s all one word. I despise the description, ordinarily—however, even that sounds attractive by comparison.

There’s nothing cute about my hooked nose. Mom’s got one too, so I know who to thank, especially since nobody else in my family has been blessed with this noble feature.

What about my propensity for guilt?

“You are hopeless.”
Sophie knows I love her, and never takes offense.

We're both familiar with ghettoes, and we both know about discrimination, that’s for sure.

We're both familiar with ghettoes, and we both know about discrimination, that’s for sure.

I remember going to the celebration of her son’s bar mitzvah, and suddenly being an alien, lost in a sea of yarmulked men, and beautiful women hiding their beautiful hair under plain-woven scarves.

Money is scarce in our house at the moment, but have no fear!

Let’s see, so far this week, we’ve had scrambled eggs, poached eggs, deviled eggs, eggs and grits, eggs and hash browns, egg salad, and, for an exotic change of pace, eggs Benedict!

“CeCe may be a wonderful cook," I said to Sophie, “but geez-Louise! I used to think the Israelites were pretty ungrateful, griping to God about all that manna...."

“CeCe may be a wonderful cook," I said to Sophie, “but geez-Louise! I used to think the Israelites were pretty ungrateful, griping to God about all that manna...."

“There they are after the Exodus, wandering in the desert with no food, and Boom! God sends them some...."

Suddenly there was this sly twinkle in Sophie’s blue eyes that wasn’t there a second ago. “Oh! I almost forgot! My mom said to invite you over tonight,” she deadpanned. “We’re having omelettes."

Suddenly there was this sly twinkle in Sophie’s blue eyes that wasn’t there a second ago. “Oh! I almost forgot! My mom said to invite you over tonight,” she deadpanned. “We’re having omelettes."

CeCe has this annoying saying she frequently tortures me with, ostensibly to make me think. “If everybody jumps off a bridge,” she says, “will you jump too?”

My best friend, Destinee, was my partner-in-crime for the day. We rendezvoused in the school yard near the basketball court, not hiding in the shadows, but in plain sight.

After all, unless you risk being caught, ditching school loses a degree of its appeal.

She’s five-foot-nine and all legs, born to race, or pirouette across a stage, or model women’s stockings, something that requires showing off the feature that guarantees her whistles wherever she goes.

I managed to look away from him long enough to notice that there were kids, wall-to-wall, spread out on the area rug, draped on the arms of the sofa, and lazing on the love seat in front of the gated window.

“Come on, baby,” he said, his voice husky.

I clenched my teeth, starting to fume, more mad at me than him, since being there was my bright idea, not his.

I had a tough time navigating between the legs and feet of all the kids spread out across the living room rug, some kissing hot and heavy, others dozing. Destinee was one of the latter.

I’d rather not
decipher the message
just now.

Some people have no business being parents, legal age notwithstanding.

Not even from Shawna, who is less than thrilled with the prospect, especially since the boy who helped get her into the family way immediately helped himself to a bus ticket out of Dodge.

Lisann Ramsey, who just turned 30, was so busy flirting with J.D., who was posturing in front of The Garden this afternoon, that she failed to notice Deyona, her two year old, toddling off the curb and into traffic.

Most of the men Mom brought home had a tendency to lick their lips and leer at me when they thought she wasn’t looking, which I hated.

It’s not the same as being a full-time mom, of course, but maybe it can help me figure out if I have the parenting instinct. That sort of thing might be hereditary, and if I’m missing that particular gene, I’d rather find out in advance.

It’s not the same as being a full-time mom, of course, but maybe it can help me figure out if I have the parenting instinct. That sort of thing might be hereditary, and if I’m missing that particular gene, I’d rather find out in advance.